Chase

Yargh, where be the cards

The militant Prince of yore, Evar'tir Oranor, could not help but revel at the proclamation on his return ride home. Something about the headache that pulsated at his temples was all too familiar; the drawl of diplomacy was not yet lost on the man.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jihad

Tilruir'tir never fancied himself a national. Patriotism was thrust upon him from a young age, and he had grown to resent the very idea of it in his middling years. Now, on the cusp of a new Elven age, he could not help but enthrall himself at the shortcomings of the enemy. Things would be different. Things would be better. That alone brought him solace.

Born to a soldier, raised to be a soldier, life lived as a solider; Tilruir'tir had endured the most reprehensible conditions during his servitude-- many of which had been alongside the Prince of Gladewynn. They were compatriots from a young age, and he considered himself quite fond of the comradery. The bond forged in the harshest of marching conditions-- sleet, hail, enemy assault-- proved insurmountable in the face of adversity. - With each advance, deflect, and approach, the duelists rang true throughout the throne room, and in Tilruir'tir's grasp was his brother's necklace. The trick was cruel. Possession, enacted by some Numendain child whom could have not possibly known better. His thumb ran over the pearls of the apparel with growing unease. Tilruir'tir considered himself privy to the outcome of the duel; victory was assured. Or so it was supposed to be. "Why did he do that?" In his heart of hearts, he could only assume the answer to be something adjacent to pride, as the Alderfolk were immense in their status. But the more he thought of the question asked, the more he failed to provide a true answer. It would certainly keep him up at night.

Tilruir'tir, no longer of Joma could do little to restrain the flood of emotion that overwhelmed him as Jack had passed in his arms. He was kin, through and through; from hours spent on watch in Luxem's Keep, to the escapades upon the Queen Dawn's Revenge throughout the years, now to Apotheosis and it's cruel machinations. He had set the young elf on the straight and narrow when direction was all he desperately sought. He had mentored him throughout the Inferic wars. He was instrumental to the Order; pivotal especially to Tilruir'tir. Now, with ordainment so unceremoniously wrought from Janus' agents, casting Jack to the wretched claws of time to draw his last, he found himself lost again.

im glad that this eventline is over so that squak can have more time for scp, just as xan intended

Evar'tir Oranor, whom had served in the coalition wars as a soldier under the Dominion of Malin, read the chronicle with great interest over his morning coffee and cigar. "A most fascinating report! If only the elves had historians of this calibre." He lamented to no one in particular. "Perhaps then we could avoid the troubles we have already endured."

Evar'tir Oranor, a Prince of yore regards the missive with a raised brow, running a rag over a waraxe before it was laid into a crate in preparations for the inevitable exodus from the realm.