molly molly molly

Greiret Elverhilin's palm weakly gripped the magical burn upon his face - the one that was opposite to his friend Sarrion's. ". . . NO! No . . . I knew not that he still drew breath, and now he is dead?! It was my presumption he had perhaps found a way to enter the Void itself. . . But this? Murdered?! . . . Lonelier do I become. . . Lonelier, indeed. What misery this earth has become. Some day. . ." ". . ." ". . . Some day I will see you again, my friend." Despair, grief, sorrow, misery and anxiety was hidden by the stench of strong alcohol - vodka. A glass was poured for himself and another for the golden soul of his friend.

TO HIS ROYAL MAJESTY ALEKSANDR II, 6th of Snow's Maiden, 168th Year of the Second Age ____________________________________________________ With utmost respect and sincere reverence do I extend this open letter to His Royal Majesty @Mio, Her Royal Majesty @sarahbarah, and the rest of Your Royal Family. I wish You unyielding health and spirits indomitable upon Your triumphant return and Her Royal Majesty’s graceful retirement from the courts. May peace, progress, and prosperity boundless in nature grace Your reigns endlessly. I grow less a stranger to Your beautiful country, people, and courts with each passing day. My heart boasts deep love for this Kingdom, with its honorable, trustworthy people. For within, I have found a place to call home. In this light, I humbly seek audience with His Royal Majesty, Her Royal Majesty, and any individual deemed appropriate. For no longer am I able to withhold my silenced voice regarding the egregious defeats under the leadership of the Lord Marshal Ser Leonid Kortrevich @erictafoya in combatting the Shadow Harrower menace whom demonically parades, harasses, and murders so freely in the country I love. To establish my position, and create some intention of good faith, one cannot write a letter such as this without giving due credit. The burden shouldered by Your Lord Marshal in combatting the monstrous Shadow Harrowers besieging Castle Morteskvan is a responsibility akin to bearing the mountains upon one’s shoulders, and bears mental duress equal in measure. Efforts to shoulder this responsibility are admirable. Yet in such a light, it is equally imperative that we not turn our eyes blind to the outcome of the Lord Marshal's recent operations: failure. Failures occur in warfare. Men will always die. Yet never in my four hundred years have I appallingly witnessed the lifeless bodies of my comrades shot out of catapults like ammunition. It was of my own volition in which I painstakingly discovered key vulnerabilities in the enemy’s defenses, corroborated by Ser Audo Weiss the Raven @Frostdrop1(who bears no involvement in this correspondence). Consider then the dismay that befell me upon the telling of the battle plans for Operation Bloody Gate which blatantly disregarded these vulnerabilities. In disregarding this critical intelligence, Your forces were directed by the Lord Marshal to instead engage the enemy up an icy mountain fraught with traps (ones against which I had detected, and vehemently cautioned). Despite my warnings, the Lord Marshal recklessly ordered Your army to charge directly through this deadly path. The disastrous assault bore grave fruit, and saw many of Your army beset by pitfalls, spike traps, and ultimately consumed by an avalanche orchestrated by Tyr, the enemy. My comrades and myself narrowly avoided being consumed by the mountain, whilst suffering a now embarrassing third retreat from an enemy whom should have been easily defeated. I count myself fortunate that the honor and lives of the valiant men and women under my command, and myself, were not taken by snow. It is my profound concern that further avoidable misfortunes are to be shouldered by my beloved countrymen. Whether that is being launched from a catapult like Venerable Armsman Vasili Vanrov @Helios_ (may GOD rest his venerable soul), capture and vicious execution like Valorous Dagfinn the Squire @Youngie5500(may GOD rest his valorous soul), succumbing to an avalanche as in Operation Bloody Gate, or even fates worse than what my imagination can produce. It is not my intent to create slander. It is not my intent to play politics. Only to rip out this thorn from our sides, and to ensure peace unending. I seek no blood from Your Lord Marshal. I believe that he is a good man with a good heart, and no quarrel do I seek. Yet I cannot remain silent when he has displayed a keen disregard for the safety of Your troops, my comrades, produces flawed battle plans ending in consistent defeat, and has so far made no progress in his responsibility to dispose of these animals. The continued deployment of the Lord Marshal’s plans, developed without critical intelligence in mind, will see avoidable follies bear more grave fruit and allow for the persistence of the enemy. I strive to express to You my well-founded concerns. Should You give my humble self the honor of Your presence, it is my wish to present and explore solutions which myself and my own counsel have produced. In an extension of good faith, should You permit such a meeting, it is my hope Your Lord Marshal will be in attendance so that he might provide what input he has, as well as say what he will to me. It is my hope You will grant me the honor of speaking man to man. For You will find that my way brings fire, steel and death to the enemies of Your Kingdom. Signed, Greiret Malviser Elverhilin-Finnigan-Faean Governor of the Province of Esterwick, Immortal of the Kingdom of Gladewynn, Annilir of Malin’s Virarim, Supreme Battlemage of the Gladewynn Company, Knight-Enchanter of the Enchantry and Partiarch of the Elverhilin Family

