RaindropsKeepFalling

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In the far reaches of Adria's dominion, IRENE BASRID, once Francisca, reclined within her chair tucked within a study, gazing out the window to a rainy day. She had a family of her own, by now. Her days as a Dame in Petra had long passed her by. Yet, when the letter had ultimately reached her with the news, it was as if she was a teenager being knighted atop that peak which hosted the ruins her forefathers looked after once again. She was not an old woman anymore, rather, an oblivious young girl with too many questions to subdue. 

She read the final line silently over and over: Your Everloving Sister...

Your Everloving Sister...

Your Everloving Sister...

Your Everloving Sister...

Was she so deserving of that everlasting love? She had not been a good sister in many years, memories making the bottom of her stomach knot. So often, she claimed that it was never too late, even in death, but did she want to find out? Perhaps it was too late, and perhaps there was no point. Irene did not know; she wept. She had not cried in a long, long time; only when the reminder of her mortality and the loss of someone she had not known for so long did she weep. She wept until her collar made it evident, until her eyes were dry, and she did not know why. 

Maude had always been the wisest of their family, their generation. A generation bygone, she realized. They were the last of a lost era, but never forgotten; she swore that unspokenly. She swore that. 

___________________________

Dedicated to Iskander Constantine Basrid,

my dear son, who shall live on. 

I am not a storyteller of fiction, but this tale is more true than it is fictitious,

despite the fantastical conditions.

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A lowlands road where children play,                                                                          

 artist’s rendition, ca 1928                                                                           

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━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━

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FOREWORD

AMIDST THE ENIGMATIC DANCE OF LIFE, death and the unheard whispers that permeate the universe’s masque which a child wonders about, a tale unravels, threading through the labyrinthine paths that a needle takes, verily pricking one's innocence with spilt blood and worry. It is a narrative interwoven with the essence of a being’s heavy heart, where the ethereal and the mundane converge, beckoning the seeker to partake in its riddles. A cruel mistress it is, surely; I know her well. That is to say, we engage in the affair of knowing, for the price of the journey that comes with upon the “white road.” Moreover, we hope it trails to the holy road, where each and every person belongs individually.

The way is already set to the rocks, the sun, the darkness, and the embers. The impoverished spirit swivels, to turn their back from the road, but they shan’t escape it; their blindness does not negate what is there. Even some rich and arrogant men would confess “I too must halt. I too stop before the white road.” Here, they travel eternally until they are astray with little compass backwards, leading them to folly or death.

All roads lead home. It is here and it has ever been here, and will ever be here. One could come back not by seeking it, rather by looking, finding it at a glance, by turning their eyes to the right or left or looking ahead. The rest is present but unseen, albeit presumed. What has to be, what will always be, is here.

At any one moment all my life is here. Let any moment change, and I would find myself in a new place, and that would indeed change my life. I would live then in a new life; but now, here, all my life is. It is my belonging, and my birthright, to where I stand and plant my feet. Here in the tapestry of each year according to time, I walk. I see it clearly in all my thoughts, all my sensations, all my feelings. At any moment everything and naught is clear to me. So clear that if I were to be given a clear cup of water to drink I could drink and drink and never be thirsty, though I would still drink again... The water is never pure, nay, there is always some mud; it only appears so clear. Such is life.

Simply, life is the road which stretches outward; life is the water; life is the sun, and the sun shines on my soul. It does not make me run from life, it makes me seek to live it. Water passes through the body of the earth and eventually returns to it. Like the water from the earth, life flows into us. All we are, what we have, is only what is in us, but we absorb what we are made of. We are the sun, our essence is the sun. All we imagine to be is in us. In that way, we are not different. We are all Man. We are the same, cursed. We are still the One. This is our truth. It is the One. It is Life. It is the discriminatory glances they do not recognize, glancing within the mirror which reflects the dark end of the spectrum, and it is the ultimate tragedy. 

And here, our chronicle embarks. 

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━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━

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A PILGRIM COMES TO WHERE it seems to him a long way must be gone to regain the road to the light, and the white road, that which appears to bring one home. Yet, there is no such thing as a truly white road. All roads lead home, and all homes lead back to the road. So he walks on and on. It seems that he has no farther to go to find himself and his home, yet he continues to walk; he seeks more.

