IrradiatedGoose

Agariel let out a very loud “YIPPIE” inside of her lab from the invitation. Though shortly after became utterly distraught and began sobbing, for her skygod is currently stuck at work…

Does patrolling the Mojave make you wish for a nuclear winter?

Bird bird bird, bird is the word

Agariel's eyes opened lazily in the morning, just as those around the castle of Formindon began to ready themselves for their days. She slowly rose from the mattress, sitting up in her bed as she blinked, one eye first and then the next. Her hand came up to grasp her head and run through her auburn hair, marred with an ivory streak in the front. She'd blink over and over again as she tried to acclimate herself to the world of the conscious. "Father?" Agariel called out, believing herself to still be within the dream. But no voice came in reply, only the snoring of her husband nearby. Agariel rose from her bed with much sluggishness, wrapping her weary self in a nearby blanket as she made her way near the fireplace in the room. She'd try to call out once again. "Father?" Nothing came. Agariel sat down in front of the fireplace, leaning against the table as she looked to the flames. Her eyes became heavy, and a rose-tinted glassy sheen came over her eyes. She'd begin to cry, to weep, to sob, curling and burying herself away in her blanket. She'd remain there for several hours, ruby streaking down as she wept. Oh, how jaded she had been. How alone. She cried in her spot on the floor, not for her own hatred. She cried not for her own hostile perceptions.... ...But what could have been.

The letter had found itself in the hands of Agariel, her hands holding the letter near the firelight as she ran a finger over the lines as she read. She turned to the nearby window as she pondered what such expedition could entail, and to a place she had not spent much time in. Agariel gently folded the letter away as she made to travel to the NGS' museum. In truth, she had not adventured much in the recent decade though a thought came to mind... perhaps it was time to get back into the saddle.

FROM THE NGS B E N E A T H T H E B L O O M •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• W R I T T E N B Y A G A R I E L S T A H L - E L E N D I L & D O C T O R A. B A N I K A N E T A L . P U B L I S H E D B Y T H E N O R T H E R N G E O G R A P H I C A L S O C I E T Y O N T H E 1 0 T H O F S U N ‘ S S M I L E, 2 0 5 4 •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• A JOURNEY INTO THE VERDANT WILDS A PECULIAR VALLEY OF AZALEAS was found several leagues south of Riviense, nestled between rocky cliffs and fed by a winding unknown tributary. The vibrant canopy of pinks and greens stretched far across the valley floor, their blossoms glowing faintly beneath the filtered sunlight. The air carried a faint sweetness, heavy with moisture, and the sound of the nearby river flowed constantly through the underbrush. The expedition, led by Agariel Stahl-Elendil, followed by historian and scholar Dr. A. Banikan, botanist Andromeda, explorer Florian Mallory, and their counterpart Aleksey. The explorers first made their descent from the northern ridge, where the temperate woodland gave way to the bloom. The ground softened beneath their boots, damp from frequent rainfall, and the scent of living earth filled the air. The scent of living earth. THE PARTY TOOK PACE THROUGH the woods rather than the road that split through the woodlands. The soil was soft, easily kicked up beneath the boots of the adventurers who took to its floral lands. Scattered petals and leaves strew about the forest floor, and the deeper they had ventured, the quieter the forest grew. Small clearings revealed themselves in soft patches of moss and earth, ringed by azalea roots that spiraled outward like fingers grasping the soil. It was here that Tippen’s Root grew in healthy abundance, sprouting from between the roots that took hold of the earth. A land of abundance. THE PARTY’S INTEREST LAY BENEATH the surface of the earth, northwest of the forest, at the entrance of a cavern. Several structures, varying in degrees of dilapidation, stood in this area. Within these ruins, the party discovered a new mushroom-like herb that was unfamiliar to them. The herb itself grew upon the remains of rusted metals, giving off an odor similar to rusted ferrum, carrying the same taste with it. The buildings at the mouth of the cave predated the arrival of the vessels that sailed from Aevos. Dr. Banikan theorized that the structures date back to the 16th or 17th century during the Johanian Era, characterized by their black roofs and purple accents. Ancient history. A FAINT PURPLE GLOW SPILLED from the cave’s mouth, a lure to the scholars who stood before it. They began to descend into the caverns, where the light of the world above was quickly swallowed whole and darkness enclosed around them, save for the purple radiance that remained on the cavern ceiling and great crystals that jut outward as if lightning itself had frozen. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the lightless scene, the outlines of structures becoming more clear to their eyes. The same buildings that stood above ground rest beneath the rock, buried from time. Their roofs were gabled, with Dr. Banikan wondering what purpose it held to construct them in such a method while underground. Who was to say what happened to such a society, perhaps it was a society built on mineral-excavation, or forced to migrate from above to below. The lightless scene. NAUGHT ELSE BUT A LARGE gate stood before the party once they reached the bowels of the cave, its frame carved from the same stones that protruded from the caverns. Whatever purpose it had served had been forgotten, with no mechanism, pulleys, or hinges to reveal how or if it could open. For now it stood silent and stalwart as an ancient threshold, sealed by the passage of time. THOUGH THE CAVERN HELD NO signs of life, the structures held a purpose once, perhaps a civilization that understood uses of stones and light or saw use for the crystals that protruded from the walls. The forest above the cavern thrives where the sun beamed against the foliage, but below it in the cold and quiet, the lost civilization lingered. Perhaps it is not a coincidence that the azaleas bloom above. •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────• The Honorable, AGARIEL SAILLE STAHL-ELENDIL, AUTHOR @BreadNugget7567 Master of Silvers, Steward of Tir-Glas, Explorer of the Northern Geographical Society Her Ladyship, DAME MANON YVAINE VOLKRICH, SUPERVISOR @esotericas Dame of Arts, Lady of Deguise, Baroness of Guise, President of the Northern Geographical Society P U B L I S H E D U N D E R T H E A U T H O R I T Y O F T H E N G S “ A D T E R R A S N O V A S ” THE VIEWS AND INFORMATION CONTAINED WITHIN THIS DOCUMENT ARE THE SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF ITS AUTHOR(S). THE NORTHERN GEOGRAPHICAL SOCIETY IS NOT RESPONSIBLE OR LIABLE FOR ANY CONTENTS. •─────────────────•𖥠•─────────────────•

