Treshure

A cool breeze ran between two lone elves upon the bridge. Despite the sunny disposition of Elvenesse’s warm forests, their minds were filled with death. Just an elven week prior, Thexan Ithelanen’s challenge had been answered by the Silver City. There stood Kaius Visaj; alone in a foreign country, with none by his side. “Have you prayed to your Gods?” Thexan passively asked, trying to ignore the presence of the massive crowd to their rear. Kaius dipped his head in affirmation. The Ithelanen turned towards the gatehouse-turned arena, undoing the straps of his helm. “And so it begins.” - Thexan’s blade ripped across Kaius’ breast, bearing into his plate and freeing the flesh from his chest. With a cry of manic ecstasy, the high elf crumpled to the floor. He knelt beside the dying ‘aheral, watching the stars fade from his iris. Thexan looked down onto the dead elf. “So that I may free your head from your shoulders,” he echoed in cruel mockery. With a swipe of his blade, it was Kaius’ head that was freed - thrown upon the marble stone for Elvenesse to bear witness. A priest of the druidic faith flanked the victor’s side. “Do you wish to be present for the rituals?” he asked, glancing towards the sunken corpse. Undoubtedly, it involved the use of several organs. Thexan shook his head. “I have a letter to write.” - A missive is sent to Haelun’or. “I have killed the champion of Visaj. I have freed his head and spilt his silver blood on the stones of Elvenesse. Come and see. I have sewn his blood into my roots, as I have promised long ago. Come and see. I have strung his mangled corpse amongst the trees. I have seen his ichor - the fabled silver blood is as red and thick as mine. You may have your dead, but first you must retrieve it. I soon will march on your gates. I will tear every stone from your wretched walls and return your citadel to the dirt. I will leave you alive - only to remember the cost of leaving your ivory prison. But before I arrive, come and see.” Thexan Ithelanen

In my youth, I was prescripted alongside my brother to fight in the wars risen for Humanity. A war at the time that was entirely necessary. He lost his life, and I my leg. I stand with many other kin - injured by the winds of war, and entirely aware of the cost to wage it. And yet it seems that toll has been lost by this age. The recent conflict against the Elven Union has shown our ease to march and suffer for causes we know not. With little known aggression towards Imperial lands, we summon men from their homes and fields - to don armor in lands foreign, and to suffer mortal wounds at the hands of an enemy that posed no threat. As an Empire lives, war has been its necessary fuel. This is no more criticism than a fact of life. But there are other battles to wage, and other ways to feed the dominion of Man. When I had penned word against the ‘Imperial Fascist League’, I warned that I would form opposition if the trend had continued. With this needless campaign, it has. Our veterans wilt, Our wars grow, and Our Empire is besmirched on the absence of merit. Parliament wanes as the will of those who built it fade and the people’s voice dampen. The internal focus of our Empire remains neglected. This ends now. Thus I do declare, THE IMPERIAL PACIFIST PARTY, to prioritize the internal success of the Empire and deter needless conflicts that do not threaten the sanctity of Our Imperial union. Gwyn **Detailed document of party & registry coming soon.

Thexan received the notice, walking amidst his home glades in solemn retreat. Despite the aggressive exchange, there was a melancholy to his gait. Dancing with death demanded a certain respect. His eyes wandered to the blade rested along the roots. “Let us talk with this ‘Kaius’, then.”

A missive is sent to Haelun’or. The declarations of hegemony, “purity”, and dominance from the silver city become increasingly annoying. It is no well kept secret to the realm that you, silver elves, render your strength from Imperial allies. Without them, you would stow away wordlessly within your citadels – as you have for centuries prior. Let the record then show. My name is Thexan Ithelanen – son to Valkorion and favored blood of Kairn the Conqueror. I have written the many documents that have embarrassed this war effort throughout the elven weeks. I’ve received little parry. The blood of silver is weak. I challenge you to a duel within the woods – that whosoever falls, the monks shall not revive. Let us settle what blood reigns stronger. Bring one of equal stature to mine so that I may slay him and sow his blood among my roots. You have one elven week to reply. Thexan Ithelanen