When his feet tire and his eyes remain eager for the sights he has not already imagined, he comes to a great white church. It lacks windows and spires, and is without a door, resembling a box. Before his imagination constructs the inside, it as if he has lost himself in it; he asks himself:
 

“Why was I here?” 

and he asks,

“Was I on the right road on the wrong road?”
 

and he asks,

“Was I in the right place, or the wrong place?”
 

and he asks,

“Was I in the water or the embers to begin with?”

He does not know. As his eyes cling to the church whilst his soul wanders miles offward, he clutches a book he has not written in. It is his own to keep and he retrieves a charcoal pencil and writes:

The Book of Death. 

He walks to and fro but cannot escape the church's exterior garden. It is everywhere and nowhere all at once, much like the road. It lurks, and like a fractal, repeats without a corner or endpoint.

The pilgrim, in his bewilderment, keeps walking. He walks for days, through the nights too. There are no breaks or rests or meals. His hunger lies with the road. Everywhere the pilgrim goes, he sees himself without listening, and he sees the white church without a door. 

Why had he begun? Where was he going? Where did he begin?

The pilgrim does not know, and he keeps walking.

He wants to be back to health and unthought. He wants to cry, to plead to his master, “Please! I do not wish to know! I wish to live in the light, so that it blinds me more than the dark, or church would.” 

But it is too late. He has already taken the step, and he has already drank the clear water. He wonders if his master is dead. 

He wants to get back to the way he used to live.

He wants to be found, even if his master is dead.

Then, suddenly, without knowing why, without giving a thought to anything else, the pilgrim walks to the side of the white church. He stands there looking at it.

“I am here,” he says to himself. “I am lost, but I am here.”

He thinks: “This has been my way. I know it...”

He keeps on looking at the church.

The road, his road.

For thirty minutes he stands there.

And for the first time, he recognizes a silhouette within the walls, which he recognizes are, in fact, paper thin. Reluctantly, he treads closer, and closer, until he can feel his breath against the cool stone, and he steps through the exit whence he’d come — the one he had not seen and everyone ends — to the church. A child is being baptized.

He is here, and he is not. There is nothing he can do.

He peers to a plaque aloft which reads in a language he doesn't know, in a typeface like his own handwriting.

“God is asking me to tell my master and prophesy that he has made the clay, but He is making a book out of a bowel.” He murmurs to himself, and being unable to finish his thought whilst snickering, another voice chimes:
 

“God is ‘good’ as we put it. He is everything, and this is the beginning.”
 

“But there is no beginning. It has passed…” The pilgrim remarks, preceding his alarm from another soul that recognizes his own strife. He turns then to face a man who resembles him closely, but not so much that they were quintessentially indistinguishable. He was older by years. 

The pilgrim found his mouth hanging agape there, gawking just as he had for thirty minutes, thirty minutes which he now did not recollect. 

“O bold child, you are not to find words. I will teach you to teach yourself.” Murmured the old man.

“I believe you,” said the pilgrim. “I will be a teacher. You will teach me, for you have made me a student.” 

With this, he was taken in to view the baptism and eat, drink and bathe comfortably. The pilgrim consumed his rations scarcely and only filled the tub halfway. He waited to meet the old man, who asked him, “Is there anything in this world which you do not understand?”

The pilgrim sat in a small chamber. “There is nothing that I do not understand. There is nothing that I do not know.” 

“Say that then,” said the old man, “And you shall find love and money.” 

He knew the old man did not believe him, and he could not blame him, for he did not believe himself. He knew not what he believed, only that his feet ached to move once more, and for what reason? This, he also did not know. There was a transitory goal, like most goals were, but that was not here; it was elsewhere, and elsewhere he was not.

“I do not seek love.” He said.

“Then what do you seek?”
 

“What I seek is knowing what I have sought. I do not know, I’m afraid.”

“I see.” Mumbled the man. 

“Now, there is something else,” said the pilgrim. “I am ashamed to say, but I must say, I am also afraid of death. I fear you may kill me when I have told you about the white road to the light and the dirtiness of my soft palms.”

“What!?” said the old man, astonished. “Why should I kill you, when I know you have told me what you have? When you have exclaimed the truth with foolhardiness? When I have taken you in, fed you, saved you, and you have sought to kill yourself?”

