Isvinity

𝒯he girl's breath misted in the brittle air. 𝒯he cold of Norland was so fierce that her throat felt tacky with frost. 𝒮o far north, and the great tumble of the mountains aroung them, glittering with hard-pack snow like silver and stars in the moonlight. 𝒲hen the girl set her hand on the mace's forearm, the silver-coldness of the beggars ordnance was hard and strange under her scholarly touch, like the ice of the mountain. 𝐿ike the crown of a queen.

need this bad

this is unreal i need you to inject your formatting skills into my blood

stole this for my original dark fantasy setting, thanks

Guinheyvar blinked rapidly against the sting of the smoke of the torches and the glint of the swords hung along the lintels of the watchtower, tips pointed down like teeth in terrible jaws. Now, looking at the missive, she wondered for Neia's doom.

Suliymar'i are a culture of desert-dwelling elves from distant southron lands who, after a period of indebted servitude divided their ilk, migrated to the capital city of Eldwyn on the continent of Aevos in the Second Age. I. OVERVIEW II. HISTORY —-------THE HOMELAND —-------THE CAURÓSIAN ERA III. APPEARANCE IV. CULTURE —-------NAMING CONVENTIONS —-------ART, FOOD, AND FASHION —-------ECONOMICS AND LABOR V. TRADITIONS —-------FAITH AND RELIGION —-------DEATH AND THE AFTERLIFE —-------FAMILY AND UIR’MAYLU —-------MAGI Suliymar was once a name of resplendence for many. Comprised of a radiant elven tribe of proud yet reclusive Mali’tos who broke away from the mainland during the first age, Suliymar was an enclave to some Children of Malin who so rejoiced beneath the desert sun, who were both content and dignified in their unity as a state, even as their fellows in other lands rested divided. They were a proud people, but it was this pride which prevented their self-examination – they did not see that their populous land was stagnant in number. Their fate was pre-ordained by the curse that rested in the wombs of their mothers and daughters. It was the Velian Republic¹ who would be the knife of fate. They came in vast numbers, overwhelming the city with militarism that the isolated scholars did not recognize, entrenching and seating themselves in the thrones of those who only the most exalted Suliymar’i had once sat within. The heart of Suliymar — its gleaming sandstone cities, sacred observatories, and high councils — were dominated by Velian governors and bureaucrats, while the Suliymar’i were pushed to the fridges: slaves, servants, soldiers. The Velian rulers, bound by the brevity of human life, rose and fell in rapid succession. The Suliymar’i, patient and enduring, outlived their colonizers and quietly reclaimed influence through the erosion of memory and the passage of years. As Velian monuments weathered and their language faded from common use, the Soliymar’i began to weave their ancestral traditions back into the fabric of society – but it was not without change, and the culture of today is a mosaic of old and new. Nestled between the arid desert and humid jungle, the coastal city of Suliymar stands as a vast, sunlit wonder. Once a distinguished trading center established by nomadic tribes of Mali’tos², its ancient sections feature lofty domed roofs, wind-catching towers, elaborate tilework, and cool courtyards filled with palm and fruit trees. Decorative sandstone minarets soar above the narrow, twisting streets bustling with the sounds of market vendors. Following the era of Velian subjugation, the northern quarter was scarred by colonnades, marble forums, aqueducts, and grand statues. The new authorities enforced their culture through stone and steel, but the spirit of the Suliymar’i remained resilient; after Man’s brief tenure in elvendom, Suliymar’s traditions gradually resurfaced, and the northern quarter was abandoned to decay. Beyond the city's boundaries, nestled along the arid basin, hides Diraar³. Suliymar’i elders tell tales that when the great storm first howled across the heavens, there was no shelter to be found — only a great spiraling dark that sundered sky from sea. Wayward and sundered themselves, the people of Suliymar were caught in the vortex, but in the heart of the void they discovered a blinding light⁴ and mistook it for deliverance. Shepherded by the false star, the Suliymar’i made landfall where the storm broke, believing themselves saved, unaware that they had crossed the threshold into a realm shaped by a will greater than their own. From the shores of their temporary refuge, the Suliymar’i watched the rise of Cauróst, a nation of martial rigor and ancient rites, whose heart beat with elven valor not unlike that of their own lost state. Caurósi elves bore arms not out of necessity, but tradition. Having once been both vassal and sovereign beneath a thousand banners, they found the steel harmony of Cauróst familiar, and so the Aevosi Suliymar’i wandered inland in search of kin. The Suliymar’i are a people marked by grace and symmetry, with high cheekbones, straight, noble noses, and well-defined jaws. Their physique is lithe yet strong: broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, built for endurance rather than bulk. Skin tones range from bright coppers to deep brown, with rare olive undertones and fair complexions appearing only in those hailing from Slaver’s Bay⁵. Their almond-shaped eyes typically carry hues of brown, hazel, and violet, and they grow dark hair in waves or coils, often perfumed and adorned, for both men and women regard grooming as an art of self-respect. Even under foreign suns and strange customs, Suliymar’i refinement endures. A fondness for scented oils, vibrant pigments, and the soft glow of polished skin persists as a cultural inheritance. Among those whose blood mingles with that of ancient Larihei⁶ stock, the legacy is subtle yet striking — hair touched by shades of gold or starlight, though their complexions remain rooted in the deep tones of their forebears. The naming traditions of the Suliymar'i draw richly from the tongues of their elders. Names are chosen not only for their sound but for the weight they carry. Surnames are rare outside noble circles; instead, individuals are known by epithets that evoke lineage, deed, or place. Nimue, Daughter of the Flame Amr, He Who Hunts the Horizon Majidi, Of the Emerald City Enid, May She Be Sunblessed Haewil, the Glass Knight Graceful in form and fierce in spirit, the Suliymar'i hold physical mastery and sportsmanship as both a rite and a pleasure. In the golden heat of day they rode like wind over dunes on steeds bred for silence and speed, and their archery was renowned for felling birds mid-flight. Hunters stalked long-legged antelope through wadi and wisp-grass, bows strung with hair from distant beasts. Strategical board games were played on inlaid stone, music drifted through the colonnades while dancers swayed in perfumes silks, storytellers spun tales with voices rich in myth and memory. Above it all, perfumery was and remains sacred – an art divine. Fragrance is soulcraft; it marks station, mood, intention. Oils once distilled from desert bloom and rare resins are now mixed by alchemists. A Suliymar'i might forget their sandals before their scent, for to be known in Suliymar is to be known by aroma: amber