TwilightWolf

"With this, let it be known; that those of the great bloodline of Hawksong shall henceforth be considered kin to those who are of the bloodline of Valin'dar, and vice versa." The declaration rang out from the home of the once-Puerokar manor, now draped with the vibrant purple hues of the Valin'dar. "The lances and steeds of Machana's favored will forever ride beside the children of the Owl and Moon." The echoing response filled the hall of the dark elven lord and ladies with the golden voice of the elder elfess. A great, joyous cacophony of cheering, laughter, and feasting followed thereafter. The Twilit Folk of House Hawksong and the Ashen Kin of Valin'dar raised glasses and toasts that evening in camaraderie, friendship, and cooperation in the wake of the scandalous betrayal of Tahorran and Puerokar. In both Halls of each of the Great Houses, a jointly signed document from each house head is placed in their general gathering spaces. "By the cooperation and honorable joint actions of both Valin'dar and Hawksong do we announce a pact of kinship between the Twilit Folk and the Ashen Folk. Within the shadows of recent trials, a new friend has been found in the heat of challenge for each bloodline. May our kin draw blades and break bread together, and share the cultural boons of each heritage. It is a pledge to aid one another in times of health and of challenge, spiritually and physically. Blessed be, Machana's favored and Ohowaki's chosen!"

Despite the tense expressions of the four present, the Hinterlands hummed with their usual naturesong. The Warden keep rose over the treetops like a great obelisk, the eyes of those within peering out into the emerald ocean of canopy with regret held in their eyes. “You’re certain of this?” The ashen elf murmurs. The snowy locks over his brow dance in the firelight of the keep as he looks between his three companions. The crown above his head mirrors the watchful gaze of the Hound, High Prince Evar’tir. The bearded elder nods. Sevrel Valin’dar gave a sigh in disappointment, pity even - not for his comrades, but for the foolishness of the one that they spoke. The dark elven was the Bulwark of Elvenesse, yet it was still a distressing shock to know that his foes had come from within. “It seems that they have the support of the entire Puerokar Seed, and allegedly… the Tahorran kin.” Amaesil’s auburn head turns to Sevrel. The Young Fox was as cunning as his namesake, and his eyes reflected the confirmation of his suspicions. The Exarch had his hunches, yet it was still disconcerting to hear the truth unfold before him. “Any others?” he asks with his typical confident tone, but there was certainly a gnawing in his gut that he could not ignore. The lone silver-gold headed Aerendyl draws in a sharp breath as Sevrel responds. “An… undisclosed number of allied individuals.” The TimberWolf’s form shook with a nauseating concoction of fury and betrayal. He recalled the days when his House was supporting the Tahorran seed financially, and those adventures that he had with them upon the wild waters of the world. “Those craven snakes... ” he laments, his expression yielding a rare and genuine look of despair. “This nation is my family, my kin, brothers and sisters… my home.” Sevrel speaks up among the brief silence as the four came to terms with the information. “Valin’dar with with you all, for the titles and roles we have are nothing- it is for this family that I will oppose this scheme.” “You have my sword.” Amaesil resounds, the Young Fox leading a quiet rally between the four. “And my glaive.” Aerendyl echoes, turning his gaze too towards the High Prince and leaning upon his wolven-headed staff grimly. The cogs were in motion. The four Lords returned home. They returned to their beds, their family, their wives, and prayed for forgiveness for what must be done. Nobody expected the seats to be lined with so many interested folk... Ithalanen, kin of the Usurper, the Savoyard men, the Ichorians... "Rylleah, I have no doubt that you did not know what Tahlia had done without your permission. And for this, your life will be spared. The docks will be eliminated, and Tahlia is eternally banished." "500 mina for her alive, half for her head." the High Prince chimed in, just as the Puerokar seed was summoned to the center of the room. "Pancho Puerokar, you and your seed have been accused of high treason against the crown. Care to explain yourself?" he echoes throughout the throne room... just as a familiar face shows up from behind the Puerokar lineup. Sevrel marched in with a legion of Orenian lineman. He sternly looked up to the High Prince and pointed his longsword accusingly up to the dark elven Prince. "My Lords, it has come to my attention that there is a situation." The Dark Elf steps forward to the front and looks Evar'tir right in the eyes. "This man has lied to his people, betrayed our honour, and has no right to rule! Me and my lliran are here to deal with this tyrant, once and for all. My people are loyal to the cause, and I shall no long stand for this. You shall be put down!” He shouts, still glaring at the elves atop the platform. Then, he turns around to Pancho Puerokar, and points his blade towards the wood elf. “ARREST THESE TRAITOROUS DOGS!” Like the heartbeat of a great titan, the footfalls of the Wardens marched down the great spiral of the citadel down into the heart of the cavern. There, they halted in a methodical line before the manor of Puerokar. The distant memories of this seed pleading for help from a depraved member beating his son rang in their mines like a distant foghorn. Things could have been so much different… but the fires flew from the line of elves regardless, and with it their disgust and fury at the Puerokar manipulation. No more abuse, no more false cries for help, only the baptism of cleansing embers and righteous retribution. It was a shame. A damn shame, even. Stewards were of this seed, prospective Wardens of Hinterlands, even a capable commander… All to waste. As much as Amaesil, Aerendyl, Sevrel, and Evar’tir hated to be reminded of it, it wasn’t just Mankind who may fall to the desire for power. They looked on not with smiles, nor a glimmer of joy in their eyes, but with regret. This was no joyous celebration, but a memorial for a consuming rot that could have devoured their gladed home with a ravenous hunger. With the fires dying down, and the Green Priesthood already setting to work returning this portion of city to nature, the four Lords turned their eyes to the north shore. They marched to the docks.

