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Previous story: ~(+)=~=(+)~ I felt the darkness take hold when I stared into the eyes of my master Ozais, along with the insanity that strangely flowed into my inner darkness-fueling it. It felt replenishing for me to feel my blood grow cold with my darkness flowing through after decades of burying it deep within. The pain and suffering I went through.... I finally understood why I was a good soldier.... The Myrsta bloodline always had some kind of darkness within them, awaiting to be awakened. From their inception, each of those within the clan-either man or woman-felt their darkness be dormant within and the urge to try to coax it awake. Some of the Myrsta bloodline-like Karren prior to his death-had a greater urge to awake and sate their inner darkness while others-like Jarsek-did not have such powerful urges. It doesn’t take much for their darkness to be coaxed to the surface, however, because darkness can come in varying forms. From wishing to know or experience dark magic to even the simplest task of killing those either innocent or otherwise, those within the Myrsta clan can coax their darkness out to the surface, but with a severe cost of losing part of themselves to their dark depths. No magic can undo this, sadly, because it is a firm belief of those within the Myrsta bloodline that those who carry Myrsta blood-even changing their name would not work-within their veins are cursed to feel their inner darkness take hold and make them suffer in varying ways, though no one is sure just how many ways this darkness can make the person suffer. Shades cannot shade those within the Myrsta bloodline due to this belief, but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t susceptible to the dark thought. When Karren was still alive and wishing to be shaded by an old friend of his, the shade felt the darkness of their family curse and threatened to not shade the boy and his “split personality” if he continued to seek being shaded. What the shade did not realize at the time was that a single act of denying Karren that which he wished to have fueled his darkness even more, even to the point of fracturing the boy’s mind. When Ozais, Jarsek’s master, looked into his eyes, he found the darkness take root within his mind-fueled by the Graven’s Eye and coaxed into being. It turned him into a soldier of darkness, making him a Dark Phoenix. To those who are not aware, a Dark Phoenix is the physical form of a Myrsta fallen into darkness-never to be returned to the light. Madness and in the presence of a dark creature made Jarsek’s darkness truly come alive and nearly wipe away the man’s personality that he worked hard to create, but even the family curse could not completely change the person they once were. They couldn’t be returned to the light by any magical means, of course, but there are always pathways back to the light if needed. Though Jarsek now felt his curse take root, that did not alleviate his nightmares about his grandson. When Jarsek was shot and knocked out in Sutica, he was sent back into that hellworld of a nightmare. This time, there was endless screaming along with the ever-burning fire and brimstone accompanying the sight of the black armored figure. It was also different in the fact that the armored figure was turning to face him directly. The figure seemed to have black eyes within his helmet and at his side, the figure had a sheathed greatsword with some kind of magical symbols on the scabbard. Symbols that Jarsek did not understand. He looked to be the same height as Jarsek, but the black eyes within the helmet seemed to be soulless, unlike his master’s eyes. The figure would begin to speak in a gravelly voice to Jarsek... “Grandfather?” The figure would ask with a sad tone. “How can you be here?” “Karren? Is that you underneath all that armor?” Jarsek would ask his grandson, almost pleased to see him once again. “Yes, but you need to leave grandfather.” Karren would say with a small undertone of urgency. “If you stay here, you won’t be able to get back.” “Back?” Jarsek would ask Karren, confused as to what he means. “To Atlas. You aren’t done, not yet.” Karren replied, sounding a little joyous to see his grandfather. “Though I wish I could hug you, you need to wake up.” “Where are you, my grandson?” Jarsek would ask, shedding tears of both joy and sorrow. “Somewhere that only the dead can survive. Barely.” Karren would reply as he would withdraw his sword in preparation of a fight. “Now go!” Jarsek would want to reply with saying how much he loved him and how badly he wished he was there to save his poor grandson from the darkness, but it was when he heard his true name that he felt the chains of life begin to force him awake and suffer through the pain of being shot in the arm. His anger took root as he remembered where his grandson had been this time and that made his inner darkness grow even more within. He was not going to allow himself to fall into that darkness again.... He woke up in his room-hours later-as he didn’t sleep easily last night. He would have a long day ahead of him, but there was a lingering question in his head. Where would the dead survive barely and how can I get back there?

The dream happened again. Jarsek wasn’t sure as to why he had the dreams of his dead grandson Karren, but something felt strange down to his core. Each dream was the same every time he closed his eyes and let his exhaustion take over from the day’s events. These dreams fueled him every day, but the fuel was mortal and it ate away at his soul little by little as if they affected him on a much deeper scale than what any magic could do to him. To those he considered friends, he looked tired more and more with each passing day. His once-glowing ambition that burned within his steel gaze had grown dimmer and colder as his essence was being affected by this strange coldness he felt within. Within the privacy of his home, he had grown sad and his intense feeling of depression had begun to ravage through his veins-sometimes even attracting attention from the outside. Though no one could understand just how sad he truly was. How badly his grandson’s death-that happened years ago-affected him and how he bottled it up. This dream that kept cropping up in Jarsek’s nighttime slumber was not helping to please him, but it made him even sadder. The dream, from what Jarsek could remember, was what he wrote in a journal before he departed to Haelun’or: A dream of fire and brimstone. Jarsek would appear in a giant place full of fire and lava, full of creatures that he did not easily recognize and was scared of. To this warrior high elf, he wasn’t sure why that he dreamed of the place that Iblees would call home, but nonetheless he would try to force himself to wake up to no avail. He felt like the world was too hellish for his steel-like determination, but something kept urging him to try to survive the hellish world around him. With no other chance, Jarsek would try to follow the urge as if it was his only guide in this hell he found himself in. It would continue to go through the fire and brimstone landscape until he would wake up, drenched in sweat. The high elf would, each time before he would wake up, see a black armoured figure with the strength of a hundred men with some kind of spectral black aura. A pure black aura, blacker than any dark magic he knew. The dream, Jarsek would come to realize, was an omen. A powerful dark omen that would change his world forever...

Previous story “The World Timeline [ET Story]”: =========={(++)}========== “Energy. Mana. Amber. It’s all the same, but under a different name. No magic that is known to those in Atlas is destructive but yet offers creation. At least, not yet...” Some stories don’t end the way you expect it to. From those that offer salvation of the aeguls to those the crave eternal torment of the archdaemons, there is no greater battle than good versus evil. Yet, even though the battle is fought for millennia from the beginning of known Time, we always forget that there is no true evil or true good. Ascended are not truly pure of soul as they wish us to perceive them as and those who wield dark magic are not truly psychotic as many are led to believe. Most of those that wield the powers of the ether do not understand the true consequences of magic and nor would they. At least not at the beginning. Each one of those who wield magic are never able to scratch the true depths of light or dark and are forced to understand little. Until it begins to manifest in its own magics. Shades are merely a drop in the ocean compared to those forces that truly allow casters to do magic beyond the normal capabilities of a descendant. Necromancers are people who see no boundary between the forces of life and death, but are weak in power, even at their greatest of heights. True dark magic is never achieved by simply tapping into the soul and casting spells that remind all of their mortality, but it is when you have suffered through the very depths of pain and torment that even a daemon’s torture would seem like child’s play. That is the power that is behind the magic of darkness. The true forces of Oblivion itself. Born of suffering, of torment, and of pure rage, those that have been through Hell and back can feel their rage grow into a pure destructive force to where even those that walk in the Mindspace would be unable to quell such craving of destruction. The light within their souls becomes no more and transforms into a Black Soul, forcing no more joy or happiness to arise and only the pure dark emotions to exist. No sane person would ever wield this kind of power and survive intact, but even those driven into a pure frenzy of bloodlust, of carnage on a unheard of scale would appear to be normal folk until they let their true banners fly. Masters of concealment and trickery-while being true psychopathic monsters-those that wield this power are forever barred from the Seven Skies and those within the very depths of Hell would writhe in fear of those tormented by such dark feelings. Pure shadows of their former selves-daemonic in nature-they can never truly return to their old lives and for those that suffer in their presence, they are faced with the true face of those possessed by the very dark emotions our souls filter through. Darkened beyond the blackest of nights and eyes that become purest black, those that are faced against such a creature are never intact again.... If they are lucky to escape with their lives. All of existence should tremble in fear of these that succumbed to their pain and rage, but even they are not gods. Merely creatures that live forever-that are bound to their darkest of natures and are quick to respond violently to those who dare to cross their paths. Death lives among those who notice not its presence, but its cold grasp. ==============={(++)}=============== OOC: This isn’t an ET Story and holds no relevance to the previous story, but it is worth mentioning why I created this story. I’ve always been fascinated with dark magic (yes, it’s true) in any fictional story and roleplay server. Even on LotC, it is true that OOC’ly I am fascinated by the concept of Shade Magic, Striga, Necromancy, and even Liches (hence why they are mentioned here in the story), but this fascination is what drives me to create stories with not-yet-existing magics that have truly dark origins and have some kind of tie into those that wield it. Even the concept of Oblivion itself isn’t like my previous illiterations of it, but I strive to make it something that is powerful in its own right and yet offers itself checks and balances. Of course it can be said that I’m a “mega-nerd” for magic, but all I can say is that they aren’t wrong. I do love magic and the endless possibilities it offers to help further a story along (though only in the fantasy genre). Anyways, I do still plan to write up this magic for LotC (while my own rp version of Oblivion is not going to be on LotC since the lore wouldn’t be usable on this server) and make it possible for all to enjoy than just me. I hope you enjoyed this story “Wrath of the Darkness” and I wish you a good day! -TheDragonsRoost

