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Jackson Porter b. 323 ES | d. 372 ES The Rimeveld Jackson was undisputedly tired, for the last few years barely a day went by when he wasn’t battling the elements of the Rimeveld, whether it was the cold sweeping winds, that felt as if pure ice had settled beneath your skin, or the beasts that prowl the deep cold tundra, and yet here he was still enduring the seemingly tortured existence, that had been so gratefully bestowed upon him, his sharp blue eyes stared out into the snow white landscape the woods that surround him hiding the majority of anything in its dark clutches, however with his traps painfully empty, the old Lieutenant of Haense simply marches upward back to his basecamp atop a painfully steep incline, and opts to rest for the evening. However as the saying goes there is no rest for the wicked, the man sits, toes pointing toward an orange hue the flames licking at his stabbatons, the stars above seem to watch the ever Resolute Jackson Porter, his trusty blade made for him by the Ever present father figure in his life Ser Zoddric Calliban, rests by his side sheathed, it's only recent glory was slaying a bear or two, He hums as he watches the sky darken over head, and from his glacial isolation Jackson would wait, the last words of the man he had done so much to save Friedrich barclay Rattling from within his conscious tomb, a great sadness falling over him once again, “I miss my home” He would utter glumly as a fall of light snow would begin to fall from the sky to which the only answer Jackson had was to throw his large bear cloak over his chest, taking a deep sigh he wasn’t entirely sure this could be any worse. As the night began to fall in atop the snow tipped peak of Jackson’s eternal concealment he hears the soft lull of the wind and the occasional howl of the wolves that roam the deep woods below and yet he slumbers reasonably sound, his dreams entirely revolving around his fiance, and how he had slipped away, grabbing only his essentials before making his move into the Rimeveld, knowing he hadn’t got long he broke away from Haense with haste, desperate to not answer any further awkward questions and perhaps be forced into more uncomfortable situations as the one that had forced his hand had been. Within two weeks he had found himself in his now aforementioned camp, and years had passed since his abrupt departure, but yet there was not a day he did not think of her, with that notion in his mind it stuck like a brand to naked flesh, the man could never forget, he jolts up suddenly. Jackson would awake to the sound of all hell fire erupting around him, staring out into the crisp white landscape still mostly veiled by the velvet darkness of night, he would see what appeared to be torches, and the booming echoes of combat harrowing up the mountain side he eyes the scene though due to the distance and the darkness he could only make out in a squint, grabbing his blade he stamps out the remnants of his fire crushing the embers beneath his boot, before moving alongside the outskirt of his mountain abode, trekking down slowly but carefully as to not reveal himself, his greatest fear was that his failure had not been forgotten and now the consequences came for him, so with that thought placed firmly he would set forth down the slope. As he approaches the rather interesting scene, he would see around fifteen HRA men, sieging a defended position against the troll menace, though it seemed they had come under heavy fire and in fact taking a severe beating, Jackson ponders a moment holding the sheathed claymore as he watches the onslaught continue for a few moments, before taking a deep breath allowing the cool mist like Rimeveld air pass from his lungs, he waits for a prime moment to begin his plan, watching the lord marshal bellow his orders to those gathered as they continued to struggle against the heavily armed troll position. After the momentary silence, Jackson would stand taking a mighty deep breath raising a Haeseni War Horn to his mouth, a gift from Friedrich Barclay months before he had left, and blowing hard to create a deep rumbling sound of war, from the mountainside the natural echo of the sheltered cave only amplifying the sound into a vicious roar, the whole field would hear as Jackson lept from his position drawing the Claymore Corvus Albus and charging towards the trolls whom had managed to corner the Lord marshal of Haense, Jackson Crashed into their lines swinging his blade with every ounce of Ferocity the old Lieutenant had, slashing across limbs the man fought bravely his only task to make his way to the Lord marshal, his oldest friend. Crashing through the line, he faced off amongst the infinitely more powerful troll group the only thing standing between the lord marshal and certain death. As the dance of death intensifies, the Resolute would be faced with a deadly ultimatum he found himself picked up by a troll, tightly in its grip, its war hammer cocked back ready to near enough wipe him from the lands of Almaris, his only solace was his blade was still free, so as the beast moved to slam him with the force of 10 men, Jackson rammed his blade downward meeting the trolls shoulder, slipping between the bones and deep into the chest cavity, eventually meeting its mark, at the beating heart of the enraged being, the victory was short lived however, as the piercing blow felt from the back end of the hammer was felt rupturing through his chest and armour, deep into his organs, Jackson’s eyes fell wide as he slipped from the trolls grip, his blood like so many times before staining the cold snow below him, though it seemed that this time, was the last time, the damage irreparable. Jackson would lay there, coughing weakly as his life force drains from him, the warm crimson ichor snaking rivers and trenches into the cold snow below, his eyes setting upon the sky above him as the dark velvet night had slowly transpired into dawn, the bright golden hue shone over the highland peaks however the valley in which they found themselves in became illuminated, the trolls around lay dead the HRA stood Unbroken in the dawn of the light the brotherhood having survived another costly ordeal, and yet Jackson found himself lying there, unable to express the joy the others had found, instead he knew that within a few moments his soul would leave his mortal coil, and his faith in Godan would be tested, the only solace was that of the sun, its warm light seemed to embrace Jackson’s body for the first time in years, he was not cold and it was bliss. A unison of howls emerged front the untamed forests of the Rimeveld, the day was won, the true cost no one would know but as Jackson found his own peace Friedrich would approach, Jackson would stare at him before beckoning him closer whispering into his ear, the exact details are unknown though it is told that he recited his Othaman’s oath, and gave Friedrich his final will and testament. The man's slow death was painful yet a slight relief of the burden of his rather interesting existence, he closed his eyes for his final time, as his soul dispersed from his body, leaving the mortal essence left, and thus ended Jackson’s final battle. His final debt to the Lord marshal repaid, in blood, Jackson’s name respectfully restored into the kind thoughts in people's minds, from the eighteen year old boy who had wandered into Haense to escape his boring life, to the twenty year old serving upon the front lines of the Inferi war, to the thirty year old who had spent his time protecting kings, and pontiffs and now the fifty year old, who had died where he belonged, alongside his brothers in arms, despite rescinding his oath he had always been a true Haeseni and now laid to rest in Haense land. Memoriae At a young age it was clear to Jackson that he was destined to be a little more than the oversized farm boy abused by his parents, and from his tragic beginning he transformed into someone of notability and stature, the man practised his craft, and in his time saw two kings, two pontiffs and two Lord marshals, serving each in his own distinction, He had loved, he had lost but most importantly he had found his true self, Jackson Porter goes down into Memory, though with any luck his legacy survives. Upon the heated battle field of the inferi war, Jackson Found himself side by side by the first Lord Marshal of Haeseni Ruska, Lord Manfred Barclay, Jackson had fought bravely and as per usual the HRA had won the day, but as a brutally heated clash came to fruition Jackson Saw a spear heading straight for the Honorable lord, and instinctively threw himself into harm's way to protect the man, which in its own right had saved him, before dragging him back before the medics to be helped, he returned moments later