Legendary Legend

A certain blonde elf sends off a letter to the institute.

[!] Posters would make there way to everywhere the practice of voidal arts was allowed or tolerated! Grand Re-Opening of the Divadri Implement Emporium is today! For the entire day, we will be running a promotional special accepting custom items and enchantments (one per person) free of charge!

Divadri Implement Emporium “Enchant your life and cast your troubles away" - with the latest in spellcraft! The Divadri Implement Emporium was founded by the First Enchanter, Sarrion Divadri, providing arcane implements for elven years to numerous mages in order to aid them on their path of magic. It is now a family run business, passed down to his descendants of the Divadri family, who intend to continue this legacy and supply quality, magical goods to the mages of the realm for their every need. Services Policies Location For any inquiries or concerns, contact Desimir Divadri (LegendaryLegend)

" Let me see that, brother. " After he was done reading, a much skinner mali'aheral would take the missive out of his brother's hands as an annoying, younger brother would. His eyes scanned over the whole document quickly. " Fool? " He said in the midst of his reading. His tone held disbelief at the choice of words he considered far too polite to describe the likes of Razad. " More like liar... Any pathetic, master manipulator who feeds others misinformation for his own gain is a straight up liar. " He gave the missive back. " And I hate liars... "

In a void of darkness, the forsaken son was respectfully kneeling down on his knees before a figure of infamy, now called Vaethrak. "Cull the meek, empower the weak." The vision of Vaethrak's words that was once shared with the forsaken son. "I can fix you. And then we can fix them. Together." Behind their fractured masks laid the simple visages of a betrayed Lefkos and a lost Desimir. A grandfather and a grandson. Vaethrak was suddenly gone. What stood in his place was now Lefkos, in his usual attire. He offered a helping hand down to Desimir as he, too, found found himself in his own simple clothing. "I have never forgotten or abandoned you." His words echo'd in Desimir's mind. At the time, it felt like he the only family he had left and ever will. And Desimir would have done everything he could to keep that. "Now come. You still have much to improve on." - "You can count on me, grandfather. I will make you proud-" Desimir went to rise up and reach out his hand to take hold of Lefkos' but as he clenched his hand, it caught hold of nothing. He rose his gaze to find Lefkos no longer there anymore. He was left alone in a space of darkness with piles of bones scattered across the horizon of the void. A gravelord stepped into view. "Your grandfather is dead." Desimir immediately dropped his gaze and quickly lowered himself back to his knees in fear. He was back to donning the masked attire of the forsaken son, once again. The forsaken son's body shook in denial at the news. His gaze only lifted enough to see the gravelord's feet. And he furiously stared at them with disgust and contempt.

