Urahra

A certain pink-haired dark elf suddenly wakes up in a cold sweat. Her chest heaves violently as she stares around the darkened room. She turns and shakes her husband awake. "The White Rose hasn't returned, has it?" she asks him breathlessly. "No, dear," her husband grumbles before rolling back over. "You just had a nightmare. Go back to bed." The pink-haired dark elf lies down on her pillow uneasily, unable to shake the frightening feeling that the sins of the her past would never stop coming back to haunt her.

Art by @shay SARAH STYRNE-NAPIER 1784 - 1815 Sarah Styrne-Napier didn't have a lot of people she considered true friends. People often judged her green skin and her tusks before they judged the mind and heart within her. Only a rare few people actually managed to see past her outward appearance and truly befriend Sarah. One of those people was Joanne-Lorraine Martins. Sarah and Joanne met by chance on the streets of Providence. Joanne had recently moved south from her homeland in Haense, following the traumatic death of her father. Sarah always had an affinity for other misfits - other people who didn't quite fit the norm. From the moment she saw Joanne, she sensed a kindred spirit. Joanne had a strange quality to her, as Sarah quickly discovered. The Haeseni girl studied her surroundings with a detached iciness. She had a habit of asking incisive, disarming questions that cut Sarah to the quick. It hardly surprised Sarah when Joanne ended up studying law. The two of them couldn't be more opposite, Sarah thought. Joanne didn't care one bit about peoples' opinions. She had a way of stripping away peoples' facades and baring their true, writhing, wriggling nature. Meanwhile, Sarah's only concern was what people thought of her. Sarah begged and pleaded to be liked, changing herself in whatever way society demanded. And still, she was hated and rejected for the simple fact that she was green. If Sarah Napier had one single wish, it would be to become like Joanne. That quiet envy of Joanne's stoic self-assuredness formed the basis of their relationship. Sarah turned to Joanne with her family woes, her job troubles, and her romantic failures. Somehow, Joanne seemed to have a direct and simple solution for every last problem. Their friendship didn't flow both ways. Sarah had the sneaking suspicion that Joanne merely tolerated her, but didn't really like her. Still, Sarah found herself growing dependent on Joanne. And then, Joanne disappeared. For ten years. Sarah watched as Providence slowly forgot about her friend. Joanne's boyfriend, Ricky, moved on and got married. He had children with another woman. Joanne's mentors at her law firm simply shrugged their shoulders over her absence. It seemed only Sarah cared where her strange, stoic, pragmatic friend had gone. Eventually, an answer appeared. Sarah learned, much to her shock, that Joanne had abandoned humanity entirely. She had traveled across the continent to Krugmar and given herself to the orcs as a slave. The news left Sarah reeling. The only question on her mind was... why? Sarah Styrne-Napier was a half-orc. Anyone with a working set of eyeballs could see that. Her skin was colored a pale, yellowy shade of green. Two little tusks poked out from her bottom lip. She stood taller and thicker than most of the humans around her. Sarah had a hair-trigger temper that often got her into trouble. She was born as the result of an unlikely love affair between an exiled orcish tribal and an Imperial bureaucrat. But although she resembled her orc mother strongly, Sarah found that she much preferred life among the humans. The people of Oren weren't necessarily kind to her, but Sarah often suspected the orcs of Krugmar would be even more cruel. After all, wasn't she a hated whitewash? Despite never having set foot in Krugmar in her entire life, Sarah knew that the orcs would despise her as soon as they met her. Besides, orcs were primitive. They stank. They lived in mud huts. They were violent and stupid. As for Sarah, she had grown up living in a proper, modern house with running water and soap. Why would she ever want to learn anything about her orcish side? But then Joanne joined Krugmar, willingly became a slave... and Sarah was left with questions. Why had her smart, sensible, pragmatic friend chosen to abandon humanity and live among savages? Why would any human being make that choice? What did Krugmar have that Oren did not? Was there something that Joanne had seen in the orcs... that Sarah had missed? Had she overlooked something in her blind prejudice? The questions tormented Sarah. Why? Why? Why? Maybe the orcs kidnapped Joanne off the side of the road. Maybe Joanne needed to be rescued. On the other hand, maybe Joanne was happier in Krugmar. Maybe she had fallen in love with an orc, just as Sarah's father once did. Maybe orcish society was simply better than human society. Simpler, more in touch with nature. Maybe orcs were kinder, more accepting, more gentle than Sarah had been lead to believe. If the orcs had accepted Joanne... was it possible they could accept someone like Sarah too? Was it possible that, in rejecting her orcish heritage, Sarah had made a mistake? One night, while lying awake and staring at her bedroom ceiling, Sarah decided. She would go to Krugmar and she would find out why Joanne left Oren. Maybe, if possible, she might learn to love her orcish blood along the way. Perhaps the orcs would welcome her and teach her things she had never known before. They would open her mind to a world of spirits, rituals, and harmony with the land. At least, that's what she hoped. Lying awake in