to engage once again upon the field. This act earned him two medals, One being the Queens cross gifted to him by the Queen, Isabel Barbonov, a woman who unfortunately for Jackson only spelled trouble for his future, and also the Infernal scourge medal, presented to all those whom had put their lives on the line to hold back the demonic tides. As Jackson Progressed through his time with the HRA there came a moment after his oath hunt in which he had to make the choice of what regiment he was destined to join, in the end he picked the Rangers guild led by none other then Ozark Mondblume, whom quickly took Jackson under his wing as he realised his own potential, for the first time in his Life Jackson felt as if he belonged a smile would emerge and stay for most of the man's youth, a vibrant happy smile, one of a completed person. He rose to infamy within the Guild of Bounty hunters which resided outside of haense, Jackson leading the group on many assaults against the seemingly never ending enemy, here he met his lifelong friend Fyodor Erhdhart although they didn’t always see eye to eye, the care these two placed within one another was astounding, as when the slum dwellers looked to Jackson to lead them for a final assault against those who wished to do them harm, Jackson had no choice but to answer the call, the man knowing full well he was their last and only hope, he led the group of unarmed untrained slum dwellers against a well equipped and well provisioned stack of men and by the luck of Godan above Jackson and his men, won the day, at the expense of many, though nonetheless a victory was a victory. His new found confidence saw him skyrocket within the HRA as he continuously showed his value in trainings and leading, in fact it became apparent that the men that surrounded him had grown a fond respect for him, his brothers in arms, some notable ones were Friedrich Barclay, Ellisar Aevaris, Fionn Castaway and of course William Carolus, the bond between these men emanating to this very day, this showed to his most profound achievement, Becoming a Lieutenant within the HRA, Jackson was working side by side the Lord marshal as his second in command. Jackson earned himself a holy medal, in quite the extraordinary fashion, as the City of Haense welcomed the newly elected Pontiff within her walls, they had come to realise this pontiff was not so well liked throughout the lands of Almaris, in fact so much so that the HRA was on a full standby for riots and assassins, and after returning from an intensive situation the HRA were armed with batons and riot gear by the current lord marshal Manfred Barclay, and took up positions over the church to defend from all manners of evils, Jackson found himself as he always did on roof duty, which up until this point had been quite the boring set up, however when Jackson rounded the corner to find an assassin attempting to murder the pontiff from the window his reactions kicked in, Jackson went toe to toe with the man, fighting with him until he had managed to subdue him with a small help from none other then the young Stefan Vyronov, and act that still had impressed the middle aged man to the day he passed. He was awarded a medal for his efforts from the High pontiff himself, though notably a few years later when a new one was elected Jackson handed the medal back to the High pontiff saying that he did not feel like he had earned the right to wear such a thing as things about the man who had given him the medal began to surface. Jackson was offered a knighthood for his service to Haense and Almaris, something he had longed for, and yet in the end was unable to claim, he had always felt a desperate urge to make a name for himself and to bring the wreckage that was the Porter name up into value and legacy, perhaps he did manage it in his own way though only time will tell, either way, he passed through his trials with relative ease, taking on a dire boar for Norland, even a wyvern for the Druids and still continued in his duties, to the Koeng and to Godan he found himself at his last trial before the Late Isabel Barbanov at this time the queen mother as well as Princess Juliya found themselves placed seconds from death as a suicide bomber entered Haense, within an instant Jackson had flung himself before the royalty of haense taking much of the blast to his back, littering his flesh with yet more scars, his blood stained into the Crow in the center of the city forever, for such a deed he was awarded a free pass on his trials, deeming him to be a man worthy of Knighthood. Yet just a few days before his oathing, He pulled out, advised by the Koeng himself to do so, as to provide himself once more to service in Haense, though that service can never be spoken off, and though he will never utter the words again one could likely decipher that what the Koeng had Asked Jackson Porter to do was at the utmost importance.

"H-He.. We were together, but your haelun disowned him for it.. And then I ended it so she wouldn't kill him." "He killed himself, Veren." Everything came to a halting stop as those words left her cousin's lips, who might've even been her sister-in-law one day. Her feet refused to move, and she was unable to open her mouth as golden eyes gaped at the table ahead of her. The Asul'onn House that usually felt warm and inviting instantly grew cold and dark. Ringing assaulted Verendus' ears and a screen flew over her eyes; she was barely able to feel the arms that wrapped around her, and the words next spoken to her. "I-I'm so sorry, Veren.." Everything was crashing around her as it started to sink in, memories of her childhood with her older brother filling her mind's eye. The scarf he had given her weighed heavily around her waist now, and the lunarite knuckles in her pack seemed to be searing through the fabric into her back; she was now painfully aware of everything she currently carried that he had given her, all the items and lessons. She remembered crushing bugs with him outside the Haense palace, learning how to steal right out of peoples' pockets. When she wasn't with her parents, she was with Amthalion, happily following him around and hanging on him every chance she could. Where did it all go wrong? "Where is he." The half-elf finally spoke up. It couldn't be true, she would have to see for her own eyes. Maybe this is some trick, there's no way her older brother was dead. Not the smart, strong Amthalion that she knew. The one that was always protecting her and holding her hand. She was directed to the mantle, where atop lay an ornate urn, the name Amthalion scribed on the top. A shaky gasp escaped her now trembling lips. This was real. "He loved you very much." Then why did he leave me. Verendus ground her teeth to keep herself from saying the words out loud, her body beginning to violently shake as the anger set in. She was enraged; at her mother, at her brother, and at herself. Why did I leave? Why did I go off hunting for all those years? This is my fault. If I had stayed, if I had been here.. "Do.. Do you want some of the ashes?" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small corked bottle on a chain, something she had been saving to fill with the blood of her greatest hunt, whatever and whenever that may be. She wanted to be able to carry the pride of that kill with her always, but now she would much rather carry her brother. The woman silently handed the necklace to Revas, her mass of curls hiding her face. Her cousin filled the bottle and handed it back to Verendus, who promptly placed it around her neck. Her rough and scared hand took the bottle in her hold, looking it over with a faraway gaze. Big brother. The next events and words said went by in a blur. The half-elf was given a pair of knuckles, an odd feeling and haze oozing from them, and a pair of eyeballs floating in bath of salt water. Another pair of knuckles to go with the one's her brother had crafted for her as a child, and his own golden eyes; the same eyes she had. Staring into them was almost comforting, almost. "You can stay in his room.." She was slowly led to the bedroom that used to be her brother's and she was then left alone. I'm...alone. Her pack fell to the ground and Verendus soon followed, fists pounding against the ground and gut retching sobs escaping her chapped lips. She hadn't cried since she was a child, it had been at least two decades. Maybe that's why so many tears poured out of her, definitely years worth as the carpet underneath became soaked in them. She sobbed until her eyes were swollen shut, pounded the ground until her fists were red, and screamed until her voice gave out. And then there was nothing left of her. Verendus Verrana Elyra crawled into Amthalion Wick's old bed and soon passed out atop it, falling into an empty, dreamless sleep.

