Duarchist

The winter winds stirred — in another time, in another place.

"Forgive me. I didn’t think I’d find anyone else out here." Alais doesn’t answer, but the habitual smile that lives about her eyes is intentionally undimmed. The sun is low, and the light dappled through the trees onto their trunks orange and red-limmed like fire. It will be nightfall soon — this stranger is close to her hideaway, hidden in the valley of the heavily wooded ridge behind them, though Alais wonders if he knows it yet. Less then ten minutes walk down the slope in the dark, and the stranger will see this edge-glow of the torchlight that lights the cabin when the sun is set. Alais’s hands are full. A tattered sack full of apples, some whole and edible, some rotted and soft, is wrapped in her left fist while her right hand is closed around the spindly black legs of a live sheep that hangs quite comfortably around her neck, looking at peace here, mindlessly chewing its cud. Alais does not set them down to loose the greatsword hanging from a leather harness on her back, nor the shortsword that is sheathed at her hip, but the line of her strong shoulders is stiffened a little in readiness. Instead she only runs her eyes along the length of the man’s tall spear, from butt to tip, where a stone catches the halflight. This man is no boar hunter, and the woods have no less darkspawn than the road. Alais is not a fool; in the slit of the stranger’s helm’s visor, she sees a glimmer of a beast’s tapetum lucidum eyes — but, for the hope of not having to set down the animal she does not fancy chasing later in order to brandish a weapon, she is happy to play the part of a stupid woman. "Your armor will scare away the game, llir. If you are hungry, I can spare a little — to give you strength for the walk back to the road." The sheep bleats loudly, oblivious to the natural tension between two armed figures meeting in a place where neither intended to be discovered. Alais has a low, deep voice, quiet and full of peace. A voice made for soothing horses. It is well in use to temper the warning beneath her words when she goes on to say: “The woods are not safe at night.” The stranger grunts. She can see the process of pensive thoughts roll through his posture even through his plate’s bulk. The grip on his spear tightens and he grins the butt of it into the damp dirt with an easy twist of his wrist. "Are you?" He asks, moving to rise, revealing the small rucksack set behind him. He hooks the spear upon his back in a show of hesitant trust. "Safe, that is. I have little need of food, but a fire I do. I would take no more of your time than is necessary." A face gives more trust than that of a spear being stowed, and so despite the blizzard the stranger lifts his helm off, pushing the sock that covers his dark hair back and holds it all loosely at his side. "Though I do not have much to offer in return but coin." The man steps into a walk close beside her. The wind whips his face and he waits for it to die down again before he speaks. In the growing cold, his breath is a mist. "And, I suppose, I might offer my name. Call me Thibaud. Truthfully, I saw your lamb from the ridge above and followed the black of her through the storm — like following a star in the dark," he laughs, almost breathless, though the motion makes his empty belly ache as sharply as a stab. "I hope you are not offended when I say so — but I have never been so glad to stumble upon a stranger as I am tonight." He grins at her again, almost boyish. It is happy chance, almost mad, that it has happened. Thibaud, far from home, hunting along the northeastern coast of Norland. Alais last seen in Ikur'fiyem, not yet old enough to brandish a sword. By the time they reach the cabin the wind is so high that Alais grunts at the way it pushes back against the door as she goes to close it. Thibaud lends a single hand, and together they shoulder the door of the small house shut and drop the bar across it. A single door, no windows. No one inside but Alais. Even with the door shut, the sound of the wind comes in a high whistle through the gaps in the building. Thibaud pulls down his hood, only half-up because he held it there against the weather. His robes are soaked and torn crooked and sideways by the blowing wind, his cheeks chaffed, eyes stung. A frown turns Thibaud's mouth and he sweeps his eyes over Alais. Searching the woman for irrefutable evidence that may reveal a weakness. "What are you doing out here alone? Have you