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RaindropsKeepFalling

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About RaindropsKeepFalling

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    RainedropF
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    check your basement
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    Writing, and movies.

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  • Character Name
    Matteo Basrid / Francisca Irene / Turin Ibarellan
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    Farfolk / Human / High Elf

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  1. [!] A printed flyer was distributed across Orenian territory, neatly handwritten with an illustration to match. =+= ISSUED BY PRINCESS FRANCISCA IRENE NOVELLEN 12th OF HARREN’S FOLLEY, 1883 SORT OF ESTABLISHED IN 1879, the SCHOLARS BOOK CLUB served a group of best friends, initially prompted by Countess Halstaig Sadie O’Rourke and myself (Fran!) via inspiring speech. It brought inspiration to not only be exciting, but to pursue more things and share commonness between everybody (like any club probably should.) To put it simply, it aided the process and motivation to potentially write and absorb books, which there have been a dangerous lack of in our Kingdom [books.] Since then, there has been a pause due to the isolation and stillness during the recent war which is now over. Now, it may finally truly launch especially amidst Aster Calia, hence this missive being released. The SCHOLARS BOOK CLUB aims to bring the world to our fingertips. In fact, my old tutor once said that the ability to read is very, VERY powerful. As a result, it is my belief that everyone should read. With its publicity, I — Francisca Irene Novellen, Princess, writer, and ward alongside the other founders — hereby announce the real start of this club, open to most. You may ask, “How does this differ from any other old school?” That is a wonderful question. There is autonomy sought in this very club, to acquire more knowledge and impressive wit. That is the goal, after all. If we do not have our context of times before, then how can we do good things in the future? Although most books have been lost from the Stassion Court library, I hope to see more [books] through this exclusive club. To join, there are two requirements. You must be a kid. You must like to learn and read, or learn to read. If this applies to you and you are a lovely person, then please travel to Castle Stassion and speak with me or reply and send a bird to the Royal Aviary. I tend to the birds, so your letter will reach us. Future meetings will be hosted and sponsored by BOOKS & BOOKS in Florentine thanks to generous donations from the Countess Halstaig and Mischa Falcone. BEST WISHES Her Royal Highness Princess Francisca Irene Novellen
  2. Although a call to action may be silly in premise, considering we've seen it exhausted many times to no avail, you cannot discount the point and rebuttal of the post. To say that Twi was maniacally laughing about ruining these players real lives is a biased oversimplification. Although she may have been competitive, and even joked about conquering their communities, not only have other nation's done the same (if not a lot worse) she did her best to make amends with Haelunor OOCly with several screenshots to attest. There may have been OOC bickering, but when can you name a war that hasn't had some roots that aren't solely in RP? Warring a nation does not equate with harassing real people. Why do you excuse the actions of other nations, including about half the server, refusing to consider that Twi isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps there is a screenshot of her saying "kys," or something along those lines. Anyone with half a brain can comprehend the fact that its in a joking, sarcastic manner. I won't claim that Twinny was faultless as a NL, however I will not pretend that administration has not only fumbled this verdict but shown their virtue signalling hypocrisy wholeheartedly. Moderation should not be an excuse to remove communities abruptly based on lackluster evidence. We still have no idea about the victims, or damning proof. Cropped screenshots are usually not difficult to provide, and we have seen that courtesy for much more heinous ban reports. Free Twi, or if you won't do that, then hold the majority of the server accountable for the supposed toxicity that she displayed. We can all count a few places and people a whole lot worse off the top of our heads alone. Those people that still roam the server freely, without any deserved consequences. That much needs to be recognized, truly.
  3. Twinny’s Ban As of approximately an hour ago, Twinndolin (Twi or Twinny to some), the NL of Celia’nor was banned without an explanation. Some of you may already be aware of this. The ban is for 6 months without expectation of being unbanned, on the grounds of a Community Guideline Violation for "Harassment." What is the issue with this? Problematic players should be removed from our community, after all. The fallacious nature of this ban becomes evident when we realize that this is the extent of the knowledge we have. No moderator knows why she was banned. No mod manager was consulted on the ban for this supposed harassment. In fact, they did not even know why. There was no consultation beforehand with an influential player in the community. No follow-up to answer the common question: why? It's absurd to consider this proper procedure in any way, shape, or form. And highly unlikely for those who know her. Twinndolin remains anonymous, regarding her voice, opting for text-to-speech. It's rather difficult to justify such intense harassment when using a robot. And even then, she does not leave the confines of her discord and has no logs whatsoever regarding what she says through said bot. So what did she do that deserved a six-month harassment ban? A message through a forum would be quite sufficient with some evidence to show what she did wrong. But here’s an addition to this ban. This Community Guideline Violation comes with the added fact that she is forum banned. Locked off from the community and anathematized from interaction with others. What terrible thing could she have said to deserve a forum ban to block communication? To add to the strangeness of the timing, the heir of Celia’nor was unbanned the day prior to Twinndolin’s ban. The timing works perfectly for an easy transition from the current NL to the next NL. Maybe even shows the mod admin's preferred NL in charge. Perhaps that might be an answer as to why she was banned. To sum it up, no moderator knows why she was banned. No manager knows why she was banned. She is forum banned, so she has no way of hearing formally besides discord, in which no message was sent. A Community Leader and friend to many completely silenced just in time for a preferred player to take the mantle of the nation. Silence is the best way to treat those you do not like. Every avenue Twinndolin could seek was taken from her, and she has to pry away to understand so much of the reason she is banned. Banned by one person who never particularly liked her or wanted her to achieve. Its poor treatment of the average player and the server itself. Bias within the mod team has been a hot topic, but we can’t begin to argue either side when we don’t know what she did. She doesn’t know what she did, and it was not a mod decision. It was a decision by the admin alone. Admin bans like this should not be done on a whim, and we may all unanimously agree on that aspect. There needs to be a valid rationale and proof behind it. Please, itdontmatta, clarify this situation. Until then, we can only make fair assumptions from what we’ve gathered. Give us the reason why she was banned.
