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================================== There was little more to Aleksey's death than fire and blood. First, on a road just past the main road. Then, in a forge as blood was drained and his heart pierced in ritualistic manner. The man's starling, long a companion to him, had bore silent and distant witness. To die to a dragon, would be a good death, Aleksey felt as flames engulfed him. His blades had tasted golden blood, he had not been taken without a fight. After years of learning peace, years of knighthood trials, of paying off his father's debts and proving himself as a squire, indeed to die to a dragon was a good death. Even if it was due to the prideful folly of a desperate friend who had bandited the wrong person, it was good. The elder azdrazi had taken his life and that of his untrained friend, at cost of its own eye, and the wound showed as proof that Aleksey had fought. Aleksey de Knowles, once Aleksey Henrik Godunov, eldest son of Ilya Godunov and Poppiya Amador, died as he had lived: stubbornly, and in spite of himself. In the wake of his passing, the only herald of his fate would be a bloodied starling tapping at Dame Gwenyth's window in Balian, seeking rest as a silent witness. The old bird uninjured, yet stained with red. Aleksey's rents would go unpaid, and prewritten post-mortem letters would wait, patiently, to be sent out. Though they likely never would.

I like the idea of making demons and such interactable with.outside of the niche occultist circles and lair rp many find themselves stuck in. A large issue with the ca is the lack of any new roleplay that happens, creating a sort of void that steers people away from attempting the roleplay which can lead to a larger lack of new material. I will say guessing the ilzakarn is perhaps not a good idea due to metagaming, but if they gain the help of a Naz, the name written in paper on the center, or an object of importance those may be examples of alternate ways for normal people to summon or access it.

A 'ker, in self imposed distance from the storm ridden lands of Sólgaard, would have offered anything she could had she known of this. But alas, unknowing she was.

So, I am mentally ill, hi. I can say that shamelessly, from my POV when something like mental illness or portraying it is removed from roleplay it has the opposite effect intended: erasure. People will continue to roleplay mental illness, they will continue to be involved in it, and taking the name of the illnesses away from the scene does nothing but erase the knowledge that it IS a real thing. If it's an issue with representation and proper useage, I've found that providing resources for people to understand what they're doing and/or encouraging good research before portrayals does a lot more for representation and all without completely erasing it from the public eye. Overall, I appreciate the time this must have taken, but there are better ways than deleting away the actual illness from the symptoms.

It had been too long since they last spoke, a woman had thought, as she sat perched atop an aviary. It was a spot Sermi, then O'zen, had shown her, one she'd taken to heart. A place to see the world she was both fascinated and disgusted by. And then a crow had come with a letter in its beak, pale cream feathers stained red from the death of the letter's original deliverer. She slid from her perch, gathered any other letters, and left upon her horse. She could always read them later, she knew. Nothing would change. It wasn't until hours later, on the back of her horse headed towards some wilderness, that she'd gotten to an unsigned letter written in too familiar handwriting. The very start had let her know something was wrong. It was the kind of thing someone put in a last will and testament, the kind of thing said to children at sickly bedsides. A cruel joke, of course. Nothing but a cruel joke. Yet it wasn't. She clutched the letter. She could finally see, her mind awakened to the infinities of the world. She could see the tapestries and knowledge between the stars and- And it meant nothing. Trinkets, letters, property to be handed out. She was responsible for looking people in the eyes and giving them a twice dead woman's things. A cruel, and ironic thing, that Sermi had thrusted upon her. Something stirred in her gut, an emptiness she'd never felt. "I have never felt this before. What is this?" "Grief, I'd imagine." "... Oh." It wasn't until she'd taken to her lodgings that she'd cried, a silent thing as she stared at the stars in her ceiling.

An elven woman's nose scrunches up as she beholds the missive, brought to her by a friend. Some small manner of... Concern, maybe. Or disgust sits in her, festering. "... If a war will be fought, then I will help see Aaun burned." The missive is tucked away, in a satchel full of others, to bring to others she knows.