Edrahil and the Dragon Which is the third part of the Lay of Aegrothond, in which the deeds of Edrahil are told. In the elder ages of the world, when the Sun and Moon were bright and untarnished by years uncounted, a fair realm was spread between the mountains and the sea. In those days the paths of the Elves were greatly sundered and broken, and not least of all these rifts was the breaking of faith between the Almenodrim and the Crown of Malinor, of which the Song of Dagnir tells. By this virtue most who departed Tavule had come to follow the Great Houses, which had come together in order for to be known as the wider realm of Aegrothond. For a time they were guided by Sylvaen the Everflame, of whom many a tale is told- but by the time of this telling he had passed into oblivion, and led no longer. Now Prince Aegnor the Starfinder ruled over the holdfasts which had been his father’s, and he took upon his own shoulders the mantle of Lordship of the Almenodrim and the stewardship of the land and the people. Six brothers remained to him, left over from exodus- and each was possessed of a craft and mastery so that their holdfast flourished and grew. Thus they together spread their princely wisdom, and all the lands were glad for it. One among them was foremost in martial skill and ability, and it is he that will feature most prominently in this tale.Lord Edrahil was his name, which is well-remembered, and he was the fourth son of Sylvaen. Great faith he kept in the Oath of his House, and a will indomitable to purge the darkness from the fouler places of the world; to this end he traveled often beyond the far bounds of the realm of the Almenodrim, to seek out all evils and break them beneath the power of his bright will. Thusly were the lands of the Elves kept safe from harm, to grow and be fruitful. Now in the northern mountains in those years the dwarf-manses were in constant strife with all manner of dark creatures which grew and multiplied, having been left behind by the wraths of Iblees and other, older evils which have no name. Chiefest among these at that time was the wyrm Ankar, which had fled to those parts after the first breaking of the Deceiver. From the high peaks this beast commonly ventured to terrorize the peaceful Dwarves- a terrible wrath incarnate, borne upon a sudden wind and a gout of freezing breath. Ere long it came to be that the wyrm’s hunger was not sated with dwarf-flesh and gold, and it began to hunger for the far sweeter meats of the south. The first settlement beneath his wrath was called Myrdaen, a village known for its refining of fine wool and ornamented cloths of all kinds. It came like a cold wind from the north, and tore the land asunder- feasting upon the sheep and cattle, and driving aside the stones of Elvish buildings with brutal force. Of all who dwelt there, few survived- and in great clamour the Lord himself was felled by the snapping jaws of darkness incarnate. Some managed to escape, and hastened to the shores of the Sea where the Court of Prince Aegnor was held. There the beleagured Elves made their plea, and were received in dour mood by the Prince and his lordly brothers. So it came to pass that Edrahil heard of this grey terror of the high mountains, and his mind at once was set with fateful purpose. “By what right doth Ankar claim the mastery of the skies, who was made in mockery of Creation?” he cried aloud, and his eyes shone with a sudden flame. “Too long have we allowed this danger to play upon our borders, and done nothing! Give me leave, brother, and swiftly shall Ankar’s monstrous head adorn your mantel-piece.” And his Company of friends struck their spears against their shields twice with great clamour, calling their assent. But Prince Aegnor sat a while in deep thought, causing even the rowdiest Elves of the Court to fall silent. “Cheaply valued is thy own life, brother, and the lives of thy Company,” he spoke at last, and his eyes grew dark with foretold doom. “Great danger lies upon the paths of the northern mountains, and small comfort will pride be to thy widows if thou art slain in pursuit of this beast. If thy hearts do not know fear, let them at least know wisdom. Death and grim fate shalt thou find in the North, and naught more.” All eyes were upon Edrahil then, who was silent, his eyes aglow behind his golden mask. But it was Erendriel the Bard who spoke, and stood forward from the other nobles with hand upturned- whereupon glimmered the ring of blood-silver, bound and sealed with the Oath of Seven. “Hearken to the rings of our brotherhood, if thou shalt not hearken to the pride of thy brother! For we are not of those who step back from perdition, and stand idly by, while brother-Elves are so cruelly put upon.” And the Prince was given pause, saying- “Rightly dost thou speak, Erendriel, though calamitous doom of one kind or another I presage of you. Wyrms do not tire easily of Elven silver, or turn away from simple cruelty.” Then he stood, and upon his brow the flames of the Seastone Crown glimmered with a ruddy light. “Go forth, then, ye twelve Companions, and as a token of hope take with you the Helm of our Father, who is perished.” And Edrahil received the Helm, and bowed deeply, for it was a high gift. Within the fortnight he set out north, and thusly began the great quest from the citadel of Tamun. Here it will be noted that this citadel was at the very edge of the realm of Old Aegrothond- that is to say, at the juncture shared by the mountains and the lowlands which swept down towards the Great Sea. This was because the Almenodrim (and indeed most Descendant Peoples of that time) kept to the ancient laws set forth by the Four Brothers, who demarcated all the lands of creation for their descendants. Therefore Men were granted dominion over the plains, Orcs over the deserts, Dwarves over the high mountains, and Elves over the broad forested lands wherever they may be found. In keeping with this practice Tamun was raised upon a wooded foothill, not far from the true mountains of the dwarrows, and served as a border-fort for general purposes. In any case, as the northernmost fortress it had been first to receive news of Ankar’s attack on Myrdaen, and thus the mood was high when the crimson banner of Edrahil was seen approaching from the south. Twelve there were in total, alongside their Lord- the aforementioned Company of heroes, and Erendriel the Bard who chose to ride with them. Hardy Elves were they, who had seen many a trial in their time and had sailed west with the Seven when the call was sounded. They had participated in the wars of the old homeland, and knew well the sting of dragon-breath. The keepers of Tamun received them gladly, and informed them of the state of the Northlands. In the time of their marching it seems the wyrm had grown bolder, so that even the fortified cities were no longer safe, and feared him. But Edrahil only smiled, and called for more mead, saying: “It is he who should be trembling, good Elves. Soon, we shall make a fine powder of his ancient bones.” And so it was that the final night in warmth was passed, and there was little trepidation (far less, as you shall soon see, than there should have been.) The dew lay heavily upon the path into the Vale of Tamun as the Company of Edrahil set out, and clung to their scarlet cloaks in silvery droplets which shone in the morning sun like so many stars in a crimson firmament. Well-armed and armoured they were, for each among them bore a sword and a spear, and a shield rendered by the highest arts of the Almenodrim. Upon their faces were fearsome mask-helms of gilded steel, but beneath them the Elves smiled and were merry- for Edrahil led them whom they trusted, and Erendriel seldom ceased to sing and jest. “A score of red-breasted robin-fowl we look!” he laughed in melody, and the songbirds sang along with him in lilting tones. “To pluck the worm from the northern mountains, hear hear!” And a great shout of mirth and joy rose among the Company in march, for they did not know fear. Edrahil ordered then the banner to be lifted, and together the voices of the Elves rang farewell in ancient song as the town sank into the hills behind them. “Again they come, and swift they ride, “For Elvenesse, for Elvenesse!” Their voices rise with ringing pride. And trumpets high above them soar, for elder fathers, dispossessed for many kin, who fought and died, And nations torn and rent by war. For fear is foreign to their hearts, and blades with gladness strike and reave, Through forest air grown thick with darts, And long-spears wrought by Elven arts, Which forest-cloth like needle weave.” And so forth they sang in joy beneath their seven-starred banner of scarlet, as the road turned northwards and the foothills began to grow great and dark to either side. Ere long the heads of the mountains became hidden in the clouds, and the forests of Elvenesse gave way to stone and fallen gravel. As the last great tree faded beyond a ridge the group made camp, and settled in for an unhurried sleep. When the sun rose upon the second day the Company of Edrahil set out once more, though they sang less and spoke sparsely to one another; for the path had become difficult, and in places it wavered and fell into sudden crevasses which had doubtless been the death of many a reckless explorer. All about the road were tall crags of grey stone, interspaced atimes by small springs of clear water too cold for drinking- they had flowed down from the glaciers which crowned these mountains, too high above to be seen. The band stopped for short luncheon at noon, having brought with them a wealth of provision from the grateful Elves of Tamun, and set up a way-camp to rest their weary feet. Some jested that they hoped that the greater part of the journey was finished, but most remained silent- marveling at the broad tallness which was arranged about their fellows. So it was that one of them spotted a small creature crawling upon the rocks far below, which were woven with mists. He called to his companions, and Erendriel nocked a swift arrow in his heartwood bow. “Hark!” the Lord Edrahil cried into the abyss, and the astute Elven eyes of the Company discerned that the creature was in fact a particularly hairy dwarrow of auburn mane and pale complexion. “What business have ye here, in the lands between the forest and the mountain?” But the Dwarf did not reply, instead waving his short arms and swiftly scurrying from sight.“How odd,” remarked Edrahil, “I did not recall the Dwarves to be so fearful of Elves, especially in these parts. I wonder what it was that caused him to flee?” But no sooner had the Lord spoken, than a warbling cry pierced the air alongside many black-hafted arrows. [To be Continued]