  4. Within an ivory prison locked from the inside, a messenger bird soared into the royal aviary housing beloved birds. There, a girl found solace in tending to them. She plucked the invitation without hesitance and skimmed the contents... Everything had to be out of her favor, didn't it? FRANCISCA brooded that day, visage riddled with sorrow.
  5. Matteo clenched his jaw and seethed; no one knew over what exactly...
  6. The Anti-Treason Ordinance 17th Sigismund's End 1879 With a marked increase in treasonous activities against the Kingdom of Oren by rogue agents, including rioting and threats of assassination towards members of the nobility, the Lord Inquisitor has deemed it fit to enact a policy regarding anti-Orenian activities within the climate. Treason, as defined in the Revised Orenian Code, but not limited to, is: 204.01 - Treason and Sedition Act (1751): On Treason 204.01A - Where an individual commits acts with the intent to compromise the integrity of the Crown and its constituent institutions by waging insurrection and seeking the destruction of the Orenian State by impugning the character and person of the Crown through subversive means such as collusion with enemy entities and actors against the State, this shall be the crime of treason. 204.01B - Where an individual commits acts with the intent to compromise the integrity of the Crown and its constituent institutions by waging insurrection, committing acts of violence, or raising flag in rebellion against the state, this shall be the crime of treason. This policy will include a swift crackdown on any supposed threats against the Crown and its citizens, ranging from slander of the Crown to violent terrorist attacks. We will give Inquisitor's complete authority to carry out justice as they see fit in order to bring terror and its associates to justice as soon as possible. This policy is unable to be completed by the Royal Inquisition alone. We require the assistance of all of the Kingdom of Oren to effectively police against traitors. If you know of anyone related to, committing or attempting to commit subversive actions against the State, you are required to send a letter directly to the Royal Inquisition or report this behavior directly to any member of the Inquisition so we may review the evidence and deem the appropriate action. Failure to report any evidence you may have knowledge of will be deemed as being complicit in the crime. Please direct all inquiries and reports to the Lord Inquisitor’s office. With unity and virtue, we may rid the world of evil and continue the peace we live in. ISSUED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD; 1879 Matteo Basrid Lord Inquisitor Helen Basrid Inquisitor Secretary
  7. MORNING GLORIES Theodosia Illaena O’Rourke 1826 - 1876 “You have to be strong… You’ll be okay. We’ve gotten this far, hm?” ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 1 It started when an arrow soared across the cloudless summer sky, and a scream followed, echoing throughout the ivory capital; the sniper was unseen but the aftermath was oh too evident. A man keeled forward with it lodged between his spine and shoulder blade. Soon, a cacophony of deafening yells and chaos ensued– medics were called, army men paraded about to find the perpetrator. The man was alright, and the nigh assassin had escaped, but the source of that scream– a girl, was not. Her name was Theodosia, aged only five. Haunted and disturbed after her young father’s almost-death, she cried and cried till her eyes were dry. Then, she’d hold her head high and muster a relieved, meager smile in the wake of his survival. He lived, and life went on. That was the day she was reminded of the transience of being; anything could be taken in the blink of an eye. Although she may not have realized it then, the aftermath was oh too evident. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 4 “AAAH!” She once shrieked, aged eight. Two figures, masked and foreboding, had entered the Augustine Palace prior and held her mother as a hostage; she and the other noble children were mere helpless witnesses to the horror afar. That is until she was stabbed in the leg, around her calf. She’d be alright, as would her mother, but a limp followed her forever thereafter– as did a cane gripped in her right palm. As did questions about the aforementioned things: irksome questions, and judgemental stares she was never unbeknownst to. So, Theodosia changed; she tripped and stumbled, staggered with little grace, but she gathered her bearings and adopted an almost-normal gait. Similarly, she stifled her Northern accent to take a voice fitting of an Orenian peer. She wasn’t weak; she wasn’t feeble or odd. There was no room to be. No room to be at all. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 6 9 Seven years preceding the world unraveling and her passing, the solemn Countess grew perturbed; those times she wondered what her mother would think of her now. After all, she’d gotten past the age whence her mother had died. And what a strange thing it was, for in her youth she’d sought to divert the blame to her. Theodosia had sworn she would develop to be better, stronger, different. Yet, here she was, with her estranged father’s face, and the worst of each parent. Distant as ever, when had she become so cynical, so cold? It was the curse of her lineage, to transform into husks of bright-eyed adolescents, she figured. She wasn’t sure, though. Psychology had never been her particular forte. Time slipped away too quickly, at this pace, at this point. Just yesterday, she could swear that she was a nomadic teen escaping that drafty estate halfway to nowhere to end up somewhere she knew not. Somewhere unfamiliar, somehow feeling more welcomed than she ever did at home. Though she’d never ever admit it, Theodosia resembled her father in that respect. It was her way of connection, and- “Countess.” A voice called out, abruptly removing her from her absent-minded reverie. A red haired girl sat across, maturing to that of a young woman — maybe seventeen, eighteen now. “Oh, Cass.” She spoke up, clearing her throat. They sat opposite within the exterior greenhouse, light pouring within upon the flowers freely rising in midday’s wake. “What were you saying?” Cassia asked, offering a slight smile. Theodosia reflected it, a bittersweet edge remaining which she couldn’t