KannAllyEnd

Torian's handwriting is broad but neat.  His letters are overlarge, crowding the page.  He leaves the application on the library desk, where it was completed.

Name: Torian Desni.

((MCName)): mixikitkat

Origins of your birth, and your place of living: I was born in the mighty forests of Malinor amongst less-blessed elves than I.  My parents sought to educate my brother and I properly, and they taught us well, Ancestors protect them. 

How can you declare you are Mali'thill? This question is most befuddling.  I can declare it by saying it aloud or writing it down.  Is this another one of Kalenz' odd tests? *scribbled and cramped in the margins is written* I see that you are trying to discern proof, rather than demonstration. My Mali'aheral parentage and ancestry flows through the blood in my veins. I have no known impurities in my lineage.

Why do you wish to become a citizen of our cihi? So that I may live amongst the greatest of the races, of course.

What is your personal vision for our blessed race? My vision is of a city filled to the brim with Mali'aheral.  I wish to see many of us gathered together in one place that is beyond comprehension in its grandeur--a bustling metropolis teeming and rich with life.  I wish for the city to be a pinnacle, as our race is a pinnacle.  Surely this is not a unique vision--do all Mali'aheral not have the same?
 

What does maehr'sae hiylun'ehya mean to you? I have looked up these words in the dictionary, and they seem to mean something along the lines of health and the progression of wisdom.  I suppose they mean the same to me as they mean in the dictionary.  Health and progress in wisdom are indeed worthy goals and valuable attributes.

What Elven phrase do you particularly take to heart? Please explain why:  *the following is written painstakingly, as if the words took a terribly long time to string together* "kae cihi'thilln ayle."  It means 'I like the Silver City," and I take it to heart because it is true.  The city is beautiful.

What is the subject of the first book you may submit to the college?  I find writing a time consuming and boring task.  But I shall prevail upon the tedium and compose a book of ballads, I believe.

What would be your reaction if you ever saw a human, orc and unknown Mali'aheral travel the Anthos Highway together? This is yet another broad and foolhardy question.  I am unsure of how to answer with the present information.  Is the Mali'aheral a male, or a female? Things like this greatly affects the manner of my answer!  For example, if he were male, I would pity him, for orcs are terrible conversationists, and Valah often make strange and disorienting references to sky beings or fire dwellers below.  If she were female, I would assume she needed protection, as it is dangerous to travel alone, and offer my assistance--as I am sure it would be preferable company to an Uruk's or a Valah's.  But this leaves further questions.  Does the Mali'aheral look afraid? Perhaps he or she is being coerced and requires rescuing.  Is the Mali'aheral wearing the insignia of some horrid Valah clan? Perhaps he or she is a traitor, and to be avoided. I only know that he or she is unknown.  I wish, with respect, that this questionnaire were more specific.

Are there any other details about yourself you wish to relay to the mali’aheral? Not at this time in particular.

((I really don't want the last word on this initiative to be negative.  Roleplay initiative is always a good thing.  If you can hack it--it is welcome.  Events and constructive roleplay are precious and needed resources. Rock on and let's all be supportive of initiative!))

Name (IC and IGN): Ante'vuln Lazul (mixikitkat)
 

Subject(s) you feel comfortable teaching: Rhetoric and Debate

Extent to which you were educated on the Subject(s): I've invented a style of formalized, competitive debate.  This has been based on extensive literary study of rhetoric and both written and conversational argumentation. Debate technique has been a subject of study and fascination of mine, and I have created terminology with which to refer to verbal argumentation.  I have never been formally educated on such subjects, beyond a self-taught knowledge found in books and by extrapolation.  That's all right, though--because to my knowledge, competitive debate does not formally exist yet.

Scheduling conflicts (Both IC and Time Zone): I am a mother, wife--and work for the Lower Council as an Events Coordinator. My time is precious and limited.   These will naturally pull my attention, thus, a teaching position would have to coexist with my already full schedule.  (US Pacific Time).

Ante'vuln carefully fastens a bit of parchment, pinning the attachment directly to the original announcement.  She smooths the page, securing it with a second pin to assure it is flat and stuck firmly to the surface.  She then nods, tips her head to examine her work for a moment, and marches off, hands clasped behind her back.

Choice 1: Events Coordinator, I suppose.
(MC name): mixikitkat
(RP) Name: Ante'vuln Lazul.
Race: Mali'aheral.
Age: 136.
Gender: Female.

Do you have a family, if so how many members will be residing with you: Indeed, I do. My husband and son reside with me in the Mali'aheral district. If all goes fortunately, my second child's birth will mark an extension of our familial unit--and obviously, he or she will also reside with us.

(Please state your time zone): Pacific.
(Please state your average playing time): 2-4 hours, 3-4 times a week, but mostly due to lack of responsibilities. I sign on when I am needed. Thus--enhanced responsibilities will mean increased playing time out of necessity.

What nation do you reside in, if any: Malinor, in the Mali'aheral district, as stated.
Do you have any work experience, if so where and what: I was a writer and justice of law in Haelun'or.  My official title was Parir'tir (meaning harbinger of law), and I both incepted and saw through the founding tenants of purity enforcement for the Mali'aheral nation.

Do you have a criminal record, if so state your offenses: I haven't any felonies to my name, that I am aware of. 
Why do you feel you are suited for Job Choice 1: Before one becomes upset, yes I am aware that the job I have applied for technically has no open positions.  My intention in applying is to offer for consideration an Event's Coordinator position which currently does not exist.  It has come to my attention that the process for official matrimony between elves residing under Malinorian law is non-existant. I feel this is a major oversight.  Official marriage licensing is taxable, and by requiring an official stamp upon unions in order to be considered official, you create incentive for proper law-abiding for citizens who wish to one day marry.  Also, you create the paradigm of societal unit--which is tantamount in your responsibility as a ruling body.  

Therefore, I offer for your consideration--a specialized position for an Event's Coordinator.  I would like to oversee the processing of officially recognized matrimony.  With the council's approval, I would use this position to design the official ceremony (including licensing and paper-work) and process for those desiring sanctioned unions, and create demand and thus tax returns for the government by turning each sanctioned wedding into an attend-able event.

Thank you, for your consideration in advance.

State any comment that you think may aid you in this application here: N/A.

Ante'vuln wanders to the board once more. A small crinkle creases her brow as she reads the two new responses, rendering an expression of intense consideration on her small face. After a moment or two, she lowers herself to the ground. Spreading out on the stones, she lays on her stomach before the board. Taking a blank sheet of parchment, quill and flask from her satchel, Ante'vuln begins a response. The writing suffers slightly from being penned on an uneven surface. After checking it a few times for error, she rises, stowing her things. The scroll receives a puff of air to dry the ink, before it is fastened with a thin silver pin to the boards.

To my correspondents, Mr. Uradir, and the one known as Ebs:

Firstly, Ebs, it would be my absolute pleasure to meet you. I thank you for the compliment, and look forward to a warm greeting at some point in the future. May your worries be few, and your happiness be abounding.

Now, onto more business-like affairs. Mr. Uradir, I did not miss your point. I simply decided to most justifiably discredit you in my letter instead of engaging you. I am of the notion that an opinion holds no plausibility until it can be properly defended. This, Ebs, is the reason I "insulted his writing." It was not meant to simply be belligerent, but to demonstrate the lack of credibility Mr. Urandir holds. Perhaps you, Ebs, are right, however. It does seem that Kalenz discredits himself without my effort.

A lesson for all reading this, in order to contribute to the educational value of this series, is that an argument cannot be won without establishing credibility. Unless you properly uphold your arguments, they are left unsupported--and thus, are rendered dismissible. This was my strategy, Mr. Uradir: to dismiss you, by showing how vague and unfounded your arguments were, without even needing to address them. They simply did not carry themselves, and thus needed no rebuttal to be rendered invalidated claims.

But I shall address them now, for it seems to displease you that your unfounded statements went unengaged. Let us right this wrong, for your sake, Mr. Uradir; may it give you peace of mind.

