rukio

Aeolus of Khamees, one armed and exhausted reads the various missives from within the Order's alchemical lab. With tired eyes, he'd look to Hileia as they prepared the next round of alchemicals. "I suppose they all show their true colors and support of the dark in the end." He'd say simply, softly, continuing in the neverending toil as his right shoulder twitched and churned beneath tight bandages, agonizingly so. @wooz

No but if it's a newer rewrite then maybe give it more time to see if it's really a necessary addition or not.

Didn't Naz just get a rewrite or smth?

I had some genuinely fun CRP last night. Sounds like a skill issue, Edel :3

How will this interact with other magics that have dodge abilities? If I leap back or backflip over you (paladin/kani) what do you end up doing?

Aeolus 'Glitter Boy' of Khamees smiles the sun's smile from within the Order's keep, alchemical goggles protecting his eyes as he'd finish the last touches of a blasting potion. "One thing does bother me, though." He'd wonder aloud to the others gathered in the lab. "What was that screaming?" @wooz @Safryie @HazelWazel

Aeolus of Khamees drops the missive in front of Amelia of Ahad. He picks up his morning cup of tea, waving it to and fro as he speaks, the contents swaying and near spilling, but never escaping the mug. "So- she was killed, yeah? And that means she died, yeah?" He'd wait a moment for that to sink in. "But the Lurin missive says he'll talk to her, but does that mean she's a ghost or did the necrotics revive her, Amelia?" A sip of tea was taken, he'd grimace and dump the rest. "If she was killed then she's dead, make it make sense Amelia..." Later, the golden paladin would be knelt within the chancery, lighting the candles of those he had known and who had passed before him. "Ours is not to reason why, but to do and to die." He'd remind himself, deciding politics were not for him.

"Finally, a worthy adversary." Says 'Glitter Boy' Aeolus of Khamees, reading the missive beside the oven while his cookies bake and an apple pie cools.

ur a cool dude dude

I hate family trees. Don't understand how these people managed to put children under my characters to grab titles, especially if they never informed me... 😭 (I hope someone informs them they're all full elves)

Aeolus of Khamees lights a candle in Gawyn's memory. He stares at the flame until time and lack of wick snuffs the light. "He was one of humanity's finest and his loss will undoubtedly be felt."