the quiet depths of the night, Sarah decided. At long last, she wanted to understand what made the orcs - and by extension, what made her - special. She wanted to know the side of herself that she'd rejected all these years. The journey frightened her. It took some time to work up her courage. Finally, one warm day in 1815, Sarah packed her rucksack and set out for Krugmar. She picked her way through the dense jungles toward the orcish capital, following the decayed and crumbling road through dank caves and under misty boughs. At long last, she found herself standing before the wooden palisade of the city. Sarah swallowed hard and steeled her nerve. She felt herself standing upon a precipice, ready to embark into a great, new unknown. What would the orcs think of her, in her little green dress with her half-moon glasses? Would they hate her immediately as she feared? Or would they welcome her and teach her everything she wanted to know? Would she find her friend Joanne brutally oppressed as a slave? Or maybe... just maybe... happier and more fufilled than Sarah had ever been, for all her years in Oren? A female orc named Song met Sarah at the gate. Sarah paid her a sum of 100 minas as tribute, even though Song only asked for ten. When Sarah asked the female orc for directions, Song happily obliged and pointed her toward the butcher shop where the orcs slaughtered and prepared their food. Sarah left the encounter brimming with optimism. Song had seemed a bit wary of her, yes, but if all orcs were so kind to strangers, Sarah knew she'd have no problems. Sarah followed the steps down into the main square and hung a left into small cave, which served as the orc's food preparation area. Sarah stopped dead as she entered the butchery. There, just feet away, stood her friend Joanne - dressed in a ragtag mishmash of furs and tattered fabrics. Sarah couldn't help but smile at the sight of Joanne. "So, they've got you on kitchen duty, huh?" Sarah quipped. A smile flashed over Joanne's face as she chopped the head off a fish. "I was wondering when you'd show up here," she shot back and Sarah felt a spark of their old rapport returning. Was it possible they could become friends once again? But before they could continue their conversation, a large, red figure suddenly emerged from the nearby shadows. The massive, scarlet-hued orc towered over Sarah, glaring down at her with watery, small, orange eyes. Scars and crude tattoos mottled the creature's face. "DA SKAH AM LAT?" the orc bellowed, hot spittle flying out of his mouth and striking Sarah's glasses. "WEHR LAT KUM FRUM? WHU LAT WURZHIP?" Sarah froze in place, staring up at the orc. "I'm just here to see my friend," she squeaked, barely able to get the words out. "I paid tribute. One hundred minas. I'm not causing trouble." The orc scowled and repeated his questions. "WEHR LAT LIV AGH WHU LAT WURZHIP?" "I'm just a visitor, all right?" Sarah hissed, biting the inside of her cheek. "I only want to talk to my friend!" "ANZWER ME KWESTSHUN!" Sarah knew what would happen if she answered the question. If she dared to say 'I live in Oren and I'm Canonist', the orc would attack her out of hand. It was nothing more than an excuse to hurt her. She felt the anger flare up inside her chest - and she could do nothing to stop what came out of her mouth next. "You're being pretty GOD DAMNED RUDE to a GUEST who paid TRIBUTE to get into your city!" she barked out hoarsely, poking the large, red orc in the chest. "So how about you PISS OFF, ugly?!" Sarah regretted what she said as soon as she said it. But she would regret it even more a split second later. Before Sarah could react, the red orc plunged his spear deep into her stomach. A rush of blood, mixed with spittle and vomit, spilled out of Sarah's mouth. All around her, the world began to swim and blur. And in moments, everything had gone black. Sarah Styrne-Napier died right there on the cold, stone floors of Krugmar. The orcs laughed and spit upon her corpse. One Olog ripped off her arm to keep as a trophy. Joanne would later bury her in a shallow, anonymous grave outside of Krugmar. This was, unfortunately, the fate that awaited half-breeds and whitewashes. No one would mourn Sarah, aside from perhaps her parents and brother. If they ever even learned what became of her. She lived a friendless life and died an equally friendless death. OOC: Thank you to everyone who helped make Sarah a good character, especially @Hanrahan and @Wholesome_Thomas. This is not how I wanted the roleplay to go, but I feel I should just take the L and accept that I made a mistake. Did something stupid, got killed, lost 100 minas, oh well. :/ That's life. Sarah's tailor shop will now be closed. Thank you to everyone who sent in orders. I had a lot of fun making skins. Unfortunately, this also means the rest of her novel is never going to be published either. Sorry for leaving y'all on a cliffhanger. If you're curious to read the rest of the story OOCly, I'll be happy to share it. It's six chapters total and completed. Just drop me a DM if you'd like and I'll link you the google doc. The contents of this post are not public knowledge. This is not a publication - it's just an RP post. Be sure not to meta.

@DelaneyG The package would arrive at Geoff Turgon's house in terrible shape. Bizarrely, the brown paper is soaked with what smells like blood. It's torn in a few places. The garment inside appears to be unharmed. There's a letter inside, signed by Sarah, but it's been rendered illegible by bloodstains. What happened to Sarah Napier? It's impossible to say, but... at least she got her orders in the mail.