and rose, myrrh and citrus, each vial a verse in the poetry of presence. The base of the Suliymar'i diet is shaped by the abundance of the land and the philosophy of balance that underpins their way of life: flatbreads baked on hot stones, tangy cheeses, date-sweet yogurt, and dark beer brewed by desert grains. Favoring harmony over excess, every ingredient serves purpose. Sweetness comes from figs, apricots, and raisins; depth from almonds and walnuts; brightness from pomegranate and orange. Meals are often finished with diluted herbal syrups. When a Suliymar’i walks the garden paths of their cities or the torchlit halls of council, they are clad not just in finery but in the living history of a people who endure, for the clothing of their people draws from both ancient elven tradition and their Velian and Caurósian acculturation. Flowing robes, embroidered tunics, airy shawls, and elegantly loose trousers are cut in sweeping silhouettes to keep the body cool. These dyed linens and fine-spun wools are often decorated by intricate needlework and beading. Celestial symbols are favored above all; stars, moons, and sunbursts repeat across all forms of fashion. Since their union with Cauróst, the Suliymar'i have also adopted the five flames of Myumier: their likenesses now appear as brooches, belt-clasps, or embroidered familiars on cuffs and hems. At the heart of Suliymar's gleaming courts stood a sovereign prince whose word was the law. Beneath his golden eye moved the magi, robed in dusk-dyed silks and heavy with rings of office; they were keepers of divine rights and celestial omens, and trusted stewards of temple banks. The prince's kin and a circle of storied nobles served as his counsellors whose place was to draw wisdom from the annals. Merchants wove between cities and distant lands, artisans carved beauty into stone and song, and entertainers spun myth into music and fire into dance. Yet it was the labor of farmers and herders, builders and servants, which long upheld the splendor of Suliymar. After the arrival of the Velian settlers, indebted servitude crept across the lower class and bound the common folk. Still, the land bloomed. Agriculture and animal husbandry remained the foundation of wealth, but seaborne trade surged with Velian ships – bringing salted fish, foreign gems, and new spices to Suliymar's harbors. Amidst it all the Suliymar'i pursued wonder: channeling riverbeds through the arid dunes, they birthed vast irrigated gardens that defied the desert's hunger and became local paradises. The faith of the Suliymar'i is less rigid than those of their forebears. At the heart of their faith lies a pantheon not fixed in stone and scripture but fluid: fire, earth, air, and water, each a sacred principle from which life flows and to which the divine returns. Worship comes through acts of devotion: incense wafting through temple gardens, hands pressed to cool idols carved from riverstone, strings of blessed beads kissed in passing, tea leaves read by firelight for glimpses of fates yet unwoven. No heresy exists so long as reverence is shown; the Suliymar’i honor the gods their neighbors serve, even as they clasp close their own. In the Sulyimar'i culture, death is viewed not as a conclusion but a transformation. It is believed that the soul of the departed embarks on a journey beyond the living realm to the House of Paradise – a verdant realm where the dead feast beneath everlasting moonlight and rest against flowering trees which never wilt. This mourning period lasts three days, after which the body of the departed is wrapped in perfumed linens and set ablaze under the night sky. The resulting ashes are gathered in beautifully decorated urns and transformed into ink, which is then used to mark the skin⁷ of the deceased's living relatives. Funerals are jubilant affairs with music, feasting, and tales told in candlelit halls. Despite their reverence for death's journey, there are lines no Suliymar'i dares to cross: entering the temples of long-dead gods is to disrupt their eternal slumber. Worse still is the trespassing upon the sanctity of an elven tomb – an offense which brands one as cursed, ostracized by both temple and culture. In Suliymar'i society family is a matriarchal lineage where the eldest living woman of a household holds both spiritual and practical authority. Not bound by blood but by the door beneath which one sleeps, blood relations, adopted kin, sworn companions, and even debt-bound servants may all be part of a single family, so long as they share its walls and submit to its matron’s guidance. Unions do not sever a Sulyimar'i from their home but rather expand it as wings and gardens are built to receive the new lineage. Whether through romance, kinship, or something unspoken, Suliymar’i believe that two elves can be tethered at the soul – they call this Uir’maylu. While most soulbonds form between lovers, they are not bound to passion; twins, companions, or even fated strangers may share this sacred link, for the Suliymar’i believe that some souls are born already leaning toward one another, waiting only for the right moment to meet. When two beings recognize one another as Uir’maylu, they may choose to partake in the ritual drinking of khareth⁸. Even when time or distance divides them, few Suliymar'i ever seek another life partner, for to be Uir'maylu is to be forever touched by another’s essence. The death of one is believed to unmoor the soul of the other, leaving behind a body that walks but never fully returns. In such cases, their ashes and tombs are joined. Though the Suliymar’i once revered magic as the most sacred of callings the legacy of Velian conquest has left their relationship with the arcane scarred and ambivalent. In the earliest days, the Suliymar'i cultivated mage-priests and starbinders, their high temples doubling as academies where spellcraft and spiritual truth were taught as one. But when the Velian ships arrived gleaming with gold and veiled in diplomacy, it was not steel alone that unseated their people. Human magisters, wielding foreign sigils and unclean invocations, stormed the skies and broke the defense with mercenary precision. What was once holy became weaponized, desecrated in service of empire. Now, generations removed from occupation, magic in Suliymar is neither outlawed nor fully accepted. It is approached with caution, spoken of in low tones, and practiced — if at all — under the strict supervision of the Matron Houses or the cloistered orders. Spellwork is permitted in public life only when bound by ritual, apology, or ancestral context. Arcane universities exist, but more as relics than institutions of renown. ¹ The Velian Republic was a patriarchal Heartlander society hailing from lands west of the continent of Axios. ² Mali'tos translates to ‘Elves of the Desert’ in the common tongue. ³ Common Suliymar’i superstition refers to Diraar as a place of foul and wicked magic not even the sun will touch; the elven word for sentinel. ⁴ Orsathiael, Daemon of Rulership and Control. ⁵ Slaver's Bay is located on the eastmost coast of Suliymar. ⁶ Early Mali’tos were offspring of Mali’aheral and Mali’ame. ⁷ Originating from the Mali’ame’s practice of ilmyumier. ⁸ A sour fermented wine said to induce hallucinations.