The Tale of Dagnir Which is the first part of the Lay of Aegrothond, and the earliest story of the Almenodrim. Among the tales of sorrow and ruin which come to us out of the elsewise forgotten years before the rising of the Moon, there are yet some in which the eldritch dolour is lifted, and a light is shown to endure even beneath its gloaming shadow. Of these histories perhaps the most stark is that of Sylvaen, and of the Almenodrim who were his progeny. It is told fully in the Lay of Aegrothond, the longest of all Elvish ballad-poems, which concerns in its majority the Parting of Kindreds and the many deeds, both fair and ill, of that family in the First Ages of the world. It is retold here in prose to lessen its length, for alike to all Elvish poetry it is prone to elaborate musings which are not conducive to the educational purposes of this text. The Lay begins in the ancient land of Malinor, wherein the great Eternal King kept his court and dwelt undying beneath evergreen boughs of yore; Malin was his name, which is honoured forever, and upon his brow was a crown unquestioned. His sons were as one, their ways unparted, for neither false prophets nor forces of earth and heaven could dislodge the keeping of blood which bound them hence. They loved well the trees and valleys of their realms, and delved in the deepest reaches of the forest to build their villages, being foremost among woodsmen. Among them, firstborn of the Father, walked Sylvaen Everflame, of whom this tale is told. He was tall, and fair of face, and resembled in all ways his father save for his locks, which were of raven-dark hue, and for his gaze, which was of piercing grey akin to the sea-floes of ice in winter. While his kin walked the deep forests he took a different path, and instead traveled to far western reaches of the Kingdom, near-to the mountains which held some erstwhile manses of the young Dwarves. In that land he built his holding, which he named Almenor, and few citadels were fairer in that time, or in any time since. In that place of silver fountains he came to know Serinwe, who would come to be his wife- and together they reared the Seven Sons of oath and legend, who led their people to glory and tribulation in equal measure. Their names were Aegnor, Edrahil, Renarion, Muindir his twin, Ilurien, Vitras, and Erendriel who was youngest of all; and they themselves were fruitful, so that the pillared halls of their kin rang with the laughter of children which the Elves valued more highly than any treasure. This great family was known as the Almenodrim, and they are remembered thusly in many songs, most chiefly by their own descendants. In the days before the Curse they were greatly peopled, so that several distinct Houses sprung up among them- but each bore loyalty to the Everflame and wavered not from their path alongside the Seven, throughout all of their history. Of all the children of Malin Sylvaen was the greatest in forgecraft, and in the tempering of steel and the making of mail he and his descendants were never outmatched, save perhaps by the most great-skilled of the Dwarf-smiths of yore. The hauberks and plate of their forges did not rust, and did not sustain the tarnish of age and weather, shining new-burnished even after an age of wear. All of their works were highly treasured, for they were crafted with arts which were not known to other wrights, and have been forgotten. It must, too, be noted that steel was scarce more than a servant to them- and it was in the working of silver, gold, and precious gems that they truly excelled, ultimately peerless. Made in those elder days were some of the greatest and most beautiful treasures of all noble Elvendom, which were beloved of all the Elder Folk and held in regard even in the furthest reaches of the continent. Among them were the Necklace of Stars, and Mίr n’Ardhon, and of course the great carved gem Belethil which was lost, of which more shall be told in other tales. All which could be wrought by hammer and anvil they excelled in creating- but no weapons, for the sons of Malin had no need for them, save of course for spears of alder and bows of yew, which they used to hunt wild game. In those days there was no strife, and all Elvenkind dwelt in harmony and peace. But even as Sylvaen and the Almenodrim laboured with great zeal and saw no ending to their works, doom of an eldritch sort came to the halls of Almenor. It began, as such things are often wont to, with a falling star, which tore the heavens and fell burning from the firmament. A clash like thunder heralded its coming to the plane of Aos, and a great fire and clamour levelled the forest about its landing- for such was its heat in that time that all which came in contact with it was immolated entirely. With a roar of splitting earth a chasm was opened about it in that wilderness, and there it would have remained if not for the curious whim of fate. It was Aegnor who found it, riding upon the great northern hills with his banners- and ever after for this reason he was oft-called by the name Elpharon, which means ‘star-finder’. Marveling at the desolation, he delved into the blackened cavern at its center- and though it burned his hands, he could not find the will to leave the glede-star behind. All marveled at it, and at its providence, for even the most experienced among them had not seen such ore. Concluding their businesses in those lands the Almenodrim brought it to their home, and though none could foresee it, sealed the fate of their House. For upon that metal lingered an evil which had no name, born of the darkness and vapour of primordial creation and forgotten by Gods and mortals both. At that time Sylvaen, being come to his full mastery and eminence, was filled with new intent and purpose- and growing bored in his lordship over forgecraft the great wright took great interest in the star-iron discovered by his eldest son. Many months after its arrival the metal did not lose its immense heat, and would burn those who laid hand upon it; Aegnor had failed to tame it, and it had scarred the reach of Muindir who was Sylvaen’s most promising student. So it was that at long last the father of the Seven came first to behold this curse of his family, and resolved to make something of it forthwith. But as he took up his hammer to strike upon the ore the smith beheld a great darkness which descended upon the great fires of his forge, alike unto a black grip which sought to take him in vice. And it spoke to him, this being, in a voice alien as the rubbing of coke on steel. “I have seen thee, Everflame, and all thy purposes and works are laid bare before me- but I deem them to be lesser far than those of thy Father, who is Malin. You shall fade, as leaves of autumn in the winter wind, and none shall know thy small name in posterity. As paupers thy sons will be, and grim fate shall find each among them in his time.” And the elf-prince was stricken by sudden doubt, for in his heart stirred a fear which had not been known to any in those blessed years; it was an evil not of this world, but rather of the one which had come before, and was never meant to linger. “By what vile sorceries dost thou speak unto me, creature of darkness, and what false poison dost thou pour upon my mind?” he cried out, and stepped back from the forge-fire which burned not yet so hot as the metal before him. “In skill of hand I have no single peer- all shall remember my works, and those of my sons, who shall be lords when I am gone.” But despite his remonstrance the creature of gloaming had seized upon the core weakness of his being, for though Sylvaen was foremost in cleverness and craft, his brilliant mind of metal and stone had become flawed in its vainglory, and in the obsession with legacy which was to haunt his line forever. “Stay thy despair, my child- for I sense a greatness in thy blood which shall surpass thy brethren,” the fallen star whispered, in tones of dulcet, layered upon with the cloy of paternal sweetness. “I will show thee much of that which thou knowest not, and change the path thou treadst- for great wisdom I see in thee, and a great promise also, which shall change the doom of the world in its stride. In my image thou shalt shape what none hath shaped before, and all shall know thy will, and fear it.” And though Sylvaen was not yet won over, his mind was curious- as all wrights he wished primarily to expand his art, and to craft ever-greater things until he had exhausted all possibilities of matter and shape. It occurred to him that to bind this star to his will would be the greatest achievement of his time, and a fine treasure in the vaults of Almenor; no creation had yet been beyond his ability in all his life, and no metal could give him pause at the height of his expertise. So it was that a fateful artificery began, which would last many days and many nights. Three times the smith began his work, and three times the metal defied his expert hand- for the spirit which perched upon it was possessed of its own design, and did not lend itself to mastery. For many hours they strove in the deeps of the Almenodrin forges, until the anvil of the wright glowed hot, and the smith himself was nearto spent. At last, putting forth all his lores and knowledge, the Everflame made corporeal the doom of his House- but it was not of his design, and the great shadow was upon it. So it came to pass that the first sword was born, and the Gods wept, for in the hand of Sylvaen it was destined to cause great pain and strife. The visage of the blade was as wrought iron, black and cruelly sharp, and it shone with a dull polish which caught and twisted the faces of those who would look into its surface; its guard was alike unto an umbel of upthrust thorns, and its hilt bound in pallid corded wire. Dagnir was its name, which was given to it by its creator, and harshly indeed did he lament its making; deep into Almenor he bade it be taken, and set inside a dark chamber to which no elf went willingly. And there Dagnir lingered, awaiting its fate. Sylvaen and the Seven soon forgot the star-stone in its entirety, and returned to their works of art and craft, growing more fruitful even than they had before. In those days the halls of Almenor were second only to the capital in populace, and greatly rich also, for they continued to trade with the Men and Dwarves who dwelt beyond the borders of the Greenwood. But the peaceful days of the First Ages were swiftly drawing to a close; and darkness festered in the far deeps of the world, marked by none save the delving Dwarrow-kind, who could not comprehend it. For Iblees’ work upon the Nether had been done, and the days trod ever-closer to the great war which would change the course of history forever. [To be Continued]

