Wand

picking him up with moths and flying him into the distance

Vir cradled a patched up red hat in his clasp. It was too small for him, but just the perfect size for a gnome. His eyes traced the magegold which lined the rim of the hat. The elf had kept it empty all this time. "Have you seen a gnome, just this high, goes by Bimble? I have something of his." Similar words would be spoken as he travelled, often walking place to place. A gnome was far more distinct than he, short but with a bright red hat. Surely he would find him eventually. It would take some fifty years for such hopes to truly begin to wane, and long until the day the Elf would eventually die to truly forget the gnome.

Fëanor had been in the midst of a meeting when the news arrived. Sulcelia did not need to speak, but he knew that pain. He had seen it in the faces of his family before, and saw the /Fang/ gripped taut in her unsteady hand. He knew in his heart what this meant. So he wrapped Sulcelia in his arms and held her against the world, a bulwark. It was difficult to be that strong, for it meant there was no one but silence to hold you in your hour. So he held her until her world went quiet. It would be hours, days before the fox delivered its message. - It was always in an unkindness by his father's doing, that he was introduced to his sisters. Sonna especially, the red-haired and green-eyed daughter of the woods. Her hair was wildfire, and the hair red, like a fox's he did note. Sonna had been kind, but nervous, haunted by the shadow cast upon her by others. The world expected everything from her, and yet her face was often in pain, anxious for the expectations. The village was young then, alongside the coast of Aegrothond, where the Elves dwelt i n unsteady harmony. With time she would become one of the Triumvirate, and upon her neck would lay one of those fabled Jewels of Irrinor. Where Fëanor was as the sky and the light casting rays and shade, his sister Idril was like the sea, and his sister Sonna like the land. He cherished those differences in his heart, and wondered what it would have been like, had he taken those final steps, and become of the green like they. He was a young and foolish prince then, but he spared a kindness for his sister, where the rest of their family could not. So he crafted those matching necklaces, so that Sonna and he would always be together, and she would always bear a semblance of that royal dignity she ought have been due. The greatest gift he had ever given was a pair of foxes, an older red fox, and a paler arctic fox cub. The elf had no comprehension just why he brought them home, but he must have been thinking of his sister. He gifted them to her in the wood with a sunlit smile, their faces warm in the mid-day. He would never know that those foxes helped her in her attunement vision, nor would he. - With the dissolution of Elvenesse, the council beneath him, the separation of the Vale into what would become Nevaehlen and again other successors through the years, he would meet his sister again in Apotheosis, and again in the latter years of Aevos, under a pseudonym. Again, and again arrived the pain of separation, and yet he had to marvel at his sister's family, its many branches. He would know them by their fox-red hair, the green and grey of their eyes... for which, when Sonna asked, he never had an answer why her eyes differed. - His shoulders, broad to carry those burdens, had recently been lifted of grief by a god. Now, it felt as though a new wave was reaching the shores of his temperament and resolve, yet as rage and sorrow did rise, he remembered the younger fox in his arms, the Templar and the many living who would need him still. "Strong the heart that burns, terrible its weight of love.. She was fire and land, the breadth which spaneth 'tween sky and sea-" It had taken him too long to realize. Sonna was the land, the shore and the horizon between the sky and the sea, between him and Idril. Of course her eyes were green; they could only be silver-grey like ash and death. - Fëanor cradled the letter in his hand. The brightest lights oft cast the deepest shadows. "Someday together, we'll shine."

Vir thinks back to a conversation regarding weaponry at the aptly named Pala-keep, writing off a letter as he travels between allied lands. The Sorvian newts do their best, delivering the letter and marking for postage to be sent to Kurai-Kunai.

Thank you ibraheem, I love habibi-posting from you. Safe and happy Ramadan to you, really puts a smile on the face.

A cleric who travelled through Azuras found herself arriving unto the missive on her latest visit through the Elven Princedom. Ill-fitted to hosts of Elves, but well-suited to hosts of Light, her thumb brushed across the signature. She composes a letter, which is left and mailed to them. The following is not seen by the public. @sarahbarah Addressed to the Sunlit Covenant, I shall introduce myself as one of Tahariae's. Your words remind me of the old vows I have taken. Upon the next availability, I would like to meet you, and offer what history I can, as to illuminate what undoubtedly shall be expected of those to come. Signed, Eris Storne, Cleric of the Dedicants of Tahariae, Axios through Atlas

Hi, it's my birthday What's your best pun?

Almost as epic as you for building it! It's been a treasure to see the progress overtime, incredible build

"Nenar!" An old, familiar voice calls through an empty grotto, seeking a friend. She was always so hard to find, yet always where she was expected among the aspen trees. Instead, he finds a letter, and he remembers. 🙒 Once in an age of Bronze, in Caras Eldar, stood a young Praetor across from his lieutenants. In the twilight years of the Dominion of Malin under the leadership of Mortal Queen Renn, this commander had been Fëanor Sylvaeri, and one of his lieutenants had been Nenar. If he was young, then she was barely a sprout, but she had in her good roots, firm beliefs. She would not leave behind those with which she had been charged to protect, and neither would he. "Nenar! Come with me. Join me there." "If you say so, sir." When Nenar asked him why alongside the others, he stated that he saw promise. Her blank eyes found his own. Here stood one entrenched with a strong sense of duty, and he would not throw her to the wolves. He knew if he did not persuade her, she might just allow them to gnaw her down to the bone, such was her steadfast soul. 🙒 A century and a half passed, and so did the ages of Aegrothond. Once stood the Vale of Nevaehlen, and a wicked thing sprouted from the woods. A hunt had gone so terribly wrong, and Nenar threw herself into the maw of a great wicked tree to save her sister. Forever after, her eyes were stained red, and when he looked upon them, Fëanor saw what he had wrought. Once Almaris fell, he was surprised to find her rushing forth with a small sapling in her arms. "Nenar!" "Your daughter-" The seed of a Mother Tree, grown and then ungrown, laid between their hands. He had not 'til then thought of the tree as such, and was surprised to hear the words from Nenar's mouth. Truly, Nenar was one to remember the forgotten, to make sure none were left behind. Once the roots of something steadfast had begun to bloom, and she too would be a great tree in time. 🙒 It was on that blasted island, the drake bearing down upon them. They could feel their doom draw near, when a familiar vessel spun back around and into view. It would take him a while, but he later learned it was Nenar amongst many that pushed for them to turn around, to not leave them there to die. "Nenar!" He knew that look in her eye, indignant and steadfast to the last... and watched the relief pass over her face. Rare was it she was ever known to yell, to argue, but the war of Apotheosis was prepared to change them all, and it was far from over. A decade or two passed, and he was not surprised her rage carried over into the next age. 🙒 Now, Fëanor sat beneath the aspens which remained, and freed the letter from his grip. He whispered to the trees, for a secret he learned long ago gave him the confidence that his words were shared among the wind, the leaves, and every scuttling beast and chirping thing in the grotto. He would never know if that last part bore him in mind, if at all, but- "You were one of the best soldiers I ever had, Nenar. For you, I will try."

This gave me Atlas flashbacks to when the Recording status got banned from raids for a little while for situations like this, as well as setting the precedent for a few prior maps to ban spectators in general (which is silly, since players don't really have a problem with people watching rp or pvp, especially since it's unlikely someone from the same side is going to use said status to scout or whatever) Also, good catch, this looks like a CCTV footage angle lmao