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Branimar Enswerp recieves the invitation with a wide grin, grabbing hold of his cane to deliver it to his wife in an excited manner. He does love a good party.

Branimar Vanir smooths down his best coat, hanging it for the long awaited day to keep it as prim and perfect as he needed it. A weary smile comes to his face, and for once he didn't mind how the action forced his cheek to open and show his teeth. He was in too good a mood. His mind wanders, in time, to that bandit attack that had left him dazed for years. How in his blurry and barely comprehending vision Lori, his Lori, had been the first thing he saw. She'd admitted she loved him, then, just as he did her. His wedding couldn't come soon enough.

Fynn, already steeped in grief, finds another to grieve on his usual travels. There's always time turns to none left at all in the time of a blink, for him. He'd taken too long. He turns back for home, back for his kitchen, back to his craft. The least he could do was to make Atticus some bread for a last time before the funeral.

An aging man stares at his wall across his home, sat on an Oyashi cushion at his low table with a warm cup of coffee. Thinking. He'd thought a lot of Atticus these days, flashes of short memory of the man he'd bothered so, as a child. His neighbor, who knew his mother. Company, even if shortly and only because Fynn had insisted on it. He wondered today if he should bring bread again, and thank Atticus for the short bursts of company. The Templar leans back, thinking of those times he'd braved the oven to make that early version of his favorite sourdough, how it'd burned his hands, how once he'd set his hair on fire trying to fix the recipe. He was just a boy, then, not even a teen. Atticus was the first who had even tried it. And, for a moment, Fynn hadn't felt so alone in those days. Were he not so shy and scared he might have asked for help, even. Of course, he hadn't. But what harm could there be in checking in, just for a moment? Though... Maybe another time. There was always more time, surely. -_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_- A less kind thought of Atticus crosses the mind of a blood-soaked monstrosity, a brief friend from too long ago as wreathed in her lies as she'd been in her terror. A student, once, wearing an Elf's facade as if it might hide whatever had already begun to kill her. Were Adya, Naya... Whatever she is, now, still alive she'd have maybe known enough of grief to grieve for someone who had looked at her foolish, frankly suicidal admittance of what she was and had given her pity when she'd expected rage. Relief. A final release from someone or anyone that would hate her enough to kill her. But he hadn't. He'd let her live, and supported her, and it had angered her as much as it had confused and relieved her. Yes, perhaps she would have grieved. Now, though, fire and war were all she knew. There was no pity, or worry, or mercy for the living, not in the Moz. She'd wondered, if she could claw her way out, how the man might see her. A delicious fear, maybe rage. Something, anything to justify the hatred that festered and rotted so deep in the infernal soul she held, or whatever was left of it. Something to say that she was right, that she was horrific and frightening, an excuse to lash out at at least one person she'd cared for when living. The thought thrilled her, drove her to survive, as the thing set out to wreak what she could on the hells she'd been doomed to.

Somewhere in the world a man, freshly woken and preparing to travel, finds several birds staring at him at his front door all with letters tied to their legs. Fynn grumbles, then invites the flock inside. Some come through the door he leaves open, some don't. Water and seeds are prepared in small bowls and set down, the aging man gathering the little rolled letters one after the other while the messengers take their reward for the travel. Once his guests had left the Templar sits, a brew of coffee at his side, and flips through the letters. There wasn't anything grand, to do about it. No revenge, no great cause or being he can chase for the loss of his family, who'd helped raise him when he had nobody left. Nothing to do but accept. Fynn places a hand over his eyes, leaning back against the wall. Travel could wait, this day.

Grae had stumbled across the scene, the wandering construct having been looking for somewhere peaceful only to find chaos, yelling, clashing steel and violence. Though, as it quieted and the Lord and his duel were what remained, it wasn't the fight kept her lingering but a talk with an old friend. She hadn't stayed to see the end of the fight, but she'd had a guess as to its end.