“Time is a tricky yet unstable force of nature. No mortal creature or immortal creature can understand the rules of this force and because of this, the Kha lost their powers to manipulate it and even future attempts to relearn this art are thwarted by the forces beyond mortal understanding. Those who call themselves Skygods, but I have another name for them. The Elder Gods.” When the world of mortals was made back on Aegis, it created what was known as a World Timeline. It was an intangible force of nature that all Chronomancers could access to gain information of the past, present, and future, granting them the knowledge and power to reshape history to their very whims. This did not come without its cost, though as the world of mortals had invoked the powers of the Elder Gods and they began to lose their connection to the Timeline. No one from the mortal world was allowed to change history with the knowledge gained from the future or even to have the power to alter it. That is until a certain object came into being. It was the very thing that the Elder Gods used to alter the Timeline and create a fixed point in Time. No mortal or immortal could understand it or even feel its power, but I could. Those same Elder Gods created me to guard their precious artefact for millennia and while I did, I gained information. Information that could bring this world to its knees. They gave me the knowledge to understand history and guard against it being altered. I know the Laws of Time and all the loopholes they presented, but however, I was not granted the knowledge to see how to break free of this eternal bond. I knew about the Prince and his goal to bring this world to its knees, but I could not change history. I could not tell the Descendants that they were fated to win against such a force or just how dangerous the Prince was. I could not alter the present by telling them that they were to face a threat that if not extinguished, would lead to disaster. I could not even side with them and change the future by erasing the Prince from Time. Like the druids, I was to remain neutral and do nothing. That was the law laid out to me by the Elder Gods. Now, I grow mad by this bond to the World Timeline. My mind slowly ebbs away to the Timeline and I can't escape it. My body, though immortal and never ages, is in torment and endlessly breaking down my physical strength. My very soul is siphoned away into the Timeline, never to be reclaimed. I want to be free. ~(+)=(+)~ OOC: This is a part of a story for an eventline that has dire consequences for all who are involved. It is not endorsed by the LT, ET, Admin, GM, or World Dev Teams whatsoever as this is provides a base for the storyline “Artefacts of the Divine” that I plan to write up. There will be seven artefacts in total.

The Encounter Aldonza Castelo takes a tentative sip of the wine, eyes glimmering in delight as the decadent liquid passes her lips. The woman leans back in her chair, swirling the wine as she looks up towards the evening sky, “Ah, yes. The story of my scar.” Her gaze drops back to the inquisitor. “I suppose it all began with a Grand Marshal and the King’s quest.” This was no simple errant quest. The far Southern reaches of Atlas is a cold and unforgiving wasteland of death. It is far too easy for the common man to fall prey to frostbite, starvation, or worse. However, if the King wanted the Southern region of Atlas mapped, then by the Seven Skies Roland Castelo would see it done. Four other brave souls would come to accompany him on this endeavour. The Sergeants Aldonza Cervantes and Vittore Stefano Volaire- both seasoned warriors of the Legion- help form the backbone of the group. Then, of course, there was the recruit. Bringing Jack along was clearly a mistake, but this was merely a mapping expedition and there were other soldiers of experience to call upon if necessary. The final member of the team would be a man by the name of Louis. A scholar of questionable scholarly attributes that was itching for a bit of adventure. Unbeknownst to them just what fate had in store, the five packed their bags and headed off towards the snowy mountains. The sky would soon grow dark as skies often do and crystal-esque snowflakes began to fall softly about the travelers. Five weary travellers came to a halt in a field of white. For you who might never have dared the forbidding Southern reaches, night is not a pleasant time to traverse the land. Three stayed behind to prepare tents and the yearned for embrace of a fire while the Sergeants split off, moving several yards out in separate directions to scout the region they had settled. Sergeant Aldonza was the first to return followed shortly by Sergeant Vittore. Each soldier announced their own discovery of ruins and edifices to the Grand Marshal. Over the crest of a small hill a few mere steps away, the other two followed the Cervantes to her findings. The ruins of a wall connecting two snowy hilltops loomed over them, too refined to be that of the ice wall that keeps the people of Atlas confined to that which they call home. Not to mention that this particular wall had a sizable archway within the center of it, guarded by cracking statues taller than any uruk could hope to stand. These desolate ruins posed no foreseeable threat, so a mark on the map and promises to return to investigate in the sun’s light were made as the group continued on to what the Sergeant Vittore had observed. Trudging over the flurry brushed hills- struggling to maintain their balance with the sporadic trembles of the ground- the trio came in sight of a Keep. Hopeful walls glowing of candlelight stood firm, beckoning to the soldiers. The remaining comrades were quickly summoned from the camp and together they all stood before the closed gates of solace. Their calls for the master of the house- or anyone willing to open its gates- were answered only by their own voices, echoing into the night. The darkness of forsaken hope cast its veil upon the union. Biting cold kissed them with icy lips and the wind seemed to howl only louder. It was nay over for the group, but the thought of returning to their little fire when compared to the comfort of shielding walls and warm food wrought everything in despair. Even the faint trembles of the ground seemed to grow in strength and number. For so they did. The howls of the wind were mere whispers in light of the thundering roar that made even the gargoyles adorning the Keep tremble at its might. A new chill- that which had little to do with the snow and wind- passed over our heroes. Five travellers of forgotten weary plow onwards through the snow, further up the mountainside to a surface of stone. The foundation of some structure lost to time. Moonlight glistens off soldiers’ blades and arrow tips alike as suspense plays its cruel tricks, catching breaths and warping time to a dreamlike halt. Even the gale waits silently, reverently, for the beast to make its debut. Now matter how the wind blows, the mountain does not bow before it- so say some. But this creature of fury and frost makes trembling cowards of the mountains. Thump. Thump. Thump. The sounds of night and rumbling ground applaud the warrior of the Southern reaches. Its icy gaze, peering around a snow-capped mountain peak, strike the group unlike any sword. This creature was surely one of the Seven Skies. Scales formed of the stars themself glisten. And from the wyvern of ice and frost so booms its powerful roar. “To arms! Stand your ground!” The voice of the Grand Marshal battles for dominance over the beast’s. Two arrows whistle through the air, each meeting its mark. Bows hold favor over the sword wielders as the creature pushes up into the sky. For a moment, the language barrier between man and wyvern is undistinguishable. All its rage is encompassed in a powerful breath of ice and wind. Those with shields raise them high before their comrades as more arrows are knocked at the ready by those with a bow to release them. These weapons of war are but toys to the beast. It’s roar replicates that of a merciless laugh as it swoops forward, claws outstretched to ****** up its nearest prey. Soldiers leap into action to no avail. Sergeant Vittore is raised briefly into the night sky for a mere few feet before the creature loses hold on its stubborn victim. Nonetheless, he is momentarily left winded by the cracked stone that greets him. The notion that the layer of ice protecting the wyvern is impenetrable begins to settle in their mind. Their arrows are practically useless against its natural shield. Fear shrouds them for but a moment when the Grand Marshal calls out once more “Down the mountain men and to the North!” Without question, the group hastens down the mountainside. Though they run in fear, do not take this act in cowardice. Soldiers and scholar alike career onwards to an awaiting forest. Snow begrudgingly gives way to forest floor, leaving frosted puddles here and there. Within the woods embrace, the five each take to the cover of a tree and await the approach of their predator. It’s cry announces its presence before the shaking of the ground as it lands ever could. The soldiers whirl around from behind the decent safety of their respective trees all at once. Arrows are knocked into place once more by Sergeant Vittore and Footman Jack as the other two soldiers begin their charge unto the beast. The Sergeant Aldonza fuels her charge with a mighty warcry only to receive a roar in return. The barrier of tongues is meaningless once more as the two foes cry out to one another, each one mightier than the last. Before any real winner can be determined, blades and arrows descend at once upon the beast. The weapon that were once useless strike the beast, its armor of ice melting away in the warmer air of the woods. Blood and sweat taints the air. The moon casts shadows of the battle upon the trees- the sole audience to the scene. Man and beast alike stir up the mud of the earth in their struggle. Blade and arrow upon scales. Claws and icy breath upon shield and armor. With a sickening squelch, the Grand Marshal’s blade is thrust into his foe once more in a substantial blow. The wyvern launches into the sky with a cry of agony, the action ripping the weapon from the officer’s grasp. Sergeant Aldonza is quick enough to leap back as their foe quickly descends, but the same cannot be said for the Castelo soldier. Five yells of varying intensity ring out. Bows are replaced in haste with swords and two sergeants, a recruit, and a scholar move with newfound rage to the aid of their Grand Marshal. Its victim still mangled beneath its claws, the wyvern spreads the once beautiful wings of icy crystals out. The air whistles from the sheer force of the motion as its wings arc forward, dangerously sharp claws upon each like that of a bats reaching to strike at its oncoming enemies. Another powerful blow is delivered, a claw catching the face of Sergeant Aldonza- the wyvern’s nearest opponent. The woman is sent flying back, leaving the remaining three to see a losing battle won. But their wrath holds no meaning to the foe, satisfied with the chaos it has wrought. The magnificent creature takes to the sky. And so the wyvern flies off, tracing its path of flight in a trail of blood. The trees look upon what remains of the group mercilessly. Two soldiers kneel beside their officer, looking unto the lethal damage done as the scholar moves to see to the wounds of the Cervantes. “Help the Grand Marshal,” the woman pushes Louis away, crawling forward towards the others as one hand clutched to the blood that pools from her face. It is evident that time will not be kind unto our five hopeless heros. Roland does no more than groan as the life slips from his weary form. Aldonza clutches the wound dealt to her face, pleading for someone to save him, damnit! Vittore looks over the wounds of his fallen friend and leader with a hopeless stare. Louis digs through what little supplies they still had on them in a desperate attempts to find something of medical value. Jack goes back and forth between Louis and Roland, as unsure as the rest of them as what was left to be done. And all of them slowly feel the weight of the night’s battle and the wretched nightmare they bore witness to bear down upon their shoulders. Aye, the story could end here. You who comes to know of this forlorn tale must surely now weep for our fallen heroes. But do not let yourself despair, for the trees themselves must have whispered of their state to passing wanderers. Three beings emerge from the foliage, surely Aenguls come to lift their sorrows and heal their wounds. And they do. One of the three embodiments of hope steps forth, enacting miracles of medicine unto the wounded soldiers. The three beings leave almost as quickly as they came, leaving no more than whispered words of advice and healing wounds. Those of us the wiser know the trio to nay truly be Aenguls, but for such light to pierce the veil of despair, they may have as well been. Five comrades sit in the woods. A Grand Marshal, two Sergeants, a recruit, and a scholar. Tonight they rest and give thanks for their life’s. But the time may come- the time will come- when five comrades seek out their foe once more. ((A few quick notes! This story is based an actual event that occured within LOTC. A huge thanks to Unwillingly who was the ET member who ran the event and later on also ran the revenge event. Also a huge thanks to Zac Clay who happened to have been streaming LOTC at the time and dropped by to stream a bit of the tail end of this event. And of course, a huge thanks to all those that were participants in the event and got to experience this with me! This forum post has been a long time coming and I’m really glad to be able to have finally finished this so that I might share it with all of you. Please let me know if you would like me to write a part two for this that entails the revenge story.)