conceal. “...Botany, the likes,” — “My sister would know it better than me. It’s a nice pastime though, at least when there’s less time to paint. Sadie is at that age.” She mused in part jest, eyeing the blooming morning glories across. Her ward snickered. “Oh, I know. She’s what, two now?” “Almost three.” “My, my…” She trailed off, faintly amused. Silence festered thereafter. Theodosia ruminated. She interrupted the quietude with a casual notion. “You’re lucky.” Cassia frowned. “How so?” “You have a lot of free time. More so than most. Not just your age, just… generally.” “I’d say that’s too much time.” She jested with a half-smile. “And that is a wonderful problem, dear.” “I know… What are those, right there?” The ward diverted the subject, gesturing to the blooming flowers facing them. “Hm,” Theodosia squinted. “Morning glories. Not the most popular flower, but they grow well in the West and I like them quite a lot.” “Why are they… rejected?” “I didn’t say rejected.” She retorted, rising with a quiet huff on the way. “Only that they’re unpopular.” “Sorry, I just assumed–” “It's a valid assumption.” “Would you tell me about them, then?” “They’re not particularly special.” She remarked, withdrawing a pair of scissors from a bag, briskly snipping a flower which had begun to wilt. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 4 2 Beads of sweat lined the Lady’s visage, derived from the heat exuded from a bonfire ablaze which she sat beside. How long had it been? Five hours? Six? She’d lost track hours ago, only that she must wait. Patience and endurance were virtues, after all; waiting brought about better times. "Waiting brought about better times…" Better times… Nothing ever seemed to happen, perhaps she was just asking for heatstroke in the quieter hours of the night. It wasn’t fair. She gazed to her left, toward her best friend. At least he made things a little lovelier, although they spoke little amidst the trial. Ioannes Temesch, Owynist Lector to be. He too stared into the flames, wiping his brows, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing the point somehow. Perhaps he knew, he was really smart. Before she could speak up, the seventh hour had passed, announced by an exuberant Hyspian calling out for “mijo, mija!” Her pensive musings were flushed away with the best drink of water and hardtack she’d ever had. It was ironic, an Adunian on the Path of Owyn against her very own ancestor; she prayed she wasn’t like her forefather Harren even if most treated her in such a way till proven wrong. That Temesch boy didn’t mind, and they were the best of friends. It was only when Du Loc turned so tumultuous and her responsibility turned out to be too much that Theo visited less and less. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ “They don’t bloom for long.” She explained, grasping the flowerbud betwixt her digits and swiveling toward Cassia. “Only for a day, mornings even.” She chuckled. The girl nodded with a smile, quizzical looking. “I suppose that’s why some people don’t like them. They’re short lived, see- this one’s starting to wilt.” She said, gesturing to the flower in hand. “That’s a shame…” “It is. But they’re very pretty living, don’t you think?” She chimed, tucking the flower into Cassia’s jacket akin to a makeshift corsage. “Some deeper meaning in that…” “Probably. Don’t worry about that stuff too much, though. Enjoy the flowers.” She joked, faintly chuckling as she reclined to gingerly sit down beside her. “I won’t. You tell me to be careful though.” Theodosia paused, her smile diminishing momentarily. “That’s a little different, dear.” ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ For survival, we do what we must. A friend had told her, or something like that. Steadfast, she had abided by this rule; strangely enough it often seemed that most disregarded the idea entirely. People disappeared, venturing across Almaris and acting unruly, the world ever enveloped in chaos. Wars sprung up like errant moths drawn to the light, even her very own antagonized uncle had briefly treated her as an enemy, and vice versa. They made no sense; the very world made no sense. She didn’t want that everlasting worry for her children, as hands-off as she was. It was the sole guidance she gave the lot of them: cooping the kids up within the confines of Halstaig. Nevertheless, they found their way as rebellious children do. Everett snuck out from the premises more times than she could count on her hands, and Alexandrina was too outdoorsy to be bound. Was she a bad mother? Was she insane? She’d tried her luck at a family as a wife, as a mother, as a sister, a Countess; some of it hadn’t been her choice at all. Or, was there no point whatsoever; how different would her life vary had she been the second child born? She wondered, notwithstanding the melancholy and doing what she must. Even if that meant neglecting her values or being the “villain,” even if it meant growing into the icy effigy she’d inadvertently become. The alternative was much worse, at least Theodosia covertly hoped. It couldn’t be all for nothing, her mistakes, her clashes, her struggle and strife eternally awaiting a happy ending. Though, those storybook conclusions were all made up for her kids, leaving her unsure. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ Leopold de Ruyter was a man, her husband specifically. It would be plain incorrect to hail the couple as “madly in love,” or romantic platitudes akin to it, but they shared a mutual respect. He wasn’t around often, and just this once… Theodosia was alright with that. Had she wed for the sake of love, perhaps she would very much mind it, but their union could better be described as utter convenience. He was a scholar, she was Countess. She spared no sentimentalism over it. She couldn’t. She was too old for rose tinted romanticism to view the world from. There came a time when the question of children and marriage became a tad too much to bear. She knew how her younger self would judge her now, but couldn’t bring herself to grow too bothered over her state. She was lucky, more so than many— a lady with everything a proper lady ought to desire. And yet, when she stared over the balcony at night like a cliffside overlooking the abyss, a sudden wave of dissatisfaction was unshakeable. Of failure, and every other bad thing in between. Where would she be were it not for her luck? What had she truly achieved? What of everything she’d not yet done, and wouldn’t do? Would anyone remember her name or wonder about her well-being after she died? Was she any more than a title mentioned in a brief tabloid? Had she failed? Was she a failure? It was her fault. It had to be. Her decisions, her idle idealism awaiting foolhardy hopes. A foolish woman with foolish children, only known by her title and home. Theodosia crumpled to the ground, overcome by smothered grief as she wept over her many errors and her family estranged ‘till her eyes were surely dry. It got to be lonely, bearing the weight of it all without aid. There was no comfort in the depths of the night, and no meager smile to wake with either. None of it wasn't fair. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ “Countess,” A voice which she recollected called once more, ringing in her ears like tinnitus. Cassia Daphnia: her ward, such a sweet girl, cheerful too. More than Theodosia was,, with unwavering diligence and kindness. She was her firstborn, hidden from the wider world since she could recall; that could be why she was so sweet. She favored her, admittedly. “What happened to my mother?” She asked the very last question that the Countess had hoped to hear. Theodosia faltered, clutching her teacup within her interlaced palm. She swallowed a lump which had formed in her throat, stricken with a sense of unease she couldn’t quite conceal. “I don’t know.” She replied, coming off harsher than intended. “Matilda went off with my father.” “She- what?” “I thought you would’ve figured it out by now.” “She… hasn’t written.” She sighed. “Patience is-” What was she saying? “She’s not your mother, Cass.” She muttered thereby. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 3 Theodosia loved her children, she just didn’t want to see them. They were reminders of her shortcomings, and the state of things. Of course, that wasn’t their fault; they were just kids after all. She prayed they’d have a little more time to be just that: just kids. She never did. At every turn, her interests were cut short. Who else would bother to gather the pieces? It was the O’Rourke’s against the wider world, at times. Then, as the family began to splinter whilst she clung to the remains, it was just her. She knew that when her mother left her to her own devices, even after she'd sobbed and nearly perished. There was no point for resentment anymore, not when she'd been taught that what she wanted had to be done alone. Leopold was gone; Michael was gone; Woodes was gone; Iduna was gone; Alexander was gone. Even her anchor, Uncle Auden, was dying and she knew it. Then again, she was dying too. Her vices in youth had caught up. Escapism's consequences loomed over her very face, having once extended solace from countless regrets and brooding. Even if she was clean from cigarette smoke and drugs, the damage was done. Each day, it grew harder and harder to maintain her stalwart demeanor. After all, she desperately sought to never miss a thing, even when deep down, undoubtedly, she’d die before her children got to be adults, and die before Cassia would forgive her. She dreamt that Everett would never feel this lonesome or troubled. Alexandrina would never be plagued with worries. Sadie would triumph past her naivete and shyness, at least one day — some day. She dreamt they’d be different from her. They’d be tight knit, and they’d have each other: that they would be free, and capable, that they would be liberated from the weight of things, that they’d never wait so long for things which never came. It was all the Countess could do, dream. For others, even after she’d been left in the ruin of all things long ago. If only she wasn’t so moody nowadays, maybe she could give better guidance than, “Don’t worry.” If the world could stay still for awhile, she'd be okay. If she couldn’t do that, she could be proactive, or maybe try. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 1 ”Little one.” A gruff voice called above the bustle of Old Providence. The green eyed girl turned; she wasn’t quite an heiress then. Her grandmother was still alive, and that humble Providence home hadn’t been taken by flames of arson just yet. Trauma hadn’t settled in. “Ave!” She exclaimed, a guileless grin across her face. She’d just won tic-tac-toe against a new friend. Things were pretty good. The source of the holler was none other than Woodes O’Rourke. He was a tall man, and his appearance matched his attitude. Despite his age, his visage was aged by an unruly beard and countless bar fights. He bore a cane, then. He knelt down to meet her eye level. People offered them odd looks from the sidewalk. “Take this, alright?” He said, extending it to her with a certain poise and formality. “Why?” She asked, like the child she was. Woodes snickered. “It's an heirloom. Your great grandfathers. Great man, you might live to his legacy one day.” “Mhm…” “Keep it with your soul, yeah? Might just need it someday.” “Okay!” She assured with a prompt bob of her head; the cane was twice her height and more of a staff but she managed. Woodes gave a rare smile and stood up, towering over her. He turned off, waving as he went. Perhaps if she were older, she’d have noticed his empty pockets and missing weaponry. She could have offered a proper goodbye, had she known that was the last she’d see her uncle. She went on her way with her braids flopping against the wind. That was before it mattered; that was before she cared or even noticed at all. Instead, she carried that cane; Theodosia carried that burden like everybody else. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 5 Theodosia heard of her newfound position on the Council of State when she sought to import pineapples to sell at the reopened Paddy’s Pint. She might have been a highborn housewife and failed artist, but she’d be damned if she didn’t have a pineapple. It was a novel thing, but she’d lived life straight. If this was an adventure, so be it. Her inclination came from her dim subconscious, but that was irrelevant. She’d been a mediocre Lady Vicar, and a mediocre Countess. She presumed she’d be a mediocre stateswoman. Justice this, justice that. Most of it was gobbledygook to her; she wanted a pineapple. She wanted to be happy, but found herself very tired. The cough was worse too. Things were better, but she felt worse. Bleak. She covered it up, for others sake. Being a burden was the worst fate, and her prerogative had to be some kind of justice in an unjust world. It was on a normal night which she manifested this, after bidding Sadie a sweet goodnight in the maid’s stead for once. “Alexandrina,” she beckoned her daughter’s attention, inviting herself to a seat opposite from the young teenager’s bed. Alex resembled her great grandmother more than either of her absent parents. “What is it?” She asked, pushing herself up from the mattress to sit upright. “There’s… a talk I ought to have with you, that neither my mother or father really did with me.” Theo began, offering a bittersweet smile to alleviate the newfound awkwardness. “Oh- uh, okay.” “Don’t worry.” She laughed, then. “I hated these dramatics when I was young too.” Alex frowned, puzzled. “You are… gonna face a lot when you’re older. Already. There’s a lot of hardship in this world, and a lot of beauty.” Theodosia mused with melancholic eyes, swallowing the lump which had formed in her throat. “I won’t be here for all of that, and there won’t be someone to catch you all the time either. You’re going to have to look over your family one day, but know that they love you too. And it’s okay to fall sometimes. It's okay to be hurt, as long as you pick yourself up. No matter what, I’m on your team. You’re already getting it… looking after Sadie.” She laughed, looking away, enveloped in a brief reverie. She’d made the same mistakes her mother had, and her mother’s mother. It might have been too little, too late, but it was all Theodosia had left to give: a last hurrah. Had she more time to waste, she could amend her wrongs with Cassia and raise Alex right; she could see Sadie grow up. Alas, perhaps some things were destined to be missed; true closure eluded her. “Seize the day, alright? Time is precious for human beings. We don’t get all that much of it.” She chuckled, fiddling with her hands in her lap. “I love you, and you’re growing up to be better than I ever could. Cassia is there, so is Everett. Don’t forget about you.” Theodosia concluded her spiel with a sigh, shifting to be a little more upright. It was rare: her vulnerability, that is. Alexandrina frowned, appearing familiar to her namesake. Theodosia wondered whether her mother felt this way, fostering her late brother to health when his illness was imminently fatal. She was just waiting, when both parties already knew how it ended. To her surprise, Alex drew forward to her mother’s lap. They embraced, and she spoke. “I love you too, mam. I’ll be sure to do that… look after me, everyone, and- and seize the day.” She reassured. Glossy eyed, she gave the best response she knew. “Good, you’re strong. I know you can take on this world. And, I-I’m sorry if I haven’t always done well by my own advice.” “You’re strong, mam. I guess that’s where I get it from.” The Countess smiled, clambering to her feet from the sofa. The evidence of her brooding was bygone, extending half hearted comfort where she could. “O’Rourke’s aren’t quitters, love.” She pondered, standing still like a thoughtful effigy in the door frame. “Goodnight.” She turned, shutting the door and pacing down the hall. Unseen to a soul, she silently wept. With much left to do, and much unfulfilled, there was nothing to be done. Powerlessness was her greatest fear, and it taunted her that night and the following days. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 6 Promises were broken; relationships were rekindled; friends were made and lost. Things always went wrong. Faced with the fleeting grandiosity of a mediocre life lived, Theodosia wondered what she’d missed. When she was a child, she swore she would never grow to be an irrelevant wife. Here she lay, gazing toward the blank ceiling anyway. She wasn’t a great artist, nor a particularly notable politician. That didn’t really matter though. Whatever she sought, she stayed unhappy. Even after Auden had narrowly survived a grim situation, and she carried on amidst it all, she felt a gaping void in her chest she could not shake. It was her unspoken grief, in pursuit of so-called strength. Where was Eloise? She was so very guileless, in spite of her loss. That horrible man she’d almost married; what happened to him? Questions all unanswered, now (more so than ever) was the instant to take a gambit. It may have been too late to amend her heartache and lamenting, but something subconscious urged her. Theodosia gave brief goodbyes to Calahan, her children and the tenants, then there was the quiet Sadie. Together, they wrote a letter. “I’m going to go out. I need to meet with a friend and tend to some things, okay?” She said, bittersweet. “Okay.” Sadie nodded. “C-Come back to… tuck me in.” “I will.” She promised; she could hold on long enough for that. “Be good, will you?” “I will." Then, Theodosia had gone. She ventured from Halstaig to the cold reaches of the Kingdom. Everything had shifted, but the plains had not. They were bewitching, gorgeous. She discovered respite in the unknown, as if she was a girl once more. But, she had a purpose. Her oldest friend wished to confide. She could hold up a promise there, at least. She reflected if she was as sure as she thought on what he longed to say. She would never truly know, because she had never acknowledged it — too late, now. She loved him, just not in the way he suggested. How she missed the days of her early adolescence alongside the Lectors nevertheless. Her steed carried her forward notwithstanding her decaying health. They passed the capital and Cathalon but she was not found with Ioannes or a pineapple. She didn’t find Eloise either, nor that De Ruyter she’d decidedly married. She prayed they would forgive her, as well as her father, children and kin. That lone steed found its way back without a living equestrian to follow. The paranoid Countess was dead. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ B E Y O N D The bureaucracy mattered not, nor did the countless titles or so-called power hitherto, nor did the sympathy towards Owyn and the seven-year patience she held, nor did her desire to be so different from her predecessors. She was the same, albeit naive at times: not a prophet, nor a deviation from the general norm. Surely, her wariness kept her from either. Calahan takes care of the kids, or so he had promised as much. Perhaps they’ll visit Elias, for he is their kin from a generation foregone. Eloise returns one day, and the levy will likely be dispersed without Nikolaus. Auden sorts the books and Sadie assists. Cassia grows melancholy. Everett is left with a rather intricate old cane. The family is a little closer, and things are a little better — pretty good, for now. Theodosia is not there. Some will say she made it, others condemn her running away. She’d consider it honorable, to escape a slower end, pitiable. Perhaps had they known, the prior farewells would differ. She arrived at the other side with open arms; she endured. Happy endings are for kids, and ennui plagues adults. Pictures are produced of a brighter world to reflect one back, but she never had time to really paint much. Somewhere, now, she is happy and free. At least, she is on standby wistfully no longer. That is her justice. And at home, a quiet ember dances from inside Erin Hall’s rebuilt hearth. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THEODOSIA ILLAENA O’ROURKE I, Theodosia O’Rourke, Countess Halstaig, and resident of Halstaig declare this as my Last Will. All wills heretofore are null, whether influenced by myself or associate partisans (jointly or severally.) I hereby declare Calahan O’Rourke as the executor of my will, and valid regent in my absence. To Sadie Cristonia O’Rourke, my heiress, I leave my garments and emerald tiara. To Alexandrina O’Rourke, I leave the rest of my jewels and green sash. To Everett O’Rourke, I leave my steed and Kaedrini Rose Cane. May you bear both well. To Auden O’Rourke, I leave the establishment of Paddy’s Pint and responsibility alongside it, bound to Helena Avenue 8 within Vienne. I hope it will continue to bring closeness to the family as a whole, and bring about prosperity. To Cassia Daphnia Erinsehn, my eldest, I leave any works of art (drawings, paintings, et cetera) I have produced and my unused dagger Custodia. Cremate my corpse if it is attained. Put me in that blue dress with the yellow floral skirt. Signed, TRH Countess Halstaig Theodosia Illaena Anastasia Anne Clover Vasa Cassia Lucia Emma O’Rourke
  8. but how can i metarally my entire nation's army while stabbing the bad guys with my thanhium blade and running away simultaneously now!
  9. I am an Elven Super Villain, and this is my favourite Story Team member.

  10. [Do not metagame any of this information; the information of this retelling may be obtained through valid roleplay] ❯━━━━━━━「₪」━━━━━━━❮ THE ABYSS GAZES BACK A MASSACRE WITHIN THE CRATER It was an autumn day like any other amidst Malin’s Welcome, and not a Descendent could have prescience to what was soon to come. A gaggle of Urguani and members of the Mages guild alike ventured into Ando Alur, merely to research and exit by nightfall. Eighteen adventurers entered, while only ten returned to tell the tale. … In the heart of the fallout decades hitherto was the epicenter — a grand crater rife with raw Voidal energies, enough to overwhelm anyone and certainly stir chaos into spells. The group clambered up the crest of the rocky hills, and with their new vantage gazed upon the crater full of despair. Roars of incomprehensible terror bellowed from the epicenter and the company faltered in their determination to persist. Some advised exploring other areas of the Hollow, though the stubbornly bold pressed onward, descending the crust of the crystalline pyres of mana in the dreadful abyss atop blackened rock. Eyes peered toward them from afar, and though fleeting spiels of rituals were spoken, none came to fruition. Shadows, larger than life, watched from overhead, augmented by the crystal spires. It was a dwarf by the name of Kronk Stormheart who led them onward alongside another, Grimdal Irongut. The brazen group feared not, only faltering when the cliffside crumbled under their feet and a draconic, sable beast arrived. A behemoth.Silhouettes ordered them from afar, babbling incoherent tongues with occasionally words in between: Ľ̶̯̀͂̈̎͊Ẻ̷̬̯͙͎̻̮͕͑ͅA̶͎̬̰͑̐̈́̆̾͛͋͠V̴̨̡̝̪̱̭̰͊̒͛͋̆͠Ę̷͈̻̳̠͉̈́̍ Some fled, evanescing from the dreadful scene, others stayed for a short battle, outnumbered by the robed shadowy figures and great dragon. Panic fell upon the expedition as a sense of dread filled them, few unaware now of the turmoil they stood in. Several sought to escape, translocate elsewhere, far away; some were successful, while others met their end in the ether or simple suffocation. Air Evocress was the first fatality, followed by the dwarven trio cornered and incinerated by the dragon against an earthen barrier. Eliza, the leader of the Mages guild was transfixed by her own creation — pillars of quartz stabbing through the ground. The shadowmen closed in, having hauled an elfess, Ruina, and another elf, Beranabus away, pulled into the abyss. ❯━━━━━━━「₪」━━━━━━━❮ In the end, they returned to what had spawned this deathly sight: a void. Utter darkness, enshrouding their every sense. They were faced with the imminent, to eventually coalesce with it no matter their struggle and strife, without an exit from the pitch black plane. No matter a woman’s musings of alchemical abilities, no matter a friendship cut short. Even witnessing so-called salvation was only watchful eyes blurred by the darkness, arriving to offer a deadly embrace. Their reality was warped, here, fading in tandem with their consciousness. It was no use, thence adjoining the shadowmen’s conglomerate within an instant. ❯━━━━━━━「₪」━━━━━━━❮ Garbled words had surrounded the group prior, from the harbingers of quietus, reapers of the Void. Perhaps those who had escaped were the truly unlucky ones, left with the injury, the memory of the occurrence bygone. Vestiges of what was to come, in the wake of the Void; whilst fallout grew weaker, it preyed on many notwithstanding this. Despite their valiant struggle, when faced with eternity and a lack thereof, it returned them whence it came: to the abyss. Gone, forevermore, those left would be the only remaining to tell the tale of the Second Fall- the beginning of the end for Ando Alur, and to recollect the fallen. Air, Beranabus, Ruina, Eliza, Kronk, Gwydion, Grimdol, Odysseus. Perhaps brave, perhaps idiotic; they would never know. Ten had escaped. Nemesis was nigh, and the unfortunate coincidence offered a dramatic irony alongside it.