This cell's chambers had ghostly echoes from screams long gone. But this time it got filled with new ones from another that found himself stuck there. The Mali'aheral's body was already beaten down to a pulp as he laid on his side upon the stone cold ground that night. Desimir hugged tightly the only thing he ever could, himself. His body writhed, twitched, and shook uncontrollably with pain he was failing to contain. His head beaded with icey-hot sweat. His mind kept going in and out of consciences. He could barely comprehend what was happening to him right now as his mind only kept focusing on his past trauma and experiences. The following is but only a peek into his thoughts, cries, and pains during his consciousness and the nightmares of his unconsciousness: I̵̢̝̬͈̞̿͊͗̐̾'̸̰͈̰̞̬̈͌̐̎͆v̷̲͙̜̻̠̀̋͆͝͝ɘ̴̛̠̫̻̻̋̉́̕ͅ ̵̬͇̝̼́͂̏͋̓ͅɒ̶͉̘̙̦̖̐̅͋̀͒l̸̲͖̣̗͔̎̆͂̈́̾w̵͈̦̩̩̎̀̀̈́̊ͅɒ̷̘̳̙̺̮͒͛̊̽̒γ̶͍̳̼̹̜̓͋́̚͝ƨ̷̫͖̗̪̙͛͑́͘͠ ̷͓̪̮̰̟̈͛͛͆̽d̵͈̮̻̠̙̋̉̒̍̏ɘ̸͚͇͍̣̂̎̔̈̐͜ɘ̷̡̪̦̖̱̒͂́̒͒n̴͔͉͙̳͎͑͌͛͆͠ ̴̨̬̗͎̫̓̾̐̒͠Ɉ̴̢͖͎̙͈̀̐́̂͝ʜ̸̯̺̖̘̈̋̑̂̽͜ɘ̴̧͖̥̪̉̇̈͌̋͜ ̶̛̪̺̥͙̉̔͑̕͜ weakest ɒ̴͔͍̘̞͚͂̄͒̔͝n̴̥̰̭͙̘̍̋̓͆̄b̴̠̟͔̻̝̈̐̇̋͘ ̴̛̤̺̜̮̈́͌͐̒͜I̸̞̘͓̿͌́̀͝ͅͅ ̸̟̜̞̭̖̈́̍̀̊̽ʜ̷̛̦̰͙̯̞͗͋̌͘ɒ̵͈̱̹̹̞̾̓͑̈͠v̵̺̺̳̖͔̈́̀́͂͝ɘ̴̨̡͎͖͕͋́͋̈̊ ̴̧͍̬͉̣̓̀̒̉̚d̵͔͚̳͇̩̓̽̓͆͘ɘ̵͔͉͉͙̟̍͋̌̕͘ɘ̸̰̞͈̖̹̇̎̍͝͝n̷͉͇̻̮̦̿̊̾͆͝ ̶̯̠̣͙͙̄̂̓͆͝ mocked ̵̨͔͚̳̦̋̐͛̀̚ʇ̷̡̤̣̺̠̌͑̈́̒̕ỏ̷̺̲̞̞̟͛̐̿͘ɿ̵̠̹̰̣͊̓̾̃̕ͅ ̷̧̝̳͖̼̐́̀̚͝i̴͔͕̤͓̰͆̿̐̎͝Ɉ̴̣̤̙͇̜͐͋͌̇̆ ̵̠̺̲͈͉̊̈̊͐̍ɒ̸̰̬̞͎̤́̄̀͆͝Ɉ̸̡̛̙̖͈̘̈́̐͛̚ ̷͇͕̩̮̈́̓̈́̊͜͝ɘ̸̧̖͍͕̤̄̀̀͊̓v̶̬̞͍͚̱̋̾̈́̇̚ɘ̴̢̤̙̦̗̋̑͑́͘ɿ̴͚̳̪͋̆̈͆͜͝ͅγ̶̩̹̤̙̭̈́̇̔̏͝ ̴̢̢̤̪̮́͑́̀͠Ɉ̸̧̧̠̮̓̑̉̇̃ͅυ̴̡̛̝̞͖̪̾̄̒͠ɿ̶̠̥̫̠̈̌̅͗͜͝n̵̨̟̬̥̝̐͂̒̈́͘.̵̡̤̟̲̲̔̒̋̋́ ̵͚͙̹̤͇̋̒̚͘̕ઘ̶̛̼͙̜͕̒͊̊̒͜υ̵̻̦̱̱͍̊̇̊̇͝Ɉ̶̹̥͙͇̼͒͐̋̔̚ ̶̺̝̗̦͉͌́͛̚̕Į̸̞̪̗̂̽̎̂͝ͅ ̴̡̛̠̗̠̯̾̔̌̚ still try ̴̢̥͚͉̠̐͑̈̚͝ɒ̸̠͉̘̠̝̃̐̒̀͐ƨ̷̝͍͓̲̥̊̔̆̓̓ ̸̛͓̻̺̪͇̌͊̈́̊ʜ̶̢̙͈̪̝͂͆͌̈́̒ɒ̶̡̫̯̱̬́̽̂͛̍ɿ̴̧̻̲̣̬̎̏̀́̾b̷̪͇̥̥͎̎̔̎̀̏ ̷̟̤̯͕̓́̅̅̕ͅɒ̸̮̩̤̃̒̀̑̂ͅͅƨ̵̟̙̞͓̈́́̔̐͛͜ ̴̢̘̲͔̼̓͐͗́̕I̷̺͚̜̬͚̓̃̏̓̔ ̶̖̬̦̦͎̈́́̽̆͝ɔ̸͔̱̜͓͔̽̂͂̕̚ɒ̴̨̺̘̼̗̊̒͋̀͠n̴̯̝̘̝͒̑̍͒͛ͅ.