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MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Zara of Lichtenwald. Dimensions: 1 wide, 2 high

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of an old warrior and winged helmet by candlelight. Dimensions: 1x1

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of a demonic family. Dimensions: 2x2

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of Blessed Queen Amaya of Venzia praying. Dimensions: 1 wide, 2 high

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of Caurost's newest district. Dimensions: 1 high, 2 wide

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A landscape of Skjoldenhjold's throne room. Dimensions: 1 high, 2 wide

She had known him before, of course. Hovering at Queen Amaya’s side, Deia had witnessed their many stilted interactions, her warm greetings and his stiff, strangled responses. He was cold. He was quiet. She was not fooled; only hours before, he had swept through the castle on the White Comet’s first mission, pulling apart the king’s conspiracy at the seams. She would not be fooled, she had told herself firmly. Men like him were only patient until they smelled blood, and so she never gave it to him. But her sister was not nearly as predictable. Laelia was a hurricane that rivaled Villorik’s determination, and their clash had casualties. A wound in her gut, spilling a fountain of warm blood onto the floor. The room was so cold, and that should have made her afraid. She was going to die there, alone, with no one in the world that loved her. The floor creaked with approaching armor. Amaya was missing, Laelia had vanished, and the room was more blood than stone. He stood there, his helmet unreadable, as she took her last shallow breaths. A hunter staring at a dying animal. And then he knelt, hands shaking, and prayed. “Please, God. Let her live.” Within the wound, the Divine stirred. ✦•··················•✦•··················•✦ She is still Deia, underneath it all. Still skittish, still terribly weak. It took no effort for them to knock her out cold while they slaughtered Amaya, after all, and curse her to a century of mourning. There is just.. something else, too. Something that holds her face, afterwards, and turns her hollow eyes towards the Light. Look, it whispers as they mourn together over bloodstained flowers. Look, again, as he stares dead-eyed at Aden from the mountaintop. Look, until she cannot anymore, because he has put his helmet over her head, big enough to block her view of the bloodshed, and led her away from it beneath his cloak. Oh, she remembers thinking, days or decades after, because she had not realized he was looking back. ✦•··················•✦•··················•✦ “You’ll need to be stronger,” she says, instead of, “What good is a world that you are not a part of?” “They are eternal, and you are so fragile,” she warns, instead of, “What if you are hurt, the moment I turn away?” “They’ll be watching, from the Skies,” she promises, instead of, “I can’t let you go there too, beyond my reach.” She tears a piece of Divinity from her heart, cups it in her hands. It is the most honest gift she can give him. The most selfish she has ever been. He takes it. ✦•··················•✦•··················•✦ The world pulls them in different directions, as it often does. Villorik uses his Divinity to fight, as she bid him, and Deia retreats to hearth and home. They are both symbols of war, only different parts of it. He who tears the world apart for its injustice and she who weaves it back together. They are not pieces that fit beside each other. They meet on the battlefield amidst hundreds of bodies and through negotiations that will decide if there will be thousands more to follow. That whisper of Look, look never fades, and she wonders if with the blessing she’s given him, he hears it too. “You must know,” she mumbles, her head set against his shoulder, eyes on the rising sun as it peeks out over the tree line. Silently, he takes her hand. ✦•··················•✦•··················•✦ The first time she holds him is while he fades away. The Divine thing beneath her skin thrums. The world is still, beyond his heartbeat. Bloodstained flowers have not wilted after decades of peace. Perhaps by his miracle, or by hers. Perhaps by the Queen herself, watching over those she left behind. “It is a shame I won’t get to see them,” he rasps against her shoulder. Sermi. Caius. Amaya. They haunt them both, phantoms on the treeline. She holds his head, shields him, and watches them. “..But I couldn’t leave you alone, not for eternity.” He would be happy there, with them. She knows that. He of all people deserves the most peaceful eternity. By his sisters, by his friends. But- “Return to me. Over and over again.” She cannot let him go. “..You know I will.” One day, she will find him again. Perhaps she will even know, when she does. For now, though, she cradles his body, and feels him take her mended soul with him.

