Demonica

T H E S Y L V A N C O U R T S Issued by Princess Carnissëa Ílumrin, with Lady Nefeli Cerusil 7th of The Deep Cold, 281 of the Second Age. INDOREII’OEM (ᴘʀᴇᴀᴍʙʟᴇ) To govern without humility is to erode the very foundation laid forth by the High Prince. Caras Siol does not belong to the Lauriran, it is the Lauriran who are sworn to her people, and thus, let not the Lauriran of Caras Siol be measured by the magnitude of their estates or wealth, but the breadth of their prudence and guardianship, their nobility. Lauriran are to shepherd cultural refinement, to rouse innovation, and traverse the gap of Noble and Low. They are entrusted with the care of land, kinship, and traditional preservation. They are vessels of strength, and pillars that sustain the significance of Caras Siol and her denizens. INDORII’NIUT (ᴅᴇꜰɪɴɪᴛɪᴏɴꜱ) ❖ Laurir, Noble ❖ Lauriran, Nobles ❖ elLaurir Talonnii, The Noble Houses ❖ elLeyuame Heial, The Sylvan Court “Nobility is recorded as a mark borne through years of service rendered to land and sovereign, to custom, history, and the keeping of tradition. It is worn as an insignia of labour and obligation, set down by those who have given more than they have taken. Such standing was never meant as a means to stand above others, but rather, arose from duty owed to the people and the lands that sustained them. Many have taken the style of aristocracy, buttressed by wealth and manors, yet few have left behind a ledger of deeds undertaken for the realm rather than the self. Titles endure in abundance, true reckonings remain scarce. From this understanding, were the Sylvan Accords first committed to parchment, to introduce nobility anew.” — Carnissëa Ílumrin, on Elven Nobility · ─ · · ✶ · ─ · · · ─ · · ✶ · ─ · · INDORII’HAEL (ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇꜱ) oem (I). elLauriran Talonnii A noble house is a lineage officially recognized by the Ílumrin crown, entrusted with land and charged with the guardianship of its domains throughout Cara Siol. Such houses hold dominion within the territories of Cauróst, bearing the authority to petition the creation of laws, to arbitrate disputes, and to speak for the Caurosi citizens before the High Council. From this charge, follows the expectation of humility. The Lauriran are to know the worth of their name, yet remain mindful of the charity and restraint so often lost to authority. The citizens of the Princedom are to be regarded as kin, held in esteem, and treated with devoted regard despite their titles or lack thereof. In turn, the people are bound to hold their nobility in due respect and to appeal to the High Prince, in instances of unwarranted injustice. Practices of violence or cruelty, lacking cause or justice, shall be judged by the appropriate ruling , with severity and may even result in the stripping of noble standing. Cordial conduct is expected between citizens and Lauriran alike. Before the pursuit of nobility, those of steeled heart must fulfill the following criteria: ɪ. ᴘᴏꜱꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍɪɴɪᴍᴜᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪᴠᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄɪᴛɪᴢᴇɴꜱʜɪᴘ. ɪɪ. ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ. ɪɪɪ. ᴏʙʟɪɢᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴜᴘʜᴏʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴏᴛᴇ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴀʟ ᴛᴇɴᴇᴛꜱ, ᴠᴀʟᴜᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴜꜱᴛᴏᴍꜱ. ɪᴠ. ʀᴇǫᴜɪʀᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴀɴɪᴍᴏᴜꜱ ᴇɴᴅᴏʀꜱᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ʜɪɢʜ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴄɪʟ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴇʟɪɢɪʙʟᴇ. niut (II). Duties Lords and Ladies of the most distinguished houses are chosen to sit within elLeyuame Heial, known also among the common tongue as the Sylvan Courts. These seats gather at the close of each month to advise and petition to the High Prince. From their deliberations flow matters of market, law, housing, and other affairs that shape the living order of Cauróst. Citizens are permitted, and oft encouraged, to bring forward commendation or complaint regarding the Lauriran directly before the High Prince. Though all members of the Sylvan Courts are appointed by His Highness and His High Council, the voice of the people is said to guide each selection. A Laurir thus named may accept the charge or refuse it by right of their station. The Saneyir of the Sylvan Courts is appointed under the authority of the High Prince and serves as keeper of the people’s voices. Their office remains open to the citizens of Cauróst, who may bring forth grievances and petitions at all times, rather than burdening matters of less importance to the High Prince. These concerns are gathered and carried into the monthly council, where the Saneyir ensures that no matter of weight is lost to silence. An election is held at the appointment of the High Prince and his council, wherein three Lauriran, regardless of standing within their houses, may be named as candidates to preside over the Sylvan Courts. The citizens are then called upon to inscribe the names of three Lauriran they deem fit to serve as their voice, chosen only from the list of running candidates. These writings are gathered and accounted for under the oversight of the High Prince. From this, the High Prince, or his council, confirms the appointment of those deemed most fit to serve. hael (III). Ownership and Rights All lands held by a Noble house may be forfeit upon the committing of grave offenses, from theft to acts of coercion or in the rare cases, murder, should such judgement be