“Its clear you’re a sad soul, I can sense that you’ve experienced a lot of pain.” “I have found Purpose in Duty.” It was springtime in Celia’nor, the trees had only just come back to life and the flowers’ perfume wafted through the streets. A small, gangly high elf sought to enlist in the tavern. He wasn’t much to look at, there was no expectation of him, short of temper, and quick to retort. He was barely sixteen, speaking to the Princess, Valyris Wynasul, first of her name, early into her reign. Nehtamo had almost walked past the duo, uncaring about the day to day life within the city, himself still adjusting. A single word, however, stopped his stroll, changed fate. Kaelan. With that word, the young Aldin turned, blue eyes cautiously appraising the youth. He listened to stories that reminded him of his own childhood, of how the child had fled Haelun’or, just as he had some years prior. He had been intent on his travel to the Firelands, but now he remained. He neared, even, closer to the conversation, opting to stand beside Valyris. His expression was neutral as he listened, and yet his heart broke, his mind sympathized. “I’ll take him under my wing, keep an eye on him.” From that day they were brothers. Last, the World is a misty weald of white branches. Trees reach for the heavens; they seek without growing. Asioth is shining above the bright heavens. Waxing out, a silver moon cleaves two into One. Spectral branches weave throughout each other: white-gold. Loving, the white light grows; Wanting, the gold light dies. The years passed, conflicts came and went, and few things remained consistent in Nehtamo’s life. There were, in fact, few things he was certain of, but in those he held the utmost confidence, an acceptance that they would last. That he would be loyal to Princess Valyris for eternity, who had saved his life. That he would some day wed the elf he had loved in secret for decades. That he would die some day, still a herald. And finally that he would always protect his younger brother, that he would watch him grow old in that elven way, over the course of centuries, with decades first to learn and grow. None of these would come true. Two decades had passed, the seasons had come and gone, and now Nehtamo lived within the Celia’norian land for Cartref Mor’s refugees, still recovering from the mental scars of his abduction, of the torture he had endured for months on end. He did not speak of his pain, of the nightmares and horrors that kept him up at night. He did not feel worthy of sympathy or reassurance, only of the atonement that comes with peril, for which some viewed him as heroic. Clad in the darkened armor and white cape of an ordained herald, burns that marred half of his face, he had a rugged charm. A beautiful exterior, a crumpling interior. “Your brother was let into the camp today by someone who didn’t know who he was. He left notes in mailboxes, caused problems. It was caught in time but Neht, he’s too rash.” “He’s an oem’ii, mayilu. He’ll grow out of it, but I’ll keep a better eye on him.” “He’s in his thirties, Neht, he’s an adult.” “Perhaps by Valah standards, but he is still an oem’ii. He’s had a hard life, mayilu. As I said, I’ll speak with him.” There were many things that particular elf could sway Nehtamo on. Even the Princess Valyris had noticed, pulled Nehtamo aside and cautioned him against the secret and well guarded relationship he held. He would simply dismiss her worries. Friend and foe alike were killed in the name of his love’s safety, in the name of keeping their love a secret. He did not grieve, he did not feel remorse, they were all a means to an end. Alucard was the one thing, however, Nehtamo would not, could not be swayed on. Could not be led from, could not be argued with. His brother was flawed, but he was young. He would grow. Thus an outline of Asioth appears unsaid. Timeless insight is as pigment beneath its strokes. Within is a tossing sea of sublime beauty; its buoyant waters fill words like silver vessels. The book of Asioth teaches ageless subjects, and nations name themselves upon its white-gold slate. With time Alucard began to follow the footsteps of those who Nehtamo had known, who he had cautioned him against speaking with. Necromancers, frost witches, darkspawn of varying evils and dangers. In the end, ultimately, Nehtamo decided that under the An Gho would be safest for Alucard, and so he was brought to Tor’Azdroth. Where Nehtamo had found in Morur what he lacked in a father, Alucard found the guidance he needed in the An-Gho. The nephilim brothers fought and bickered often, but the herald brothers rarely did, and never for long. Years passed with Alucard growing closer to the nephilim and their beliefs, while Nehtamo pulled further from it at the urging of his lover. “There’s something I want to confess to you, mal’onn.” It was time, he thought. Alucard had delved too deep, grown too close to Remon and An Gho. He had had the Widu’s marks tattooed into his back, a source of contention between the prophet and Ordained. One wished for Alucard to be saved from the dark, the other wished to use him to learn more about it. “The reason, the real reason I was Ordained, why I hide my arms from all, even in the tower. I am tasked to kill the nephilim, slaughter and disconnect their heralds, and then end my own life. This is my duty, this is what I have been assigned, but mal’onn-” The younger elf was already backpedaling. “N-no… you’re…” His sleeves were pulled up. In glowing crimson the marks of decapitated azdrazi, swords through their chests, were etched across his arms. One for each brother Morur had been betrayed by. A moment later, Alucard fled inward, from the pillar where they had stood, into Tor Azdroth with Nehtamo chasing after him. The door was flung open, and breathlessly, Alucard shouted. “Nehtamo is a traitor, he’s a spy. H-he’s going to kill you all. He’s Morur’s agent. We have to kill him.” Heralds and Azdrazi alike raised gaze, brows perked, maddened reptilian eyes studying the white haired, burned faced Ordained. Nehtamo’s chin rose in defiance then. “Whoever of you thinks you can kill me, you are welcome to try.” None moved, save for one. Alucard fled up the staircases, to the top of Tor’Azdroth, sobbing and distraught, his brother fast on his heel. To the edge he ran, a singular foot hanging from the tower’s ledge, a height far greater than what would be necessary to die from. Forward he leaned, eyes closing as he prepared to die, only for the back of his shirt to be grabbed, a strong arm to pull him back to solid ground. Arms closed around him, Nehtamo held Alucard close. “You idiot. Are you trying to get me killed, to kill yourself? You didn’t even let me finish explaining.” The scolding continued for only a moment before the brothers began to sob together atop the tower. The others remained below. Their relationship strained, their bond never broke. Alucard wished to be part of his life, to know more, and Nehtamo had begun to push him away. “You are all that boy has for family, Nehtamo and I won’t watch another oem’ii kill themself.” Valyris began but was interrupted. “Why did you tell him about Tomato Soup, Valyris? The danger you’ve put E-” “Because he came to me sobbing, Nehtamo. He’s going to kill himself if you don’t start acting like a better brother to him.” The brothers made amends, Nehtamo did his best to open up to his brother more. He made it clear some things were his secrets to keep, but that he would be truthful with Alucard and all was well once more. Until a ship sailed into the port. A decade or more later, the killings would begin in full. An attempt on Nehtamo’s life had been plotted, and in turn he had made them pay. Over half a dozen heralds disconnected or slaughtered while nephilim had been corrupted. Then there was peace, there was understanding. So long as he was left alone and his brother dragged down no further the killings would end. There was peace. Until Remon. Until Karkosa. Being, they tear down the white branches of his cage, and put upon him a crown of humming crystal. In turn he lights their fires with lively knowledge, and seats them all beneath the tree of Asioth. Like the silver moon is within the tossing sea, a thousand lights reflect from but a single source. Asioth reveals the subtle and hides the known. Each is found within his brothers: sublimity. “Alucard is missing, he’s lost in Karkosa. I need to find him El.” “What about Theodosia?” “Alucard needs me. I’m all he has.” “I’m coming with you. Theodosia needs us too, you know.” Four adventurers set out to find Karkosa. Days and months passed, but at last the entrance was found. In a realm of demons and hell they traveled, and sought Alucard and the hexers. Nehtamo set out alone to find his brother, and so he found him, perched atop a