̷̱͖̺̻̝̇̿̒̈̊ ̴̥̱̭̱̈̆̇̽̉͜I̸̧̟̟̫͓͊͋̏̂̇ ̵̝̥͍̠̟́̂̇͒̚w̵̧̢͉͖̪͛̓̉͒̈́ɒ̵͉͚͙̭͍̍̆̃́̿ņ̸̡̥͈͈̆̾̊͗͂Ɉ̴͔͔̜̹̫̍̂̊͗̒ɘ̸̲̲̼̘̤̍̈̄̍̆b̴̙̹̼̬̣͌̃̀͗̕ ̸̛͍̗̝̟̱̉͆̍͊Ɉ̸̢̖̩̹̥̔̇͑͋͠õ̸͇̼̬̤̻͑͛́̔ ̴͈̭̠̟̰̐̋̄̈́͝d̵̩̩̲͚̟͋̽͑̚͝ɘ̸̨̘͓̝̼̍͗͋̀͝ ̷̛͍͉͇̳̉̈͊͋ͅƨ̷̢̦̥͇̻̾͋̊̍̉Ɉ̵̭̪̩̻͖̿͒̈́̋͂ɿ̷̧̬̝̝͈̃̓͗̔̕o̵̩̥͉̯̟̊̈͂̀̊n̶̡̛̥̩̥̅̏͛̉ͅϱ̸͖̫͇̤͑̏͊̐̚ͅɘ̴̺̰̻̖̥̾̅̅̚̚ɿ̸̩̤̤͕̹̍̎̾̅́.̸̠͓̘͓̥͐̑͋̓̌ ̸̝̯̥͙̹͒̎̑͊̚I̸̲̳̠͖̫͛̈͗͆͝ ̴̧̛͔̝̬̖͊̐̔̓Ɉ̶̟̪̪̰̝̑̃̐̕͝ɿ̶̨̼̮̥̲̀̋͂͗͒į̵̣̗̬̜̓͂́̈͊ɘ̸̣͍̼̯̝̈́̔̑͐̑ḅ̴̥̯̙̤̇̈́̑̄͝,̵̢̦̮̣̬͌̆̔̀̀ ̵̛̣̩̻̞̦͒̒͋̕ḑ̷̪̠̜̫́̋͛͊͘υ̵͍̩͙͎̻͋͑͗̐̾Ɉ̸̢̲͎͙̳̍͒̃̅͌ ̷̛̜̩̖̣͕͊̿͂͆Ĭ̶͍̰̣͙̪̑̿͘͠ ̷̨͚͖͔̗̽̐͗̄͘n̴̡̮̻̖͍̓̇͒̿̎ɘ̵̳͇̬͈̘͗͂͑̋͂v̸̛͚̩̰̫̦̅̃͘͠ɘ̴̛͈̟͙̰̝̃̓͝͝ɿ̴̻̫̪̝̞́̒̍̕̚ ̴̨̨͍͖͕̆͐̄̏̆ɔ̶̬̹͇̟̐̾̌͋͛͜o̸͈̼̠̟͖͑͛̓͂̀υ̸͕̭̱̰̟̃̀̋͒͘l̷̢̖͚͎̄̓̓̓̓͜b̴̡̘̬̜͕̿̇̄̏̕.̵̧̛̞͓̟̯̄̀͆͋ ̶̡̡̥͎̬̎̆̽̉̈́I̷̳͇̜̼̣͆͒͂̈͝ ̸̥̻͇̘̞̒̾̉͑͠ϱ̸͚̬̝̰̈́̈́́̆͠ͅɘ̴̧͎̠̞̗͂̋͛̔̚Ɉ̵̡͙̝̥͋͐̇̀́͜ ̵̨̧̯̣̯͗̔͋͋̕i̶̘͓̭͚̳͑̋̂̊͆Ɉ̴̞̗͍̘̫̀́̾̅͌.̸͖̱̬̣̱͊̎̏̌̚ ̶̨͇̝̖̗̉̎̈́̀͘Ǐ̵̛̞͓͕̼͓̊̓͠ ̴̳̣͔͖͕͐͋̏͆̈ʇ̷̡̪̜̝̿̅̿̏̕͜ǫ̸͓̗̱̗̅͂̑̽́υ̵̯̼͉̣͓̂̽̑̌͒ϱ̶̭͓̫͙̓̔͊̈́̅ͅʜ̴̞͔̘̤̐̂̃̚͜͠Ɉ̸̧͖͔̻͈̄̎̎̀͠ ̴̹̜̭̘̩̾̇͑̔̿Ɉ̷̢̨͔̮͈̏̂̊̑͝o̶͍͎͚̙̪͌͋̓͐͠ō̷̡̜͕̤͉̏̉͛̂Ɉ̵̨̪͖͎̒̔̅͑̀ͅʜ̵̟̱͍͚̦̆͒͋̈́̂ ̶̢̻̹͚͍͊̉̄̕̚ɒ̵̰͔̟̘̜̔̌̓͊̎ṇ̸̯̖̱̳͊͌̆̐͑b̷̨̨̡̦͚͑̓͗̆̓ ̶̧̪̼̺̒́̀̀̄͜n̵̢̰̳̰̾̊̀̈́̂ͅɒ̴̛̫̖͈̙̠͛̌̅̂i̵͇̞̹͍̎̌͐̐̕ͅl̴̞̗̫̹̪̄̈̍͋́ ̸̧̡͍̞̄̓̇̃̉͜Ɉ̷̧͇̠͕͍͋̓̿͠͠ŏ̸̡̫̣̻̪̊͛̄͝ ̷̨̗̱͈̬̿̉̄̌͘ earn my keep ,̸̨͍̞̰͙̑̓̄̽́ ̶̭̭̮̳̻͐͗̈͗͠ɒ̷̠̣͚̮̾̽͗̀̒ͅn̸̫͙̲͇̫̈̂̎̾̉b̴̧̻̜̺̩̂̔́̂́ ̴̦͇̠͍̜̓̈̓́̚I̷̪̬̼̰͍̊͋̈́́͝ ̶̖͖͓̱͍͆͂̇̅̆ϱ̴̛̛̹͎̰̻̩̽́͊o̸̩̻͔̤̐̿̃̐̀͜Ɉ̶͖̰͖̲̥̌̓͒͌͠ ̴̢̯̜̥͓̋̈́́̈́̔Ɉ̷̠̮͕̞̙̈́͌̍̂̆ʜ̵̠̣̭͎̩́̎̌̃͝ȋ̶̱̞̲͖̥̄̿̋͠ƨ̴͙͈̺͙̥̐̇͆̅̓ ̵̻̣̪͍͓̀͐̍͠͝ʇ̸̢̱͙̖͓̀̏̔̅́ɒ̴̧͇̙̲̲̃̄̒͠͝ɿ̵̨͉̞̗̩̈́̏͆̿̐.̴̨̙͙̬̭̽̐̑͂̚ ̶̬̫̬͖̝́̇̋̇̓Ƨ̴͈͚̭̻̹̈́̿͂̊̐ȏ̴͚̳̫̫̯̇̏̀͊ ̵̢̟̼̜̻̒̈́̾̈́͛Ɉ̸͎͎̗͚̙͋̀̈́̋͗ʜ̵̛̼͉͍͖̈́̏͋̄͜ĩ̴̛̲̻͉̺̈́͊̚͜ƨ̶̪̲̝̞̙̈́͂̍̇̌.̷͍̤̗̦͚̊̈́͑̑͘.̷̣̩͈̪͙̂̏̓͂͝.̴̞̹͎̟̪̃̅̿̋̕ ̴̢̛̺̬̮̞̌͆̈͝*̶̡̝̼͚̣̿͗͌́̆*̷̮͚̠̱̺̀̑͂̓͘*̷̨̞͓̹͈̽͗̈́̚͝*̷̬͙͔̤̪̃̾̈̿͗,̸̬̲̲̣͈̊̑̑́̕ ̵̢̗̫͈̔̈̈́̈́̎͜*̴̨̨̩͚̟͗́͒̉̀*̷̧̯̰̫̫̒̈́͛̿̚*̷̥̦͔͚̥̍͒̆̋͝*̵͖̘͙̖̰̓̌̎̀͘!̷̙͉̟̪̟̈̆̈́̕͝ ̵̱̘͍͍̜̀̄̽͋͠Ț̷̨̰͎̣̒͐̅͠͝ʜ̴̢̨̣̘̜̀̈́̽̕͝i̶̢̜͍̼̠̓͛̾͊͠ƨ̵̢̙̩͍͍̈́͐͌͛͘ ̷͎͈̤̬͓̄̀̊̿̽i̷̝̗̹̦̮͒̃̇̓̕ƨ̸̞̮̬̼͉̆̽̅̑͝ ̶̛̦̭͔͚̉̾̓̚ͅd̵̨̥̣̭̖͛̾͛̕̚υ̸̢̣̥̩̝͑̓̒̕͝l̸͇̞̗͔͉͆̎̑̈́͘l̵̛̠̖̝͂̿͐̂͜͜ƨ̸̭̙̣̿̊̓̈̚͜ͅʜ̸̨̢̭̩̝̓̽̿͑͝ḯ̶̠̖̤̣̺̓̽̌͠Ɉ̷̙͇̣̦̈̇̑͛̆͜!