Heart_Spam

Sound of Silence (Common | T3) Background/Description Those things one can see, one can touch and feel; they have texture. Rough. Smooth. Warm. Cold. Light. Dark. Not so with Sound. It is an ambiance created by surrounding things: crowds, oceans, gusts of wind, the lull of a melody, yet it cannot be seen. This is not to say it is not alive. As much a part of the natural material world as any other. To seek to capture Sound may seem a daunting task, for it is born on the wind, hushed by a whisper, thrown forth in an explosion. Erratic, strange, whimsical. A torrent bearing many things unheard, unable to be contained in its mighty waves. Or can it? Craftsmen and artisans alike often seek to capture that which is intangible. Painters swathe brushes across canvas, musicians let notes fly with their instruments, tinkerers build from leftover bits of metal to create something new. They often seek to learn, to enhance, to capture, so that their works might become a better representation of the intangible. To capture Sound and to imbue it into a work of art, after much experimentation and failure, is an artisan’s next step towards the creation of their Greatest Piece. Recipe Base: Oil Mundane: Sound x3 Mundane: Connection x2 Air: Clarity x1 Air: Balance x2 Creation • Reagents must be ground into powders using the Mundane method and Symbols must be separately extracted • Sound and Connection are mixed into oil, which must then be brought to a boil • The oil’s steam must be captured and allowed to condensate into a glass vial, at which point the powder containing Clarity is added • NOTE: the vial can be stoppered until the next step; however, the next step must begin within the next 15 OOC minutes or the potion will fail • The concoction must then be left open to the air containing the ambiance one desires to record; ex. The sea, a crowd’s murmur, birdsong, etc. for exactly one narrative hour. • Too soon, and the Sound will fade as it hasn’t had time to properly set. Too late, and the Sound will become a tumult of air that shatters the vial and escapes. • After this, the air within the bottle will begin to froth a grayish hue and vague depictions of the captured sound can be heard escaping • Add Balance and cork the bottle. The frothing will settle into a clear vapor, as if the bottle is empty To imbue on an object: • Both the object and the potion must be placed in a glass, airtight container, after which the potion must be opened to allow the Sound to escape. An effective method found is by tying a string to the cork and pulling it free. • Although there is no visual evidence, one might be able to hear the faintest murmurings of their captured sound through the glass. As long as the object and escaped Sound remain enclosed for the duration of 5 emotes, the object will become imbued with the sound. Effects If opened: the captured ambient Sound will first release from the bottle in a muted, jumbled hiss of air, then escape over a series of 3 emotes, fading with each emote. Imbued: the object will constantly carry a muted version of the initial captured Sound. Ex. a softer ambiance of waves crashing on the shore, or a quieter version of thunderclaps. Redlines • This potion can be represented by a player-signed object after adequate roleplay • The alchemist must be silent during the potion’s creation (no speech, minimal noise of movement) • Can NOT drown out other noises • The effect is purely aesthetic and can NOT be used for harm • Can NOT record specific words or phrases • Can NOT be used to record teachings on any feats, magics, or lore • Can only be applied to objects that can be held with two hands or smaller (ex. no imbuing CAs or becoming a walking jukebox…) OOC Purpose References

A Mutual Benefit [!] One copy of the contract is given to each party. -=-=-=-=-=-=- Mutual Benefit: a contract or agreement in which both parties gain some type of advantage or value. This agreement signifies the beginning of a mutually beneficial trade agreement between Sheikh Abdur al-Mona and his people, and Ida Nightingale. This agreement is purely of the trade outlined below and can not be taken to reflect any support of either party on other matters. For the part of Sheikh Abdur al-Mona: provisions of hunters, their skillsets, and their knowledge of the land, for recovery of specific reagents requested by Ida Nightingale; in return for the services provided by said Ida Nightingale. For the part of Ida Nightingale: provisions of medical and alchemical assistance; skilled labor in machinery and woodworking; in return for the services of the hunters provided by Sheikh Abdur al-Mona. Signed, SHEIKH, Abdur Razzeeq al-Mona Sheikh of Al-Fahkri and The Banu Mona, Sword of Allah, Defender of the Qalasheen Ida Nightingale

MC Name: Heart_Spam Discord: heart_spam Image: 50eb7aec-0ff0-429a-bdc4-b1c927180c5d.tif Description of Image: coat of arms Dimensions: 1x1