  11. THE WAY THE WIND BLOWS _____ _____ In the winter season, the wind carried hushed murmurations to and fro over the Empire's domain East and West respectively. It knew where it arrived, where it went, who it hindered with its frigid nature; yet few hearkened those calls. Few espied them whatsoever, or so a young man figured. It was as if they didn’t hear the ineffable words at all. MATTEO often found himself reflecting over the fleeting wind's halloos; they hollered to him after all. Some would surely act ignorant: hailing the supposed sentiments as odd, bizarre even. Hence, he kept his mouth shut, listening for the manifold calls much more than speaking up. As for what the young man heard; such would be left unsaid. They were notions he received, and he kept anything and everything to himself, seemingly. It was the safest, sane thing to do. From the outside, his varying spiels and musings of heroic futures and ambiguous ambitions — well, they were strange to put it nicely. Since his kin’s death, someone he’d not known, nor cared for, the atmosphere had become silent. Perhaps it was mourning; it appeared that most people were. At least, those possessing his family's name. It had been swept under the rug by the Imperials, and though Matteo had never known the late woman who had apparently been his great-aunt, the principal troubled him enough. That is, an unjust murder with unjust circumstances too. It left a definite melancholia remaining in the humid air. This was the way things were, the place they lived in: where those who cared carried little sway, and the rest revelled in complete disregard. They were debris brought along in the idle breeze, unseen to most. No one would worry if they disappeared, and no one would stand up to protest. The wrongs were left wrong, and their rights seemed to barely balance upon a thin rope with each passing moment; at any second it could all go to hell. Either way, he had no say. There was no one left to fix it, for even those that recognized it would soon concede to the situation that was. Some would seek to abuse it, and others would ponder endlessly. Matteo had yet to meet a man or woman that advanced forward amidst their complicit lifestyle. What that implied, he knew not. No one lingered here or there long enough to tell him. Since a child, he was taught this is merely the way things are. There was no mind paid to the impending future, giving him no peace of mind. Shouldn’t they dither and hang around a little longer? Shouldn't they swallow their judgement and accept this fate? Rabbits, waiting to be hunted. Nevertheless, an irking notion stuck with him that this was not enough, nor was he. While men recited wistful eulogies in sable garbs, he clenched his fists and hung his head. While his kin rose to success, he mulled over what was to come. He wished for a placid world. A placid, just world would be lovelier, and a “placid world” was not the host of Almaris, nor the place where the Illatian lived. If only he had the slightest indication of what exactly he ought to do. If he did, he wouldn't feel so bad. Instead, whether he would or seek to deceive, Matteo wasn’t so different from the rest. Albeit, a little more of a troubled recluse. A lot more of one, in fact. The past perturbed him, as did the future, and he knew not how to act. Was he really living, or just existing without a real purpose? Somebody had to work it out, he only wished he was privy like the rest. If only this, if only that. He hung around faltering, ever unsure as he survived day by day, never with any specific pursuit. He traversed here and there, and even that wasn't much help. What use was an understanding, if only to sit on one's hands? Showers of rain pitter-pattered on the desolate lands that once hosted Redenford. There, the brick house wherein Matteo lived stood, over the outlook ahead. It had not been so wet when he’d ventured outside, he thought. That was beside the point, as he found himself sprinting from the rain with a lit cigarette as his torch, finding refuge beneath a large bridge — where frogs and spiders alike dwelled. Perhaps he would have minded them, but his discernment was stifled with a deviation of his attention to the outside soon enough. “HELLO.” The voice sounded like his own but it was evident he’d said nothing — otherwise it would not have caught him by such surprise. It overlapped akin to a chorus with the downpour, one with the ambiance, carrying a fickle lilt in its bitter tone. The wind; others would not have heard it. The young man flinched, huddling into a ball akin to a tortoise shifting into its shell. “AH, FIGURES. THERE’S NO FEAR, BOY. WE’RE ACQUAINTED, NO?” “R-right, ah…” He stammered, relaxing somewhat. “YOU ARE HERE TO ESCAPE THE RAIN. BUT YOU DON’T MIND THE DAMPNESS.” “Mm…?” “AN AVOIDANCE OF BEING WATCHED, IS IT?” “Si, well…” He blinked, sputtering over his words. “You put it like I’m paranoid.” “YOU’RE SMART.” “Thanks.” “...YOU COME HERE TO