Valannor

'Lo, for upon that sullen eve would a response be penned from the mountain halls of Urguan, clad in holiest iconography - bearing the seal of the Sage. "Greetings, my fair maiden. I am the one they call 'Crumena,' The Sage. I have long been in search of a wife to call my own - and I believe you to suit my needs. If you are interested in a male of repute, look no further. Send any replies back with this bird. I find myself out of coin to afford another."

A much needed addition to the CA, in my opinion. Interested to see how it pans out, and how it is utilized, if accepted.

I can't say it's always been a pleasure Dingo, but you do good work, and that's what matters. Don't get killed by dropbears while your throne is occupied, mk?

[!] This letter is only available to the Order of the Golden Lion, and those with access to the Keep of Sunbreak, or the Seeker’s Ark. Do not metagame its contents. 14th of Snow's Maiden, Year 57 of the Second Age I find myself writing this letter far from home; beyond the sunlit towers of our sanctuary fortress, and away from the warm hearth of the common room. Do not fret, for though I am of ill health and bereaved of a limb, I am… relatively safe. And if it is a worry, this letter was not written under duress, for my captors deemed fit to let me leave without much in the way of harm, save for the aforementioned. I suppose I am lucky, given the circumstances, though I cannot help but feel… almost cowardly, I would put it- that I survive, when many have not. Alas, the dice have fallen in this way; and it would be a disgrace not to continue on with gratitude for every breath that yet enters my lungs. I would imagine there's a deal of confusion surrounding my abduction, and there is little to it; I was on a routine patrol in the Grove, and was taken during a raid by the Nephilim. I had attempted an escape, but outnumbered… eight to one, last I recall, if not nine, my flight was cut short in swift order. During my capture, I was treated with relative civility, as much as could be expected of the Dragonkin - A dark room which radiated an uncomfortable, molten heat. Talks of philosophy, of Light and Fire, of the world and our place within it… a fiery severance of my sword hand followed by forceful attachment of an arcane prosthetic, and a departure enforced by voidal heresy. Compared to the fate a Herald had wished for me, what I received was a pittance - something I am thankful for, as death is not what any of us should consciously wish for. It is strange, in many ways. Though I write of this in part because such was one of the terms for my release, I find it sharpens my mind to put pen to paper and look back on my talk with their so-called immortal agent - a prince among dragons, if I am to take their words at face value. We spoke at length about our places upon the chessboard, and though we found ourselves painted both in black and white, we also found understanding. The mission of the Nephilim is, in some ways, similar to what we fight for; a world of peace, where mortal kind may exist freely and in relative comfort and safety. Though, with that said, we found our differences to manifest in methodology and ideology - the path of the dragon, and the path of sunlight, could not be more different. I would liken it to the divergent forces of Order and Chaos; Chaos represents freedom and change, to be unbound by the conventional and to alter the world to one's whims. Order, on the contrary, is the rigid structure of the world - uncompromising, slow to change, though offering security from alteration both bad and good. One is in flux, the other stable. Incompatible fundamentally at the cores of their ideologies. What I found most curious was, despite their utilization of magi, the distaste that the Titan, and his Nephilim, hold for the Void - that which claws at the edges of reality, and what manifests the taint of the Fallen City. They claim to wish its ultimate eradication, and it is a sentiment I find myself agreeing with… much to my chagrin, though my wroth towards the magus' ilk is born from a slight decades ago. Because of magi, four times have I been deprived of my limbs, and forced to utilize unfeeling prosthetics of steel and magicks both hallowed and blasphemous, my body slowly becoming a patchwork of faux limbs and prosthetics from injuries sustained. It was for this reason that, upon my arrival home, I sawed and hacked the tainted simulacra from my wrist. My body, my temple, is my own, and I refuse for anyone else to hold power over it any longer, even if it cripples me to do so. I will recover in due time; but the state of my mind is a far different story. I feel myself slipping away. Months pass like days, years like weeks. The sound of a sword being loosed from its scabbard reaches my ears, and I am sent into the throes of primal instincts, compelled to fight or flee, to assess the situation and those around me. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sapphire ember, and though comforted, I still recall the fires set to the Elvenesse, of the frenzied charge through the city to rout the attackers as best we could. Black and white melt into gray, and I see damnation in those I scarcely even know the crimes of… I feel the Light of Order, and how its radiance shines upon me oh so sweetly, that the effluvient divinity soon eclipses mortal rationale, and I feel my fingers tightening about the shaft of the lance as Hilan's once had - and every day, I fear what would become of me if I were to embrace Order, and Order alone. It is hard to remember what I fight for, some days, though I am reminded by kith and kin enough that I am still somewhat whole. I have given up much for the Light, and in my pursuit of the Sunlit Path, I am afraid that the person I used to be, for better or for worse, is long since gone. She died in the caverns of the Rimeveld, buried under a mountain of ice and snow and in the butchered carcass of a people genocided in a desperate war for survival. She died as her bloodline diminished, and as she arrived home to butchered carcasses scattered about for her to behold with widened eyes and a lake of tears. Who Tarathiel was, is not the woman I am today… and I am left uncertain of my merit, my virtue, and my sanctity. It is easy to claim that strength is to show no weakness, for indeed, such has become the perception. That virtue is to never sin at all. Bravery is to never feel fear. I have found nothing further from the truth. I cannot hide behind a facade of bravado and stoicism much longer. I have been afraid for my life, I am afraid of death, and the fate that awaits me upon my passing. I have sinned, more than I would wish to admit, and will forever seek atonement for. And now? Right now, I feel weak. My body fails me, my mind drifts as fireworks usher in memories of cannonfire, and I am left bereaved of rest and comfort on sleepless nights. But I think it is far better, in truth, to know one's weakness, and to overcome it before it consumes you. Do not fear leaning upon your brother's shoulder, or asking one of our sisters for the hand of aid. We become stronger together, for we are a family, bound in faith and fealty beneath the exalted Sun. And yet… I do not think I will be returning home. Not for a small while. I will be departing the walls of the fortress on both pilgrimage and reprieve from my duties. I am a woman of steel, and though steel is hard and strong, it bends and breaks under stress and wear. I require time to heal, to mend the damage done to flesh and soul that is not so soon to fade under the light of the Sun. I wish to live, at least for a small time, for something other than our eternal crusade - for in truth, ever since our move to the mountains, I have known nothing but. There is precious little warmth in my heart, the hearth of the soul dwindling to an ember cradled in ashes. I want to find a reason to open my eyes and bask in the warmth of a rising sun, to run my fingers through the rivers of grass and breathe the fresh air of an autumnal breeze. I want to be better than what I have become. In the time of my absence, I will still make efforts to advance our cause, and offer teaching to those who seek it - but I leave the grand crusade in the hands of you, my kindred, my family. I entrust the duties and burdens shouldered by myself to my fellow Seekers for the time being, as I recover my strength. Upon my return, it is likely that I will be far more different than what many of you will have remembered; as likely as it is that nothing will have changed at all. I do not yet know where this road will take me, for though it is untrodden and uncharted, it is the path I feel necessary to take for me to properly return to my duties, and assume my mantle and sobriquet once more. If there is one thing I can beg of you, kindred, it is the request that Hilan made of us upon Mount Celestial. Do not let the sun set. Grow and flourish, and take our banner further than it has e'er gone before. I will return anon, and if my presence should be required in the interim, I may be reached by way of my beloved crow Sul, who has been left in the care of Rhaelanthur - do not bother searching for me by other means, for you will not find me. I've seen to that. Honor the mercy our enemy had shown to me, should you capture one of theirs in my absence. If nothing else, it is an investment of the future, to minimize needless bloodshed on both sides of the coin. Your friend, mentor, and sister,