“I speak with you, without knowing you. If I had never said a word to you before, you would find this strange. But now I am speaking of me to you, not knowing you, as if I had. You are more frightful to me than I to you as I live in the unknown. I do not know if you have lived many years, or just the right number.”

“Why, you are a clever fellow.”

“Leave it to the life which my master led; it is not my own to take claim to. He taught me all that I know. Everything.” He confessed. 

“Then what life will you lead?”

“I will live for a long time to come, I suppose.” 

“Not if you let yourself die.”
 

“I do not intend to. I don’t wish to… I told you I feared it.” 

“Oh, but it may consume you all the same. The light and dark, they are the same coin, boy. No different from you and I, only different moments surrounding the same place. This very church — it was once grand, and now it is not. But that does not matter. It is the past, and we may not change it. We live here, pray here, die here.”

“And you do not rebuild?”
 

“We do. Always, and always.” The old man answered without a thought.

“And you do not wander elsewhere?”
 

“Where else is there to wander? All roads lead home.” 

“I lost my home, long ago.” He thought aloud.

“Then you are not from here.” The old man lofted a brow. 

“No.” He answered, nigh snapping.

“You are not from anywhere. You are everything, at every time and place, at the same time. There is nothing that you have not seen and realized, and there is nothing that you will not see…” The old man paused. “...That is what you believe. That is what your master told you.”

“How might you predict it that way?”
 

“Because I am similar to you. I drank and stepped onto the white road as well.”

“Then…” But before he could finish, he had already forgotten what he would say. The clock, although ever slow, ticked closer and closer with each second to when he reckoned he would leave. Of course, he did not know, and neither did the old man, even that book he carried. Although the road had been set before him, he had yet to cross it. That remained his responsibility.

The path was predicated with footsteps shaped around the soles of his shoes, but he had not crossed it; no, it was not fully decided, only presumed. He was free of fate, yet trapped within himself, trapped to drink and drink without the pleasure of thirst.

“...You are wondering what you shall do when you leave here.” The old man had read his mind. He looked up, locking eyes.

“I wonder if I shall find my way back.”
 

“There is no place to find your way to. This is it.”

“And if I’d like more?”

“Then you may drink and rejoice and face tragedy, but never stop treading onward…” He trailed off. “-But you will feel no differently. You walk without changing, and look while thinking too much to see. You carried a book here, but your pencil was sharpened so that I knew you had not written.”

“I meant to.”
 

“Regardless.”
 

“I’ve faced temptation. I felt it would be inappropriate to write of something that attracted me, much like a moth to a flame, more than what I knew.”
 

“You will never write again if you rely solely on certainties. You will find certainties through assumptions made to be true, fulfilling the footsteps in the footsteps of your ancestors. Of your master, and predecessors.”
 

“I don’t recall them.”
 

“Then learn. We live here, but rejoice about the past without dwelling. That does not mean we act willfully ignorant. We walk for a reason, not simply to walk.”

The pilgrim paused. He had not considered this. He had indulged in historical pursuits prior, but they went no further than impersonal intellectualism. Now, his eyes turned red; he had not meant to cry. Suddenly, there was a handkerchief atop his palm, and he looked up to see the old man looming above. Five minutes had passed. He ought to go.

“I don’t remember the way… Who I was… Who I ought to be…” He whispered.

“You will find it with time. You may stay here if you wish. I believe you are clever, and that you might make a change.”
 

The pilgrim shook his head. “I cannot. I must continue now, but with purpose…”
 

“You have a look in your eye as if you remembered something. Do tell.” The old man pried, offering a hand as they both stood up together.

“...I had seen the sun before I came here. And I had strayed from the road, so far that there was nothing but land, and a lack of anything else surrounding me… Strangely, I did not care.” 

“And?”

“And I had asked myself, had I gone the right way, or wrong?”

“Neither.”
 

“Yes, but it was very dark, so hard to tell.”
 

“Did you rest?”

“No, I continued to walk.” They were walking now, whence he’d come and entered the church days hitherto. Whence he’d crossed onto the road, and looked into the walls to the baptism of the child, a child he saw himself in.

“And when the sun came out?” Asked the old man.