̶͎̥͇̮͓̓͐̎͝͝ ̵̨̮̼̣̫̂̀͑́͝ઘ̷̢̡̨͔̰̈́͋̇͋̎υ̷̡̮̟̦̬̊̽̒̒̏l̸̖̻̣̹̯͑͊͆͝͠ļ̷̗̱̪̠̌̒͋͌̃ƨ̵̼̜͉̩̗̌̔́̑̂ʜ̷̰̳͓͖̗̈́̉̀͋͝i̶̡̧̟̜̲̔͗͒͆̚Ɉ̵̨̻͕̣̝̂̿́̉̈!̸̦͍̗͍͉̾̏̉̄̚ ̶̧̹̻͓̤̑̏̂̓͠O̶͎͚͓̣͐̽̋͋̕ͅʜ̵̧̢̝͕̞͗͒̇͐͘ ̸̛̳̭͚͔̺̌̎͛̔γ̷̻̥̝̩̅͒̅͐̓͜o̶͍͇̹̫͖̊̄͑͘͠ῦ̷̫̦̩̘̆͐̈́͝ͅ ̷̢̢̰̹̏͗͆̓̅ͅw̷̞͓̗̲͋̆́͋͜͠ɘ̷͔͉̖̮̱͋̄͒̌͆ɿ̷̡̭̮̯͓͒͊̅̏̕ɘ̷̮̳͓̻̓̆̀͗̊ͅ ̸̯̼͙̗̫̄͗̅̊͗q̴̢̬̦͓̲̈́́̍͂̽ɒ̵̧͉͕̗̘͂̈̓̏͠ƨ̷̛͖̥̺͉̬̈͊́̓Ɉ̷̼͎̘͎̼̉͛̉̕̚ ̸̡̖̻̦̺̌̓̂͐̏γ̸͈̜̤̜̓̓͂͆͝ͅo̶̱̗̼͙̣͛͌̈́͑͊υ̶͔͖͇͔̠̉̒̇́̀ɿ̵̢͓̙̱̂̒̾̚͜͠ ̶̥̰͎̝͇́͒̀̓̏l̸̢͈̼̤̉̓̿͛͋͜i̸̠͖͔͗̏̔͌͘͜ͅṁ̵̳̬̦͔̦͆͐̚͠i̴̼͚̤̘̠͂̿͠͠͝Ɉ̷̺̜̘̘͔̐̀̈̀̀,̸̡̩̪̺͋̐̌̚͝ͅ ̶̨͎̯͍͍̇̈́̓̇̚ʜ̸̝̪̯͕̍̒̀͂͜͝υ̶̬̭̟̩͔̑̏̈́̿͆ʜ̴̫̝̞̻̃̒̒͒̍͜?̴͇͈̞̗̦̄̄̓̄̍ ̵̛̖͈̩̞̫̇̈̚͝Y̵̩̼̗͇̺͗̔̿̚͝o̸͇̱̫͊̈́̍̀͜͝ͅυ̸̹̣̞̹̊̌͊̿͜͝ ̴͉̖͓̳̿͌̈́̈̊͜ẃ̷͇̼̞͖̍̇̏́͜ɘ̴͈̠̼̙̯̓̉̇̊̽ɿ̶̙̖̦͙̰͋̓̽̈́͝ɘ̵̬̭̱̻̑̈͊̓̈ͅ ̶̮̯͚͓̗̓͌͑͊͋m̸̺̬̠͇̥̓́͂͑͘ɒ̴̨̲̦̦̞́̍̚̕͠ʞ̴͉̱̯͈̤̃͌̽̀̄i̵͕̹͈̱͒̃̈̓̋͜n̶͍͇̠͉͍̂͌͛̒͝ϱ̴͕̳̪͓̲̈́̔̋̌̍ ̴̙̥̞̲̟̎̃͋͒͝ɘ̸̹̫̖̙̼̌̅̅̇̈́x̶̡̺͕̖̙̄̈́̈́͗̚ɔ̷̳͔̖͖̌͑̒́̐͜υ̶̭͕̦͙͓̾͛̀́̾ƨ̸̭̤̳͔̯́̋̾̅͒ɘ̴̯͙͇̮̑̃̀̇͝ͅƨ̷͖͖̦̪͎̔͛̅̐͝ ̵̲͖̪̞͍̾́̎̎̉ʇ̵̢̭̺̦̲̔̊̾̈́̒ó̴̡̦̱̫̹̽̓̈́̂ɿ̷̗̬̝̣̦́̆͊̆̕ ̴̧̣̠̯̰̊̓̓̎̏γ̶͔̮̙͙͆̽͋̃͘͜õ̴̢̮̠͉͍̆̀̀͐ὐ̸͙͓̩̗͖͒̀̈́̈́ɿ̶̬̤͉͎̠͊̆̒͆́ ̸̼̞͙̠͔̑̈́̉̀̓o̵̫̝̬̞̫͐͛̈́̎͠w̸͚̩̗̜̹̄͊́͗͝ń̵̖̤̙͒̅̀̋ͅͅ ̶̢̛̮͍̝̹̍́̐́ selfishness.̷̡̱̲̻͎̊̒̆̍̊ ̸͉̯̞̗̯̃͆̎̏͒T̴̡͉̬͚̦͋̓̆̋͝ʜ̷̡̲̟̦̾̎̿̐͠ͅɒ̵̩̺̠̳̇̌̅̈̊͜Ɉ̵̤͕̬͚͎͂́̒̄͠ ̵̧̢̧̫̠̇̽̈́͑͝ gratitude ̸̺̹͐̈́͐̍̈w̵̡̠͖͚͉͐̊͛̌̚ɒ̶̡̹̫̙̠́̍̓̓̀ƨ̵̺͖͇͎̦̏̓̀̌͝ ̶͙̘̜͇̼̒͆͑̚͝ɒ̸̢̯̬̯͕̈́͊͋́̊ƨ̸̧͍͕̥͔͂̊̈̃͠ɘ̸̨͉͓͖͍͒̓͆̓̕ṁ̴̘͉̻̭̊̓̈́̾͜q̶̛̞͖̜̀̂͒͠ͅͅɈ̸̳̫͓̖͇̈́̀̇̀͐γ̴̧͚̬͈̽̏̅̅͛ͅɒ̶̨̣̩̭̝̓͌̈́̏́ƨ̷̡͎̤̲͈̐͗͂́̚ ̵͔͙̺̯͓́̒͑̌̕m̷̘̳͇͖̗̆́̒͘͝γ̵̦̦̜̗͖̀̈́̏̅͝ ̶̨̬̺͎͉́̋̃̓̀w̷͎͕̼͉̤͊̉̾̔͝ɒ̸̧͈͍͖̩̓̆̀́͊l̵̪̰͇̟̦̓̈́̀̆̀l̴̢͇̭̣̯̓̇̈́́̍ɘ̶̡̣͖͕̖͒͆̋̉̀Ɉ̴͖̘͖̭̖̏͆͑͒̄.̸̦̟̻̙̓̈́̽̐͛͜ ̶͉͚͇̥̠̄̚̚͘͝⅃̶̢͚̞̹͆̍͆̋̄ͅɘ̴̙̘̞͓̃͊̃̍̊͜ɒ̷̺̳͔͖̱͛̃̎̕̕v̶̛͈̜̝͇͇̑̄̂̓ɘ̴̞̙̭̰̹̉͐̔̽̄ ̸̭̲͚̲̻̉̉̏̄͠i̵̯͔̦̻̬͊͗̋̾̚Ɉ̷̦̟̦̹̼̀́̂͑͝ ̵̡̟͈͙̟̈́̂͋̽͘Ɉ̵̧̪̥̯̫̄̓̓̑̎o̸̲̘̺͖̳͑́̾̽̇ ̶͙͇͚̫̯͒́̃̀̆ɒ̴͇͙̳̙͈̓̇͑̅̽ ̵̩̤͎̯͚̓̃́́̇ϱ̸̝̰͕̫̤͊̈́̑́͘ɘ̵͉̤͖̠̖́̾̎͋̚ǹ̵͕͍͚̬͈̂͂̌̊ύ̵͉̼̪͎̤̋͑̋͘į̸̪̥̲̽̆̄́̈́͜ņ̶̼̞̤̳̂͂̎͒͠ɘ̵̡̡̤̠̖̑̄͆̿̊ ̸̡͕̮͕̭̌̽̃̿͠q̷̹̫̪͍̑͒́̉̊͜i̵̧̠̼̞̘̇͐͑͐̕ɘ̷̳̺͔͔̹̄͗́̔̚ɔ̷̮̞͙̞̖̔̀̀̈̕ɘ̷̡̛̮̱͇̠͊͒́͛ ̴̡̛̼̻̠̭́̑͐͌o̷͔͉̦̙͕͊̾͌́̏ʇ̵̰̭̫̣̳̌͂̐̂̒ ̷̰̯̥̘̜̏͊̉͋͘Ɉ̸͔͕͉̜͔̑̊̊͂͝ɿ̴͉͉͚͛̇̐͘̚͜ͅɒ̵̢͈̫͑̇̏̎̚͜͜ƨ̴̪̰̭̙̞̌̇̀̄̀ʜ̶̤͉̱̼̪̀̔͋̍͘ ̸͖̠̗͖̟́͛͛̋͒Ɉ̷̢̥͎̮̣̽͌͂̑̚o̶̡̬̠̥̓̅͛̈̆ͅ ̶̨̣̻̗̝͌͛̍̽̅ use me ̸̨̨̤͓̹̾̅͋̍͝ɒ̴̧̤̻̯̓͑̽̍̽͜ṇ̷̢͕͉̘̆̎̉̈͛b̷̡̢̭̻̺̓̐̏̉͝ ̸̛͖̳̜͉̐̄̀̋͜Ɉ̸̢̝̘̥͓́͐̈́̑̽ʜ̵̰͈̯̬̫̀̾͋͌͠ɿ̶̘̠̲͈̌͊̔͂̀ͅo̸̢͔̖̣͖̒̾̊̈́͑ẃ̸̢̨̝͈̫͂̑̈̓ ̷̢̧̢̛̟̘̈̊͌̅m̷̞̱̝͈̓̊͑͠͝ͅɘ̶̹̼̤̘͉̀͋́̈́͝ ̶̺̳̮̞͍͊̄͒͑̕ɒ̶̖̩̹͖̟̄̌̃̇͋w̴̬̣͈̟̃̿̒̕͝ͅɒ̸̹̮̥̦̫̄̃̏̌̆γ̶̮͚͖̥̻͒̍̉̈́̀ ̸̛͙͉̺̜̺̈́̒̄̃ʇ̶̡̜͙͔̝̊̌̎̈́̕ǫ̶̳͉̰͙͛̓̆͆͠ɿ̵̛̹̟̫͙̱́̄͝͝ ̵̙͙̩͙͎͒̌̓̓͛ʜ̷̡̩̩͓̹̾̽́̐͠ḭ̵̢̻̤̒̔̄̀͌ͅƨ̵̯̦̘̻̼͂̉̂͗͝ ̸̝͉̙̼̲͌̋̽͐͝ benefit .̴̗̜͖͈̺̋͊̒͛̈́ ̸̫̰̜̺̣̆̂̇̉̓Ì̴̡̢̬̳̥̂̓̕͝ ̷̨̟̱̹̘́͊͌͊͊w̶̡̧̥͕̼̏͆͘͘̕ɒ̴̟̲͕͚͈̅̓̉̂͝n̸͔̫͈̠̭̅̆̏̍̿Ɉ̴̡̜̰̪̟̆͂̒̕͝ɘ̵͕̪̞̺͉́̂́͋̕b̴̢̭͙̗̫́͗̇͆̚ ̷̧͚͈̰̙͆̈̃̓͋ɒ̸̧̗̩̼̫̈́͑̀͐̕ ̶̨̧̥̼͎̿͌͗̚͝ familyɈ̷̛̦̲̖͚͖̿͌́͝ō̵̩͓̹̙̓͊͊̆͜ö̶̳̪̬̯̮́̅̃̋̚.̶̛̮͈̟͈̟̀̅́͝ ̵̱̰͖̘͖͂̊͂͝͝I̵̢̤͚̹̠͌̓̀̽̉ ̴̛̤͙͈͓͈̌̓̀̉w̵͎̲̫̱̗̿̐̿́̿ɒ̴͓͈̺̩̈͂͑̒͝ͅn̵͕̮̖͙̈̓̓̕͘ͅɈ̸̟͔̤͖̣̀̂͗͒͝ɘ̷̜̳̟̻̑̅͂̐͋͜b̸͓̜̼̣̓͗́́̈́͜ ̴̛͓͖̲̱̝̈̽̓͝ɒ̶̧̖͇̲̯́̆̄̈́̕ ̴̡͕͚̙̣̀̓̊͐̾ homeɈ̵̧͔̞̜͔͛̀̒̚̕o̸̞͇̤͈̥̓̐̓͗͝o̸̱̗̦͑͒̆͒͘͜͜!̸͖͚̳̮̆̓͛͂́ͅ ̶̡͍̝͉́͌͐̒͝ͅИ̸̨̨̼̮͉̓̈́̈́̿̌o̵̫͈͚͚͑͐̑̊͂ͅ.̶̢͚̠̙͇̄̏͗̊̚ ̵̨̨̜̫͕̓̏̆̔͆Į̶̛̹̩͎̞͗̿̀̈ ̶͉̰̤̲̜̒̍̒̅͑b̵̞̟̪̬͖̉̃̀͊͘o̷̰̭̟͎̎̿̂̈́͜͠ǹ̴̢̢̮͉̼͛̀͗̒'̷̝̣̘̱̯͆̍̒̈̈́Ɉ̵̝͔̫̤̬̄̏͌̎̈́ ̵̧͍̻̮̭̈́̀̈̚͠ẅ̸̧̹̲͓̫̂̉͌̕ɒ̸͕̹̹̱̩͂̓̿͐͝n̷͇̥͔̣̥̑͋̅̀̈Ɉ̵̡̡͕̥͓͛́͆̏̕ ̴̳̻̠̋̓̓̊͜͝ͅɈ̴̡̗̙͛͛͗̏̐͜ͅõ̵̢̺̩̗̯͛̈́͂̎ ̸̬̟̳̥̜͂̆̆̃̕ die.̸͈͔͇̱̤̔̈́͑̑͗ ̵͇͚̙̺̽̋̑̐̋ͅḪ̷̲͓͎̰̑͆͆̍̚o̷̢͈̲͉̍̈̊̏̔͜ŵ̶̧̯͈̦̮̊̀͊͝ ̸̗̻̬̫̀̀̏̍̔ͅɔ̵̛͎͔̹͙͖̂̇̉̈́o̷̞͓̙̼̜̊̄̿͘͝ὐ̶̨̢͚͙̻͋̒̌̌l̵̛̲̗̙̣̲̽̎̕͝b̴̛̺͎̼̺̤̀̈́̚͠ ̵͕̤͈̟͈̈́͗̌͗̏γ̶̨͎͓̙͖̿͐̀͌͘o̵̧̯̞̼̹͗͆́̚͝ΰ̶͓̲̗̬͎̀̄̕͝ ̵̡̳͓͕̗̅̀̇̀̾Ɉ̸̢͖̱͓̜̈́́̂̌͝ʜ̵̡͔̺̟̼̽̽̈̒͝ḯ̴̧̨̛̯̮̪͆̀̏ņ̶͈͉̮̥̍̅̒͠͝ʞ̶̢̢͖̣̝̂͋̋̚̚ ̵̨̙̘̬͓̽͋̍̔͘Ɉ̵͓͈̳͎̂̈́̋̊̈ͅʜ̷̤̳̦̼̂͋̈͑̕͜ɒ̵̛̻͕̤̫͕̿̎̀̎Ɉ̷̝̝͈͎̦̓̋̈̌͝?̵̧̢͕͍͕̽͌̂́͒ ̷̢̲͖̤̳̃̆̒̈͝Ỷ̴̨̖̯̘̺̿̃͛͒ṑ̸̺̯̳̝̅͠͠ͅυ̵̛̙͉͈̞͍̽̆̓͊ ̴̹̗̣͚͉̉͛̑̕͠ƨ̶͖̮̞̗̦̄̇̆̀͋Ɉ̴͉̩͉̙̉͆͂̄͝ͅυ̴̢̙̯̺͎̅̊͛͝͠q̸̲̙͈̥̀̑͛̃̕ͅi̴͍̮̼͚͎̿̀̇́͝b̷̧̢̫̄̂́̕͜͝ͅ ̴̦͔͙̳̌̊͒̕͝ͅʜ̷͖̖̩̦͓̄͐̇͛̊γ̸̨͔̞̫̤̔͂͗͂͘q̶̝̘͙̬̝̈́̈́̒̔̀ó̵̢̲̞̓͐́̚͜͜ɔ̴̨̨̥̩͍̆̆̎̚͝ɿ̶̢̘̘̱͚̿̿͐͂͝ḯ̵̲̭̘̮̠̓̇̌́Ɉ̶̜͚̹̼͈͂̄̈́́́ɘ̶̠̜̩̰̯͂̍̈́̇͆.̸̢̩̣̼̅͑̀̚̚ͅ [Headphones recommended for the best experience. Warning: May be disturbing to some listeners.]

