TuggIsHere

Hey! I recently took some time away from LOTC for exam season, but now I've returned and am looking to get back into things! I have an open slot I want to start RPing with, and I'd love to join a growing group/family etc. No real preferences on race, affiliation, or anything like that! Let me know!

ᴛʜᴇ FᴀSʜɪᴏɴ ᴏF ʜᴏᴜSᴇ ᴠᴀʟᴋɪSᴛᴀʀ Order does not escape us, not in the way we speak, nor in the way we act, not even in the way we dress. From the spires of our Cathedrals to the leather of our soles, the blood and hands of the House leave nothing without purpose. Nothing without love. The Materials: · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · (Recovered journal entry from the First Matron of House Valkistar, describing a farm of fresh silk in what was once Balian.) · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · The journey of a proper garment does not begin upon purchase, but rather upon the picking out of the first materials to be used in its creation. Neither tailor nor seamstress can save the quality of a cloth if it is woven from impure silk, or decorated with scrapped leather. Those representing House Valkistar must keep in mind the origins of the threads they don, and by this we mean not the shop of their purchase, but rather the moment the first silk-worm is birthed, the first bundle of cotton is picked. House Valkistar has always taken pride in ensuring their garments are of the absolute highest quality, down to the individual threads. This is the premiere step in continuing the traditions of House Valkistar’s fashion. Before even considering the colour, cut, or style of what we wear, we must consider the best materials for the job. For this honour, a Valkistar should spare no mina. ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ The Style ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶ Developed in the latter days of the Vladrigan region, the style of House Valkistar borrowed heavily from architectural and natural motifs. Vladrigan stonework, noble and sweeping, became the cut of collars and sleeves. The pitched cliffs of the region, dark stone dotted with bright birch trees, reflected the contrast seen between darker fabrics and their light, delicate embroideries. The philosophy of the House has never seen it fit to abandon anything, and so to dress as a Valkistar is to wear the landscape of Vladrigan origin upon our backs. Early records of Valkistar garmenting showed a fashion significantly simpler than the one we see today. Current day fashion has gone through dozens of revivals and evolutions, although the core elements still remain. In the first days of Valkistar, it was mainly long, dark robes which were worn, draped above maroon or dark purple hemlines. As the House’s wealth and power grew so did the grandiosity of their clothing, and over time simple embroideries became flowing streams of needlework, as much an extension of our Valkistarian tailors’ pride, as that of the House’s. Natural motifs, too, inspired more recent adaptations of the House’s fashion style. Through long nights and dim afternoons, House Valkistar and the spires of its castles found great affinity with the flora and fauna of darkness. Bats, owls, and all sorts of nocturnal creatures became inseparably tied to Valkistaran identity, and thus to Valkistaran fashion as well. Nowadays, long, flowing capes and cloaks mimic the wings of these creatures, and many of House Valkistar adorn themselves with rings and accessories depicting the nocturnal in some manner. Presently, the core elements of House Valkistar’s tailoring history still resist time, mainly continued through the use of silken, obsidian cloaks and their pale, nature-inspired accents. A Valkistar’s garments should always feel at home beneath the gargoyles of his home’s gothic towers. This study of Valkistaran fashion was not written for entertainment, but rather for record. As the youths of House Valkistar explore a new, bustling, and ever-connected world, it is increasingly easy for them to lose sight of what affords them the Valkistar name. If you are a Valkistar, take pride in your name. Live as a Valkistar, die as a Valkistar, and of course… Dress as a Valkistar. · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Patriarch of House Valkistar, Lord of the Vladrigans, First Sovereign of the Kingdom of Valkistar Of House Winthrop, Lord-Cousin to the Patriarch, Peer of the Vladrigans

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · ᴏʜ ᴅʀᴜɪᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴇʀᴘᴇɴᴛ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɢᴀʀᴅᴇɴ， ᴡᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟᴏᴡꜱ ᴅᴏ． ʟᴏᴏᴋ ᴜᴘ ꜰᴏʀ ᴏɴᴄᴇ， ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘɪɴᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ɢɴᴀᴛꜱ， ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ ᴄᴀɴᴏᴘɪᴇꜱ！ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ？ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴡʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʜᴀᴛᴇ， ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴄᴇ， ꜰᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄᴏᴡᴀʀᴅɪᴄᴇ， ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ． ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ， ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ－ ᴅᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ʜᴏɴᴏᴜʀ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ？ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ᴠᴇ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴇᴅ， ʙɪʀᴛʜᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ． ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴡʜɪᴍᴘᴇʀ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ ᴏꜰꜰ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ， ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴏᴄᴋᴇᴛꜱ－ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇɴ？ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ︶︶ ʙʟɪɴᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴀᴄʀᴏꜱᴀɴᴄᴛ． ʙʟɪɴᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ ɪꜱ ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ． ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʟᴛʜ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ． ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ʙʟɪɴᴅ， ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇꜱᴇʀᴠɪɴɢ． ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ， ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏᴍᴀᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇʀᴘᴇɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴡʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ． · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʙᴀ, ᴡᴀʟᴛᴢɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪɴᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰʟʏ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇɪʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏᴏ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰʟᴏᴀᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʟᴀʏ ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴏᴏᴛ, ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ʀᴀᴛ-ʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ. ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴇᴀꜰ ꜰᴇʟʟ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ, ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜ. ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴀᴍᴘ, ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛɪʟᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ. ʜᴏᴡ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅʟʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʙᴀ ꜱʟᴇᴘᴛ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏᴏ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀᴜᴛᴜᴍɴ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱɪᴇꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ- ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴇʏᴇʟɪᴅꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴏᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍʟᴀɴᴅꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ. ᴏʙʟɪᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴛ. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ ᴀᴢʜɴᴀ'ꜱᴀᴇʟᴇᴋ ᴄᴀʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ, ᴘᴀʟᴇ, ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀ ᴠᴇɪʟ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ ɢᴏꜱꜱᴀᴍᴇʀ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟꜱ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ, ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛꜱ ʙɪᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ. "ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ... ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴜɴɢ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀᴅɪɴɢ ʟᴜʟʟᴀʙɪᴇꜱ. ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴜɴɢ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴀɴ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪɴɢ." ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴅʀᴀᴡʟᴇᴅ, ᴇᴄʜᴏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍꜱ, ʙᴏᴜɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏʟᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱ. ᴀᴢʜɴᴀ'ꜱᴀᴇʟᴇᴋ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ᴜɴʜᴜʀʀɪᴇᴅ, ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴇᴇᴋ ɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡꜱ, ɢʟɪɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇꜱᴛꜰᴜʟ ꜰᴀᴄᴇꜱ. ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ, ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ɢᴀᴛᴇ.

Hey there! Might be interested in this- would love to talk about some more details if you could dm me on discord: @geniusdrei 😁

꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ The thudding of boots upon granite rang throughout the quiet hall as the loyal guards of Bellion were hard at work defending a busy throne-room- a throne-room which hadn’t seen such liveliness in a long, long time. There, beyond the burning, ash-ridden gardens of the royal palace, beyond the maze-like, debris-filled streets, and empty abandoned shops of Balian- There, beyond the marble steps and velvet carpets, beyond the steel-toed boots of those countless stern, weathered soldiers of Bellion, sat a splendid gathering of children, each engrossed in deep analysis of a document which so quietly rested upon the seat of that long empty throne. Then one child’s voice rang out, accompanied by the graceful scratches of ink upon parchment, the sound of a final signature being drawn- ༒︎ "Its'a perfect! At'a long last the world will'a know the true power of us children!" ༒︎ Marco Aurelio di Rosavena cackled, his bright orange raiment pushing through the sea of smiling children as he glanced at the document over Franz’s left shoulder. ༒︎ “At last’a, us children will’a have a place of our own!” ༒︎

ɪɴᴋ ꜱᴄʀᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ Qᴜɪʟʟ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ- ᴇᴛʜ'ᴠᴀᴇʟ'ꜱ ᴅɪꜱɪɴᴛᴇʀᴇꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴄʀᴀᴡʟᴇᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴄʀᴏʟʟ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴜʀɪᴇʀ ᴅʀᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀɪᴠᴇʀ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ-ꜰʟᴏᴏᴅᴇᴅ ᴅᴇꜱᴋ. ᴀ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇ, ᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴜᴘɪʟꜱ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ʟᴇᴀᴘᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴅ. ✶ "ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ ʀᴜꜱᴛʟᴇꜱ, ꜱɴᴏᴡ-ᴅᴏᴠᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀᴠᴇɴꜱ ᴄᴀᴡ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋ... ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ." ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜɪʟʟ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴄʟᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄʀᴏʟʟ ɪɴ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ, ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ꜱɪɢʜᴇᴅ- ✶ "ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴀᴇʟᴜɴ'ᴏʀ ɢʀᴏᴡ ᴜᴘ?"

ꜱᴏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴇɴɢᴜʟꜰ ᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴀɢᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʜᴇʀ ᴡɪɴɢꜱ, ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ, ᴀᴛᴏᴘ ᴀ ᴘɪɴᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ɴᴏ ʙɪʀᴅ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜱɪɴɢꜱ, ᴏɴ ᴄʀʏɪɴɢ, Qᴜɪᴇᴛ, ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴅᴀʏꜱ, ᴀꜱ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅꜱ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ, ᴜᴘʜɪʟʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴋʏ ꜱʜᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ɪᴛꜱ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ɢᴀᴛʜᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ɢʀᴇʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɪʟʟ, ꜱᴏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴇɴɢᴜʟꜰ ᴍᴇ, ꜱᴛɪʟʟ. ꜱɴᴏᴡꜰʟᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇʟʟ, ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʙᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴋɪɴ. ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ꜰᴜʀ-ʟɪɴᴇᴅ ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ, ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴅʀᴀᴘᴇᴅ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴍʏ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀꜱ, ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜᴇ ᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʟᴀᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇᴍᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʙʀᴏᴜɢʜᴛ, ɴᴏᴡ ᴛᴏʀɴ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ, ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ ɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴛ- ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɪᴛ ꜱʜᴇʟᴛᴇʀ ᴍᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴛʜᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴄʟᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴏᴛꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ᴄʜᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɴᴏᴡ, ʟɪᴄᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴇʟꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴜᴍʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴛʜ. ɴᴏ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴍᴇ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ɪꜱᴠɪɴ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʀᴍ ᴛʜᴇᴍ, ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ꜱᴏ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ. ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀʀᴍ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʟᴅ, ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴋɪɴ. ʜᴏᴡ ᴅɪᴅ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇᴇʟ? ᴛᴏ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴘ, ꜰᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ? ✶ ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍᴏᴋᴇ ʀɪꜱᴇ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ, ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄɪʀᴄʟɪɴɢ ꜱᴄᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀꜱ, ᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴇᴅ ꜰᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴘɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴡɪɴɢꜱ. ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠɪɴɢ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ꜱʜɪɴɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴀꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ, ɴᴏ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ ꜱᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏɴʟʏ ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀʏꜱʜʀɪɴᴇ- ᴏʟᴅ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴀɢᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴋꜱ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ ᴏᴠᴇʀ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴜɴᴇʀᴀʟ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇʟᴅ ʜᴇʀᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ. ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ, ᴡᴇᴇᴘɪɴɢ ᴄᴏʀᴘꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴅʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɴᴏᴡᴍᴇʟᴛ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴀʟᴀꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ꜰᴜɴᴇʀᴀʟ. ɴᴏ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴜʀɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴏᴜʀɴ ᴏᴠᴇʀ. ᴏɴʟʏ ᴍᴇ, ᴍʏ ᴘᴏᴇᴍꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴇ. ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪᴠɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ. ✶ ɪ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴏꜰꜰ. ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ. ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪᴛ ᴄʟᴏᴜᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴀꜱ ɪ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇᴅ, ᴀꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀɪꜱᴛ, ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ Qᴜɪʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴀʀᴄʜᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ꜱʜɪᴠᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟɪᴢᴢᴀʀᴅ. ᴀ ꜱʜᴏʀᴛ ꜱᴄʀᴏʟʟ, ᴘᴀʟᴇ ᴀꜱ ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴜɴᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇᴅ ꜱɴᴏᴡ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ꜱʟᴇɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ Qᴜɪʟʟ- ꜰᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴘɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ. ɪ ᴏᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ- ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʟɪqᴜɪᴅ ʀɪᴘᴘʟɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ꜱᴋᴜʟʟ ʜᴜɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ᴡᴀɪꜱᴛ. ᴀ ᴛʀᴇᴍᴏʀ ʀᴀɴ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ꜱᴘɪɴᴇ. ɪɴᴋ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴀʀᴇ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ. ᴏɴᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴘᴏᴇᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ... ʜᴏᴍᴇ. ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ.. ✶