Announcing the long anticipated union of High Warden Aerendyl Hawksong and Lady Nemea, a ceremony held within the Springmother's Cradle with a reception after. Please come to witness the binding of these two Mali, and enjoy an evening of food, drink, and games for all. Special invitations to the following Archdruid Emilei and Family, and the Druidic Order Vival Velu'Asath and Family of Stygian Hollow Lord Amaesil Vuln'Miruel and Family High Prince Evar'tir Oranor, High Princess Medli and the High Court of Amaethea The Wardens of the Hinterlands The Tahorran Seed and Family Feanor Sylvaeri and Family We look forward to seeing you there! (( Saturday, 7th of August at 6pm EST))

As Amaesil walks up to the citadel, he finds his best friend seated in an old rocking chair smoking a cigar and reading through the lasted edition of The Almaris Times. Aerendyl listens to the clickety clack of the unveiled telescope with a quirked brow, but says nothing. Just then, his eyes grace the page detailing the ultimatum sent to their Silver Cousins. His expression maintains an air of disappointment, but eventually cracks at the macabre humor of the situation into a roaring cacophony of laughter.

High Warden Aerendyl comes across one of these pamphlets, reading it among the many collections of various internation news and happenings of the realm. He lowers his cigarette from his lips, his breath held nearly the entire time that it took him to read it. He looks up to the wall and stares past it, into the general space before him. "By the Aspects."

An elf having a smoke at the front gate, gives a hearty and wheezing laugh at this. Why would they threaten to spill blood because we harbor impures, but then decline to spill blood because we refuse the demands- he wonders.