A very early talk my character Kindrel had with the then-leader of Snow Elves which later led to the exodus from Elvenesse and revival of our princedom. It served as the catalyst for much of the community's growth beyond what was, at the time, a stagnated modern elvendom, and more than that is was the first time I truly got to see the cause-effect of LOTC in action, with myself near enough to the center to reap the benefits directly. The very same conversation was later alluded to during her PK scene, which wrapped up her story in a really beautiful and tragic way. The Araaloq family dinner with @Unwillingly, @Epistile, and @MunaZaldrizoti. The final scene between my Siliti Dahlya and @christman's wight, in which a civil war was brewing amongst darkspawn and the barrowlord gifted something precious to his young friend. Last night's roleplay. IYKYK. That one time that Sachiko straight up murdered a little girl in front of Avagis to gain his approval and he just did the Jeremiah Johnson nod. Writing Dahlya was awesome and I sorely miss her as a character concept but I think the state of darkspawn politics at the time put me in a poor headspace and sometimes poor company, and I made a lot of choices that lost me friends or otherwise distanced me from people or communities. Since her death I've been able to reconcile with my own behavior and have made a lot of amends, thankfully, but the experience has helped me to be more mindful going forward — my roleplay experience should not come at the expense of others'. I think digestibility of writing is very important in collaborative writing spaces and while I love your lore pieces, I sometimes think that your emotes are too poetry heavy — I struggle often to understand what exactly you are attempting to convey in your emotes, and you yourself have told me other people feel similarly, so hopefully this isn't too much of a shock! I've been saying for years that I wish the community would shift to be 18+ not only for the safety of minors and ease of moderation but because LOTC lends itself very well to darker, more mature literary themes that often have to be sanitized for the sake of our younger players.

I remember the day I joined LOTC — a cool afternoon in Elvenesse, 2021, and I ran around cluelessly as a pink name until @Unwillinglytook me under their wing. I've oscillated around different communities since then, writing lore, making modpacks, and earning my own share of controversy and drama, and figured with the recent passing of my (give or take) fourth anniversary it was time to finally make one of these.