The sight hurt. Jarsek Myrsta, upon finding his homeland destroyed and full of damaging magic, was not pleased to find his home in such a state. He blamed September for destroying such a beautiful place while he was away and himself for not being here to defend it. Sometimes, it is enough to find hatred in destruction. He was a pure high elf in every sense of the word, but even he had his faults. No one was immune to emotions running rampant and this included Jarsek. His own emotions were not like most high elves, but this would prove to either be his greatest strength or his weakness. Jarsek felt no pain or sorrow once he looked upon Haelun’or, but rather he felt something else. Something that was beginning to add fuel to a bonfire that would last for the rest of his life. Cursed or soulless? No one knew. Not those left to see the day as this was my own challenge to overcome. He hated the fact that his grandson had been an impurity in his own house. The news of his death did greatly satisfy him, but it was not enough. He wanted to rid his grandson from the history books and make it to where he never existed in the first place. This kind of task would require a great cost, but it was one he was willing to pay. Even in death, his impurity rots. In life, I thought he would grow up to be a scholar working in the Eternal Library, his unyielding curiosity granting us more knowledge. No, this was not to be. After seeing his home destroyed, he came across a fellow high elf. One that even he thought seemed a bit suspicious. This high elf had told him that his name was Illiran Drennan, but he had never heard of such a name before. Even on his journeys abroad, he never once heard of such a house. It was at this moment that Jarsek decided to investigate this house through Illiran, but the risk of having this trust broken was too great at the time. No, he would slowly gain this elf’s trust and try to learn more, though this would also take its time. No greater shame exists than having someone in your own house be impure. Yet, this was something that could be inferred as irony. My grandson was impure and my own impurity stem from the blood on my hands. I took no joy or pity when I fought in battle, but felt nothing at all. This was something that no magic in the world could do to me as I was born with the ability to wield my emotions like a two-edged sword. It was what made me a good warrior, but it can also make me a monster. After talking to Illiran, Jarsek left the site of his old home and journeyed back to the Kadarsi, a cold darkness in his gaze as if he had shut himself from his own emotions. He didn’t know fear or loss, but he did know anger, fury, and rage. This could prove to be his downfall as the sight of his homeland did affect him, but not in the normal ways that a blighted land did. No, he was a blighted phoenix...

How does it feel? Dreycon asked himself that question as he went home towards Sutica. It wasn’t much of a question, but when he set those crops on fire, something felt off about him. This feeling seemed to persist as the walk back to Sutica continued through the forests and the beautiful landscape. He was a firm believer in fate and the balance of the world, but after the encounter with the sprite and the whole arson, nothing felt familiar. It was almost like he had done something to himself that had yet to be revealed. How does it feel? It lingered in his mind. The only question he was unsure of on how to answer properly. His feelings were complicated at the beginning when he lost his family to elven warriors, making him an orphan. He guessed that it felt good? How does it feel? It didn’t go away. It was maddening to ask himself the same question in his mind over and over again, almost like a broken record. He sought out the forces of September as a way to figure out what was wrong with him and see if they had healers that could heal him, but all he found was a maddening feeling that consumed his mind. How does it feel? He prayed to GOD in the hopes that he’d find redemption, but his prayers were left unanswered. That question still left a mark in his mind that seemed to never go, searing itself into his very core. How does it feel? Dreycon smiled with a dark grin. It felt nice to get it out of its cage. The pent-up rage and fury that had been building over his life finally turned into a bonfire that had plenty of fuel to burn. The flame was a cold one, but his cold embers would wear away his sanity and turn him into a clear psychopath. He felt like some of his constraints had been shaken off of him, the ones that made him weak and insufferable. It would grant him power, but not the magical kind. Power, the type he had his eye on, was physical alone. He didn’t wish to give away control to anything but himself. The dream he had the night before last finally started to make sense. It was a dream of fire that burned cold, but it would consume the world. Dreycon dreamed of a world without nature or descendants, but a world ravaged by the flames of war. How does it feel to finally let me free, Dreycon? To finally let your inner demon burn through your mind and fill your veins with fire and fury?

Warriors of the Crown First of all, if you read the entire story, kudos to you, my friend! Second of all; yes – I am aware of the messy formatting, and possible mistakes I made with grammar, spelling, etc. throughout the story! * Constructive criticism is deeply appreciated

The bell began to toll loudly across the small town of Dalrak. It was a church bell that rang loudly, however, but it did not ring out in joyous ding-dong as it normally did. It rang out in solemn tones as if someone had just passed away, attracting the townspeople to the church and gathering all to the funeral procession. It was a special kind of funeral where a magician of great renown had passed away, his body now spilling all of its powerful magic into the church. The funeral of this great wizard was one of many that were all lined up to be set throughout the day, though the funeral processors cleared the whole two hours for this wizard out of sheer respect for him. He fought in the war that was being fought all over the world, one of the last great generals of the gods that ruled over this fragile world, and his army was beginning to lose with his passing. No one knew how he died, save for one being who coincidentally attended his funeral. The name of this wizard would have been etched into the history books of the multiverse forever, but there was a sinister plan in motion to kill all who attended this great wizard-general’s funeral. No magic in the multiverse could protect these innocent funeralgoers, save for one. The one magic that this war began over. Oblivion Magic. The magic of Creation and Destruction on a massive scale. In the whole room where the funeral was taking place, there was only two wizards that could do such magic. One of them laid in a coffin, dead, and the other was very much alive. This other wizard had been alive for countless millennia, but he looked so much younger than that. He couldn’t have been much older than nineteen years old, but he had been fighting in the same war as the wizard-general though for much longer. The wizard knew of the sinister plot ahead of time, but how he knew was not easily known to the people inside of the church. They did not know what forces he commanded or just how powerful he truly was, but he and the wizard-general both knew just how dangerously powerful he was. This powerful wizard had told the wizard-general what he was capable of doing as the war raged on. Even saved his life on multiple occasions, this wizard did. But he did not predict that the wizard-general was not a proper vessel for Oblivion Magic. That would prove to be this great general’s downfall as the forces that governed this magical school tore through his soul like a massive tsunami hitting the coast of a very small island. Though this wizard was capable enough to slay any creature he came across, he knew that he could not outright attack them. There were rules he certainly had to follow. Rules that if broken or violated would spell the downfall of many more people than this war had taken. There were explosions outside and they were getting ever-so-closer to the church where the funeral had began. The wizard had retrieved a small pocket watch and opened it, checking the time. He’d mutter something unintelligible as he closed the pocket watch, placing it back inside of his pocket. This was mere moments before the room had exploded into wooden fragments, killing some of the funeralgoers. The war had reached the funeral and this event was known to pass to a certain wizard. He pulled out his wand amidst the smoke cloud of the explosion, igniting it with a small purple glow. The magic used in the explosion, he recognized, was pyromancy. Specifically, it was a fire spell of firebomb, but it was an attack nonetheless. The wizard muttered something in a strange and ancient language and a spell was cast nearly seconds later. The spell had been a teleportation spell for the rest of the survivors, save for the caster himself. He did not flee, but this was when he began to change quite rapidly. To those who were innocent, he made himself look human completely and flawlessly. He loved that form, but he knew that he had to discard it for now. The smoke began to clear and those who instigated the attack were horrified at the sight of the man. To them, they saw what he reconstructed himself to be. They saw his true form, a man who had skin of the astral plane and eyes that glew emerald green. He looked powerful and he was powerful. Powerful enough to destroy the whole multiverse if he so wanted. They saw what the third Lord of Creation looked like and the fear they felt was astronomical. The attackers had no idea that they faced real certain death at the hands of the second most powerful wizard in all of Creation and it had certainly terrified them to the core. Men, women, and children alike in the attacking party didn’t even notice it, but their bodies began to drop to the ground. There was nothing to do when you face the third Lord of Creation in all history and when he starts dropping bodies en masse. Not one of the attackers survived, physically and spiritually. The third Lord of Creation had slaughtered them all and destroyed their souls in the process as he was full of rage that burned through the Oblivion Realm and fanned with the foreknowledge of the attack. He was a time traveler and he knew that this war was going to make noise around the multiverse. He just didn’t know how it would, but he had to figure out how to stop the war from spreading to other worlds. It was his job throughout the war and it was still his job now. For gods shall fall when he is enraged. ((The Shifting Tear event is a continuation of this story, though it does not involve the Lord of Creation. If you wish to help act this out, PM me over discord. Thanks, -TheDragonsRoost))