“Life is a dance, darling… All wear their masks in this waltzing masquerade and you are either one of the dancers, or one that makes the music.” - Melusina von Drakenhof Art by me! Where there are men of true battle-earned honor and fortune, one can only wonder where the remaining folk of past crumbled empires and kingdoms coalesce in their wayward, lost visions of splendor and regality. These are the forgotten folk who have had their crowns ripped from them, justly or wrongfully, the cunning usurpers of past thrones who then taste their own justice, the skeletons of long-retired military lords who ruled with martial might… The men forever divorced from the endless cyclical hell that is humanity’s political sphere. These are the folk of the ‘noble’ line of Von Drakenhof. History The ashes of the calamity of Anthos tore the greatest united force of men ever seen asunder like a hunk of fresh meat to wolves. Some men clung to what luster their folly crowns and pride might comfort them, but many scattered in search for a more prosperous promise of reclaiming power and fortune. For the first of the line, Melusina’s journey took her to the protected outskirts of the Teutonic Hanseti, where the DeNurem line ruled without question. Melusina in life was the young bride of a vile Marcus Horen, whom her family married her to to secure political gain and protection at the height of the Empire’s power. She herself was a cerebral and scholarly youth with manic tendencies, but bore no affection to the convenient pairing she was thrown into at the behest of her sire. Pale and fair with locks rivaling the shadows of raven’s wings, she was like a porcelain statue brought to life. While her heart burned with disdain to the brutish man to which she was lawfully wed, the cunning young wife bid her time in quiet subservience whilst the collective forces of the world and Setherien rained doom upon the lost realm of Anthos. Despite bearing no real love for the Horen, she fled faithfully at his side at the crumbling of the world behind them into the Fringe. He proclaimed as they trudged through the ghoulish soul-sand of the wastes to the fabled fortress of the Teutonic order that she would bear his heirs and erect a grander, nobler kingdom of humanity with himself as the patriarch from the ashes of the fallen Empire. Of course, the proposition disgusted the young Melusina… wed so soon for convenience and so soon to bear offspring of a vile man. She would refuse his demands and plotting that night. That was the last time that he ever laid hands upon her in anger… A swift bottle of wine to the back of the head brought the man to his knees. Melusina was not a violent woman, and the attack from his bride certainly took him by fatal surprise. There was a portion of her soul that undoubtedly delighted in the deliciously vengeful murder of this man. He was no spouse, let alone a worthy man deserving of some valiant end. So the wine and blood flowed along the grout of the cobble beneath their day-old home like thick molasses in winter… slow and robust. There she raised her beloved Chalice in small, bloody victory, and drank the remnants of that blood-tainted wine. Melusina had never tasted a vintage so sweet. So she abandoned the heinous name of Horen and adopted her own lineage. One of the life she could have had as a carefree noble, loved by one of her choosing in a world less cursed. Melusina left her hovel that night as Von Drakenhof - A noble of her own right, given by none and maintained by none, of the utmost regality, intelligence, and superiority over the pathetic remnants of humanity. The Lady von Drakenhof did eventually marry a Sariant of the Teutonic Order, a bastard DeNurem and the only man the woman would love faithfully and genuinely. She would bear two sons at the age of twenty-six, in the same year that the plagues of the Fringe would rip her beloved from her embrace forever. Widowed and a new mother, she remained in the tiny village of Fringe Hanseti and fostered her two boys with her delusion of true, eternal nobility. There the Von Drakenhof line spread, erecting various castles in which their family would reside at the rule of none but themselves to the current age. The Line of Von Drakenhof The men and women of this lineage crave the illusion that they are nobles, and delight in the care of their outward appearance to a near maniacal standard. Pale, unblemished skin is most desirable with steely grey or muted shades of blue in their eyes. The trait of deeply black hair seems to run dominant among this line, as well as the curious affliction of sleepless nights or dreamly terrors particularly of the women in the family. It is said that it is the troubles of Melusina von Drakenhof herself manifesting in her favored descendants, and while it is quite distressing and sometimes tortuous to the inheritors, it is deemed as an otherworldly blessing. Von Drakenhof trend taller for men and women, but can become more frail in comparison due to their decadent lifestyle. With their ancestor spending much of her later life in the presence of the Teutonic Order under Hochmeister Mirtok, the mannerisms of speaking and accent derive much from the Marian language. They use older and archaic words to ensure that they are distinguished from common folk. Occasionally, they may choose to entirely abandon common altogether when speaking with kin in a clever method to conceal sensitive information from those they deem unworthy. A portrait of the ‘Count’ Volker von Drakenhof and his daughter, ‘Lady’ Hesperia von Drakenhof To see a member of Von Drakenhof in any state of imperfection or dishevelment is about as rare as a unicorn sighting. This family cannot stand the thought of descending anywhere near the state of peasant status or that of the lessers of mankind, and will go to great lengths to ensure that their state of attire is nothing short of kingly or queenly at all times. For men, tailed coats and laced ties are common, with women bearing corsets, dresses and veils to protect their complexions. Anyone after a quick glance may be able to determine that many of the dressing styles of the family revolves around the idea of gargoyles and battish creatures of the night, adorning themselves in dark and fine cloths gilded and crowned with expensive gems. An armored Von Drakenhof is uncommon though not unheard, for the work of the soldier is associated with those of lesser than noble blood and is usually only worn for the cause of home defense. Generally the folk of Von Drakenhof follow the three guiding pillars as set forth by Melusina’s scriptures written for the teaching of her sons: The Gargoyle, the Tombstone, and the Marionette. The Gargoyle “Protect thine kin, always. We are a superior folk baptised by the teachings of humanity’s past sins and bloodshed. Do not overly scorn thine servant nor thine handmaiden, and remain true to thine beloved. Betray not the brother, sister, mother or brother - but deliver cunning revenge should they betray my blood.” Von Drakenhof are ferociously loyal to those in their family, and maintain servants and friends with a firm but fair hand. While their mannerisms might seem cruel towards their servants, they reward the faithful tenants well by granting them certain powers above those below them. Butlers and Lady’s Maids of Von Drakenhof are nearly just as well dressed and wealthy as their masters. It is by a careful art of balancing the carrot and the stick that they maintain loyalty, and it has not been unheard of for unruly or disloyal servants to ‘go missing’ suddenly as if by some just punishment by karma. The family line is exempt from punishment in most instances, as this ‘noble’ line can surely do no wrong... The Tombstone “Honor our dead. Teachings of souls departed from this world shalt not fade with time but be carved upon pages and scrolls like their names upon the stone of their final resting place. Remember the promise, the pledge, and good deeds from friends, and repay them in kind. Neglecting the honor from the lessers invites poor intentions.” Dead kin are nearly saintly to these folk, and they will go to great lengths to ensure that the final rites and rituals of the newly dead are completed in knightly splendor. There is always a tombstone erected over their grave with their name for all alive or yet to be born to see, and even when a great move is needed they will uncover their coffins and take them along their journey to a new cemetery to rest and watch over their family. It is the greatest honor to oversee their family in death, for it is believed that the beloved dead may be freely spoken to and meditated with on the calm chill of a young night. Chieftest of all is the grave of Melusina von Drakenhof and her sons themselves, who bear beautifully decorated resting places that are constantly maintained. Promises made to others are scarcely neglected when made. When treated with the respect, praise and reverence they crave, a Von Drakenhof will be a faithful ally until their last breath. For them it is like a king fulfilling a glorious task for their people, a favor returned that will surely beget further praise and loyalty. Curses and pledges of retribution are just as keenly remembered, though repaid in much more cunning and brutal ways befitting the crime. The Marionette “There are few in this world that truly mean to help us. All men wear their mask, afraid to expose their feeble underbelly, their futile dreams and noxious desires in their dance for self-gratification. A true noble knows how to puppeteer all, for they are part of the intricate web of servitude to Von Drakenhof. The servant, the friend, and the enemy; all shall serve thee in their own accords.” Discreetly cunning and nearly always playing a mindful game of chess with all that cross their path, Von Drakenhof folk are always surely plotting what role their next acquaintance or greeting of a friend will bring them. While their enemies are certainly deserving of crueler tricks and schemes, there are not necessarily overtly harmful outcomes for those that they deem acceptable of the society around them. While the servant may find that their tasks become more and more varied outside of simple servitude by way of the sway devilish charm, a rival may find that misfortune may strike them at the most ripe inopportune time. Woe be to those that truly cross the guile of Von Drakenhof, for they do delight in faux courts made entirely of their kin to deal ghoulish and dastardly punishments that may or may not lead to their total demise. Lifestyle, Architecture and Family Structure While these nobles hold no true claim over anything of substance within the political geography of the world, they will often hold their own courts of intrigue amongst themselves. Plotting, aristocratic socialization, feasts, and masquerades are among the many routinely conducted happenings of the household. Brutish activities of duels or tavern parties are far beneath the decorum of the house, and guests welcomed and liked enough to be invited to the dining hall of Von Drakenhof should surely expect to be treated like family for the evening. One would find the dinner to be quite long and decadent, with some choosing to voluntarily vomit to create more room for delicacies and sweets. While they generally detest the devout and practice in no religion themselves, they are generally tolerant of most magics both mundane and of darker nature. Any power that might potentially elevate their status further as a superior man from their peers is deeply interesting to these folk, even if the magics or the users may not have the holiest of intentions. Reverence of any one deity is generally disdained, as there are none that come before the blood of Von Drakenhof in their eyes. When the Castle Drakenhof is erected on whatever lands they desire, it is certainly a chilling sight to behold. With lines of gargoyles and menacing heights of spires piercing the sky, the stones of the beloved family castle can appear quite haunting at first. Inside, however, is the most opulent of living quarters for their brood. Thick draped windows of stained glass, chandeliers that catch the low light like glacial ice, and the low-warmth of candlelight would mesmerize even the most decorated of kings. The light is kept intentionally low within to maintain that venerated fair skin of porcelain, and nearly every wall is decorated with portraits of past or living members of the family. Libraries of coveted knowledge, dining halls of glittering goblets and glasses, and endless rooms of near unfathomable collective luxury reside within. The wine cellar, the cemetery, the court hall, dining hall and drawing room are all considered essential portions of any suitable Von Drakenhof living facilities. Any good master would not forget the humble and faithful servant, and so their living quarters are of course in fine condition… with the accompanying dungeons similarly of regal but menacing character. The family of Von Drakenhof are equals within their own eyes, the only difference in standing is their direct parents. A single member is given the title of ‘Count’ which is used only for dealings in which the collective family or foreign power is involved and requires a concise voice amongst the family. You will find many thrones among the living space of the house, with none no more grand than their kin’s. All family members bear there own particular ring that is unique to them or handed down from an ancestor. It is a common gesture of a Von Drakenhof's first meeting to offer their ring towards their acquaintance to kiss - and one would do well to know that it will be forever remembered if this gesture is declined or ignored. Dates of Renown While not devoutly religious to any name, the line of Von Drakenhof is severely superstitious. Stories of ghosts, ghouls, all manner of mythical beasts alike are like sweet fairytales that guide their mannerisms spiritually. Some dates are especially sacred to the family, most of which involve the remembrance of the dead or the celebration of the macabre. Hexensnacht The Witching Night, or day before the New Year in which it is believed ghosts come about in search of the energy of the living to keep them tethered to the world, or as a send off as they choose to depart for another life. A great ball is held during the night, and a fantastical feast by day in which they invite the spirits of the dead to join their waltzing and dining late into the evening. As the last bell tolls for the completion of the final hour of the year, all lights are snuffed out for a few long minutes in total darkness so that it may be easier for the spirits to be sent on their way. All Hallow’s Eve The autumnal celebration of all things dark and spooky, where a great costumed masquerade is held. Dressing in a particular beast or monster of one’s fancy is common and believed to protect the wearer from real things that might be afoot on that night. Carving gourds into spectral faces by candlelight wards off the demons that emerge to seed foul energies among the unprepared. The young of the family may venture out and seek out sweet treats from the people that live about, or play tricks upon those that their parents may or may not have mentioned doing something distasteful at the dinner table once… Day of the Dead A late-year celebration of the deceased Von Drakenhof members. It is this day where the belongings of their dead relatives are worn to bring them to life for a day. Faces are made in the likeness of the portraits of the dead, and they quite literally ‘relive’ the being of their relatives for a chosen day. Prayers and gifts are showered upon the very real graves of said family, and only when the day is done may the Von Drakenhof bathe themselves in a perfumed basin and reclaim themselves, swearing to remember the teachings and glory of their ancestors.

