SacredSource

A wayfaring Warden of the Sunlit Covenant looked upon the treatise, an inkling of the past resurfacing in the dire hour. The Sunlit Path is arduous and a never ending struggle. This is the first of many steps, the beginning of light’s wisdom for illumination within the soul. When the heavens begin to turn, the remnant truth of virtue must be accepted. Order is not granted freely, it is a means to harmony that must be accepted within heart and spirit by the righteous. The path of The Triumvirate does not offer ease. Victory is never to be assumed. The path offers the ground upon to stand, and the motivation to walk with unflinching eyes against all adversity in our path. Whatever the Maker has in store for us, we shall accept it, and we shall meet it in our resolve. Our Service Eternal. Liturgy is Our Salvation.

Oʀᴅᴇʀ. The word ruminated in the mind of a bannerman of the eight-pointed star. That banner that had witnessed the downfall of his Lord and the supposed end to the war. Yet the war had never ended for Richard nor the Banner. The mission of the Triumvirate remains. When the heavens split with light, Richard halted mid stride. The cascading brilliance was his calling, the benediction to be held. His fingers traced across the eight-pointed star of his banner catching the glow. That familiar weight upon his shoulders. Duty, Memory, Oath. The world was awaiting a verdict. The world awaits vengeance for that wretched abyssal blight of yore. The time had come once more. “Our Service Eternal” The Wyrmstalker intoned under his breath. The words anchored against him in radiance. “Guide me, and I shall walk.” “Liturgy is Our Salvation.”

A Wyrmstalker of Xan looked upon the missive. ⊱𐫰⊰ Our Duty Stands Our Service Eternal New Light Must Dawn Liturgy is our Salvation

REASONING: In recent years, players have begun to abuse the weight of Eidola and their armaments to try to HEMA or rules-lawyer their way into having them do unnatural amounts of damage. Ultimately, these have been used to promote arguments to force players to take immense hits from a relatively vague and unbalanced piece of lore. As it stands right now, Menhir armaments promote Eidola to goonkill noobs en masse for soul frags, with menhir weapons fundamentally being weighed by the Paleknight players as OHKO metals against inexperienced players, which is ultimately not the intent of the lore. The intent behind this amendment is to clarify the damage done by an Eidola’s armaments rather than leave it up to interpretation; having them only hit as strong as ferrum helps promote the original intent of Eidola, being defensive stalwarts primarily, and not OHKO noob-slaughterers. LORE (Additions in green text): The Menhir Craft "A weapon fit for me and myself only." While menhir stone provides natural protection to an Eidola’s precious water, that is not the only thing that it is capable of. Through a similar process to changing their forms, Eidolas may reach out and shape menhir stone into any weapon that they so desire. An Eidola may then store this craft in their body’s stone and over the course of two emotes may grasp upon their own stone and pull forth the item. Though not water-filled as the eidola themselves, the weapon still bears a spectral-esque gleam due to it being made from infused stone, thus allowing it to make contact with spectral undead. The craft itself, being of stone, is relatively heavy and oftentimes large for the eidola’s personal use, thus causing attacks with it to be much slower and blunt rather than sharp or quick; however, these will only ever hit with the impact and force of an armament made of ferrum. Most mortals would find it impossible to wield such a weapon, and though an olog or golem may be able to carry such successfully, they would lack the same proficiency as the eidola to which the item belongs. In the case that multiple crafts are made, they must be required to either be on the Eidola or by their menhir where they would not dry up, and while for example two weapons may be made, only one will be able to be stored. One of the noncombative capabilities of this menhirous craft would be that Eidolas may make various objects out of the stone while not in combat. An Eidola may choose to make stone statues out of the material so that they can feign having friendships, or they may choose to make a crown throne for themselves, though even when gifted, these would be incredibly heavy for beings not made of the menhir stone. These crafts can be easily destroyed in three or four hits from a blunt weapon and will occasionally leak water, much like the Eidola who created them. Unlike the weapons, these do “not” require ST signatures but instead must be player signed as to ensure validity. Redlines