Sir Milonir of Whitehall missed the man he called friend. Day after day, after day after day, and his comrade, his liege lord, was not to be found. Days turned to months. Yet with each day, strength returned. Yet with each month, clarity, confidence was restored. His resolve to develop his strength was like an endless fire. All in the name of being worthy of the title he had disgraced with his laziness, his gluttony, his stupidity. Bodbmakos was right all those years ago. Yet, he too was changed, like Walter. He too was malleable, like Walter. He would become the First Sword that House Weiss needed, their pillar of strength. Walter had given him motivation - a thing more valuable than gold. He was the fuel for his fire. The living legend, the First Sword, looked to the horizon. He awaited the day of his return. Walter would find a pillar of strength upon which he could lean on when he returned. A friend.

Sir Milonir of Whitehall's blood curdling howls, like the wolf's, could be heard echoing down the cobbles of Valdev upon hearing the most dreaded news. "NIEEEEEEEET! VE KOENAS EES DEA-" A kind passerby explained to him that the queen was in fact not dead. "Vait. She em niet dead? YEZ! VOOHOO! Oh. She em niet be ve courtings-ledy? Okei. Thet em meaning ve can go for rides on ve horses. Ve go to elfski lends and make them geev us BEEG beers soon." The kind passerby told him that he should probably bring money to pay for those 'big beers.' The kind passerby, who was an elf by the way, was stuffed in a locker. "Ea must go see mea friend soon now thet she em hyaving ve free tiems!"

Greiret Elverhilin, upon the walls of Morteskvan, could not keep his gaze away from the exact spot where Dagfinn had been taken. His safety had been assured, were they only seconds faster. This shame was his to bear, alone on his watch. He hadn't come to known Dagfinn in his time, yet in the squire's death were his true colors revealed; his unwavering valor. The valor of humanity he had come to respect over his hundreds of years of life. The cold wind blew hollow over his still figure as he prayed for the Skies to take him.

Sir Milonir of Whitehall heard the news within the Brotherhood's barracks, shadow and doubt taking his fellow brothers. Ever-bold, he chortled at the missive he could hardly read. "HAR HAR HAR! Finelly. Good fight-mens tiems boys. Boney guys em thinking they vey tough guys now, ooo. They em forget eet ees coffin tiem, niet valking on ground tiems. Ea em put them beck een they bed tiems now, okei." And with that, he polished his regular, ordinary steel bardiche. He would not need aurum for these flies.

I'm going to just bandwagon off of what everyone else has said here. I really, really like the addition of these new spells! They are very cool! They give a lot more flavor, variety, and power to fire evocation. I was actually considering writing up some new spells after I relearned voidal magic, so thanks for beating me to it haha! It has been my personal opinion that, over the years, the general mood about voidal magic has been to gimp it into oblivion. After all, it is very accessible, and fairly common even to noobs. Hence why I am in favor of buffs like this which do not make the magic insanely overpowered, but give it a needed refresh and slight boost in power with appropriate costs associated (2 magic slots). A big part of me finds the addition of an optional 2nd slot very cool and immersive. I like the idea of magical specialization. Feels like being one of the masters at the College of Winterhold in Skyrim, one of the reasons I even got into magic in the first place. Specializing in a certain magic is something that simply doesn't mean anything on LotC. Sure, you can call yourself a master of fire evocation once you reach T5, but aside from saying "I am a master of fire evocation," there aren't any special abilities, or tangible benefits from focusing on only that magic that which would set you apart from any other T5 fire evo dude. Under this lore, considering yourself a master of fire evocation actually means something, and comes with special abilities too. For that, I give my lil ol' +1. However. That being said, my only concern is that the additional abilities being locked behind a second slot don't really have the weight and power associated with an entire magic slot being taken up, in my humble opinion. They breach into almost like, a half slot of magic being taken up? They are powerful, but not powerful enough to take up an entire magic slot I think. Instead of having a few additional abilities, I could have an entirely different magic to cast, which, to me, doesn't feel appropriately weighted. If there were additional abilities that truly made it bear the same weight as something like transfiguration's 2 slots, I would be more in favor of the optional 2 slot. Sorry to point out a problem I have in mind and not give a suggestion on how to amend the problem, but the area of creativity is generally not my forte 😔

Sir Milonir of Whitehall prepares for battle!