Cogswheel tapdances in place as he reads the missive, cackling with sugar-fueled excitement. "Many experiment-inventions to make-test, yes! Cogswheel has the biggest brain of all mice! And-and we will gnaw-grind into their walls, recycle their things! ALL things! Aah-ha-ha-ha!" With that, the little mad scientist straps his tiny goggles to his head, over his eyes, and makes a mad dash to seek out all of his friends!

A very small mouse man rides the shoulder of his new Olog friend back to Krugmar, feeding him potatos after earning the fair price of one mina to ring the bell! "Cogswheel think-knows those nasty pointy-ear criminals had it coming! That big-big one with the fancy belt said-told so!" the Musin says triumphantly, holding his single mina in his lap, as it was all the little guy could carry!

[!] Letters are sent all around Elvenesse with an invitation to an upcoming event! [!] "To celebrate the completion of the House Hawksong's hall in the city of Amaethea, we have cordially invited you to partake in a traditional festival of our people to celebrate the coming of Summer! Please dress with the fires of dusk and flame, for there will be a dress competition with prizes to the top three most dapper of kin! Look out for music and dancing as well, but be sure to consider finding a partner to partake in our Horseshoe tourney to try your luck and hand at reclaiming the famed Golden Horseshoe from the current standing champion, Tahlia ap Tahorran! The entire manor will be open for viewing so that we might share our culture to all, and celebrate the warmest season of the year. As we say in our house - Sivako! Rise to the challenge! The Lady of Twilight, Titania Hawksong, Matriarch of the Twilit Folk" Special letters of personal invitation are penned to the following recipients: The Wardens and Emerald Guard The High Prince and Princess of Elvenesse and their court The Mother Circle and all of her members The Seed Tahorran The Seed Taliameonn OOC roundup - Sunday, May 30th at 4PM EST Horseshoe tourney requires teams of two Best dressed MUST be original skins or skins that you have permission to use Prizes included!