tree, crying. To a safe area they fled, and there they caught up. “Has it been more than a few hours?” Whispered Alucard, curling into Nehtamo’s embrace. “A year, maybe a bit longer.” Nehtamo responded, resting his chin atop Alucard’s head protectively, rubbing the elf’s back in a reassuring way. Tears rolled down the younger elf’s face, sniffling could be heard as he buried his head against Nehtamo, going limp. “This isn’t a dream, right Mal’onn?” “I’m here, mal’onn. You’re okay.” Was all Nehtamo could say before the demons above dug and sniffed, hunted. The two were deathly silent, frozen in place as Nehtamo held his brother, ready to throw himself at whatever might come. The night passed and with morning they crept from the safety to find the others. By the time they escaped Karkosa Remon had betrayed them, Alucard had pacted with the demon, and both had maimed Elarhil severely. It became Nehtamo’s sole driving mission to find a cure for Alucard’s pact but none was found. Only the completion of his contract would suffice- and for that they would need to sacrifice someone of noble blood, for there is power in noble lines, or so the demon claimed. The target was found and Morur, Alucard, and Nehtamo set out. He was slain by Morur and Alucard while the guards held Nehtamo captive. When all was said and done Valyris would ultimately be the one to free him, unknowing of what had truly occurred. By now, however, Nehtamo had reunited with Elarhil, had become wrapped around his little finger, smitten as he always seemed to become, much to the detriment of all else. As the moth loves the flame, so does the flame set fire to all the moth has known. “I’m going back to Karkosa, I need to help Alucard break his pact.” “I don’t want to lose you again. Please don’t go. What if you die Neht?” “He’s my brother, El.” “What about me? I will die if you do Neht.” “Then I’ll stay mayilu. For you.” Asioth reaches out forever. Reaching out, it reaches in. Who can answer the riddle of loneliness? Love needs another. Celia’nor’s square, where the two had met so many years prior, yet so different. It was nearly in the same spot as he had first seen him on that spring day when Nehtamo’s heart sank. Morur carried the lifeless corpse of Alucard, his throat slit, into town. There came the sobs of a broken elf as Morur dumped the body in front of him, as Nehtamo clung to his brother’s body, shaking, cradling him, pleading with him to open his eyes once more. Alucard would never wake again. A guard passed, angered by the display. Words were exchanged, and for the second time in Nehtamo’s life he would cuss. “Will you shut the **** up or do I need to cut your tongue from your mouth?” With little thought, he threw a blasting potion at them and the square erupted into chaos. It was only by Earendel’s appearance that he did not kill himself in that fight. The duo fled, away to a ship, and stowed away for ten years. Ten years of torture as Earendel’s love turned to cold hatred at the betrayal of Nehtamo, having learned of Tomato Soup. By the time of the Balian siege Nehtamo had finally escaped, broken, battered, bloodied, but alive. He could not bring himself to visit his brother’s grave in Mul’naar, nor to visit Celia’nor. He sent one letter to herald his return, a desperate plea with mystics to restore his brother to true life. But mystics do not work with life, only with what can be stolen from Aeriel’s stream. Some men say there is no judgement after death. But among everything under heaven, what comes to an end without balancing? The body returns to the earth, the breath returns to the lungs, the fruit returns to the tree, and the mind returns to Asioth. Years later he finally returned to Fi’Andria. Alucard’s ghost stood outside of the tavern. The two embraced and Nehtamo wept. He blamed himself and was told the truth of Alucard’s death. They promised to speak again, that there was more to say. This would be the last time they saw one another, though Nehtamo often looked for his lost sibling’s ghost. His trials to become a paladin began shortly thereafter, the first was passed after a year. He was a capable soldier, a wise philosopher, and even a well versed alchemist but his mind was plagued. He was guilt addled. “Make peace with the past, grandson.” No one could understand why it took years, a decade if not more stuck on what seemed to be a simple task. Forgive yourself they would say when he explained. But how could he forgive the abandonment of his younger brother in his darkest hour? Especially for a love as fickle as the one that had led to his brother’s death, that came and went as the seasons do. It was in the height of the Mori Invasion before he would visit Alucard’s grave in Mul’naar. “I never did come visit you mal’onn’ii…though, I know you still wander so this isn’t really where you are, just your body, and even if you didn’t, you’d be off in some aengudaemon realm.” Tears fell like rain, he pressed his forehead to the cold, soft dirt that had mounded over Alucard’s grave. His voice caught, bile burned his throat, and his hands curled to fists. “Foolish little brother. You didn’t have to die.” Every emotion he had suppressed for decades finally boiled to the surface. He was always the strong one, he was always capable, it was always his duty to protect. To protect Valyris, to protect Elarhil, to protect Alucard. Anger grew at how he had failed the only one who mattered. “And I know everyone told me I was too soft and forgiving with you but I knew you just needed to be able to…grow up and.. And I know its my fault you died, ne even because I didn’t come with you- I should have, I told you I’d always be there for you and I wasn’t when you needed me most. And…I thought if you followed a herald’s path you’d be spared from being the plaything of darkspawn but…” He collapsed beside the grave, inhaling shakily, staring at the sky, studying the few sparse clouds. No images formed in them. He continued. “...You’d be cussing me right now, wouldn’t you? Or crying…trying to reassure me because you were hurting too. You just wanted somewhere to belong, someone to love, and…we didn’t share blood but you were more my mal’onn than any either my haelun or maln may have some day. I know you don’t hate me, your geist made as much clear but…how can I not hate myself? Part of me died with you.” He began digging a spot for the dandelion he’d brought with him, carefully covering the roots before he’d speak again, willing his throat not to burn with agonized grief. “You…Remon…the more we try to escape our fate…the more its chains wrap around our throats and suffocate us. Us…what do I know of it? Maybe you’d be alive if I’d died the way my maln wanted. Or perhaps you would have been eaten alive by the trauma without someone to relate to.” For the third and last time in his life, Nehtamo cursed. “****. Foolish little mal’onnii. Impatient, driven, angry, foul mouthed mal’onn’ii. I did what I could to save you and I would do it again, for you, even with timeless insight, even knowing this would be your fate, because it was the best option at the time.” At last, he had forgiven himself. The trial was complete. Decades would pass before his connection, however. The Vestal placed her Faith that your final ordeal would be a worthy one. He did not speak, he finally understood. You kill, and do so with little hesitation. You orate. You ponder. Only one thing was left to test; attachment. Mortal love. Frustratingly… your loyalties are proven. The stench of the Arch-Enemy clings to you like a shroud, but the choice is not mine. Duty unto Death, and Beyond… So this was goodbye to all he had been. To all he had wished to be. Alucard would have been one-hundred by now. Why do we not go to the other realms? Kill the deities who control that which we fight here, win the battle before it begins? Because your duty is to this realm. Understood. And then there was pain as he had never experienced. Nehtamo had been burned, tortured, drowned, yet through all he had survived. This was different. All he loved was being surrendered, had been given up with the choice in the prior room. He spared a singular glance down, a lance burying itself in his chest as the false world fell away. Only Alucard’s face came to mind as he died. Only his brother’s memory lingered as he fell to his knees and writhed. As what he was burned away in holy cobalt. “You spoke of loss…do you speak of someone you loved or?” The golden elf stared upward to the sky, towards the sun. Glowing eyes, ever emotionless, did not squint, did not betray his thoughts. He spoke simply. “The greatest love I have known is adherence to Xan’s crusade. And that love will endure, both in this life and the next.” In the furthest corners of his mindscape however, a memory lingered, foreign to him: Foolish little brother.