“I will love you, always and forever.” As one goes through their years, they grow attachments to the many people around them. People come and go, relationships do the same. The blonde hair and blue eyed, aged Brashton has done the same as every descendant before her- foster relationships, learn to love those relationships, and eventually watch some take their final breaths. Jorden had never claimed to live an easy life, it was something she always had to gain throughout the years. Fighting; through the war with the Inferi and the countless fights within her own life. Everyone has their own worries concerning the Brashton, though for the most part, she always puts others before her, a greater concern for theirs than hers.. As the years seem to go by like a few bats of an eye, so did the years of Jorden's life. Blink. A young girl- a runaway, scurrying the streets of Helena with not a claim to her name. Only to meet a red-headed soldier who would come to adopt her- two sons of his own. Blink. A young woman in her twenties, then engaged and preparing to have her first daughter. A lifetime of memories by then, those friends she met who turned into family- namely the woman who was soon to marry her father: the woman she would come to see as a mother. Blink. A woman now, fighting the war against the Inferi. Seeming to lose limbs like they were expendable, death as her partner in dance. Though, all of this would take its toll; beginning a fight against her own mental state, a fight that would coax her closer to her family. And closer to the person she would finally settle down with. Blink. Those blonde strands on her head began to turn several shades of silver. A tired, though always gentle smile planted over her scarred countenance. The birth of her first grandchild. And as far as this life had brought her, she was finally able to stand proud; proudly on her front porch that overlooked the quaint valleys of Veritas- surrounded by those loved ones who were left. "I'm not scared of death, only worried about those around me." What all true warriors strive for: finally, a peace. And everyday was about the same. wake up, give the wife a small peck before quietly making her way up the stairs to brew a morning cup of tea. With the cup in hand and her cane in the other, Jorden leaves the house for a small walk around the town, just to check in on all of the locals. Stopping first by Elvish Bakes to see what Anna had baked for the day, then by Alicjo's shop; checking to see if he finally finished that wood carving he had been perpetually working on. Through her limped gaite, aided by that cane she held, she made her way to the tavern then, sound of a light tapping cane echoing against the walls, before seating herself for small chat with Anduin and May. And after the hours of the morning sun fade, the Brashton eventually makes her way back to her home, taking the afternoon hours to read away. "When my times comes, don't worry, I'll always be around" This day, Jorden started it off as any other day, but deep down inside she knew. She knew that something was going to happen. The older woman makes her rounds around the town, having her daily conversations with everyone, making sure everyone was taken care of. Even then, in her old age, she still sought to care for those she loved. But, instead of heading inside for the day after the morning hours passed away, she sat on her front porch. Watching people come and go through the city, giving small waves and a wry smile to those who have noticed her. "You will always remember me, in your heart and in your mind" As the hours of the afternoon have slowly faded away, so did the color behind the woman's remaining eye- slowly growing pale as the midnight moon rose high into the night sky. Tucking away a red tatter within a small black tome, she gently rested her left hand overtop the book, the right atop of her left, taking one final inhale; escaping her lips then as she mutters out simply, "I will love you, always and forever". The midnight moonlight caught the woman's wedding ring, giving it a shine as if it were new once more. The aged Brashton who was once full of life, finally getting the long deserved rest. The warrior can sleep peacefully once more… and for all.