“Yes” thexan say

In the words of a common elf, The Imperial mind mistakes itself. There is no Great War. There is no strife of value. This is no coalition set to depose an Empire in faith that we would instill our own. We have brought together the free minds of Elvenkind not to retaliate, but to break the yolk and tether bound across every Elf. We have sought to live a life that is not aligned to the whims and wars of any Man. Verily, to our expectation, the Imperial mind is displeased. There is indeed whisper of an Age of Elves – but it is none to rule over others. We yearn of an age free of wars that are not our own; free of the political bondage bound due our communion with other races. You will see then that your challenge falls on deaf ears. You have invaded our forests five times, in most occasions to tear the life of our Princes and render our children leaderless. And yet we stay, tending to the life we have always known. We do not raid, we do not rove, we do not reave. What blood do you then thirst for? Is it a rebel’s? We have not rebelled. Is it an enemy’s? We do not seek you in battle. Your proclamations announce our crowing and craven ways; letters from the Imperial Capital tell of a foe far in evil and sewn in their wretched hideaways. But you dare not tell them the truth - that Imperial forces invade peaceful cities, incite death, and pretend that they are wronged. My people have died before, and they may die again. Fenn has been sacked. The Mali’ker have been butchered in excess. Malinor, a home of all wood elves, was put to the sword by Humanity’s best. But we find life again. The winds of war wash across this world for ages over - and yet, nothing is ever truly gone. At day’s end, I weep for Horen’s children. As we live and die by these ancient woods, so does Humanity by the sword. Wars are a season to Elvenkind, but Man will be fighting them for as long as they live. When all is done and the sun sets on quiet glades again, I will rest. And that is something worth dying for. Thexan

“Why do you care about elves?” asks Thexan. “We’ve made it clear this is a defensive effort. There is no interest in waging conquest. Yet, it seems you thirst to fight.” He mulls over the words for a few moments. “Yes. They’re thirsty.”

“Not an impossible task,” mused the elf back through mutual telepathy, pulling an old document over across his desk.

The Imperial body is one that has repeatedly interfered with Elvenkind in manipulative and malevolent nature. Spanning from the Sack of Malinor, Human monarchs have sought to involve within Elven affairs, burgeoning conflicts and asserting dominance over the race by that rite. Our grievances span centuries of monarchs, regimes, empires, and nations. Only one variable has been constant. With them, the Mali’aheral (despite their self-proclaimed hatred of violence) have frequently abetted war as their most common interaction with Elvenkind. Let the ledger be laid bare for all to witness. Sack of Malinor by Imperial and White Rose forces in Anthos. General persecution and mass murder of Elves committed under Horen V’s reign in Anthos. Imperial backed high elven regime subjugated mali’ame and mali’ker into apartheid slums – banned from practicing their own culture, intermarriage punishable by death, the Fringe. Fenn is sacked by the Third Orenian Empire in the Fringe. Several coups are initiated against Leyulin by Haelun’or during Athera. Oren funds and supplies troops to the sack of Leyulin under the high elven regime during Athera. Human planted elven leader Tristin Tresery takes power for many years during Athera. Haelun'or militarizes under 'The Vigil', begins raiding innocent civilians and inciting violence in Vailor. Haelun'or rebels against the Dominion in Vailor. The Dominion remains an appendage to the now revived Empire in Axios. Repeated Fenn persecution occurs throughout the years in Axios. Threat of war against the Dominion as scapegoat and fear of elven consolidation in Atlas. Crusade declared against Dominion in Atlas. Imperial raids against Elvenesse due to alliance of disparate elven states in Arcas. Let there be no mistake by this ledger. We are not aggressors. We are persecuted not for our actions towards others. We are not used by the Imperial host out of mutual friendship. It is a parasitic attachment to rend our sovereignty, our power, and our use apart. The Imperial mind has implanted itself in Elven politics for centuries, issuing violence whenever the wayward elven states wandered too close in friendship. In peace, they nurture Elvenkind so that they may grow dependent and weak. In war, they align and position elven states against one another in an effort to maintain a fractured race. There is one thing the Empire fears most: a united Elvenkind. I will shed my prejudices towards my elven brothers. I will band with their blood as we did under Malin’s umbra. Our world is a soup of chaos, one only remedied by the unions we bring together. In light of this Imperial incursion, one thing is certain in my mind. I will never be a slave again. Thexan

