Marthia

"THAT'S MY DAUGHTER!! WOOO!" Cries Sascha Glennmaer, as if she wasn't the one making this decision.

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Sascha Glennmaer smiled upon the missive’s publish. She hoped, not only for those of Idunia to aspire to acquire Verdancy, but for the new Order to flourish.

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Sascha read this missive with glee. Decisiveness was something she admired and sought to reflect in every action she would soon take in this war. Let them lose sleep, pondering their next move.

WE LOVE YOU JULIUS!! Ok I gotta edit because I genuinely didn’t realize there was one for me. I just have to say THANK YOU for being so kind to me. This did make me cry, I can’t lie. This has to be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you for joining our community. You have graced us with your presence and we cannot be more grateful!! I know Pip, Jih, Pepto, Milky (all of us, really) cannot be more excited to have you. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

That missive left upon the corner table by her husband lifted her curiosity too. She called to the other room, “Bo, you better show up to that hunt! It’ll be a good show!” Sascha could not help but giggle at the prospect of watching her husband chase after a boar.

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Long ago, Sascha, too, had found homes in unexpected places. It was there that she and her husband found commonality; a seed took root. Where people were inconsistent, she turned to her surroundings. The whisper in the trees far exceeded the comfort any one person could provide. She knew what it was like to find a home outside the one where she was born, and she understood the primal desire to protect it once found. But to raise a sword against one's own people? Unforgivable. Sascha knew what must be done. Even after confronting the lass, reminding her that she had placed her family in the worst of positions, nothing shifted her resolve. In the night following the capture, voices echoed and rang true to what Sascha knew deep down. "We do not tolerate traitors; all must die." "Death is mercy." If only the girl had not fought on the battlefield, mercy might have been an option. But the blood of Idunians painted Sascha’s thoughts a vivid red. She could not ignore the reality. Morwen’s blade had taken the lives of her people. "This could have been kinslaying, had she found her brother on the battlefield," Sascha's aunt had reminded her. "She knew the risk." As those stormy eyes met the gaze of the lion, the Heiress asked those onlookers, "Do we not kill the enemy in every battle? In truth- how is this any different?" From the moment she looked upon that phantasmal lion, to long after its spectral claw broke Morwen’s neck, Sascha pondered the life that was taken and the ripple of loss it left behind. She did not regret the decision she had made—and she never would.

The day was bleak. Decisions were made, justly made, but weighed heavily on her. Sorrow. Rage. All a consequence of betrayal. The missive found its way to Sascha's desk. Scanning eyes only solidified the existing sentiment. Another friend gone. She hoped, now, that he would return swiftly.

A soon to be crowned Princess of Tir-Glas, a vassal of Idunia, smiles upon the proclamation. “Oh, how my people will rejoice in yet another victory.”

Sascha Glennmaer chuckled upon reading this forgery. Still, she did see an opportunity. “Oh Llyw! You have abandoned our people, have you?” More did she laugh. In times of great suffering for Druscans, still did they provide some humor. May that be all they are good for?

Sascha Glennmaer smiled, her armor marred with scrapes, dents, and a smearing of blood. A proper announcement of their victory brought tears to her eyes. Tears for the fallen, Tears of pride, Though they did not fall. They would not fall, unlike the Druscans.

