PrinceTheDM

Professor Elijah sent a letter that would never reach its destination. A string once carefully wound now hung broken, frayed at every end. There had been so much twine left to twist. So many words left unsaid. And yet, despite all his efforts, the thread had finally snapped. He could not halt the turning of the wheel. The cycle continued, uncaring and eternal. The work remained unfinished, as it always would. A burden inherited, carried, and abandoned to the next trembling hands. Fate marched onward unchanged, deaf to grief, deaf to pleading. Behind chromatic lenses, tears fell in silence. And on that day, though the sun still shone above the world, the rain came all the same. But sorrow granted no respite. The desk still waited. The candles still burned. There were still lectures left half-written, papers left unanswered, and wandering souls in need of guidance. Though one thread had been severed, countless others remained tangled around his weary hands. And so Professor Elijah dried his tears, gathered the broken strands, and continued onward. For his work was never truly finished. There were still students left to guide. And still lessons left to teach.

[!] A missive is pinned throughout Norland and other Imperial Settlements, alongside the previous missive. Is Peace Too High A Price To Ask? Throughout my years within Aevos and Azuras alike, never have I borne an accusation more insulting than this one. These claims are baseless, and the source from which they stem speaks volumes enough on its own. This missive was not written in pursuit of truth, but to cast smoke across the trial soon to be held before the Council. If you believe the proceedings unjust, then point your spears toward them. Bring no further harm in your wake. Yet the accusations levied are grave enough that silence can no longer suffice. I shall quell the flames of libel before they are fanned into wildfire. Long has it been known that I was once afflicted by twin curses: one upon my soul, and one upon my mind. I was young. Naive. Barely two elven months upon the shores of this realm before my ignorance was turned against me. My first brush with darker arts came within the walls of Haelun’or, when one among those circles approached me as a fellow seeker of knowledge. I followed him to hidden meetings throughout the city. That was my first mistake. One for which I have paid penance time and time again. The Inquisition ensured I witnessed the horrors of the Infernal firsthand. I was cast into a realm overrun by demonkind. Even now, I wear an aurum lorraine against my skin that burns eternally as a reminder of the folly of treating with such wretched powers. So I speak now, to the author of that missive, dare not listen to the lies your source speaks. For the source of these accusations is one who willingly sought the path of a Cursed Child long after witnessing the consequences of such afflictions. Not only this, but after embracing such darkness, they saw fit to consort with the Salvians within Urguan - rebels and agitators sowing discord beneath the very mountain they claim to cherish. And still, when flame and betrayal left infernal scars upon their flesh, they came to me mangled, bruised, and broken. My knowledge and alchemy restored them to health. I asked for nothing in return save that they live well, and grant unto others the same mercy once granted to them. Instead, old wounds are reopened and scars long cauterized are salted anew. What next? Shall my lessons on the dangers of the Void be called indoctrination? Shall my teachings of literature be branded treason because romance novels offend Imperial sensibilities? I was granted a second chance I did not deserve. That truth has never left me. It is why I labor tirelessly so others do not repeat the same mistakes I once made. It is my cross to bear, wrought in aurum upon my neck. Forever burning against my skin. And what, then, has the source of these accusations done with their second chance? What have you done, Elizar? Kagura. Pinemaw. Whatever name you wear now. Whatever you wish to label yourself, keep my name from your mouth. You dishonor it by speaking it. I am no conspirator. No dark lord. No hidden tyrant. I am a humble scholar. A worldly professor. A loving husband. A doting father. That is all I am. And all I ever shall be. Place no further labels upon me. This yoke strains my neck enough as it is.

Elijah Nasthoriel Aetherveil peers at the missive delivered to him, and frowns, his daughter reading gently next to him. She tries to peer and read along with him but can't quite make out the words. He simply sighs, "They could have at least gotten my name right.." He begins to write some letters, it seems that paternity leave was soon to come to a close.

Elijah gazes upon the letter. His eyes scanning the pages before pausing. A blink. Then two. His fingers swept across her name. Aurelith Silevon. It seems he had yet another letter to write. His wife's name was not to be smeared.

Elijah felt a disturbance in the Elijah-verse.