An outcast bares her teeth at the missive, its addendum, all of it. She turns to a white crow at the foot of her bed. "This coming from those who I witnessed dragging people to dark corners to torture and drain and kill to make Mori metals. As if that isn't just as dark... Pet, isn't it funny?" The crow laughs.

༺⋆⁺₊⋆☘︎`ཐི༏ཋྀ`☘︎⋆⁺₊⋆༻ It was quiet, as Grae liked it, when she wandered out. Just for a moment, of course, just a stop by the stores for materials, a peek at her favorite screaming hole, grabbing a few odd ingredients and herbs. Nothing dangerous. Maybe she'd write a letter to an old friend and see if he wanted to travel further with her, stop by their favorite spots. She'd get her mind off of things, this way, by enveloping herself in nature and ruins and sometimes company, year after year... A screaming snapped her out of her reverie. It was only a moment as she wandered, but something, maybe someone, was shrieking. Grae debated a long while in the silence after. It was about time for her to go home, by then. To rest, to tinker, to bother her family. Then again, going back home would mean thinking about the recent conflicts, and facing them, and the call of sleep always at the back of her mind begging her to lay down all day. Maybe today was a day to check something strange. At first it was normal. It was winding paths she knew, paths that she retreated to in the empty hours when all slept or stayed at home, stone she'd long forgotten to be afraid of. She couldn't ever remember why she'd avoided wandering and avoided seeing the plant life blooming despite strange locations, to see the rare flizard or underground field, to see life blossom even where it wasn't meant to. It'd drawn her through life to see what was different or strange, to know. She'd bring her wife here, when she returned. Her little sister could see the little blooming ponds and the frogs. She could make it a family occasion. In her thoughts and idle wanderings, it came again, the cries. It screamed and wailed, drowning out the resonance of struck anvils and ringing songs in her head, beckoning her. It sounded strange and alien and, now, desperate. Grae had followed further. It was her last mistake, in a life full of them. Within time Grae's navigation muddled, an odd dulling to her senses had come as if she was forgetting where she was, as if her surroundings wanted to be forgotten. Something said danger, at the back of her head, though she couldn't remember why. Her memories had always been uneven, shifting like a tide, and here it failed her. She wound left into dead ends, right into collapsed passages. She'd tried to find new places to go, a way out. A memory came to her mind at a new path, a narrow and winding thing. There was no way out, only another wrong turn. The shrieking had gone from intriguing and worrying to overwhelming. Grae began to run, rushing in her armor with her poleaxe in arm, then she wheeled about, remembered her exit and went for it. She faced an old enemy that she didn't remember was one anymore, there, stopping her in her path. The talk was slow, taunting. The fight was quicker and overwhelming. The wait in her cell was weary and painful. She'd hurt quite a few assailants; she'd fought ten or so enemies. There was pride in that, at least. The blade in Grae's throat was the worst of it. It wasn't quick, or decisive, or merciful. It was slow and torturous, the length slowly and methodically tearing through her. When she'd died it was a quiet relief, her mind flashing with memories, smiles, the meal of stew she'd planned that day, a new prank planned, a fence gate to fix, her wife to greet when she came home. Her sister, her mother, her father. The last thing she'd called for had been her family, and when she called no more, they were the last thing to leave her mind. But what was meant to be rest wasn’t allowed, to her. The tug came, to rise. To live. As quickly as she entered rest she was torn from it. What would happen after, she had no say. ༺⋆⁺₊⋆☘︎`ཐི༏ཋྀ`☘︎⋆⁺₊⋆༻

Grae'laen Loa'chil doesn't receive the news too well. She has known the Finch since she was but a little wide-eyed child showing Grae her favorite places in Lemon Hill, watching the elf sketch the rooftop beehives and the tucked away pond surrounded by animals, since Julia had run to her time and time again, like a friend, like a little sister. Grae takes to the woods, for the day, if only to hope that Julia got a kind afterlife. But not to pray. Such would be too heavy a lie.

Fynn finds himself looking over the missive for the all-powerful illiterate and reading it aloud. For a moment he wonders if he could teach her to read- then quickly abandons the thought, he was already cursing the woman with exercise.