A weary Tarathiel would vibe to the beats - and begin scribing a small missive of her own to her kindred, based on the events of her capture.

#Justice4Breeni!

And so Tarathiel fell, bound in chain and fire beneath the heel of the Nephilim. A mistake of the Wyrmstalker turned what would have been a challenging bout into a last stand against an army - and from thereon, seldom chance at salvation was had. she lingered, straying between the waking world and the cold abyss of the unconscious mind... What awaited her thenceforth?

A Lady of Silver would cackle at the sight of the missive, making to look about her fortress for the man depicted - a favored compatriot of the child-burning ilk. "Lucian?! I'd have never thought you the type, darling! Especially after that one... Incident. Do I need to expect another set of feet running about?" @SquakHawk

High within a replete tower of alchemical mastery, a woman would have defied that which GOD Almighty ordained - for flesh once torn asunder would be flesh renewed. Chilling machinations yet took shape that fateful day, and a loosed rope was to be tied into a noose... "She thought that she was the monster? A pity..."

A weary Elfess would receive such gossip while lounging on her boat, remembering well the days of the Haeseni gossip columns - and the chaos they wrought upon civilized society. "Ah, lovely... Here we go again, lliran!"

A Wyrmstalker clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "They wish to divide mankind further as the sun rises over the horizon - traitorous serpents, they shall be received as they so dearly deserve..."

A leal Wyrmstalker would frown from across the table at the forced peace table of Krugsmas cheer. "We can't."

“I didn’t win wars without big irons, strong ballistae, and many potions.” - The Aged Seeker, Jack Vivyaen. Tarathiel remembered it well; a deal struck, a veritable bargain even, with the Grand King of the Underrealm. The crisp ocean breeze blowing through her hair hearkened to the hours spent in drydock, of the days spent directing construction within the bowels of the beast. She placed her faith in smoke and steam, for what was to be the salvation of her people if the worst came to pass - an ark to carry her kindred through adversity and calamity. A shield to stand as bulwark for the innocent, and a sword of divinity to bear down on those who refuted its claim. Over eight thousand tons and with an armament fit for its purpose, the ship was certainly deserving of its mantle. Golden eyes graced the verdant shores, and the smoke plumes which marred the sky overlooking the humble grove. The sound of deckhands and the roar of machinery assaulted her senses, the stench of coal burning below as pistons pounded in the heart of the engine - the fires of industry sealing her mandate ironclad. Gauntleted fingers guided the wheel with tepid grace, as if she were afraid to break it if she worked it too hard; though the maiden voyage had proved the ship could take anything the waves threw at it, rough storms hardly impeding the leviathan’s advance through the ashen oceans that had become the vinland seas. They had arrived at their destination - and the veritable fortress made known its defiance of the Titan. “Salvation is our Liturgy.” The Chosen of Order have entered the fray.

You are undeniably wholesome. Hmu on discord @ Valannor#7030, if'n you're interested in some of the more engaging rp opportunities. Look forwards to seeing where you go!

[!] A Simplistic missive is scribed, and littered about the vestiges of the Dwarven Underkingdom - laden with dust and debris from further in the caverns. "To those Dwed with acumen for artifice, for the Alchemical crafts; I offer to you the concoctions of your people from ages yore - I offer the ability to craft pure starlight, and to make the light of the moon your own power. Embrace the teachings of Grimdugan. Seize your greed in hand, and make it strong. Let the past never be forgotten. For those with goods to trade for the knowledge of your people, leave your reply at the crossroads, scribed in golden inks. I shall await eagerly."