Elijah heard of his once-savior’s passing and felt something hollow stir within his chest. Not grief, not quite. Something quieter. Colder. The slow recognition that even those who once stood between him and oblivion were not spared from it. Another name, now reduced to memory. Another story consigned to silence. His thoughts returned, unbidden, to the Alban gates. He had been new then, fragile in ways he would never admit again, freshly cast upon the shores of Aevos. He remembered the moment the greater demon turned toward him, the certainty of an ending he had not yet earned. And then, Maerîl. Steel met terror. The weight of a mace. The shape of a face he could never fully forget. A smile, of all things, in the presence of ruin. Valiant, they would have called it. Justice, perhaps. Elijah knew better. It was simply another soul choosing, for a fleeting moment, to stand where others would not. And like all such souls, they too were claimed in time. When the memory faded, Elijah closed his book without ceremony. No reverence, no prayer. Just another volume shelved within an endless library, where even the brightest stories dimmed into dust.

MC Name: docHP Discord: PrinceTheDM Image: (Big Version Use First!) (Small Version - if the big version has issues.) Description of Image: A wedding portrait of Aurelith and Elijah Aetherveil Dimensions: 2 x 3 (Vertical)

Elijah sat his cup of tea down onto his desk, the many papers beginning to stack in his absence. Letters upon letters piled onto his plate as if he were a glutton for the parchment. Perhaps he was. The cycle was becoming tiresome. At a certain point, one must lay down their sword for their hill to die on- and this was not that hill. From behind him, a small babble could be heard and it quickly snapped him from the whirlwind of his thoughts. He turned then towards the young child and elfess that sat upon the couch. "If you died beneath those stacks of papers, it will take me years just to find your body.." The elfess chided with a small grin. Elijah ruffled back his hair and sighed with a similar smirk, adjusting his glasses and kissing her cheek. "Then I shall hope that the stars guide your way to me, as they always have." She hummed at that comment seemingly satisfied that Elijah now rested with them. Then he removed his glasses, their prismatic sheen dimming. And there his desk lay, empty and barren. The elfess and child fast asleep upon the couch. He got up and lifted the blanket to cover the both of them. He saw the future he was fighting for. He knows what must be done. "A Professor's work is never done." He sighed, refilling his ink and preparing for the papers to arrive.

I think we should let more pink tags in to get eaten.

A curious Professor inspects the missive, "I wonder what new tomes I might find.."

This pleases me greatly. I'll buy Aether for my alt too.

BASIC INFORMATION [« DISCORD USERNAME » (You Have It) ] [« MINECRAFT USERNAME » docHP ] « IN CHARACTER NAME » Elijah Nasthoriel (formerly Nastoria) « SURNAME » N/A « AGE» Older Than I Look, Younger Than I Seem PROFESSIONAL INFORMATION « OCCUPATION » Professor, Artisan, Merchant, Diplomat. « EXPERIENCE » I have traveled the world seeking knowledge and stories of all kinds. I have helped with schools, institutions, vassals, guards, internal affairs, mediation, negotiation, merchantry, medicine, and everything in between. I'm a curios sort. « DESIRED ROLES » Any You'd Deem Befitting Of A Man Of My Station

Elijah sighs feeling like he's going to have more things to deal with.

A certain retired Professor smile's as the missive.

A scholar looks over the writings, humming with curiosity, "How utterly intriguing."