My point about equivalency does not match us to the Uruk. You have created quite a terrible fallacy here, Mr. Uradir. You've left out the logic, but this does not truly surprise me. You skills of reason have proven to be weak at best, likely because they must battle your far more prevalent emotional reactivity. A quote from the document, under explanations of Mali'aheral beliefs:

"It is not because we believe ourselves to be inherently superior to other races."

The word to watch is inherently. Inherent superiority is illogical. We look down upon the Uruk and the Valah because of their proclivities to violence and brutishness. We refuse to breed with them because their short lifespans curse the children who otherwise might've lived thousands of years. This is not an inherency claim, but one that relies on reasonability, and concrete proof. This is the Mali'aheral tradition, Mr. Uradir. We do not have blind beliefs, and in fact disdain such, as you should know. We believe only what can be proved, and what can be proved is that Uruk and Valah are violent and short-lived.

Our Mali cousins, however, are not so short lived nor violent. Our refusal to mate with them relies not on superiority, but the desire to preserve the culture you have deemed that this Campaign diminishes.

Not so, as is clear by this point. The Mali'aheral preserve purity to preserve longevity and culture. We do not have inherent beliefs about the inferiority of other races. The one we distain (Uruk and to an extent, Valah, as it were), are looked down upon for their proven actions of violence and war-like behavior. Judgement is only sensible when informed by sense, not belief. Your beliefs are not arguments, Mr. Uradir. And moreover, upholding your beliefs without having reasonable support for them hardly make a case for you to hold yourself above those you look down upon.

This Campaign upholds purity, and maehr'sae hiylun'ehya. The direct translation of this phrase is "The spreading/development of wisdom and health."

No where in this phrase is the word "Superiority."

Your superiority is an inherency claim. Inherency claims are not founded on logic, but belief. Belief is something I believe you have discounted many times, Mr. Uradir. Dogma is dangerous; have the Valah's religious wars not taught you that? You yourself, Mr. Uradir, dismiss beliefs as unreasonable to have. Your belief in superiority is no different from the Kha, Uruk, or Valah's worshipping of their gods. Does that make you so superior, then? It actually seems to make you rather similar, ironically.

Now, the Campaign upholds the idea that the Mali'aheral's upholding of purity is a reasonable endeavor. It allows us to hold on to our specific culture, and keeps our children living long lives. This is why purity is up-kept, not because we blindly believe we are better. We simply strive to establish ourselves as reasonable, rather than zealous believers in dangerous dogma.

If you would rather go on spouting inherency claims with no logical foundation, that is up to you, of course. Only do not do it in the name of the Mali'aheral, because your radical, uninformed opinion harms us.

As for the suggestion that we split with Malinor, I believe you are arrogant and foolish. This belief is not without evidence. Here is my logical foundation: to exist without allies is to perish when attacked, and if you continue sprout dogmas like war-banners, we shall be plunged into religious war-fare with dissenters soon enough.

I repeat: we must coexist with other races, whether you like it or not. This coexistence can benefit us, if we continue to be reasonable rather than radical. Ebs, you may refer to yourself as a liberal as you please--but I prefer for myself, the title "Practical." We live in the world with others.

The best way to hold onto our culture is to be able to properly justify and defend it, even in a changing environment. Let us, in Mali'aheral style, defend it with logic, instead of swords or threats then, yes?

As a final note, I have oft told my well-intentioned, but troubled son Acaele these same things. In time, he will understand. He is but twelve, after all. Maehr (which, by the way, requires perspective and reasonability, as well as a bit of humility), is gained in time. You have had more time than he, surely. But to protect his hiylu, and that of all the Mali'aheral children, we should teach them to use good sense in order to cooperate with allies.

Purity is protected by the proper ability to reasonably defend our culture. We will not diminish if we hold to the truth--which is sought through logic, and not, Mr. Uradir, radical belief. Belief is always unfounded, and this means it is always dangerously subject to misuse for violence. This is the true evil.

Ensigned,

Ante'vuln Llumcelia Lazul.

Ante'vuln's message is tacked directly in response to the message it pertains to, scripted in dark-blue.

Dearest Mr. Ill'yat,

I am quite pleased that you were amused by my letter. What is prose without a bit of entertainment, yes? Your honesty in expressing your amusement is also appreciated; no one likes a false compliment, you know.

I fear you are mistaken, however, on a few counts. I will illuminate them here, and end your very unfortunate confusion.

1.) "You are one of the most hypocritical people..."

I am not a person! Ancestors, no. I am a Mali'aheral. Was that not apparent? Oh dear, well, now you are aware.

2.) "You proceed to call him a child, and even refer to him as the hulking filth..."

Wrong again! I refer to him as a drunk poet, remember? The difference between a simile and a metaphor is, a simile is a comparison, and a metaphor is an equivalency. I compared Mr. Uradir's behavior to that of a child and an Uruk. These are proper, well-supported similes, but in order for them to be deemed names-called, they would have to rate equivalency--meaning metaphors.

3.) "..by siding with Uruks and half-breeds."

If I were siding with Uruks, why would comparing someone to an Uruk be considered an insult?

And to respond to the claim that I am siding with half-breeds? A quote from the original campaign document, for illumination.

"We do not respect impurity. It is the interbreeding between races which we deplore. A pure elf is a good elf, but once blood is intermixed, cultural identity is lost, forever."

Perhaps read the document in question, before attempting to respond? If you had read it, it would be quite clear that I do not support intermixing of races. This is reported several times, actually.

4.) "Mere words don't ever denounce the purity of another mali'aheral! Neither do words of truth that you may disagree with."

The elf you defend, ("Mr. Uradir is a reasonable and "I" respect him,"), has written a document on purity. Here is a quote, from that document, which maintains a list of how to uphold purity:

"The attempted subjugation of the opinion of another Mali’aheral by social or physical means by a fellow Mali’aheral or an alien within the district regarding an issue of purity."

Social fraternization requires only -words-, and yet damages purity, according to Kalenz. Your claim is invalidated by your association with the elf's views who created this statement. Once again, before stating something, educate yourself, so as not to make statements whose foundation falls to ignorance.

5.) "Dearest Mr. Lazul."

I am in fact, Mrs. Lazul. My husband did not write this letter, and so you cannot possibly call distain upon his judgement.

I do hope you feel enlightened!

Ensigned,

Ante'vuln Llumcelia Lazul.

Ante'vuln approaches the board, a large, cream colored scroll in hand. The printing is neat and prim. Carefully, she pins the response at the tail end of Kalenz', needing to stand on her tip-toes in order to reach the spot on the bulletin.

In response to the elegant Mr. Uradir:

Kalenz Uradir has committed treason against the Mali'aheral, as evidenced below. He has shamed his kind most grievously, thus brought ill will to all who share his Ancestry.

1.) Public displays of rage.

The Mali'aheral uphold values of reasonability, logical, informed behavior, and actions free from violent, destructive emotions. It is both our reputation and the duty of the proper Mali'aheral citizen to behave in a respectable fashion. Mr. Uradir has embarrassed the nation of the Mali'aheral most grievously. His inflammatory document displays a dependence on unadulterated anger, rather than well informed, proper argumentation.

The proof of this is that he has failed to logically refute any of the points presented in the document. Instead, he simply claims a vitriolic counter-opinion, and denounces and name-calls the writers instead of providing evidence, much like a child throwing a tantrum. A child thinks only of his own opinion, whether it is backed with evidence or logical refutation. He, much like a raging Uruk, does not bother to rightfully defend his points, only shouts them louder and adds insult and epithets to the claims. This infantile behavior is a very poor example of the Mali'aheral state of mind, and I must apologize to the public for this display of unfounded rage. You are the one who has shamed us all, Uradir, by giving a bad name to all the reasonable citizens of the Mali'aheral.

Perhaps, Mr. Uradir, it would be fitting to place you with my twelve-year-old son Acaele in a 'time-out'?

2.) Poor skills of reason.