@greygre Dilvyn would receive a splendid coat in a dusky purple color, brightened by gold accents around the cuffs and the collar. Included is a ruffled off-white tie, a brown vest, and dark slacks. This letter is included with the outfit: Dear Mr. Deveral, I hope this letter finds you well! Please enjoy your new suit and let me know if it fits your tastes. The color palette is a little bit more daring than I usually do. Who knew that olive-tinted gold would pair so well with purple? It looks pretty regal if you ask me. Anyway, send payment along and keep in touch if you need any alterations. Signed, Sarah Styrne-Napier

❂ SUN KISSED ❂ A Weekly Serialized Romance Novel by Sarah Styrne-Napier Can love blossom even in the desert heat? Troels Andreyev, a retired HRA soldier, moves abroad to the city of Al Faiz following his untimely retirement. There, he finds Yasmin... a mysterious Qalasheen beauty. Homeless and pregnant by a man who abandoned her, Yasmin pleads with Troels to allow her to stay in his house. What will come of this couple? Find out in the new chapter... Read Chapter 1. ❂ Chapter 2 ❂ Troels awoke to the feeling of something soft and heavy smothering him. He grunted and shoved Abu -- Yasmin's black cat -- off his face. The cat let out an annoyed meow and scurried off. Sneezing, Troels sat up and brushed the cat hair away. He'd never owned a pet before. It surprised him how quickly Abu's hair spread to every surface of the cottage. All his clothes and furniture seemed to have a fine, itchy layer of cat all over them now. Sighing to himself, Troels changed out of his nightclothes. As he dressed, he heard quiet humming coming from the cottage kitchen. Sharing his home with another person required some adjustments -- like learning to tolerate the cat. But there were a few pleasant things too. Troels felt a small smile creep over his face as he stepped out of the bedroom and made his way toward the kitchen. He lingered in the door, watching as Yasmin puttered back and forth. She opened up a ceramic jar of olives and spooned them into a delicate porcelain dish. With a small, sharp knife, she cut a cucumber into thin, delicate slices. A plate of pita bread, hummus, and sun-dried tomatoes sat off to the side on the tile counter. Troels had quickly discovered that the Qalasheen people knew how to eat. The food was nothing like what he ate at home in Haense. It was full of bright, explosive flavors and exotic textures. But he found that he liked it. And he liked to watch Yasmin cook. He liked to watch her do a lot of things, in fact. He found himself following her with his eyes when she did chores around the house. And when she finished her duties each day, she would usually settle down outside on the porch, where she'd sew or read or play with the cat. Always, she would hum or sing quietly in Qalasheen - little lullabies to the baby she carried inside her. They didn't talk much to each other, but Troels found her presence companionable. In the evenings, he would sit with the windows open -- the cool evening wind whispering through the house, the setting sun filling the cottage with purple light -- and he would close his eyes and listen to her sing ever so softly. Yasmin picked up the dishes of olives and hummus. She turned and caught sight of him lingering in the door. A smile passed between them. A wordless assurance that breakfast would be ready soon. Balancing the dishes in her arms, she carried them into the little dining area between the bedrooms and kitchen. A fragrant ocean breeze rustled the translucent cotton curtains. Troels seated himself at the table and thought, very simply, that he was exactly where he wanted to be. Having set the table, Yasmin returned to the kitchen for the teapot. She cradled it on a beautifully embroidered tea towel as she placed it down next to Troels. "I was thinking," she said as Troels lifted the pot and poured them both a cup of rose tea. Troels lifted his eyebrows, looking to her. Yasmin trailed off, her cheeks turning pink. She avoided his eye, instead gazing off toward Abu. The cat was pawing at a bright blue cicada that had flown in through the window. "Speak your mind," Troels prompted her. "You've been very kind to let me stay, Troels," she said, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. She picked up her ceramic teacup and held it between her hands. "I was hoping I could do something for you in return." "No need," Troels replied, popping an olive into his mouth. "You work and I pay you. You earn your keep." "Yes, but -- " Yasmin paused again briefly. "Most people wouldn't let servants sit at their tables and eat alongside them." "I'm not most people," Troels replied, helping himself to more breakfast. "You don't need to repay me for treating you decently like a human being." Yasmin fell silent. She poked at the hummus with a triangle of pita bread, her jasper eyes downcast. Troels gazed into her face and felt a pang of guilt. "If you wanted to do something nice for me, though..." he said after a moment's pause. "I wouldn't stop you." Yasmin brightened as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "There's an oasis," she said, "near here. When Abu and I had nowhere else to go, we would sometimes spend the night there. The palms grow thick and shady and -- there's often bananas in the leaves. They ought to be ripe this time of year." Troels chewed a sundried tomato thoughtfully. "All right," he said. "Fresh bananas sound like a fine thing." In Haense, wild fruits were rare. You could sometimes scavenge berries in the woodland during the warm season. But here in Al Faiz, even the scrubby bushes growing on the side of the road seemed to be bursting with colorful fruits at all times of the year. Everything grew and flowered and blossomed in abundance. Small fruit trees grew in Troels' own backyard, dropping succulent cherries from their branches. Little grey monkeys with fuzzy, dark faces would perch and nibble at the cherries. Troels had spent an evening watching the monkeys with Yasmin not too long ago. He remembered her giggling helplessly as the little creatures chased each other through the trees - and the sound of her laughter rang in his head like a bell. It was the small things he liked best. The soft humming as she sat on the porch, petting her cat. Her silvery