RETURNING TO THE WIND (If you meta any of this information I will take your kneecaps and then your liver.) An illustration Sohoro made of himself, long ago. ______________________________________________________________________________________________________ Sohoro Mochizuki, or, as many knew him, Solomon Takezo, would say that he had been two different people in his life. Firstly, a monster, living by the blade, mastering the hunt, and truly alone. Secondly, a man. Struggling to be so, but learning to overcome his madness and be human, more than he was. However, this would be untrue. Every day of his life Sohoro was a different person, learning through trial and error, but mostly error, to be better. It wasn’t his choice, not truly, to be the killer he used to be. Forced by circumstance, fear, and promises with good intent, and then bound by hate and fear again. While he may have escaped that forest in body, in mind it never truly left him. His mind and heart had been shattered in a way that wasn’t truly fixable, not completely. Faces would blur, intents and feelings would be unknowable, the eyes of those he had killed would flicker about, watching, ever watching, and in the dead of night they would curse his name, speaking of horrible fates that awaited him in death. Twenty eight times he evaded death by a cat’s whisker, two of those times were only because something, or someone, stopped his own hand. Guilt is a powerful thing. Change is impossible when you don't think you are capable of it, and of all his curses, above the bloodlust, above the hallucinations, it was this guilt, his shame, his sorrow for the lives he had taken that was the greatest burden on his shattered soul. Not a day passed that he didn't mourn them or wish to undo what he had done, but it was impossible to take back the past. It took him over fifty years to make peace with himself and truly overcome the aching, ever present depression, but this was not done alone. Sohoro Mochizuki should have died that night, when his father came after him with a firebrand for not being good enough. He should have died to every arrow, to every blade that sought his heart in that forest. He should have died to his grief when in a fury of rage he killed his first love, the only one of all the ones about him he was trying to protect. He should have died to the voices after a mistake he thought he made caused a mess for those he loved. He should have died to the duo of assassins who came after him and his grandfather, newly found. He should have died when the great ‘ker warlord decided Sohoro was a disappointment and tried not once, but twice to take him down. He should have died when one of his closest friends lured him in with a hug, and instead tried to tear out his throat. No. Sohoro died to another betrayal. The one person he couldn’t live without, his spine broken and only held together by a gift of one he had tried for decades to convince himself was his friend. He had trusted her, once more, after promising friends and family visits and sandwiches. He was led like a lamb to the slaughter, his last wishes ignored and scoffed at as he bled out on the ground. At very least, they allowed him the dignity of taking his own life, fulfilling his promise sixty years ago to his first love to let no hand take his life but his own. He drew the curved, serrated hunting dagger from its sheath at his back with a trembling hand. Words fell from his mouth just to pass the time, prolong the dark a little longer, he wasn’t thinking about what he was saying, no. The only thing he could think of was his family. His friends. There were so many who had accepted him. There were so many that had helped him come to terms with his own existence. That had given him a reason to live. They were the reason he was still here. They were the reason that he had had the strength to pick himself up and continue on, even after every knife, verbal or physical, was driven into his body. They were the reason he had learned all that he had, that he had come to teach, to help, to heal. What was the purpose of strength, if not to be used to lift others up? What was the point in knowing how to kill if not to defend those who could not defend themselves? What good was his life if he couldn’t make amends with the dead through the living, if he couldn’t help, if he couldn’t heal, be there, be good enough, what good was it all? What was his pain for, if not to let him understand how others felt, how it felt to be unloved, lost, hurt, confused, twisted, broken, and help them heal. He couldn’t put himself back together, but perhaps through lifting others up he would understand what it was to be whole. But now, now his time was up. No more second chances, no more escapes. So many had held him together, and in the last moments of his life as Sohoro drove the blade that had kept him alive since he was fifteen into his own chest, he whispered one, soundless, final apology as he split himself apart. “I wasn’t good enough.” “I’m sorry.” ______________________________________________________________________________________________________ He would imagine the Norlandic Tax-Men would be the first to find his last note. Annoyed by the odd lack in payment, they would likely begin to move out his things, and on the top-most floor of his home, open on the lectern, would be a book. Likely they would read it, and quickly deliver it to his daughter, Ancelie.

On the 12th of Harren's Folly Father Alfonso Altamirano was beheaded by the, to him, unknown and unfamiliar kidnappers of the Pontifix Maximus. As the weapon swung towards his neck he was praying, for forgiveness and mercy to be given to all the men in the room, and for justice to be delivered upon their arrival to Godani's realm. He also thought of how he could see his dear brother again in the Seven Skies, and found amusement in the irony of their similar deaths. He also thought about how his sons would be without a father and shed a tear for his favorite son, Leopold, but he also found solace in knowing he raised them to be faithful to Godani and that he could await them in the seven skies. His final words were, "I go to the Seven Skies on this day, Holy Father." After over two decades of service to the Church of Canon, Alfonso was dead at the swing of a weapon.

The sing-song voices of nature would seem to grow hush. To all those attuned to the Aspects, a tug would be felt deep within their very soul. Of loss, of pain, and sorrow.. yet clear within- peace and relief. A fellow Brother or Sister was now no more, and had passed into the Eternal Forest At first, there was darkness. Then, from the infinite, black expanse, a light of emerald shone. It pulled that disembodied spirit forward, into warmth and safety. The feet of the Elder Ame landed on solid ground, and she felt soft grass fill the space between her toes. Finally her eyes opened, and before the druidess, a familiar red-haired ame’ stood. But she was… She was on the battlefield before. It wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Then the realization hit her. “I…?” the ame’s scratchy voice sounded out, amongst the chorus of nature. She would tilt her head, looking to the Dragaar. The ame’ woman in front of her nodded gently at that, beginning to speak, her words almost a breath. “For the duties… I’m sorry. Sister Orison, you have… passed. You shall see Caribou, and Owl. You are.. part of the forest now.” “Oh.” Awaiti fell silent for the moment, her gaze lingering on Taynei’hiylun as her long life flashed before her eyes. She thought back on all her successes, and on all of her failures. Even now, they gnawed at her. “Did I do alright?” she asked, earnestly. Taynei’hiylun simply smiled, and nodded some at the question. “You did beautifully. For your people, for yourself,” she’d say, offering both of her hands out to the weary elder. “Many will cry for you. Many will be inspired by you. You did your absolute best.” Awaiti looked down at her outstretched hands, gingerly lifting her hands in order to take Taynei’s into her own, but before she could, she noticed something. Her arm was back. Her real arm- flesh and bone. At its sight, she recalled the battle in which she’d lost it, and with it, all the battles throughout her life. She had fought, until the very end. Against countless threats, and enemies to her people, and to the balance, but this time… she had lost. Now it was time to rest. Finally, time to rest. “I did my best. I failed a lot, but I did my best,” she’d say, her hands intertwined with Taynei’s own. “That is all we can do.” Behind Taynei’hiylu, a shimmering viridian portal opened, showing the diminutive ame’ all that the realm contained. Her lost friends, family. Her brothers and sisters. A place of rest, and peace. She saw Abelas, Arin, Hareven, and all those she cared about. “Where would you like to start?” the Dragaar asked, softly. “You have your eternity here now.” “Can I go see Hareven first? I’ve wanted to see him since this started… I want him to know we’re trying.” “You have his touch about you. I thought as such,” Taynei said through a tear stained smile “I’ll send you along to him with Owl. It may give him comfort as the coming trial grows closer.” Before Awaiti could respond, the Dragaar reached into the air, a familiar staff manifesting in her grasp. It was Awaiti’s staff. “Your daughter. The one named of my old friend. Would you like for her to be entitled with her mother’s memento?” Awaiti looked down at her old staff, her brows furrowing some in thought. She remembered what she left behind for Irrin. Her staff though… was meant for another. “Ne, ne. I left something for her… something important.” Her hands rose to lay gently atop her staff, the ame’ taking a deep breath. “Can you give this to Nivndil?” She’d say, barely above a whisper. “I… loved her.” “Love,” the Dragaar corrected her. “All those of the leaves and soil are still here for one another, in that world or in this one. And she loves you. And Irrin does as well. And more upon more. This changes nothing of love,” she’d say, reaching up to lay her hand gently against the side of her now unscarred face. “You are an example of our kin’s love.” The elder Mali leaned into Taynei’s touch, letting out a sigh of relief at her gentleness. Her amber gaze returned to the portal, fixed upon Hareven, and Owl. She smiled. “Thank you. I… I think I’m ready.” The Dragaar waved her hand toward the portal, the scene shifting to focus solely on Hareven and Owl. Standing, she took Awaiti’s hand, and led her into the portal.