“I remember the sun,” he smiled. “How its light, like that of a fire-fly, floated from the sky, through the drapes, and faded, and blew away. Then it becomes dark, but in a minute it is light again. I do not remember whether I sought to thank the fire-fly for this, or to be angry with it.”

The old man shook his head and scoffed. “You do not blame God for His absence. A partial creator would be an evil one… lest you are God, which I do not reckon you are, you do not understand the fireflies.” He considered his own words, it seemed. “They must be off galavanting on their own travels too. It is the evil men, who you blame, the ones who do not act as students.”

“...I mean it metaphorically.”
 

“And so do I.”

“Hmph.” Grumbled the pilgrim, but not out of ignorance, rather perturbation of what he had already known. “I am still a Creatorist.”

“Yes, I know.”

Exchanging meaningless talk and pleasantries foregone prior to the rest of the trail, the duo arrived at the threshold where the pilgrim had arrived, a baptism being hosted the same. It was as if nothing had changed, nothing had. 

The pilgrim takes a step.

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POSTFACE

WHEN I NEXT OPENED MY MAW, I felt fresh air inflate my lungs, which dried the moisture from a muddy path and the water I had consumed. It had been months since I’d seen winter, or drifted to a hearth; that day I drew onward to a place I had not been and found a house with a plaque which bore my name and a book titled Death. It had waited for my arrival, my deja vu. When I tread within, I found there to be a dancing flame.

Dancing and dancing, in spite of its surroundings, in spite of its fleeting nature. It paid no mind, and I considered it a fool. Temptation burned me to put it out there, though before I could, I thought better and left; it would be inescapable otherwise, lest I was not a fool (certainly, I am.) 

By the time I awoke in the night, fireflies scattered the sky much like specks of tiny sunlight. I smiled, remembering what a friend had once told me, and continued to pray for equilibrium during the eclipse. Soon, thereafter, I returned to the white, snowy road, and ventured back home to my son where I had made another home. I do not partake in wishful thinking, but I hold arduous faith in the white road I had oft taken in my youth to draw change from a cruel era. Echoes of God, we are, and a harbinger of death: humanity. But, that never stopped victory, nor hope, nor enigma filling us to the brim until we spill into our kin’s essence, one — that way — together at that, simultaneously a downfall. 

With each passing moment, I felt the weight and rush of responsibility upon my shoulders. I was not just a bystander in the universe; I was an active participant, a vessel of light and dark, of class and exile and a mirror of the divine for all its sin and power that came with.
 

Humanity, with all its flaws and virtues, embodied the paradox of existence. We were capable of great acts of love, yet so indulgent in our promotion of suffering and instrumental evil. Despite this, I look around, knowing I’m alive; here is what matters and shall we never forget what preceded our place in the road. The world deserves that. 

I took a step too. The sacrifice was worth it. 

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by

Irene Basrid, Countess-Consort of Susa

Published 1929 FA

©

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imagine MY expression when i had ALL OF THESE MODS INSTALLED ON 1.19 and my face when 1.19 doesn't WORK ON AEVOS

0/10 server!!!

MC Name:

         RainedropF

Character's Name:

         Túrin Ibarellan

Character's Age:

         old

Character's Race:

         High Elf

What magic(s) will you be learning?

         Fire Evocation

Teacher's MC Name:

         JoanofArc

Teacher's RP Name:

         Éowyn Nullivari-Ibarellan

Do you have a magic(s) you are dropping due to this app? If so, link it:

         No

Do you agree to keep Story updated on the status of your magic app?:

         Yes

Are you aware that if this magic is shelved, it will be unavailable to use?

         Yes

An artist's portrayal of Mount Garmont

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WHAT STANDS NOW as a historic monument to the past is MOUNT GARMONT, left in ruins since the Acrean Revolution. If you have dwelled in Petra longer than a month, then you would recognize its appellation in any official release or ceremony. It stands at the summit of Petra — overseeing the growing Commonwealth from the North.

Although its deadened state is naught glamorous, I hope that in documenting its history, the legacy may be honored and revered so our children, and their children, may know what preceded them. Akin to a family's ancestor, these things require a modicum of respect and acknowledgement. In spite of its name living on, its actual life deserves the same action as aforementioned. 