laughter as she watched the monkeys. The gentle patter of her bare feet on the sandstone floor. He loved those sounds as dearly as music. After breakfast, Yasmin worked on finishing her chores while Troels waited on the porch with the cat in his lap. Around mid-afternoon, Yasmin stepped outside with a triumphant little smile. A reed basket hung in the crook of her elbow. "Done," she said, reaching down to help him up. "Let's hurry." Troels took her hand and stood with a grunt. Sitting and standing had become difficult since the injury to his leg. But he never needed to ask Yasmin for help. She simply knew. They walked together, arm-in-arm, past the sandstone walls of the city. Troels kept his free hand loosely around the hilt of his sword. His soldier instincts prickled with paranoia. Al Faiz struck him as a sleepy place where the people were too carefree to commit much crime. But he'd heard tales of bandits lurking in the Korvassan desert. He couldn't do much if they decided to attack, but it was his hope he'd be able to wound them badly enough to let Yasmin escape. Luckily, the oasis wasn't far from the city limits. The foliage grew lush and dark around the small watering hole. Banana trees, bristling with bright yellow clusters, stood at the water's edge. Monkeys and parrots had already made short work of the fruit. Half-eaten, mushed bananas littered the ground. However, there were still several untouched bunches hidden deep in the cool, waxy leaves. Yasmin seemed to know exactly where to find them. Troels watched with fascination as she would reach into the underbrush and -- seconds later -- pull out a hefty cluster of yellow crescents. She loaded them into her basket and -- when the basket got too heavy for her to carry -- she passed it off to Troels. It quickly got to the point where Troels wondered what to do with all these bananas. But he didn't mention anything. The smile on Yasmin's face when she found a ripe, untouched cluster was too precious for him to complain. As the sun dipped low behind the rolling dunes, Troels and Yasmin sat together on the edge of the water. Fractured sunlight glittered on the surface and the air swam with rich fragrances. Yasmin wasted no time digging into the bananas. As soon as they settled down, she started tearing open the peels. Troels watched her with an amused look as she gobbled down the bananas one or two at a time, tossing the peels into the water. "Putting those away, aren't you?" he said with a small chuckle. Yasmin blushed pink. She rested a hand on her pregnant stomach. "My baby was talking to me," she said. "Begging me for bananas." Troels let out a deep, full-bodied laugh. "So that's why you wanted to come here so badly. Eat as many as you like, then." "I'll save some for you too, I promise!" Yasmin replied with a smile before digging back into the basket. Troels couldn't stop himself from smiling as well. But as he watched her, a thought began to trouble him. In the weeks that they had been together, Yasmin never once mentioned the father of the child. It was as though the man didn't exist at all. Troels knew well enough that babies didn't simply appear out of nowhere. The father would show up someday to collect his woman and child. And Troels didn't want to watch -- helpless -- as she fell back into the arms of a man who abandoned her. He wanted to be with her like this forever. To spend long, warm afternoons gathering bananas. To watch the monkeys play in the cherry tree. To listen to her sing. To hear her laugh. He felt Yasmin quickly slipping through his fingers. She was like a feather - carried into his life by the winds of chance and just as quickly borne away. "Yasmin," he began. "That baby... it'll be born soon. It needs a father. I'm -- not a wealthy man. But I've a house. And enough money to care for the three of us. It could be like this every day. Though the child's not mine, I would look after it. Because..." The words 'I love you' hovered in Troels' mind. They sat on the tip of his tongue, threatening to be spoken. But he held back, not wanting to frighten her. Yasmin's smile faded. Her hands rested on the curve of her belly as if cradling the baby close to her. "What..." she stumbled over her words. "What are you -- what are you saying, Troels?" "Marry me." All seemed to fall silent -- even the chattering of the birds and monkeys. Troels held his breath. Yasmin bit her bottom lip hard. Her chin buckled and tears began to fall from her beneath her thick, dark lashes. Troels felt his heart sink into his stomach. His shoulders sagged. He had been rejected by his fair share of women, but none of them had ever wept before. He didn't know what to do. "You can't -- " Yasmin gasped, her shoulders hitching as she sobbed. "You can't ask that of me, Troels..." Troels let out a sigh, looking down at his hands. "You still love him," he said. "The father of that child." "No -- !" Yasmin hiccupped, lifting her head to meet his gaze. Her eyes somehow looked even more lovely through the sheen of tears. They sparkled -- and Troels fought the desire to kiss her. "No... It's not that. It's not that at all. I am -- I am very fond of you, Troels. I am. If things were different..." "Then..." he replied. "Then why not?" "I don't want to make this harder than it has to be." Troels was so fixated on Yasmin, he did not hear the rustling coming from the bushes. All at once, he became aware of shadows moving in the trees. His hand leapt to his blade, but it was too late. Two figures emerged from the thick, dark undergrowth. A pair of bandits – a dark elf and a Qalasheen man -- grinned at Troels from behind their masks. "Good work, Yasmin," the Qalasheen man said, pulling a dagger from his belt and spinning it in his hand. "You brought us a live one." Yasmin dissolved into sobs, covering her face with her hands. Troels stared at the two bandits. The masked dark elf slid a scimitar from a sheath on his back. He pointed it at Troels. "Strip," the bandit commanded. "Hand over everything you've got, old man." Very slowly, Troels lifted his hands in surrender. A shocking betrayal - ! Yasmin was not who she seemed to be! What will become of Troels? Will his sincere feelings find their mark... or will he be the victim of a bandit's blade? Find out next week! Published by Penton-Napier Publishing