Sir Edvard Amador HKML Fmr. Royal Treasurer of Hanseti-Ruska THE DEATH OF THE TAXMAN The radiant sun would rise, marking a new day in the bustling city of Karosgrad. Edvard Amador got up and approached the window in his house overlooking the Haeseni city. “Hmmmm,” the man muttered as he looked to the sky as the sun peeked out from behind the palace. “Did I do a good job looking after the family, father?” he’d call out, “Did I meet your expectations? Are vy proud of me?” The man would continue, starting to shout out in frustration. “I tried my very hardest to ensure my family would be supported.” the man confesses, letting out a single tear. “But in the end, what did it amount to. All the minas I amassed in Arcas are now gone, destroyed in a meteorshower that caused the city of New Reza to fall. The minas I’ve acquired do niet even amount close to what I had.” The man, now grayed, would pace out onto his balcony. “Were my decisions the right ones?” he says, now with tears coursing down his cheeks. “I spent most of my time accumulating wealth to ensure my family would have a comfortable life, but I never got to see them. Many events passed me by. The birth of Sosina, my niece, the death of my eldest brother Ruslan.” as he continued his rambling, he would walk further and further towards the ledge. “In the end all I desired was to retire and to be with my family. Yet fate can be cruel. Most of the precious minas I’ve worked to achieve are gone,” he’d yell angrily as he rubbed his hand against his head, tugging some hair in frustration. “What was the point of this life of mine? I did my best for my Kingdom and my family, yet I can’t have peace. I must have more, and more, and more minas. I can never stop, and when I am about to, it all comes crashing down. All that I have worked for has vanished,” Edvard would knock the flower pot on his balcony down in one swift blow filled with anger, causing it to crash against the streets below.. “After all this work, I just wished to be with my family. I’ve grown so old, so tired. I just wish to rest,” the man says as he struggles to climb over the balcony, taking a seat, with his feet dangling over the city. “I think it is time I take my well deserved rest... See you soon father, and my dear brother, Ruslan.” With the death of his two beloved brothers, father, other family members, and loss of the majority of his minas, Edvard took one last stand on top of the balcony ledge, looking up at the sky. “Krusae Zwy Kongzem!” the man would shout at the top of his lungs, for all to hear before jumping off of the balcony. The man plunged down for a short while before meeting his end with tears and a smile on his face. REQUIESCAT IN PACE Sir Edvard Amador HKML 1732 | 285 ES - 1807 | 356 ES “From Ashes we Rise”

[!] On the 11th of The Grand Harvest, 1806, Ademar Castelo died due to frail heart at the age of 71 [!] The sky was clear and the air was crisp; the sun had just made its way up over the horizon. In the forests of Providentia, birds were chirping, wind was whizzing and the water in the river was rippling. The body of a man clad in simple brown robes, floated along with the stream face down in the water. With a thud the lifeless man got caught by a rock and stopped in place. A letter would be on his person, tucked in the rustic fabric of his robes. The letter read as follows: Throughout my life I have seen and experienced many a thing. Some less pleasant than others. However, throughout all these occurrences, all the changes the society of man has gone through, I have always found my faith to persist. I have served God in many a way; from Grandmaster of a holy order, to Abbot of an ancient monastic order. In the darkest of times He served as a beacon of hope and light. In the lightest of times He served as the symbol and resemblance of all my good will. By virtue of this, I always remained his humble servant, proselytizing his word and teaching to the misled and faltering. God has made me go through various trials; both corporeal and mental. One of the most challenging trials was the crusade against the Inferi in the sands of Al-Faiz. Every man goes through trials in the pursuit of keeping one’s faith, and it is crucial to persist. The one to give in shall fall astray and find himself in darkness. However, one can always be guided back to the righteous path, if one is willing. The Church is facing difficult times, the faith of the masses is weaker than it used to be. Faith needs to be strengthened for the Church to prosper - when the Church prospers; so will humanity as a whole. As of late I own nothing but my robes and cross, which shall be returned to the Holy Mother Church and the Wigbrechtian order, upon my death. To my children I can only pass the wisdom I have acquired over the years. Thus, my last wish is a bit peculiar; I wish for the body of my deceased wife to be recovered. She was dug up out of her grave in Providence, and alas was disturbed in her eternal rest. I wish for her body to return to holy soil. I did not want to add this last part to my will, but alas, I feel like I must add a second and final wish; I wish for my body to not be dug up, I wish to rest in peace.