Last Will and Testament of Kieran Callaghan Penned on the 3rd of Sun’s Smile Year 246 of the Second Age I, Kieran “Sadarher” Callaghan, in sound judgment, mind, and body, hereby write and enact this as my final will among the realm of mortals. I revoke any and all previous wills and codicils made before this date. It is my wish that this document reflects my final intentions regarding my estate, possessions, and responsibilities. May those who inherit from me do so with honor, and may my words serve as a guide to those I leave behind. Let it be known that I entrust the execution of this will to Prince Llewyn Glennmaer I and Princess Safiyaa Glennmaer-Vourkehardt I, whom I trust and deem most capable in carrying out my final wishes. With this declaration, I proceed to distribute my estate as follows… On the Matters of Inheritance and Estate For first matters, I name Ser Elise “Eirwen” Callaghan, the SOLE inheritor and Heir of the House Callaghan, becoming the Matriarch and head of the house. She shall inherit the Lordship of Dûncoed, and all its titles, lands, and the responsibilities it holds. Should she become a pawn of Iblees or lose her way, the matters of inheritance shall fall to Niamh Callaghan or Agariel Elendil, if neither of such can be made, then a moot shall be held and another successor chosen. On the matters of my finances, HALF, of my personal monetary worth shall be given to the Principality of Tir-Glas, with the remaining HALF being given to Ser Elise “Eirwen” Callaghan, to use for the matters of the family of Callaghan. The weapon “Doitean Beannaithe,” may be given to Prince Llewyn I, should my remains be unrecoverable. Should my remains be recoverable, he may do with the sword as he wishes, though preferably not melt it down. Any Jewelry I might have randomly picked up on my travels, shall be given to Niamh Callaghan. I do hope she finds more use of them rather than the items collecting dust. On the matters of the rare weapons I hold in my possession: My Falchion, known as “Tusk,” once wielded by Ser Runagleth Ruthron before me, shall be given back to Prince Llewyn I, should he find another with the strength to wield the blade. My polehammer, “Exsequia,” may be given Ser Elise “Eirwen” Callaghan until one of the younger generations properly begins their squire trials. The warpick, “Tionchar Deiridh,” shall be passed to Ser Elise “Eirwen” Callaghan, so she might destroy whatever foes she comes across in her journeys, and share it with Victor Rorin. Any other random items that are not on display, property to someone else, or listed otherwise are to be divided equally (or as equally as possible) to those within the family. Final Notes and Letters [!] The following letters would be found on Kieran’s desk and their contents eventually delivered to the addressed. [!] Sissel, Llewyn & Safiyaa, Elise, Iulius, Victor Rorin, Griffith, The Leomonte Family, Signed, HIS LORDSHIP, Kieran “Sadarher” Callaghan, Lord of Dûncoed, Knight Captain of the Order of Dawn, Templar Justiciar of Malchediael the Aengul of Courage, Knight of Dawn, the Slayer of Tor, and Patriarch of House Callaghan In witness of, Lord Llyw Baldric Glennmaer of Tir-Glas Annyerir