@salamanderfantasy Hawthorn Goodbarrel would meet a courier outside Bramblebury, who delivers unto him a package! It contains the clothing he ordered from Miss Napier's shoppe. Dear Mr. Goodbarrel - This presented me with a little bit of a challenge, since I didn't have any halfling-sized clothing models. I did my utmost, however, and I hope it suits you. If there's anything amiss, let me know and I'll see what I can do to fix it right away. Please enjoy the clothes! I never knew halflings were this... uh... risque? Signed, Sarah Styrne-Napier

@AdmiralLB Zodd would receive a package in the mail. When he opens it, he finds a red silk haori in exactly the hue he described. Along with the garment, he would find a note in Sarah's handwriting. Dear Zodd - Long time, no see. How've you been? I talked with Chirr the other day and she said you two got married. I hope you bought her a matching kimono so you two can vacation in Yong Ping together. Um, I'm not really familiar with Oyashiman style clothes, but I did my best. It's a bit strange I've been asked twice to make kimonos. Don't they have tailors in Yong Ping? Not that I mind. Business is business. Feel free to keep coming to me for all your kimono needs! Signed, Sarah

Somewhere in the Seven Skies... Yuliya Styrne walks into the office of her far-distant ancestor Lorin Blackmont - the wife of the man featured in the ballad. She slaps the sheet music down on her ancestor's desk with enough force to send Lorin's other papers flying. "We have to make him sing it," Yuliya says, planting her hands on the desk and leaning forward with a radiating intensity. Lorin picks up the sheet music and shuffles through it with a furrowed brow. Her cobalt eyes widen with mischief as an enormous grin overtakes her face. "Good God. I think he'd rather be flayed alive inch by inch by Mirtok DeNurem," she chuckles, covering her mouth with her hand. "All the more reason if you ask me," Yuliya replies. "He's already in Hell. How much worse can this be?" "With that man's pride?" Lorin snickers. "You have no idea." "Think you can call in a few favors?" "Let's make it happen." The show at the La Fleur Theater in The Seven Skies that night would surely be one to remember. ((post is noncanon and just for funnies))