[OOC: This is a comedic, kinda meta, diary-form story of Egil, The Silver-Tongued - a young, hot-blooded and totally-not-desperate-for-attention 21 years old troubadour(bard). Excuse my odd grammar and mistakes. English is my 3rd language] 13th of The Grand Harvest, 1689 I woke up in a temple, miraculously without a hangover from last night's partying. Instead I felt oddly fresh, like a newborn. I stood up and wandered towards the only exit I could see, looking around curiously, feeling as if things seemed a bit more.. square. As my feet took me closer to the doorway of the Temple, the sweet scent of adventure, of maiden's bosoms yet untouched and ale yet to be tasted filled my nose, urging me on! To make haste, before they are claimed and shackled into boring books and senile old minds. Stepping outside, I was greeted by a few monks who seemed to repeat the same one or two lines of wisdom, probably not paying much attention whom they spoke to. There were a few other non-monks like myself wandering around the temple, each more colourful than than the next, browsing things, chatting up or just awkwardly looking at the ground or the sky. After receiving an odd cristal like ornament from one of the monks, I decided to sit and ponder about my situation, checking and tuning my lute. Until, Goddess herself walked into my view from the temple. Her brown hair flowed in the slight breeze like water flows in a river, the sun gently dancing on each of her hair. Her eyes were like the biggest shiny gems, deep green - like woods one could get lost in for weeks. Her nose was small and cute, her lips plump and rose coloured. The way she carried herself down the stairs with such elegant manner was nothing more, but an act to marvel at. A mini-miracle! She stopped by one of the many bookshelves in the temple and seemed to look right at me. I of course approached the lady with bravado and confidence that one of my caliber should have and bowed to the lady, asking her name. To my surprise she stood still, peering past me into the distance. Like a sculpture too real and perfect to be man made. I tried to get the ladies attention yet again but to no avail. Thinking maybe a piece of music might make the beautiful, yet mysterious sculpture woman come back to life I played a short melody to her, my fingers dancing on the strings like elves in the rowdy tavern songs dance around the fire - elegant and wild at the same time. To my disappointment the lady did not react: deaf, blind and mute, still in the moment as the time around her passed. With a sigh I put away my lute and started to look for the next maiden to woo when I heard a kharajyr growl behind me:" oh is thwat a bawd?".

Everything burnt to ash in a matter of seconds. The blade was dripping crimson blood as the black robed figure burned brightly with a fire in his eyes. It was slaughter of many rogue elves that had consorted with the humans and the orcs to engage in a war that was never to pass and the fire consumed the bodies of those that fell. He did not want any evidence of what transpired here to exist so that the evidence would be transported back to Okarn’thilln and exile him and his family from the silver city. He began to wipe his blade of the blood that once pumped through the veins of the elves and humans he slaughtered. Ironically, he wouldn’t even partake in the flesh of those he had considered impure so that he could not be tainted before setting the bodies alight. Once the job was done, the figure sat down and watched the place be consumed by the flames that escalated into a bonfire. He sighed as he felt pleased from this sight and began to mutter softly. “My job here is done.” He softly muttered, sheathing his blade. “May their gods look over them and send them to Iblees himself for their deception and betrayal. Now then, I must make my way to Atlas. I have business there to attend to...” OOC: Due to some things that are best not mentioned, I’m making this edit to say that this story is non-canon and is not endorsed by the LT. This story is only meant to be a entertaining piece, nothing more. Thank you.

The Atlasian Naval Guild was founded within the realm of Atlas, after the old Sutican City was nearly abandoned by it’s citizens and the leaving of the Trading Princess Lily, allowing those without a place to stay to find a new home to rest and to life at. Unlike most other nations the founders of the Atlasian Naval Guild were known as fairly good sailors and interested scientists, trying to explore the oceans of Atlas and it’s surroundings. While their ideal was it to explore the oceans they also became home to many people around them, steadily growing and expanding their research fleet. Purpose of the Guild While many Guilds are focusing on trading, giving the opportunity to learn a form of magic or just to offer some work the purpose of the Atlasian Naval Guild is different and unique in it’s own. The main purpose of the guild is it to explore the oceans of atlas and to find possible new lands to stay at. While doing so the guild is also trying to do their research of the currents, which are flowing through the oceans of the new realm, finding the fastest one to use for future traveling and sailing. Another big part of the guilds daily work is the research of new organisms, including plants and animals alike. New species can often help understand the current situations in certain regions and can also be used as materials for all kind of stuff, examples being medicine, smithing materials and far more. This is afterward leading to experiments to test possible new tools and to conclude further research on the different topics. Safety Safety is a rather important aspect for each member in the Atlasian Naval Guild, especially due to their dangerous missions. As such everyone is warned that the Guild isn’t having peaceful missions at all, but also rather dangerous ones. Due to those circumstances every member of the crew should be able to fight and be steady on a rough sea. Living Space/Base MS Vaile - The MS Vaile is a strong, nimble and fast Gallion Grade Vessel, housing around twenty crew members. The Vessel is build under the Captain and co Captain Vahryu Daluon, and Julia Abernathy. The MS Vaile can travel at the speed of 27 knots, able to withstand the Weather of the cold Arctic and hot summer winds of the equator. The mast would be made of a strong oak with Iron fittings and the sails would be made of a thin material dyed with grays and greens, the crews quarters holds around twenty eight bunks and the captains quarters holds two bunks, excluding the medical bay and area for livestock. Jobs/Tasks While many different roles are existing each member of the group is trying to help each other by handling main tasks, such as cooking or just cleaning the ship. As such most tasks are the following ones: Cook - Preparing dinner/food for the crew, while keeping a close eye on rations and drinkable water. The cook should be able to handle a knife even in the roughest of seas...and hopefully not lose a finger or too! Cartographer - Creating maps for the guild is an important job, since the guild is always trying to find and explore new lands. However, without creating a map of the new landmass and the surrounding waters such explorations are rather useless, since no one else may be able to find the land again. As such the cartographer needs to create fairly good maps, allowing the crew to find the islands once again. Secretary - The secretary is in charge of the general documentary of the expeditions and tasks fulfilled by the crew. Recording every single day on the sea is of importance, mostly to keep a fine grip on time, date and other important factors. As such the secretary should be able to write and have a talent for organizing. Steerman - Steering the ship with confidence and experience as the steerman guides the crew through the waves to their predetermined destination! A good eye is needed to see through the currents and shallow waters, sailing the ship to new lands to explore. As such the steerman should have some experiences in sailing and how currents are normally acting. Sailor - The sailors of the ship are helping wherever they can, either by hissing the sails or by cleaning the deck. Normally this job isn’t requiring a lot of talent to do, yet, it is one of the more important jobs, since everything is depending on the sailors. Medic - Healing the wounded and sick is the work of the medic, often saving many lives in dangerous situations. As such the medic should have a great knowledge in medicine and should be able to operate in a rather small medical area. Goals The Atlasian Naval Guild has several important goals to achieve, mostly focusing around explorations and experimentation on different naval-related topics. As such the most common goals for the guild are: Finding new land Finding new plants and animals Completing research on different topics, mostly the synergy of different species Preserving the ocean life Discovering ancient sea structures Finding treasures Application MC-Name: Character Name: Age: Race: Hometown: Possible Goals to achieve: Wanted Role/Job: Discord: Member List Captain Vahryu Daluon (@Ragnio) Julia Abernathy(@Space_Gene) Steerman Gilondir Oronar Frostbeard (@SanderGamerNL) Cartographer Jakhatir Kegbrew Grandaxe (@iAssey) Son'ya Sparrow (@MoonsWolf_) Secretary Quillian Caerme’onn (@Torkoal_Tom) Sonya(@EagleEyeKK) Medic Balin Anvilaxe Grandaxe (@TheDarkAngel2308) Makisu Aiichi (@LilBlueMaki) Cook Hekkaes ‘Anvilaxe’ Goldhand (@JokerLow) Sailor Kraggomi Anvilaxe (@Leomits) Eledar Haler'thilln (@Aythinae) Ben Ethil (@HurferDurfe1) Bolon Stormtaker (@DarkElfs) Abdul Mubdee (@Booklight12) Ravondir Torena (@Ravondir) Cassian (@Svaknir) Mith (@TeaSpoon) Ned Anker (@MrForesteroni) Amias Carter Jonesaeus (@Jerome Jonesaeus) Robin David (@SkullMasterRO) Luthais (@IceWalker0) Allied Forces Vizmak Brigade

