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About wan

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    some dumb pun

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  1. It’s been a while, dear Eris

  2. An elf fondly remembers the similar melon raids of Caras Eldar in Atlas, and makes note to expedite reforestation surrounding Brandybrook outskirts. "Perhaps the good old Weefolk might like a truffle hunt or other confectionary goods."
  3. TREATY OF AEGROTHOND, 1715 WE, the Bodies of Representatives from Our Fair Nations, do solemnly declare the following decrees as correct and true; I. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare a pact of non-aggression between both nations; II. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare a pact of alliance for the duration of the war against the Pertinaxi rebels; III. The Holy Orenian Empire and The Crown of Elvenesse do solemnly declare an establishment of embassies between each nation; IV. The Holy Orenian Empire does solemnly recognize the Elvenesse’s independence from the High Elven people; V. The Crown of Elvenesse does solemnly recognize Joseph de Marna as the rightful Emperor and denounces the Pertinaxi Dynasty; SIGNED, Joseph I, Holy Orenian Emperor Fëanor Sylvaeri, High Prince of Elvenesse
  4. “Cha cha, real smooth,” an elf rose his goblet in celebration of the events.
  5. Imperial hands set upon the fallen High Prince, his nostrils and lungs rendered aching by his last breath of sea-water in his bold attempt for escape. Once before the elf had been consumed by the shallows of the bay surrounding Aegrothond. Now in Arcas, he was dragged under and into unwitting slumber, freed from his drowned state only to be bound and dragged into a slender Imperial schooner. Mounting cries from Elven militia, Fennic soldiers would prelude the fall of the captor’s vanguard. Time had been bought for the captor and his prize - the High Prince Fëanor Sylvaeri. This elf did dream. Where darkness smote out the light of his eyes and dizzied him with each step. His lungs would burn, and the heat of many hearths burnt upon his back, pressing him down and drying him to bone. He was without water, without rations, and the ache of thirst and food might drive a man mad. The elf would find himself before the threshold of his childhood’s home, and a voice from within bade him enter. “Rest, my son,” asked the voice of his tired mother. And so he did. The first night was over, the prince retrieved from foreign shores. His people and allies were relieved and they did rejoice in his safety, for he bore no mortal wounds but two swollen bumps atop his scalp. Yet he did not wake. When he dreamed again, fire crept through his body, trickling beneath the silvered plating of the elf. For he was young, careless, and knew not the dangers of the Twisted Ones. Sinewy olive skin rippling with its unholy flames, its hatred marked by its terrible sclera and demonic gaze - red like the coals with which the smith worked, and as potent to burn. Burn he would, for a minute or more - but the fire would persist through his soul and every nerve, that it might torture him for a lifetime. He would keep Abyzou’s Khopesh for a time, and keep the hatred of the Infernal forevermore; for because of them he would only know agony for a decade. “Rest, nephew,” advised a warlord, now lost to the Wilds. And he did rest. The second night followed. A worried healer and bride kept close vigil over him, and the people waited. He did not wake. He next dreamed of the Atlas seas, scorching heat trying the nerves of the bronze-plated elf as he sailed North. He remembered the pain of the second betrayal to his family, which would take advantage of his patient. The Warlord did stir but not wake in the simple vessel, each but one of his limbs broken and his visage mauled. He lived by mediocre field aid and a sling to preserve his good arm. By this, The Warlord would keep an arm - but lose all else to clockwork. He would know the dulled thud of each limb as they hit the laboratory floor. And he would turn away to the clinic, where the weight of betrayal and grief did test his resolve. “Rest, Flameborne,” urged his father, in a careful half-embrace. And he did rest. The third night fell, and the bruises of his harrowing ordeal were cleared away. His wife kept vigil, and the people inquired. Still, he did not wake. The elf dreamed then of ash and mud. Feverish nightmares which could end in few ways for the elf - talons ripping his innards apart for the sake of the Wild Gods. Riddles answered with druidic terms he did not love to use. For he was pale though dark in hair, too tall, and his eyes did glow. They were not his people, and so he took company in others. One, a small woman once close to Light, and a mage whose gifts would be his salvation more than once. “Rest, llir,” his best friends guided him down. And he rested gladly. The fourth night fell. His wife and the people worried. But he did not wake. He would dream of the strife brought by the Elven Crown and all its competitors. And he forged for himself a bronze circlet, a test. But it did not ease the weary gazes of those around him, for his father was Outcast, and his whole line of ancestors Outcast. He would stay for his soldiers and for those sacrificed by the Dominion’s father. Father. He would know the paranoia brought by those that would pierce the Veil, the madness of those who delved into it. Or into purple trees or September Cultists. He would know war. “Rest, Lord Sylvaeri,” bade a druidess of Ironwood. And he did reluctantly. The fifth night. No word of his waking travelled the Realm of Elves. He would dream of murk and roots. The days of chasing dreams would come to end, for there was no glory, no use in throwing himself away for a futile dream. Truth and wisdom would come from the earth, for it was more true, more safe than the vast sky, which often carried calamity on the winds and with the passing of time. There was no trusting the stars. For they had betrayed his ancestor and his father and mother. He would be made wise by cruel, bloody truths; in the killing of many beasts at land and sea. “Rest,” whispered the roots. And he did so, numb and cold. The sixth night passed. He would dream of the sea. He would float adrift, accompanied by the trills of dolphins. The sun would set and stars speckle the following darkness. Seven nights would pass in this dream, phases of cold, then hot. And upon the fifth day he knew the pattern, and saw the constellation of the Mariner. On the sixth eve he awaited it. But on the seventh eve, the stars did separate and fall. Then there was no sky or sea. There was no land. Only he, the darkness and the stars remained. They glowed as his eyes, silver and persistent - but they began to burn away, and only one remained, as it cast itself into the depths. Then from his own mouth, he said, “Rest.” And he knew his folly. On the seventh eve, when midnight passed, a noise was heard from the elf’s bed chambers. The taste of brine and the still airs of his room sickened him, but he did not heave or bend. His wife, dutiful, faithful, and kind would guide him to rest and be certain of his health. “Rest,” she said with love. And though he would, he felt he had slept for a generation. The word soon travelled of his good health, and soon after it travelled of his work. It was said he could gleam stars from steel.