no family to return to?" Alais hums — neither in agreement nor in disagreement. Nor truly thoughtfully. She is not a thoughtful person by nature, and yet the years of solitude have rendered something new out of her old, old, old ways. Like sap to amber, perhaps. Words are sometimes hard, sometimes sticky inside of her. If she lingers too long in her mind, searching for them, sorting them, she struggles to remember what it is she feels, what she meant to say, even how anything can be explained from one person to another. You were always this way, a voice reminds her. This is why you are so rash. Why you rush to speak first, fight first, flee first. This is why you have so much trouble. The voice does not tell her if this is a fault or a virtue. These things were always vague. A fault is defined as a weakness and a virtue as a strength. This is what makes a soldier’s morality. The virtue of victory, the sin of defeat. An orderly way of life. Ah. Now she has left it too long. Tongue thick in her mouth, Alais exhales through her nostrils, head hanging for a moment between her strong, wide, winged shoulders, like the devil under the weight of his horns. The way Thibaud suddenly moves at her side is maddening — sudden explosions of power that should be clumsy but are only unpredictable. Alais tries to find the pattern, but Thibaud one moment charges her like a bull, the next turn a feint nearly as fast as she herself could do it. Thibaud is lean, but deceptively heavy, like a lynx, light-footed but dense. When finally that weight catches her and comes down, Alais cannot turn it and is forced, instead, to let it come. She lands on her back, skull bouncing hard against the wooden boards. Thibaud gets a hand around her throat to hold her still for the jagged sharps of his teeth, pressing her to the ground with the weight of his body, seated on her chest. "You are too heavy with all that wool and steel," Thibaud goads, amused, in the half growl of his quickened breath punctuated by a shout of laughter, "Like a sheep in need of shearing!" Alais' face is pink with exertion, sweat beading on her brow. She is indeed weighed down with furs and leathers and thin mail beneath that, layered up as all her kin go. She remembers the cold of Almaris’ craggy hills and the heart of Wyrvun’s winter. That girl is in her still, and when the weather bites her and she feels the tingle of the cold-pain on her skin, her adrenaline spikes. As a dog drools for a bone, suffering sets her mind to readiness. Sharpens her like a blade. Her hand settles over top of the carved pommel of her sword, and her legs brace on either side of the creature above her. "No-no, my friend — don’t do that," Thibaud says warningly, sounding as if he would wag a finger. Playing as animals play. Light and dangerous. At the edge of the laughter in his voice is a thread of something evil. The inside thigh is a bad place to be cut. Unarmored, and soft. Alias thrusts her weight and flips them around, Thibaud on his back beneath her, now; Thibaud's claws sweep up, the curved shape of them cupping her leg so that the sharpened tips drag her thigh, an even slice through muscle running towards her knee. Blood flows immediately and the pain is clear and bright. Almost fantastic. Thibaud's eyes hold her gaze hard. He tilts his head back invitingly. Goadingly. Alias pushes her blade hard enough into his throat to crush his windpipe. The rattled, wet groan of dying pain is a needless confirmation. If he rises again, so be it — Alais will not be here to stand witness. The cabin, dank with the smell of blood, is suddenly silent. Alais breaks that silence with a soft grunt as she rolls away from the tangle of the corpse. When she sits up, there is blood on her cheek, in her hair, clinging to the sweat on her skin. Blood flows the broad cut on her inner thigh, darkening the wood beneath her, and she knows that it is deep. Deep, painful, but many centimeters too low to have severed the artery that hides in the gap between the hard muscle of her leg and the tender flesh of the very inside of her thigh. The sellsword exhales a held breath. She cuts a thick strip from the tail of her undershirt with jerky motions and binds the fabric tight around her leg, internalizing the breath-stealing ring of pain. Like a wave recedes back into the sea. She knows her rules instinctually. Discomfort clarifies the mind. She will live; the cut is very clean, and, with stitches, will heal into a fine silver scar. Another one of dozens.