Absolutely. Players, on both sides in this war, have been getting dragged into the OOC politics of it- in one fashion or another. It's gotten to the extent that rp scenarios are absolutely being affected. I understand the tendency of people to rp characters almost as their persona is they themselves- but if it begins to blur the line between OOC and RP emotions towards a certain group or player, it should be toned down.

⫘⫘⫘ The following is a story, recounted by Captain Ravahn, about his first encounter with death, during his youth. This recounting contains frightening themes, including gore and religious thematics. This is horror. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ I still remember my first encounter with death. It was the seventh voyage of our ship- the Asher. I had always wondered what that name meant, “Asher”- the older amongst the crew said it was the name of the patron spirit of the ship. Whatever. I didn’t really like it- talk of spirits, and whatnot. My mother was a pious woman, and much of that hung onto me, after her passing. Didn’t used to be superstitious, until it happened. Odd how things work out that way. Those days, I prayed a lot, for her sake. Don’t know if it was faith or guilt that kept me going. The Asher was a good ship, though. Strong. Old, but stubborn. Slower than some of the shiny newer ships you’d see in port, but boy was it still beautiful. Smaller than most of the other ships, too. A main deck and a sleeping deck was all it had to offer. Oh, a little shrine, too- with a cross, candles, and everything. Nobody else really used it, though. The sea tends to wash religion off of you, when you realize you’re entirely at its mercy, and not at God’s. I hadn’t really realized anything yet. But the Asher carried us forth that journey, as always. Cutting through the waves, North and further North. The sea turned white- and snow fell, before days turned to weeks, and weeks to months. Not a single speck of land in sight the whole trip. We were running low on supplies, even though much of our food was fished right out of the ocean beneath our feet. Still, not like the seawater was drinkable. We sailed on, stubbornly, for a few more days, before the order was given. Exactly two months after leaving port- we were to turn around, and sail back South. A wasted trip, again, and spirits were low. Even mine, I must admit. I was still young, then, the excitement of heading to sea was still fresh in my mind. The adrenaline. Most of that is gone now. Some of the crew cried, I think. I could hear the sound softly between the pounding of the waves. The sleeping cabin had always had an echo like that. I could understand them- it wasn’t just anyone who’d decide to become a Northstrider. Most of the crew were using this as their last chance, one final ticket- to pay off debts, leave money for the family before they passed, and so on. I wasn’t too different. Now that chance was lost, the game was over. I wouldn’t see some of their faces again, next time we headed to sea. Or ever, maybe. Many of the crew slept amidst bottles of booze, that night. You could hear glass clinking as the bottles rolled from side to side with the swaying of the ship. I didn’t drink. Never did. Wasn’t particularly close with the rest of the crew, either. I was the youngest onboard- the easiest to ignore. I set my hammock up right between the posts in the corner of the cabin, away from everyone. Even a blind man could have seen I didn’t belong. That corner was the coldest part of the cabin, too. Right up against the walls. Sometimes at night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d stretch my hand out and trace it along the wood- feeling the waves slam against the ship. Alone. Me and the waves. Sometimes I’d just pray, until my eyes closed from exhaustion. On the 7th day sailing back South, to the mainland, we spotted something from the crows nest. It was a perfectly clear day, I remember seeing the something too on the horizon, not long after. It was a ghost ship. I smiled to myself, and I could see the rest of the crew smiling too. Maybe, just maybe, we had finally gotten lucky. Finding abandoned ships was lucrative- not only could you ransack them for whatever supplies they still held, but if the ship was in good enough condition, it could be towed back to the mainland and sold. That kind of money would mean little to the nobles far in-land, but it was life-changing out here on the cold, selfish sea. Some of the crew cried again, I think. I could hear the sound softly amidst the laughter up on deck. Seeing that ship in the distance, it was like hope had shown itself. We couldn’t have been any happier. My cheeks hurt from how much I smiled. Took us the rest of the day to sail up next to it- seeing the ship for what it was. Decrepit, dead in the water, right at our starboard. It rocked gently on the tide, the rotting of its wooden hull filled the air with a sweet mildew. Like a body, floating on the waves. And we would run our grubby fingers through its pockets, to take whatever it had left. We were smiling, still, despite the ugly scene and sickening stench. Despite the cold, despite the greedy glances we threw at each other. “Boy. Rope it in.” A hand grabbed my shoulder from behind. Mercer, our first-mate. His face was still, watching the ghost-ship as it floated mere meters away from the Asher. Everyone else on the ship was in a good mood, but with him you could never really tell. Never smiled, never laughed, never danced. He was like a wooden marionette, either taking orders or handing them out. Pissed me off, back then. “Aye.” I replied lazily, brushing his hand off my shoulder as I headed to the starboard railing to help the rest of the crew. It wasn’t like they’d want my help anyway. I could feel his eyes follow me across the deck. Annoying. Couldn’t he at least act happy, this once? It was already dark, by then. The sun had set just as I moved to help the deckhands with roping the ship in. I could still make out its halo on the horizon, just behind the ghost ship’s mast. A couple of the rays seeped through its gapped, cracked planks. The light bled out of them, like they were open wounds. A couple of the crew and I began to toss our mooring lines over, trying to catch onto whatever we could aboard the other ship, to draw it within boarding distance. It was too dark- we tried maybe a dozen times, but each time the ship seemed to evade us, with the swell of a wave, or the rocking of the tide. We gave up, eventually- some kind of tiredness consumed us. Maybe it was the smell, maybe it was the physical work, maybe the cold, or the darkness. I still don’t know. But we laid down anchor that night, content to try again next day, in the morning sun, and after a much needed rest. And so we went, back down into that cramped sleeping cabin. I was still smiling- even as tired as I was. At least, down there, the smell of sea-water and soot overpowered that sickly, rotting sweet- and it wasn’t long before my eyes closed. I did not sleep well. It was odd, because usually I’m an peaceful sleeper- especially when I’m as exhausted as I was back then. Tossing heavy, damp mooring lines over and over will do that to you. But no, I slept terribly. I had this… odd nightmare. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, at the time. It was so… abstract. I don’t remember what I saw in the dream, I had forgotten that the moment I woke up- but I remember what I felt, perfectly. Dragging. Hanging. Ropes, tied around my legs. The coarse deck and friction burns. Over, and over. Dragging. Hanging. You get it. I think spending two months on the Asher had begun eating at me, gnawing at me like the cold wind up on deck would. The North does that to you. Woke up hours later in a fit, to mid day already, somehow. The side of my face was sore, swollen a bit. Must have slept in a bad position. My mind turned away from the topic quickly- I was still sleepy, waking myself up. I could hear shouting from the top deck, frantic, so I stretched as best I could in the cramped space, splashing my face with water from a pail nearby. It was cold. Refreshing. It trickled down my to lips- sweet. I frowned. I glanced around, but it seemed like nearly everyone had already woken up. I could make out just a handful still asleep. Aside from the light outside the portholes, the interior of the room was dim. Darker than I remembered. The ghost-ship must be nearby, I reminded myself. They’ve probably already roped it in. I shook myself awake and dashed up to the main deck. I don’t remember, fully, what went through my mind when I saw it. I had frozen on the spot. A ship was moored, floating gently at our starboard. It was the Asher. The same Asher I was standing on. The same Asher that I’d been living on for over two months now. I shook myself awake again. That sweet smell was even stronger. It lazed in the cold wind. I frowned, covered my nose and looked around. The ghost ship had somehow turned, overnight, into an exact copy of our ship. The crew was frantic, some were praying, I think. I clicked my tongue- their hypocrisy was irritating. Muttering beneath their breaths- too quiet to hear, but the fogging of their words in the wind gave them away. And a mere few meters away, the other Asher stood silent. It had copied all but life. Dead. Creaking. A hand landed on my shoulder, roughly. Startled me, a bit. “You’re late. You’re on first boarding with me. 6 of us, just to scout it out.” It was Mercer, just as stone-faced as ever. Not even the impossibility of the scene before us could break that facade. I widened my eyes in disbelief, “Doesn’t seem- ” I managed to mutter, before Mercer squeezed my shoulder. My eyes turned to him, then beyond him, focused on the Captain further down the deck. We were far apart, separated by panicked crew, strewn rope and wind, but I swear I could make out the greed in that bastard’s eyes. There was always greed in them, don’t get me wrong- but it was stronger now. Palpable. I frowned and brushed Mercer’s hand off my shoulder again, wandering away to get a better look at the other Asher. I could feel Mercer’s eyes follow me across the deck. Annoying, but that was the least of my concerns. Wasn’t long before we boarded. It was unsettling. Goosebumps covered my arms. Every sensation screamed to me, from the first moment my feet hit the deck. Familiar. Unfamiliar. I crossed myself. We moved slowly- inspecting everything on the outside deck. It was impossible, simply and utterly. Every single detail, down to the wood-grain on the planks- identical. Even arbitrary items, like candles, clothes, and bottles. Anything that wasn’t on a living body, over on the real Asher, was copied here on the fake. A brief thought slipped into my mind- could we have essentially doubled our current food supply with this ship? I glanced back to Mercer. He said our only job was to report back what we saw, and then decisions would be made. Apparently the Captain suspected something magical aboard the ship was causing this. And magic means money- lots of it. No wonder he’d had us sent over so quickly. Next was the lower deck, the sleeping cabin. We gathered round the stairs downwards. It was dark, musty. The air around us shook, visibly, like from a candle-flame in winter- hot gusts of air came and went from the depths below. Sweet, warm. Like the ship was breathing. Our own breaths were caught in our throats. We hesitated. Then I tripped. I don’t know how it happened, but it did- and I managed to fall right down into that cabin. No-one else moved a muscle, they all watched silently as I landed at the bottom of the steps, a thud echoing as my head hit the hard wooden boards. The bastards. I could make out their eyes skipping across the darkness of the cabin, as if waiting to see if something would happen to me. I groaned, touched the back of my head and it came back wet, sticky with blood. My consciousness started fading. It was horrible- that sense of encroaching darkness, numbness, surrounded by that thick, sweet scent. ****. I could see Mercer standing there, at the top of the steps. Expressionless as ever. The last words I heard before I passed out came from his mouth, “Seems safe.” Then I slept. I don’t know how long I was out for, but it must have been hours. I woke up with a terrible headache, and a crude bandaged wrapped around my skull. One of the others in the boarding crew must have done it. I was still in that dark sleeping cabin, propped up against one of the walls. My back was damp- I didn’t know if it was sweat or the damp wood behind me. I could feel the waves slam against the ship. It must be safe at least, I thought. I looked around, it was empty- save