Valindra is a character that I've come to understand is rather polarizing both ICly and OOCly, due to her extensive lore and characterization choices that have ultimately led to a well-rounded persona (or so I see her!). Have you ever struggled with people's perception of her as a character, or even you as a player? How have you personally overcome the server's OOC bias against void and darkspawn-adjacent players, and what do you recommend to newer players hoping to dip their feet in?

happy birthday!!! it's always such a pleasure and joy to see your characters in the world & to see your nation thriving after all the work you put in makes me so happy!!! you really deserve it!! which of your characters has been your least favorite to play, and how do you think you would revisit them now if given the chance? how has your roleplay approach changed over the years as you've played castiel out over such a long period of time? do you do anything differently now compared to when you first started at lotc?

PLEASE MAN I CAN ONLY ASK FOR SO MANY GRANDFATHERS AT ONCE!

Close enough welcome back Dahlya Kruger. This looks great! It covers a lot of the old issues that caused interpersonal strife between covens and their members and introduces new, expansive ideas to what vampiric roleplay can be. +1

+1 from a long time vamp RPer, really hope to see this implemented to both breathe some seriousness back into Corcitoră as well as deter bad-faith parties on both sides.

Can't agree enough about how sick I am of putting in the time and effort toward roleplay ventures on the server only to be met with the red tape of needing to do XYZ forum minigame or cater to some dude in a discord server for a group I've never even heard of ICly. I recently faced issues with trying to revive a certain community where most of the oldheads have been banned or are otherwise inactive because I noticed quite a few new LOTC players interested in it, only to be met with constant red tape OOCly in both discord and on the forums - so much so that people who don't even play their nation leads were commenting things like '/me frowns' on my posts despite having absolutely zero presence in-game for years at a time. The need to 'play to win' forum politics in order to have a good roleplay experience has become incredibly disheartening for those of us who prefer to just handle everything in-game and I really hope we see some changes implemented to help ward off this mentality the modern community has adopted - forum rep removal seems like a great first step.

A few people have asked so I'll make a pack soonish!

HEARKEN TO ME, HOUNDS OF THE ORDER ... A modpack inspired by Dark Souls, Bloodborne, Elden Ring, etc. This is a graphics-intensive pack and will not work on lower-end PCs or laptops without a lot of manual tweaking. I have decidedly not included the beloved QOL mods such as Xaero's Minimap, AdvancedChat, etc, as I don't personally use them or I found them otherwise intrusive to the curated experience. __________________________________________ The Origin Story ... These mods make everything else work. The Health Potion ... Quality of life mods which improve the general experience. The Monocular ... Visual mods which add a little more. The Shrunken Ear ... Audio mods which add a little more. The Mana Tincture ... Shader packs to improve the lighting and overall ambience. USE ONLY ONE, TRAVELER. The Wyrd ... Resource packs: the bread and butter. Glimpse into the Wyrd ... A gallery of my personal screenshots utilizing thee above mods (specifically, Bliss Shaders + Conquest). Forever WIP, always adding.