There was no time for emotions for this Mali'aheral. Desimir immediately resorted to doing what he knew how to do best, work and research. For hours in the next couple of days, he would encircle the pool of dried blood that he was first to discover that dreadful day. He took measurements. Calculated angles and trajectories. Took samples of the blood and environment. Played out every possible scenario. All his analysis lead his to the same answer. " This make no sense. " He then found himself back in a familiar setting. A setting where it all began. A library. Books, after all, were his only reliable consultant in his father's absence. And they were always somewhere he knew to find them. Within their text there were no emotions to deceiver, just direct, logical facts about what is, isn't, and could be. But this time, their text offered no hope or angle of solution for Desimir, despite cross examining their words with his evidence. He grew agitated with each page he quickly turned. His table was already littered with books but he went to gather another stack within his arms. His steps were sluggish and unbalanced underneath not just the weight of the books but also the words he already knew they were going to read. His lips suddenly started to quiver and his eyes watered. " I have control over my emotions ! " He commanded to himself. He managed to will himself a few steps further. " My emotions.. are under.. my co- " He choked up again, worse this time. Desimir's knees buckled and he collapsed, buried under the sad and irrefutable truth. He sat there and balled up his fist to hit the temples of his head as hard as he could a until it felt numb. His breathing was shallow and rapid. " I am.. a scholar magi... Desimir Divadri... son of- " He tried to convince himself of who he was but couldn't stop his sobbing from interrupting. The traumatic memories with his father flooded his psyche and then collided with the good ones when finally accepted as his son. His hand grasped around the jewelry Sarrion made for him. It's protecting enchantment once made it glowed but it was now dull with him gone. He composed himself for a moment and tried to steel himself again. " He's my father... it's my duty.. I have to- " He stopped himself. His words felt hollow as all his teary vision could see was his sister yelling an echo of the same, exact words back at him and rejecting him from her life. He rocked himself back and forth and even tried to distract his mind from the pain with equations of equivalent exchange. " I-If two divided by 'p' plus.. 't'.. then 't' times 'p'.. p- p- p- o' please don't leave me, not again...! " Sat amidst the piles of books, Desimir hugged his legs and buried his face into them, weeping uncontrollably. Once again, Desimir was lost and alienated. Once again, he had no home. Once again, he felt useless with no purpose. Once again, he had nothing. Once again, he had no one left to turn to. Once again, he was alone.