for a couple candles burning away the darkness. Did they leave me here and return back to the ship? I frowned. But no, I could hear their voices, faintly, downstairs. Downstairs. I brought a hand to my head, the headache pulsing behind my eyes. The idea felt wrong, in my mind. There shouldn’t be a downstairs- the Asher only had two decks. But as I looked around I spotted yet another set of steps. That same breath coming from them, gently swinging my hair. Warmer. Sweeter. I frowned. The stairs descended at a pitch that should have broken through the hull. I got up a little while later, once the headache subsided some. I could still hear their voices downstairs- why weren’t they coming back up? I glanced back up the steps I fell down, it was pale and foggy outside. Near sunset, I guessed. I knew the Captain wouldn’t care for my injury at all, he’d just send me right back here- so I turned instead to the steps downwards. I would go reunite with the rest of the boarding crew. Maybe give them a few smacks for leaving me alone and injured aboard some magical ghost ship. But before I descended, I decided to look around the cabin a bit. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was hesitation. I really did wonder, though- was everything truly identical? The concept still seemed impossible to me, offensive to reality. I walked slowly to the corner of the room, where my hammock was hung, just as I’d left it earlier. The same pail, the same water in it. I could see my reflection, staring at me. Ragged hair, bandage, and all. The hair on my neck stood on end, and my heartbeat slowly grew faster. The water-level in the pail. It was the same as after I had washed my face in the morning. And I had washed my face after the ship had already copied ours. Was it still changing? Still watching? The warmth of the room grew uncomfortable. I kicked the pail of water over, for no reason really. Just to see. Nothing happened- the pail spilled the water across the deck, and I watched the puddle roll with the ships sway, trickling towards the stairs downwards. I sighed, and approached them. The next floor was just like the last. A copy of the Asher’s sleeping cabin. The same hammocks hung between posts, the same mess of bottles and clothing on the floor. I didn’t look too carefully, because the voices were still coming from downstairs, and another set of steps had revealed themselves. Water was dripping down them, you could hear it even amidst the waves and the distant talking. Water from the same knocked over pail as the last floor. I frowned, and followed the water down. The next floor, the third one now, was exactly the same. Was this some kind of infinite space phenomenon? Nothing had changed, at least not at a precursory glance- except for the smell. It was stronger, the further down I went. Sweeter. Billowing out from yet another descent downwards. That same dripping water, running down the steps. I moved towards them, again. I was about to write off the next floor as being an exact replica once more, but it wasn’t. Slight, inconspicuous things were off. Like a faulty printing press. The pail, and water were gone now. Other things would be in the wrong position, or there would be a new scratch in the wall. Now, I wouldn’t have particularly noticed the scratches, save for the crosses cut into the posts holding the upper deck up. Every post had a crude cross on it. The cabin was a bit brighter, too. Less cramped and depressing. I scratched my head. It was getting less frightening, at least, even if it was still unexplainable- so I tore my eyes from the crossed posts and looked downwards. Down another set of steps. I could tell this floor was different instantly- it was even brighter than the last. There were no candles, anymore. A golden candelabra decorated the ceiling. I contemplated ripping it out of the wood and running with it, all the way back to the real Asher. I shook away the greed from my mind. The Captain would just take it from me anyway. The posts were gone, entirely- which didn’t make sense, since the weight of the previous floors would have collapsed the ceiling- but at this point all sense was thrown out the window. Crosses were everywhere, not just scratched into the wood anymore, but painted, carved. The further into the cabin I looked, the more detailed the crosses became- and the rear walls were covered in full, stunning iconography. Angels, Saints, beautiful gardens. A ship at sea. A halo around it, like the setting sun behind a rotting mast. The air was sweet. I crossed myself- and my excitement was difficult to contain. Had we found something holy? I paused for a bit, on this floor- deep in thought. I could still hear the voices below me- clearer now, but still hard to make out. I got to my knees and pressed my ear against the pulpy wooden floor. The voices were clear, now, barely. I could hear them, and they sounded happy. So happy. I could hear laughing, and singing. The unease I had felt earlier dissipated some- I was glad the rest of the group was safe. It sounded like they had found something, something extraordinary. I got back up, quietly. I turned to the iconography covering the walls of the cabin, and crossed myself again. I muttered a soft prayer. Then down I went, one last time. The air was so sweet- it seeped through my pores. The throbbing of my headache lessened. My senses relaxed. The ship’s breath seemed more lively, now, blowing faster and faster, rocking my hair in the wind. The voices grew louder and louder, and so did the singing- prayers, I realized with joy. I leapt down, and shielded my eyes briefly, before they adjusted to the light. I nearly fell to my knees where I stood. The cabin was no bigger than the previous ones, but bright. So bright. Candelabras and lanterns filled the air with suffocating warmth- like a mother’s hug. I could see my crewmates, smiling, in tears. Many were on their knees, others stood and sang in prayer. I followed their eyes, across a carpeted floor, covered in soft red velvet, embroidered with pale gold. There, at the end of the cabin, stood an angel. Its wings spanned the entire back wall- white as sea-foam. Feathers sang gently in the wind. My eyes circled to its head, before I lowered my head almost instantly. Every noise stopped, as my gaze landed upon God’s face. My cheeks hurt from