ahhh i c i c. ignore my dumb assery :/

nub modrinth option :(

[!] News of Kieran's death would eventually spread, be it by word of mouth or through letters. [!] What is honor when the world demands that you trade it for obedience? What oath can be considered sacred when those who require it wield it like a chain? Should we bend our knees to crowns forged in deceit, to kings who preach virtue while thriving on bloodshed? Kieran witnessed rulers speak of peace yet lend their strength to empires built on blood. He heard Owyn’s flame praised, yet observed men preaching without holiness in their hearts. If a God was watching, he wondered why He allowed His faithful to slaughter in His name. They claimed to protect the flock, yet it was always the flock that bled. Kieran was a man in search of redemption, a ghost trying to wash the blood from his hands, even though it never truly left. “For the greater good,” he told himself repeatedly, but what good is it if others must bleed so that the rest can live? Perhaps it was never good at all, merely a lesser evil that he had chosen to endure. His childhood lacked boundaries and warmth. As a boy, he slept in forests, fields, gutters, and always felt cold. At just ten years old, he was already a phantom haunting the alleys of cities that now lay in ruin. The only family he trusted was the one that urged him to follow, so he did, and he never stopped. -[☘︎]- “What are you doing sitting alone there?” A girl just younger than him asked. “I don’t know… Sitting I guess?” the young Kieran responded. “Hm. Come along then.” “Uh… okay… What’s your name?” “Sissel.” -[☘︎]- In the first few years, he wandered through Numendil, where one word resonated in the streets: Honor. He read about fallen knights and righteous swords, sifting through libraries for fragments of virtue as he rose through the ranks of Tir-Glas. Yet when he looked down at his hands, he could never tell if they bore honor or blood. Blood spilled in the name of causes he didn’t believe in, lives taken for matters that held no significance for him. Did blood really need to be shed over such trivial concerns? -[☘︎]- Kieran was patrolling the road between Tir-Glas and Numenost one day, following behind a man dressed in cactus-green priestly garbs. Until the man suddenly turned around to face him. “You! You believe in Him, surely!” The green-robed man cried out. Kieran was taken aback, not expecting the man to turn around so suddenly “Who?” “He! And all His blessings!” The man began to come forwards, his hands waving around like a madman. Kieran stood his ground still, his mind was always curious, even if a bit slow. “Him! His blessings! His people!” Before Kieran could speak, the man’s fist lashed out. Pain seared across Kieran’s visage as his nose cracked, warm blood spilling down his face. Kieran stabbed him, dark maroon spread across the steel and spilling into the dirt as the man fell silent at his feet. -[☘︎]- The mistakes came first. “Necessary,” he would whisper to himself, though the word lost its meaning over time. Then came the wars, where duty was proclaimed and banners bled red. Conversations were held through gritted teeth, as the lines between duty and “sin” began to blur. A marriage tainted by the scent of blood was hidden from all who could see. Letters exchanged in the dark traded lives for lives, sparing cities but staining his soul. He would carry many secrets to his grave. Often, he allowed one creature to live, hoping that others might be discovered and destroyed, but those that survived usually brought further harm. Each choice came with a toll, and the world always demanded its payment. -[☘︎]- “I need to travel north and into the Ailmere, and I can’t go alone,” the Norland Master of Gold spoke. “I’ll go with you.” Kieran replied as he readied his weapons and armor. “Where are you going?” “I can’t tell you. It’s a state secret.” “It’s Vansk isn’t it?” The man was silent. Not many days passed after, and the Northern camp burned, fire and ash blotting the night sky for the sake of someone he could not bear to lose. -[☘︎]- And yet… There were moments—fleeting and fragile ones—that served as proof, perhaps, that he could still do good in his own eyes, even if it cost him. The Hyspian Royal Family was saved from the damp, dark caves of a man long lost to time. Hungry strangers were offered fire and bread in his halls; no questions were ever asked, even when they should have been. He threw himself in the path of a volley to save a mage who would not have survived otherwise. Corrupted generals were slain to ensure their stench could never rise again. -[☘︎]- Kieran carried Sissel from Alba to Vjardengrad, her weight slumped against his shoulder as though she were made of lead. Blood streaked down her temple where a barfight had left its mark, and though she needed stitches, she would not set foot in the house of healing, not tonight, not ever if she had her way. So he brought her to the river instead. “At least you won,” Kieran said, stitching the gash that continued to flow on her head. “She was a poor fighter,” Sissel slurred, her words between half-laugh and half-growl. Then she started to hum a small tune, off-key but soft. “I’ve never heard you sing before.” He said, tying off the last knot of stitches. “I’m not singing, I’m humming,” she shot back, “But I can.” And she did, beginning to sing as the snow fell around them and Kieran putting away the excess supplies. He didn’t know the words, but he didn’t need to, hearing her voice was enough to know she’d be alright. By the time her song faded, Sissel had fallen asleep, her head resting against his arm. He lifted her again, careful not to wake her, and carried her back through the snowy streets. When he set her down in the bed, he stayed for a moment longer, making sure she was safe. Only then did he slip out into the cold night, silent as the falling snow. -[☘︎]- He had many friends who spoke of a flame, not the one preached in holy scripture, but a fire that represented fate, conviction, and purpose rather than hypocrisy and judgment. His patron, Malchediael, whom he had helped rid of his madness and restore clarity to his mind, was perhaps also a means for him to continue his own path of redemption. -[☘︎]- Kieran’s horse came to a slow stop as he and Ismeria neared a field, her eyes held shut until he had called for her to open them. “Alright, you can open your eyes now.” Kieran said, helping her down from their horse. Ismeria opened her eyes as a sea of red glistened in the sunlight. Hundreds of roses stood on the hillside, their petals shining and absorbing the light to later be used for their own survival. She turned around for a moment to face him, a smile creeping to her face as she faced the roses again, before darting into the flora with laughter. Kieran smiled as he tied his horse off to the side, his attention held to Ismeria as she happily frolicked her way through the field… -[☘︎]- Though at the journey’s end… At the mountain’s peak… Did it really matter? Did any of it matter at all when the weapon cut into him? The axe had cut deep, deep enough to sever his femoral artery. Blood gushed from his leg and stained against the ground. A pained grunt came from him as he looked at the wound that leaked like a garden hose. “That’ll do it…” he said. Kieran sat there, slumped against the hillside, looking to Sissel who bled next to him. “You will take care of yourself, you hear? You must.” The rising sun began to bask over him, its golden glow illuminating the hillside. “The voices… the nightmares… they dwindle… they’re finally over.” It was then that Kieran took one last breath, drifting into the grasp of death until his chest no longer rose… no longer fell… His body slowly grew limp as he leaned upon his sister, all those years of pain began to fade, until he could no longer see, and he drifted into Malchediael’s realm. A weary smile crossed his face one last time and one last feeling… Rest.