the average lotcer (particularly the below-18s) lacks the necessary worldview and/or personal experience needed in order to articulate homophobia and its nuances and intricacies in any sort of constructive way, most often defaulting to 'die, ***!'. it's a very nuanced issue made difficult to discuss at a place like lotc where there are hundreds of people of varying age groups and backgrounds vying that their opinion Is The Right One whilst echo chambering around in their individual friend groups, often unable to see the bigger picture. however where do we stop after banning homophobia and, presumably, transphobia? how does staff decide what is and isn't inherently homophobic? what about fatphobia? what about ableism? the argument for 'this makes me and others uncomfortable' censorship of this type in tv, movies, books, roleplaying games, etc is a good one on paper and a terrible one in practice because it's a slippery, steep slope towards puritanical consumption views, media censorship, and a decline in media literacy. that's not to say it shouldn't be toned down, better moderated, or that those who have been fighting for their rights icly to just give up etc, but a full ban of the idea is not going to do anything but set a precedent that will lead to the downfall of a lot of interesting, if not entirely pleasant roleplay.

maybe i will make my grand return to frost witchery

⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇼⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀ The House of Mallental is a family of Almenodrim that can be traced back to the ancient elves which joined Almenor, but were not related to Sylvaen through the line of his seven sons, and who did not follow their kin to Aegis after the Great Exile. With values rooted in rigor and societal roles carved through self-dedication to the stars, sea and arts, Mallental dot their names on the shore of contemporary elvendom through their collective drive to thrive as a people – knowing of and embracing the waves coming to clean them in time. ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 ⭒ 𓇼 G E N E S I S 𓇼 ⭒ The first members of the house chose not to follow their Sylvaeri kin to Aegis in the wake of the Great Exile. Instead, the three families — the Mallen, the Telaeri, and the Vallinel — journeyed forth and made landfall on a dry patch of stone and sand in the middle of the sea. They found ways to adapt survival at sea into survival on shore: instead of lumbering, they focused on carving homes out of the sandstone, forming dry, hot echoes of the grand Almenorian homes they’d left behind. Instead of gardening, they learned what currents were best to follow to find the meatiest mussels. These Almenodrim made this once little-known isle their home and entitled it Calaedon, the golden blessing, and they called themselves Mallental, golden-footed. Iellwen Mallental – unanimously elected, a mistake that went uncontested – made of the island’s worries a flourishing enclave with a focus on forward-facing exclusivity. Centuries passed, and the island endured aa time of relative peace until Iellwen’s unexpected death left a power vacuum amongst her children. The Brother's Feud, a period of kinslaying and interfighting amongst the Mallental family, turned what once was a functioning system of governance of Calaedon into a sandmass by ill-defined borders, ideology and guerilla-conflict. The mass exodus came in waves: and each of them brought different families to other, distant shores. To this day, mystery surrounds what remains of the ancient city – the sands of Calaedon left bristling in the wind, dissolving like ash into the seas, as though Thalassa herself strived to hide the imperfection. ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 ⭒ 𓇼 B E L I E F S & V A L U E S 𓇼 ⭒ Despite their lengthy displacement from elvendom following the Great Exile, House Mallental continues to adhere to the Sea Tenets of old Almenor. They conduct themselves with pride and honor, they avoid the temptations of voidal evils, and they uphold ancient Almenodrim traditions including blood pacts, name cleaving, and oath rings. THALASSA Where the Aspects dim and weaken in a universal act of maintaining balance, Thalassa instead invokes reverence of all Almenodrim to preserve the things important to her, namely: currents, islands and the bounties beneath the waves. Most if not all Mallental follow Thalassan ideals; additionally, Illiviran Mallental have begun to adopt the practice of Duarchism, as the personification of the Sea Goddess under Aevosian ideals and their Sylvaeri kin no longer aligns with