Above, the world burns, alight with thundering hooves of cavalry and the screams of the unprepared raiders echoing alongside monstrous laughter. There is no telling when the fighting will end. Even as the tide seems to turn, no one would dare call it victory just yet. Not with the inferno of fire and smog, the ruins of their home. No, they must battle on, until not a single soul dares return. Below, so far below that there is only the distant echo of chaos, is the sanctuary they covet. One stoic guard stands vigil, a final defense for the treasures of the horde. Watching, waiting. Behind the final gate, a mother rocks her youngest child to sleep. Her lullaby is a prayer; with bloodstained hands, they will protect their future.

Across the world from Reinmar, the same sun that rises over their victory peaks over a forest of fir trees. To those within the rowdy tavern, it is no brighter than the candles. Perhaps they are squabbling again. Perhaps there is blood or, Lord forbid, fire. If it is a good day, though, it might be quiet. Peaceful quiet from broken people, still struggling to learn that there is a world that might allow them kindness. For once, Deia is not there to know which it is. Her focus is on the rising sun, and her climb to meet it. A foot on a window ledge, her elbows on the roof lining, and she manages to pull herself up just in time to watch warm pinks and oranges bloom across the horizon. A mix of colors she cannot hope to capture on canvas are spread before her, ever changing. Through it all she watches, tucked alone atop the tavern roof- as she has done for weeks now, as she will do for many weeks after. The sight still dazzles her. She knows in her heart that something is missing. That even if she could freeze the moment in time, it would be incomplete. And so, inevitably, her eyes close. She pictures the first of these mornings, and listens to the crackle of the hearth below. She tells herself it is enough.

Distantly, Deia can hear the screams of her children echo outside, held back by other onlookers. The wooden walls around her splinter and crash onto the floor, blocking possible exits from the all-consuming inferno. She smells burnt hair and skin through lungs full of smoke - her own - and though she is weak she tries to escape. She tries, but her skin is scorched and she is so tired. She wakes to the guttural roar of a dragon. There are footsteps of something approaching, past the other slumped bodies of her friends. The arms that lift her are covered in blighted scales, but they are gentle. They cradle her head and her legs, avoiding her wounded back like one wrong touch might shatter its coveted treasure. "Deia," she thinks she hears the miasma around them whisper. "Your sister has returned." The thing holding her snarls like a beast, but she relaxes anyway. Her sister has returned. When her mind is pulled to darkness again, she feels safe.

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of Hallowcliffe before its fall. Dimensions: 2x2

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of a knight in fire. Dimensions: 1x1

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of a cave with a familiar statue. Dimensions: 1x1

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of a Morteskvan music box. Dimensions: 1x1

A miracle is no small matter. Deia knows that well from the memories of her, of vibrant blooms watching over humble shrines, of a warm embrace from the beyond, of a clearing frozen in time and herself along with it. It's only natural that news of the commotion spreads across the realm, both in rumor and in song. Spoken off-handedly amidst the excited chatter of travelers, it catches her attention. Blessed flame, they said. Her miracles were gentle kindnesses in a cruel world; this was something else. A terrible storm, another whispered. An inferno of pale fire, wild and all-consuming in its fury. A righteous sign of God's will, it must be. "Hello, little god," a voice whispers from the corner of her heart. She can't help but smile.

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A woman and children dancing Dimensions: 1 high, 2 wide

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A painting of a cabin. Dimensions: 1x1

Very cool update to your previous work and a fun take on a healing role, thousands of grub bucket locations must close to recover..

