PoliteEquation7

Huge W. Who has been ur favorite irp dad, and which one was it that I played?

"Hey, that's my daughter!" The smile quickly fell from the Greye's face ". . . .Does this mean I have to dress up"

Adrian read the missive with a somber chuckle "You did well, Aurus" The Greye commented with a nudge to his older brother "Still owe me that pub brawl though. . . .for old time's sake"

Adrian was also proud of his niece

A wolf exited his house for the first time in months. His flesh clung to the bone. The Greye's eyes had sunken and his skin had paled. But whatever had cast Adrian close to death, had begun to lift. His thoughts drifted to those he hadn't seen. Their absence disturbed him in these years, as the thought of death always crept to the front of his mind.

He doesn’t remember when the days stopped separating themselves. Morning, evening, night. They pass over him like the same gray cloth dragged again and again across the sky. Time used to mean something when she was alive. It had shape then. It had purpose. Now it only drips. He sits beside her grave as if the earth might loosen out of pity and give her back. “I finished it,” he tells her sometimes, voice hoarse from disuse. “Perduran…Edrica…all of it.” The names hang there, useless. He had built them for her. Not just places, but promises carved into stone and road and light, places where laughter would echo between walls, where mornings would smell like her books and rain, where she would walk beside him and say it was worth it. He imagines her saying it still. But the streets of Perduran lay under rubble. The walls of Edrica cast shadows she will never stand in. Every room, every garden, every carefully placed brick now feels like a cruel excess, like preparing a feast for someone who never arrives. At night, he lies beside the grave, curling into the earth as if proximity could replace presence. When he still had her, and the nights grew silent, and there was nothing to do, he always thought of Sybille. But now, the ground is cold, he doesn’t resist it. He welcomes it, even. It feels closer to her than the air above ever could. Those monuments he built were never for the world. They were for her. Without her, they are only a false promise to a future that died before it began. “I thought we’d live there,” he whispers one evening, his forehead resting against the stone. “I thought we had time.” The wind moves through the grass, soft and indifferent. It doesn’t answer. Nothing does. He stays anyway. Day after day. Night after night. Because if somehow, she could come back, he knew this would be the first place she’d run to. And he finds, in the quiet hollow of his chest, that this endless waiting, this slow erosion of himself beside her grave is the only way he still knows how to love her. So there Adrian waits, as a man who can’t be moved.

The river's flow echoed words unheard to the Greye In moments of internal silence he sought to find them. ". . .You Failed. . . " echoed the stream as it passed through his mind eternally. Adrian had, he knew everything he had touched ended in ruin. That's what made Ves special to him; he had risen above Adrian's rot. He smiled then, it was a weary one, though truer than any he had in the past decade, "I'm proud of you"

Adrian also eyed Aurus' wardrobe.

From the rubble did Adrian rise, gasping for air. He gazed towards the destruction surrounding himself, smoke rose from the cindering ashes of the city he so briefly knew. The Greye's thoughts immediately shifted to his kin; "Aury. . . .Cillian" ". . . .Gramma. . . ."