Eoghan would take one last look out onto the ocean, a warm summer's sunset lit the water with a orange gold tint, some would say it was rather beautiful, a lovely day to pass on to the next realm. With a final whistle, an elegant falcon would come to his arm "Hello girl" he’d say with a tearfully happy tone "I’m not gonna be around to send anymore messages ok?" he’d say the bird nuzzling into his hand "One last round okay?" he’d say in an uplifting tone He would send off the falcon with one last round of messages he’d write for the afternoon, so that everyone was notified. After a few minutes pass, the bird returns, nuzzling one last time into his hand. "For one last time my closest companion,” he’d then send the bird off one last time to stay at her new home. He would kiss one last goodbye to the realm of new, remembering the realm of old, where so many had passed before him "I’m coming home now," he’d say, remembering he’d be with them again soon. He’d await his love for when she finally crossed over to there, and they would be together once more. ((I've had this character since i started in LOTC several years ago, and i've had an absolute blast on him, met a vast majority of my best friends and my love on this character, so though this is very sad day, and many tears were shed, its time to finally let him go. I will be returning with a fresh new character in the couple days after this post, looking forward to making all new memories and friends on my new adventures)) ((Its over isn't it?, isn't it, isn't it over! For Eoghan it is, but his spirit lives on in those he knew and loved))

Her Last Feather PK of Marcella Avern-Barclay Born in 1688, Marcella Baruch was the daughter of Richard Baruch and an unnamed woman from Curon. Her father was a known necromancer in his past and the woman was unknown but to a select few. However, under the custody of her father, he aimed to improve upon his ways and took up an alchemist stand within the city of Sutica. When Marcella was just shy of one her father was arrested and executed for his past crimes, abandoning her in the basement of Richard’s shop. Her adoptive brother Hiren had found her some time later and brought her to her first mother, Serenity Avern, who took her in to raise her in her youth. While Serenity was not present most of her life, her sister Mayan was and would later adopt Marcella as her own. Marcella’s childhood was rather uneventful upon relocation to Carouldstadt of Renatus. While there many Averns took part in the clinic affairs as surgeons and practitioners. While there Marcella had begun to learn some basic medical skills however not proceed further than that. Some time later, the family returned to Sutica for the remainder of her childhood into her early adult years. While living there Marcella met the man that would later become her husband, Wilheim Barclay. The Averns did not approve of the Haenseman, but Marcella took this as her strike towards independence and began to spend more and more time in Haenseti-Ruska. This later proved to be fruitful to serve as the starting point for the soon to become Barony of Freising. As the house was founded, Wilheim grew in the ranks of the army and received his knighthood as the Stallion. Both Marcella and her husband became Aldermen and later had two children, Klara and Erwin. While Klara and Erwin were young they were able to spend time with Mayan, though as they grew up, Klara went on her own travels and Erwin stayed close to home to follow his father’s footsteps. All the while, Marcella did her best to support Erwin in his ventures, which proved fruitful as he later became a Duke and Lord Marshal to set the tone for many generations to come. Soon after Wilheim’s passing, Marcella’s life began to slow, taken by an alcohol and smoking addiction, she retired from being an Alderman to spend the next decade with Wilheim until his death. At this point she moved to improve her health to spend as much of her time as she could with her son and his children, Manfred and Brandt. It has been up to this point that Marcella was able to meet her life goal, a happy family that is successful. It has been at this point that Marcella spent her final moments in Oren with Mayan… After she decided to pay a last visit with her, the journey proved to be too much as not long after she had a heart attack. Her final breaths were in Mayan’s home after a long day. With Mayan she left her final will and testament for her family and close friends. Belongings will be distributed upon arrival of the vault supplies of Arcas. Marcella passed at 1736 on the 13th of Sun’s Smile at the age of 114. Marcella’s Final letter: To my dearest children, I am sad that I have not been able to see either of you in my final moments, but I cannot say how proud I am in the two of you. Take your time and enjoy life, it is not for forever. I will be waiting for you up in Godan’s skies so enjoy life while you have it. I will wait with your father until you are ready. To Manfred, I wish to leave you my staff. It was acquired by my father long ago and has served me well over the years. Take good care of it sweetheart, for it contains the soul of another and you may learn how best to speak with him. He brought much joy to your father in hitting people with it, and I hope you are able to keep it in the family for the foreseeable future. To Brandt, I wish to leave you my Karin, Idred. She can be a bit of a grump, but she has been a wonderful companion since Wilheim passed. If you ever have any questions on caring for her reach out to Mayan. She can provide guidance better than any. To Luisa, Dear, I wish I could have spent more time with you and your brothers but you have grown up well and have a family of your own. Cherish them. To you I leave my wedding rings. They were made by Hekkaes Goldhand for Wilheim and I. They were once magic with a blood bond though it has long since faded. Keep them close because even the smallest things in life can matter most. To the Barclay Family, It has been truly a dream of mine to have such a wonderful family. Thank you all for the laughs and smiles over the years and I hope I was able to give you just as many as you gave me. I love you all dearly. Finally, Mayan, I can’t express how much you mean to me, haleun. I know soon I will visit and it likely will be my last, but I know you gave me nothing but the best. I wish I could have done more for you over my life and we had our issues. If nothing else, I hope I was able to bring pride to you. Look after my grandchildren please. I know my passing will be hard on them but more so on you. You can talk to them, I know they would want to and see you just as much as family as I do. I love you so very much and don’t ever forget that. With love, Marcella Avern-Barclay [OOC] It has been wonderful rping with everyone on this persona and I’ve taken up her grandchild Marie so things won’t come to a halt regarding that. Thank you all so much for being part of Marcy and her legacy.

“You don’t always have to be strong, but you always have to keep fighting.” Solenne tightly clutched the letters in her hands as she wandered the quiet streets of Providence. That night, the only sounds being made were by her own dragging footsteps. Bittersweet, she thought. She found herself at the doorstep of Pompourelia Street 8, lifting a shaky hand to stuff the letters between the double doors. She wanted to go in. She wanted to see Anduin, listen to him talk all high and mighty while sharing a cup of coffee with him. She wished to share stories with Alicjo, someone who never failed to bring joy and laughter to her rainy days. She wanted to open the doors, she wanted to see everyone. Solenne turned and walked back down the street. Eventually, she found herself right before the entrance to the settlement of Esbec. She hated that place, she didn’t know why she’d come. She hated it from the moment she stepped foot in it, back when Avalor had taken her there in Arcas. Despite the friends she made, the memories that surrounded the place, the way she mercilessly defended Esbec’s name, she despised it with a furious passion. She stayed for one reason, and one reason only. She stayed for Silas, that stupid elf. That naive, hard headed man who somehow made sense of all her broken pieces. She wondered how he was doing, if she was right about him being happier without her. As she walked back to Providence, there were numerous people who came to mind. She thought of Giorno, Florenza’s cousin whom she’d been set up with. She always found him to be a better friend than lover. He was a good man, but she was a broken woman. She recalled the short, always angry woman who had a soft spot for her, good ol’ Shoes. That loud, obnoxious woman who was the reason for plenty of Solenne’s own anger-fuelled hysterics. Gino came to mind as well- the way they were so passive-aggressive with each other, from subtle insults to sharing cigarettes. Solenne was sure Gino hated her, always getting his wife into trouble, always fighting his words with every breath. She kind of hated him, too. A small smile escaped her lips. Solenne finally stopped at Florenza’s grave. Florenza Falcone, the woman who made her life a little more worthwhile. She sat down there, leaned against the headstone as she pulled her flask from her bag. The smell of whiskey hit her nose as she lifted it to her lips, draining the contents. Those days, it was a rare sight to see the red-haired woman sober. It made it easier to forget how much she missed her friend. She remembered the funeral, she remembered the words of Florenza’s mini-me, how the child recalled her cries for help when Florenza sat there on the floor as she bled out. Solenne cried that night of the funeral, harder than she’d ever cried before. Florenza had made a promise- that the two of them would go out together. She’d silently cursed Florenza for leaving the god-forsaken earth without her, so many of their plans still left untouched. She’d sigh, closing her eyes as the flask fell from her hand, dropping into the dirt beneath her. Solenne was ready to be reunited with her best friend. She was done fighting. [OOC: It was an absolute pleasure to play Solenne, and thanks to all of those who interacted with her. Sorry to all those whose hearts I broke while playing her ;) Anyways, I hope she was someone that you all enjoyed RP with and someone who will be remembered, I just fell into a sort of character block with her and decided it was best to leave things as they were.]