how much I was smiling. I could feel tears swell in my eyes. I glanced back up, its eyes beckoned to me, a mercy. The most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Its arm remained outstretched, into the aisle- frozen, yet warm. Full of life. A mother, reaching out to its child. God, reaching out to me. To us. The hymns and laughter of my crewmates danced through my being. Through my beating heart- faster, and faster. I walked, step by step, across that soft velvet. I cried, as my boots dirtied that pure red. I was not worthy, but it did not care. I was nothing before it, but in its eyes I saw myself reflected, in that cold dark corner of the sleeping cabin- feeling the waves hit the hull of the ship. The throbbing in my head had stopped. Something wet was dripping down from my bandage. I did not care. Salvation. Salvation from everything. From the burns of mooring lines against my skin, from the aches of my bones after sleeping on rotting wood, from the paralyzing cold, the whispering darkness, from the brutal waves that beat against my flesh, from the gnawing in my heart as I stood before her casket. I was smiling, wider than I ever had. I was laughing, harder than I ever had. And I walked, with more life than I ever had. My head approached, bandaged and ugly, before its perfect palm. Something wet was dripping down from my bandage- trickling to my lips. The air tasted of sweetness and iron. It was reaching out to me, to caress my face. My ugly, broken self. The gentle warmth embraced me. Divine. My eyes ran across its pale, holy fingertips- Blood. My smile remained upon my face. There was blood on its hand. Why? I took another step forward. The sweetness of the air embraced me, divine. The laughter and singing continued. My smile remained upon my face. Rivulets of blood trickled from between its fingers. Why? I took another step forward. The air embraced me, tighter. It tasted of sweet, and iron. The laughter and singing continued. My smile remained upon my face. The blood ran down its arm, staining its holy white robes. Why? I took another step forward. The sweetness of the air suffocated me, something wet dripped down from my bandage. The laughter and singing continued. My foot splashed into something. Blood, on the carpet. Puddles of blood. I covered my mouth, my smile. I stared downwards, for a moment. Drops of blood pitter-pattered from my head. I was bleeding. Heavily. I could feel my stomach turning- the iron upon my lips, I could smell it now. The blood, the rot, the filth. The sweetness had been covering it all. My eyes, still wet with tears looked upwards. Every noise stopped as my gaze landed upon God’s face. And it was wooden. And it was weeping. Sweet, sickly sap. And darkness engulfed me. Goosebumps covered my body as I stumbled back. My foot had gotten stuck, in my panic. I glanced down, a body. I could tell it was a crewmate, only by its clothing. Its skin was melting off its flesh, seeping into the gaps in the wooden floor. More blood trickled down my face, dripping, following into the cracks. Its eyes, lidless and open, wide, were watching me. Its lips, bloodied and torn, were moving, curled into a smile. It was laughing, and praying, and singing. The lower half of its body was melded into the hull of the ship- growths of wood crawled up its mangled legs, scratching at its exposed bones. Like knobs in a tree. Sap seeped from them. Sweet. Sickly. I turned back up, the palm extended still. Wooden, dead. My head was filled with buzzing. I turned and ran, stepping on bodies as I did so. Bodies, upon bodies, upon bodies. Their skinless lips, all moving. The laughter and singing continued. A hand grabbed my ankle. Its palm brutally torn in half, trembling, the pinky and ring finger hanging, dripping blood down my boot. Warm. It squeezed. I pulled, as hard as I could. It was impossible. All of it. The hand would not let go. I ran my eyes up to its body, its ribs torn through its chest like angel’s wings- wooden. Dead. Its lips moved. The laughter and singing continued. Another arm moved now, from another body- grasping towards my leg. It landed, upon the other body’s hand, prying it from my ankle. I could hear my own heartbeat. I followed this new hand up to a rotting, bloating face. Its lips moved. Silent, amidst the laughing and singing, but I could read them. Tears were streaming down its face, salty, burning into its diseased flesh, trickling over its broken teeth, its shaking lips. And I could read them. “Boy.” Quiet. So quiet. So familiar. I shook- desperately wanting to tear my eyes away. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. “Boy. . . Run.” It was Mercer. F*ck. Tears began to stream down my face too, but I did as he said. I followed his order, like I always had. One final time. Why did it turn out this way? Why the **** did it turn out this way? I ran. As I felt his eyes follow me across the deck. Crying. I remember little of what happened after- a blur of adrenaline and panic. About two floors up, the boards in the walls began leaking with blood, and sap. The disgusting mix of sweetness and gore threatened to knock me out. Every plank aboard the ship began shaking, vibrating. The sound it made was horrible, like the wailing of a child. There were no crosses, on the way back up. No iconography, no candelabras, no candles. Wooden growths covered every wall, leaking that sweet sap. Like knobs on a tree. Eventually I reached the outer deck, again. The ship was wailing, still- the floor turning to puddles of blood. My every step was sticky- it was trying to keep me still, for just a moment. For just an instant. Forever. The real Asher was gone- we were floating aimlessly in the darkness. I couldn’t even hear the lapping of the waves, over the screeching of the ship, over the buzzing in my head. I picked up the first rowboat I saw, dragging it with strength I didn’t know I had, and tossing it over the edge and into the tides below. I couldn’t even see it hit the water, from the deck- it was like the ocean had swallowed it whole. I didn’t care. I leapt over the railing, landing hard amidst the oars. I picked them up and paddled, and paddled, and paddled. I paddled until I passed out, until I couldn’t smell that sickly, rotting sweet anymore. Until I couldn’t hear the crying anymore. Until I couldn’t taste the