“I don’t pretend to know how he comes to haunt you. But if he walks the night, then I will, too. I’ll keep watch. I won’t let him come for you – not while I’m here.” Hope is a practice. Hope is a discipline and Orsina is well schooled in it, so adept to its various different shapes and edges. Hope is the light breeze, sweeping through Caurost and rustling the golden leaves; hope is the trickling of fountains, and the bell-like laughter of elves from around Aevos, staying or visiting; hope in the shape of a lover cradled in her arms. Hope is... looking into the mirror and seeing a hundred years flash before her eyes — eyes that search for another pair of cool grey in the past. They are hard to find now. Time and distance has washed those eyes abroad. Still... her heart seizes at the sight of grey, like their forefather is gazing, from beyond the ages, back at her. When Orsina rose this morn to the first ray of the sun, she did not expect to find yet another shape of hope. She thought she had learned them all, and how foolish she was for it. Swathes of mali’fenn lay their eyes upon her o'-so-softly like foam on water. Orsina suddenly can't breathe. Her lungs filled with a wetness that expands, and she must hold her breath lest she drowns in its vastness. They are proud of her. They needn’t sing their praises – she can see it in the crinkle of their eyes, which, too, hold a melancholy she cannot place. Her legs tingle, threaten to turn into liquid. She feels utterly unworthy. But I lost all of you! she wants to cry. I couldn't find you, and I stopped looking… Hope stung her, then, too. Everyday felt like the day that she would again see that familiar assembly lining the streets, no longer a scattered people. Reunification was always the goal, and she threw herself at the pain, day after day, until it would no longer take her, until she let herself walk away. I should've stayed longer, tried harder, searched further... it is childish, now, to want to cry out and be consoled and forgiven. Hope is a physical pain; Orsina feels it tearing at her like a familiar animal. Her people had been there, all along — all that carnage and blood, all the death and loss and defeat and triumph... and all this burden of pain, they could have – should have – shared it. “You were… you were here, all along?” She is startled by her own voice. It sounds steady, regal. Ages of discipline has schooled her into this, this strength that can hold herself upright even while she feels like crumbling. All these years, she thought them lost, to her own carelessness or her weak will, but to know that the most of them had been mobile and lucid, and simply chose not to be found... Collectively they turn. Streaks of white hair under the southern sun, putting their backs to her. Turning on her. “No!” Orsina cries out. Her hand moves before she can stop it, and she seizes one of the faceless elves by the arm, harder than she meant to. “—don't leave! Please... I am sorry I failed you. I should have known... I should've noticed– I should've tried harder, or known better. I have seen and learned, all these years... I swear– please stay... let me prove it, give me a chance… let me prove—” Her cheeks grow warm. She feels something twist in her gut as Aldred’s form shimmers before her. He takes her face into his hands. Oh, she thinks. Another dream I cannot wake from. “Listen to me. You did not fail.” Aldred would impress this upon her a thousand times. Again and again until his dying breath, if necessary. Perhaps it would be merciful to deny her, to turn away and close the chapter, but this facsimile of her uncle finds himself lacking the strength for such cruelty. His eyes, dark with the weight of ages and grief unending, lay gently upon her. “I shall stay a while, if you wish it. To know you again, your home, your family… would be an honor.” There is an absence that lingers. A third that is missing, and the space he left will always remain hollow. Hindsight parts the veil draped over memory and mind. A sadness creeps into Aldred’s faint smile. “But my body and mind both are weary,” he confesses quietly. “I feel the doom upon me. I would not have you see me so.” “You look well,” she argues fondly, adjusting the lay of his cloak. She moves forward, into Aldred, to embrace him – – but her next step tilts the world. Where she expected solid ground, there is nothing. Darkness everbodeing in the place where time does not yet turn. Ere the sun. Ere righteousness. Oh, she thinks. A dream I will not wake from. It sinks down upon her, then. She has failed. Malevolence writhes against the barrier of good within her. Solomon's enmity is infectious. At the end of her life Orsina swims in a thick, pungent ocean of pain and delirium. Hate rots her from the inside out. A brush, light as a butterfly's wings, ghosting over the rotten scars of her eyes, draws her from the endless black. Strange. Orsina stirs and tastes the early eve's frigid air, feels the caress of a mountain breeze. She remembers then – albeit slowed by the heavy hand which now held her mind and soul – who lays beside her. Nysis' affections might not have stilled, had she not raised her hand to trace her lover's cheek. By the dawning light of Iker'fiyem they lay languidly upon a large stone-carved bench cushioned by wool and fur. The pavilion above protects them little, allowing the winds to touch them freely. The falling snow reminds her of something vital: to never become stagnant. Yet, in this moment, any movement takes a greater toll, not for pain but for the desire to remain but a moment longer in this world. “Are you in great pain, my sun?” Orsina asks quietly, muffled by his dark head of hair. “Moon-kissed,” he answers, his voice a distant and fading echo, “I will live. Do not worry.” “I do.” “Do not. Go easily – for all you have endured, you deserve at least that.” And so she went. Yet, even in death, the princess' purpose turned anew. Evil beheld her corpse, and together they stalked the realm ...