OOC: While I may have left LotC, I still have work to do and thus have overturned my decision to leave LotC. This story is based on semi-canon portions, including what happens when one person uses magic not normally taught or found in LotC and will be a magic I’ll write in the future while I also work on my own project. I hope you enjoy “The Power of the Soul” by TheDragonsRoost. ~(+)==(+)~ Karren had lived many days within the forest where he gave himself the penance. For many days, he lived off of the land and the wildlife that roamed the forest, surviving off of the steak and pork that he collected from the wildlife. He had a lot of chances to leave the forest and be a part of the world once again, but he refused to leave the forest until he had served his penance through. Karren wanted to make sure that no trace of his former self remained and that it wouldn’t ever resurface. He didn’t have the magical power he wanted, but he had learned that some things are better off being done by one’s own hands than using magic. This included the irritating and unreasonable lust for magical power. One thing that his Regeneration had failed to get rid of all those years ago. The sun began to set and Karren, in his ruined clothes, had begun to set a fire near his tent. A small campfire that would become a small beacon to monsters that wished to claim his life. Not that Karren minded, but when he took his penance, he was not aware that monsters roamed the forest at night, willingly stalking their prey before killing them with sharp claws and pointy teeth. Over the years he served his penance, he had a few encounters with such beasts. Karren didn’t have much to his name, but he made do with his surroundings being his weapon. However, this night would turn out to be his last night serving his penance. As he watched the campfire blaze to life, Karren felt his soul warm up as if he could feel the emotions that ran so rampant during his Regeneration. He wasn’t sure why his soul began to warm up in this way, but he’d begin to feel his life slowly ebb away as if his own soul began to burn away his lifeforce, the force that sustains a person’s life. Karren began to feel his body slowly deconstruct itself with an amber glow, which made him scream in pain into the night. This kind of power he felt once before, when he held the Totem of Undying in his hands. It swallowed up his body whole and he became an Ethereal Light for a short time as he felt this strange power flow through him. While he was an Ethereal Light, he felt a strange, yet powerful force drawing him towards Cloud Temple. He knew he wasn’t dead, but this was something that couldn’t be overpowered. Karren followed this strange feeling towards Cloud Temple and once he arrived at Cloud Temple, he felt this power begin to fade and his body beginning to take form once more. He appeared as he did prior to his penance being served, but with some changes. He no longer felt the need for magic and he seemed to grow a bit. He also didn’t see the point in fighting or supporting the September Prince as he felt his mind begin to rewrite itself, almost as if it was reenergized beyond mortal standards. Karren also had begun to go through a massive wardrobe change as well, no longer wearing his green robes and normal clothing, but wearing something entirely different. “Well, this is certainly new...” Karren commented as he’d see his new clothes, completely unsure of what to make of them. Either way, he walked down the steps of Cloud Temple with the new wardrobe change and begin his adventures anew... ~(+)==(+)~ OOC: As I said before, this magic will be a Magic Lore Submission (presumably Deity or Dark Magic, though I’m leaning towards a different style of magic) and I’m thinking that Karren might like his new wardrobe. Anyways, I’ll be coming back to LotC within the next few months and I thought I’d get this started. Will be getting the skin for this made soon! Anyways, see you all in Atlas! -TheDragonsRoost

OOC: This is a canon story to Karren Mrysta, my main elf character, and his personal journey through the world of Atlas. “Delving into the Dark” is meant to be the end of his second chapter and this marks him being shelved for an undetermined amount of time. Chapter Three will begin once I decide to unshelf the character. The premise of this story is to tell Karren’s transitioning into madness for magical power that has begun to take over his mind, consuming him to the point where not even the deity Zarelek would grant him the powers of Oblivion. Karren’s inability to accept who he is and forceful change has begun to make him go mad with lust for power, wanting powerful magics in order to stop the September Prince and yet has made him an outcast. Find out more in “Delving into the Dark” by TheDragonsRoost. ~(+)==(+)~ Karren Myrsta felt like everything was crashing down around him. The feelings he thought he was rid of during the Regeneration have come back in full force, tearing him up in his mind to the point that he began to suffer drastic physical changes. He no longer had beautiful wavy silver hair, instead had ragged and unclean silver hair that seemed to carry a great amount of stress. His eyes no longer had their vibrant emerald green color, but yet were prematurely growing dimmer. His clothes became dirty and unclean, making him look like a rugged homeless person than a proper high elf. In the short and brass terms, he looked like ****. In the growing dimness of his own campfire within the southern portion of the continent of Atlas, he started to reflect upon his choices that he had made that led him to what he was in the present time. Karren reflected upon his choices in the Mother Grove, Dominion of Malin, Haelun’or, and many other places to where he felt he had wronged himself and many others in his pursuit of power. He sighed as he stared into his campfire, which grew dimmer every minute that passed. “It seems that I have done a great many things. Too many things.” He said to himself, leaning over to his bag and pulling out a bundle of papers with a bunch of diagrams and mathematical equations. It seemed to be his research. “All for this. The most useless thing I’ve spent years to complete and I am no further than where I was at four years ago.” Karren looked over his research as he’d undo the twine that bound the papers together, slowly and carefully. He sighed as he poured over the papers and said simply “I wish I never started this. This has caused me too much heartache and has made me something that I could never be. Arelion was right. I’m not worth being taught magic.” He did not need more convincing than what he felt. He soon tossed the papers into the fire and watched as the fire grew a tad brighter as it happily consumed the research that Karren had given it. Karren, however, did not feel any better for tossing the papers into the dimming fire. He just stared into the fire as it produced more heat from consuming the papers, warming himself up from the growing coldness of the night. It would also be Karren’s last campfire for a long time as Karren decided to go into his tent and get some sleep. What Karren did not realize was that this led to him live in that same forest for a long time, hunting and feeding off the natural wildlife for years to come as a sort of self-induced penance for his “crimes” of lusting for power. ~(+)==(+)~ Zarelek watched through his Ethyrian Star of what Karren had done and he was outright annoyed. He had wasted that time on that boy just for him to burn his research to ashes, rendering him unable to learn his magic. Within the Realm of Oblivion, Zarelek nearly made his castle rumble with his anger and annoyance towards the high elf, but he caught himself and restrained his anger and annoyance. “That boy is smarter than I thought, destroying his research.” Zarelek said to himself, his voice echoing throughout the throne room. “But still quite idiotic. This decision has made me decide to best put my efforts elsewhere. Someone that has the same aura, but not wanting power or at least lusting for it like this foolish mortal elf.” Zarelek sighed as he used his powers to curse the high elf to stay within the forest for a time that he would let him free, punishing him for his lust for power and proving to be unworthy to wield the powers of Oblivion. He did not feel the slightest bit of guilt for keeping the boy locked up within the forest, but he was not truly angry with the boy. Once he casted the spell, he introduced a few clauses into the spell that bound him to the forest, and all of them were pretty simple. He only needed to repent from his ways of lusting for power, serve his penance for proving to be unworthy, and spend his whole penance in isolation from civilization. He wasn’t sure how long it would take for the boy to serve out his time within isolation, but then again, even he was not all-powerful or all-knowing. He leaned back into his throne, sighing a bit and saying to himself “Now, who in Atlas shall I distribute my efforts towards? The warring humans? The peaceful halflings of Dunshire, perhaps? No,” he’d say to himself, looking at his Ehtyrian Star once more. He had an idea brewing in his mind for a particular person he saw once. While observing the world of Atlas, he came across a particular mali’ker. He didn’t have the prismatic aura he was looking for, but he had this bright vibrant emerald green aura, almost the same as his own. He didn’t understand much about this mali’ker, but from he knew, this dark elf (mali’ker) was a bastard son of one of the tribes in the Warhawkes. His knowledge of the Warhawkes did not extend thousands of years, but he knew that they emerged within the last few hundred years. He stroked his chin while he thought of what this mali’ker was able to do. During one of his sessions, he spotted this mali’ker while he was talking to his young high elf boy, who seemed to be around thirteen solar rotations old (13 years old) and how he attempted to defend the child from the dark mage that altered the boy’s soul, granting him the power to set things aflame. Zarelek was aware of the spell used on the poor boy and he knew that it would last quite some time, but would forever alter the boy’s soul. This didn’t hinder the boy from learning much magic, but he wouldn’t be able to learn druidic powers even if he wanted to due to the soul being altered. Zarelek clapped his hands one time and rubbed them together, saying with a small amount of glee “This mali’ker is whom I shall oversee. Perhaps even attempt to teach him the magic of Oblivion, but however, I must keep my influence small lest I wish to have the boy notice that he has my attention. This means I cannot make the same mistakes I made with that high elf with this mali’ker boy. Let us see how this boy handles his daily life and its challenges...” This began Zarelek’s own round of testing the boy. Seeing if he will prove adequate enough to be taught the magic of Oblivion. ~(+)==(+)~ OOC: (For the LT) Even if Zarelek isn’t accepted yet, I feel like he is a good character to have in my stories and thus shouldn’t be considered canon to the deity’s story until being accepted. Also, this means that for the time being, Oblivion Magic (and the relevant instant t5) will go to my dark elf character if the magic of Oblivion ends up being accepted alongside with the deity. This isn’t meant to be one of those “oh your just making special magic for your characters to make yourself more powerful” situations, but merely a narrative of Karren’s and Zarelek’s story. (For everyone else) I hope you enjoyed “Delving into the Dark” as there will be more stories to come in the Creative Writing section.