The news reaches Branimar like a slap in the face might meet a child. Poorly. He holds the missive in unsteady hands, and he desperately wishes his family was back from wherever they'd scattered to. Vanir was for Haense, first and foremost. So where did that leave him? Country or self. The crippled man makes for the aviary, a slow and painful thing. Letters must be sent.

Grae'laen Loa'chil Fynn Al-Jabir Aldor Kawahashi Tsuru Branimar Vanir

The guts spilled across her front steps hadn't been ignored, by Tsuru. Something was wrong. It was in the taste of the air, and the whispering in the dirt. Something was wrong. The letter she'd gotten about gifts in front of her house, she knew who it was from of course, didn't comfort her. When she returned a time later the spillage was gone, and she'd carried herself up to a familiar tavern, stopping to interrogate the gaggle inside about the bloody mess at her house before one of them had spoken. "Azerdel is dead." Tsuru paused, considered. Something odd welled up in her chest, something foreign and unidentifiable. "I buried him," the taverngoer had said. "Then exhume him," she'd replied. "What does exhume mean?" The idiot taverngoer pondered, then. "Unbury him." Tsuru snapped, harsher than intended. And so, she'd followed just past the village, past smatterings of blood on odd stone shapes. Azerdel, her son, her lamb had been dug up as freshly dead as he certainly was. Being usually reasonable, of course she knew he was dead. She wasn't stupid. But it was easier for Tsuru to pretend her boy was sick, to draw his body close and pull out a medical kit and stitch his emptied gut back together. It was easier to hoist the corpse onto her back and carry it home, and tuck it in, and make it soup. Make him, soup. She knew, of course. She knew. And then she didn't. He was just sick, now. He was just refusing to eat, refusing to get better. It was only an illness. When Azerdel wouldn't eat at home she hauled the boy back up, and carried him away from the village with a cloak draped over his body. "You need new air, Lamb," She'd reasoned, consumed entirely by some great delusion that the corpse on her back was only a sleeping man, her child sick from being in the dirt too long. "New air and a better bed. I'll write to a doctor, for you." And she did. She'd employed a friend to help her drag the body to his new upstairs bed, in a new place. She wrote a letter asking for a miracle worker she knew would come, she watched the ghost of her child grow frustrated with the door while his shell slept upstairs. That's all it was, a shell, like the doctor that had come said. He only molted, and Tsuru believed it. She knew he'd need help growing a new shell, one that could touch the world. When the doctor asked to take the molt away, Tsuru had agreed. She hadn't even closed its eyes. She didn't need to. It was only husk, and her boy was here. That was all that mattered, now.

Grae had found herself in Haense again, like she had so many times before. Road weary and lost as ever she'd come to Valdev, she'd made a beeline for the tavern. She wanted to try something new. When she'd reached past a particular red devil, muttering her apology, she hadn't quite intended to converse with the man. Only to have some whiskey, and drink away the feeling that something, someone was missing that in the moment she couldn't quite remember. Someone in Valdev, someone she greatly cares for. The forgetting had always put her on edge, and the whiskey was the medicine of the day for that edge, until the memory came back. If it did. Grae had dropped herself near to Reinhard and had made some small talk. Then apologies, for the last they met, then a discussion on morality and curses. She'd noticed the man was missing a chunk of his horn, but she'd forgotten to bring it up. Then they'd parted, Grae with her whiskey out the tavern, Reinhard right where he was before. She couldn't remember what they talked about, only that it hadn't been without an amicable nature. Maybe it would come back, maybe she could visit again. The next Grae thought of Reinhard was when she was with her sister, receiving news, and it wasn't quite as amicable a thought as the last time.

MC Name: ProcrastinatePro Discord: ProcrastinatorProfessional Image: Description of Image: A framed portait of a kneeling elven templar holding a sword and surrounded by various flowers. Dimensions: 1 X 1 (1 wide, 1 high)

An elven traveller frowns at hearing of witches in the woods, recalling her own issues not with witches, but with Ghouls. She shudders slightly, already mourning the loss of another place to peacefully rest in.