  6. His Eminence duly signs.
  7. Personality type: “The Mediator” (INFP-T) Individual traits: Introverted – 86%, Intuitive – 66%, Feeling – 51%, Prospecting – 74%, Turbulent – 57% Role: Diplomat Strategy: Constant Improvement
  8. [!] A decree is submitted across the lands of Arcas: between the respective realms of Elves and Druids, to the Under Realms of Urguan; to those in private correspondence or blood relation to the House of Sylvaen; to the traveller, as news might travel by way of Cloud Temple. All originate from the Isles of Almenor, the decree penned in elvish script and crowned by the Seal of the House Sylvaeri. It shall be known to the Realm of Arcas that the Crown of Storms falls unto Fëanor Sylvaeri, succeeding former High Prince Belestram Sylvaeri and High Princess Illynora Sylvaeri in governance of the Principality of Aegrothond and the Seastone Court. As such, the following is decreed: Henceforth, all matters of diplomacy or otherwise formal correspondence with the Principality of Aegrothond and its Seastone Court shall be redirected unto the High Prince Feanor Sylvaeri. Such messages can be delivered unto the capital of Aegrothond by avian creature or footman, addressed to His Eminence. Should an individual seek correspondence with Belestram Sylvaeri or Illynora Sylvaeri in private, it is recommended they send word beyond the lands of Arcas. Lordship of the House of Sylvaen falls also unto High Prince Feanor Sylvaeri, until such a time when Lord Belestram of the House Sylvaeri may return. In his absence, Fëanor Sylvaeri shall serve as Lord Heir. Blood relatives of the House of Sylvaen, all those who carry the Sylvaeri name through marriage or favor ought send missives to the Lord Heir if they do not live within the Isles of Almenor. Through this, their blood relation shall be confirmed and recorded for the House Sylvaeri. They shall also be able to take the rite of Oath, as all Sylvaeri have - a rite which currently can only be conducted by the Lord Heir of House Sylvaeri. Those blood relatives or those who carry the Sylvaeri name, are of age, and living outside the Isles of Almenor who have not taken the Oath are to be referred to as Oathless. Until such a time they approach the Lord Heir, each Oathless bears no relation to the Principality of Aegrothond nor the House Sylvaeri. Fair Skies and Fairer Seas. His Eminence, High Prince Fëanor Sylvaeri, Lord Heir of the House Sylvaeri, Forge Master of Sylvaen’s Hammer, Lord Protector of the Isles of Almenor
  9. Regarding general motivation concerning this server and activity, I admit things have felt quite dull this past week or two. Likely an effect of Spring Break for some of the players on this server, mid-terms, and of course how active the server was in the very first hours of 7.0 launch. I find it quite normal in gaming groups for players to take long, perhaps deserved breaks following usually longer and consistent hours at the same game. Too many nights up for RP over the course of many weeks perhaps just means you need a simple break from the server after burning out.
  10. Sylvaen’s Hammer --Est. 1709-- Steady hammering resonates throughout the cavernous grove-square of Aegrothond’s citadel. Atop the workspace of the carpenter and fletcher, the tanner, and other craftsmen stands the great forge: a monument of the craft which could inspire reverence and inspiration to smiths of all skill and all race. The devotion remains visible in the halls of iron: the very infrastructure a marriage between dwarven might of flame and elvish scrutiny. Imbued with inventions of the age, its high ceilings disperse heat, hanging blueprints are mounted on cork-board, and the halls lit and open, mimicking that of a temple. Appropriate, for such is the dedication of Sylvaen’s descendants to the craft. Here, the forge is their altar. Sylvaen’s Hammer, established in the year of 1709 by Fëanor Sylvaeri, is a foundation composed of craftsmen from the Isles of Almenor. Not only smiths, but woodworkers, tanners, gem-cutters, and all else may yet find their home here. The focus is upon the craft, the teaching of it to those able-bodied and willing to learn - so long as they abide by the laws of Aegrothond and the following code for their own safety. I. Only persons of age may work the crafting spaces. II. Please refrain from touching projects, tools, or stations you do not understand or own. III. Craftsmen working with blades or intense heat should be given a three meter clearance. Save few designated teachers, there are no ranks, and all are to be treated fairly. In event of dispute, students are to see to their teacher and then the Guildmaster. Benefits of membership in the Institute involve the ability to use the main forge and accompanying, public utilities such as the quenching basins, extra hearths, bloomeries and certain tools, not to mention supplies. For resident craftsmen who hold citizenship in Aegrothond, there are options of personal workspaces for sensitive projects and storage. To attain membership for lessons or seek commission-based work, one need only contact the forge master by courier. A series of contact forms, marked with the banner of the guild, would be visible along the roads before Aegrothond, additional flyers submitted to the city of Tahu’lareh and before the offices of Jorvin Starbreaker. A few copies would be salvageable before the steps of the Cloud Temple.
  11. wan

    The Passing of a Father

    News had travelled unto Vira’ker’s northern neighbors. The halls of Aegrothond are solemn for a time, respectful in the wake of this loss. At nightfall, a lone gondola was made visible in the sea which unites the two lands – a lonely vessel, to be consumed by fire as its memorial pyre burnt it crisp, and its lantern sunk to the depths of this southern sea.
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