Valannor

If you weren't hacked, you did your best to make it look like a phishing scam.

An Aloof Wisewoman would recount the screams she'd heard that night, knowing full well what she had sent a trio of bandits and brigands down to face; "Oops."

Elsewhere, the fires of industry roared in defiance - for the beast was woken...

A leal Wyrmstalker would glance to the missive, her brow lofting as a curious, lopsided grin crossed her countenance - and she looked thence to the aquatic mantle upon her wall, the likeness of an infernal beast slain prior in a single stroke. "Let the games begin, hm, 'Drukstrik'?"

Elsewhere, a Wyrmstalker prepares to try and turn said Dragaar into a steak.

[!] A missive would find itself nailed to the signposts around the Atoll Grove, and its surrounding territories - wrought of crispest parchment, and scribed in silvered inks. In many an age has it been that the servants of Order have risen to the occasion, even in twilit periods wherein we dangled upon the precipice of collapse. Though the Ascended of yore and Clerical institutions of antiquity have fallen to the wayside, the chosen of the Lion have remained stalwart in our duty, marching e’ermore until our last breath would be taken from us. And so comes the time upon this continent once again that we turn our gaze to the forsaken serpents of ages past, as we had with the Night Terror upon the venture to Athera, and as we had with the Arch-Drakaar and its forces upon the twilight of Amaethea. The Druii of the Grove call for aid, and the Lion’s Pride shall answer. Hear us, Children of the Titan, you who would slaughter countless innocents for the crimes of but one individual; the banner of Order has been planted within the grounds of that which you would raze to the ground. You may hide within your holes, seducing the children of Horen with promises of power and glory alike, but even you fear the Virtue, for as the wings of your Titan shroud you, so too do the wings of our god carry us through adversity. You speak of divine privilege? Then let it be known; this is ours. Your sin shall be your perdition, and for every one of us that falls, two more shall take their place. One warning shall be offered, freely given, as you claim casus belli - a cause for war. And even between eternal foes, the rules of war shall be honored. Should the boots of the Draconic Host touch Druidic soil in three years time, so too shall ours, and you shall hear the crack of thunder as blessed lightning rends your scales asunder. You once knew well to fear the Light; We shall remind you once more, as your soldiers were reminded when we descended the Citadel of the Elvenesse, and laid waste to the entirety of your armies. [!] A depiction of Azdromoth’s near death to Xan’s lance of lightning at the battle for Amaethea is provided. Salvation is our Liturgy.

GIVE ME SNOW OR IGVE ME DEATH

"A wrong set right, the shadow of his father's sins shrink ever so slightly this day..." Would an Elfess comment, remembering well her allies in the House Barclay.

Today I shall look like [insert CA here] at least @Ryloth can finally be a dragon...

"They didn't just say it; they declared it!" An Elfess would comment.

A Leal Wyrmstalker, beholden to Order, would gaze upon such circumstances; for as finger graced the parchment and lofted it to the light, she would mutter some scant few words in praise of the proclamation - and golden eyes read silver lining. "You can sit upon a throne, but that does ne make one an emperor most just... Shall we see what fate has in store for the next holder of the scepter, my kindred?"

The crumbling crypt wept, the roof’s collapse fracturing the occult spire within. Ponralkar... The blizzard that pervaded the occult blanket of fog howled and shrieked, but the wails of the dead were carried on such frigid winds like dying screams. Chelion... The waking blackness stirred. The sunlight over the snow-swept city of Wyvrun’s kinder dimmed, remnant souls yet bound slinking to the shadows in fear of the titan awoken. Sukruf. Something reaches from the forgotten depths. Death made manifest, come to collect its due.

Looming o'er the grave of he whom she had slain, a Lady in Silver would fold her hands behind her back, frowning at the brimstone-laden coffin as it was lowered into the ground within the walls of the fortress she yet called home. Remorse crept at the edges of a guilty conscience, but the crackle of silver lightning and exaltation of Order kept such mortal frailty well enough in check. A single tear, laden in starmoon, fell to the grass which coiled about her feet - 'fore she turned, stalking off from that which she had wrought.

A Lady in Silver would hum upon the deliverance of such a missive, and the return of the wayward Auvergne from the long pilgrimage he was made to endure; "This will do nicely..."

I for one support our new pilkpoison overlords.

Elsewhere, a Wyrmstalker would be frantically running from the Imperial State Army, having just delivered a fatal blow to a wicked 'geist in the middle of Orenia.

[!] A missive would be penned to the Marquis, scribed in silver ink, and signed with the mark of an ouroboros. "To the Marquis of Myrine, Balthazar II, I am saddened to hear of the loss of your eye in such a grizzly, brutal attack! Regardless of the true culprit, I would wish tidings of safety for yourself and your son - truly, you have my deepest sympathies. If you would wish for such horrific injuries to be mended, you need only send for myself, and my services. There is very little that I cannot mend on this plane, save for the pale slumber itself. With wishes of good health, Cecilya Anastasiya, Proprietor of the Sacral Serpent Apothecary."

A Peculiar Elfess would remark; "Ah, just like the dream of Malinor... I wonder how long this one will last."

How does it feel to be a gangster?