Gentle water lapped against the sand rising from its depths, carrying the call of the sea into the little cove. The overhang carved from stone and dripping with cool, damp moss trapped the wind pulling in, settling the air with its chill. Thäna shuddered. The sound of the waves was mocking in its serenity. Calling out in that sweet, deceitful voice not to worry: only to come crashing in, beating over the shore at the first hint of a storm. The Child hated everything about it. The blue. The gentle whispers of the waves. The foreboding depths that would stretch on and on, beyond sight. The terrible storms with their crashing rain and oppressive torrents. But she wasn’t here for that - to bask in fear. The Matriarch’s words struck her once more, turned over in her mind. One day, perhaps, she could take ownership of the sea. She was here to learn, to observe, to seek the answers for the quest set upon her. Thäna scooted back in her seat on the sand, tucking her feet beneath her. The waves had lapped a little too close and wet the hem of her skirt; it irritated her, and she picked at the sand now stuck to it with long, black claws that itched for action past observance. It was impossible to count the number of days Thäna sat there, in the same spot tucked just inside the cove, watching the waves’ rhythm with an anguish that ached for them to change their symphony. She could have chosen anywhere to watch; the forest, perhaps, with its ever-changing shadows and weird noises lurking just out of sight. There was a thrill in the forest. An adventure. Or the mountain tucked beyond the birch forest - the one she’d once clawed her way up. It had taken every ounce of strength and many rests, clinging to the mountainside. To fall would likely have meant death. There were birds, rabbits. Uninteresting and timid. It was all for the Search. Which brought her, more often than not, back to the cove, back to the water. Crimson expression twisted in disgust every time the salt spray hit her nostrils. Silver eyes mirrored the shimmering reflections the sun cast on the water; but where the view before Thäna seemed inherently peaceful, the Child’s own look bore one of lingering apprehension. Most days, there was nothing but the occasional bird - great herons swooping down, or eagles circling high above, mere black specks against the sky - or the floods of fish that would make tracks just beneath the surface, winding and swimming and bumping into each other. Sometimes, a deer or a fox would trot down from the forests. But they were skittish, and would dart or slink away the moment the Child realized they were there. There had been a dolphin, once, come to pay a visit. The creature was a welcome change to the mundane. Its form leapt and danced in a glistening, majestic glide, breaking the water and plunging seamlessly under the surface once more. Effortless. Thäna watched, observing intently; wondering if her cursed form could bear that same effortlessness. That same admirable amount of control. Standing, Thäna brushed long, inky locks of loose hair back from her face and tied it with a thin string at the nape of her neck. Silver gaze never wavered from its intense watch on the unassuming dolphin’s movements, not until it had turned and fully disappeared beneath the gentle, shimmering waves. The Child toed the sand, pushing the shells around with a shoe, then took a few steps back. Remaining well away from the water’s edge, Thäna jumped, attempting to mimic the dolphin’s graceful leap through the air. Awkward, clumsy, and bound by gravity, she landed poorly and stumbled. Again. She leapt again, with little other success. It was some time before Thäna paused, panting, sweaty and tired. Hands placed on her knees as she stared at the sand, feet half-buried and hair falling past her shoulders in tangled curtains. What good was jumping if that was all? Jumping would not help in a fight, except to confuse her enemy into thinking she was a fool, perhaps. Lips twisted down into a frown, clawed hands fiddled and clacked against one another with irritation. Slowly, she withdrew a dagger from its sheath carefully tucked away at her side. A small, delicate dagger, a gift from her aunt. The Child turned it over in her hands, watching the light’s reflective glimmer and contemplating its spectrum of destruction. She tossed it upwards - it twisted in the air and plunged right back into the sand. She plucked it from the earth and threw it. The dagger whistled, plopping to the ground just a few short feet away - the throw had been awkward, half-intentional, and scarcely carried the distance Thäna had desired. As she trotted across the sand to retrieve it, she wondered. To throw the dagger, to make it leap as the dolphin had, would fulfill that one goal - but in addition, it would leave her defenseless. She would be throwing out her defense. Turning to cast silver gaze back on the sea’s mirrored surface, she sought the dolphin for guidance, but it had long since vanished, leaving the young one to her own devices. But then what? She preferred too much to remain still and silent than to leap out with grand movements like the dolphin’s. Thäna flung her arms wide, gifted dagger falling from a clawed hand to plunge into the sand, and the Child’s arms dropped back to her sides as she slumped back to her seat. No, no, leaping and dancing in a fight would not do. So open and carefree. Thäna was far too cautious; her instincts to hide and her aunt’s teachings would never allow a style so exposed. The day was muddy, the sky clouded with thick rolls of dark cotton. There was no wind; the air was so thick and oppressive that even the sound of the Child’s breathing was swallowed whole and lost in the air. The water in the cove sat still and glassy with a formidable silence that threatened a storm. A black and red and grey form knifed across the beach, desperate to return to shelter before the first large drops could fall. Movement caught Thäna’s eye and she halted. Perhaps the rain would hold for a moment more. A thin, waving line streaked through the water, almost imperceptibly breaking its smooth surface. The movement darted towards a frog resting on a stone by the shoreline, not ten feet from where Thäna stood. Suddenly the silvery streak rent through the water disappeared and a dark, diamond head popped up to take its place, watching the frog. Thäna had seen it too; had earlier tried to mimic with her knife the way the amphibian’s tongue snapped out and caught a fly. Now she froze, breath caught and shallow in her throat as a stark silver gaze leveled on the water snake stalking the frog. Suddenly, it attacked, striking out with a swiftness that could scarcely be watched. Then it was gone, disappeared with its prey. The Child blinked, stiff with wonder - and then the first great drops of rain pattered from the angry heavens. She ran to escape them. Back within the safe walls of the Ranaleth home, the Cursed One paced. Shoes padded back and forth against the wooden floor, carrying her in a thin waving line across the room before she’d turn and retrace it. Stealthy, quiet as possible, practicing the Unseen. Clawed fingers scrubbed water from the twisted horns perched jauntily atop her head and squeezed clear rivulets from her hair, rivulets that would turn to crimson puddles when a strand broke. Silver eyes flashed and slitted with morbid frustration, intent in thought on finding the Answer. No - she would not find it. She’d make it. That was it.

· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • · The breath’s journey began with the cry of a newborn. A rowdy, tousle-haired baby finding its voice during its first moments in this world. Over the days, the cry morphed to laughter - a rousing ringing echoing through the halls. The breath continued, accompanied by pattering feet down long hallways, shifting into a myriad of questions and jest. Like a wild rose bush, the breath grew; wild, tangled with a thousand emotions, everchanging. Short, harried, sweet, tense, a long exhale of peace. A sigh lifted on the wings of the wind. A lingering voice faded into quiet laughter. The breath danced along the winding path, light and airy, cheerful, darting through the shadows that attempted to snuff it out and slipping through the grasp of overgrown brush seeking to ensnare. The path wound backwards and forwards, crested deep chasms and climbed over grassy hillsides until it bore the breath at last to a wide, green valley, filled with an emerald carpet of forest. A valley where the breath floated carefree, a leaf beckoned by the breeze, until it morphed into one last, cheerful laugh as it danced upwards into the sky. There, at last, it dissipated, only the lingering memory of the breath’s long journey remaining in the one left behind. · • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • · The sun shone high above two figures resting in a field patterned with vibrant hues - reds, yellows, blues and purples - woven into the grassy carpet. They sought shade beneath a large oak tree, one that was more than happy to spread its leafy branches over the two gathered at its roots. The first - taller, strong, and bound with stoicism - helped the second - a wan, frail lady who looked upon the world with undiminished vigor - to sit and lean against the welcoming trunk despite the latter’s stubborn admonitions. A knowing look displayed on the frail one’s face, a visage wrinkled with age and curtained by wispy, silvery tufts of wild hair. There was no fear there, only peace, as she chattered thoroughly and gesticulated with a veiny hand when sparse breaths did not allow her to articulate. A thousand stories, a thousand memories, all merged and unified and knitted into a conversation between the two companions, softening into a woven, lingering smile. Weary emerald eyes drooped shut, kissed by the sun filtering through the oak tree’s canopy overhead. A hand rested over that of her friend’s, the one who sat with her, talked with her, had walked through so much of life with her. With one last smile, a whispered ‘thank you,’ a last exhale danced with the lady’s spirit hand in hand into the heavens. Though death now caressed the wrinkled, gentle face, Nisreen’s shine was none the less bright. · • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·

Some days had passed before Ida, now the last remaining Nightingale, braved the stench (and her brother's wrath) of Kendrick's quarters. She'd thought it was an infestation - either of mice or mold - and stood unmoving as the door creaked open to reveal such was not the case. After a moment, Ida straightened, hands twitched, as she reached for her medical bag. She thought him dead once and he had returned - surely, he would do the same again. But all efforts were in vain; not even the most skilled herbalist could combat Death's final judgement. Surrounded by medicines, herbs, and bandages strewn in disarray, Ida slumped to the floor in the corner, arms wrapped about her knees. Only her incoherent mumblings broke the heavy silence as she rocked back and forth, keeping vigil in hopes Kendrick would wake.