❂ SUN KISSED ❂ A Weekly Serialized Romance Novel by Sarah Styrne-Napier A heady, sensual romance set in the long-lost city of Al Faiz... Two lovers encounter one another by chance under the searing sun. Temperatures rise and hearts beat fast as a retired HRA soldier - searching for meaning in this foreign land - meets someone he never expected... ❂ Chapter 1 ❂ 'I don't belong here.' That was the first thought that crossed Troels Andreyev's mind as he stepped off the boat in Al Faiz. The city greeted him with an assault of colors, smells, sights, and sounds. Brass chimes jingled in the open, arched doorways of nearby shops and restaurants. Gauzy, colorful drapes fluttered from open windows in the hot, dry desert breeze. In the distance, golden domes gleamed atop thin, spiraling minarets. The docks swirled with vibrant life - the people just as colorful as their surroundings. A merchant in floaty, embroidered shawls bartered with a Qalasheen woman over the price of a parrot. A man with a bright yellow turban and pink dye in his beard hawked enormous baskets of fragrant spices. A street performer -- her body clad only in thin, translucent materials -- danced barefoot across the hot sandstone streets, bracelets glittering and flashing in the searing sunlight. And there, in the middle of it all, was Troels. He glanced down at himself. His plain, off-white linen shirt already clung to his chest with sweat. Aside from that, he'd dressed himself in a pair of loose, dark trousers and leather boots. Simple traveler's garb, nothing special or fancy. These sorts of clothes wouldn't make you stand out in a place like Haense, where the peasantry tended to dress sensibly and without much regards to style. But here, Troels thought, he stuck out like crooked nail. Troels wasn't normally given to self-consciousness. A Haeseni Royal Army soldier had other things on his mind besides how he looked. Still, he could not help but feel like a dark-grey splotch on this painter's palette of color. Troels reached into his pocket and fished out a letter. It was written on crisp Papyrus parchment and crinkled musically when he handled it. At the bottom was the signature of the Qalasheen housing clerk – a receipt for the home he’d purchased with his scant life savings. The letter contained the address for a small, oceanside cottage. Troels' grey-brown eyes scanned over the words one more time. He'd looked at this letter several times on the trip over. Wondering if this was the right choice. Wondering if he was crazy, choosing to move this far abroad. But, he remembered as he walked down the smooth, sandstone paths, there wasn't really much tying him to Haense any longer. He had no family to speak of - no wife or children. A debilitating injury to the leg during the Scyfling War had brought his career as an HRA soldier to a close (he could still walk with a slight limp but running and fighting were out of the question). And though he was a Canonist, Troels had always worshipped in his own, small private way - with no need for the big cathedrals and packed masses. His life in New Reza had been empty. The city was always bustling with activity, but, even so, Troels found few reasons to get out of bed every morning. Once his service to the king had ended, there was nothing left to keep him there. Nothing left to motivate him. In his youth, he had sometimes dreamed of traveling the world -- though work, time, and other constraints had held him back. Now that he was retired, though, it seemed as good a time as any for a change of scenery. Perhaps, in due time, he would adjust to his new home. Maybe Al Faiz would not feel quite as empty as New Reza now felt. But if it turned out that Al Faiz didn't suit him, Troels thought, he could always pick up and go elsewhere. Troels followed the winding pathways through the city. His boots seemed to kick up small clouds of sand wherever he walked. He kept to the shade, out of the blinding hot sun. His pale Haeseni skin was already turning red in the searing heat. The locals shot him odd glances as he passed, though Troels tried not to pay them any mind. More things he would need to get used to, he thought. At last, though, he reached the address listed on the letter. He paused in front of the house, taking in the sight of it. Qalasheen architecture was markedly different from the buildings back home. Haeseni houses were built of sturdy lumber with steeply pitched rooves, so that the snow would slide off. The Qalasheen people had no such concerns. A low, flat-roofed house with sandstone walls stood in front of him. Simple wooden shutters covered the windows - no need for glass or insulation against the cold. The door was no more than a gently fluttering banner hanging in an archway. "Need to install a proper door," Troels muttered to himself. Though he wanted to try and adjust to the Qalasheen way of living, there were some things he couldn't compromise on. As he pushed aside the door flap and stepped into the house, though, he heard the patter of feet and the clatter of falling dishes in the next room. Immediately, Troels' hand flew to the sword on his hip. "Who's there?" he bellowed, his voice like low thunder. Gripping the hilt of his sword, Troels approached the door to the other room - itself still no more than an archway. He crossed the threshold and found himself in a small kitchen. There, on the floor, was a knocked-over pile of wooden bowls, iron pots and pans. And sitting on the counter was a green-eyed black cat. "Oh," Troels chuckled quietly to himself, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "Shoo, cat." He gently waved the creature toward the window. It meowed at him indignantly and instead went in the complete opposite direction, toward a wooden cupboard standing in the corner. Almost at once, Troels noticed that the cupboard's door was ajar. His hand flew back to the hilt of his sword. "Come out," Troels demanded to the empty silence. "I know you're in there. No use hiding." Very slowly, the cupboard door creaked open. A small brown foot stepped out, onto the smooth sandstone floors. Delicate hands reached down to pick up and cradle the black cat. "I am..." a quiet, quavering voice began, "I am so sorry, sir. I did not know this house belonged to anyone." Troels looked the girl up and down. Before him stood a Qalasheen maiden, perhaps no older than nineteen. Her inky dark hair was covered in a plain ivory headscarf - though a few silky tresses escaped to frame her round, innocent face. A pair of olive-green eyes studied him warily from beneath the shade of her headscarf. Mud and dirt stained the hem of her loose, cotton dress. The tatters of her hemline hung around her bare, callused, and sun-baked feet. But none of that caught his attention so much as the round swell of her belly. She was pregnant. Troels loosened his grip on his sword. "Who are you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the girl. "What are you doing here?" She quickly bowed, still looking fearful. "I -- I am -- I am called Yasmin, sir," she explained, tripping over her words. "Please, have mercy on me. I am poor and homeless. This house has stood empty for a long time and I -- I thought perhaps I could take shelter here." "No family?" Troels asked gruffly. "Someone put that bairn in your belly." The girl -- Yasmin -- shook her head. "No family. Besides Abu." She scratched the cat's back, flashing a fond smile. At the mention of her baby, though, her smile faded. "...No family." She repeated simply, closing her eyes. "How long have you been here?" Troels asked. Yasmin blushed, biting the inside of her cheek. She gazed past him, toward the door, as if gauging how fast she could make a run for it. Troels stepped aside, giving her a clear path. If the girl wanted to leave, he wouldn't stop her. She remained where she was. "I..." Yasmin began hesitatingly. "I have been here a few days. Maybe a week. Again, I am deeply sorry, sir. I had no other shelter. I'll leave quickly... just don't report me to the guard." With that, Yasmin picked up her feet and hurried toward the door. Troels caught her by the shoulder before she could exit. "Wait. Hold on," he said. The Qalasheen maiden paused mid-stride, tensing up as his hand landed on her. "I don't know what kind of man you think I am. But I'm not tossing a young mother out of the only shelter she has." Yasmin turned to him with wide eyes. "You're... not?" "I'm no monster," Troels replied, glancing away. Her big eyes shown like polished jasper. For some reason, he found it hard to look at her. "My leg is... I had an injury. It's no good anymore." He reached down and hiked up his right pant leg, showing her where he'd been injured. A deep scar cut him nearly to the bone. "I can't do as much as I used to when I was younger. Household chores and such. If -- If you can cook and clean, you can stay here." He let his hand drop off her shoulder and - instead - held it out for a shake. "The name is Troels." Yasmin placed the black cat down on the floor. She took his hand with both of hers, cradling it gently as one might a baby bird. Her palms felt warm and smooth against his skin. "Thank you," she breathed, her voice no louder than a whisper. "Thank you. So much. You have saved my life." "Don't mention it," Troels replied, still looking away. When he arrived in Al Faiz, this was the last thing he had expected. But this city was quickly teaching him to expect the unexpected. Published by Penton-Napier Publishing Read CHAPTER TWO!