"... I think the metal man got him." A 10 year old, young Fynn Al-Jabir Aldor, mutters at hearing the news, leaned against the window of his home in Petra and staring out at the streets below. Unaware that the man with the metal mask he's feared all these years, that represented death to him, was the very man who had died. That Caius was the one he'd seen those years ago executing another. "He gets everyone." His eyes wander to the Borzoi on the nearby couch, sleeping. Unmoving for a day or two now. "Is he gonna come for us too?" He asks the dog, to no answer or acknowledgement. "... Yeah. Probably." Fynn mutters to himself after the silence ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ A dark elven woman recieves the news with a frown, her eyes wandering to the side. Overhearing it in the streets of Celia'nor, she had felt little, as always. Never feeling like she wished to. Perhaps, she had thought inwardly, perhaps a normal person would be upset. But she was not a normal person. She had whispered to her companion, in somewhat rickety glee, "Caius is dead? Caius, the Oijin... The Lich." She had smiled just a little, she had considered the future. And when she got home, she stopped caring enough to think about it any further. "Good Riddance."

Staring up at the missive before him, Fynn Bassam Al-Jabir Aldor finds a frown on his face, sickly pale hands snatching at it. An odd sort of anger floods the face of the 9 year old boy, something he can't express. Tearful eyes glare at the paper, hands slowly crumpling it. He knows what death means, now, what it is ever since he saw Caius kill. But only bad people were supposed to die, and he didn't believe his mother could have been bad. Years of denial, of being told "she's not gone, she's coming back soon." Swirls in him, resulting in loud shouting about his uncle being a liar. Sydney would recieve the brunt of that claim in time.

IMO the issue with malflame is it doesn't burn the skin. It burns your soul and the marks from that manifest upon the skin. Unlike normal burning you won't bleed, it's not gory or your skin sloughing off from the heat, it's basically "I've burned your soul and the damage is represented on your physical form". It can't even move past or burn clothing. Malflame does NOT function like actual fire and treating it like it does is contradictory to lore. Like sure if I stuck a hand in your gut and malflamed it that would burn your gut soul and leave some aesthetic visual burns but the more pressing matter would then be how did my hand get in your guts. Long story short, I don't agree with it killing. It isn't normal fire, does not burn like normal fire, and I think it makes sense it can't kill.

Aleksey deKnowles grimmaces at the missive. He'd heard enough about the situation to have his own opinions. "All this over an insult when ve man was 7? At this point these people just want conflict for any reason." He mumbles, before he goes to show his friend Caeso. "Vy get what ea mean, right?" @sapphic_spidy

In the city of Petra, a young child gazes up at the missive with squinted eyes. He can barely reach it, barely managing to pull the missive off where it's been posted and to his height. An aging borzoi with him sniffs at the paper as Fynn Bassam Al-Jabir Aldor skims over the paper. He doesn't recognize most of the names, but one sticks out to him. "Naya". He skips his way over to his house, and presents the missive to his father to decipher for him. After all, it's a lot of words for him on its own. @NovumChase ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~ Meanwhile, a 'Ker adjusts her glasses as she reads the missive posted. Several names, she recognizes, all except for the actual maker of the missive. Okerka tears the missive down to add to her growing collection.

An elven woman had stumbled across the crowd of people in the Ak'vei in Celia'nor, had heard of and barely glimpsed the scene. Fascination, more than horror, lay in Okerka's mind. After all, she had met the woman at least once, but the location was a surprise. The dedication, the message alongside it. The ability to so quickly, assumedly, set up a gruesome scene. Yes... fascinating, was the word. As quickly as she'd come to see, so too had she flitted away, letters to send in hand.

