rukio

Tired messenger birds would arrive at their various destinations. A strong scent of the sea concealed the normal odor of the pigeons. Each parchment was tied neatly with twine and ribbon. Away from the shore in unexplored waters a boat is rocked by gentle waves, mast pushed by billowing winds above. A white haired 'Thill closes his eyes. Dreams, nightmares, or darkness, all ever consuming. Horrors and delights. Everything and nothing at once. Yet one final thought came to mind as he made his peace: Where one thing ends another begins. On and on the world would go, with and without. The warmth of Earendel's hand interlacing with his own, bloodied as it was. The strength began to leave his grip, slicked with crimson. Hand fell from hand, only to be caught and held anew. We were always meant to be together. So long as he lives on, I will exist. The world became a blur. Nehtamo smiled. It was here. Peace. To Alucard, To Morur, To The An-Gho, To Nememne, To Alzihessan, Miss Valyris, To Theodora, To Alatariel, To Rhaelanthur, To Remon, To Vothdrem, To Hera, To Ella, To Raziel,

Who r u

Me when I realize 2015 was almost 8 years ago: Which staff team was/is your favorite to be on and why? Most memorable moment? Favorite person to work with on staff (and why was it me? 😏)? Favorite settlement? Favorite non LotC moment?

Jhaeros Wynasul finds himself unable to move past the sigils at the top of the missive. Paper held in both hands; he'd tremble in horror of the imagery there. "Valah are truly deplorable." He'd whisper to Valyris.

Okay but what if I play while knitting and doing housework? I am a productive member of this household and this community.

He once said he hates me. :(

A 'Thill was inconsolable at the death of his beloved brother. "Foolish little brother..." A sharpened object would soon find itself dragged across the flesh above his ribs after fleeing Celia'nor and the chaos that had transpired, the violence enacted in his grief. "I tried so hard to free you." He'd whisper bitterly as the world went grey, then dark. A cage. Imprisoned. His own private hell, to relive every mistake again and again.

If my death is the price for you to be yourself once more, then so be it. Those final words of Vallein, whispered to Valyris, would haunt Nehtamo that night. The blood from two merciful and clean strikes by his blade had finally been washed from his sleeve. He had handed down the fate that Valyris had declared for Vallein: Death. "I did not betray you or lie- madness and hatred had consumed your heart Vallein." Is all Nehtamo would say, staring at the body in the manor, wrothful. "If you had just agreed to go with me, without trying to rally your llir...you could have avoided your fate. You could have lived. Fool." Annoyed, he'd throw a book at the body which slumped, near headless beyond the crushed pulp that barely clung by tendons and sinew akin to tattered threads. A vague scent of smoke clung to the room, turning Nehtamo's stomach... or was that the guilt? He was unsure, but the door slammed behind him all the same.

"I can't believe that the entire population of Amaethea signed this pact, that's quite the achievement." Mumbles Nehtamo to his beloved husband, Earendel, as he downs another alcoholic beverage and sorts through the various missives that had gone out that day. "I mean- Haeseni come as crows, or something...so it makes sense they'd ally to sub-descendant animals." A snicker before he'd black out and leave the rest of the stack unread.

Mog Renatus Nectorist Oren

Nehtamo Ibarellan tracks down his younger brother and smacks him on the back of the head. "Don't let hatred blind you, mal'onn. Revenge is a dish best served cold." He'd murmur, then ruffle the hair where he had struck with open palm moments prior. After ensuring his brother was unharmed he'd depart. There were things to do, 'ker to hunt, demons to track. Life was busy and death would soon be the same.

Why are you 4'3 irl?

I just ******* hate musin. I want to punt them whenever I see them with their little food centered names. MFers making me HUNGRY.

"Perhaps you were not maln to the three I helped raise." Mused Nehtamo to the shrunken head hanging by reddened yellow hair stared on with empty eye sockets as the two spoke. "For they are nothing like you, yet she was every bit an annoyance, as much a danger and threat as you were. Good riddance, I hope it was slow." Tone cold, yet indifferent. There were more important matters at hand.