their core beliefs. THE UNDERSEA It's believed that upon death a Mallental's corpse will turn to sea-foam and their soul will become one with the natural balance of the sea. Because of this, the Mallental conduct their funeral rites at sea, often by way of ship burial. To not be returned to the sea posthumously is nothing short of an offence, and often causes distress amongst the family of the fallen, as they believe they will not be able to reunite with their loved ones in The Undersea. HEALING & COMBAT Where injury is in no short supply, the Mallental resign themselves to habit; their taletelling knots, meant to record history, keep it alive by stitching wounds shut, often with a patterning that betrays the origins of the injury for a future Mallental doctor to discern. A Mallental trainee’s first efforts in war are always oriented towards the remedying of the trauma it brings. Only after a thorough understanding of broken ribs and sliced sinew will they be allowed to pick up a spear, and put their own body on the line. Like most Almenodrim, the Mallental are renowned for their grace and agility, and they possess a nearly unparalleled prowess in their ability to swiftly and quietly traverse both water and land. They glide beneath the open sea with remarkable ease, possess a near-inherent understanding of water’s currents and undertows, and maintain nimble footwork on land, enabling them to exploit the forces of nature to their advantage. In battle, the Mallental historically favor the spear as their primary weapon. ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 ⭒ 𓇼 C U L T U R E & C U S T O M S 𓇼 ⭒ SEA TRAVEL Thalassa has a lost, nameless sister, some Mallental say, without ever pointing to document or scripture. They are star-crossed and far away, but in an effort to show her Thalassa a familial love they have been denied, she took to art and made of the sky a canvas. She had learned that Thalassa, water itself, would never know her reflection in the way Thalassa allows her to see her own. Somewhere up on high, she plucked the white hairs off distant suns and made a brush. The moon is her barrel of paint, waxing and waning in proportion to how often she paints sweet Thalassa's likeness into the cosmos: a notion Mallental have discovered better lets them orient themselves in the seas, with each star corresponding to an isle on her form: a mole, a beauty mark, a wrinkle. The beautiful work of a nameless, astral sister is often document in sheets of papyrus, and just as quickly discarded when modern voyagers deem them outdated. STARCHARTING Starcharting is a simple endeavor primarily grounded in the belief that a starry night is simply a reflection of the sea in the same way one’s face can be reflected in a body of water, and that the stars themselves are the glittering representations of islands abroad. The wideness of the sea, coupled with a bit of luck, resulted in so-called North Stars correlated with stubborn islands that refuse to sink. It then becomes a matter of memory and the artistic settling of paints to canvases, and thus Starcharting is in truth seacharting – and the routes voyagers make according to these stars only append the mythological cannon of constellations, forming rigid links between islands for practical sailors and looping swirls for more mirthly voyagers. INDER’TAYNA Inder'tayna are long pieces of twine, rope, or thread on which an elf adds beads, gems, shells, bones, fabric, et cetera to represent significant events in their life. A Mallental’s parent often creates the foundational cordage before birth, and the child will add to it as they grow. The trinkets that are added to the cordage are sometimes found by one’s self, but are more often gifted from friends, family, allies, and mentors. This practice became commonplace in Illivira after Mallental made landfall and shared the custom. ALDAMEAR A traditional Mallental art form that saw use in ritual, painting and finally became a traditional, cosmetic option upon the integration to modern elvendom in Aevos, aldamear is a non-permanent tattooing dye of a deep red-orange hue scraped off the leaves of the island’s brush. It lasts only a week, and though Illivirans are culturally expected to harvest their own dye and be painted by a loved one, it is also common practice to visit an artisan dedicated to the craft. ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 ⭒ 𓇼 C A L A E D I A N L A N G U A G E 𓇼 ⭒ CALAEDIAN Calaedian is a posteriori language evolved from Ancient Elven which diverged due to natural linguistic drift following the Mallental isolationism period after the Great Exile. It is primarily spoken by the Almenodrim family of Mallental, their three bloodline families, and more recently, the denizens of Illivira in the realm of Aevos. GREETINGS, GOODBYES, CONVERSATIONAL BLURBS FAMILY & TITLES NAMING CONVENTIONS Unlike their Elven kin, the Mallental follow a structured naming convention; the ratio of consonants to vowels, and how near they sound to elements of nature and the common noises of traditional roles plying their trade betrays the wishes of a given Mallental’s parents. To name their son or daughter after themselves, a Mallental parent would use the suffixes and -ion and -iel respectively; Laether becoming Laetherion, Aellera becoming Aelleriel, and so on. Prefixes: Ae-, Ael-, Aeth-, Ar-, Bae-, Bale-, Bar-, Ca-, Dae-, El-, Elen-, Elae-, Gae-, Helae-, Iel-, Ith-, Jae-, Lae-, Luce-, Mae-, Mara-, Mir-, Ny-, Rha-, Sae-, Sel-, Sy-, Te-, Thal-, Ty-, Va-, Vae-, Van- Suffixes: -aen, -hawn, -iel, -iron, -la, -lera, -leys, -lora, -na, -nara, -nyra, -ra, -rea, -ren, -tari, -ther, -tii, -wen Modern Mallental have 'Mallental' as their family name, denoting their dedication to the merge of the original three families, whilst also retaining the surnames of their original bloodline. Thus, names follow a binomial standard, with the bloodline name acting as a human's middle name would: Aelwen Teleari Mallental; Luceren Vallinel Mallental; Syrea Mallen Mallental, and so on. ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃 ⭒ 𓇼 P H Y S I C A L F E A T U R E S 𓇼 ⭒ The look and phenotypic features of the House have remained relatively consistent over the years due to their isolationism. Mallental are tall but willowy, with narrower builds than other Almenodrim; while their complexions vary from pale to bronze shades, they almost always possess grey eyes and golden or black hair. They prefer draping clothing in shades of teal, terracotta, and blue, and prefer gold accessories to silver. Where their Sylvaeri counterparts value jewelry and gemstones, Mallental absorb themselves in pearls, shells, and corals, often weaving them into hairstyles or attaching them to one's person. As of their entrance to modern elvendom, it's not uncommon to find a Mallental sporting piercings, nor the leather, woven textiles and hand-crafted accessories adopted from their Mali'ame neighbors. As of the Second Age and their rejoining of modern Elvendom, the Mallental have adopted the practice of ilmyumiur: three stars across the forehead represent elegance, intelligence, and reverence for the elders and children of the realm. In the vibrant tapestry of Calaedian culture, the length of one's hair is an emblem of significance intricately woven into the fabric of their beliefs, and this ideology has followed the Mallental family to Aevos. Long, flowing locks are revered amongst the family as a symbol of strength, wisdom, and spiritual prowess. Each strand tells a story, testaments to challenges faced and resilience exhibited and so in turn, the act of cutting one's hair is a solemn rite undertaken only in the face of two formidable adversaries: physical defeat on the battlefield and the conquering of one's inner demons. It is considered a great offence to have one's hair cut without permission. ⭒ 𓇼 T R I V I A & M I S C 𓇼 ⭒ Things that don't belong anywhere else! ⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇼⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀

The cheers of triumph echo through Amathine as we celebrate a valorous victory over the leviathan serpent that dared to disturb the tranquility of our beautiful shores. The collective bravery and determination displayed by every persons that joined the hunt is awe-inspiring; facing such a formidable creature was no small task, and yet each of you stood your ground united and gallant against the challenge that loomed from the depths. We feel it crucial to mention the endeavors of the druii Av'lenniel and Nenar, and Waveborn member Ithwen, who all showed exceptional prowess and courage in slaying the beast and tending to their fellow crew members. In recognition of these merits, alongside an invitation to be inducted into the Waveborn Order, Lord Admiral Eagus Roitarion henceforth bestows the following titles of honor to those who were in attendance: To Nenar, for her resilience and perseverance, Illivira's Undying. To Sumana, for his fortitude and composure, Illivira's Dauntless. To Av'lenniel, for their finesse and tenacity, Illivira's Miraculous. To Ithwen, for her altruism and spirit, Illivira's Selfless. To Theo, for his vigilance and initiative, Illivira's Inexorable. To Valmir, for her diligence and mettle, Illivira's Unwavering. Your resilience and unity have not only safeguarded our shores but have become a shining example of triumph over adversity that we expect your fellow mali to emulate. May this victory be a symbol of Amathine's strength, fortitude, and unwavering commitment to protecting the natural balance that graces her coastal havens. LORD Eagus Roitarion, Admiral of the Waves, Forestwatcher of Illivira Ithwen Mallental, Mariner-Scribe of The Waveborn Order, Illivira's Selfless