I personally do not like the Dragur Library being at the Cloud Temple. By it being there, it further removes the library from the roleplaying player base, due to the Cloud Temple really not being a hub for much roleplay (Not that the Dragur library was either, but still...). Much of the roleplay is out there in the world, beyond the cloud temple, where I think the Dragur Library should be too like it was back in Axios, where it actually had some life to it by players running it completely themselves. Sure the library would have to be involved with outside threats and encounters along with the rest but that to me is much more enjoyable than the library being cast aside, barely visible, and empty at the cloud temple overseen by rarely present monks.

I have to say that this rewrite is very much clear and detailed to the point of describing the features and abilities of necromancy so that its easy to understand. The red-lines are also very well drawn out. This focuses down the art towards characteristics and capabilities that are appropriate to the theme of this magic while also still allowing the user room for a bit of imagination.

Meanwhile, Desimir had been left incapacitated and curled up next the base of a tree off the side of a road. Admits his whole body, damp from his sweat. Desimir’s violet eyes were rolled back as he rapidly blinked. He squirmed on the ground and yelped in agonizing pain as his mind was flooded with haunting projections of the past and Mother’s own thoughts during the battle as he also shared her pain. All he could do was suffer while gripping his head felt like the only thing keeping his mind from ripping apart. As the battle reached its end with the defeat of Mother, the elf was able to regain his strength as a heavy burden seemed to have been removed from him. Exhausted, he caught his breathe and slowly rose to his feet. “Finally... farewell...” The elf smirked as continued on his way hunched over as he still recover from his mental breakdown but in a good mood despite knowing he will continue to be haunted many days thereafter.