ows are a precarious thing, an agreement held up by the vows of two lovers, the vow of a knight, the vow of a duel. Revanda Russandiel Wyldcliffe Wick was a woman of vows, a Ranger and Knight of Numenost who upheld her vows to nation until the very end, even when such vows led to her very demise. . . t all began within the scalding ashlands of the Redmont, a journey of questions. What was intended as a kindness, Russandiel was brought towards his holy sanctum, to understand his return to an old faith. There they spoke, and more did Russandiel realize there was no other option. “What happened to the SHAME of it?” - “Do you not remember how I bore aurum te mine own skin, over yours? Did I not tell you multiple times that if this happened again, I would not have mercy? “And who taught you to shame it? Numendil?” - “Shall you live to please your Tar? To simply follow what is blindly given - or shall you look at the world through your own eyes, make judgement yourself? Tell me, what sin do I bring?” et one strike be enough. “You said it yourself.” rom this moment, Russandiel’s scythe was drawn and lit with a holy illuminance. Long shadows cast upon her opponent's face. Differences took them to combat, and a singular slash was met with hardened cloth. It was too late. Her scythe clattered upon stone after an attempt was made to stop a second punch. Her hand, moving to take hold of a flying fist, slipped through it. Nothing was in her control now. “Is that it?” “Fight then, hmm?” “What do you fight for?” “For oaths I took decades ago. I believe in them for a reason. Quenta believed in them. Ewin believed in them. Rossiel, Elen. GOD- Canaiddun? Why are you so blind now?” “Oaths died for. Would Quenta, Rossiel, Elen, Ewin, any would agree with the Tar as of now? They fought what they were told. Blindly.” “Don’t disgrace them.” “I follow them because I was told to. I was told that I must, by people who come before me, for reasons I do not need ta truly understand!” “I know Quenta would follow the Tar. If he agreed with him or not, he would still be loyal. That is who he is.” “That is who I used ta be.” “You disgrace them.” “Fight for what is right. For what they died for - nie what is lost. Think for yourself, Russ.” nergy swirled, a static brought to a man’s will. A metallic taste brought to her tongue, her opponent pressed on. “I do not need ta. I do not wish ta. I only want it… ta stop.” hand settled upon her shoulder. “Then, you lack conviction. For this, I am sorry.” “Russandiel is gone.” ussandiel found herself defeated with fist after fist greeting her scarred face. A strike was rendered unto the templar, splitting her cheek. Blood poured from a jarred maw. Death was not the goal for Russandiel, but it was met in ease. “Beat me as much as you want. Go ahead.” “You wished to kill me.” “LIVE WITH A PURPOSE, RUSS.” er opponent would drag her by the throat, bringing her to the lip of the famed Volcano of the Redmont. “S-Stop” A name, once revered, fell from her lips in her panic, “STOP.” “Why should I? You have claimed yourself my enemy.” “I always was.” “You can change. Our fate is our own, Russ.” “. . .” An offer was made, and an admission of unhappiness conveyed. “I can’t stay to watch this.” tear, unseen by tightly shut eyes, trailed down the opponent’s cheek. “Then, I am sorry. You lack conviction. You will die, such is your fate. You were the only one I cared for.” evanda Russandiel Wyldcliffe Wick would be cast unto the depths of the Redmont, gracing a rising heat with her plummet. The flames of insurmountable pain; her cries for aid and safety would only be filled with heated liquid rock. evanda Russandiel Wyldcliffe Wick, what was once a noble Ranger, Knight, and blessed warrior of Malchediael… would be no more. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Einin @confusedjester Elise and Roran @rose6614 @MontyMain2000 Cleome @confusedjester Iudas @TheOnlyTub Willow @rose6614 Yuria @Linguini Lark @HurferDurfer1 Casimir @Security_ Leomonte @MonteGiant Gloredhel @glassyskies Kieran @BreadNugget7567 Auris @Tainga Canaiddun @Curry Elros @Halt Antonius@Nooblius Iosefka @ichigomaster98 Cally @TheBigBubbles

Sascha Glennmaer smiled upon the missive’s threat, knowing very well the consequence that would be a war waged upon her doorsteps. Never was there a doubt upon the heiress’s crescent lips. This is a monumental mistake for the Druscans. She carried on with her day, with not a worry on her mind.

Revanda Russandiel Wick took the news with her, and only behind closed doors did she ponder the meaning. A chapter, one that she only experienced in part, had come to a close. So, she wondered... What will the books say of me?

Sascha Glennmaer scanned the missive, halting only upon her father's signature. Clad in the armor of the nation to which blood, birthright, and soon oath bound her, the Heiress allowed herself a quiet smile. Her father had lent his hand to the cause of rightful justice. Too, would she do the same.