THINK.” “I suppose so.” “WHY HERE?” “You know why. You know everything. Especially about me.” He snarked with a roll of his eyes, unamused by its antics. “DO YOU KNOW?” “Of course I know.” “WHY, THEN?” At that, he turned very very silent and began to feel overwhelmed with an unshakeable sense of utter loneliness, fraught with worries of why. Somewhere, he was aware, but it is one thing to think of something, and another to confess aloud. “IT'S AN ESCAPE.” “I suppose so.” He echoed, quieter to himself as he stared toward the reflective ripples in the riverbank — searching for a source of the voice he knew was nonexistent. “It's loud over there, and I don’t know what to do, so I come to think. I get stressed when it's extra loud, y’know. No one pauses to hear anybody, lest it's my brother…” “DOES HE KNOW WHAT TO DO?” “I don’t think so, but I think he’s doing what he does real well. That’s enough for him.” “AND FOR YOU?” “Like I said, you already know that.” He remarked, fiddling with his quenched cigarette, tossing it into the water. “I’m gonna fix things. Somehow. Do you know how?” “THAT’S YOURS TO SORT OUT.” “Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it before.” He snickered, shaking his head with a scoff. “THERE ARE MORE CONSTRUCTIVE WAYS THAN PROJECTING IT UPON YOUR FAMILY, MATTEO. THEY KNOW NO BETTER.” “I thought if you were gonna come around again, you’d tell me something constructive.” He retorted, mildly irritated as the rain began to pass. He sought to brush the mud from his pants and rise, almost hitting his head in the process. “DID YOU FORGET WHY YOU’RE HERE?” “Didn’t come to talk to myself.” “YOUR MISSIONS TAKE WORK AND THOUGHT. MORE THAN CALLING YOURSELF A ‘FIXER’ TO STRANGERS.” “I know.” “YOUR AUNT IS DEAD.” “I know.” “AND YOU DID NOTHING.” “That's not true.” He faltered out. “NO ONE DID.” “Right, they watched. I didn't.” He muttered, tense in his shoulders. “I didn't even know her...” “YOU'RE ALRIGHT WITH THIS?” “No.” “THEN WHAT WILL YOU DO?” “I don't know. Why me?” Matteo had begun to swivel on his heels and meander in the opposite direction toward the house. Perhaps it was his own angst or weakness, with a false haughtiness in his gait, veiling a certainly unsure expression. In whatever case, it was his foolhardy escape from the very wind, though its message grew no quieter. “YOU’RE GOING BACK TO THE HOUSE.” He winced. “Would you LEAVE ME BE?!” He shouted, coming to a sudden stop. It befell an unabashed silence, at that. The still air was heavy. “...WILL YOU MIND THAT THIS WORLD IS NOT RIGHTEOUS?” He opened his mouth, vexed by its final taunt, only too soon to realize he’d made it inside already. Things were truly quiet then, and he was well aware of the answer, too wary and prideful to possibly admit. Previously, he’d felt isolated — from the world, the land, the God damned Imperials. It differed now, beside the hearth, like waking from a prolonged reverie — a nightmare during the day. Maybe if he was like Drudo, or his brother at the opposite side of the bottommost floor, things would vary. He was just Matteo: determined as hell and just as clueless. “Eugh,” he muttered, storming upstairs with muddy tracks in his stead. When he drifted to a short lived slumber [a rare occurrence,] he was wise. When the stars still illuminated burnt crops and that dastardly plot of land he lived nearby, he could anticipate what lay forth. Perhaps he could even prepare, and scream from the rooftops: Something is wrong! He could do something. But he never remembered. By the time he sat up, by the time those memories of prospects ahead festered, they turned vague. Such was the way of nightmarish musings: soon to pass. He was left only with an unshakeable kind of malaise, one which danced across his spine and made him shiver even beside the fire. One day, he would remember, and brazenly pace into the light. Taking up arms without another to tell him how — that would be a start… He was independent. He could be, at least. So it went, and there were more constructive ways to make things right. Any way the wind blew, he followed ‘till he was off the roads into forestry far from any Descendent being. It was there he turned up swathed in a bothered reverie, depressed and decisive. Now was the time, more so than ever, to speak up by his own accord. For the first time, he almost had a solid idea of what venture he intended to set about. His self-preservation was minimal for a sense of grandiose liberty like the open skies extending far in each direction: wanting to be a hero whether right or wrong. Being there, alive unlike some, it allowed him to fight. For his mother. For his aunt, his family. For himself, and the future rapidly approaching. The myriad gales began to pick up, bearing louder messages once he'd journeyed back. Deep down, Matteo still wasn't certain.
  12. tatakae

    1. Milenkhov

      Milenkhov

      eren yaeggaaaagagagagagagg

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