Kalenz Uradir uses a metaphor, comparing the document in question to a tali'uruk. This metaphor is ridiculous. A document is hardly comparable to an impure. The only comparison point is Mr. Uradir's sense of disgust. Basing a metaphor (which is a poetic device in the first place, not a proper argument, obviously) on an emotion excuses logic from the equation. Disgust is not an argument to a logical point.

Worse, when the comparison is so very far fetched. There is no support of this metaphor, making it an even weaker argument. A document is not a tali'uruk, obviously. And your comparison lacks any convincing detail as a literary device, discrediting it as a valid or useful point.

Perhaps you need a writing tutor? Until your ability to weave a sensible, skillful metaphor improves, I hope you will refrain from posting public documents. The Mali'aheral take pride in their logical abilities, portrayed through solidly reasonable writing and argumentation. You have once again embarrassed your race by becoming a rather terrible example of using reason and skill to debunk statements you disagree with.

Here is a better metaphor. Mr. Uradir is a drunk poet, weaving silly, nonsensical metaphors. Perhaps sober a bit before your next public venture, yes? The Mali'aheral pride themselves on poetry too, you know. Please do not embarrass your Ancestors any longer with your blatant inability to use this skill.

3.) Denouncement of your own kind.

Purity relies on unity with your own kind, I am sure you are aware. By publicly denouncing a fellow Mali'aheral--worse still, a Mali'aheral leader--you have transgressed upon the central tenant of faith in your own kind. Such squabbles should be held privately and calmly, as is the way of an enlightened being. By causing this humiliation, calling out upon your fellow Mali'aheral, you have gone against the very basis of purity. Loyalty to your own. Without loyalty to the Mali'aheral, there is no purity. And by causing a public rift with your fellows, you have tarnished your entire nation. You have challenged our unity, and thus, the purity of the Mali'aheral race.

Mr. Uradir, when and if you ever learn to create a proper logical argument, you will be heard, as is natural. But calling for a public shaming of one of your own shames us all! Violent division with other Mali'aheral is traitorship, and hurts both reputation and purity. This is shame itself!

4.) Lack of perspective.

How many decades have you lived, Mr. Uradir? And yet you lack the ability to see things within context, outside of your own emotional view. You have supported your argument with emotional claims, and threatened Mr. Alfakyn and myself with more emotional outbursts yet! Is there anything in your mind besides your hurt feelings? It seems not! And thus, your lack of perspective glares through.

This document calls for tolerance -for- the Mali'aheral, not -from- them. Whether you like it or not, the plain fact is, we must live with other races. Despite your more radical views, it is unwise to have a public opinion of distain for our elven cousins. Or would you like a civil war? Would you prefer our Silver gates fall to your sense of pride, under the angry war-cry of the nations you regard publicly as beneath us? Ridiculous. We have no army. We must coexist. Hold to your purity--but the merest touch of perspective will tell you that a public opinion of distain for our allies is foolish.

You may not agree, Kalenz, but declaring superiority publicly is as good as declaring war. Or are you eager to destroy our nation so quickly?

This transgression is no less than defamation, and the decrying of doom for the Mali'aheral--all as a result of a mind clouded with emotion, which lacks ability to think outside the fog of anger.

Please refrain from such humiliating outbursts in the future, Mr. Uradir. We are happy to hear your concerns. But we would rather you embarrass yourself in private, rather than turning coat on your own beloved race in front of our esteemed cousins. And if you need it, we will wait for you to learn to use logic properly, and for you to finish your time-out with the other naughty children, of course.

No apology needed. Simply behave in the future, and all is forgiven.

Ensigned,

Ante'vuln Llumcelia Lazul.

*Ante'vuln carefully places a thick, cream colored piece of paper into the slot. It is closed with a bit of blue wax bearing the Tilruir'sil's seal. Spinning on her heel, she turns from the box, and traverses back along the road.*

To Whoever It May Concern,

The Mali'aheral have faced much pressure to merge with the elven nation. Haelun'or was always content to stand on its own, but in order to promote elven fraternity, a bond has been forged. For the better, our representative Princes assure us. We now lend our numbers to the Elven Nation, and cast our lot with the rest of yours.

And yet, the complaint is now against our union? What twisted logic is this? There is no way to appease some creatures, it seems. Unhappy with our independence, we kowtowed to the outcry against our outlying nation. But in merging, the anger remains for the exact opposite reason!

On another note, the popular denouncing of our cultural methodology as "racist" seems unfair. We protect purity because we believe that our individual traits as Mali'aheral are valuable and should be preserved. Amongst these traits, and not least amongst them, is longevity, and so by protecting purity, we protect life itself. Is it such a crime to preserve our own lives by differentiating ourselves?

Who is truly being prejudiced, here?

My suggestion for the council is to promote tolerance. The Mali'aheral nation has merged with her sisters, but the hostility received in return is disturbing, and far from welcoming and encouraging. We will not remain a part of a nation which reviles us. Therefore, all complaints against the Mali'aheral involving "racism" and such nonsense, should be wholeheartedly dismissed.

We wish to preserve our new bond and use it to perpetuate a grand elven future. This is impossible if our inclusion is predicated on hatred and poor understanding of our proud tradition.

Pride is not the enemy. Indeed, ignorance and righteous indignation will rend the nation into pieces.

Think well on this, Council.

Ensigned,

Ante'vuln Llumcelia Lazul

*The note is signed with a flourish, the signature detailed with careful penmanship.*

Ante'vuln turns her full address to the deliverer of the speech on superiority. Blinking at him, her lips quirk into an almost-smile. As she speaks, she turns her hands outward at her sides, palms facing toward him in an open gesture.

"I used the extreme as you did: to make a point," she makes a soft, thoughtful sound in her throat, "judgement is different from categorization. Males and females, for example, take their places in society based on mere impression of gender. This is proper, because implicit cannot be argued. So it is with race. Purity is a fact, much like gender. It is logical to draw conclusions from matters of fact."

She coughs a bit, placing a fist delicately over her mouth before resuming.

"But, much as notions of power and war, notions of religion are based on muddy logic and projection into the future," she sighs, hands clasping behind her back, "And we see how much good it does to abide by such standards."

Ante'vuln's head snaps upward, looking first to the dark haired mutt, and then to the sky-being worshipper. Her eyes begin to drift skyward; an ironical gesture, considering her conversation company's beliefs. For a moment or two, she gazes at the bits of sky visible through the upper canopy of the forest for a few moment, and sees nothing but blackness, punctuated by the faint presence of stars. No deities, though, she thinks, and and brings her gaze downward to level once more--first with the half-blood. She makes no remark, only watches him piteously for a moment or two.

She then turns to the preaching creature, and simply blinks.

"What is the difference," she intones carefully, voice reasonable but firm, "between a religious zealot and a racist? Only that belief in a deity starts holy wars, whilst belief in purity allows the children of the Mali'aheral to live for thousands of years."

Ante'vuln nods, her bemused expression fixed. A faint breeze ripples in the fabric of her cloak, causing it to ruffle a bit. She draws it close to her neck before continuing, hands tucking the fabric near.

"How I wish we could simply sit back and watch Malinor burn its fingers as it twiddles with dangerous notions of war. How I wish it were a matter of impudence, dealt with by allowing life to issue experimental tutelage." She sighs a bit, watching the leaping silhouette of flame in the dirt.

"Such luxuries may well be past, however. If Malinor falls, Haelun'or is unprotected. We have a small window of opportunity, where we can use our alliance for leverage. If we do not help them, they may not repeat their error--but that may be because they have been crushed flat by war-mongering fools who could easily extend a greedy fist to our beloved Silver City."

Ante'vuln watches the conversation take its turns, her gaze flitting between the participating speakers in succession. The fire crackles and snaps, a bit of ash crumbling and causing a log to shift as the weight is redistributed. After a moment of consideration, she speaks to Kalenz, her hands burrowing into her cloak pockets for warmth as she does.

"A child who causes himself a predicament is not always equipped to deal with the repercussions, llir."