The Will of a Swordsman Scribed by Adrian Greye . ₊⊹ ₊ ݁ ˗ˏˋ ✧ ˎˊ˗ ݁ ₊⊹ ₊ ݁. REFLECTION A blade once mirrors its wielder, but years of blood and neglect corrode the steel until only the edge remains. When a man takes up his sword, he sees himself in it. The steel is bright, hopeful, and it answers only to his hand. But the years pass; the blade drinks the ichor of his foes. That blood stains what was once clear, and the rust creeps in where his care has failed. And when the man has gained all that which he once thought he desired, when he searches the blade for his reflection, he is nowhere to be found. Then he is left to question himself: which faded first, the steel or the man? NATURE OF THE STEEL Each blade, though unique in form, shares the same intrinsic nature. When gazing upon a sword, you know what it is. You understand that its sharp edges could slice through the body of any creature unfortunate enough to cross its path. The sword is a tool: it cuts, it decides, it ends. But it is not solely defined by its form; a sword is much more than that. Many wish to become a knight, and when they search their minds, the image of one is typically depicted wielding a sword triumphantly over his foes. In this manner, the sword is no longer a tool, it becomes a symbol: one of power. An ever-consuming force that desires to topple all those who stand against the wielder. The blade becomes an extension of one’s will, what you desire, you may cut through to obtain, for you have earned it in blood and steel. But whatever use or function you seek from it, the truth remains: the sword has no morality; it only reflects your own. And what once shimmered in the light fades in the ichor of darkness. NATURE OF THE KNIGHT The sword does not make the man. A blade’s function is meant to destroy, and thus that is all it is capable of doing. While the image of a knight is one with a sword, any fool carrying a blade is not a knight, it takes more than that. If the former were the case, then any roadside bandit could call himself a knight, but we know this is not true. A knight is defined through qualities far beyond his steel. The core tenets of a knight are founded upon judgment, restraint, and moral obligation. A knight wields power; a single swing of his sword decides who lives and who dies, yet his judgment allows him restraint. He is not a knight because he is powerful, he cannot slice through his foes; that is the sword’s role. His role is to exercise restraint, fighting only in defense of himself and others. This weighs upon him as both a moral obligation and a burden. It is not meant to be easy to be a knight. Each choice carries the weight of countless others upon his shoulders, relying on him for safety and guidance. Most difficult of all, it is up to the warrior to decide when to act and when to let things pass. Like a rock amidst a river, a knight must remain firm in his duty, no matter how strong the currents that try to guide him astray. THE DECEPTION OF UNITY “Let your sword become an extension of yourself.” These famous words, echoed throughout history, have guided many aspiring swordsmen. They promise to heighten one’s potential, to alter the man into a weapon of war and destruction. As one with his blade, his strikes become swifter and more powerful. His instincts drive his decisions, danger is everywhere, and everything becomes a foe. The mildest of slights may lead to battle, and he cuts down those who oppose him with ruthless efficiency. But beyond the benefits of becoming an effective swordsman lie hidden dangers. A man who sees a foe everywhere wages war forever. He loses the moments needed to clean his steel, his reflection within it fades until blood is all he sees. There is no second thought to his strikes. A knight, meant to be most valiant, may strike down the innocent, having become disillusioned with the nature of his sword, and, more importantly, the nature of himself. BLOOD BEFORE HONOR In the delusion of unity, the sword rearranges one’s will. The man begins to thirst for the blood his steel delivers. The knight goes from wielder to instrument, lacking the control and judgment his oaths once bound him to. Violence is no longer a shameful result of his role, it becomes his sole identity. There is none crueler than a knight who has lost his way. The justifications that once guided his actions become blurred, now, blood itself becomes justification. The innocent fear the ground he walks. His steps carry the weight of the lives he has taken, not those he has saved. In this, he is no longer a knight, he is a tyrant, almost akin to a beast. Yet even a beast kills for reason. THE BURDEN OF DISTANCE No knight begins his journey aspiring to be a tyrant, and thus he must distance himself from his steel. He must give up the speed and efficiency that come with becoming one with his blade, and in doing so, regain his restraint. His hesitation, though some may view it as weakness, becomes his greatest virtue. Lives are not meant to be taken by a sword’s judgment alone. The knights whose names endure beyond their time illustrate the strongest wills: though their combat skills are formidable, they have overcome the greater challenge of separating themselves from their sword. Mastery of one’s weapon requires mastery of one’s own mind. A knight must know when his blade is best kept in its sheath. Even against the greatest insults, his honor remains unbesmirched when he draws his sword only to protect the innocent. This duty, above all else, defines him as a knight and guides how he must act. The greatest swordsman must be capable of killing, but unwilling to do so lightly. DISCIPLINE IS HONOR A knight must draw his sword for only two reasons. The first is in protection of himself, a lesser justification, and one that must be approached with caution. When attacked, it is natural, and often necessary, for a knight to defend himself. Though he must be willing to accept the consequences for his actions, fighting these is not in the defense of oneself, but rather in defense of pride. The second, and most important, is in the defense of the innocent. A knight’s blade exists in service to others, and there is no more noble cause than protecting those who cannot protect themselves. These tenets may seem simple, yet there are times when the lines between right and wrong blur. In such moments, it falls upon the knight to use his best judgment. Perfection is not the expectation, for only God is perfect. The knight will falter, as all must. It is his duty to cleanse himself and his blade of his faults, to accept the consequences of his actions, and to uphold his honor. For a knight does not shy away from his duty, and guards his honor as he would his life. A knight without honor is no knight at all. THE ETHICAL SWORDSMAN The Ethical Swordsman is what every knight strives to become. He commands his blade, his strikes are his own. His honor stands without doubt, and his sword reflects him as clearly as polished steel. The weapon obeys his will, for he has mastered not the blade, but himself. His steps echo his resolve, and people look to him as a protector, for he stands among them, not above them. When they see him, they do not see only his sword; they see themselves, and the potential they may yet achieve. For the will of a swordsman is stronger than the will of his blade. . ₊⊹ ₊ ݁ ˗ˏˋ ✧ ˎˊ˗ ݁ ₊⊹ ₊ ݁.

xDisarray? I know that guy!

Adrian's hands had bloodied and calloused in his efforts to construct the keep, though he did well to hide such from his family. A smile as bright as the sun painted his face as he watched over his kin, happy and laughing as he always hoped they would be. That glimmer quickly faded as he silently slipped away from the rest of the Greyes. His feet carrying him to a secluded hallway within the keep, where he would place the finishing piece with a bittersweet smile: a painting of his brothers and him. "When did we get so old?" A sigh escaped him as a hand brushed over his bearded face, "Well, it's their turn now"

Adrian received the invitation with a tilt of his head "Oh? Agnes is getting married?" "Hey everyone!" he called out to the Greyes "Look, Agnes is getting married!"

Adrian put on his goggles, carefully did he mix the ingredients into the beakers. He then turned to his nephew, Aelyn, "What's wrong with you, why are you blue?" "I've always been blue dumbass" "Oh right" The pair then went back to baking a cake for the event.

Adrian, who had thought he was super chill with Varrik, read the letter his brother had shown him with shock. Not much shock, but still, "What's he saying **** me for?"