18th of Snow's Maiden, Year 55 of the Second Age I find myself equal measures wroth and mirthful as I write this log, in truth. At the dawn of the day prior I had elected to act on information given to me by our Druidic allies pertaining to the location of destroyed Obelisks, the affiliation of an individual with the Dragonflight of the Titan, and records I found publicly available within the southern Princedom. It was perhaps no later than noon when I had elected to marshall a force to go and investigate the rumors surrounding Caer Raywyn, a hub of magickal activity within the Kharasi and territories of the Savoyard people - an elven settlement, shockingly enough. Three individuals elected to join me on the excursion; Sister Solheim, Ser Cross, and Seeker Hana. We likely arrived at the Kharasi some time on the morrow, our provisions stocked as we bade farewell to the Qali men who gave us passage. From there, we travelled by foot southwards, until we reached the location of interest. Upon our arrival, we located a pen of malnourished sheep which bleated and cried - their forms gaunt, thin… rather unnerving, even to myself. We decided that a life in the wilderness was better than no life at all for these poor creatures, and so we let a vast majority of them flee into the wild, from where we had hacked the fencing apart to get inside. Upon exiting the pen, we trailed around the primary structure until we found an individual clad in blackened armor - this individual was swiftly bound, and himself searched for signs of draconic influence, of which an Azdromothian blade of incredibly fine craftsmanship was located. The individual was then rendered unconscious by means of a blow to the cranium, and left upon the doorstep to recover. He will be receiving a gift in the mail shortly for his cooperation, and to celebrate the holiday season. Following this, we entered the primary structure and crept inside, locating numerous objects and targets of interest. For the purposes of security, this log will omit the finer details, but an additional three enemies of Order were identified, as well as the settlement's dabbling in sanguine magicks - blood sorcery, a foul art which rends reality itself asunder for ambitious, selfish gains. It is possible that sanguine magi exist amongst their number, though this is pure speculation. A number of religious texts pertaining to Asioth were also found - the doctrine of the Nephilim and their Titan. A strange artefact was, likewise, located - and promptly rendered inert and broken by a swing from Hana's Warhammer; a pillar sat atop a table, upon which numerous sheets of parchment were laid. Additional exploration was attempted, some fruitful, while the doors of the establishment repelled us most other times; seemingly adamantine in strength against the bulk of warriors. Exiting the building, we decided to employ the use of a ballista that the residents had sat in the open, which Sister Solheim utilized to destroy a strange and foul obelisk that was initially out of our reach, embedding the bolt into the wall of the structure and obliterating the menhirous spire of corruption in a single well placed shot. As time passed, the moon had begun to creep from the horizon, and we bade farewell to the destruction we had wrought. By this point, we returned to the oasis to discover a collective of Druii in diplomatic talks with the Dragonkin, a strange and fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, coincidence that had befallen us all. Though belligerence was present, a few of the Dragonkin's number and I discussed and greeted one another respectfully, wishing happy holidays and the like. One in particular, who spoke with a voice like flame, caught my interest - an exceedingly wise individual of the Nephilim race, who held no outward malice in the moment, and who kept a level head once confronted. Dangerous. Do not advise approaching unless strong of will. The Druii attempted to tell us that we had not arrived to what we clearly had, and were told that a talk would be had between the Order and the Druii in order to ensure a clear story was given. Snakes speak with forked tongues. It will be intriguing to hear what they wish to say. This day was a productive one, though warfare is a sordid affair, and not one to always be enjoyed. We struck a great blow against the Nephilim, and now that one hole has been located, it shall be flushed and cleansed of the serpents who have taken root within. The Vanguard arrives soon, and the Unconquered Sun shall set upon the Atoll. This concludes Log 1. The Shrike.

#FreeTheMusin

A leal servant of Order was thwarted by one thing on this day, such that prevented her on her patrol from even realizing anything was wrong. A door.

Tarathiel would nod in agreement with her feline fellow from across the bar, raising a glass of whiskey to the proclamation of the 'Pantera! "At least we don't need to give a ****!"

"Pardon my Valah, but I do believe that this is what we might refer to as a 'Barclay Bargain.'" An Elfess chimed.