H I S T O R Y

INITIALLY BUILT alongside the County of Mardon in the mid 1850s, under the last Emperor Philip III’s reign, known then as “Castle Garmont,” it stood as both a strategic keep and silhouette to guide travelers and citizenry alike. Occupied by who would grow to become King Frederick I in wake of the brother’s war, Garmont acted as the focal point of Mardon. 

Architects and portrayals suggest that the Castle’s appearance was one to be nigh envied. It reflected the County itself, predominantly made up of sturdy stonework and painted tile along with terracotta. The roof was not wholly arched, flat, rather and made up of crenelated parapets and battlements, usually reserved for sky reaching walls of manifold nations nowadays.

Regardless, the Castle was not built for excitement and allure alone, notwithstanding the fact that it was the King-to-be’s home, Garmont provided an advantage to defenders, come wartime. Given its high altitude, guards would be able to spot invading forces long before they came anywhere near enough to properly attack (ranged or otherwise.) This aided the soldiers of Mardon to potentially ready the full aptitude of their military, allowing no room for an abrupt ambush.

The Castle Garmont remained and was blessed with peace for years to come, throughout the Brother’s War and after that, up until the Acrean Revolution. 

T H E   F A L L

CONTEXTUAL UNDERSTANDING is needed to truly see the nuance of what came next. Amidst the revolution, Petran settlers (predominantly of Temesch blood, or those who had sworn loyalty) began to flood Mardon, which had been abandoned since the Brother’s War several years prior. Yet, some soldiery remained, guarding the pinnacle of a County (even a home) bygone. Many of these men were without proper leadership, and what kept them from anarchy was an eagerness to heed Oren's command, as loyalists. 

During the Acrean Revolution, the late King Frederick’s first son and namesake, Frederick Aurelian, sought refuge in Garmont. As Acre easily overpowered the remnants of the Kingdom of Oren on its last limb, it is to be speculated that Frederick Aurelian foresaw that they would reach Castle Garmont next.

Before fleeing, or dying, there is one certain thing that the soldiers of the time saw: forces in numbers incoming. Naturally, the immediate assumption was that it was surely Acre. As a result, Frederick Aurelian provided a final order prior to his disappearance, to burn Castle Garmont before the enemies reached it. This was to prevent them taking control of it in the following regime. 

Haplessly, for the next three days to come, an inferno enveloped Castle Garmont, leaving the ruins we know today, and henceforth known as the "BURNING OF MOUNT GARMONT." If he had known that it was instead the Petran settlers, then perhaps the outcome would have differed. However, its initial advantage came to be its downfall, a lack of communication providing no further help either.

By the time the Petrans arrived at the mountain's peak, the new Regent Paul Salvian stated that it would be honored, over the sound of coughing and sickness from the smoke. Since then, Dame Catherine of Furnestock (the late King’s sister) has verified that it has and will.

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IT WOULD BE foolish to dwell on the philosophy of the decisions of dead predecessors, but we may concur that the actions taken were quite unfortunate. Many adults who are now active in the decisions of Petra’s future were children who grew up in a realm which only knew war. The Acrean Revolution promised a new, better era; we came to witness that this did not survive the test of time under the Harvest Confederacy.

Although endings are oft inevitable, death in such a way as Castle Garmont’s may be prevented in the future by the guidance of its ruins, and the people within. I foresee that there are no guarantees, but we may rebuild and look to the reminders of our past to avoid similar mistakes. Hence, the soul of Garmont stays with our nation; we are not helpless.

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By

DAME IRENE OF MARDON

1 8 9 3

.

.

.

O SAINTE RÈGNE PETRÉRE

"Finally, it's out..."

The signatory IRENE declared with a huff, recollecting the Saint's Day prior and cramming which followed. She rose sluggishly from her desk strewn with papers, freed from her work... if only for a fleeting moment. 

[!] 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

16 minutes ago, DrakeHaze. said:

An LoTC supervillain was sent to the shadow realm and you want the mod team to start a revolution.

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.

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. 

1 minute ago, JoanOfArc said:

An Oyashiman woman weeped over the loss of her favorite Baron that she fangirled over.... Her, along with the twenty thousand other women in the Barony of Acre and the Kingdom of Oren beyond. How could life be so cruel that they could take such a handsome, strong, and brave man like Hannes de Vilan, Baron of Acre, and Lord Commander of the Petran Legion.