There was nothing like reliving the old memories on their death bed, the soft gravely voices of poems and songs retold—the little strength to knead and bake bread. These few motions in life truly made her happy, from her secluded life in the manor to their small home within hanese. Nothing and she meant nothing made her happier than to share her little time left on the land with her husband. They have survived so much together, and each day another bond stronger. Though they wed on strange terms, Katharina’s heart will always hold steady in pride and honour to call the Poet hers’. She knew deep down she wasn’t the highest of light in her family’s eyes: the black sheep and the scapegoat to them. Cast out of her own through fates that were not even her fault. But she would follow obediently nought a scold out of her soft voice. It was Vorion that fought her battles where she wouldn’t. He indeed was the phrase "Words are more eloquent and proper; they duel the mind and the heart, whereas swords can only duel a body.” Such a great head on his shoulder and a heart proved he was beyond a lover and a fighter. However, he would never honestly admit it to her. She supported him in every endeavour she could. Between taking in Buck, having their children, and watching his plays come to life. She was there with a smile and muffins. The thoughts of their life filling her with peace. Her creaking bones and greying Caramel hair pulled into a bun a cough here and there. Her hand was moving to find her Husbands hand. She knew it was their final moments, and they had survived it to lie in peaceful times. Clutching it and slowly in a paining motion to face her Husband. The crinkle of her lips moving out to form a smile. “Vorion, Goodnight sleep well. And I promise: you shall never die. If here between these sheets of me we’ll lie.” A small chuckle as her eyes fluttered shut for the last time. Knowing her family will forever be healthy, and all their books sorted out. FOr those who want it here is the character card:https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1yy0Dn34lD

The Sturmholm Folio The works of Vorloin Baruch Vorloin Baruch, shortly after the Athera Expedition Vorloin Baruch, practicing a stage-play With the recent death of poet Vorloin Baruch, it has been requested by his will that his folio be published to the world at large. All that follows is the work of poet, who used the pen-name of Vorloin Sturmholm Editor’s note: For some reason, all of Mr Baruch’s writings refer to himself as ‘Vorion’, instead of ‘Vorloin’. Regardless of whatever caused this error, it has been corrected. ‘Almost all of these poems follow iambic pentameter, and most of them also are sonnets, with three rhyming quatrains and one couplet. Their themes range from loss and death, to love and life. May they strike your hearts, as they struck at least a couple’ - V. Baruch ((Music:)) O Father O Father, years have passed since fall of void, Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear. O father, son of the herons marine Will you still love me as you once did then? To be a stouter son of meager means Or born a lesser prince of greater men? O father, torn from life, curse me now, words born from an acid, venomous tongue Will far outstip those that no longer vow To those whom once you genty, softly sung. They say the blood of covenant should wear Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share The Good Men I wonder, where have all the good men gone? I saw them ride unto the setting sun, One which they would never again see dawn, Fighting a battle that is still not won. I ask you, where do all the great kings lie? It is under a pile of ash and ruin Deathless since they were forced to cast the die, They lie, resting beside their royal kin. I pray you, where do all the lost souls go? For we see them no more, eternally They lie, lost in silver linings of snow. Lost to wisps of time, waiting, merrily. We wait for when the time should finally bend To meet again at last: all the good men Katharina’s Song If only the swans were as fair as I, They could shatter the moon with their beauty, They could ensnare the mighty lords on high, They could make Kingsguard flee from duty, If only the swans were as fair as I. If only the autumn leaves had my grace, They’d flutter as if dancers on a stage, They’d rustle as if they’d no other place, They'd read far more than any written page, If only the autumn leaves had my grace. If only the stormcrows could sing like me, They would enchant the creatures of the grove, They would lure sailors, like sirens on the sea, They would be diamond to all those who rove, If only the stormcrows could sing like me. The Sunset I passed through mists, and peered beyond the veil To see thee, at least, what seemed to be. Towards the earth the sun had set her sail, And her beauty almost matched your degree. For first I found the flowering lips of rose When, burning bright, a wildfire they blazed. How could the setting sun compare to those: The memory that shall never be erased. But soon I fell into a tender blue, The eyes which could the oceans entire keep. How could the sky hold a candle to you, When epics could be wrought for those eyes deep? And so I promise: you shall never die If here between these sheets of me you'll lie. Godan’s Muse I've ventured 'cross some cold, bleak, distant peaks, But there is naught to e’er compare to thee. The peerless blue above those velvet cheeks: The moonlight to calm every stormy sea. I rolled on waves and I’ve seen dawnings fair, But their beauty can only ever yield To radiance cast by golden strands of hair: The sunlight to sow every fallow field. I’ve cleft the ocean twain on mighty ships, But thus you made the nightingale cry: None could hope to reflect those rosen lips, A flower to charm e’ery wandering eye Then, since lands and sky all hold beauty, I so conclude that Godan’s muse was thee. The Holes of Wintertime Deep in the holes of wintertime I woke Next to your side, by a warm fire of oak. You whispered so quietly in the cold, From your lips wisps of mist did twist and fold. You spoke to me about the spring softly, Said it was made by the lord above, for me. That he made it so we could gently lie Betwixt these hills until one day we die. Hidden way from the warmth of a summer’s Sun, away from the march of the dummers’ Drums, lying under golden oaken leaves, I told you I love you beneath those trees. And yet at last, when the autumn leaves fell You said you were no more under my spell I thought I’d stay together with you, so fair, But you left me there. Soeng Karoseo And the common translation: A Song of Crows Usaer zezr haulyy haldae haenzi Wiem hag dercurvsk denraat, huil zwyzi Padrevar Ybiseo vzrarev kuz koeng Luzeng weld ag wauldlund: Kholv ag walic They poured ‘cross sea upon coasts haeseni At dawn slaying the weak and lame, then these Sons of Iblees set out unto the king Along woodlands, marshes: cold and soaking. Karos kyghyntae zwyen bottel routae Karos trazk raez humovsk viktry velyae. Krusae vatragan ag Godan zakisk: Kursin ag zvaerd usaer byk drazativsk And as honour demands that war be brought The crows struck out to seize the victory sought. Of hearth and faith they were a stalwart shield: With coats of arms and shining blades of steel. Nat lund vatragano supaes szar triek, Va rotasseran nie vokja byk tuek Tamort lafsk hauchoxtzen, lauderre, herzen. Zejr kvesja, warae laujisk aestbrein Upon the fields of flame their spears did meet And dawn ‘til dusk no army knew defeat. There fell warriors great, peasants and lords Above the mud, where Godan’s heavens poured Wiem mortesk feinvrago, tiz stratlyy rot Ag zinsk maeno weo fitsk dlum supaes Got They broke the horde, the rivers stained with blood And sang of men who gave their lives for God. ‘May the storms part in your passing' - Sturmholm family proverb