He's mine though xoxo

—__—__— Balance Who is most deserving of a man’s loyalty? To what cause should he dedicate his training? For what purpose does he pull himself from the pits of despair? Is it for the one he loves, that soul which ignites his own and fuels his ambition? Could it be for the dear friends who have formed his beliefs and story akin to a sculptor to clay? Perhaps for the blood and chosen family who raise and grow beside him? What of the realm? What of the ever changing greater good? Do the masses not require a hero, tell tales of heroes long gone, seek to inspire a new one to arise and meet the challenges they dare not bear unto their own shoulders? Yet how can anything be fixed without first being broken, destroyed to some capacity? If all things on this world are worthy of respect, of some reverence, if all are important to the balance as a whole, what is man to do when balance shifts, when Aengudaemons war, when man corrupts in his quest for power- for knowledge- for more. Balance does not measure equality, it does not equate to stagnation. Balance simply is. There is balance when all exist, there is balance when there are none left. Yet on and on the world will sway, first to this side, then to that. If a Xannite is consumed by his hate, hunts down all that threatens the descendants, will he not himself become that which he sought to destroy? If a necromancer no longer has prey to feast upon, will he not heal that which fuels him? If they do not, if they allow the world to languish and be consumed in their purpose, does the world not right itself by the Creator’s will? If a fire ravages a forest does the forest not regrow stronger from seeds left dormant in the soil before? —__—__— Can peace exist without first having war? —__—__— What is love? —__—__— Can that which is within understand that which is without? —__—__— Fate What is Obligation? What is duty? What is Purpose? How are we to follow our fate if the path is ever dark, ever changing. What of the brambles and thickets that trick us, convince us our path has ended? Do you think that when our path has ended we will be able to turn and look back at all that we have done? If we were able to do this…would you smile or frown? Would you despair or rejoice? Accept or refuse? For every action has consequence, every choice invokes a ripple in that which we call fate. A farmer’s decision to nap may cause the crops to rot, the rot prevents a baker’s preparation, and the citizens will languish in their starvation. Yet how is the farmer to know the rain would come? What if his action was a reaction to a wetter season, to a crop not quite ready to be pulled from the field on which it grew? Every action, every reaction will have an outcome. The best of intentions may lead to the worst of damnation. The worst choices may lead to salvation. There is no way to know. That is the beauty of timeless insight, the wonder of what-ifs. If the world were black and white what purpose would choice serve? If it were doused in gray-scale monotone what meaning would it have? The world is colorful. The world is light. The world is dark. The world simply is. The world is beautiful and the world is balanced. The world is what you make of it. You are what the world makes of you. Yet where does this lead? Why is this not enough? Why is it too much? Why does the human noble gaze down upon the world and say they are content? Why does a mother tuck her child in at night and accept that this is duty, that this is life? Why does the bard strum at his lute, blow into his flute, and decide music is that which pacifies the ache in his soul? Why does the rejected languish? Why does the orphan seek acceptance? Why does the war hero crave approval? What does the soul do when the mind’s goal is achieved? What height is there to climb when you walk a thousand steps and discover the gilded flag at the top of the mountain does not fulfill you? What is Asioth if not a beautiful lie? The baker bakes, the farmer farms, and the fishermen fish. What is Purpose if not confinement, a way to blend into the background. Does Fate not dictate how we will begin and end? Does it not leave us in the wilds, blindfolded, to seek that which we have never known, will never understand until our final breath? How can that which is intangible be understood? —__—__— On Life, Death, Its Immortality I am not a product of my birth but an instrument of my environment. The limits of my upbringing, the abandonment of my parents cannot hinder me, nor do my aspirations define me. What I do, what I learn, where I go is what defines my success or failure on the path I set for myself. We are all the masters of our own voyage. After all, how can we appreciate or find our own purpose in the world if we do not seek to conquer the self first. It is a lifetime struggle, the self shall never be conquered until the individual finds death. Too often is death feared, an end to mortality, to what we deem physicality within this world we call home. Yet without death what is life. If you live an eternity, if you cannot die, what is the point of existence? What purpose do you serve in swaying influence over the world at large? There is none, for you then accept that things will continue onward with you, and so you stagnate. To stagnate is to serve no purpose. To have no purpose is to