Valannor

Denied. 

Accepted.

Just now, kindEmperor said:

A Certain Nephilim peered across the paper a confusing flicker upon his eyes. "Meaningless slander to our name, for the crimes? Lies." The Nephilim shrugged little care were shown upon his face. 

The Nephilim shrugged little indeed, for he was very small.

"Oh" said the Keeper, blinking her eyes blearily at the missive.

"Where the bloody hell did all this come from?"

Within the Hinterlands of Elvenesse, and its neighboring regions, travelers would see the skies above the nation to quiver and shake - the darkness of the night sky trembling at some unknown phenomena. Animals were roused from their slumber, all gathering to open clearings and the treetops, birdsong falling quiet as all were enraptured by the sullying of the twilight. The sun crept o’er the horizon, the impassive eye of Sol resting its gaze upon the land.

Gong, gong, gong…

The tolling of a bell broke the silence, whispers of flexio erupting from sources indiscernible as in an instant, every shadow within the Hinterlands was sundered. Golden light rained down upon Amaethea from on high, ethereal leaves of auric hue falling gently upon the city cobbles and dissipating. The sun high above seemed closer to the land of Elvenesse than before, and all who walked under its light within the confines of the Hinterlands would feel a great warmth and comfort to settle upon them. Corruptive influences of dark or draconic origin could no longer find purchase beneath the divine light, and even as day turned to night, sunlight still seemed to somehow break the canopy of the elven forest.

The Sun had risen upon Amaethea, and it did not seem eager to set.

TA moved to Norgeth, taking place through OOC oversight

04/11: Lessons started under Norgeth_ at T4, now completed. 

Denied. 

Denied. 

Alatariel scoffs after reading the missive, pouring another portion of whiskey into her coffee.

"Protectors of humanity my arse... The Dragons shit, and the An-Gho wipes- it'll be interesting to see what justification is used for this one."

Accepted. 

HES FALLEN AND HE CANT GET UP

Accepted. 

1/3 Students as of March 26th, 2024
 

Previous Students:

Alatariel Athna appreciates that the Order has such good and stalwart friends, to stand by them through thick and thin. 

SMOGGGGGGGGGGGGGAH

Artifact approved. Please contact me for your in-game item. This comment and the thread's title will be edited within the next hour to display what MArt number it is being designated with.

Accepted. 

Not sure how I feel about it being better than paladin curse removal

but I concur w/ spoons, the ol' **** twist is the only proper form for this spell. Much approval, much love. 

Denied. 

[!] Within the Crownlands, one would find strange fixtures of driftwood erected in altars along the riverbanks - containing enscrolled parchments which rested openly upon their surface. 

Fair tidings upon you, my reader. The grace of autumn has set up on us, and for the first time in the year, I find myself able to appreciate color. As winter rears its head upon the horizon, the twilight of the harvest sets upon the land, and the withering of the leaves paints a wondrous canvas of scarlet, marigold and mottled hues of brown. The turning of the season’s wheel presses ever onward, and there is a strange tranquility to be found in the quiet of falling leaves and the gentle running of the river below one’s feet. The cold does not touch this body, not anymore, but in the light of gleaming flame I can still find some measure of strange, if unconventional, warmth. 

I met a woman, not too terribly long ago, who gave me pause - who inspired the need to reflect, and to contemplate. It was in a church, a small chapel in the heart of the Crownlands, where first we crossed paths. She spoke of time wasted and love unrequited, of losing hope in the possibility of finding such a thing in the decades ahead. We spoke on matters of strength, of culpability for tragedy, of endurance and so much more - but it brought me to question what love is, in relation to the Shorewalker's Path. It is a simple word, a short word, yet one which carries an adamantine weight to it, an impact which has sundered kingdoms and borne greatness alike. Love. 

I've sat for many a night beneath that luminescent, silver moonlight attempting to answer this question. The cries which scrape the trees carried on the frigid breeze pierce the silence, the gentle song of crickets and barn owls helping to contrast the wailing gales of the mind. Love is, of course, different for every man and woman on some level; it is fluid, a word whose very definition can change from person to person. But its inherent qualities, its intrinsic nature, remains the same… Love is Compassion. Love is Charity. Love is found in the quiet moments beneath the twilight of the heavens with a friend, in tending to a wounded animal, in an embrace under moonlight's kiss. Love is giving, it is allowing vulnerability in tranquility, it is the salve which mends the wound which hate has left in the hearts of men and gods alike. Love creates, love cultivates, love forms futures and pathways of potential which twist and turn in thousands upon thousands of ways most cannot even comprehend; and this makes it beautiful, the blooming of a white rose on a battlefield which serves as the proof that things can be better. 

It is this which ultimately draws me to my faith, that through the Shore, all will find this truth. Many quail in terror at the necrotic malediction which sweeps the world, the pall of the great shade looming over us all crushing the heart with despair. But it is a passing thing, this shadow, which will inevitably be vanquished by the love and goodness inherent of a mortal soul. For what can a legacy of hate amount to, in what capacity can it truly succeed in any venture worthwhile? Hatred burns like a hungering inferno, rendering all in its wake as cinders and ash, destroying and bereaving in hopes to fill a hollow void of its own creation. It cannot create, it cannot sow… Hatred devours itself, and when it falters, the light shines all the brighter for it. 

It is love which sits at the core of our path, my reader. Without compassion, the will to try and forge a truly better world, to turn an iron fist into a giving hand, the Shore is little. I look to the flame of our lighthouse, diminutive but candescent, and I see the raging maelstrom of light that it could become. With every act of compassion, every gesture big or small made with the intent of mending the great wound, the flame burns just a little brighter, just a touch larger. Every act of charity builds upon the pyre of our salvation, not to burn away in hatred, but to illuminate in kindness and gentleness. We must rekindle and rebuild the love that even the Goddess, The Maiden of Souls, has forgotten in her cold misery. With enough compassion in one's heart, even fate itself can be unwoven, and the darkest of hearts made white as snow. 

Throughout this realm, you will find shrines. In the cities, in the wilds, monuments wrought of coral, shell, driftwood and prismarine erected in the hopes of offering clemency to those who need it. It is there that I shall be found, should this path interest you, should my words call to you and grant you desire to know more of the Shore we tend. Change is coming, borne not on the skeletal wings of doom and despair, but on the tender feathers of a dove, shining brightly in their incandescence as the sun shines through wings unfurled. 

Remember well, my dear reader, wherever you find this scrap of parchment; Pain does not the measure of a man make. The depth of our suffering, the extent of our anguish, need not be what defines us and our pursuits. For what is better; to be born good and irrevocably pure of heart, or to overcome the darkness within us all to be better men than we were?

Within a sunlit valley, deep within the mountains, miners began to excavate - blackened rock being ferried to the construction site in quantities most curious. What could be occurring there?

Accepted.

Denied. 

Alarmed, the Keeper awoke. Sweat ran thick upon her brow, her breaths labored and frantic as she caught sight of the Owl's silhouette upon her windows, illuminated by the crack of lightning which streaked across the sky in the midst of a storm. A trembling hand fell to a familiar gauntlet kept by her bedside, as she looked on for hours to the night sky beyond - until the stars wheeled overhead, and dusk turned to dawn. 

"This fate shall not be allowed to come to pass- this... petty destiny shall not manifest. It can not..."

What's Epstein's favorite scale on the piano?

A Minor