Y'all announce this after I PK my famous playwright character smh IGN: Urahra Category: Playwrighting Piece:

@Etow The young Mr. Wittenbach, like the other customers before him, would receive his garments folded tidily and wrapped in brown paper. When he cut the twine binding the wrapping, he would find a plush suit of brown tweed over a gold vest. Included in the package is a card from Sarah: Dear Mr. Wittenbach, I hope this delivery finds you and your family well! I don't believe you and I have met, but I ran into your relative Eliza the other day at the Novellen. She mentioned that she was moving to Providence. I'm surprised she didn't mention that she had relatives in town. With luck, you and I will be able to acquaint ourselves soon. Enjoy the suit! Signed, Sarah Styrne-Napier

@Stevie Attached to the package containing his gambeson, Chester Puller would find a note: Dear Mr. Puller, Looking forward to our date! ♥ Sarah

@Knightei After meeting Sarah in Providence outside of the Novellen Pub and receiving his order, Maigo would open up his package to find workman's clothes of sturdy make. A teal-blue jacket with black buttons over top a clean, tan shirt and cream slacks. The note inside reads: Dear Mr. Maigo, I hope you find these clothes will insulate you against the salty ocean breezes of Freeport. I tried to blend Oyashiman style with an Orenian aesthetic. I'm not certain how successful I was, but... with luck, it'll meet the needs you outlined in your order. Let me know if any changes need to be made. Thank you! Signed, Sarah Styrne-Napier

where's the downvote button I want to give llir and devvy the forbidden red arrows.

Awright yeah definitely an April Fool’s. You got me, haha. Well meme’d, my lords. Well meme’d. I hath verily been dabbed upon.

Tanith, the magical curator of the NGS museum in Haense, finds the flyer delivered to her desk in the Archival Wing. She breathes a sigh of relief, thankful for the news. "Now if we can just take care of that Matthieu person, all should be well," she says cheerfully before filing the letter away.

@Ludulo Icroth would receive a package wrapped in brown paper. Dear Mr. Vursur, When I began this business, I wasn't really expecting to make an Oyashiman-style kimono for a dark elf. But I guess life just leads us to interesting places, huh? Enjoy. Signed, Sarah Styrne-Napier

Contribute To The NGS HALL OF ANCESTORS! A New Exhibit from the Northern Geographical Society! Greetings, people of Oren and Haense! The Northern Geographical Society is preparing to launch a new exhibit for our rotating catalogue. After some debate, we settled on a concept which we've dubbed 'The Hall of Ancestors.' We would like to spotlight little-known but remarkable men and women throughout history - and we'd like YOU, our beloved patrons, to contribute! The NGS has been committed to bringing little-known stories and information to the masses - educating Haense and Oren about their history. We want to feature the kinds of people that wouldn't normally appear in the history books, yet nevertheless changed the world in their own irreplaceable way. Would YOU like to see YOUR ancestor featured in the Northern Geographical Society's flagship museum? To be featured in our upcoming exhibit, the Hall of Ancestors, we invite our patrons to send in the name of someone in their family. Along with the name, please send us a visual representation of the individual (OOC: the character's skin) and a short description of what they did during their lives and why they were important to your lineage. If possible, we would also love to display items or artifacts owned by the individual! It doesn't need to be anything expensive - merely items representative of their personality and the era in which they lived. These items can either be donated and become part of our permanent collection or returned at the end of the exhibit. Submissions will remain open until we run out of room in the exhibit hall. We have ten openings for ten amazing people from history! If interested, please send your submissions to our Flagship Curator and Chief of Research, Mrs. Tanith Vursur. Submissions may be edited for clarity and length. If the submission is reviewed and deemed too controversial by our board of curators, it may be rejected. Thank you from the Northern Geographical Society!