"Think Of Me Once In A While, Take Care" - Take Care ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ “When you die, you will die with nothing.” Naya had long forgiven her father for those words. He was angry. She was too, and people do things when they’re angry. It had rung hollow then. But here, and now, there was no hollowness in those words. She knew from the moment Athri had blocked the stairs that this was it. This was the moment, the edge of life, the end of her existence. Every moment had led here, to this office. This office where she’d first seen the Ak’vei, the office where she’d comforted others, where she’d cried, where she’d assured Athri that she was alright if she died, that she didn’t mind the thought. Once again, she reassured him. Once again, she’d offered him a smile. And now, she was faced once more with the disappointed face of a person she’d considered a father, and Naith’s biting words. This was the place where her life had once changed for the better. Once. 51 years. She’d made it longer than she was supposed to. She was supposed to die in her twenties, fighting in the Coalition War, some sort of virtue still in her heart. She was supposed to die on the battlefield. She was supposed to die in that little boat in Balian. She was supposed to do it to herself a long time ago. And yet, she had never had the strength, not even when she had been given the choice to kill herself rather than be killed. But she was supposed to die a good person, proving her father wrong, dying with everything she could grasp and hold and keep dear to her heart. “And you will look back and regret all you have done.” ‘Ah,’ Naya had thought, in those fleeting last moments of life, her neck broken open and blood pouring in a torrent, her life flickering out of existence like a flame. She had burned herself out, her candle having grown too fiery, her wick run out, the wax of her existence melted away. ‘He was right.’ The horror of it, now acceptance. She thinks of her child, her baby in soul if not flesh. Her husband, Aithwin. Her brothers, Godwin, Sydney, Sariel. Her only sister, Malna. Her killers, once friends, once family. In her very last moment, her very last thought, she wondered if she had left the fireplace lit. Naya Al-Jabir Aldor, born Naya Barakat to unknown travelers in SA 130, a wanderer of the world, a hoarder of knowledge, five times a sister, twice a mother, once a wife, always a soldier, had died how she knew she would: Violently, angrily, coated in blood and regretting, and alone like her father had predicted 38 years ago. She had died like her mother, and she had died alone. Her soul would never see the skies. In death, the hells clawed at her, her existence torn into Moz Strimosa, doomed to the eternal climb as she reached and cried out desperately for anything else to claim her in the depths of her soul. She’d sought to escape the climb, first by running, then by embracing. She had fought, she had bled, she had bargained… But chaos claims all, in the end. And so, the Wheel turns. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ In several parts of the world, a high elven woman would simply disappear, as if she had never existed. Her homes would go untouched, and unpaid, not a fleck of white hair or veil to be seen. Adya, a doctor, an alchemist, a scholar, was gone. Her concept was torn from the world as Naya was, the idea of her going with the mind that created her. Nobody would ever see her again, and nobody would ever see a body. A woman would be missing her doctor, a magister her alchemist, a teacher his student. The last shreds of kindness had been kneaded into Adya’s existence, poured in from Naya, used as a last way to give to the world instead of take. But she had never been her own person to exist past Naya in the first place, and so Naya took her with her, never to tell or explain. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~ Settled in Naya's study, several letters would be found. Given to those who knew Naya, these letters are not public information. Aithwin: Godwin: Sydney: Malna: Sariel: Athri'annyer: Naith: Iolas: Dame Gwenyth: Viktoria: Katherine: Ilya: O'zen: ~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~~-~-~-~

Naya, the very same in the letter, nurses her broken bones in a somewhat discrete location. Her ribs hurt, a chill still sits in her chest now and again. When she reads the missive, she merely sighs. She forces herself up from her place of rest, dragging herself to a nearby desk to begin writing, slowly. A retort, letters, other things. Some to kind people, some to those she despises. Yet, despite the ache in her torso, there's a satisfaction. She hurt Juniper in some way, it seems. A goal she'd long had. The writing continues long into the night.

Adya takes a pause in setting up her shop to read the brochure, smiling under her veil. She folds it up, tucks it away, and goes back to expanding her shop.

Adya really hopes they didn't rip open the doors and break the windows of her windmill...

A white haired elf frowns deeper with each "kill on sight" she saw, names she knew, one she didn't. "How do they expect these people to be able to be good, to cause good, if they are to genocide them?" She tosses the codex aside onto a nearby table. Long had the Lorraine left her walls, or her heart, and yet when remembering what it once meant to her, she grimaces. "The church, their orders, their people... a people of hypocrites. To collude with warlocks, to ask their help then spit on their footprints when the Princes grant it, to indiscriminately hunt a cursed people, many of whom had no choice.... Liars. Thieves and Heretics in their own right... They will rot themselves from inside out." The elven woman leaves the codex there to feed her ridiculous amount of pets.