She taps her chin in a pensive gesture, her profile cast in stark shadow by the glimmering firelight. She then turns to the dark haired stranger, tilting her head downward to address him thusly:

"War...or slavery is inevitable, no? Vagabonds and murderers, I find, lack a sense of reason or attention span," she hums a bit, "But my suggestion, Kalenz, is that perhaps we should offer aide at the cost of influence. It is my opinion that coercive affluence outweighs becoming inferiors, hiding away from a larger regime."

Ante'vuln shudders. Lost again, by Larihei--maps are useless, and even moreso in the dark. She's been wandering about for hours, the stars obscured by the greenery above. Without even a Northern light to guide her, she sighs, making to set down and wait for morning.

But in the distance, a fire glows. Ante'vuln turns to the sight of smoke, unmistakable as it rises above the trees. Walking in the direction of the fire, her palm tightens around a small blade upon her hip. However, Kalenz is a familiar face. Her grip loosens as she approaches those gathered, her eyes flicking amongst the elves and reflecting bits of light in the dusk. They murmur lowly, hardly noticing her--but she catches a few pieces of the conversation. Her brow lifts in response, and she makes a bow in greeting as a sedge way into an interruption.

"Hide us? I would think there were a much more prudent opportunity here."

Ante'vuln flicks the hem of her cloak with her shoe, looking down for a moment at the strange runes in the dust. Presently, her chin draws upward, and she speaks in a plain, lofty tone.

"Unless a coward's route is truly the operative, it would seem that Malinor needs allies. The Mali'aheral count, do they not?" she allows the ghost of a smile to play upon her lips, "Therefore, it would also seem that we do not have to live as fugitives at all."

((Cross posted from a long-ended competition it was formerly entered in.))

"Tell me again, how it's going to be?"

Ante'vuln lays, nestled against Arthane's shoulder, just under his chin. Already, she's become unused to sleeping without his familiar warmth against her side, his familiar scent filling her nose with each breath--Ante'vuln doesn't even know if she could sleep at all, without Arthane anymore. She doesn't tell him of course, but secretly, even on the nights where he is away traveling, she goes to bed cradling his old coat in her arms. She buries her face in the tattered material, just inhaling, breathing him and imagining he is still there with her-- on those nights when her husband is out of the City, it is the only way she finds peace.

Now, her fingers play across the lacing of his undershirt, and she listens to the rumble of his voice, words nearly indistinct as she presses her ear right up to his chest. His murmuring heartbeat is loud and visceral, thumping steadily. She loves that sound. Arthane's heartbeat is the most calming noise in the world, better than the chatter of crickets, the roll of the ocean, or call of a nightingale. To the rhythm of this heartbeat--Ante'vuln is sure she could sleep a hundred years, utterly content to never move at all, so long as he were there, holding her close enough to hear his heart thumping in her ear.

"Again, mayilu?" he chuckles, his large fingers running through her hair, which is splayed over the pillow. She nods fervently, clutching him closer, before pulling her head up to look at him. Making her green eyes large, she begs in a childish voice:

"Just once more? Please?"

He sighs, a happy noise, and drops a kiss on her forehead. "Very well," he agrees, and strokes the back of her head. She grins, and settles contently down against the sturdy expanse of his upper forearm. As he begins to speak, one of her hands slips reflexively down to stroke over her stomach. It has only faintly begun to protrude. The slightly rounded surface of her belly is warm under her hand as she runs a finger tenderly against the tiny bump. Her dress hides it well during the day, but Ante'vuln can feel how her figure is changing, becoming a bit softer and round each day.

"We're going to be so happy," Arthane promises, his voice a surge of certainty, "we'll raise our child right here in this home. We'll teach him to read in the parlor. He’ll take his first steps right here. We'll put him to bed each night, and tell him stories. We'll raise him, until he finds a wife of his own...and then, Ante'vuln...we'll be grandparents. And no grandchildren will ever be so loved."

Ante’vuln’s toes curl, and she closes her eyes, already imagining all he is telling her. Secretly, she hopes it really is a boy, and that he is exactly like Arthane. And that he is only a little bit of her, but only the good parts. She wants her child to be perfect, just like Arthane is—and he will be, of course he will be. When Arthane tells it like that, there is nothing Ante’vuln is more assured of. They’ll be the happiest—the best parents in the world.

She thinks to herself that she’d like to give her son a pair of golden boots. So that every step he takes, he’ll be touching precious metal. His world will be insulated, with value. This value will protect even his toes from the touch of filth. Gold is an insult in Mali’aheral culture, and her son will step upon the generations of impurity. In his glittering, golden boots, hers and Arthane’s son will walk above the world.

Arthane kisses her then, lips descending tenderly to the top of her head, as his hand reaches over to press against the rounding of her stomach.

“Sweet dreams, little one,” he murmurs quietly, “Maln loves you, already.”

And it seems as if her very heart bursts, when Ante’vuln catches the very faintest glimmer of tears on her husband’s usually stoic face.

After a time, Ante’vuln’s eyes begin to drift shut as she rests against Arthane’s chest. He wraps his arms around her, a weight that keeps her safe, warm and secure through the night. His slowing breath eases her into dreaming. She’s there within moments: an oar-less rowboat, drifting lazily out to sea.

[[ ]]

She wakes up screaming.

Arthane quickly shakes her, eye frantically roaming her face as he grips her arms, hard. Ante’vuln’s body is wracked with tremors, and sticky tears streak her cheeks. The room is hot, sweltering, and she can’t understand why it’s suddenly so warm. It’s almost swampy, suffocating, and her forehead is covered in a clammy sweat.

“Mayilu, are you all right?” Arthane’s worry causes his voice to heighten, his hands cupping her cheeks as he seeks to meet her wheeling eyes. When he does, and their gazes lock, she sees the fear in his expression, and deep in her chest, she feels it too.

“I…I…” she can’t formulate words. She’s still half-lost in a nightmare, body shaking in revolt. Sweat pours down her back, and the air feels hard to breathe. She grabs onto Arthane’s shoulder to steady herself.

Arthane touches her forehead with gentle fingers, and his eyes become large. She’s nauseous, teeth chattering, and Arthane grows solemn as he pulls his hand away, resting it under her jaw.

“Ante’vuln, you’re burning up,” he says, a terrified whisper.

She opens her mouth to speak, but just then, Arthane’s panic-ridden gaze falls to her pale hand, resting on his shoulder.

It is covered in blood.

He tosses the blankets back, and it is everywhere. Red, red smeared between the sheets, so much red that Ante’vuln feels dizzy. Arthane immediately scoops her into his arms, lifting her from the gory bedspread, and she feels a warm trickle down the side of her leg.

“You…you’re bleeding!” His voice is hoarse, disbelieving, but Ante’vuln clambers to the floor, stomach heaving in revolt as she tumbles to the bedside. She throws up, noisily, tears leaking down her cheeks and her shoulders quaking, harsh sobs tear through the animal retching sounds issuing from her mouth.

Arthane leans over quickly, worried hands tracing down her spine for token comfort. Ante’vuln shakes her head, no. No. No. NO.

Because it’s not her blood. Would that it were; she feels as if she’s bleeding, as if she’s bleeding from every pore as she realizes, realizes—Ancestors, Larihei—please. Please. Let it be her blood.

But it’s not her blood. She knows it, knows it so deeply that the knowledge threatens to choke her, cut off all her air. It’s her son’s. Her unborn son’s blood, violent and red between sheets, soaking through the bed she and Arthane had been dreaming in only moments ago. Her son’s blood, painting the mattress spread with horrifying red, and staining her skin with rust-scented crimson, painting her hands like a murder scene. She heaves again, and trembles and trembles and trembles.

And when Arthane and Ante’vuln meet eyes once again, it is with a gaze so heavy, it wears boots made of gold as it sinks to the bottom of the sea.

((Okay, any readers. These next -two- posts are pure angst of the most blatant variety. So, there is your warning.))

A column of elves files silently through the center of the open-air polis. Their somber gray robes are the color of ashes. Ante’vuln wears blue in sheer defiance. She almost regrets it now, as the eyes turn to her first, before flicking away.