Ngl, I thought this was a medieval fantasy server...

[!] A letter would be exclusively sent to all members of the Mages Guild via bird. Upon it is the guild’s sigil. It reads the following, if opened: [!] ____________________________________________ To the Overseer, Archmages, Artificer, Arcane Masters, Archanix, Instructors, and all other members of the Mages Guild, For those who may not know me, I am Desimir Zytiaear, a fellow sorcerer of the Mages Guild since Atlas. I will not claim to have bore witness to all the guild’s accomplishments throughout its vast history, fore I didn't even exist most of that time. I only know of most of its feats through books, accounts from other members, and what I witness of it now. And what I see is a guild that once famed being a major influencer and safe haven, for those walking the path of magic to come together under that common interest. That all seems to be in the past now. Since those times, I believe we have fallen from such grace. The once proud Mages Guild remains but a shell of its former self. Respectfully, our current leadership have endeavors and responsibilities elsewhere and cannot fully commit to their roles. Though I applaud them for having the vision to better other aspects of our world and applying their skill sets in other places that need them, this has also, unfortunately, contributed to the guild’s downfall and wavering activity. Time and again, I have seen the Mages Guild regroup and reorganize only for its liveliness to quickly die again, thereafter. Each time it comes together is weaker than the last. We need someone who can dedicate all of their time to the guild and is always available. I want this time around to be different. I do not wish to sit idle and allow the Mages Guild, that is so rich in history, contribution, and tradition to dissolve to nothing more than a memory. That is why I ask for your favor and support in my nomination for a seat on the Triumvirate of Archmages, so that I can help bring about more purpose and responsibility to the guild. I am young, yes, but I have had more than my fair share of experiences in my lifetime that has helped me mature and grow. I also believe my mind is capable of dealing with the guild’s problems of today. In cooperation with the rest of the guild’s experienced leadership, I think our discussions, decisions, and operations can benefit from the creative perspectives I can bring to the table. Before joining the Mages Guild, I served dutifully with my father in The Enchantry, as a Knight Enchanter, and other different organizations for many years. I’ve seen first hand what can both make an organization flourish and crumble. Many of you have witnessed me grow from the young mali’aheral living and helping out in the Library of Dragur, over a century ago, to the mature mali’aheral I am today. I only hope that your opinions and observations of me throughout that time can attest to my readiness to take on this mantle. I will also address the drakaar in the room that may call into question my character, as of late. I was, indeed, cursed by this so called “Mother,” though I have since been cleansed and am no longer under her influence. Henceforth, it will be one of my goals to repair the tears in the void and bring down this “Mother”and her plans to use them. I won't allow anyone else to be bent to her will. Once again, I ask all of you to stand with me in my pursuit to helping the Mages Guild prosper as Archmage. Do this not for me, but for the guild and in the name of something we all have dedicated our lives towards pursuing and understanding. I hope to find myself working with all of you and thank you for your time and consideration, -Desimir Zytiaear

Name: *sigh* Desimir... Age: *sigh* 100+... Gender: *sigh* Male... Race: *sigh* High elf... Notes: *siiiiiiiiigghhhh...*

Your full name: Desimir Zytiaear Race: Mali’aheral Age: 74 Past military experience: Weeping Blades Magics (optional): Telekinesis Arcanism Anything else you'd like to say: No ((OOC)) Discord username and # (required): Legendary Legend#4872 Username: _LegendaryLegend Timezone: EST Age (optional): 17

An elf comes by and pokes the Arcane Regulators to see if they are truely dead.