Authored by Tarathiel Asul’onn, Year 54 of the Second Age, 11th of the Grand Harvest Chanceries. That which our ilk live and die by, which allows us to survive as an institution - in many ways, that which acts as the beating heart for Order’s Chosen, as they enable artifice and mist-weaving unparalleled by other structures of its sort. Often housed within the hearts of our chapters and orders, these constructs are often opulent in their nature, adorned with murals and the like - but, in truth, what is a Chancery? A Chancery, for those of you who have not yet been taught, is a structure dedicated to the Lord of Sunlight, and His dogma, which act as fonts of power through which we may draw upon the purest power of Order - that of sapphire, to ordain and kindle individuals with His Light. However, beyond their obvious material significance, they bear a great deal of cultural worth in their own right; Chanceries are most often utilized as sites of reverence for our forebears long since passed, chiefest among which being the Ten Apostles - Xan’s first, and greatest, servants upon the mortal realm. Here, we pay our respects to our fallen kindred, often lighting candles or dedicating busts, statues, and murals to their triumphs and sacrifices on the Path. It is in the Chancery that the dead are laid to rest, that the uninitiated swear their oaths, that we meditate on matters of justice, order, and guardianship - and most importantly, where we maintain covenant and communion with our Lord. They act as beacons of hope and havens of safety in times both dark and not, places where we may rest our weary feet at the end of a long crusade. They are in equal fashion our churches and our homes, and for some, even our graveyards and mausoleums. For those constructing a Chancery, it is usually advised to dedicate an entire structure to their housing, such that they may be properly tailored to the legacy they draw upon - at the smallest, a hidden cavern’s worth of space usually suffices, or hidden away in undercrofts and dungeons. Those of different races usually hold different opinions on how the Chancery is to be constructed - for example, a son of Horen may deem it unfit for anything less than an opulent church-like setting to be the centerpiece of such a hallowed ground, while a descendant of Urguan would prefer something carven of rock and stone, designed in a far more utilitarian fashion. Whatever the case may be, it is vital that such spaces are maintained and kept in mint condition by their caretakers, and if one is to be desecrated… then give no quarter to those who'd committed such a foul act. To be given the permission, the privilege even, of consecrating a chancery is an honor. Oftentimes grandiose ceremonies are performed to celebrate the occasion, while other times it is a far more somber affair, depending on the happenings of late. Typically, these take the form of convents wherein ritual prayer and sacrifice is offered to the Lion, ranging anywhere from a handful of individuals to a large gathering of ten or more. Once the rite has reached its conclusion, the responsibility thereafter falls to the individual to upkeep the holy space, and to maintain it immaculately as best they can. If one is uncertain what duties are expected of them, it is typically advised to meditate on such o'er prayer within the grounds they've constructed; the answer typically comes in due time thereafter, and providence shall guide one's hand in this hallowed task. The entirety of the Chapter, or indeed Order, to which the Chancery plays host to is expected to aid in it's continued survival however, in addition to it's primary caretaker - this chiefly being in it's defense, or it's transportation should circumstances require it. Do not forsake that which cradles you so sweetly, so dearly, before you would fall upon your own sword. The Chancery is your home. Treat it as one. To erect a hallowed beacon of radiance is not limited strictly to vaunted Chanceries, however. While not everyone will be granted such a privilege in their lifetime, there is a far more recent tradition to be observed, and indeed practiced, should one wish to be closer to the Sunlit Lord; that of constructing Wayshrines. These structures are typically far smaller than a Chancery, and far less grand in scope, though their purpose is nevertheless important in the grand design. They commonly take the form of stone pillars, altars, or otherwise humble and unassuming places of reverence in the wilderness, typically high on mountain peaks or areas where the sun shines brightest - the site of Hilan's Sacrifice being chiefest among which, where the sun almost seems to blaze eternally, if one were to lose track of time and be lost in the moment. [!] The Wayshrine of Hilan's Sacrifice, as recorded at the time of construction. One may adorn their Wayshrine as they wish, though I personally choose to scribe portents of our history upon them, for those who would wish to learn of our past. They may be decorated with enchantments to provide rest for a weary traveler, painted with ornate artworks and murals of battles long since won or lost, or merely inscribed with scripture and prayer - if such were to suit one's fancy. It is vital, however, that these sites act as places of communion for the Gray to seek the Light of Order, and His Servants; usually, leaving a method of contact or way of reaching out likes is best, but more inventive methods could be devised that I have not yet foreseen. These shrines act as monuments, in many ways, and help us to remember that we are as much a part of this realm as the stone and rock, and as the Gray we have been charged to protect. It is expected that one periodically ventures out to repair them, given the likelihood of damage, or to touch up and add to them as one sees fit. A favorite of mine is to use paints crafted from golden Deep's Gleam, a peculiar aquatic plant with glowing bulbs, as the paint will shine with luminance for as long as the sun had granted it's kiss to it. Or, if you're so inclined, you may even weave a tale into an enchanted object and embed it within the shrine, to allow those who stumble upon it to see a more enticing glimpse at that which you wish to display. As I endeavor to put more of our tradition and lore to paper, I humble myself through ignorance; there is much that we do not know of our past, for better or for worse. Though we retread that sunlit road, we must always remember to keep pushing forwards, even if the past would chain us down. Tradition is a tool to help us remember our roots, my reader, but it should never bind us like shackles and cause us to lose sight of that which matters most. My inkwell runs dry, this night, and so this thesis on the practices of yore draws to a conclusion, much to my chagrin. Remember to hold your loved ones close, my lliran, and cherish things both past and future. The present, after all, is a gift. May your paths be Sunlit, and happy holidays be upon you this Krugsmas, Tarathiel Asul'onn, Chaptermaster of the Lions of Lorraine, Warden of the Order of the Golden Lion.