To the Horen host and all that follow, You indeed embody the dragon, as we Elves bear the forest. Alike all beasts that prey, they are alone. They form no friendships and curry no favor. Their actions are based on murder and consumption alone. As all predators go, the dragon is no less untrustworthy. One may live his entire life with a beast as such, and yet he would never turn his back on them. For even a beast’s greatest friends are prey once vulnerability is seen. I do not expect the valah to remember. It is a feat beyond their understanding. I do not expect the common man to scry into the past - to see the bonds we have forged with Mankind in the wars of Atlas and the predecessor worlds. I do not expect them to see the lives we have given; lives far fewer and more precious than meets the eye. But I do expect it of the Horen ilk. I had hope that there was divinity vested in the line. In spite of all else, I knew that the Imperial blood saw our deeds. But I was wrong. I have toiled across this earth for centuries, and I shall toil for centuries longer. I have fought in every ill-tempered war Humanity has mustered. My kin have died at the hands of upstart Imperial rebellions as fruitless as the one before. All so that we may find strong allies in Mankind. All so that we could find peace. And yet, you march into our forests. You slaughter our leaders. You shatter the peace and seek to insight violence - not because we have wronged you, but because you have grown bored and thirst for blood once again. While you embody the qualities of a dragon, you are no such thing. The Drakaar and their lesser offspring have matured into the role since time itself. Their dominion is absolute; their natural grace is undeniable. But you, ilk of Horen are increasingly opposite. You are needlessly violent, nefarious, and prone to tantrum. Our natural alliance of Elven races is one to be celebrated; just as the Highlanders, Heartlanders, and Farfolk are brought together as one. Instead, the response shatters centuries of good faith. In place of our own, you break bread with Elves that decry your very race and worship the regicide of your own King Vydra. They are snakes, inside and out. And you love them more than I. Our toil has been a labor of love. But there cannot be love for one as insecure as thee. Visit your libraries and look into the past. Beyond your infinitely small lives, there is a history yet to be seen. Thexan

Dearest Robert, I see now that in my aging breath, the people are not the same as you and I. These streets and corners were a different love ten years past. I once carried a sword, and you a spear; nothing in all of Atlas could have stopped our brave hearts. We belonged to the Human spirit that drove its youthful armies. It preached love, it preached war, it preached blood, and it preached the bond of brothers. How that dream has died. Nobody knew how my leg was crippled. None of the legionaries remembered the Rurikid spearing my calf. Nonetheless, I was cruelly judged. My ailing violated their sunny disposition; my gait was an offense to the flawless warrior - forever young. In these cold nights, my thought wanders to you. If I wasn’t crippled prior, I would’ve died by your side. And perhaps death was the better sentence. For I have seen the life you left behind, and it was none to desire beyond the grave. The maid you laid with has now grown fat and with child. The once delicious beauty only lingers in her eyes now. Your brothers in battle are crippled as I. More oft, they lie beneath the ground as you do - claimed in battle from Humanity’s endless endeavors. For them, a battle survived was no victory at all. Only one more gamble with death for anther day. Today would have been your fortieth. The sunny alleys and warm festivals of the Capital remain as warm, aye, but filled with the youth and life of our children. Their world is the one we left behind. Their Emperor is young. The governors are warriors themselves. Yet here we sit: fading, watching, waiting. The time will never come when I am young again. At night, I wish I was you; tragically fallen, immortalized in stone, and forever young. But I will not scorn your memory by lingering on what cannot be changed. There is word of a settlement named Leuven, beyond the Capital and into the warm summer fields beneath Haense. The men who leave for it say it is a land without past. Any who settle it start anew. They even whisper that there, the blood of Ashford lives yet. It speaks of a time far before ours; one I am exceedingly hopeful for. I write with bags of clothing floored and horses stirring outside. Come the morn, I ride. The boy has grown. Our dream is gone. But I will never be comfortably numb. If there was ever a new life to live, I will do it now. For me, and for you. Gwyn