The Lord Wick stumbled upon the song's lyrics whilst scouring the markets of Alba. Something ineradicable within her soul ached and stirred upon these few lines. "Rat kings are the worst, dragging their family down. It's a wonder people even think of touching a rat crown!" How droll, she mused. They are disgusted by us, while we cull the rotten.

+1 if only it could make my thoughts shut up

Russandiel reads her son’s thesis and bests THEM ALL with a flashy and pearly smile. HA!

[!] This missive is sent far and wide, from the fields of Númendil and beyond. Old News Becomes New News Let it be known on this day, The 18th of The Grand Harvest, Year 237 of the Second Age One once known as Willow Wick, born of our blood and bound by our name, has strayed far beyond the reach of redemption. Despite all efforts made, it is with a heavy and aching heart that Lord Russandiel Wick, alongside the elder Wicks, has come to a judgement. Willow’s birthright shall be forfeited. Her claim as an heir to Wick, revoked. In choosing a path of demonhood, she has not only abandoned her kin, but cast a deeper shadow upon a name already steeped in scorn. Her betrayal has brought shame to the house that called her daughter, and silence amongst those who loved her- left reeling at the fact that this was her choice. By decree of Lord Russandiel Wick, the one once called Willow is henceforth stripped of her title as Speaker, for the short time she was chosen for the role. Thus, by word of the Lord Wick, she is cast out. Let no heart ache for her, no door open, no voice rise in her defense. Let the bond be broken in full, as it was willed to be so. Let the flame remember her only as a warning. Even those born in warmth may be lost to the dark, And that mercy ends where darkness begins. Such betrayal shall never again be tolerated within Clan Wick. "WE ARE NOT DONE YET" The Vengeful Rat, Lord Wick, Master of Councils of the White Court, Scribe of the Radiant Guard, Marshal of the Candlebearers, Ranger of Númenost, Knight of the Realm.

The Lord Wick’s invitation was read aloud to her, and upon the names spoken, she beamed with a smile. “Oh, my dear. May this day be your most joyous.”

[!] A missive is sent out far and wide, notifying the public of a change in the Realm of Númendil! The Nobility of Wick Let it be known to the Númendain, the Wickfolk, and beyond that the mantle of Lord Wick has passed to a new bloodline—one that now bears nobility in the realm of Númendil. Following the tumultuous years of silence and strife, the Wick family has seen that—Ser Russandiel Wick—now emerges with the clarity, strength, and wisdom required to guide our house. Ser Russandiel, a woman of both steel and courage, inherits not merely title but responsibility: to restore our name, reclaim our honor, and rekindle the fires of tradition that once made the Wick name a beacon in Haense. Her contribution to the return of Wick, following the Wickident, and the family’s public vindication, marks not only poetic timing, but divine providence. Upon the decision of the Tar of Númendil, as well as the prior Lord Wick, Caius Wick, and with the blessings of the living kin and remembrance of those who came before, Ser Russandiel Wick is hereby named Lord Wick, Patriarch of the House Wick, Guardian of the Wickwald, and Steward of the Wic-de-sac. As Lord Wick, Ser Russandiel pledges the following: To uphold the Wickocratic Framework, wherein every Wick has voice and value. To maintain the sacred observances of Wicksgiving, Wick-o-Ween, and other Wick holidays. To purge corruption from within and defend the family from without, no matter the cost. To ensure the scrolls, songs, and stories of our kin remain unforgotten. Let all loyal Wicks, friends of the family, and wary onlookers take heed—the flame has not died. It was tempered, smothered, but now rekindled by one who bears both sword and soul in our name. By decree of Tar-Anorhil, the ascension of Russandiel Wick was proclaimed on the 14th of The Amber Cold, 234 SA, at nine minutes past the evening bell. Long live Lord Russandiel Wick. Long live the Wickwald. House Wick – 235 Second Age, 12th of Malin’s Welcome “We are not done yet”