iron on my tongue anymore. Until I couldn’t think anymore. By some miracle I was found, days later, by a random fishing boat. I told them the story, but they didn’t seem to believe me. I told them to burn the rowboat, which they did. Thank god. Even if they had doubts, my recounting had scared them enough to not take any chances. Never saw the Asher again, the real or the fake. I know both are still out there, somewhere. Drifting, in the ocean. The real Asher, a ghost ship now. No captain could sail it home with so few hands. Sometimes at night, when I close my eyes, I can still taste that sweetness in the air. I can still here that frantic praying. Sometimes, the tide brings in driftwood that smells too sweet, and I burn it, before anyone has the chance to touch it. I don’t know what that thing was, or what horrible glory it had shown us. I know only this: It is all that is unholy. It is all that is wrong. It is out there, in the cold waves- and it is hungered still. ⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

One cold night, amidst the wavering warmth of a tent in Val'Taynuel, Akal'Tir sat again at his desk, as had become habit to him. His chair creaked beneath him, and with numb fingers he lit a lamp- it clicked on, the sound lost in the rustling of the tent's fabric in the wind- its dim light, and even dimmer heat, crawled across papers, contracts, and letters which seemed to decorate every free surface of the tent's interior. Akal'Tir smiled, his eyes reflected familiar hand-writing on the letter he now held to the light, "Ah, missed him last time I was in Celia'nor-" The letter was put down, his hands held now a letter opener- sharp and uncanny. Despite the smile on Akal'Tir's face, the flickering of lamp oil painted the tent in his shadow, in still darkness... ...and then shadow moved, its arm drawing a harsh line, a cut made to free the letter from its bindings- a cut so sharp it was as though that very shadow had sliced through the tent's wall, inviting in the whipping winds outside, and the cold caressed Akal'Tir's neck like the breath of the de- Nothing. The untouched walls of the tent fluttered on in the breeze. So, why did goosebumps crawl across his skin? Why did his fingers feel again so numb, and his heart again so tense, as he gazed at that deep, dark cut in the letter's envelope? "Akal'Tir, my mentor, my guide, my friend-" Akal'Tir's voice seemed deafening in the darkness of the tent, despite the whispering wind, the flickering flames, and the restless beating of his heart. He continued, though his words became weaker, and weaker, his shadow swallowed more, and more of his little room as his head bowed lower, and lower, another deafening sound then playing in rhythm with his heart- the pattering of tears hitting paper. Then the noise stopped. The untouched walls of the tent fluttered on in the breeze, now silent. Everything, silent. His tears, silent. The World, silent. Akal'Tir's lips pursed, but no words came out. His shadow flickered, again, threatening to swallow him whole. He laid there, still, even as the moon rose higher, and higher, even as the cold seeped deeper, and deeper into the tent. He laid there, still, even as his trustworthy lamp glowed hot, its warmth sacrificed as it burnt itself to nothing- faltering in its limbo against the darkness. He laid there, still, until the first rays of light shined through the openings around the tent's door. His weary eyes opened, tracing the sunlight around the tent as he rose finally- "Valaendir, we will meet again, one day, somewhere." OOC:

I like the CA progression change, should hopefully make this a more fleshed-out version of what it once was. 😁👍

Reverend Lyuer would frown upon reading the missive, for he was there when the two orcs petitioned for their Chimichangas. "So, they never did get them- what a shame!"

The Final Will of Father Altius Thrayn Bloodied, trembling hands clasped together, for one final prayer. A filthy blade passes through the priest's arms, plunging deep into his chest, the green stole around his neck splattered crimson, his blood mixing with the falling rain, as though the sky itself was crying. Amidst the deafening rainfall could be heard soft mumbling, escaping from shaking lips, as the priest turned his dimming green eyes skyward, hands clasped in front of him still. "The Lord ruleth me, I’ll not want. He makes me down to lie, in pastures green: He leadeth me, the quiet waters by. For though I should walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Thy rod and Thy staff, they hath been a comfort to me." Raindrops stream down his face, his eyes slowly closing. The sword is pulled back out of his chest- though he does not even flinch, resolutely finishing his final prayer. Murderous eyes hesitate- "shall god strike me down for this?" -but the unthinking steel held in pausing hands has no such qualms, the sticky red blade washing itself in the falling rain as it unhesitatingly swings towards the priest's neck. An unfinished letter remains crumpled in the priest's robes: If you're reading this, then I must have passed- either that or this paper must have fallen out of my pocket, ha. In such trying times, countless people have suggested to me that I write a will, though I know neither who to write to, or what to write about. I remain without true family, though my friends and clergymen in Balian have taken that spot in my heart. To those who have taken me in, who have aided me in times of need, to God the most merciful, I am sorry. I do not know if anyone will cry, or mourn, but if you think you will, grant me one last wish- do not. I do not fear death, for it is no less an inevitable fate as birth is- what I once feared was what I would achieve between that start and end. But know that if I die I shall die without fear, and I shall die without regret. I have dedicated my life to that which I love most, to helping those around me, and there has been greater reason to live. So do not cry, do not let your heart or lips stumble upon mournful, pitying prayers- do instead as I have done, spread love, kindness, and peace. That is all I ask for, that is all I need to rest in peace. To my fellow clergymen in Balian, I leave to you everything I own- though it is not much- let it continue to serve my purpose beyond death. Signed, Father Altius Thrayn