i kiss toffee on the lips in a really succinct and gay way

"You have quite a saga, for someone so young." Ithwen glances at Medli and wonders, not for the first time this evening, if her mentor is mocking her. The sun is setting and a woman passes through the street in front of them. She is carrying a basket full of brightly coloured threads, fresh from drying. A small fortune in future textiles. "I had not thought of it that way." "The decisions were made for me when I was too young to interfere. Those decisions have carried me here. Very little of it has been my choice — " until now, Ithwen thinks, but does not say. Ahead, the woman with the basket catches the toe of her sandal on a crooked stone and a winding of saffron-yellow thread spills from her arms. A boy who is passing catches the thread before it lands in the sand and hands it back to the woman, who takes a coin from a purse hidden inside the folds of her mantle to give to him in thanks. Enough for a piece of fruit or a fried sweet from one of the village vendors, though they will all be closing soon. Ithwen watches silently. The woman and the boy part ways. An ordinary exchange, soon to be forgotten. Only when they are gone does Ithwen turn her attention back to Medli. " — until now. I am greatful to call Illivira home, and I hope my people will make you proud."

This post is great, and I want to begin by saying that I will never, ever put down an effort to bring the community together; thank you to Zuzie for another year of keeping this going! GLSEN, Trevor Project, and all of the organizations listed in the original post have done incredible work over the years for the LGBTQ+ community, but I want to hijack this post for myself and my fellow trans or gender-nonconforming friends, as I think that as artists with a platform, it's important we use our voices for those who cannot. It has been a difficult year for us. Dramatics aside, we are struggling to keep faith and health during what is widely regarded as our modern genocide. Since December 2022, 12 more states have adopted severe laws against us; Florida stands out, having become so unsafe for us that LGBTQ+ individuals are advised not to travel there whatsoever, and Texas is close behind. Other states have enacted harsh anti-trans laws, though none rivaling the extent of Florida's legislation. North Dakota, Nebraska, and Missouri all approved bans on gender-affirming care for transgender youth. Kansas approved a bathroom ban. Missouri almost fell into the 'do not travel' category due to a policy targeting transgender adults. Alabama. Arkansas. Florida. Georgia. Idaho. Indiana. Iowa. Kansas. Kentucky. Mississippi. Missouri. Nebraska. Montana. Oklahoma. South Dakota. Tennessee. Texas. Utah. All of these high-risk states have outlawed gender-affirming care for trans youth and many have implemented a range of discriminatory policies, including the religious right to refuse treatment to transgender patients, bans on correct gender markers on birth certificates and driver's licenses, bans on drag that have led to the cancellation of pride events, strict definitions of sex that exclude transgender individuals from legal protections, and more. For transgender people, these states instill fear - many of us want to flee and find ourselves unable in this economy, and so many of us are afraid of the federal impact of 100+ anti-trans laws being enacted every year since 2021. Donations are great, and they help so many people. If you're reading the main post and now this one, I urge you to look for transgender-specific nonprofit programs to aid people in the states where we need it most, due to the severe anti-trans legislation. Central Florida Emergency Trans Care Fund. Florida Metro Inclusive Health. Equality Texas ***** Texas Crisis Fund. (why cant i say qu eer on forums lol. fix this.) Texas Pride Impact Funds.

In a little hovel at the woodland’s edge, a gaunt elfess feels the absence of her father deeper than anything. The loss is insurmountable, hurts more than death. She retrieves parchment and pen, and opens her window to the shadows beyond.