If your character is a native of the island of Sólgrunnr or is otherwise related to the culture, it is beyond likely that they have heard of The Weave, though it is not commonplace or even accepted culturally; to practice The Weave openly is akin to heathenism, and should be treated with suspicion by the general Sólgaard populace. Likewise, Wyrdwytches should not be too open with their craft. This faith is considered both the precursor to and an offshoot from Eldrtrún and is thus also known as ‘The Ancient Way.’ _________________________________________________________________________ Depiction of a Wyrdwytch of the First Age of Man. 𝒮o it was spoken by the Ancient Beings of old, erewhile the time of Vorndyr and his pilgrimage to the lands of Sólgrunnr, that the union of sisters Sól and Nótt would one day sunder; and from that chasm which formed, there would arise a new thing — the world of flesh and breath, of land and sea, of water and flame, and from within it, a being called Man, who would walk in both Light and Darkness and within his heart, the War of the Ancients would forever rage as he fought against The Long Dark. 𝔄eons before the genesis of the Common Man, in the days when the heavens were yet unshaped, there dwelt at the very edge of all that was two mighty beings called Light and Darkness. Light, bright as the first dawn that would one day break upon the universe, did shine with a glory that pierced the endless black, chasing shadows and bringing forth all that was good and warm. Darkness, deep as the abyss, enfolded the corners of the cosmos, vast and silent, holding mysteries untold and powers unseen. They were as sisters, birthed of the same primordial breath and yet ever at odds, and though time had not yet been woven into the fabric of creation their struggle was eternal, for their desires were set against one another. 𝔏ight, radiant beyond all reckoning, yearned for a world bathed in her brilliance, where day would never cease and shadows could not creep. While she desired to see her splendor reflected in all things, Darkness, deep and vast, sought a realm draped in her cool and silent shroud, where no sun would rise, and rest would reign. She longed for a world where stillness and mystery would govern and the night would stretch unbroken. 𝔄nd it came to pass that the sisters' strife grew to its height, and the cosmos trembled with the fury of their conflict. The stars that were not yet formed shuddered in their formlessness, and the very bounds of all that was groaned under the weight of their blows. In that titanic struggle, Light, in her wrath, smote her sister with a strike so fierce that Darkness was shattered. She fell, broken, her blood spilling into the antediluvian, her flesh scattered across the great expanse. ℑn her grief and her triumph, Light, seeing the body of her sister laid bare before her, gathered the fragments of Darkness, her blood and her flesh, and with them she fashioned small beads of light. And thus, she cast these stars into the empty vaults of the heavens, striving to fill the void, to banish all shadow. But though she scattered them far and wide, there were never enough. For Darkness, though slain, was not undone, and her essence clung to the farthest reaches, lingering in the unseen corners of creation. 𝔗hus, it was decreed that wherever Light might shine, there would always be shadow to follow. In her fury and sorrow, Light turned her gaze upon the formless deep and made a new thing, a world unlike any other: a tiny blue sphere, suspended amidst the stars, small and unnamed, a place where her light would forever shine. 𝔏ight showered the new world in her brilliance, and where the blood of her sister had soaked the earth, there sprang forth the First Men. From the soils of Erhimmeln they rose and when their eyes beheld the radiance that bathed their land, they marveled at her splendor, and they gave her the name Sól, for in her they saw the source of all life and warmth. In those days, which were the first and the longest, the First Men walked in her unceasing glow. They grew mighty and cunning. The mountains became their homes, and their halls echoed with songs of praise for Sól, who had given them life, and yet their hearts were not satisfied, for though they lived in her light, they yearned for a greater sign of her love. 𝔗hus, they called out to her in their need, and Sól, hearing their plea, was moved with great compassion. Desiring to give them all that she could, she made a sacrifice. She took her hands, bright and full of power, and cut them off, and from them she fashioned the foliage, the trees, the herbs, and the flowers that covered their world, so that the First Men might tend to them and know the fruitfulness of her grace. She cut off her feet and from them she created the animals that moved through those grasses — the small mice that scurried in the fields, and the great stags that roamed the forests. All these she gave to the First Men, that they might walk with the beasts of the land and see her love in every living creature. She, unwilling to withhold her bounty, plucked out her eyes and cast them into the sky, creating the clouds that drifted high above the First Men. Her tears became the rain, falling to nourish the land, and when her wrath was stirred her anger became lightning, flashing across the heavens in terrible majesty. 𝒮ól gave, and gave, and gave, until her glory was diminished, though her light yet shone. But she knew, even as she bestowed these gifts, that the First Day could not last forever. Though her love was boundless the shadow of her sister Darkness still lingered, waiting to reclaim the night and spread her domain over all. ℑn the deep of the void, Darkness gathered her strength, and at last her soul returned to the small world. Beholding the remnants of her sister's glory — the trees swaying in the winds, the beasts roaming the forests, the clouds hanging low in the sky — Darkness was filled with a bitter envy. She saw how Sól, having given so much of herself, was weakened, her power spread thin across all creation. And so cunning in her despair was she that Darkness crept upon what remained of her sister’s form. 