The Cursed Lands of Kovgrad 556 E.S. The sun is warm on her face. In the darkest part of winter, it is such an expected blessing that any other would be suspicious. Outside, there is rare laughter as the residents of their little village roughhouse in the warmth. She can hear how every thump shakes snow off of the roof. It should make her smile. It has made her smile, any other day; she counts every laugh as a victory. They’re still human, in a way, still mortal beneath the shackles that bind them. Her children, she whispers of them when no one can hear. Tainted by their own bitter ambition, driven to tear apart pieces of themselves. Her other children were shackled too. The missive in her hands- abdication of Kovgrad- crinkles at the corners. Teardrops fall onto its words and warp the ink. She knew. She knew. The pair of them should be here with her, joining in on the joyful clamber outside. They should be free to be what they’d wanted to be, before the world tore the dreams from their hearts. They should be within reach instead of this damnable missive-- ─── ✧✧✧ ─── Months ago, cornered in a den of wolves, she had backed away from her daughter’s hand. She had begged for her to stay there, through the danger. They would be safe, her daughter begged. They could be happy. But she heard their footsteps close by, thunderous against the keep’s cool stone. Deafening. She remembered what it felt like to be caught in their sight, to be torn apart when they had caught the scent of her blood. She stepped back into the storm of sickly flames and left her. They could both live on without her, she had thought with certainty, muddled by mind-addling terror. Her daughter would be safe and happy among them without her. Years ago, in a quiet stone chapel, she had sat in the front row as the lady of Kovgrad married a Barrow. Reza had never been one for finery, but there were pearls carefully woven into her hair, and her patchwork skirts had been traded for silken drapery. Andrey stood beside her, having tamed his hair at long last. When he had approached, his royal finery did not match his quiet request. To speak on behalf of him, in place of the family that was absent from the hall. Her son, she had called him. His family was there. The part that mattered. In the weeks that followed, the crowd behind her would whisper that Reza had made a mistake to do so, that she was marrying a cruel man. But looking between them, at where their hands were clasped together, she knew better. He was not cruel, not to the wife he loved, and she was not fragile. In spite of everything whispered behind her, there was love in their eyes. When she stood to give her blessing, she did so proudly. Decades ago, the Kovachev girl clung to her skirts in a crowd. She had hovered a hand by her shoulder, protective as she often was in the wake of Amaya, and guided her to safety. She had barely seen her in passing before that, sickly as the girl was. In doorways, from the corner of her eye. Never had she come closer or spoken up. It was a familiar scar of the war, if a sad one. Then the next day, that same shy girl had run up to her, tugging at her skirts. Thank you, Miss Deia, she’d said, treating her to a real smile and a clumsily-made flower wreath. Proudly had she hung it up on her wall, preserved for the years that followed. She swore to herself that that shy smile would never fade, only grow. The first of her daughters, her foundlings. A lifetime ago, in the dead of night, she watched a young princess loom over a crib. She dared not come closer than the doorway and be caught. She could see plenty from just the sliver of moonlight. The pillow in the princess’ hands was a shock of white against black sleeves. Down, down, down it went, until it smothered the child entirely. Frozen in place, she had done nothing. Perhaps she had prayed to drown out the princess’ weeping and the child’s muffled gasps, but she hadn’t moved. Andrey’s sharp cry had filled the room as the pillow gave way, the princess collapsing to the ground in anguish. ─── ✧✧✧ ─── They find her weeping. Clawed hands, colored every shade of the rainbow- burned that way by malflame and ambition- reach out to her in concern. Their roughhousing outside had been so brutal, surely leaving behind char marks and cracked walls, but the way they reach for her is gentle. She is not like them, and like this she is breakable. Perhaps that’s what does it. When they ask what happened to bring her despair, what they can do, she tells them honestly. “It’s a tomb,” she whispers, the truth coming out like harsh glass. “None remain. My daughter, my son-” Gone, gone, gone. “Burn it, before it curses the rest of them.” ─── ✧✧✧ ─── The sun rose over Kovgrad long before the rest of the world. Over the course of the night, the infernal had stolen into their keep with torches and demonic flame, setting the wooden walls to light. The keep, abandoned by its servantry who had in turn taken the livestock and freed them into the woods, was silent beyond the ominous rising of crackling smoke. With Kovgrad’s walls crumbling around them, accursed words of grief and justice were spoken into reality. Splatters of blood boiled into nothing in their wake. For her, they had bled. For the foundlings lost, and for those who would take their place in lands now cleansed. As morning broke, only ruins remained, but the land remained cleansed, ash raining down over the last licks of flame. On and on ash fell, forevermore.