Order in the Wake of Memory Emptiness in where mortal vessels ceased. A means to explore the nature of the maker’s children. Where physicality seemed irrelevant for revelation was truth for those who walked upon this land. And so this was where Richard and Masao had arrived, the journey began upon endless glass. Alas, there was sight with the silence of their thoughts beginning to create life. Before those knights of order was the embodiment of visualization of their own wretched fate. Seared through the essence of their lives remained a slain lion, and above it was a carrion’s dragon. A cur that would feast upon the corpse of Gold and call it just. Such despair manifested in the form of death for an endless cycle of steel to draw and sheathe continued on the quest of the two Paladins in exploration of the realm. Yet, as they moved did the realm continue to shift to accommodate their woes and misery from a fallen ember. Regrets of a father that continued to haunt him every waking day. Through burden did the realm warp and shift before revealing the twisted cruelty that was this place. The family of Order manifest to trail upon the two, trailing upon Richard. Whispers of the maw, echoes of abandonment, condemnations of defeat. And so those spectrals of the Othaman family trailed. A fallen spouse, a fallen son, the failure that was that Knight of Ahad. The next reminder manifested itself. Murderer to the Othaman, kinsman to the Hirano. Gashakadokuro, an imitation that smiled upon finding a descendant of his very line. Masao Hirano, a cursed soul of the Joma reuniting with his ancestral antithesis Shinji, the blight of Sakuragakure. Isolation, ostracization, and spite. A common thread between the two of the cursed lineage, the path of the broken. In silence did Richard keep himself, allowing his Brother of Order the mercy to find determination in his being. Though in time the scar reminded that there was another present besides defeat. Order and Guardianship. Duty and Compassion. To reject the call of darkness and to embrace the duty of salvation. Masao ruminated, shaken, consoled only by the past of his battles. Masao himself needed to decide the fate that would befall his mind. To yield or to continue. Then came a voice, echoing within his mind that now whispered alongside the blowing winds. It then immediately was met with a reply with his own voice. What spoke was a reminder of the oath he had made to a fallen Shugo, a fallen mentor, a fallen friend. Masao’s charge was to cleanse the stain of his clan, to break the folly that fell every generation of his clan. He was to be the progenitor of Clan Hirano’s new light. No spear manifested, no flash of lightning, but merely the utter embodiment that was the ideal of the Sunlit Covenant. To be the paragon that upheld the descendant realm. A son of light knowing his call to be the stalwart shield. And so that confrontation with family dissipated away, an idea supplanted with virtue. Even here where the material seemed distant did the smell that was the rot of infernal seemed to pierce the senses of the two Paladins. It crawled slowly, ever approaching. The realm violently warped, their time here clearly coming to a close. A need for protection arose rapidly. Perhaps a blessing of the realm, the other side of the horror they just waded. A dome almost akin to that of Marian’s old Refuge, a sanctuary of light seemingly forming around the two until they alas disappeared. “Liturgy is Our Salvation”

Keep in touch dude :)