Matteo clenched his jaw and seethed; no one knew over what exactly...

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

but how can i metarally my entire nation's army while stabbing the bad guys with my thanhium blade and running away simultaneously now! 

3 hours ago, JoanOfArc said:

i don't like the gorillaz

blur > gorillaz

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. 

Someplace, at sometime, the news of the Vuiller patriarch's death made its way to a certain elf and doctor- weary, worn, and long forgotten. A brief frown met his tan features as he stirred. The last remaining familiarity he'd clung to from his formative youth had fallen.

 Akan Vuiller  lit a transient candle flame for the only father he'd ever known; the man he couldn't save in a country he hadn't lived in for a long, long time.

A weary and worn traveller paused to peer over the missive, a great grimace growing across his usually apathetic features as his gaze fell over each line... "Hm."

Quickly, he scurried off from the territory around Providence in avoidance of befalling the same fate as others and being robbed of everything he had! Boy, that ivory city had become something indeed.

one must be strong

“Promise me, darling, you won't build up walls around 

your heart no matter how much it aches?”

━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━

“...Things will be better after the war.” Theodosia concluded a tactful spiel of her's; characteristic and ever ironic, she was unbeknownst. So very sure and confident in her assurances hailing a paranoia underlying as naught. Little did she know, little did she know indeed.

In the blink of an eye, one week had passed. Everything felt so quiet, solemn and isolated from what had once been shrouded in warmth from the hearth- from a family now estranged. Michael was at war, and her mother had fled alongside Nora somewhere surely. Perhaps she’d find the duo in Sunbreak. Perhaps there would be some fleeting, bittersweet rendezvous. For now, Theodosia would linger around the South; travel was dangerous after all.

━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━

Two weeks passed, and dread began to irk the back of her mind. No letters, no word from her wonderfully reckless sister Eloise. Nothing. After two weeks, Theodosia did not drift from her spot, steadfast despite her anxiety- characteristic. Things were quiet, but such was life. Waiting would bring about better times, her father had told her. 

She’d wait.

━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━

It had been a month and the O’Rourke “emerald’s” worry had only augmented. She found herself meandering to and fro, to and fro around those emptied halls of the estate. If she aimlessly walked around, then that worry could be downplayed. If she aimlessly walked around, she wouldn’t miss a knock on the door from her mother or father. 

Theodosia was alone; how it bothered her so. Her heart stung with a lump always in her throat. Cheer and mayflowers bygone, the guileless stupors expected in youth had turned few and far inbetween with her. In their stead: great fear she mostly concealed. Of course, there were brief distractions, brief “hello’s” exchanged. Even in her younger years, she'd indulged in these deviations from the bad things: travel, vice, shallow acquaintances.

Nothing did quite shake that imminent bad news, though. 'Till one day, it arrived. One day, on an unexpected afternoon, somebody passed a crumpled letter into her grip- stained with damp marks of the sea. She couldn’t shake a sensation of deja vu of the period five years ago- five years since the news of her brother's untimely death. 

For five days, Theodosia mustered the strength to ignore the letter, to treat it as little. In the back of her subconscious psyche, she was practically privy to the contents within. That was why she sought to ignore it. Because, when she read it and her gaze skimmed each line, Theodosia was left to lament. Droplets hit the page as tears freely fell, as choked weeps escaped her. She crumpled the creased page, clenching her fists and verging on toppling over against her bed. The shock was unshakeable, despite every folly hope to mentally prepare.

What was she to do? Who was she to look to? How was she to go on? Why had her mother left her too? Why? None of these questions had simple answers. The O’Rourke’s anguish settled in, as did initial denial; Iduna wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. She’d return. The very heir to the Empire had, and so would she. 

And deep down, Theodosia knew it was a lie. The ugly truth cemented itself in her mind when she idly waited at the dock for hours on end for an unknown ship to arrive at the lakeside. 

━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━

Seconds of bliss would all pass; this had become a fact in Theodosia’s world. The seconds were sweet, but never forever even if it seemed so. To trick oneself only brought more profound pain and disappointment. If only she was aware what was soon to ensue (soon to pass,) when she had last really spoken with Iduna. 