It was time. He had watched, waited, studied and waited again. He felt more prepared for this moment than he though he could have been... Dedicancy had instilled something much more potent than his talent alone could account for. He thought about what he might have thought in this exact moment had he simply given up with the passing of Awaiti, or with the departure of Lavinia. He felt a sense of pride in his resilience as he pondered these ideas, pacing along the coastline with a simple smile and holding the hand of what he swore was the embodiment of the ocean's grace in the form of a single elfess. She was as much his witness to his growth as the Aspects themselves, he supposed... but this was also a moment truly worth sharing, as well. It made sense that the bearer of the title Lord of Moonsong would have a particular longing for the beauty of the silver light of the night. He couldn't have asked for a nicer evening for the event; the rain had departed on a swift southbound current of wind and gave way to a smooth and clean shoreline. Once at a small outcropping of rock that he had found himself at for many nights in the past, he moves a stone that concealed a simple earthen tomb for his research diary. He offered himself a short smile, thumbing through the pages and reliving his thoughts as they changed from scientist to devout, and now some strange blend of the best qualities of both. "It's nearly time, I think..." the elf-lord murmurs to his companion as he watches the stillness of the evening turn the waves flat and calm, like layers of liquid glass flowing over the starry reflection in the beach sand. It was a nearly perfect reflection, vaulting the two in a dizzying, astral dreamscape. Aerendyl casts a glance to his right, admiring the moonlight streaking along the stormy curls of the Lady Tahorran. "Can you promise to stay still and keep your voice low?" he asks with a simple smile, knowing well that she could and would. "Of course." she murmurs her reply, a whisper on the wind. Her eyes carefully waltzed up and down the familiar shoreline of her home waters. It amused Aerendyl to know that even he held a secret about the shores that she called home. He crossed his legs and balanced the breadth of his staff along his lap. His dusky eyes slip shut, offering a prayer in his mind. Green Mother, may your breath of life find its way safely to the shore... Horned Father, may your shadow of death be just Morea, give me the wisdom to know when a warrior stays his fury, and when he acts "Oh my goodness!" whispers an entranced Nemea. He opens his eyes just as he hears the small splashes, plops and flops of the young sea turtles amassing in a communal hatch. the awkward, stone shaped young flap their comically large flippers all over the beach and each other in a mad moonlit dash for the glassy surf. Hundreds erupted from their deep nests, swarming the beach like ants to a forgotten sweet. "Remarkable, isn't it? I've been watching this ground since before my dedicancy.. and here I see the mass hatch through with new eyes. That is my charge, to see the cycle of nature undisturbed in both the veil of life, and the shadow of death." Aerendyl mutters, his scarred lips offering a simple and peaceful smile as he is surrounded by the young turtles. The aura of life was palpable, here. Every now and then an opportunistic gull or a particularly mighty crab grab up the young into a quick meal. Ever watchful, the dedicant monitors the beach with a careful gaze. He was prepared to watch the young life snuffed out as soon as it came, but such was the way of the world that Awaiti and Emilei so studiously taught him. Where there is give, there is take. Even this could not sour the sight of the mass hatch, for there was so much rich essence of nature among him, her, the moon and the ocean. He thought of his adopted son, and of his brand new niece, and wondered what price he would pay for those souls who have entered his life. What pain awaited him to balance out this bliss? He shooed off a group of canoeing folk at the break of a new morning... Another night fell. Another sun, another moon... The hatch lasted quite a while, and his weariness had begun to darken his gaze. He was determined, however, and saw out the very last little flipper that entered into the surf. "What becomes of those that don't hatch?" the elfess asks with a yawn, taking his outstretched hand as they both descend the viewing rock. "They are swallowed by the earth... nourishing the scavengers and the soil for another purpose... They aren't forgotten." Aerendyl mentions. His greatest fear incarnate: being forgotten. "I don't see the point in continuing... this." Those words haunted him like the whispering of the pines behind him. What was the point in himself? Was he actually somebody worth others investing time into, or is it some sort of cruel joke that many people were unconsciously perpetuating? Even as he was now, he didn't know the answer. He figured if he kept on the path, either answer would be clear. There was a point in what he was doing here, and what he was giving to the Order and the Aspects. That much was clear. "I fear that too, you know." his companion mentions as she takes his hand, beginning their journey along the shoreline. She had every reason to speak the truth, as her path was like a mirror of his own. Perhaps there was a point to it all, like those baby turtles hurdling themselves into the surf on nothing but instinct... unknown until you go on and dive right into the call of the sea: Destiny. And with that, the elf-lord summoned a smile as they departed. He'd have quite the story to tell his guide.