Kyhahahah Let us go, we are done here, Kill him of course Your order is nothing without Alatariel Show me the strength of this plane! Shar... Shar Azardul.... Surprisingly fast... Shar Azardul.... I see the darkness... Release them. Within the Order of the Golden Lion's keep Aeolus of Khamees stood staring at the waterfall. His sight blurred, the illuminated white hall vanishing, replaced by flickering shadows that danced around his mentor, sapphire mist keeping them at bay. She said not a word, gave no indication of life, akin to stone. He paced...paced across the blank slate of his mind space, only occasionally looking to the statue. "What would you have done differently?" But there came no reply. He neared the unmoving Alatariel. "Is this what it means to be a Keeper? I cannot will you to be as you were in life here? Is that why you don't answer?" Still, there was no response. Around the darkened space the scene of An Gho's abduction played out. Necromancers held the azdrazi off from descending, darkstalkers hacked into his flesh. Aeolus entered...and loosed the Daybreak Spear, striking one, but the lich escaped. He stood in front of the statue, measuring his worth against its own. Silver mist sparked to life from the Keeper's shape and the Azdrazi's cave and fight vanished. They were on a mountainside, above a waterfall, a centurion stood in front of him and Alatariel fell from sight. In a flash the spear was raised, plunging deep into Aeolus' chest, viscera and bone spewing forth, the water below turning crimson. The paladin looked up, to see the centurion again, but his face was replaced by the statuesque form of the An-Gho. The bells of Tor-Azdroth sang overhead, his mindscape filled with ash. He looked down, a taloned hand held his still beating heart, crushing it. A voice, the helmet of the centurion loomed over him: "You reek of the dragonkin." The paladin awoke, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. He doubled over but nothing escaped his stomach. It was all in his mind, wasn't it?