have no meaning. Without meaning…what is existence? An earth that can be abandoned is not a true earth. Every soul, major and minor, has its own part to play, its own instrument in the symphony known as life. From the greatest of the dragons, to the smallest of ants. Each plays a part, both more and less significant than each other in their own way. What matters most to the mortal? The self or the eternal? Does the mortal rise to their ambition or fall to their shortcomings? Undefinable. What is the concept of time to a being who knows no beginning and knows no end? How does a new soul manifest? Are we all recycled from some unknown realm, some energy in a star out of sight, some unknown deity’s realm yet to be defined by mortalkind? For if near all souls go to the soul stream and continue into an eternity in realms beyond the mortal plane, where then do they come from? The death of the self is the realization of eternity. What emerges from the flame is no longer the descendant who fell to fire, who turned to ash and dust. The soul enters the kiln and the body is burned away. Like a phoenix does the newly formed emerge then, reborn as something new. —__—__— A Birth From the dark of the womb does a soul manifest Into the blinding light of the earth Slapt and shaken until screams of life protest Mortals delight, already assigned worth Out into the world does the child drift Seeking that which we call golden asioth Life goes by slow until the end: swift Until journey ends, purpose realized; wroth Into kiln is mortal flesh thrown With screams of anguish into fire Like a phoenix it rises from drakestone Mortal soul ended, asioth acquire’d —__—__— What is the subtlety of Timeless Insight? Or: my Um'ei To begin writing upon the subtlety of something, first you must understand what it is without subtle inclinations. What is timeless insight? To understand, first you must understand the two halves that create the whole. Timeless? Insight? Eternity. Knowledge. Yet does eternity not imply a sum of zero and an ending unfound yet? Is knowledge not too broad of a term by which to define insight? To have insight is to be able to ascertain the nature of that which you see, smell, taste, or hear, to know what will transpire from it. An apple seed, for example, can have insight gleaned from its existence and from what outside actions are taken upon it. If it is never planted, never given back unto the soil in a nurturing environment it will never grow to be a full tree. It may sprout, it may bud, but without the nutrients needed it will remain that way until exhaustion takes it and the life within perishes. Insight tells the mind the logical answer. A planted apple seed will grow into an apple tree, unless disease or disaster strikes it down. A tree raised in a good environment, tended and nurtured by a descendant or nature will produce fruit in three to five years. Yet there is no way to tell what apples it will produce. For the seed’s parentage does not beget the apple type. An apple tree may produce a firm yet sweet fruit, but from that same fruit the seeds within may grow up and become bitter and near inedible, even with the same nurturing as the forefathers. This is why those who raise orchards of apples do not grow new crops by seed but by cuttings and grafting. A snippet of a desired tree’s limb is cut away and bound to a rootstock of another, sealed together until the scar tissue merges them as one while they grow. While the limb that is attached matters for the type of apple, the rootstock itself also matters. If the limb which bears preferred fruit is bound to an unhealthy rootstock, it will fail and perish with the tree it was bound to. A mutually assured survival is enacted by this outside interference. It is akin to a parent’s bond to a child, tree to seed, for while the parent may be of good temperament, virtue, and so on, and may raise the child with these distinctions, there is no promise of the offspring’s fate. Yet the mentor to student bond, akin to the grafting of an apple tree, gives more assurance to the student’s outcome. While they do not share their mentor’s blood, they are often taught in the mentor’s ideals, sent out to find themselves. The power of student and teacher. Yet, does this not also corrupt the student’s own asioth? To have an asioth be taught by another, to be guided towards their asioth, does this not defeat the purpose? In giving um’ei does the mentor not to some extent prevent the student’s own growth? While it shields them from blight and corruption of the parent, just as with the apple tree, so too does it prevent the cutting from truly being its own tree, to flourish with its own fruit, however rotten it might be. All of this is known with insight, with experience, but what is timeless? Eternity? That which is tangible? Can something timeless be defined, for are we not beasts of burden to the marching of time? Does a human not measure his life by months and years, counting down in dread to when he reaches forty or a hundred depending on his profession? Does an elf not pursue love based on how close to five hundred they are? Not strive to reach their goals before eight hundred years arrive and madness begins to claim their mind? Do orcs not live short but noble lives in their pursuit of honor and combat? Is a town, a culture, a belief not followed