You can tell she put a lot of time and effort into trying to make it lore-feasible and mechanically balanced- not to mention the formatting is VERY pretty. Nice job c:

Half a world away, Deia sits by the hearth. Sleep has escaped her. For all her contentment, it has for some time. Yes or no, she mouths to herself, lost to memory. The breath is lost beneath the crackle of fire, and the ghost that haunts her is only for her to see. If she closes her eyes, she can watch it as though through tinted glass- murky and dream-like. "You are dreaming," something whispers in the back of her mind. "That's alright," she whispers back. She remembers what it was like to wake. The agony of being torn apart, friend turned enemy- "-A glimpse of white flame," it reminds her. Grief yawns wide in her heart; it aches fiercely, so fiercely that her hand comes up as though she might pull the pieces back together. Tiny footsteps creak against the floorboards and she turns her head, breath ragged. At the base of the stairs is a child, rubbing at the monstrous horn fused to his eye with one malflame-tinted fist. "Miss Deia?" she can barely hear him sniff, and that's enough to make her stand. As she murmurs soft nothings to soothe him- a nightmare, this time- she cannot bring herself to regret her fateful choice. And yet that phantom ache has yet to leave. And yet she tries to imagine it, even now. "And yet, and yet, and yet," something echoes, urging. She does not let herself reply.

Interesting post and props for trying to think of a specific solution to start off with. Something I feel like is a significant factor beyond Discord and the lockdown's effect, however, is very rarely mentioned in this discussion: the average age of the playerbase. While I don't have the exact numbers for obvious reasons, the average age of MCRP has gone up by a significant margin. Back in the early days that keep getting mentioned (disclaimer: based on my own experience on other servers since 2015), most active players were in the 14-18 range, generally in school or maybe with a part-time job. If you were older than that, it was notable- and it's understandable why. The way that MCRP works is inherently addictive, with a lot of social pressure from their factions - with promotions largely based on attendance - and random events by ET that you just need to be lucky enough to be present for. It's basic psychology (and marketing) that younger people are significantly more vulnerable to all of that. These days those same players, now designated as "oldheads" or otherwise longterm players, are adults. They have jobs, for one thing, and a variety of other important responsibilities that have to come before LOTC. The forums and Discord being used to post announcements, advance dates on events, recaps, etc is a way for those players to still be able to stay in the loop without having to be online for the amount of time (a solid 3-4 hours at least if you're in the right place from the start) it would take to get enough information, not to mention having to plan in advance if they want to take time off from work or other responsibilities to participate in LOTC events that are important to them. You see the same methods on other roleplay platforms (GTAW, FFXIV, Zomboid and Gmod based on my own observation) that are largely for adults. Obviously this has evolved far past just being conscious of players' time for all the issues that other people have mentioned, but I think that it's important to realize that LOTC and MCRP as a whole has evolved to a point where we can't just return to what it was before, because we are different.

On the quieter days, Deia remembers generations past. Of children growing up, their innocent laughter dimming into grit and determination. They fall in love, they have their own children. Each of them die in the end. They die for their King and his kingdom, for the safety of all, for good. As news of her passing travels the realm, Deia takes one of those quieter days to sit outside alone, away from her family and their lively reverie. She knows that her comrades will mourn Tatiyana as a fellow warrior, and that her children will mourn her as a stern but caring mother. That is for the best, that they remember her so- but she will not. No, when she closes her eyes, she remembers how young she was when they met. How small she'd been, yet how she'd kept her back as straight as any proper lady, a paradox of chubby cheeks and steel eyes. She misses that child, and every child who grew up alongside her - for even distant as they grew, with malice and distrust, she still thinks of Tatiyana as one of hers - like an open wound. The memories feel just as fresh. Tatiyana and Svetlana, squabbling over their bruises, of their family's right, when she knew it to be wrong. Tatiyana and all of her friends following after the Patriarch to Hallowcliffe's ruins, learning of times past. Tatiyana sitting beside her at the spring festival, dour and surly when Lorcan did not dance with her. Tatiyana, alone and bitter and with a son. Tatiyana hosting Reza's wedding- a quiet thank you, and nothing more, for all the words that could never be said. She wishes she had said them now. More than anything. But she did not- and so she weeps, until a quiet day turns to night.

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: Family portrait Dimensions: 1x1

MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A family portrait Dimensions: 1 wide, 2 high