The plucking of soft lute strings begins, and the murmur of voices in a low chant reverberates over the gathering. Elves join hands, an interlocked crowd of bowed heads as they hum, and mumble words in ancient Elvish, buzzing together in a deep rumble. The march reaches a small, silver tree in the center of a courtyard. The branches shudder slightly in a breeze; so does Ante’vuln. According to tradition, Larihei’s white trees are planted at the birth of an elf, and chopped down to use as a pyre upon her death. This one has had only a few hundred years to grow. The axe in Ante’vuln’s hand trembles as she draws near, and rumbling ceases.

A small jar of ashes already rests at the foot of the tree. It will only be a representational burning today.

Ante’vuln pushes her hood back to her shoulders. Raising the axe in hand, she swings it, landing the sharp side deep into the trunk of the tree. Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, the impact ringing in her body. She struggles to breathe against the shock, fighting to do anything but burst into tears. Her hands twitch around the tool’s handle, and she abruptly yanks the wedged blade from the bark. She strikes again, and again--the sound of hacking punctuating the silence. Splinters fly from the tree’s assaulted side, and Ante’vuln fails to notice the long scratch a passing-by bit of projectile wood leaves on her cheek.

She ceases, at long last, shoulders heaving, and she steps backward. The small gathering watches intently as the tree wavers, upright but upheld by only a few centimeters of substance. A stray wind rustles through the branches, and it falls, crashing backward and filing quiet with sound.

Ante’vuln watches with the rest of the gathering. The tree’s creaking descent signals the lute’s playing to pick up once more. The elves begin to murmur, and Vuln simply stares at the fallen trunk, the axe falling from her hand with a quiet thump to the floor.

The elves who had filed behind Ante’vuln now move around her. They walk around, and quickly begin to chop the tree into pieces, stacking branches and segments of wood atop each other in a large triangular formation on the ground. From the group of Mali’aheral standing around them, a few approach now. They bring more objects, that are added to the pile. A few journals, a gown, a collection of letters, a pair of shoes, a hairbrush--these too, join the growing pile of tinder at the front of the gathering. Ante’vuln recognizes most of these items, can imagine them back in their proper places in Esmer’s manor. She watches these things placed amongst the kindling, and then she blinks, suddenly unable to remember how to move her body.

The workers accomplish their task rather efficiently. In what seems like no time to Ante’vuln, the white tree is reduced to firewood, and Esmer’s belongings are piled in the midst of it. Someone ticks of a flint, and a single spark flies downward before it catches on the wood. Smoke immediately begins to curling out from the stack--greenery sending billows of white into the skies. The elves melt into a singular gathering, except for Ante’vuln, who still cannot fathom how to move out of the way.

“Esmer,” she whispers quietly, the name tasting odd as she struggles to catch herself, speaking it. The wood begins to crackle, a dry and empty sound much like her gasping voice. Ante’vuln places a hand on her throat. The elves continue to chant as the fire leaps higher. She blinks some more, swaying on her feet as the flames turn fabric, pages, and tinder into smoky blackness, curling away into ash before her very eyes. Someone pulls her into the crowd. She doesn’t feel herself drawing back, isn’t aware of anything but the heat on her face and the smoke in her lungs.

The last time, she hadn’t even tried to say goodbye to Esmer. She’d known that she couldn’t.

She watches the fire growing higher, orange light gleaming in her eyes. Someone says something; Ante’vuln hears Esmer’s name in it, and turns around as if to check to see if she might be there. There is nothing, only elves dressed in funeral garb, and Ante’vuln whirls back to face the pyre once again. Her fingers press into the sides of her face, and Ante’vuln can’t breathe; she can’t breathe.

And suddenly, she is screaming. Nails digging into her cheeks, her vision fades, graying at the edges, shouting cries choked out of her to mix with the burning air. The sound is drowned out by the violent crackling and spluttering of the fire, the tinny picking of the lute, the droning chant. Ante’vuln’s body is hollow, her face pointed upward. Someone grips her elbow; someone kneels at her side. She shrieks wordlessly, mouth agape and head jerking back and forth. The sky turns overhead, dizzy and blue--the same color as Ante’vulns cloak that now mixes with the mud below.

“Esmer! Esmer!”

Ante’vuln looks frantically, unseeingly about to the piteous, horrified faces around her. She cannot keep track of the swirling bodies, the eyes and faces and funeral-grey cloaks. Her voice strains--she has ceased hearing herself, tears pouring down her cheeks as she claws at the ground. A few pat at her back, speaking uselessly soothing things that do not register with the shrieking elf on her knees. The rest give her a small berth, stepping away and creating a ring of space around her.

Somewhere, Ante’vuln thinks she can hear birds, and two small elves laughing, sitting in the branches of a funeral tree before it ever hit the ground. That was a century ago, and she can hear it all now, ringing in her ears with the softening chants that are only just beginning fade, as the smoldering flame dies down.

All is quiet. Ante’vuln is quiet. The elves begin to disperse, but she remains. As she rises, she notices her cloak, now muddy brown and flecked with ash. She supposes that she’s dressed for a funeral after all.

((Ahh. Below is just some background doodling. Thought I'd post it, because I enjoyed writing it, and it gives quite a bit of personal insight into this character, for those that find pleasure in looking through such things. So, this is just in case anyone is interested, I suppose.))

Ante’vuln remembers the first time she fell in love. She thinks falling is an odd way to describe that feeling. Mostly because, it wasn’t that much like falling at-all. It was more like waking up, and realizing that she was no longer in the same place she’d fallen asleep. That disorienting, slightly terrifying realization that everything was different, and nothing was the way she’d expected it to be. She’d spent the next months--Ancestors, she’d spend the next years--in various states utter terror. The issue resolved itself soon enough, however. Ante’vuln had watched Esmer walk down the aisle to meet her husband, and all those years evaporated in a puff of broken dreams and dashed hopes.

Ah well, Ante’vuln thinks to herself, what had she expected from the woman who’d twisted her gut into knots? Better treatment for her heart? Love makes fools of all, even those of us without the courage to admit to it. Ante’vuln truly didn’t feel better, for having been humiliated in privacy. But her saving sense of Mali’aheral pride, handed down through haughty generations of silver-blooded Llumcelias, had kept her shredded dignity a crucial secret. The day Ante’vuln left Laurelin was the day she’d put her aching heart to sleep.

She needn’t have bothered, as it turned out. Her heart hadn’t ended up with much more than a nap.

The second time had been different. She hadn’t even known Ellir, not really. It’d been more like a revelation, seeing her for the first time. This was a bit unfair, in retrospect. Ante’vuln hadn’t known, until that moment, that feelings could have physical impact. But this time, love had hit her like a ton of rocks dropping from above.

In the end, it had gone over as well as one would expect from such a scenario. Feelings are dropped on one’s head, and she tends to be squashed. Ante’vuln in fact, had debated in a painful daze afterward, whether Ellir had regarded her so much as an annoying mosquito, buzzing about her head, or just a rather distasteful wart. There were interesting arguments for both sides. On the one hand, Ante’vuln certainly felt like a swatted insect, with her insides smeared on her outsides. But equally compelling was the idea that Ellir found her unpleasant enough to simply ignore, so that others might not judge Ante’vuln’s affections as an infectious blight upon the other’s fair complexion.

Though, Ante’vuln had learned an important lesson that day. Hearts were stupid, heedless creatures, and that hers in particular, was a bit of a masochist.

Ante’vuln’s limited and traumatizing experience with love, however, did not answer her current questions. So far, she’d known what it was to long, to dream, and to have hope hang her by a noose and dangle her over the very flame of her own desires. It may sound an unpleasant way to describe the phenomena of love, but Ante’vuln wasn’t truly jaded to it. Only wary, as one becomes with a dog who has bitten her time and time again. You’d hardly blame her for expecting the creature to sink its teeth on the next occasion. Ante’vuln was an elf who subscribed to the idea that life worked in patterns, logical and systematic. She only had to watch long enough in order to discover what those patterns might be.