Letters written in fine elvish script and sealed with a wax of carnelian shade are delivered to all who reside in Elvenesse, and to specific invitees of the High Prince To honor the newly elected High Prince Evar'tir Oranor, the Twilit Folk of the Esteemed House of Hawksong have cordially invited you to attend the traditional coronation of the Hinterlands Royarch. Join us as we herald in a new dawn for the Blessed Folk of Sea and Forest where we remember those who have worn the crown of our ancestors before, those who have fought to defend it, those who have served and preserved our highest honor and those who have yet to bear the crown of our everlasting kin. A grand performance of the Hawksong cultural step-dance, Valleinarnnyer or RiverDance will precede the carrying of the Crown by the Lady of Twilight, past Royarch of the united elves upon the head of the High Prince. There, ancient and traditional oaths will be sworn by the Crowned to the Nation before guests will be permitted to bequeath the High Prince with gifts, praise and prayer. The following are invited on behalf of the High Prince The Citizens and Council of the Crown of Elvenesse The Grand King of Urguan, Norli Starbreaker, his Council, and his Citizenry The King of Haenseti-Ruska, Henrik II Barbanov, his Council, and his Citizenry The King of Norland, Sven II Edvardsson, his Council, and his Citizenry The Sohaer of Haelun'or, Othelu Orrar, his Council, and his Citizenry The Lord Interrex of Luciensburg, Bernard de Salier, his Council, and his Citizenry The Archdruids of the Druidic Order, and the Citizenry of Atoll Grove All who willfully respect the peace may attend this blessed and rare occasion of our kin. ((General gathering at 6:30 EST in the Citadel of Amaethea, with the performances and rites starting at 7pm EST sharp))

[!] A notice has been pinned to the general event board, announcing a coming event that all may participate in! The folk of the House play merry music in anticipation for their beloved cultural pastime [!] The horns of Hawksong ring proudly amongst the treetops, kin, announcing our traditional mounted hunt for rabbits and boar! Our House has elected to open up the ride for all who wish to join us on the following elven day for an event of fast-paced hunting, chasing and comradery of the Twilit Folk's heritage. Limited space is available if you cannot provide your own mount and supplies. However, all that can provide their own steed and supplies are welcome to join the hunting party! We recommend both ranged and close range weapons. Keep what you catch, or collaborate with the House in food preparation for the Mani Masquerade that will follow the hunt! Send a letter to myself to reserve your spot ahead of time to ensure the best possible experience! 3 PM EST, 4/24/21 (( This is a casual PvP event - but before you 'yikes' away, don't worry! Your characters will need to coordinate and chase down some game that will be played by willing volunteers that will drop some goodies upon being downed. The rules are as follows: The hunt area is restricted entirely to the Hinterlands. This area is outside the main city, but within the first series of gates you encounter when walking to Amaethea. The event itself will last about 30-45 minutes, and will be a mix of RP and PvP between bouts of animal chasing. Feel free to bring any and all tools you feel will aid you in chasing down the 'game'. There will be no 'popping' of the 'game' permitted via MC mechanics, as the volunteers will be issuing a few chases after they hide. Come have a good time!))

A letter is sent to a tailored selection of family and friends to announce the date of a wedding! "May the fair winds of spring bless you, treasured kin, for you have been cordially invited to the wedding of the Tahorran'leh Matriach, Titania, and the Violet Lady Lya. The ceremony will be held in the flower fields by the statue of the great Thunderbird Nemglan within Elvenesse. Through careful planning and years of waiting, we hope you will partake in the short ceremony to celebrate a new page in each of the Mali's lives. The wedding will occur on the twilight of the third to last cycle of the elven week. Aspects guide." The following, special invitations are sent via the Hawksong House's beloved phoenix. Arle Sirame and the Seed of Sirame Axilya ap Tahorran and the Seed of Tahorran Liri, Ithuriel, Tailesin, Sonna and the Druidic Order The Elchae'larian establishment and their esteemed hosts and family The High Prince Feanor Sylvaeri and the High Princess Delmira, and the elven high courts The Caerme'onn Seed ((OOC Sunday 8pm EST near the Nemglan shrine))