Deep in the forests of western Almaris, Greiret Elverhilin, son of Lhindir and Immortal Knight of the Dominion of Old, cast his gaze to the fireplace in the refurbished, once abandoned mage's tower he called home. Funny, he thought. Once he was capable of casting blazes which made this one before him look like a jester's worst joke. Fire's light danced off of him, as he reflected upon the past - and his current dejected state. He thought of the Enchantry's invasion of the Inferi realm. He thought of his duel with Lefkos outside of Linandria. Cheza. The Bronze Rebellion, Gladewynn and the Dominion. Kairn. Lhindir. He grew uncomfortable, anxious even. This place was not home any longer. Indeed. Home was not solitude, not this place. Not this empty shell of the past. "I require pen and ink."

The Duel to test Vikomit's Mettle, Grand Harvest, 117 ========================================= The grease-ridden, pagan heart of Sir Milonir of Whitehall, the First Sword of House Weiss, swelled four times that day. Immeasurable pride gripped that young warrior from Whitehall. For he and his battle-brother Ikumak, son of Ikumak and father of Ikumak, had been bested by the new Vikomit. The brand new Vikomit had proven far more than just his worth in prowess of arms with that victory. For here was the man that would lead House Weiss to glory aplenty, just as his father did. A man worth following. A man worth his respect. Milonir winced in pain, healing in his bed chamber from his injuries - a reward from their duel, he thought. He'd muse to one of his Raevir house guards, "Mei first utter defeat. Fitting eet ees by the new Vikomit." Gaze remained skyward, meaty brown orbs shutting in thought as beer was swallowed by hoggish lips. Candlelight danced upon his face in the dark of night, serving to illuminate the smirk across his maw. Laughter, jubilant and rich filled the silence of his room in Zvaervauld. "There ees a lesson en theese defeat, mei friend. Thet ve must train harder, and stronger. To be vorthy of our posts - vorthy to our Ancestors. Let heem be challenged no more. For theese battle vill be our bond for all time. He valks vith hees Ancestors, and the Spirits guide heem. Vhether he knows eet or niet." "Make a prayer to vy GOD. For long life to the new Vikomit. Ea vill ask mine to bless heem vith the longest life possible." With status affirmed, Sir Milonir prepared to follow the new Vikomit to death's door and even further beyond. His resolve returned. Conviction unshaken. For he would do everything within his power to bring glory to House Weiss, and the new Vikomit Audo Weiss.

Sir Milonir of Whitehall's scouts, the Fat Boys, reported to him the size of the cake the wedding was to have. His eyes grew as wide as dinner plates upon hearing the news.