In a hundred years, Ante’vuln thought she had love fairly figured. If it were a pattern, it went like this: Hope, Despair, Hope, Despair, Hope, Hope, Resolution. The resolution being her heart a bloodied, spattered mess on the bottom of some woman’s shoe.

But none of this, answered The Arthane Question.

In particular, the question of his smile.

The first thing of note was that it wasn’t an attractive smile. Much unlike Esmer, who had dazzled her once with pearlescent white teeth and luminous grey eyes--Ante’vuln had been understandably smitten. She’d hardly questioned it. Of course she’d been enraptured; it would have been more unnatural not to have been!

Ellir’s smile, in another way entirely, had awakened something in Ante’vuln that had refused to be put back to sleep. The errant toss of Ellir’s head, the confident, unshakeable quality of her manner spoke to all of Ante’vuln’s own insecurities. Afterall, Ante’vuln had never felt quite at home in the world. Perhaps, when Ellir smiled at her with so much pride, she fathomed that there was a place for her afterall. The mere idea of it had been intoxicating, a revelry Ante’vuln had pursued with blind fervor until it collapsed under the weight of unforgiving reality. ...The reality of Ellir’s indifference to her, as it were. It had been a rather disillusioning moment.

But Arthane Lazul was no dazzler. Ante’vuln was sure no-one would ever think to describe him that way. In honesty, when she had first met him, she had found it difficult not to stare at him, for the elf looked as if he’d been chewed and spit out. Half his face was gruesomely burnt, rendering a permanent sneer of one side of his mouth. Even when he smiled (she’d only seen it once, in response to something Lucion had said), the burnt corner of his lips had remained mostly frozen, lending a charred cynicism to the expression--a constant smirk, as if he were leering at the world. His eye, the dead one, looked on indifferently, never moving or blinking or shifting from its fixed course ahead. Its dull, whitish retina stared into the abyss, and Ante’vuln wondered nonsensically, if Arthane saw the future as he looked on with his dead eye, occurring before him. And she wondered, if that future were so depressing and bleak as to cause the permanent look of displeasure on one side of the elf’s tortured face.

Arthane wasn’t inspiring or charming, either. In fact, he said hardly anything at all, and when he did speak, it was in a gruff manner, as if his voice were loathe in its use. If Ellir had inspired hope, Arthane inspired pity, and discomfort.

...And fascination. Ante’vuln could not even begin to deny that she found Arthane to be interesting, even if it were morbidly so. She curbed her instinct to stare openly at him out of courtesy, for she had been sure he was used to such treatment and felt a sense of injustice that he should be victim to these instances of unflattering gawkery. But all the same, she watched him--discreetly. For at least, out of the corner of her eye, she couldn’t seem to look away from him.

But when he’d smile at her, directly at her for the first time, it had been another matter entirely.

Ante’vuln’s heart had done something it never had before.

It had flipped over. Not raced. Not stopped. But performed a strange, acrobatic trick in her very ribcage that made her wonder if her heart was about to stop functioning at all.

Now she wonders if it might not have been a fluke. For it is not at all an isolated incident. And she doesn’t seem to be dying, so it’s not a sign that her heart’s simply choosing a confusing moment to fail her.

No, indeed. This was not at all the pattern love had followed in Ante’vuln’s short years. Perhaps a century was not enough time to learn about love after all.

(I don't care if this is a dead topic. I want to play!)

Four hours, eighteen minutes, twenty eight seconds.

Ante'vuln counts the moments to prevent her mind from becoming lost to the sounds of shrieking. Her tiny fists curl so tightly into themselves that her ink-blackened fingernails dig out fleshy crescents in her palms. Acaele's puffy, tear-stained face is reddened with his righteous rage. His voice is becoming ragged from all the screaming, a raspy defiance that reverberates between the stone walls of her manor. What had aggravated him again? She is losing her ability to recall. Doubtlessly, it was something unfathomable to Ante'vuln, but unendingly crucial in Acaele's young mind. She is losing this fight anyway, being the less determined of the two. When her threats, pleas, and punishments had failed her, she'd only to watch her enraged son throw himself to the floor and kick about. For four hours, twenty two minutes, and fifteen seconds now.

She hears her husband stir upstairs; Arthane has apparently managed to sleep through Acaele's wrath. Ante'vuln both envies him, and feels grateful for his uncanny ability to find sleep. They needn't both suffer, after all.

Presently, Acaele coughs, choking on his own angry tears. Ante'vuln issues a tired sigh and shakes her head. For all the ways the boy resembled his father, he had definitely received his mother's bull-headed stubbornness. Four hours, twenty five minutes, forty nine seconds of this, and Acaele is unshaken in his resolve to disrupt the entirety of Haelun'or.

A almost ethereal yowl, however, startles even Acaele into a moment of quiet. He looks up to his mother, his sticky pink face filled with wonder, and Ante'vuln seizes the moment to distract him.

"Come, little one. Let us go discover the source of the dreadful noise, hmm?" Acaele nods almost immediately--and Ante'vuln thanks the Ancestors her son was born with the natural sense of curiosity so prominent in Mali'aheral children.

Mother and son vacate the manor, Acaele's warm hand clutched tightly within Ante'vuln's. They make their Acaele-paced way toward the source of the unsettling sound, and at length come upon the small group gathered at the gates. An instinct causes Ante'vuln to pull Acaele to her side in a protective manner as she gazes at the feral-looking creature perched beside Lucion, Faerni and Dio. Her glittering claws inspire Ante'vuln's hand to tighten minutely about her son's fingers.

"karin'ayla, lliran," Ante'vuln's voice betrays fatigue, but her tone is brightly courteous as she dips her head in greeting toward the elves and Kha before her. Her gaze trails and lingers upon the cat-like personage. Remembering herself, Ante'vuln speaks quickly, to cover the pause.

"And who is our guest today?"

A cloak rustles, its hem skimming over the ground. It flutters, shimmering movement obscuring hurried footsteps with its waving sundry. The cloak halts, billowing out in a puff as all other motion ceases. A gasp tumbles from parted lips, tucked into the folds of the garment. The fabric bears the stains and memorials of so many emotions such as this. For this cloak is a friend as much as a shelter, in that it is practically a tapestry of experience. A warm weight against its faithful owners' shoulders, it is worth as much as two bracing hands. It wraps around the quivering chest and shivering arms beneath it--the cloak knows that death is the most penetrating cold, and tries to alleviate the chill as it clings and enfolds the silent wearer with its token protection.

The cloak crumples to the ground to accommodate kneeling, its hem brushed out of the way to prevent becoming dyed with the violent, murky crimson (this is an experience the cloak does not wish to commemorate with gory issue). An utterance is muffled by a comforting sleeve pressed against it. At length, a stray breeze lifts the cloak from a cheek, where a horror-stricken tear is blown off course.

"Larihei forbid." But it seemed She hadn't. The cloak began to realize that Larihei permitted a great many things. She was the Ancestor, and blood prevented nothing. It was so easily spilled after all.

The details are missed. The cloak shelters a pair of glassy eyes with the solace of shadowed depths. The cloak bears witness to an emptying of vile, acidic sickness, and much heaving and shuddering. It stops trying to provide warmth; there are no cloaks to guard heart from chill.

"Sleep, brother." It's a whisper, and only the cloak knows the secret of it. Not even the cloak however, can separate the pity and the fear.

The cloak moves off, to summon help in moving the body. The hood is drawn tighter, closer to the grieving face. The airy, protective fabric, ruffled by the jerky retreat bears the parade of tears with grace; sheltering the weary for a while beneath gauzy, familiar depths.

*Ante'vuln attaches a response, pencilled quickly onto a sheet of parchment.*

The Parir'tiran's jurisdiction is restricted to Haelun'or, as they are objects of the Haelun'orian government.

Whilst all Mali'aheral should strive for purity in theory, it is beyond the powers any single being or body of beings to reign supreme as judges without the boundary of existing government.

Therefore, in Haelun'or resides the authority of the Parir'tir, where the support of the people guides their power.