𝔚ith silent malice, Darkness did possess the remnants of Sól, and the first and longest night fell upon the world. The sky, once gleaming, was now veiled in shadow. The stars, which had been flung from the blood of Darkness, flickered faintly, but their light could not pierce the thick veil. The First Men, who had known only the endless day, trembled in terror as the world was swallowed by this new thing — this strange, deep darkness, which they called Nótt, who sought to claim what her sister had made. The night stretched long and cold, and the First Men despaired, thinking that Sól had forsaken them. 𝔜et it was not so. For even as Nótt wrapped the world in shadow, Sól had not been utterly undone. She had journeyed to the far side of the world, hidden beyond the horizon, and in the hour when the night was at its deepest, she gathered her strength and returned. Sól, though diminished, rose once more, and as her rays touched the world the first sunrise came to pass, and the First Men were filled with great joy to see the terror of night was dispelled. They looked upon the dawn and knew that though the endless black had come it would not last forever. 𝔈ven so, not all of the First Men were content to live solely in the light. As the days and nights passed in their everlasting rhythm, there arose those whose hearts were drawn not to the brilliance of day, but to the quiet and secret realm of night. These, the children of the shadow, found solace in the cool embrace of Nótt, in the stillness where no ray of Sól’s warmth reached. They wandered beneath the stars and found beauty in the veiled mystery of the darkened world. 𝔚hen Sól beheld this she was sorely grieved, for she had given all of herself to these children of her little world, pouring out her hands, her feet, her tears, and her very eyes to make the world flourish in her glow. She had shone upon them without ceasing, believing that her gifts would be enough to win their hearts. Yet now, some turned from her, and she was wounded, for of all that she had given there remained but one thing she had kept for herself — her heart. But the pain of the First Men's betrayal shattered her spirit, and in her anguish, she resolved to give even this final part of herself. 𝔄nd so it came to pass that Sól’s heart, once whole and radiant, split into three, and as the sky trembled these three parts fell from Erhimmeln and rose radiant before the First Men, and from this union of divinity and flesh were born three daughters. Each of them bore the goodness of Sól and the wickedness of the disgraced Man within them, and it was they who learned to weave The Wyrd, and for this they were cast out of the realm of the Áesr and cursed forevermore to live amongst Man. 𝔄mong the Sister’s Three, the eldest is Vrae, the Maiden of Passion, fairest of form and gentlest of spirit, and the first Weaver. In her hands, the threads of life begin, and with affection unmatched she sets the Norn upon the courses of their lives. Vrae, with a voice like the song of rivers and touch as soft as feathers, watches over the world of Man with eyes full of wisdom. She guides the steps of mothers and wives, tending to the bonds of hearth and home, and within her is the wellspring of care that binds bróðir and systir together. Her presence is felt in the tender embrace between lovers, in the hands that rock the cradle, the seeds that spring forth in the fields, and the tides of battle. But her task is not to hold the threads forever, for once they were set upon their course, she must pass them on to her sisters. 𝔄nd the second of the Sister's Three is Vullveyg, the Maiden of Repose, the second Weaver, whose eyes bear the secrets of night and see beyond the veil of waking. She is the embodiment of wisdom and quietude and so she watches over the minds of Man, revealing truths through visions, dreams, and foresight. Under her care the soul rises from ignorance into the light of knowledge. From Vrae she carries the threads of life through the middle course, tending to them with patience, unfolding the mysteries of the unseen, and when the time comes for the thread to pass from her hands, she does so with grace, for she knows that the course is nearly done. 𝔄nd the last of the Sister’s Three is Vhela, whose name is spoken in whispers, for she is the Maiden of Chaos, the wild heart of the shadows, and the third Weaver. Her eyes burn with a fierce and untamed fire, and her hands know no mercy, for she is the end of all things. From the strands of her dark hair she wove grief, sorrow, and suffering, and with them did she bind the world to the weight of mortality. Vhela, whose temper is as wild as the storm, gives no heed to the pleas of Man, nor does she care for their cries. In her there is no rest nor comfort, for unlike her sisters she does not pass the threads of life gently into the hands of another. With an axe heavy and swift she cuts the thread and severs the soul, and in that stroke, all things come to an end, and the cycle is renewed. ℑt is told among the Norn that tokens are to be fashioned and fettered with care, just as the world is bound by the Wyrd, this process called seiðr, the Binding, that they may honor the Sister's Three and call upon their favor and protection in times of need. The wise take sticks from the forest, fibrous plants from the fields, and bones from the beasts of the hunt, and with these they weave their amulets in the likeness of the Sister’s sacred runes. The sanctity which represents each Maiden and her tokens manifests not only in the zealous worship of the Wytches, but too in the everyday lives of the Nordyr, whence their sanctimonious significance derives from. 𝔄nd it is said that The Wyrd is the great web which binds all things seen and unseen, from the beginning of time to its end, and no beast in the forest nor star in the sky nor whisper on the wind lay beyond its touch. The wise among Man know to tread carefully upon the waking world, for each step reverberates through The Wyrd and sends ripples through the past, the present, and the future. ℑt is known among the folk of the old ways, then, that the Wyrdmarks, the language of fate, and The Weave, the magic therein, are the very knots which hold fast the soul of Man within the web, not signs but forces of life themselves. In the days before Vorndyr and his pilgrimage, still in the hidden groves and quiet places beneath Erhimmeln, the Sister’s Three did carve the runes of fate into the mountain’s stones, and it was they who taught Man to read them, and it was Man who fettered forth the battle of Light and Dark, and so the cycle turned anew. 