An oak tree stood still among the cold, endless fog… unmoving, statuesque. Nothing else was there. He'd seen this tree dozens of times before, and no matter how much he ran, or how much strength he forced his feet to carry, it remained ever far away. Never closer, never out of his line of sight… The elf lord was frustrated to no end. He awoke in a sweat, in the lonely comfort of his bed. These dreams did not cease to gnaw at his thoughts since he began his journey. Sometimes he wished for something else to haunt his nights, craving the warm embrace of his lady in the late hours or the steady roll of the tide. The elf-lord swept the sheets off of his bare form, his feet finding his boots as they had done every morning since the start of his long life. There, at least, something was consistent. Comforting. Tailed coat and trousers followed with their own faithful and obedient beckoning. Another day of questions, curious insight, probing into the Emerald unknown. That night, the fog was thinner and the oak tree was closer. He could circle around the trunk, who stood unmoving at the center of the empty clovered fields. There was no treeline, no mountains… just a consuming fog, and the green beneath his feet. He circled, and circled… a small victory sparked in his heart. Sweet progress, finally, in this maddening and recurring dream. Or so he thought, before he came face-to-face with the amber, somber gaze of a canine.It sat on its haunches, cloaked in a fiery mane of auburn and umber. The veterinarian's eyes knew exactly what this creature was as his twilit eyes follow the slender, cunning point of his maw. The coyote held a branch between his teeth, each end burning a brilliant flame that gave off no heat nor noise. It simply licked the air in wild curls and brilliant colors. "I don't… I don't understand." the Hawksong managed to utter, just as his eyes focused back onto the ceiling of his familiar home. The dream was gone, again. It tormented him like some unsolvable jigsaw, the pieces morphing into different shapes just as they began to seal together. His feet swing out of his bed, again, and into his routine. "I don't understand." Another day of questions. Some he could explain without obstacle, the others were impossible. Complex and malleable in his brain, no tongue of descendants could express exactly what he was seeing. He was warned of the strangeness of dedicancy, but nobody could truly prepare him for what plagued his nights and days. Another moon rises, her pale beams giving way to that same fog in his dreams. That same oak, that same coyote with the branch in his teeth… At his flanks, the statues of two great bears flank the coyote. They towered over the umber-furred creature, paws held before their waist at either end of the coyote’s branch as if they were nursing the flames themselves. The fires burned brighter, with unseen colors of an ethereal rainbow. The elf could almost hear the echoes of something, somebody… it sounded so familiar, it sounded like- He awoke again, staring at the ceiling that mocked his bewilderment. He threw his covers off and commanded his feet into his boots as they always did, the sunlight careening through the slats of his balcony onto his face as if to spur him on his way. One last druid, endless queries. The oak was ever still, again… but the fog gave away to snow. Lovely, dazzlingly white and powdery snow that danced like dainty gardenia petals down to a thin blanket of cold upon the field. The coyote waited as he always did, branch in teeth with the fires burning with nearly blinding brilliance. The statues of the bears had swiveled their head as he came to within this dream, watching… waiting for him to eventually reach the foot of the oak for answers as he always did. The crunch of the snow beneath his feet was nearly real enough to believe, if this dream hadn’t haunted every second of his mind, awake or asleep. He left no footprints as he trailed towards the coyote. To his shocked surprise, the creature finally moved as he came to a halt before him. The pads of his feet loped in a gentle canter around him, leaving a trail of dazzling embers from the fires of his branch. He could hear the voices clearly, now… it was his own. He saw visions of himself within the swirling firestorm, and what he dearly wished himself to be… The long locks of a flaxen elfess twirling in his fingers, his lance hoisted high in the sun amongst a line of Wardens, a clinic packed full of patients he had saved. Visions cracked across his conscious as fast as lightning, and their strange meaning rocked his soul like rolling thunder… Family, lover, duty, medicine… all things he wished to be a warrior for. Just as he reached out to take the last vision’s hand, the ivory skin of his beloved… she recoiled in fear, falling before him with bruises upon her flesh as he suddenly found himself with clenched fists. “No...No!” he shouts, just as he is thrown into a wild, standing spin and seeing himself in another nightmare. A flash of his white cloak of Warden armor raked against his foe, his strikes were wild, furious, ruthless… blood poured upon the ground, as if a pack of wolves had torn through these souls. Just as he sprang forth to help them, or ask them anything… his hands were deep in the bloody, pulpy rib-cage of some long enemy of his. Their eyes were glassy, anemic, pleading as the surgeon tortured the man. All the awful things that he could be a warrior for... “....Help me.” The man says simply up to the surgeon, and the elf-lord emits a harrowing scream that shuns the visions of himself back to the fire, back to the coyote who sits at the base of the oak tree. “You have a choice ahead…” the animal spirit says, his maw unmoving as he carries his branch. His voice was ancient, old, and cunningly wise. “Awaken, Aerendyl, and forge your chosen path…” The elf does, rousing from his sleep as the dream fades away with the explosion of crow feathers. He felt oddly calm as he decided to lay there for a while, turning his head to his loyal pair of boots. They didn’t find his feet that morning… instead, the elf walked out of his house that day with a pair of simple but elegant robes, off to find his teacher. The eyes of his totem awoke that day, seeing clearly.

Aerendyl shakes his head as he reads the missive, remembering clearly the day that Vulen resisted a simple arrest and doomed his own fate. "The council almost deserves this shameful defeat, for lacking a spine. The Sea Turtle will swallow the Crown."

From somewhere in the circle of healing, after wrapping up a lecture a loud, genuine laugh is heard rumbling from the classroom after reading halfway through the demands. "A... A bow?! That makes the difference?!" the elf-lord guffaws, wiping a humored and even possibly happy tear from his eye. "Dear Malin, they might be grasping at a bit much, but damn if they don't at least have a sense of humor."

Aerendyl reads the missive over a smoke post mud-wrestle, shaking his head at the note. Having seen and participated in the attempted arrest of Vulen, he chuckles at the falsities in the text. "This bloke is assuming that his little boy's nose was nice and clean. He's either very ignorant, or doesn't give a ****. That'd be a shame if it was the later, if he's going to be calling for blood anyway..." He sets the note aside to keep for future reference and draws a circle over his chest. Hawksong would remain with Tahorran. Feather and mane, hawk and steed, sails and saddles. He settles his rapier to his side and makes his way to the Tahorran boats.

"What is a L'EERMITTAGE?" Titania says poorly, the new and strange high elven tongue proving foreign from her usual common or elvish speak as she sits around the fire with Laetranis and her kin. She scratches her head, narrowing her eyes further onto the picture on the pamplet. "And where's Paris?" She reads it over a few times, the elf recalling Aegisian days where the press was either much more quiet or far more interesting, she couldn't recall at this point. She did remember the lack of a silver city, though. Either way the pamphlet ended up in the fire and she donned a happy look of contentment in the heart of Amaethea.