The news had not been well received, by Grae. She'd expected something awful, when her sister had written for her to come home. She'd expected injury, some harrowing tale or new world-ending threat to be aware of, some new atrocity or strange specter. She hadn't expected to come across a clinic full of mourners, less-so to round the corner to see the corpse of her friend. Grae had wept like she never really had, before. The room was too small, the air too thick with tension. It brought her back to places she didn't want to be, sounds and smells and pains she never wanted to experience again. She hadn't been there to help Okar'sil, she hadn't had the chance to repay him for what he'd done for her and helped save her from, she'd never had the ability to truly mean it when she said she was getting better. Too little, too late, perhaps. Grae had swallowed her grief, given her friend one last hug, and stumbled away in the end. It was all she could do.

An elf sits huddled in a corner, unknowing of any search for her. Another scratch is added to her wall with a loose stone, a tiny thing. She couldn't tell what she was keeping track of anymore, only that it felt like the right time for a new one.

A woman looks upon the news with the usual agitation, some hesitance, and no hope. But, still, there is potential in all things. Perhaps it is time to repair some recently broken bonds, she thinks, setting out to the world from her usual reclusion.

Name (MC Name): Grae Loa'Chil (ProcrastinatePro) (Discord): ProcrastinatorProfessional Clan: Loa'Chil Citizenship: Jun-Lei Village, Koyo Kuni Mahō: Alchemy Materials: Sling(leather), ferrum and stone pellets, anorum Availability Preference (Day(s) of the Week): Tuesday/Thursday - 11am-3pm + 7pm-1am est Wednesday/Friday - 4pm-1am est Saturday/Sunday - 9:30pm-1am est

Huh, interesting! Respect, my discord is ProcrastinatorProfessional

Embering eyes watch the keep burn. They wonder what memories were in its walls, what life it had. What dedications, cares, pains and love it had held secret and cradled within itself. Fire was a purifying thing, of course. But it was a shame about the books.

“Aurea mediocritas” The following was spread far, and wide. Missives placed in places of high traffic, such as taverns and churches. ☀︎𖤓-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-~❇~-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-𖤓☀︎ The Order has successfully identified 2 Darkspawn lurking within the walls of Celia’nor. Their names and general descriptions are listed below. These individuals are to be considered highly dangerous, and are to be considered notatum ad mortem. - Ri’aneth. Purple-eyed, white haired, pale. Wears glasses, and a dress which almost seems to shift in hues from blue to purple. - Elora is an Elven Devil. Notable for their horns, unusual shade of near-green skintone and similar eyes. We would like to thank Warlock for their assistance in handling the matter, and bringing it to our attention. To the nation of Celia’nor, we say this: You have let your own be infiltrated by the Dark. Many immediately jumped to the defense of the cursed one, in spite of a positive darkspawn test. A witness that stepped forward was harassed for not speaking earlier. Yet, what they said was shocking. Both of these individuals were responsible for torturing them with malflame. Many asked for a fair trial, but I tell you this; if we have found Elora within your ranks there are certainly more elements that if not apathetic towards the issue of darkspawn, are actively aiding them. This is the corruption you have allowed to rot and fester within your homes. Within your walls. They have subverted the systems made to break them, into a guise of safety. They threatened men with violence, and tried to force our witness to sell their soul to them. Let this be a warning to the mali’thill of Haelu’nor, in equal step. For this is the dirt that you seek to burden yourself with. A failed state, subservient to the whims of the Dark. To those mentioned, there is no place the Light will not find you. ☀︎𖤓-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-~❇~-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-𖤓☀︎

This is a very intriguing magic. I hope I get the chance to interact with it if it goes through, the character possibility is cool. I will say things like vaults and such might need a tweak for the sake of how it affects other's characters, but I'm not an ST and so I am not perhaps the best to say 'oh this and this'. Either way, fantastic piece, here's hoping it makes it!