Mister Professor had been organizing his shelves when an old journal slipped free and tumbled to the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, and the moment his fingers touched the worn cover, he smiled, caught in a fond and quiet memory. He had not opened this one in years. The pages smelled faintly of ink and time, stuffed with scattered lesson plans, student notes, and the small, ordinary fragments of days that once felt endless. Then he saw the name. Onyx. He paused, as if the ink itself carried weight, and let his eyes drift down the entries. Onyx had once been beaten in a street duel by Sylvia, though not without trying to play dirty, kicking up loose dirt and gravel in a desperate attempt to blind her. Onyx had been improving in his literacy lessons. Onyx had earned his first gold star. Onyx had admitted, quietly, that he did not know how to handle his emotions. Onyx had loved the Cloak of Comfort he’d been given, more than he ever let on. Onyx had confessed that he did not know what to believe in. Onyx had begun to pick up the Dove’s Song, as he always did, sharp and quick when it mattered. Onyx had been spending more time in Norland, and Mister Professor had not seen him as often. Years had passed, and then one day Onyx had returned, asking to speak once more. Onyx had thanked him for his help, though Mister Professor had never been entirely certain what help he meant. And then, written plainly, as if it were just another passing thought: Onyx seems to want me to be proud of him. Mister Professor stared at that line for a long while. Did he know what he was truly asking? To ask for pride is to imply there is still something to prove. That worth is conditional. That love must be earned. That approval is a prize at the end of suffering. But Onyx had never needed to prove anything to anyone. Not to the world. Not to a teacher. Not to the streets that hardened him. Not to the ghosts that followed him. Only to himself. The journal sat open in his hands as the room fell quiet around him, and in his mind he could hear the question again, the way it must have sounded when it was spoken aloud. Are you proud of me? And he remembered the answer he had given. Not pride. Not judgment. Not a scale measuring progress. Only a question, gentle and honest, offered back like a lantern in the dark. “Onyx… are you proud of yourself?”

Scriptum in Stellarum ────────────────────────────────────── Across the fractured lands, through kingdoms crowned in flame, They walked through war and wonder, through loss without a name. An elf with silver flowing hair, calm hands that never shook, A scholar forged in hardship, with storms behind his look. His gaze contained pure aurum, the promise of the dawn, A rising sun that whispered: endure, and carry on. Yet in his bones was ferrum, unbending, tempered true, A will of ink and iron that time could not undo. She moved with silk and silver thread, with precision like no other, A surgeon’s steady mercy guided by support of her lover, She stitched fine robes for all the lands, where unity would grow, Then mended flesh when kingdoms bled, in a moonlit glow. Through battlefields and broken keeps, through courts that turned to dust, They learned that love is not a dream, but steadier than trust. And when at last their hands entwined, the heavens seemed to breathe, As if the stars themselves had paused to witness and believe. For he became her rising sun, a dawn she could believe, And she became his guiding star when darkness wouldn’t leave. Together not as simple partners, but something far more rare, A union born of wisdom, of mercy, and of care. They build a legacy of growth, of vision wide and true, Of seeing past horizons, yet cherishing skies of blue. In quiet cups of twilight tea, in laughter at day’s end, In whispered vows beneath the moon, where wounds begin to mend. So let the world remember this, when all its banners fall: Not blade nor throne nor sorcery could rival it at all. Their names were not in fragile ink, nor carved in mortal stone, But written in constellation, Where fate had called them home. ────────────────────────────────────── Item Description ╔══════════════「❀」══════════════╗ A polished lunarite ring of silver with a soft lavender sheen, formed in delicate, branch-like bands and set with diamond accents like scattered starlight. At its center rests a midnight gemstone, deep as the night sky, flecked with shimmering constellations. Set into the inner band is a small engraved sigil of sun and moon entwined in a perfect eclipse, its lines fine and luminous like celestial script. Set beside the eclipse sigil, as though written by starlight itself, is the inscription… 𝓢𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓹𝓽𝓾𝓶 𝓲𝓷 𝓢𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓾𝓶 | Ａ ＋ Ｅ When the eclipse sigil is thumbed, over [4] emotes the wearer fades from sight for [1] hour. Other senses remain unaffected, though a faint starry silhouette lingers, requiring careful movement to fully conceal. ╚══════════════「№」══════════════╝ Redlines:

reserved

Smol truly you are one of the most deserving people for this role. I know how hard this has been on you for these past months and I am so happy to see you getting what you finally deserve. Keep up the good work.

The scholar was organizing his letters when a batch of documents spilled out onto his desk. Reports of some variety or other scattered about his desk. It was at that moment he remembered his neighbors from his time in the Empire. One particularly friendly Neighbor who made him feel safer and at ease with all the work that had piled on his desk. For some reason, he suddenly felt nostalgic to those days. Not from the situations he found himself in, but the people who cared for him enough to help him through those situations. Elijah collected the papers, and sighed deeply. It was unknown to him the fate of his Neighbor all Elijah knows is that his compassion will not be forgotten, for however long the scholar shall live. That chapter of his life shall be kept close to his heart.

A new hand touches the beacon.

I'm glad Elijah was able to help you! He'd be so proud!