The faces that surrounded Garret Palmer Junior at the family gathering were familiar ones, and perhaps that’s what made it all the more frightening. His attempts to bring together the Palmer family together once more were futile at best, and completely useless at worst. His siblings rebuked every effort at his attempts to recentralize the family, and others, such as Merith, argued against his every word. The table was full of both the Palmer Family and the Morgaine Family alike-- some chatted amongst themselves, while others argued amongst themselves. The roasted chicken, potatoes, and carrots that sat upon the table were nearly untouched by all there, and Garret simply picked at his food once more, “This whole damned family is goin’ to fall ‘part…” He muttered lowly, more to himself than anyone else around him. Garret took a long draft from the cup that had been set before him, shaking his head as he looked around at the family he was supposed to be in control of. Garret took another small bite of the food that had been set before him, before sighing and setting his utensils down once more, electing to keep listening to the bickering that occurred around him. It was after this moment that Garret’s memories seemed to fade-- his thoughts became disjointed. He saw himself stumbling towards his bedroom, complaining of how tired he had been, the family blankly watching him go. He promised that he would be back downstairs after a quick nap. Garret blinked, and suddenly he was laying in his bed, eyelids heavy. Another blink, and there were multiple figures entering his room. He blinked. He opened his eyes and he was within the very manor had fallen asleep in-- sitting in the very same position on the bed fifty years earlier. He was nothing but a bright-eyed child, his wavy black hair falling across his face messily. There were paintings on his wall-- paintings of figures so magnificent, so revered through the world. His mind wandered, dreaming of one day where his portrait, too, would be hanging in the rooms of children, looked up to by all. He blinked again. The image shifted. His father and mother stood by him, looking down at him with smiles upon their faces. Garret Palmer Senior was speaking, though the words were muffled as if his head was underwater. His siblings stood around him-- Aerielle, Merith, and Miray, who were all talking excitedly to one another and their parents. Garret’s eyes fluttered shut once more and the image shifted, the walls of Ves now surrounding him. Cameron Halmar stood nearby, a small smile on his features as he held a wooden practice sword, offering it out to Garret, who took it nervously. Garret looked up to the aging Kaedrin Army officer slowly, who nodded in approval and helped shift his hands to the proper position on the hilt of the mock blade. Another flash of light. Garret saw himself traveling through the lands of Arcas, a worn travel pack slung over his shoulder, the now adult man looking at a torn map with his initials inscribed in the bottom right corner. He traced a dry quill along some of the more frequently traveled roads, plotting the next course in his travels. He saw Beatrix, and the many trips he took to Kaedrin to see her. He blinked again. Garret was standing at the imposing front gate of Al-Faiz, Fahad Al-Nabeel peering out through between the bars. Each time he blinked, the city of Al-Faiz grew more familiar-- Elena, Saeed, Antar, Damon, Esmae, Hamzah, Abdullah, Ameen. Their faces flashed before him in a blinding torrent, the times he knew them for at the forefront of his memory. There was another flash. Garret was speaking with a girl named Lelani. They talked amongst themselves, sitting next to eachother. Lelani had a small journal in her hands, and was pointing out letters to Garret. They sat beneath the stars within the walls of Al-Faiz. They kissed. Then, just as suddenly as she had arrived, Lelani vanished. He blinked again. Catherine lay on the ground, a wound in her throat as those from within the city of Al-Faiz rushed out to help her, the bandits who had done it to her retreating into the night. Garret sat next to Catherine as she healed, and finally accepted the girl into his family as Catherine Palmer. There was yet another flash. Garret was speaking to Sky Mesina in the middle of Helena, just out in front of the tavern. Garret looked middle aged at this point, and the two seemed to be conversing happily on the bench where they sat. Each time he blinked, a different scene played through his mind-- Garret and Sky’s wedding being the foremost. Another flash. Sky held a young, brown-haired child in their arms-- Astrid. The pair smiled down at the child. Scenes of Astrid’s growth played through his head, from the multitude of fights she had gotten in within Sutica, to the calm nights she spent around home. Then, the visions became darker-- visions of the Inferi. Visions of battles and scars. The older Garret grew, the more rage-filled he seemed to become, lashing out at those around him to take out his anger. The older he became, the less he became like the compassionate man he once was. The city of Al-Faiz burned, and the encampment of Al-Hadirah beckoned. He blinked and saw Elijah through the mist that had covered him, the young, innocent boy happily trotting throughout the paths of Al-Hadirah. The last scene he saw was an Inferi cannonball traveling towards his feet. He tried to jump away, but was only partially successful, the cannonball sending debris scraping across his face, then, his vision went black. Garret woke up in the present moment, a dagger buried in his chest, the figure wielding it too blurry to see. He tried to scream, yet no sound came out. Even when he did manage a hoarse cry, the sounds of the Palmer Family gathering below drowned it out. He struggled, and struggled, but his vision went dark. The last thing he ever saw was the blurred form of a figure turning away from him, dagger in hand as they exited the room. Garret Palmer Junior – 1732 to 13th of the Amber Cold, 1787