affirmed by His Highness, the High Prince, and his respective kin. The Lauriran are bound to preserve their granted domains in good order, free of neglect and injustice. Within their holdings, Noble houses retain authority over conduct and governance. Trespass, damage, or impropriety upon Lauriran lands is held in ill regard and may be met with sanction or summons before the High Prince. Within their lands, the word of a Lord or Lady is to be respected, so long as it is in accordance with The Ivory Edict. All laws of Caras Siol extend to its vassals, who may not raise laws of their own beyond matters of internal currency, though stewards may be appointed to oversee daily affairs, martial and legal authority remains with the Crown. elLaurir Talonnii are encouraged to host regular gatherings and entertainments upon their estates. It is customary for wards of lesser birth to be taken under their care, both as education and stewardship, their conduct reflecting upon the house that raised them. In turn, such wards may bring activity and standing to their patron’s name, forming ties between ranks. The privileges of Laurirans vary by station, some houses of Nobility distinguished more vehemently than others. A typical Laurir has but a quartet of privileges that mustn’t be misused or ill-treated; ❖ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴜᴅɪᴇɴᴄᴇ Lauriran possess the right to private audience with the High Prince and High Council, directly and without public intermediation as an opportunity to voice their woes, concerns, or social proposals. ❖ ᴀᴅᴠɪsᴏʀʏ ᴘʀɪᴠɪʟᴇɢᴇs Lauriran may, at the will of the High Prince or High Council, be summoned to the courts of the Ivory Crown as consultants on matters of politics, law, and so on. ❖ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ʀᴇᴛɪɴᴜᴇ Lauriran may request a personal escort or guard of the Caurósian military for the preservation of any lands or protection of persons, with authorization from the Annilir. ❖ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴏғ ᴅᴇꜰᴇɴꜱᴇ Lauriran may, in reasonable means, preserve themselves in the face of violence and vitriol, levying minor punishments such as lashings and temporary internment. vailu (IV). Inheritance When a noble house arises, its lands and holdings pass to a single heir, chosen by the ruling patriarch or matriarch. The continuity of blood is to be preserved, and it is customary for noble lines to contract marriages within their own standing, avoiding lesser unions to safeguard the integrity of their lineage. The dignity of a house rests upon the conduct of its kin, and heirs are therefore raised and trained with strict discipline, from a young age so that error and disgrace may be avoided. A noble family may petition an audience with the high council, and therefore, the High Prince to contest the leadership of its own lineage, should cause be deemed sufficient. Where an heir proves unfit in duty or decorum, if such claims are found sound, intervention may follow. A patriarch or matriarch is expected to guide kin through times of strain without failure. Should they prove incapable, removal of their station is permitted under a public, or private, trial. kulin (V). Attire Nobility typically dress lavishly, adorned by many gems and bangles– nothing is considered too much or too little. Flowing dresses, bound by a bodice or enwreathed by beads amid a gilded chain. Many adorn armour of shimmering plate, or others languish in modest hues of faded greenery; the likeness of attire varies by family and is commended by the High Prince. Noble rank and duty are visually represented by exquisite laurels, meticulously and custom crafted by the Ivory Crown's artisans. These symbols denote both an individual's status and their specific role within the noble hierarchy. Jewelry and charms may be fashioned by citizens and nobles alike, however, circlets and crowns worn without right or title are subject to scrutiny, as imitation of royal likeness. Head-dress and adornments such as bands of cloth, headwears of steel, or others of that fashion, are deemed acceptable, so long as they do not bear likeness to crown or diadem. Those pieces would remain the sole province of the royal family. ❖ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɢᴄʀᴏᴡɴ For the High Prince ❖ ʙʀᴏɴᴢᴇ For the Royal Family ❖ ꜱɪʟᴠᴇʀ For the esteemed High Council ❖ ɢᴏʟᴅ For the Lauriran These fanciful laurels are scrupulously crafted to suit each wearer, varying in looks and gemstones in consideration of their labors to Cauróst. banih (VI). Address It is held as proper custom within Caras Siol that the Lauriran be addressed by the styles of Lord and Lady. Lesser forms of address, in the name of hubris, are taken as discourteous and as an affront to the High Prince, and are known to invite quiet scorn upon those who fail to employ them. ❖ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴠᴇʀʙᴀʟ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇss [My, your] Lady[ship], Lord[ship]. Depending on influence and regality, [Serene] Lady, Lord. “You have my attention.” nae ito kae suliian “You have my service.” nae ito kae tilruer “Of course, my [serene] Lord/Lady.” ti, nae’leh [leyu] Laurir ❖ ɢᴇsᴛᴜʀᴇs ᴏғ ʀᴇsᴘᴇᴄᴛ The lowering of the chin, bend of the torso or curtsying, Palm over the forehead, then offered outwards. · ─ · · ✶ · ─ · · Thus are the customs of the Princedom of Cauróst set forth under the authority of the High Prince, Galahad Ílumrin, that a new order be maintained within Caras Siol, and may it endure without fracture. Signed, Galahad Ílumrin High Prince of Cauróst, Prince of Malinor & Eldest Son of Húrin Ilumrin Carnissëa Ílumrin Princess of Cauróst, & Eldest Daughter of Rúmil Ilumrin