((As a note, this is an event that overlaps my IRL birthday! I can't actually go anywhere special due to my line of work even if I am vaccinated, so I thought I'd just lump mine and my character's big day together so I can have some sort of party this year. This year is also my tenth anniversary in the community, so I think it's a cool way to celebrate with the whole community! Come have fun with us!)) An invitation is left at the mailbox/taxbox of every registered home and seed hall, with a formal address to the blessed Seeds and Houses of Elvenesse. The House of Hawksong cordially invites you to attend a very special gathering to celebrate the golden years of our House Matriarch, Titania! It is with great pride that we do celebrate her life, but we wish to celebrate the blessed long years of Mali as a whole as well. Therefore, a grand gathering in the Elvenesse throne room will take place in one elven week. There is no requirement of gift-giving, but party contributions from the great families of Elvenesse is greatly encouraged so that we may celebrate in the blessing of the long lives of all elves and the ageless bounty of each house and seed. The Pamphlet contains a mock painting of a real portrait of the Twilit Matriarch, followed by a short biography for those unfamiliar As an Aegisian War veteran, Titania has had a long history of allegiance with the elven people from the old city of Laurelin to the Great Halls of Amaethea today. She has been a mother, a Malinorian High Princess, Teutonic General, Dominion Princess and faithful servant of the Crown since her departure from leadership. Many of our cities have been crafted in whole or in part by her hand, and currently she resides in Elvenesse living out her sunset years as the Head of House Hawksong and the Rochirran. What to expect at the event! Community Games Food Artifact Raffle (no cost to play) Drink Music Dancing Additional, personal invitations are as follows To the Esteemed House of DeNurem The descendants of the Legendary Hochmeister Mirtok are invited to reminisce and reforge bonds once shared so closely during the age of Anthos and the Fringe. To the Snow Druid The Mother of her Beloved is invited to celebrate, and any additional party of which you desire to bring. To the kin of Artimec, the Blessed Seed of Caerme'onn The blood of one of her closest friends are especially welcome, for the bond between Hawksong and Caerme'onn is old and unwavering To the Oracle, Awaiti Sirame The once fellow ruler of the elven people, and teacher of the brother of the Matriarch is invited to celebrate their roles in history To the Proud Hawk-kin of Seed Tahorran The masters of the river and sea, whom have embraced a ironwood-strong friendship with the House of Hawksong are invited to liven the event with their spirit ((Time 7 EST Saturday the 27th of February))

It was all over the ground. Splattered against the back of the stable door and coagulated on the ground like some sick mockery of moss, the blood of the beloved Sire, Dam and firstborn of the line of the Rochirran's legendary steeds drench the ground and overflow over their bedding. Where there was strong, determined life in the eyes of their companions now there was only the reflection of fear in their final moments. Butchered. Mangled. Nearly unidentifiable if it were not for the unfortunate stumbling of Aerendyl and Onas. "...I found them like this, mal'onn." The younger elf stammers as the twilit elder turns the final key to the stables. The herd had backed into a corner, scarred and riled into a frenzy instead of proudly greeting the Rochir. His senior's pipe dropped to the ground and extinguished in the sodden, bloodied earth beneath him. The veterinarian knew every bit of anatomy that was mangled in front of him... and the longer he looked to soak in the carnage the more pain tied knots in his core. It was too much, and it boiled up his throat into a rumbling cry that shook the upper knoll of Amaethea. "RHOAM, ISHANTE... LADY BET!" "I saw no signs of forced entry, or lockpicking..." Onas says lowly, grimacing at the thought of his next conclusion. "Whoever did this had access. What can Mali do against such reckless hate?" Aerendyl listened indeed, but his normally golden voice was tarnished with the roiling anger and sorrow of his soul. He shakes beneath the hand of his brother poised atop his shoulder, and the elder falls to his knees in the puddle of gore with a sickening 'splish', abandoning his usual care for presentable attire. His trousers stain in the equine's blood and his hands snap to his scarred face in a poor attempt to cage the rare display of raw, tortured emotion. "I... I haven't any babies of my own... These ARE my babies, Onas! It hurts so much..." He stammers nearly incoherently. He winces in pain and throws his arms into a hug. The Rochir's soul felt like it had been severed with a knife and thrown to a pack of wolves to tear apart, and all semblance of composure was futile. "I should have locked the doors better... I couldn't protect them, I couldn't-" the scarred elf sputters, cut off by the guiding hand of his worried brother. "Come." Onas murmurs, lowering himself to a knee and wrapping his arm around his elder friend to guide him out of the scene of death and carnage. "We needn't stay here in this... miasma of death." "NO!" Aerendyl cries out in desperation, ripping himself from the embrace of his kin and nearly throws himself atop the body of his favorite companion. He splatters his body atop the puddles of blood and flesh, and weakly reaches for his knife to place it to the lifeless husk of his once proud and powerful equine companion. "I'm so sorry, Rhoam... My friend," he says, sawing a length of the stallion's murky mane between sobs. He clutches the length of mane to his chest, wailing and grimacing at the pain in his chest. "My partner, my soul-warrior..." The two linger in the stable as the twilit elder rocks himself to a state of being able to stand, finally. He shuffles to the door, glassy-eyed and unsteady like a poorly inhabited husk. Onas speaks up with a frown, following after Aerendyl as he pushes past the doors with his shoulder, not daring to let go of the last piece of his equine friend. "Heya kae ern'omediere, Aerendyl?" "Ito Machana kaean chul'maillerae." he responds, his hand and lock of mane glued to his chest as if it were literally a part of him. The pain overcame the Rochir in waves as he paced away from one of the last times he would ever see his beloved partner. Even still, a fire alight in his heart. One of hatred, confusion, and vengeance. He swore to himself whoever dealt such pain to him would have his body broken, mangled, and experience more fear in his last moment than those poor souls in the stable. He will feed his soul to Morea.

This is not made to be taken seriously lol

Hi I made a dumb comic about an inside joke that Zilldude and I have have for a while. I put it to paper. Enjoy? You may need to open up the image fuller since the canvases are large. Source media

IGN: Discord: Twilight#0595 Character Name: Titania Hawksong Position: Artisan Art: Textile and Painting