It is true that the Mali’aheral have been a deceptive worm to the world and her host. It is a species that thrives on low cunning and contempt of those unlike them; they, of flaxen hair from the golden pools that have atrophied their bodies and wasted their minds. The international friendships they derive are wholly parasitic. The high elf will pay lip service and nothing else for the coddling given to his silver cities. He will offer nothing and demand everything. Their output, both culturally and economic, is a net negative. The silver culture decays naturally till death, until the next generation of disparate youth reform on increasingly diluted and abject values. This cycle has continued in perpetuity, and to their benefit, isolation. But you, Mali’aheral, have forayed into a world that is not your own. You assess ancient titles you’ve never held. You premiere your entry into global politics with a decree absent of reason or purpose. The last high elven magnum opus was the incineration of Oren’s King Vydra. The fallout resulted in systematic genocide, vassalization, and oppression for centuries to pass. But now you have not betrayed a human monarch. Rather, you’ve betrayed your entire race. Hark, and mark these words clear. I was present when Malinor burned. I peered above the ramparts to see the legion of White Rose. I retreated when the Emperor Horen’s personal vanguard broke through the West Wall. And as we escaped our ancient city, I looked my last to the home of all Elves. And you were nowhere to be found. An elf that does not fight for his own is no elf at all. You have never broken bread with the Elves of old. You have never defended the Princedom that you now claim. When the wars of our world wash across the land, I hope that they will tide on your shore. For the era of Mali’aheral has come and has lived. Now, it's time for it to end. Thexan Ithelanen

Gwyn pens a response. “I dissected your three chief values – imperialism, ultranationalism, and fascism. I then applied those standards to your own policies and argued how they were incongruent. That is what I did. Seven paragraphs and you have not refuted a single point. You’ve only said I am wrong. Why? There is little point in drafting further rhetoric. Let us talk over fowl and wine within Helena. Send me a bird. Gwyn”

Addressed to the League and open to all, It appears now that a sensationalist wave sweeps over the political unconscious of the Imperial mind, capitalizing on the disturbance caused by Adrian insurrection. It is a primal response devoid of reason, sense, or need. In Question Not the Crown, the Adrian defiance is compared to the horrifying Duke’s War that predated our modern Empires. The mention of this crisis provokes the fear in us all; it was a time we abhor, and a time we readily evade. But the rise of this pseudo-movement is no answer at all. The “Imperial Fascist League” values three at its forefront: Imperialism, Ultranationalism, and Fascism. According to the definition of all three of these values, it is a party that prioritizes authoritarianism, race, dictatorship, suppression of opposition, and an Imperial doctrine enforced through might of military. I do not decry any of these values. There are lived men better than I that make this case and make it well. But the Imperial Fascist League does not live to their three central goals. The following policies directly contradict the trinity values, “The people remain at the forefront of the party.” “The Imperial Fascist League seeks to ensure that non-human citizens enjoy the rights of a human citizen.” “Imperials should not be subject to raving politicians who seek to further their own gains with no regard for the common individual of the Empire.” A party that values suppression of opposition and authoritarianism does not prioritize the individual, the people, or any of their delicate rights. It is a doctrine that raises the state and race alone. It was a common practice to berate and outright slaughter voices of opposition in the Empires of yore. They did not operate as individuals. They surged as a hive groupthink, bound in the euphoric and militant worship of the Imperial state. And it was successful. A fascist and nationalist party does not ensure the rights of non-human citizens. Rather, it triumphs on the notion of our race. The very nature of our nation is bound in the name itself; it is an Empire of Man, and Man alone. Tax and allegiance do not resolve the inalienable differences drawn between Humanity and the races beneath. A dog will love and serve me for his keep, but he is not my own. Furthermore, following policies are century-established staples of Imperial culture and provide little substance, “It is our belief that commoners who show prowess and skill in the military should be rewarded.” “A citizen of the Empire should be granted an opportunity to rise to certain power without a drop of noble blood.” How many banalities must you add to pad the length of this drivel? In hundreds years past, the marshal Vibius de Sola rose from nothing and became infamous for time immemorial. Bandit lords, charlatans, noble warriors and burghers without noble blood have held much power through all of Man’s past. It is universally understood that life will consume the weak and worthless. Those of merit, noble or swine, will rise regardless. Does your party also value that our sky is blue? You declare a trinity of principles that you do not understand nor value. You litter your magnum opus with banal truths that do not speak of either your party or common sense. What brings me most concern, however, is the state of this address. It is clear to any man that the formation of this League is not brought out of necessity, but rather the fervent impulse to affirm the greatness and importance of our Empire. And yet it seeks to spread across Our Parliament and legislate with authority it has not earned. Thus, I plead that these errors within your doctrine are corrected. I hope, with bated breath, that the mission of this League is either changed or adjusted to something fitted more to its “fascist” namesake. I will not sleep well knowing that this is what is to come of our good Parliament; lest I be forced to join the fray myself and challenge the League with one of my own. We are joined in the same race and Empire. These words are to inspire thought. I hope that you will consider them well. Regards, Gwyn