There are multiple types of darkspawn: Descendants who corrupt their souls, amalgamations of flesh or soul that is repurposed for dark works, and that which is otherworldly. As Paladins of Xan we learn of these, how to combat them, how they are made when applicable, how to cure them when we are able. Most every Paladin will have had these lessons at some point in time. What of mercy, what of redemption? How many Paladins are born to parents who led this life, how many Paladins seek to do good and live holy lives fighting that which offends their morals and mortality? Yet, how few are those who were once darkspawn that sought redemption among our ranks? Why are they few and why do those vampires we cure do the inevitable relapse into the communities that corrupted and tarnished their souls originally? These are pointless questions. It is a descendant’s nature to seek: Power, love, comfort, safety, community, the list goes on and on. We, as Paladins, often fail those we seek to protect and those we love are often failed by us as partners, friends, and parents. The age old saying is that you may be a good Paladin or a good parent, you cannot be both. Xan’s cause is an important one, but it is also an all-consuming cause. We may not be required to worship him, yet we honor and obey him as a loyal knight serves a just king. We serve one half of his title, Aengul of Guardianship and Order. We maintain Order by killing and hunting, we obey the creeds and aid no darkspawn. Yet do we guard the descendants? Do we comfort them when they suffer and struggle, do we treat those who are capable of redemption as normal descendants? Or do we scorn and shame them, thereby forcing them further into hiding among those who exalt the dark. Too often do the tales of Paladin cruelty spread through the descendant realms. Of babies burned in carts during the Inferi invasion, of vampires staked outside and left to burn, anguish, and lament for hours before being cleansed. What self respecting or loving descendant would think highly of our cause after being forced to experience those turmoils, and that’s without considering their families. The way Paladins treat and redeem the darkspawn who can be saved needs to change. We cannot save all, and putting undo trust in those who will betray is foolish, but they are set up for failure from the start. The proposal to oust and scorn and massacre darkspawn and those who live on the edge of society has been suggested by plenty, especially those outside of the keep. What does massacring the innocent, those who will likely fall down a path of dark, achieve except to force them further into shame, hatred, and dark arts. Nephilim and other evils of this world often reach out to those on the cusp of society, those rejected who wish to shine and rise to something acknowledgeable. The way we treat these descendants must change for the better. We already fight an uphill battle against immortal beings, gloating that we continue to wage our wars in the afterlife. Why must we make it harder to do for those who will come after us once our candles are lit and the prayers with our names forgotten? Reconsider the treatment of those at the frayed edges of society. Welcome them, nurture the good in them, and know if they turn on you that it was their choice, not the action of all other descendants. Redemption is as much the Lion's vision as the slaughter of evil and protection of the innocent are. Aeolus of Khamees

It's just not that deep dawg

"Cute excuse to be absolute ******* about yet another war. You come as crows? No, you cower like chickens..." Muses a particular white haired 'Thill as he sets about brewing the next batch of potions. With a shake of his head, his attention turns from the cowardice of Haense, back to the protection of Adria.

[!] A note was left below the missive: You have no one to back this claim of 'we'. I will find you. You will die screaming. I will avenge them. The book will remain lost to you forever.

Elsewhere, a one-eyed elf of brown hair and blue eyes cold sweats. He shivers and shakes, murmuring often of the baleful eye, of pillars beneath soil, and of a darkness to come. Silenced only by the wroth of that which he served, whispers turning to stillness, a loneliness of sound quelled only by the dripping of blood from his now broken nose. "No riddles."