A woman once loved, thrice broken had stared at Sermi through the bars of a cell and said that she had been tormented enough. Sermi had smiled at her. Moments later, black blood had splattered her face and her shackled hands. An end, decades in the making, had come. They had been tangled together for years; their threads stuck and tied together beyond helping. Even there, even as she watched a devil who had tormented her beyond saving die, there was grief in her heart. Grief, pity, and guilt. This was her fault, after all. "What will be done with the body?" She'd asked. "Am I freed then?" She held out her shackled wrists to her captors. But she wasn't free and would never be. That was assured long ago. So, a woman thrice-broken stumbles her way out of the prison that had held her and Sermi, calm as can be. Perhaps she was too numb to be anything else. She turns her eyes to Leoni, the red devil next to her, and she makes an ever-familiar offer. "If you ever need alchemy or medical help, ask me." Something she'd said a while ago had flickered across her mind of familiar offers and extended hands given to the woman whose blood now dried on her face. She turns away from Leoni, going to the nearest aviary. Jade eyes look over the black blood still wet on her gloves. After a moment of thought, a digit is lifted to her mouth and the ichor is tasted for no reason except for that it could be. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~ "If you ever need me, just ask." She had said this while handing a cozy blanket to the purple devil across from her. The most she could offer the hunted woman was a couch to sleep on and access to a stocked pantry. She hadn't known, then, what lurked underneath. If she had, perhaps she wouldn't have offered such a thing. In hushed whispers, she'd spoken of a recent missive. "Del-Mar lives in the same boat... Odd for someone to take a position so quickly..." She'd muttered at a tiny dining table as she and the devil discussed, two people bonding over a mysterious death that'd broken the heart of a mutual friend. "My son is missing," She'd wept in some small room in Valdev to the devil, who had once been her friend. "Help me," she'd requested, grief-stricken. A year later she'd told the devil something else. "He's dead." They had never spoken of it again. Her hand had settled on the devil's shoulder under a night sky, sat on eroded stone in the middle of nowhere. A peaceful place, hidden away. She'd brought plenty of drinks to take anyone's mind off anything. She'd listened as always to anything she was told, accepting and quiet. "They burned all the good out of her." The devil had said of an old friend. She was beaten by infernal hands, in pain and hurt. Her mind was cursed to lack remembrance; a concussion was building. She'd heard a familiar voice. "If I have to shatter every bone in your body so you finally realize the truth of my words, Naya, I will. I will break you, and break you again, until you learn to love your leash. You will learn your place." She'd seen familiar feet trail to the sink to fill a kettle. She'd screamed. She begged for mercy in a mother tongue, she had begun to die watching a familiar smile on the devil's face, the same smile given before the devil herself had died. ~-~-~-~-~-~-~ Naya removes her finger from her mouth, having tasted and remembered enough.

Aleksey de Knowles reads the paper with an interest, scanning over word of all the recent events. He tucks it into his bag after a while to bring to his twin.

Aleksey, firstborn son of Anatoliy, twin to Camellia, looks at the missive with a deep frown. He, himself, looks to the paper with a growing sneer, a hatred in his heart for a place he had once begged not to be taken from. "Lies," says the teen, a recent 14. "Lies, and slander. On mea papej, beforehand even on mea mamej. Now they claim they killed papej, that his head is..." When Camellia approaches him, he wastes no time in helping her put quill to paper. "Damned be a kingdom of the self righteous."

While I understand this take, Naz already does have a form of that in late stage. Naz are still descendants, and a good element of that is the slow descent into becoming a monster/madness/demonology. I don't think completely barring people from their characters experiencing love is going to provide anything to people in their roleplay but a complete stonewall on certain character elements. Naztherak are still descendants. If this is implemented at all, it's best for it to be T5, or for the Zar'Akal element to simply remain as the element that sucks the love out of a person.

Naya reads the missive with a frown. She knew there was a lot she didn't know about her friend, she was usually fine with that... but this would cause trouble and she knew it. With a flick of her gloved hand, the poster she holds goes to the fire, to burn. Any more she finds meets the same fate. Meanwhile, a little boy's hands grip onto the poster in front of him. Aleksey Godunov, Ilya's own son, takes to ripping up the poster in his hands with all the rage an 11 year old can muster. Not just the slander of his father, but his mother as well. This, the child couldn't stand.

An "Anonymous" Cursed One sits down at a makeshift table of barrels, her seat her bed, with missives in hand, and a cup of tea. Slowly do her gloved hands sift through the papers before her, humming. "Ailmere... mm. Dwarves... Ah. The Pontiff." She plucks out the Field Chronicle from her pile, reading through with a calm upon her blankets. Then, suddenly, does a section cause her to spit her tea to the side, to choke on the drink. "... Caius...." Any and all calm the Cursed One had is flung out the window. "Anonymous... ANONYMOUS??? YA IBN-" And so does a torrent of curses break the peaceful silence of her room, a flock of birds outside startled away. Another reason to look over her shoulder. To those that were a danger to her, this was all but anonymous, and she knew it.