The Fate of Thieves Darkness lingered. The first sensation was not sight, but of scent. It was rot-decay-waste. The stench of impoverished brought itself with the air like a curse that permeated through the world. Lorinthia’s breath caught the new reality, hands clenching tightly in readiness until opening her eyes. She witnessed the sight of refuse piled upon itself through the alley. Richard stood to her rear, at first silently watching the scavengers before them reap the piles of trash with their claws. A harvest in the making before their eyes. “Welcome to Prosperion. A land that never had the embrace of the Sunlit Lord.” This alley for now seemed to be a refuge for the chaos outside was palpable where the screams, jeers, and cheers that bustled the streets radiate their call of fury. Though this backwater itself posed a quick challenge for the three scavengers then brought their gaze towards Lorithina. “Why are they looking at me like that?” she asked with a concern clearly shrieking through her voice. Richard’s voice was cold, the mentor only replied, “They haven’t had food in days. They see opportunity.” And so pleas were given, and those pleas were fulfilled as if by divine. Praise echoed, and greed raised. For hunger continued to usher forth exploitation when opportunity was given. Lorinthia’s hand hesitated, a clear understanding that perhaps lies were echoed for sympathy for their starving kin. Despite it all, the truth was clear: these people were desperate, hungry. Further ration was provided, and the praises continued to echo. The last scavenger whispered as he fled, “Take care of yourself, you have a kind heart. Those around here do not.” Richard’s voice rose in accusatory scolding to Lorinthia, “Why did you do such a thing?” Her answer was calm, “Because it was the right thing to do.” With words exchanged silence befell the two as they left the alley. Passing the sanctuary, the city was finally revealed to be bustling. Poverty remained visible though there was still a vestige of the elite that afforded the luxury of some of the respites that even the poorest on Eos could afford. “Last time I was here, society seemed to collapse; yet, it seems like some order was restored.” Upon spotting the relatively wealthy foreigners, a merchant quickly beckoned them to explore his wares. Luxuries such as steel, flowers, and other trinkets fostered upon his general stand. As Lorinthia approached, what greenery upon the stand dissipated into blackened, wilted, waste - befitting of the alley they arrived from. Terror filled the eyes of this poor merchant. “I-… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Lorinthia stammered. Richard’s reply was grim: “I suspect it is because… we are from Eos.” The merchant fled, shouting: “The rest of you are at the Church. Leave us commonfolk alone!” The arrival to the Church was swift by the two bannermen of the Sunlit Covenant. The building remained intact, but the locals seemed to consider such a place taboo. As if the place itself spawned the woes of their world. Alas it was time for duty, the two pushed the door open to reveal the unsightly image within. A desecrated altar lay splattered in blood that drowned an eight-pointed star. Where pews once laid now populated corpses burning with ethereal flame. “Malflame.” From the darkness emerged the foes that inhabited this once proud house - Inferi. A devil hound leapt upon Lorinthia bringing the elfess in peril; whilst, its master continued to bring forth a fire from the voidal depths. Xannic steel of the Warden met against that of another Inferi bringing the resound of boomsteel to ring through the room. Pain followed, but through steel was resolution met and pain. “Let us leave,” Richard muttered. “I fear they may send more after us.” That door they pushed upon to enter was then once more pushed upon to leave. The outside world seemed reclaimed by the denizens of the plane. Was this Order restored? For a crowd in good manner gathered at a podium. A captain cried: “COME ALL, COME ALL! WATCH THE FATE OF THIEVES.” The two approached finding the condemned was familiar. It was that scavenger that had spoken the kind words of advice. He now held upon a pendant tightly that bore a crude picture of family. His pleas rang out like repeating echo, “I did not steal! Have mercy!” Lorinthia whispered urgently, “Surely we can’t let this happen.” Richard’s reply was heavy, “Do we have a choice?” Lorinthia plotted, deliberated, desperately grasping for the answer to fulfill this duty of Guardianship. To be the salvation that the people of this world would pray to receive. SNAP - The execution was complete. The crowd dissipated, the two approaching the body of the man they seeked to help. Richard’s words lingered, “He was given an alm he did not truly earn. Miraculous success breeds jealousy. One action cascades into effects we never see.” Lorinthia crouched beside the body laying a hand to close the eyes of the man, whispering softly, “I am sorry.” A lesson was taught: Order without guardianship collapses into cruelty. Guardianship without order dissolves into folly. In Prosperion, both are devoured. “Liturgy is Our Salvation”

Without his Sunlight, The ruler walks endless night, Bringing salvation. Jubilance of tea, Comfort found in her blessing, Paradise in cups. Without hunger’s strife, Decadence breeding within, Mortals rest in peace. Yet is this true peace? Sanctity without struggle, A hollow silence.