[!] A notice is pinned in cities across Arcas. [!] “If you call yourself a scribe, I seek you. If you aspire in the written arts, your dream will find purpose. I have toiled across this earth in search of communion with those that draw this same passion of mine. I have found nothing. I seek to found a Writer’s Guild; such a guild to foster aspirant minds and cultivate works from those far in their craft. This organization would write and draft paid speeches, declarations, and literary works as a source of income. It would also incubate scientific journals, analysis, and fictional works. This ‘Writer’s Guild’ would serve as a hallmark of excellence – to train those who aspire, and to accumulate the sure talent sewn along Arcas. If this stirs you, I implore that you send word immediately to my residency within the capital of the Empire. I have entrusted details of contact below. In Faith, Gwyn” ((Looking to start up a proper and fun Writer’s Guild. Interested? Contact Treshure#1981 on Discord.))

Gwyn frowns towards the last part of the statement. “If indeed the Empire broke into civil war, it would only serve to bolster it’s strength in the long term. An Empire grows weak without blood to temper her soldiers. Should this lasting peace continue, Mankind will find itself out of practice in the wars to come. Wars are always certain to come.”

Gwyn shakes his head. “In the Empires of old, the Emperor would have permitted a vassal war. This perpetuates a culture of weakness.”

((This is an off topic post. I’d like this removed @ScreamingDingo.))

He had been gone years. Thexan’s journeys rested on the premise of Old Gladewynn. Such an elder and wise society could procure the answers and philosophies needed to reverse Elvenkind from a slow death - one of lust, sloth, and excess. He traveled leagues and far beyond into Atlas’ depths - mountainous ravines, perilous heights, and the forests forgotten. -- Nursing the wounds of prolonged travel, Thexan found himself in no particular tavern at all. It was only another bench and another flagon of ale before his next trek. That was, until the bartender knocked for his attention. “Gladewynn elf, aye? Here - the rider brought it this morn.” He slid the notice to Thexan. “KING KAIRN ITHELANEN VANISHED WITHOUT TRACE. CASSIUS TO BE CROWNED WITHIN FORTNITE. OF ALL ELVENESSE CORDIALLY INVITED.” The elf lifted his head to the bartender. His face was silent and wracked with shock. The bartender finished Thexan’s words where he had failed to form them. “King Kairn is kill.” “no” In an instant, he had gathered his belongings. Within the night, he was returning; bounding back towards Gladewynn on the sea’s most fortunate gales, and the best steeds gold could procure. At long last he had arrived to the throne room. The aristocracy flanked the sides of the lifted throne, and upon it, Cassius himself. Thexan had been blessed to call the Prince a bro. Countless nights had been spent pouring over the literature of Old Gladewynn. Battles, trials, and the union of blood had made the duo super cool. Now he witnessed the very crowning ritual he had uncovered, to which Cassius had finally lifted that sick crown upon his head. The elves rose, and Cassius proclaimed. He was Ithelanen no more; instead that of a royal ‘Atraedes’, now and forever. This, naturally, was lit. Out with the old, and in with the new. Thexan was committed to achieving the epic victory royale with the new monarch.

And thus a dusk settles on the King Kairn Ithelanen. His service, his blood, and his sacrifice laid into the Aldersrock for time immemorial to bear witness. Seven fires light an empty throne. With it’s bare absence, a people and race live without the crown of guidance. The Alderfolk yearn for rule; the fate of Elvenesse demands another take the mantle. A DECREE IS LISTED UNTO THE REALM. “King Kairn Ithelanen has vanished without trace. The seat of Elvenkind remains bound to his chosen heir, for which all of Elvenesse lies vested within. Cassius Ithelanen is to be crowned within the fortnight. The Kingdom of Gladewynn welcomes the following into Caras Eldar upon this occasion to witness the Royarch, THE EMPEROR OF MANKIND, Augustus Horen, his parties and vassals. SOHAER OF HAELUN’OR, Kiljarys, his parties, and respective Mali’aheral. All of Elvenesse is cordially invited to the crowning of Cassius Ithelanen, Royarch of Elvenkind.” SUNDAY | 1/13 | 5 EST at CARAS ELDAR

yeah this was never propagated in gladewynn chats

music rotation! I'll start