𝒮o, Lyswyrds are the marks of protection and stability: Love, Knowledge, and Death. Inversely, Ondwyrds are the marks of freedom and disorder: Health, Vision, and Death. The Sisters’ Marks are neither Lyswards nor Ondwyrds, as they represent the total neutrality of The Weavers, and so it is thought that there is no true sense of ‘good’ or ‘evil’ in The Weave, for they are the arbitrators of fate, which conforms to no such pettiness. 𝔗o bear a rune upon one’s body, home, or tool is to carry the will of the Wyrd. Upon the blades of warriors these marks are inscribed, calling upon The Weave to guide their strikes and ward their souls from harm; and these marks are inscribed on the plows, hammers, and all tools of the craft, so that the Wyrd might touch all the works of Man; and these marks are painted on the bodies of the Wytch to shepherd them in all they do. “A woman, if she cannot raise a sword, must learn the loom. Some lace only for the purpose of cloth and that which we adorn; the enlightened work the weave to better serve its purpose. It matters not. All is irrelevant so long as the wytch understands what she sees, and what those threads impart.” Wyrdwytch of Solgaard, year 200 of the Second age. The men and women who walk the ancient path of The Weavers are known as Wyrdwytches. While no Man may change the course of fate, the Wytch has learned to see its threads, to gaze into the The Weave which binds the world; her power is great and yet she must tread carefully, for the web is delicate and a single misstep may bring ruin upon her. In this, the Wytch is neither inclined toward good nor evil – she is merely the wielder and the conduit, bending The Weave to her needs and desires until the final cut of Vhela's axe. Each person within the world has a role of importance to the Wytch, and the collective is required for a Wytch to work at their most skillful, as it is here that the web is thickest. For this reason they integrate themselves amongst others, most often amongst the Norn. Even so, the Wytch is a pariah, their practice seldom sought out lest Man is so desperate as to willfully invite the consequences of meddling with The Weave. ᛡ ALLSYN 𝔄 man walks through the woods. He knows not where his feet carry him, only that the trees watch and the wind whispers through the brush. The soil grows soft underfoot, and it is no longer the loamy dirt that parts under his boot's heel but the slime of a macabre carpet: the grey, bloodless organs spilling forth from a steed’s open gut. Entrails lay twisted into shapes the man could not understand—a ritual of yore, a call to the Weave. The Wytch selects an animal of Eldrtrún – the horse, the snake, the deer, the bear, the wolf, and the boar – and slaughters it swiftly. The Wyrdmark of Vrea, Vellveyg, or Vhela is marked upon the body, be it by knot or knife, and the corpse left upon an altar of stone. The brain is utilized for matters of enlightenment; the eyes for awareness; the heart for devotion; the stomach for power; the intestines for abundance; and the kidneys for survival. As each organ serves a purpose within the body, they each offer a different meaning when paired with Wyrdmarks. The Wytch should take care in choosing what message they writ, lest they bring unintended effects upon themselves or others. After the ritual is complete, it is said that The Weavers bestow upon the Wytch a waking dream in which they will rise from their beds and nightwalk into the natural world, and there be greeted by a beastial figure of three faces. This beast will impart one wisdom, one omen, and one lie upon the Wytch, who must then interpret the meanings. WYRDWYTCHES ARE NOT AUTOMATICALLY GRANTED PROPHETIC SIGHT, VIVIFICATION, SEER FEATS, ET CETERA. UNLESS YOU HOLD A VALID CA, THIS IS NOTHING MORE THAN AN AESTHETIC TOOL FOR MUNDANE DREAMS & THE INTERPRETATION OF THEM. The remaining parts of the animal should be utilized for other purposes respective to the Wytch, for they should waste no part. ᛡ RENNING 𝔄 child walks through the woods. It had strayed far from hearth and home and knew not where the path began nor where it would end. A Wyrdwytch follows the child’s thinning thread through the ancient grove and returns its lifeless body to their hovel. By means of oils and herbs they thread The Weave and coax the child back to life. Wyrdwytches are said to have a mastery over the healing crafts. When the beasts of the hunt are felled and their blood spilled, be it for their own rituals or by the simple hand of Man, it is them who wastes no part, for the flesh of the animal and the marrow of its bones and even the pelt of its flesh are taken into their hands. The Wytch will grind powders from the bone and marrow, cook salves of the fat, and bind bandaging of the sinews, for all of these things carry life and that life should be woven into their practice. These mixtures, pastes, powders, and salves, are offered then to Man; though they are wary they cannot deny that the hands of the Wytch are guided by the very threads of fate, and so they come with broken limbs and fevered flesh and unseen afflictions, so that their ailments will be eased, and they will be of clear mind. ᛡ BLOTLAING 𝔄 woman walks through the woods. She emerges on the battlefield before the Nornish warband; her entourage of systirs reveal themselves and cross the pasture as one. In unison, they cut open the palms of their hands, painting their blood upon each man standing within the formation— strengthening their bond to The Weave so they might see victory. The Wytches, wise in the ways of the Sister’s Three, know that the endowment of blood is both sacrifice and offering—for blood is the very thread which binds all living things to the great web of The Wyrd, treated with reverent respect and consideration, and must be used in moderation. The freshest of blood, drawn warm from their own veins and poured onto the world or the Wytch’s sacred flame, is attributed to all things virtuous: marriage, fertility, triumph in war, and so on; inversely, the workings of dark power, the casting of curses and the callings of famine and pestilence, demand that the Wytch reach for aged blood, cooled and thickened with time. This blood is oft stored in vessels of bone or clay and is hidden away in the dark corners of their homes for fear of discovery by other, more morally aligned Wytches. _________________________________________________________________________ CREDITS Art by NatasaIlincic on DA @Ryanark @M1919 @Wizry @Svyatgoroye @ImmortalShadowZ @Petsch2k @Holyland @Chase Thanks. I guess.