It was a cool evening, hence the incessant downpour outside. She had broken some horrible news, and naturally Theo stormed off without bothering to reconcile thereafter. Maybe had she been different, had she been a greater daughter- a happier daughter, things would differ; maybe they’d be sweet. Alas, it was left to the philosophers to speculate someday- forever unanswered just as her gripes and questions were to her mother. Just as those promises were unfulfilled. 

She couldn’t summon any anger, nevertheless, grief squeezed her weary soul. To and fro, to and fro she strode around those empty halls like an apathetic phantom. She revelled in her grovelling, and no one could blame her merely seven days after her mother’s death. She was surprised to discern her father (usually elsewhere) around, idly in the library alongside her uncle. She was equally surprised when she found her red eyes welling with tears once more.

Soon, she melted into a deep embrace with sobs escaping her and words unexpressed hitherto. She opened her arms to a man she’d shunned from her life out of resentment and previous wrongs. Theodosia opened her arms to her remaining parent, holding on for dear life. Things were getting… 

Better.

Maybe. 

A month later, a short missive was posted. 

The missive came across an Imperial, Theodosia O'Rourke. Her brows knitted together upon skimming the words, a grimace growing across her visage. She recollected attending a lovely festival in that village... passing through it amid travels. A true shame, surely. 

"Hm," she hummed under her breath- going on her way, perhaps to spread the word in passing.  

“We all have a burden we must carry.” A friend had once told young Theo.

She never was around Halstaig much, these days; there was too much to avoid. Too many memories. What had once been the home she longed to return to was now a place she dreaded to see in the eve, for she knew something was imminent. And so, Theodosia arrived. She was right.

Somehow, the walls felt more imposing. The air was cold. She crossed her arms upon her entry through those wooden gates, minding her limp. She passed by Calahan, paying him no mind. Soon, she found herself burgeoning inside; her lower lip quivered.

Where was her mother? Where was her papej? Where were they to comfort her?

And with every wayward step further into the estate, it grew apparent that she was alone. That is, 'till someone or another, perhaps a maid, passed through the halls- somber. Something was foreboding, and Theo knew it. She'd known it since she was a little girl. There was always time to wait for something better, though. There had to be time. She wondered if it was really true.

That individual passed Theodosia the note with a simple bow of their head, and then they were gone; a passerby like the wind. It seemed like a common occurrence, these days. It wasn't fair, but neither was life. She had to be strong, for Eloise, for Alexander... for everyone. 

She set that familiar cane of her's aside, taking a seat in the sitting area as she prepared for the very worst. As she scanned each line of the missive of her brother's death, her hands grew o so tense, crumpling the page. It was the very worst. She let out a sharp breath, reeling forward with an anguished whine. The world spun around her, a blur of viridescent hues. 

Yet, her expression was blank. She'd never known him well, after all. Naught had really changed. He was always an introspective boy, seldom leaving his room. He took after his uncle. What did his absence possibly change? Theodosia couldn't quite answer that question; but surely, there was a difference. There was some awful lack thereof in the atmosphere. He was dead. Only thirteen, and he was dead. Why hadn't she sought to know him? She'd done everything despite her resentment, and he was dead! 

Soon, the young heiress closed her glossy eyes in prayer, wishing for a better place in the Skies for her poor brother. She would never forget the wails of her mother in the confines of her room.

MC Name:

         RainedropF

Character's Name:

         Dima Amedeo Ostrovich

Character's Age:

         26

What feat(s) will you be learning?

         Alchemy

Teacher's MC Name:

         Bvrzvm

Teacher's RP Name:

         Fyodor Ostrovich

Do you agree to keep Story updated on the status of your feat app?:

         Yes

Have you applied for this feat on this character before, and had it denied? If so, link the app:

         No

Are you aware that if this feat is undergoing an activity trial and fails said trial, that you will lose the feat? And that if it is apart of the Lore Games, it might drastically change soon?:

         Yes

Somewhere, Reece wondered why her name appeared upon the list of those eligible ladies, and misspelled at that! Curious, as she had not signed herself up, surely. Perhaps it wasn't so bad.

"Odd," she murmured under her breath, promptly deviating her attention elsewhere. She couldn't get too worked up about it. Nevertheless, the young woman began scribing a short letter off to one particular Tuvyic sister...