Zahra bint Hakim al-Hattan welcomed her dear cousin (who had quite surpassed her in the longevity department-) into Jannah with her signature bright smile and open arms.

AHHHH the memories T.T - awesome video!!

Recent split still fresh in her mind, a mind wrought with disarray and guilt, Nisreen paced frantically about her little home. Otherwise empty rooms, lanterns turned out, drenched in darkness. What little light seeped in from the crack in the wall was diffused by guilt, blurred by tears as the notice fell from her hands to that scuffed floor. "You had dreams, ambitions, ya qalbi-" she choked on the words whispered, that and the sound of boots the only thing that broke the harsh silence. "You could have done great things. Why did you throw it all away? I should have-" She should never have left him. How many more times would she be the inadvertent cause of someone's death? A dark candle loomed before her, prepared to be lit, to let the memories and mourning burn with the flame. Unable to find solace in the ritual, Nisreen let the match drop, turned for the door, and sought elusive peace amongst the trees, pounding into the earth, lost in a mind absent from it's surroundings for some time.

Grief descended over Nisreen like a cloud, a heavy blanket of anguish as she read, then reread, the note that had appeared on her doorstep. An ominous note that had filled her with dread the moment her door had creaked open. She held the note in trembling hands, until the ink blurred across the page. To have loved Plume as her own child, it now felt as if she'd lost one of her own. Breath escaped in strangled gasps; ears thundered from the blood rush of a panicked heartbeat. Her knees hit the harsh ground, yet Nisreen failed to feel the contact. She ached to comfort, to hold Plume in her arms once more, to assure her it would be alright, and she would have the strength to continue on. There was no comforting the deceased. The head of a match grated against stone - once, twice, before it clattered to the floor. Nisreen knelt, fumbled for it, fumbled to strike it again and again until at last a thin, wavering flame sprang up, which she held to the wick of a candle. And she watched the candle burn, reminiscing over every moment she'd spent with Plume, and struggling to console her own grief. "I will always love you too, 7abibti."

Upon hearing of the news of her brother-in-law's passing, Nisreen slowly rose, procured a candle, yet unlit. Somber gaze lingered on the darkened wick as she struck a match, let the orange flame erupt into a dancing light from which all shadows in the dim room fled. A celebration of a fellow Paladin's journey. That newly lit candle was placed amongst others that had long since waned into puddles of melted wax, the new candle's flame commemorating Elend's life and passing. Precious seconds ticked by as Nisreen lingered, watching the candle flicker, before she at last drew her cloak about her shoulders and stepped out the door. There was one other she needed to find.

Impossible, was Nisreen's first thought, upon receiving notice. One so strong, stubborn, hard-headed? Flint grated against steel, a spark lit upon a wick. A small, orange flame leapt up, straining to illuminate what darkness hovered in the cramped, dim room hidden away. And as Nisreen stood and watched that candle burn, so too burned the memories of Pyrin Nria-Crane. A few, pleasant - most, the opposite. A moment, given, for the tragic soul lost, for the suffocating regret and misery each action had caused. A story abruptly ended, pages smeared with ink that never dried. The missive was laid upon the flame - edges browned, curled, before ultimately succumbing to ash. Wax dripped. With each drop, a memory buried. As the flame diminished, the wick grew cold and the puddled wax hardened. Nisreen moved on, the moment of mourning at an end.

Nisreen Odinson de Astrea read the missive posted at the White Bear Tavern's doorway, fingers skimming over the parchment as line by line blurred to watery ink. Though Nis hadn't spent long with the woman, she reminisced on the few moments they'd spent together, good and bad. A flicker of light erupted from the match as Nisreen struck it, using it to light a candle. She added it to the candles she kept for others who had passed, sitting in vigil until the wick burnt low and melted wax became a hardened puddle. "May your soul find everlasting peace," Nisreen whispered to her cousin, wherever her spirit may be, as she left the burnt candle to lie amongst the others while she returned to her duties and prepared for travels.