THE DREAM OF THE ENDLESS STEPPE 5th of Grand Harvest, 116th Year of the Second Age Sir Milonir of Whitehall leads a Raevir warband of Weiss House Guards to hunt the Harbingers. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ “PRO MARIAAAAA! Dnes dosáhneš svého konce, ďáble! POMSTA ZA MARII!” The clattering of a warhammer, slamming into steel. The whinny of a steed. A clattering of blades. The muffled sound of a tackle to the ground. Steel clatters, and two warriors make ragged grunts. Groans of pure exasperation. Howls of pain. Slit. The setting of the mellow sun cast a rosy hue in those golden southern waves of Almaris, serving to illuminate the triumph in the gigantic northern warrior’s fat, beady brown eyes. Sir Milonir of Whitehall, the colossal beer-bellied Northman, arose from his kill. Below him lay the body of the the Harbinger of Fear, who was responsible for many heinous acts across the lands of Almaris alongside the other Harbingers. One such act was the foolish decision to take the arm of his Liege Lady Maria Weiss in the Red City of Karosgrad. House Weiss does not receive wounds unanswered. And now, that Harbinger knew this. The others would soon know, too. Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, the amber jeweled, black longsword burrowed its way out of the mess that remained of that Harbinger’s skull, and back to the gloves of that valiant Knight. Yet... The reward of triumph fled, as quickly as it set in. A throbbing, all-encompassing pain. Panic, terror replaced triumph. Crimson ichor oozed down his ginormous, mud-caked figure – painting his neck in a deep crimson. Adrenaline coursed through his veins no more. Reality set in. There was a hole in the side of his neck that would not stop flowing. The cost of his vengeance. It was to be determined he must pay this blood price - fluid he had never seen flowing so dramatically as it did now. Desperate, hysteric pants escaped hoggish lips, masked only by the sound of crashing waves. The abyss reached for Milonir. Bells tolled. He was cold. Pale as a ghost; pallid. Crows circled; they found their next feast. The night was coming. The Bogatyrs of Old called for another to fill their Great Hall in the Skies. His soul would soon be theirs. What a fitting end, it would be. Rewarded with the unending throng of battle with heroes of legend for all of time. And he saw them. Beckoning. Despite this warrior’s end, for the first time in years, he understood true fear. He was afraid. Afraid of what truly awaited him in death. Doubt cast through his mind of the abyss that surely awaited him. The Harbinger of Fear had succeeded, inducing fear, and terror which gripped the very fiber of his soul even in its death. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ He was spiraling. Spinning, growing dizzy. Milonir needed to find a way to clog this hole. Fast. Make it stop, he panicked. You're going to die! Mind racing a million miles a minute, his consciousness was polluted with waves of terror and hysteria which washed over him like the sea. He was losing a lot of blood. Milonir desperately spun, searching for any end to the pain. He had to think – and fast, before shock set in. Deep in the recesses of his mind he remembered the words of that medical prodigy, Haus Weiss – stuff it, apply pressure. Yes. This might just work. It is my only option. Vibrating, shaking hands gripped that ornate longsword Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, cutting a selection of cloth from his undershirt. And so entered that grubby cloth sleeve to the oozing hole in his neck. It was thick. Thick enough to absorb the blood like a sponge. The agonizing, hysteric cry of pain was heard for miles - like a dying animal's screech. In an act that saved his life, he applied pressure to his gaping wound, locking an x with his arms around his neck to prevent that wound from flowing. And so, with an oozing hole now plugged, and tremendous pressure applied, that river of blood turned to a dribble. Whether it was GODAN, the Spirits, the Father, the Bogatyrs of Old, or perhaps simply luck, none could say. But powers beyond the mortal realms saw it fit to keep this young Knight alive long enough to receive aid. Whoever it was sought more valorous deeds from this wretch of a Knight. They were not satisfied with his accomplishments yet. There was still work to be done before he was permitted entry to the Great Halls in the Skies. This would not be the end of the glorious song of that Champion of Whitehall. Those Skies would be left without Sir Milonir – for now. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The way to Talon’s Port. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ There was only one town close by: Talon's Port. The forested town of shamans who had healed his Liege not one day before. It was not far now. Under cover of moonlight did dogged, crimson painted warrior be pulled towards that mystic town of Talon’s Port atop a horse black as night called Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed. Rider and steed shared a bond that surpassed words, and that steed galloped as fast as her legs would take her. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off of that midnight steed on the thickly wooded path there. He fought the haze of unconsciousness long enough to make it to that town of farseers. Milonir was now with the dark elf shamans in that opulent, mystic town of brick. The shamans were met with a rider who appeared on the verge of sliding right off of that steed, crumpled against her mane. He successfully clung to the little life he had left. A truly mysterious elfess of ebony named Lenora flanked by another named Gusiam were unflinching in their duty. Lenora the guide did not hesitate to lead the Northman and steed through those streets of Talon's Port. Gusiam retrieved an offering to the Spirit of Akezo. A ritual to save his life was to take place. Through delusion, and near unconsciousness, Milonir mistook Lenora as his mother. With breath practically a whisper, he asked, “mamej... did ea... become...” “...Bogatyr... mamej?” “...Yes, my son,” resounded within his head. His life was now in the hands of those shamans. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ 360 pounds of highlander and steel collapsed to that poor white medical cot that dutifully supported his tremendous weight. No hesitation was made, as that hideous wretch Milonir became surrounded by the mystical silver and peach mists of the farseers Lenora and Gusiam, engulfed in their ritual. Chanting surrounded him, in a language he was not conscious to listen to. The duo invoked the Spirit of Akezo, who deemed fit to bestow upon to Milonir the gift of life. Blood flowed from him no more. He was truly safe now. Sealed. Whole. Stable. Delirious days of healing, Blood Lotus soup and broth awaited him. He was unconscious for an entire week. And in that time, he was in the land of dreams. Dreams. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The holy, endless steppe of dreams. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ Milonir was lost in the endless steppe. He wandered for days. He saw Bodbmakos, Koeng Georg. Lord Felix, Audo, Haus, Sir Onon, Sangilak, Ikumak, Veronica, Via, Sierra. All joined him on this journey. After what felt to be years of wandering, he saw the Bogatyrs of Old. They were in two columns, stretched to the horizon over endless hills. Thousands of blades were raised, forming a tunnel endlessly long to a destination unknown. Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike welcomed him to traverse the tunnel of swords. For the path of blades led to an ocean of golden grass. It was familiar. He knew this place. Somewhere he had not seen in many, many years. It was the grass of his homeland. His home was right over the horizon: Whitehall. He knew what awaited him in Whitehall; his mother. Milonir, atop that steed of midnight, galloped with might towards Whitehall, towards mother. Blades retreated with thundering hooves, as he cantered past those Heroes of Old. They who roared, relishing his name endlessly: Milonir, Champion of Whitehall. The road home was not to be made without a fight. For past the hills of heroes swarmed an army of one million enemies as black as death. Banners as black as their armor were raised, and in unison, chanted a dark, evil language. Sir Milonir faced the army utterly alone. Or so he thought. On his sides an army of one million did appear, all atop horseback. All manner of warriors from his homeland were present. Glorious Haeseni Hussars, their armor gleaming like gold. Grim, unflinching Raevir knights remained true, composed. Men and women adorned in the colors of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl and even Czevuskoving warriors and shieldmaidens of Whitehall joined the army, with shields as wide and thick as oak. And his Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike did accompany him. Warriors unflinching prepared to charge, atop eager steeds. In his quiver lay a million arrows. In his hands a lance made of unbreakable gold. And under him, that horse as black as night; Stargazer. The golden sun of the endless steppe penetrated the eyes of the enemy, dousing the glorious army led by Sir Milonir in divine rays. Days of battle ensued. The battle of Whitehall. The battle of dreams. Sir Milonir was invincible, indomitable. Victorious in endless battle, a reward was due. Entry to that nostalgic village of Whitehall. Yet, in dreams, victory in battle was to be the only reward. For he was not met with Whitehall, nor his mother he so desperately wished to see. He was met with a smoldering ruin. And silence. Heroes and his immortal army vanished to dust. His friends and followers were gone. He was alone. And he looked to his hands. He was a kid once again. Stood before him was his father. He was flanked by two Harbingers on each side. Father’s face, as still as death, donned a mask as black as night and took lead of the Harbingers. All charged with blade in hand. Milonir, no longer Sir, was defenseless. Those blades of both his father and the Harbingers plunged into the chest of that screaming, fat kid. The child was dead. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ He awoke screaming cries of agony, tears streaming down his portly cheeks. Milonir was covered in beads of salty sweat as the pale, crescent moonlight shone like a silvery claw through silk purple curtains. He was alone. Just like in his dream. Brown orbs gazed to his shaking hands. It was just a dream. A nightmare. The Harbinger of Fear’s reach gripped his psyche. With the guidance of the farseers, many offerings to Akezo were made by Milonir in the following weeks. The Spirits had won a new follower. After weeks of ritualistic healing chants, visits from his friends of House Weiss and his personal Raevir guard, as well as many discussions on how best to venerate the Spirits, Sir Milonir found himself atop Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed. He bid farewell to those dark elven shamans who had saved his life. This debt would never be forgotten, and he would find a way to repay their kindness and venerate Akezo and the Spirits. He was a new man, who possessed new convictions and beliefs. For now he too counted himself amongst the believers of those Spirits. Gone was that stupid, oafish kid. Killed in dreams. Yet gloom followed him like the plague. Fear cast through his mind. Where there was unending confidence before, doubt, weakness rooted themselves in his being. He could be killed. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ Yet, he remembered why he had started this path. His love for House Weiss. The defense of his friends. His conviction. His pride. The unending, soul-burning desire for vengeance against the careless enemies of House Weiss. This all-encompassing vortex of emotion controlled every part of him. Suffer not the Unworthy. Stand against the Long Dark. Venerate the Spirits. Hold GODAN above all else. These tenets gripped every fiber of his being. Sir Milonir was not allowed to fail. He must be unflinching. He was on a righteous path toward becoming a true Bogatyr and he knew it. Conviction restored; every wound received to Lady Maria and House Weiss would be returned with limitless fury. There would be more blood spilled. Sir Milonir, Hero of Whitehall was prepared to lose every drop of blood in his body to this end. But it was time to return to Zvaervauld. North. Northman and steed began the long path home. Yet, reaching jungle's end, they paused. They observed endless golden grass beyond the cover of that humid forest. This land was known. Milonir and Stargazer were in the endless steppe from dreams. The Stargazer and Knight stared skyward at the blanket of stars that stretched to infinity for hours. He knew peace unending. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The infinity of stars. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Harbingers thought it would be they to assume the role of hunter. Not so. They would soon learn they were the prey. Woe unto them. And woe to the enemies of House Weiss. There would be Vengeance for Maria.