@CharmingCavalier Henry would find a package left for him on his porch, wrapped in brown paper. Inside is a bold green suit with a silk flower attached to the lapel, over top a salmon vest. Dear Mr. Penton, Oh, how excited I was to make a suit for you! And such a striking color choice too. Most men prefer more drab and desaturated tones. You're very brave for choosing a bright green like this. I hope the garment suits you and you enjoy wearing it. Come down to the book shop and model it for me in person soon, will you? Thank you again for the commission! Your friend, Sarah Styrne-Napier

Children's Poetry by Sarah Styrne-Napier Published 1813 IST. WELCOME Welcome to the dreamers of dreams, The wishers of wishs, the thinkers of thoughts - With more in their heads than they wear on their faces, With feelings that tie their hearts into knots. Welcome to the nighttime philosophers, Who lie hours abed just lost in their minds, Wandering corridors of fantasy, memory - Who can describe all the things they might find? Welcome to those who whisper sweet prayers Up to a God they're hoping will listen - Welcome to those who daydream all day - Creating inside them their own perfect fiction. If you live in a world that's all your own making And the real thing seems paler by compare - Then I welcome you warmly into this volume, For, my dear friend, we have tales to share. UNKINDNESS They've called me a name which is not my own. They said something what made me groan. They've called me a monster, a pig, and a brute - They've told me they want to give me the boot! But why do they tell me these cruel, awful things? Why do they treat me like I'm their plaything? Everything springs from a logical cause, Even the actions that might give us pause. When the king of the jungle's got a thorn in his paw, He lets out a roar from his snarling maw - But really he's hoping for someone to see That he's actually hurting and not quite so beastly. So maybe, with sweetness, we can change peoples' ways. Maybe if we're patient and count down the days - Little by little, we can alter their minds And transform them slowly into someone kind. CHORES Oh, how I hate to sweep the floor! I hate to mop! I hate my chores! I'd rather be swinging on the gallows. I'd rather toil in fields a-fallow. I'd rather cut myself on something sharp. I'd even rather learn to play the harp! I'd rather suck a hundred toes. I'd follow the wind wherever it blows. I'd sail the sea for a hundred years. I'd face every last one of my terrible fears! I'd sit in the mud. I'd swallow a needle. I'd eat great, big handfuls of worms and beetles! I'd dive in a lake and sleep with the fishes If it meant I'd never again be forced to dishes! Yet a clean house bring my family joy, So I guess - this time - I'll pick up my toys. DIFFERENCES She had green skin and a mouth of tusks. He had a beard with an earthy musk. She had long ears and hair that's yellow. He had round ones - that funny fellow! On the outside, they couldn't compare Green skin, long beards, and flaxen hair. But on the inside, they were all the same, For each one had a soul unto their name. Each had a heart that pattered swiftly, Each had eyes that sometimes got misty, Each had a tongue to speak words sweet, And - yes! Each one had exactly two feet! Though they seemed different at first glance, Those differences arose merely by chance. Instead of looking at what sets us apart, Let's first take a look at what's in the heart. WISH One time, I wished upon a star And asked God to make me someone new. I was sick of living in my skin. I'd rather walk in another's shoes. So the good Lord, in his wisdom, Took me out on quite the spin. He put me in all different bodies - Tall and short and thick and thin! I lived a hundred lives that night. I tried to be all different kinds - But I found that no life suited me Except for this one, which is mine. WORDS O child of mine, make sure to be kind And be thoughtful in all that you say - Because you never know when an unkind word Might ruin someone's day. You can't look through another's eyes And see what's in their life. Perhaps they've ripped their favorite suit. Perhaps they've fought with their darling wife. Perhaps they've fallen down the stairs. Perhaps they spilled a cup of tea. Perhaps they broke their easy chair. Perhaps they've been stung by a bee. You mustn't add another thing To a person's list of troubles - For when you say an unkind word, You take their woe and make it double. AUDIENCE I want to sing a lovely song. I want to write a poem. I want to paint a pretty scene, But I've got no one to show 'em. No one wants to see my work. There's no audience for my plays. They've turned their noses up at me, But I'll make art anyway! SHOES Here's a funny question for you - How does a foot fit inside a shoe? The cobbler crafted the shoe from leather, Made it to suit the wearer's pleasure. He built the sole to cradle the heel, Just like a banana inside of its peel. So whenever loneliness takes hold of your heart, Just remember that God has a shoemaker's art - And God has made somebody precisely for you, In the same way a foot fits inside of a shoe. LOOKS Rough scars scrawled o'er her face - Her skin all bumpy and crumpled. She could not claim a painting's grace. No, she looked like a paper a-rumpled. Her curls were frizzled, her finger knobby, Her eyes were dark and her legs were wobbly. She had a laugh sounded like a horse And her back was bent at an angle, of course - Yet none of those things mattered one bit. For instead of beauty, she had her wit. No pretty face will last forever, But it hardly matters if you're clever - For true friends will love what's inside of you And no matter your looks, they'll always be true. END And so, together, we've reached the end. I do hope I've made you a friend. For a conclusion's not so sad, you see, If you're standing here with me. Dedicated to my late step-mother Yuliya Styrne-Napier

Gold & Purple - 300