Amidst all else that may greet Frisket, there stood another waiting for that moment. Familiar flaming red locks popped against the brilliant skies as Matilda raced to welcome Frisket into the afterlife with a smile and character reminiscent of those long by-gone days of traipsing about the wheat fields of Old Elysium together and defending her hills. So much had passed since then, and Matilda couldn't wait to hear the tales from Frisket herself. Eternity was left now, after all.

[!] Painting of a Rathonian chicken coop - before the slaughter. A still night air broke over the Rathonian countryside; a gentle, cool breeze wisped through the waving fields of golden crops. They were ready for harvest. Then, that silence was shattered by a ferocious squawking from one chicken coop upon the outskirts. A farmer jolted upright from the bed he’d taken up not half an hour prior and, as the fowl took up the first coop’s cries with a tremendous squawking that seemed to shake the very earth, other farmers followed suit. It wasn’t long until the chickens’ frantic cries died down to be replaced by the still night air once more, no longer disturbed by whatever had first startled them. As the farmers examined their coops and their fowl, they would be met only with the chickens themselves as they once again settled down for the night in peace and quiet. Yet, in that first coop from whence the distressed cries had first arisen, the first farmer found a trail of blood. Feathers mottled with crimson littered the ground, yet there was no corpse to be seen, all the fowl seemed accounted for, and none seemed to have sustained injuries. No trace remained of what culprit had stolen into the coop that harvest night. In disbelief, the farmer recounted his chickens, but the count remained the same. All were there. Wagging his head, he returned to rest, and the night went by in peace. Over the days following, outbursts from the coops became more frequent. Fearful for the very economic structure that sustained Rathonian trade through the farms, citizens began laying traps within the coops - and caught only their own animals. Slaughter ensued. Mottled chicken corpses began to appear, within and outside of the coops, though the flocks seemed to diminish at a slower rate than the number of corpses that appeared. The odd occurrences began to spread - from South Dunbar, where they’d first begun, towards the direction of Granstaad. Not only chickens were felled now, but pigs, cows, larger animals. Was it bandits? Wolves come down from the mountains? Or something far worse? If whatever oppressed the farmers’ flocks continued to spread, disease could ravage the little community and the economy would turn to recessed turmoil from loss of trade and provision. Something must be done to keep the Norlandic vassal of Dùnrath and its surrounding territories from crumbling beneath the burdens of its own people.

Nisreen agrees with this sentiment. About the walls. To clarify.

This letter is penned by scribe, under direction of Nisreen Odinson de Astrea, this 9th of Malin’s Welcome, Year SA 72, and addressed to Duke Eugeo de Astrea, Lady Leika de Astrea, Heir Regent, and the members of the Government of Elysium. I am writing to inform you of my decision to leave office and my position as the Minister of Knowledge of Elysium, as well as relinquishing any governmental power I may have held as Minister. This decision does not come easy, although I have concluded I cannot uphold my position and serve the community of Elysium as it is fit to be served, whilst I am pursuing personal investigations and fulfilling duties elsewhere. My final day in office will be the Day of The First Seed of SA 72, after which I fully relinquish the title of office. I thank you for the opportunity you have provided me in serving this position, and I am grateful for the eighteen years I have been able to serve you and Elysium as such. I am willing to aid in a search and interview process for a new Minister of Knowledge as needed, as well as any duties to be completed before I leave office in order to ensure a smooth transition for Governance after my departure. Sincerely, Nisreen Odinson de Astrea

[!] an impressionistic rendition of the Elysium gardens How rare is it that two flames, burning brightly on their own, should meet and burn ever brighter? How rare that they should leap from embers into a roaring blaze? How beautiful, when light breaks the veil of darkness? [!] Invitations are spread to the public in the Elysium community, inviting Citizens and Friends of Elysium alike to partake in the celebration! (Granted that the Al-Sayd is successful, of course.) 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑜𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓈𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝒹, 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒾𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑅𝒶𝒹𝓋𝒶𝓃 𝒪𝒹𝒾𝓃𝓈𝑜𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒩𝒾𝓈𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝑅𝑒𝑒𝒹𝑒 𝒹𝑒 𝒜𝓈𝓉𝓇𝑒𝒶 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓎 𝑜𝒻 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒞𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒴𝑒𝒶𝓇 71 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒹 𝒜𝑔𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝐸𝓁𝓎𝓈𝒾𝓊𝓂 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓀 w𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝒶𝓉 𝒜𝓇𝒹𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒶𝓃 𝒞𝒶𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒 Special invitations are made out to: His Lordship, Duke Eugeo de Astrea and House de Astrea His Lordship, Fal'leon Odinson and House Odinson Her Ladyship, Amethyst Vanari and House Vanari Her Ladyship, Scarlet Anarórë and House Anarórë Her Ladyship, Lle Aylir-Hawksong and House Aylir-Hawksong House Dolorem House Mondblume His Lordship, Pyrin Nria-Crane His Lordship, Oliver Solros and House Solros Ehrendil Taliame'eonn Chen Linli Khalto The Youth of Elysium