As a long time Naz player, I see no issue with this amendment. And if you do, it's probably because you're more attached to the magic itself than to the character you've made. Getting a second chance with dark magic doesn't make any sense narratively. The magic should feel dangerous to possess and maintain, especially when you're on your own. That's why the lore emphasizes covens and the infernal climb so heavily. There's no tension or gravity in RP if you know your friend is going to reconnect you later on Also, I've never seen Unwilling not roleplay conflict in good faith. Accusing them of doing this for an OOC ploy is silly and sounds like cope lol

oh whimsical people we are so back

Name: Rhianwen Affiliation: Numendil Relevant Titles or Aliases: None

Rhiänwen sat in silence. Confusion gnawed at the edge of her thoughts, quiet but unrelenting. Death had never meant much, not to her, it couldn’t. That was the curse of the barrowborn. But this was different. It wasn’t the dying that troubled her, but rather the absence. That she would never again hear his voice, never offer a greeting, never say hello. •────˖˖༻✶༺˖˖────• Her hand moved on instinct, reaching for the gift he had once placed in her care. She lit the stray candles scattered across her room, one by one, their flames flickering. Then she closed her eyes, and against every oath she had once made, against every warning given onto her, Rhiänwen attempted to reach across the veil she had sworn never to cross.

dont care where's my vape

The halls lay silent, except for the scurrying of mice and the quiet tread of knights on their rounds. Rhiänwen spent another sleepless night wandering Númendil’s palace. Rumours of her cousin’s disappearance had echoed through the city. She worried, despite the thought of her remaining in Petra always troubling her. Some called her a traitor, and Rhiänwen wondered if goodness alone could outweigh such a stain. Then, through the dim light, the Barrow-born girl glimpsed a figure; the Queen of Petra moving like a phantom through the shadows, oddly serene. Nóruiel would be found, safe and whole, she thought. By morning the palace would stir with joy, her family would see her again, and the image warmed her as she turned back to her chambers, worries quieting as sleep beckoned at last. Perhaps that would be her legacy. Not the decisions she carried, nor the oaths she swore, but the simple truth that she was good and loved.