PROSPERION Strength Through Order. Wealth Through Unity. From above, a lone Wyrmstalker remained still shrouded by his cloak, his eyes darting down below. The putrid streets were littered with the shuffling movements of the crowds, the deceitful antics of the scavengers, the hungry desperation of the downtrodden. Raw savagery, the worst of his kind laid below for the squalor here made even the imperial slums seem like the skies. This realm was apocalypse, the future that the Betrayer wished to create. The land he arrived at was sardonically named Prosperion, a supposed new paradise under the Blessed Despot. This supposed state “united” a collection of warlords beneath its banner. Warlords who clutched upon their territory like starving beasts, opportunistically finding any moment to seek more power for their own benefit. Any laws were nothing more than suggestions with the real power being held by territory by steel. A Simple Lesson Into the open he went, his steel gleaming, his demeanor poised, the Paladin of the light drew the eyes of many. Almost immediately upon being spotted, a frail man arose. An old man? No, most certainly not, the grey hairs upon his visage were a false herring. No this was a young man, perhaps barely of age to be called to the levy; though, it was clear his life here had brought him to the harshness of reality quicker than most. The boy bowed then pleaded, his voice and eyes full of desperate hope gnawing at the opportunity. Appropriately, as befitting his station, the Paladin offered a handful of coins, altruism perhaps out of pity more than piety. His act of kindness only brought a gathering to plead their case. More who wished to receive a blessing from the foreigner. Experienced, he saw a mob forming, growing restless with the greed that came from opportunity. Drawing upon steel, the loud sound of thunder resonated against the ground, shaking the wills of the helpless. Snarling, the face of intimidation from the Paladin brought the horde to flee, bodies now pushing against each other in a frenzy to escape. In this chaos? In this respite. He shrouded himself within rags of filth; concealing his armor for he now realized the liability of being seen within the crowd. Weaving through the alleyways of garbage and rot, the man saw a fresh body clearly pilfered. It laid face down and partially submerged within a heap of garbage. Richard instantly recognized him, the beggar, the first face he encountered in this realm. The coins were gone, the pockets gutted. There was no mourning, no pause from any passerby. It is a simple lesson. Charity breeds envy. Envy breeds the blade Even an act of kindness breeds suffering. There is a consequence to any action that ripples far beyond the reach or eyes of the actor. He whispered an Athnaic prayer not for comfort, but from habit. For this was the known result of Order’s absence. Sanctum Hill A sinister gnawing continuously grasped upon his soul. Almost akin to the mutilation of his ember, a constant gnawing upon the very fabric of his being. Disapproval, anger, death. A clear sign he was not of this land. An unwelcome foreigner unaware of the struggles of those who were native. He himself, why was he here? Why had the Lord sent him to such a place where he had only created suffering. There must be a reason, he must find it before he would need to open his eyes to return to the nightmare of his homeland. His feet brought him into the depths of Prosperion, past the mounds of refuse and rot, with the scenery shifting though the sense of dread remaining constant. Here he arrived in yet another district, the streets bore banners of sanctity, the sigil of the Blessed Despot painted on walls, flanked by glyphs of Order’s eight-pointed star. The people walked straighter, but kept their heads lower. For minders observe every step, accompanied by the constant priests’ recitals of falsities as law. The watchers recognized him. Even beneath rags, the bearing of an outsider, a threat to the fragile peace was not easily hidden. Whispers spread. A champion stepped forward. Experienced, armored, his gear scavenged from the vanquished. He carried himself like a guardian, but his eyes revealed the truth. He ruled here not by faith, but by fear. Perhaps this warrior was embered in a previous life, or perhaps Richard tried to find connection where there was none. It mattered not. No words were exchanged. There was no sermon, no challenge. Only recognition. Clambering of steel resounded. The duel was swift. The enforcer fell. There were cheers and jeers ushering chaos. What ‘order’ existed here collapsed. Escape He stood alone in the turmoil, the cries of the natives echoing in the alleys. He had performed his duty, but each act of guardianship had birthed new suffering. Every attempt at good had sharpened into cruelty. Alas, he became one of those desperate within the crowds of before. It was his time to find his own salvation out of this land. He drew upon his origin. Planting a familiar weapon against the crackled ground, his hands wrapped around its hilt, his head dips down towards the lightstone of old. “Liturgy is Our Salvation”

The passage was quiet, perhaps with only the sound of flickering light. He moved with purpose, the candlefire dancing against the remains half buried in dust. There was no time to linger on names or faces, only incense left as a parting gift. "His fall does not bind us, We will rebuild anew."

Stag stag stag stag stag

A lone figure kneels before an altar, clad in sunlit vestment. In reverence, he watches incense rise towards the heavens. Fists pressed against the stony ground, the weight of the order’s duty remains. — ʟɪᴛᴜʀɢʏ ɪꜱ ᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴀʟᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

Deer magic. Deer magic. Deer magic. LESGO COVENANT CLERIC BROS

da boi strikes again but where the compatibility with Xannic Paladinism 😞

Blood ran the visage of Richard, his body barely able to keep himself up. SHINJI was within their grasp, the murderer could not be allowed to live. Then he saw the radiant glow of a Templar's last stand, the last sacrifice that befit a true servant of the realm. Shugo Oijin Kato invoked upon Malchediael before charging into the fray for the last time with a device befit only of a knight of the light. Upon returning home, the Paladin lit a candle upon his chancery that was graciously provided to him by the Shugo and Danzen. He reminisced of the comrade who fought with him on the Vehement Eye, the friend who helped with the defeat of Satar, and a fellow brother against the dark. It was expected of a great Samurai like Oijin to complete his mission; yet, the death affected the Paladin all the same. Richard's breathing rapidly hastens, and his eyes visibly dilating. The air of his breath constrict faster and faster before alas did tears flow from his face. Looking upon the eight-pointed start of the Covenant, Richard merely mutters out a Owynist prayer before concluding with the words of Paladinism. Liturgy is Our Salvation Rest to those who delivered liturgy.