*Ante'vuln carefully fastens yet another official-looking announcement to the board. It is penned neatly, free of scribbled-out mistakes and carefully scripted across the page.*

Blessed Mali'aheral, you have spoken. We now have three new judges, to protect The Silver City from crimes of lewdness and bring justice to all offenders!

Congratulations Lucion Sullas, Arthane Lazul, and Seth Calith

Ante'vuln Lazul .

maehr'sae hiylun'ehya. Here shall be listed your duties, should you accept them.

Judges, please attach your signed acceptance of terms to this notice.

From this point on, you shall be known as one of the Parir'tir.

As a harbinger of law, your job is to enforce, interpret, and uphold the letter of the land. Aside from model citizenship in general and as a whole, your behavior must strictly follow the guidelines of Haelun'orian rule. Any offending Parir'tir can be impeached by vote of his fellow judges, or by referendum vote by the city. Should you lose the faith of your followers, you are not guaranteed a trial. The eyes of those who you serve, and those of your fellow judges, shall decide your fate, should you stray. Be vigilant, and be pure--you are now an example to us all.

In court, you shall be addressed as Sirame. The honorific comes attached to the trust you now bear. You shall be treated with the utmost respect within your own court chambers, as your word becomes the fate of those under your jurisdiction.

Responsibilities of the Citizen

Duties of we who reside under the discretion of the Parir'tir:

Mali'aheral citizens and privileged, permitted visitors accept the terms of Haelun'orian law. This is implied. It is your duty as a citizen or permitted visitor to be aware of law. Ignorance of the law does not absolve you. You shall be brought to justice, even if you plead ignorance. The social covenant cannot be enforced, if those partaking cannot be held accountable.

It is also ALL citizens' blessed duty to report observed offenses to any member of the Parir'tir panel. If any Mali'aheral citizen sees another citizen commit acts of lewdness that violate existing law, it is the assigned task of that citizen to immediately report to any member of the Parir'tir. If it is found that a citizen has WITHHELD information about a crime committed--that citizen will be tried as a guilty bystander. Failure to report a crime goes to the assumption that the citizen protecting the offender supports and therefore violates by their support, the spirit of the law himself.

Mali'aheral citizens and privileged permitted visitors accept the decisions of the Parir'tir council as law. Once a formal sentence is issued, the decisions of the panel of Parir'tir become law. Resistance of their judgement shall be held as a criminal act, to be punished by the same council by means of force if necessary.

If served with a referral, you are hereby compelled to appear on the requested court date. And may the Ancestors have mercy on you.

If requested by a member of the Parir'tir to perform an act of service or sentencing, citizens are compelled to do so.

Responsibilities of the Parir'tir

Duties of the official judges of Haelun'or

Judges shall swiftly and consistently respond to all reports of criminal actions. Reports of lewd misconduct MUST be investigated. If a citizen should report a crime to any member of the Parir'tir, that member must convene with the other members of the panel to decide upon a trial date for the offender. Once the trial date is decided, the offending citizen will be served with an official referral. This referral will state the date and time by which the citizen is obligated to appear.

Judges shall be impartial, fair and thorough. You are not required to summon witnesses of any kind when trying an accused citizen. However, the citizen must be carefully considered before the sentencing occurs, which may be assisted by the summoning of witnesses in order to gauge extenuating circumstances. The accuser may also be examined, should his or her claim appear suspicious. During trials, it is up to the fine discernment of a Parir'tir to see to it that justice is served, and the punishments fit the nature of the crime.

Judges must vote before making a decision. A Parir'tir cannot enact punishment or sentence without two thirds support from the panel.

Judges must announce and open trials to the public, so that their decisions are visible to all. Furthermore, their decisions must be posted afterward, so that all citizens may become familiar with their leadership. Judges are held accountable for all decisions by the citizens.

Judges must attempt to be consistent in their decision making, and therefore must keep a record of decisions to refer back upon.

Judges are charged with not only interpreting, but enacting justice. Once a punishment is decided, it is the judges' duty to make certain that punishment is also served.

Judges are charged with obtaining all resources necessary to serve justice. Should the tasks of record keeping or punishment enacting prove too taxing on the council of Parir'tir's time and energy, the judges herby have the power to appoint inferiors to carry through with their decisions. Any citizen requested by a Parir'tir to carry out an act of justice pertaining to the court system, is compelled to do so.

Strength, Parir'tiran, and may the Larihei's wisdom guide you!

Ante'vuln examines the boards. A crowded mass of papers, given restless motion by a stray breeze--she searches for a blank spot amongst the notices for yet another. There is room for no new documentation, so she decides to place the notice on top of a few older ones. Unrolling her heavy scroll and placing it against the firm surface, she pins it atop its age-yellowed fellows. There. It'd have to do, she supposes.

Attention Mali'aheral of the grand city of Haelun'or:

The time has come! We must put the trust of many within a few! You, lliran, must choose who best exemplifies the notions of maehr'sae hiylun'ehya. You must select from our citizens, who justice favors.

It is no small thing I ask of you. In order to bring The Silver City from her knees, we all must rise. Rise to the challenge of building what does not exist yet, rise to usher in a new era--a new peace, security, and purity within our honored company.

I move that we elect elves to -three- positions open as judges, as per the requirements of the referendum.

Without further ado, I present this set of instructions:

Each of you is granted two votes. You have two says in this manner, so to speak.

You may cast two opinions, which shall be counted as your right as citizen designates. You may either nominate a fellow elf to a position, or second someone else's nomination. You must cast your opinion twice, but you may use these votes in any manner you wish; for either nominations or seconds.

For an example, I shall cast my own votes.

I nominate Lucion Sullas as a justice.

I second my own nomination, as my second movement.

Cast your ballots, citizens! They shall be counted as a matter of public record, and you shall know that you have been truly represented!

((Goodness! So many new faces. To clarify, after all the confusion, yes. This stack of letters is hidden safely inside the well-guarded College of Haelun'or. Outsiders may have a hard time accessing it. -However- this thread is meant as a place for pure character expression. Personally, if you can use just a bit of roleplay to justify it, I don't mind stretching to accommodate the inclusion of Haelun'or's outsiders. Please don't be discouraged, newcomers. You have the option to simply pay a trip to Haelun'or--if you are High Elven, you likely won't have much trouble getting the OK from the guards to visit--and then add your trip to the library as a roleplay post. Or..I will accept the enchanted bluebird stint, simply because it is rather creative. I'm flattered you wish to play along, all of you!))

Ante'vuln shuffles into the library. Her hunched shoulders and drooping eyelids indicate that she is exhausted. She nearly laughs at the notion; why is she not used to this feeling by now? Constant exhaustion does not breed immunity, nor tolerance, apparently. She has but a moment; soon Acaele will wake. But for this brief period in time, there is a bit of peace. At least for a few minutes, Ante'vun decides she can afford some indulgence. Sinking down into her familiar desk at the back of the hall, she places her head upon the wood tabletop, and closes her eyes.

But as her body falls forward, a rustling is heard. Sitting up abruptly, Ante'vuln begins feeling under the desk for the source of the misplaced sound.

By Larihei. She'd almost forgotten.

My dearest and most illustrious lliran,

The other day, a tiny moth landed upon my cheek. I would have dusted him away, but he was gone too soon. As he fluttered through filtered shadows of the the barely-lit darkness, I remembered a saying my mother used to utter:

"Worry not. It is no more than the breath of a moth's wing."

I felt profoundly aware of how many small creatures are flicked away, for their existences are regarded as so small. But I felt glad, that I had not snuffed this ones'.

Perhaps one day, a much larger creature will spare me the same way. My heartbeats may flutter even as a moth's wings, but somewhere, I hope I'd be missed. Perhaps my nighttime friend's little insect children will thank me tonight.

It seems our correspondence has be borne upon a journey of a most peculiar nature! How odd, that this very stack of papers has travelled beyond these walls, when I myself so seldom gaze even to the extent of the gate bridge's end.

It is humbling. Perhaps I need to travel more. A haven's temptations hold more securely than prison bars, it seems.