or upheld depending on the length of its existence? What is timeless? The world, all worlds, were created. Aengduaemons can be killed, are they still timeless even in death? Were they born? Did they have a beginning, an end? What is timeless? There are too many contexts to define it by, you could spend a lifetime beginning and find most things can never be defined by the end, yet it would be a noble cause to dedicate yourself to. That is asioth, to find something which defines your road, guides you through your life. It will never be reached, it is the metaphorical apple hanging on a branch just low enough to taunt yet never will an outstretched limb make contact. Asioth is the lie which gives descendants a purpose in an otherwise empty world. A completed soul, one comforted and confident has no reason to reach for something out of its grasp. When a soul is complete there is no need to reach for power, no need to wander or search for meaning beyond the realm you drift upon. An earth that can be left is no earth and a heaven that can be reached is no heaven. All deities who claim souls enact this in some form. A templar is filled with a sense of indignation, a search for power and a bond to those they serve alongside. A druid is filled with an inner connection to the earth around them, able to communicate and never be alone with their thoughts. The list goes on, though most are reminiscent or echo the same sentiment of the two already mentioned. Asioth is enlightenment, to understand and to conquer that which is internal. A student takes from asioth what they seek, what they feel their soul and body lacks. It is undefined beyond reaching towards heaven, a task which is possible yet the desired outcome is impossible until death. Yet almost all lies have some comfort in them, and asioth is the same. It stirs once idle hands into action, gives new meaning to a soul once lost and seeking something greater than itself. This is subtlety. This is the Timeless Insight. It is something that will continue on throughout the passage of time, long after other beliefs die out. The search for something more to a weary soul is endless and as vast as the grains of sand in the southern desert. This is its subtlety, that it is never told outright, yet hinted upon in nearly every verse, every script. That these things can never be acquired until mortality ends and eternity, and the peace of embracing that mortal death, begins for the soul which began three feet to their left. —__—__— What Is Fire? How can such a small word be so vast in definition? Four letters form the word, yet there are so many ways to define it. Is fire magic? Is it life or is it death? What of the alchemical signs that stem from fire? Is it everything, all encompassing? Or is it nothing, akin to the void, a destroyer, a consumer of all it touches. Is it light, for how it illuminates the world, or is it darkness for how it blinds those who stare into its abyss for too long? Fire burns, it destroys, it consumes. Demonic fire tears away at the soul. Mortal fire burns away at decaying plant life and burns flesh. Voidal fire is so often used in combat to destroy those who oppose you. Yet draconic fire fuels the life of those bodies it inhabits. Without the fire within their soul a nephilim would turn to stone, they would cease to exist. Mortal fire burns away at the decaying and dying earth to fuel the regrowth of trees and grass that comes thereafter. Fire is not chaotic nor is it unpredictable. Natural fire itself goes where decay and wind allow it to. It is hindered by rain, easily snuffed out with lack of wind or fuel. It cannot burn that which does not approach it. Fire is one of the purest examples of balance. It is neither life nor death, light nor darkness. Yet it creates both ends of the spectrum in all that it embraces. Fire may burn flesh, it may leave scars, yet too it is used to seal away wounds that would otherwise allow the sufferer to bleed to death. What of other fires though? It isn’t just defined by flames channeled by magic or decayed fuel. How often is a personality described as fiery? How often is it used to denote red in descriptions, though fire has many colors? So often is the word fire used to describe things that are lively, alive, vibrant in hue or in enthusiasm. When the question was posed to me I wondered how I could define it. Something so broad, so all entwining. How many fireplaces I have stared into. How many shrines ablaze and covered in ash did I sit before, trying to find the answer. Far more than the volcanoes I have sat beside, watching as the lava within churned and blazed in protest of its imprisonment. I found no answer, and so I understood: Fire cannot be defined. It is as vast and explainable as Golden Asioth. The answer can only be defined for yourself, by yourself. No one else walks your path, and so too, will no one come to know fire in the same way as another individual.

Woah who is that handsome tech fella I see on this post?

"Lurin literally harbors atronachs that aided Serheim and wear rokodra. Shut up. Of course, you're not going to be allowed to test random people by drawing their blood in a city you don't own." Says an annoyed Nehtamo, burning his copy of the missive before making his husband his morning tea, doting on him with all the adoration in the world.

Man.