The princess had traveled to New Valdev more times than she could count. She had been a ward there, under the Princess Zofiya. None had paid much attention to her, for she was a shadow of a girl, always listening to whispers that no one else could hear, her eyes lingering on empty spaces, and she liked it that way. She enjoyed the quiet. On the ride into the city, she sat silent, hands curled in her lap, wondering what new voices would greet her this time. Today would be no different, she told herself. But it was. It happened in the span of a breath. The marketplace, alive with the hum of traders and minstrels, erupted into a symphony of screams. The carriage she was in was now shattered and splintered around the square. Men, women, things, draped in twisted flesh and robes of unholy thread swarmed the streets, their stench a thing of rot and cruelty. At their head stood a man, or what had once been one. The Black Pontiff, who carried a deep and terrifying voice, and behind him loomed a headless knight clad in armor black as a starless sky. "The Black Church has come for you all. Kneel before it, or die." Whether anyone was truly going to surrender or not, made no difference. They had cut all who stood before them. The humans matched them in numbers but faltered in strength, in readiness. They had not been prepared for the slaughter. Among the invaders was an Oyashiman monk, his face veiled beneath a woven basket. He moved like a whisper, fluid, almost gentle, yet still he was swift and merciless in his actions. And there was the behemoth. Brash, thunderous, a force of raw destruction. Where he struck, the ground crumbled. He did not fight to kill, only to break, to crush, to bend the world to his will. And none could stop them. Fear gripped Rhiänwen. It coiled tight around her ribs, pressing into her bones, whispering in her ear. No. No, this isn’t real. Her mind had conjured nightmares before, and had filled her ears with voices that were not there. This was only another illusion. It had to be. Yet the world did not vanish. It did not warp or twist away into nothing. She had not seen the thing that took her down, not until her body hit the stone. A creature of flesh and filth pinned her to the wall, her arm shattered beneath its grip, her foot twisted beneath her weight. She screamed, but the city was already drowning in wails of its own. Fight back, she told herself. Fight back. But the princess had never been made for fighting. That was Ilmariël’s strength, not hers. Ilmariël, her twin sister, who was fierce and unyielding, who could wield a blade as though it was an extension of her very soul. And what are you? Rhiänwen thought bitterly. Weak. Always weak. Blood continued to pool in the streets. Flesh was torn, blades met bone, and still, no one came for them. For her. No knights, no banners, no saviors. She was going to die. And worse, she was going to die pathetically. Then, from the madness, a shadow loomed over her. A thing among the horde. It bent down and smiled, its grin a thing of horrors. "What is your name, child?" She should not have answered. She should have tried to run. But what was left of her pride? Pathetic. Useless. She swallowed the bile in her throat and forced out the words. "Princess Rhiänwen," she whispered. "I don't want to die." "Die?" it rasped. "You will not die today, Princess." Its hands moved over her, and pain fled from her body as though it had never been there. Bones knit, skin mended. "Find your family. Cherish them while you can. And then, grow strong and seek me out again. For when you do, I will be seated on a throne of bones. And only then, will I kill you." Her foot twisted back into place. Her arm was whole again. "Run," it told her. And she did. She ran until the city’s screams were only echoes behind her. She ran as her tears burned trails down her cheeks. Then, her foot caught on something. A body. A knight, his lifeless fingers still curled around the hilt of his sword. Rhiänwen stopped. Her breath came ragged, her hands trembled, but still, she reached down. The steel was warm, slick with blood, heavier than she had imagined. She lifted it anyway. She could still hear Smilebone’s voice, curling in the depths of her mind. Grow strong. Seek me out. Then, I will kill you. No. Rhiänwen thought. I would be the one to kill you. One day, she would return, not as a girl begging for mercy, not as a frightened princess cowering in the dark. She would return as a blade sharpened by fire, as a storm that no agent of darkness could stand against. And when she did, she would carve through this unholy flock, and she would burn every last trace of them from the world. Even if it cost her everything. Even if it killed her. She would not be weak again.

im real asf next question said the witch to her rlly good friend & coconspirator galahad

The Witch had long since returned to her forests, basking in the moonlight, dangling fruits over her maw with her feet, cackling to no one. The encounter had already faded from her mind, but she knew it wouldn't be long before another foolish knight came blundering in, eager to bring her down and unwittingly remind her, as so many had tried before.