Agariel Elendil read over the flyer in her free hand after having been charred and barbecued on her adventures around the new lands, "Perhaps soon others will wish to travel around and find the dangers and intrigues of our lands." She spoke, pocketing the flyer for another time.

House Callaghan On Matters of Succession In times of conflict, peace, uncertainty, and no formal decree or declaration until now, the matters of succession of House Callaghan shall be laid out, binding the family as a whole. No longer shall it be up for debate on who shall succeed my place in the event of my passing or abdication of my position. Thus, I, Kieran “Sadarher” Callaghan, formally declare Ser Elise “Eirwen” Callaghan as the SOLE inheritor and heir of the House Callaghan, becoming the matriarch and head of the house upon my passing or abdication. She shall inherit Dûncoed, and all its titles, lands, and the responsibilities it holds. Furthermore, in order to become an heir of Callaghan, no matter how far in the future, each of these requirements must be met or in the process of being completed. The prospective heirs must: Must retain the Callaghan name. Any who forsake the family by renunciation or disownment shall forfeit all rights of inheritance. Must not serve any foreign crown, cult, or criminal body. - Note: Should any Callaghan be found to be in a cult or criminal organization, they are automatically ineligible as well as disowned, and may be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Must not swear fealty to any foreign power or faith that conflicts with the family's own. Must be of Adunian blood. Must be a knight, or actively undergoing squire trials. Must be of sound mind and judgment. Must have served no fewer than eight years within the Order of Dawn or Radiant Guard. Should the need arise that the only prospective heirs are underage, the family may enter into regency, with the Lord-Regent being picked by the Prince or Princess of Tir-Glas until the heir or heirs come of age and meet the requirements that have been decreed. Signed, Lord Kieran “Sadarher” Callaghan, Lord of Dûncoed, Knight Captain of the Order of Dawn, Templar Justiciar of Malchediael the Aengul of Courage, Knight of Dawn, the Slayer of Tor, and Patriarch of House Callaghan

Ser Kieran Callaghan sat within the fields of wheat that lay just beside the barn of Westmark. Their golden glades stained with the blood of thousands of men, Cavalier and Druscan alike. There was then the clash of steel and gore, a man screaming off to his side. Kieran turned his head to the sounds. Except there was nothing there. Another eviscerating scream tore through the fields of Westmark. A pike being pushed through the abdomen of some poor footman. Kieran turned again. Nothing there. He looked down to his blood covered gauntlets, drawing in a shaky breath as he looked up to the sunset, basking in it's temporary light before darkness fell upon the fields drowned in blood.

The Order of Dawn's Knight-Captain cleaned the blood from his blades, the gore and viscera of the battles that occurred that Saint's day had caked into his armor, staining his Tir-Glas green closer to a shade of muddy brown. He looked to the sky as rain began to trickle down from the skies above, washing over him as the chaos drained and prisoners were taken. He made his way back to the city before spotting a familiar face bound and sat in the grass....