Pen and ink eternally fortify our words, our histories, and our tales to tell, just as the wind carries the words we speak across the breeze. Crisp pages blotted with ink don’t tell of a mess, a haphazard writing, but of communication, of exchanging information and through its sharing: growth, like the spreading of a tree’s branches through the sky. A word, once spoken, cannot be retracted; a word, once written, cannot be erased. The Ministry of Knowledge is committed to developing a scholarly community within Elysium, constructing an ethos grounded in knowledge and expanding upon research and communication with peers. As such, the Ministry of Knowledge is proud to announce it is opening a search for archivists, journalists, and teachers for three of its facets: Archival Commissions, The Elysium Post, and the Department of Education. Archival Commissions researches and maintains Elysium’s culture and history, archiving information in order to preserve knowledge and history for the future generations of Elysium. Currently, Archival Commissions is searching for archivists who: Are dedicated to preserving Elysium’s history, culture, and traditions Are willing to work with other archivists and the Head Archivist as needed Please contact the Minister of Knowledge, Nisreen Reede de Astrea @Heart_Spam[Heart_Spam#6587], or our Head Archivist Radvan Odinson @AmericanSniper52[BBqsquirrel#0896] with any questions or interest related to this position! The Elysium Post is a newly founded facet through which the Ministry of Knowledge can provide information to citizens in a timely manner, prevailing over subjects such as current events, military announcements, governmental changes, and other publicly-spread information as each issue sees fit. Its purpose is to connect the community with one another through a shared journal. Currently, managers at the Elysium Post are searching for journalists who: Are dedicated to presenting factual information about current events to the public in a timely manner Have a drive to seek out stories with the intent of sharing them with the public Please contact the Minister of Knowledge, Nisreen Reede de Astrea @Heart_Spam [Heart_Spam#6587] or current Elysium Post Manager Eugeo de Astrea @Suicidium [Crines#2975] with your interest or for more information. The Department of Education facilitates a learning community within Elysium through the University and Library systems, striving to create a growing center of shared knowledge amongst Elysian peers through maintaining accessible classroom and library settings for all citizens. Currently, the DoE is searching for teachers and story-tellers who: Are invested in sharing their knowledge and experience with students Bear an ethos dedicated to teaching or story-writing Please contact the Chancellor of Education, Solaine W. de Astrea @Mayaran [Mayaran#6528] with your interest or for more information regarding these positions. Signed: Lady Nisreen Reede de Astrea Minister of Knowledge, Manager of the Elysium Post Duke Eugeo de Astrea Manager of the Elysium Post Lady Leika de Astrea Heir Regent of Elysium Radvan Odinson Head Archivist of Elysium Lady Solaine Wranralei de Astrea Chancellor of Education, Master Librarian

As silence followed the declaration from the forest, Nisreen Reede de Astrea scurried through the city to the gardens, to halt in front of the statue of her late father, Esmond, and a candle she'd placed for her late mother, Aylin. She looked to them even still for guidance, for wisdom. "The people should be free to choose, even knowing the risks. This isn't about purifying, this is about control. War upon the elven residing here is war upon us all."

Nisreen lay the notice aside with her growing pile of work... Only to remember to open it the day before the feast, and proceed to freak out over having nearly forgotten yet another event.

Why does this look like clickbait? (jkjkjk ily Gen it's been a fun year o7)

The note from her mother dropped from trembling hands; Nisreen stood frozen in shock, disbelief. It was impossible - but why would she write if it was not true? The first place she went was not the clinic; it was to a tree, in the park, where her father had first taught her how to fight. And she swung her weapon at that tree until bark flew from it's trunk and Nisreen knelt upon the sodden earth, the tears a heavy burden that kept her from standing. Then, and only then, after her tears had dried and she'd composed herself into one of silent, stubborn resignation, did she make her weary way to the clinic to bid farewell to Esmond Reede de Astrea, her father, for the last time.