ARK! TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER ☾✧☽ The King of Nothing, Anorhil, has crossed the bounds I set in my forests. To the people across Aevos; You have one week to reclaim the admirable, brave, and terribly naive Brigit Colborn. But make no mistake, with each day that passes, a piece of her will wither, twisted into the form of the Wytch you so fear. Place your bids, for if you hesitate too long, you won’t be saving her at all—you’ll be hunting her.

Wytch Stirs In Your Woods [!] The contents of this post may be roleplayed as spread through word of mouth. [!] Cordelia stood at the foot of the mountain, near a river and jagged stones. The Prince of Númendil, Argelion, with his companions Dante and Relen, had sought to corner her, to bind her with their laws. But Cordelia was a woman untamed, bound only by her will, yet even then, she saw the fire that burned within the young prince’s eyes. He wanted to prove himself, to best the Witch who haunted the edges of their stories. And so, she humored him with a duel. “What made you turn evil?” The young Prince Argelion asked, his blade pressed close to her chest. “Evil?” The Witch paused, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before she cackled. She had never thought of herself as evil. What she had done—what she had become—had always been about survival. Did that make her evil? Or perhaps…“Perhaps it was your scorn,” She directed to the now gathered men. “The fear in your eyes before you even knew my name. Or the way you prayed for my ruin simply because I dared to live differently than you.” “Perhaps evil, to you, is nothing more than power you cannot hope to control.” The duel was swift, brutal in its simplicity. Argelion fought with the fire of youth and the strength of his convictions, enough to draw blood from the Witch and force her onto the defensive. But Cordelia had time on her side—years of cunning, experience, and a mastery of magic that no lone blade could ever hope to rival. His sword bit into her but it mattered little, for her will broke him where steel could not. The boy had something she did not: mercy. It was not weakness that caused him to fumble, but restraint. And in the end, it was the wicked woman who stood victorious over him once more. Soon, countless Knights, and even Tar-Anorhil, had gathered around them. A show of power and unity on their part. She and her familiar had decided to take their win and depart, but not without a final thorn being cast. And so the Witch raised her voice, letting it carry on the wind to the people of Númendil: ☾✧☽ the people of Númendil, hear me well. For years, I have dwelled in the shadows of your forests. The trees have been my sisters, the moon my mother. I harmed none who did not first seek to harm me. Yet you, in your blind arrogance, have chosen to disturb what you do not understand. You have hurled your javelins, drawn your arrows, and sharpened your swords—all for the sake of your so-called justice. You march beneath your banners, proclaiming righteousness, and yet you chase me, a woman alone, into my sanctuary as though I am a monster to subdue. If this is the justice you uphold, then allow me to reveal what mine truly entails. The forests are mine now. Each root, each branch, each shadow belongs to me. And when next you step beneath my trees, tread carefully, for there will be no mercy here. Be you noble or peasant, young or old, you will all meet the same end if you dare cross the boundaries I have drawn. Let this be a tell of what will come to pass. You wished to test my strength—come and see, and I will teach you why the dark is to be feared.

By then, Cordelia the Witch had long retreated into the forest, scrubbing defeat from her skin with moss and soil. She cast her gaze up to the pale moon, her ever-silent companion; "To compare me to those pitiful, rodent warlocks. What a shame." She muttered, turning her attention to a lone fox that lingered nearby, as if it could understand her. "For all their flaws, at least the humans stand united. They’re not blinded by their own hubris. Let Villorik burn them all, I say. I'll deal with what's left of him afterwards."

The Witch retreated to the nearby forests. Her allies and mentors had been hunted down, one by one. "O' how far the wicked have fallen." she muttered.

@Unwillinglymy twin fr 🤞cannot imagine this place without you and your characters @Nectoristwill forever appreciate that we share a love for reading (fast food menus) and our twitter screenshots 🫶 @world@Holylandgreat convos and ideas come with you two naturally, always fond of it @milkyi@clonkymy sisters in fierceness @Milenkhov@sam33497@Orlanthwho woulda thought... 💯🤝 🤞 seven flags california