She-who-walks:

I must address you first, for you fascinate me. May I be frank and tell you that I should like to meet you? I shan't, likely, for if you live outside the stone of Haelun'or--the chances of divining your identity from a collection of anonymous letters is next to impossible. Nor would I try to unearth your identity, for as my policy with these letters goes:

You are free of the outside world, here. It is the unbreakable covenant within this 'society.' I would not seek to destroy the sacred bond of trust this covenant implies.

But I find your story so very compelling. How many know the pain of awaiting a lover's words? The vulnerability one feels is astounding; so many factors you cannot know or influence. Circumstance non-withstanding, perhaps the feelings of the other alone are the most terrifying. In the silence of a lover, one realizes how little say she has in whether she is hurt. If her lovers feelings change, if he decides he should not be with her, if he find love with another...all these small occurrences have the possibility to rot an elfess from within! And yet, she cannot change the outcome, should these circumstances befall her! She can only await the hand of fate to write her small destiny! How ridiculous! How tragic!

Your brother's fate plagues my heart as well. I hope you learn, dear shadows-and-light walker, to put aside the guilt. This guilt is illogical, and though a tempting burden to shoulder in your brother's memory--it is a weight you do not deserve. Ill-doers scarcely improve by collapsing under self imposed hatred.

I beseech you, averir'llum, find your peace. I bid your tears cinh. Your mourning need not survive till the next sunrise.

As for Nameless:

Your words are beautiful. You see much. There is an elf in the city who owes you more than she could say, simply because you never fail to find her where she hides. You were maybe the first to ever know her secrets.

As Velulaei above becomes but a rim of glitter upon the dawn, I think we shall meet again, lliran.

Write to me soon, should the Ancestors compel you.

Ante'vuln paces; it's becoming a habit. The calluses on the backs of her feet are growing raw, though ancient wounds can no longer blister nor burst. A hundred years of pacing in high heeled shoes have taught Ante'vuln a great many things. It is in these sessions of restless pacing that she does her best thinking. These shoes have seen revelation in their day.

-Well, not these in particular. These are relatively new, as it were--a gift from a relative, sent as a wedding present. And luxe gift at that, indeed, for the shoes are made of fine rustic silk, and encrusted with stones. Done in a rare shade of teal-blue, the footwear is regal in its rich color and glittering accent. It is also graceful, trim and high as it ought--only one with good breeding could walk in these shoes with dignity. Ante'vuln possesses that, and perhaps, she thinks, this is what the shoes are really meant for. Not as a congratulatory token...but instead a reminder. A elaborate nudge, to remember how she got her calluses.

She shakes her head. As if she could forget.

The strap around her left ankle slips a millimeter. Ante'vuln fails to notice the shift, lost to her thoughts as she clacks along her stone foray. But a few more lengths, and she feels slick wetness, coating the back of her foot. Ah yes. They may cause skin to toughen, but even the old ones bleed.

My bones itch. My blood irritates them as it flows along, sweeping through my veins as it pumps uselessly inside my frame. This hearth does nothing to warm the chill that lurks inside my chest. The mantle piece is no place to set my troubles.

Useless, I say. My City lies in disrepute. Larihei and a thousand leagues of Mali'aheral boil with rage in my very body, aching at the sight of the filth. The betrayal. The decay in this tomb I've built my home within.

Never can there be peace in such times. The burden of living a thousand years is to see the world rebuild itself, and forget you. In all truth, it would forget me no matter what I did. But I do not worry for myself.

I will not watch all I love disappear like falling water. The rain soaks beneath the soil, and I shall bring it springing forth once more.

Haelun'or must awaken, and if I shall dull my lungs and throat shouting in her ear, so be it. The Sleeping City arisen, for substance-less dreams do not satisfy the Ancestors. My son shall not grow old within a crypt. My husband did not choose a docile woman to sit and mend his clothing.

By the purity of her silver witness, and as Larihei's heir--a child of the Mali'aheral:

My blood is calling, and it shall be answered.

*Ante'vuln reads over the note a few times and inhales deeply. She steadies herself upon her feet, and at last releases the long, slow following breath. "No going back now; maybe I never could have." Her gaze hardens, wide green eyes narrowing as her small shoulders are pushed back. Her response is penned, and fastened to her bird's leg for delivery.*

"To the counsel of Tilruiran,

If you are to discuss the referendum, I should much like to be in attendance. Perhaps I might be allowed to answer to the doubtlessly inevitable quandaries that will arise upon its discussion? If that is entirely inappropriate, I do have full faith that my partner in conception of the referendum in question can just as easily respond to any qualms or difficulties that arise. In any case, whether I should be granted permission to speak or not--I should very much like to at least watch the proceedings.

I shall attend at my husband's side--who is required to attend as well, as his position as Tilruir'sil would dictate.

karin'ayla,

Ante'vuln Lazul."

*Ante'vuln approaches the forums, feet shuffling brusquely beneath the hem of her gown. After reading each of the replies left pinned beneath the original document, she takes the blank scroll from under her arm. Leaning against the boards in order to inscribe her reply against a flat surface, Ante'vuln retrieves her ink and quill. She writes her answer, feather tip between her lips as she works. *

In answer to the quandaries raised in regards to this motion:

Lliran,

The main points I'd like to address which answer the concerns of the attuned citizens of Haelun'or:

• Oem: The question of whether it is fitting to permanently mark the visage of a criminally indicted citizen, under penalty code ata has been offered as point of contention.
  
  To this, I give you the answer that yes, in general, it is quite unbefitting for a proper Mali'aheral to be marked in a permanent manner. If skin is indicative of purity, we must uphold its natural state as a sign of racial propriety. However Laurelin law has been an example for the origin of this punishment. Our Ancestors branded and cast out traitors out of high society. The branding served as a statement that the purity of the offender had been -damaged beyond repair-. Thus, the nature of this law strives to indicate the same message. Offenders who earn this degree of punishment are the holders of damaged purity, and the exterior is simply made to match what has been ruptured within.

• Niut: The death penalty is a point of much distress, and rightly so.
  
  Taking the life of another Mali'aheral is unforgivable. Here I do not suggest we descend into anarchy and slay our own with abandon. Perhaps it may not even come to pass, that by this law, a single elf is slain. That is my hope, lliran. I do not wish to launch an inquisition wherein murder becomes fact and figure.
  
  But this law is not meant for those with hope for reeducation. This law is not meant for even the most reproachable of violations. This law serves one simple purpose. This is as a reminder of the gravity that such sins of lewdness hold. The law must be ABLE to punish to the degree the trespassing moral vagrant has drifted. And more importantly, the drifter must know that they are to be held responsible for their sins. And that to be held in such a manner is no laughing, shrugging affair. The purpose, lliran--is to simply give teeth to the law, though Larihei forbid we are called to utilize them.
  
  Should this still cause grievance, and my logic fall upon eyes yet disbelieving, I shall edit the document to accomodate the morally opposed.

• Hael: In regards to the insistence upon marriage before fraternization occurs, this is based upon a basic principle of societal contractual conventions. Should we adopt a liberal position upon what is acceptable fraternizing behavior, excuses quickly fly to offenders lips. I do not want to give lee-way to disagreements surrounding physical intimacy. The furthering of our race is integral, but equally integral is the idea of social obligation. The moment we excuse extramarital excursions, we allow any union a chance to gain legitimacy under the guise of reproduction. Marriage implies a responsibility when engaging in relations. Marriage acknowledges duty to the city, and takes official posturing in order to legitimize a union. Marriage is the ONLY city sponsored type of union, and thus, is the ONLY means of non-purity damaging fraternization.

The spirit of this new set of laws is one of necessity. I find myself having to add to the list of offenses "Physical fraternization of an incestuous nature." Even in Uruk societies, this is seemingly an obvious law. But here, so grossly abused as our lack of awareness, our lack of discipline for such grossly inappropriate behavior has brought unspeakable offense upon us. lliran, we must uproot these horrors, and pick ourselves out of the mire. If conduct must be coded in order to be upheld--so shall it be

-Ante'vuln Lazul.