Karren Myrsta had lived a peaceful life within the town of Caras Eldar before he ultimately left the Dominion of Malin and ventured to the most southern regions, avoiding raiders and bandits along the road to a small human colony called Austrasia. He arrived to Austrasia, starving to death, when his friend Nenar came through the gates and gave him pieces of bread for him to feed upon and gain his strength back. He had a charismatic charm to his kind soul as if his soul burned with an intensity that allowed him access to a very special kind of magic that not everyone understands. This kind of magic cannot be taught by anyone or found in a musty old tome full of ancient diagrams and written words of those long past gone, but yet all the people know of it. It allows access to the greatest ideas and allows for innovators of both scientifical and magical origins to create things that no one has ever seen before. To allow for the greatest of heroes to be forged in the coming days of Atlas and even make things come from the parchment to life. From the smallest halfling to the biggest orc, this magic flows through all people of any origin or culture, unbound by the restrictions of magic and burns within the person's soul without being quenched by the darkness of Dark Magic or being amplified by those of Holy origin. This magic allows for new beginnings, creation of eras in both magical and scientific progression, and can even unify a people determined to live together in harmony. He never allowed himself to be down when it mattered. Karren had a special kind of heart that meant he could move the stars themselves in order to save his friends. He felt that power surge within him, even as he tried so hard to obtain magic to only never gain magic. As a young child, Karren was endlessly fascinated by the prospects of innovation and utilizing magical energy to help others than just himself. No matter how hard he tried to gain magic of any kind whether it be Shade, Voidal Evocation, or even Druidism, he never truly wanted that magic for himself. He never craved power just for the sake of power, but he craved power to help others. He didn't wish to cause others harm or let harm befall those he believed or knew were innocent. He wanted to be a role model for the children and to give them that sense of wonder he himself carries. He wanted to push beyond the cultural differences of the magical types and let his own self feel the magic that burned within his soul be his guide to being someone that he knew he could be. Now, he still hopes to achieve that goal. Even though he is now sixty-one years old, Karren still believes in the magic of Hope. [OOC] This is meant to be a creative writing story that is canon to my character's personal story, but not known in-character. Please do not metagame any of this information.

Sometimes you just don't understand. Sometimes you want to understand something that cannot make sense. This is what happened to Karren Myrsta one night while doing the calculations for the magic he was desperately trying to crack. His soul yearned for the powers of Magic, which seemed to repel all the divine attention from him, keeping their gifts far from Karren and lending him no aid to the unruly calculations. It seemed all hope for Karren doing these calculations would be dashed... ...Had it not been for one very odd dream he had some time ago. ~(+)=(+)~ He slept normally as he did in the small southern city of Austrasia, laying in his own bed within a small tent of his own making. He was exhausted of the day's events and slept hard and then it became odd from the start. He dreamed he was floating in a pit of nothingness, no light or sound. He couldn't see much or less feel. Well, thats would turn out to be a lie once he started to feel something put its eye on him as if it dragged him into this pit of nothingness. "You wish to make a deal?" Karren would hear in his mind. It sounded male, raspy or rough Karren could not discern. The voice seemed to be quite serious. Karren thought about it and before he could speak, he heard the voice in his head again. "So you wish for knowledge to crack your mathematics on your magic. I can offer that knowledge, but this comes with a cost you will pay for in the future." "What cost?" Karren quickly thought. "You shall find out. In time." The voice said and before too long, Karren woke up with a beautiful sight of the sun rising. ~(+)=(+)~ The mysterious voice stirred up a physical form in Atlas. He, of course, would not be visible to the Descendants or to the creatures yet as he longed for the boy to finish his calculations to which he helped seal the deal in his dreamscape. He offered the boy the knowledge he desperately required, but he had no idea that he had signed away something that he'd come to find out in the future which made the man smile a little. His physical form was always something he preferred the most to look like though he had no real physical form to speak of. The future of the research he had plans for, the man thought, would be destroyed once he completed it with the knowledge he provided him. At least thats what he planned for in reality. "He has no idea that he is beginning a whole new era of magic. Of Dark Magic." the man smiled as his vocal chords were fully formed once more, walking away from Cloud Temple with an aura of a chilling coldness that rivaled even that of Death itself....

Waking in a strange Realm is always shocking, but to Karren Mrysta, he was met with the complex thing in the world. He woke in a strange field of wheat on an endless plain, stretching from horizon to horizon where Time had little meaning. He was dressed in garb that seemed to be completely white as if it represented his purity of the soul and he felt like these plains had meant a lot to him as if the field of wheat meant the potential he had as a person instead of just a High Elf. With this, he did not understand what has happening until he began to notice someone else in the field of wheat with him. A man walks up to Karren, seemingly around the same age as Karren, wearing robes of a vibrant astral blue color with a golden trim in his cloak. He also has a black tunic with black pants and he also wears hard leather boots, however it seemed to Karren that this man looked like a High Elf, though not really. Karren wasn't sure who this stranger was, but he did have a familiar feel to him as if somewhere in Karren's mind, he knew him. Perhaps he had read about him from someplace? "Hello, Karren Myrsta," the stranger said to Karren. "Welcome to the Far Glade." Karren was speechless, but he would remain speechless for a time as the dream would seemingly take a long time before it would allow him to speak. What seemed like a half-hour of silence, Karren found his voice and spoke up. "Why am I here?" "Because there are mysteries that need solving, Karren. The Primal Schools of magic aren't to be tested, but however, in my Realm, I can tell you the only thing that your missing." the stranger told Karren. "You're missing Time." With that, Karren suddenly woken up and the world took a moment to snap into view as he felt like he slept so hard that he slept for two years...

*I'd like to be more active on the forums, and as of now, I think I can do so by writing short stories. In a city full of music, joy, and chivalry, there were great people, people who spread the magic of this city. Though this magic was not like most, it was a magic that could not be seen but felt with the heart. Just stepping foot inside this beautiful city would make you feel at ease, you'd be relaxed, joyful, and stress-free. Music flew gracefully down streets, art was hung all around, people of all sorts would talk and they'd all get along marvellously, though of course, this could never last forever. In 1934 this beautiful city had to witness a tragic event, which none imagined would ever happen. The roaring of the wyverns of the mystic forest was heard. These roars tumbled over the beautiful music in Glynn, causing it to fade. The citizens were quick to realise what this was. It was the Monarch of Olara. There could only be one possible reason for her arising. The Heart of Glynn had been tampered with. The heart of Glynn was a powerful gemstone gifted to the queen of Glynn by the monarch of Olara, to help prevent evil for spreading throughout the city. Some citizens rushed to their homes, others fled to the outer city, and few rushed to the palace. A Wyvern had flown over the city, landing right on the tower where this magical gemstone once sat. Inside this tower, were the queen, on her knees, holding pieces of this gemstone, tears flooding from her eyes, spilling like rain would on an awful day. citizens and knights rushed into the room, stopping at the door as the queen brought her hand back, her palm flat, facing them, indicating them to not step closer. The Wyvern perched on the tower roared, destroying the top of the tower, causing chunks of stone to crumble and fly off the sides, crashing into other parts of the palace. The citizens inside screamed, though the queen only continued to silently let out her tears as she stood, taking hold of a piece of the gemstone in her hand, clutching it tightly as she walked towards the wyvern. The creature sniffed and grumbled, horrid, ghostly noises escaping it as she came closer, bringing the piece of gemstone closer to its nostrils. In fear, most the citizens had backed away, though some brave nights stayed, yelling for their queen to step away. Though, nothing good be done, as the mouth of the wyvern opened, whispers escaping for a very brief moment, before a strange fire, yet dust like substance blew out of its mouth, and from there, everything went blurry, nothing could be seen, and it happened so quickly. The knights left had been blasted back, the rest of the top of the tower was destroyed, and the queen was gone. A large pile of white sat on the floor of the floor, and in the middle of it lay the gemstone. Repaired, as if it were never broken. Though, the queen the citizens all once knew and loved was not there. Instead, a new queen had risen from these dust particles, a new ruler had been birthed. With a last glance, the Wyvern took it's leaving, heading right back to the forest it came from, letting out a last horrid roar to warn the citizens of Glynn to never touch such a precious item again.

Time. It is the endlessly complex force of all of Creation that cannot ever be killed or destroyed. But somehow, it can be manipulated. Karren Myrsta had met his biggest fan of the club called the "Grand Undying," a mysterious club that centers around Karren Mrysta and his research into Balance Magic, a magic that transcends the magics of Voidal, Deity, and Dark, in the Dominion Square. Somehow, this biggest fan of his seemed to be knowledgeable of his past and what Karren would not realize was that this encounter would trigger a loop in Time where his biggest fan and himself were trapped in. Not even Balance Magic could manipulate this loop, but this had prompted Karren to delve back into his research into Balance Magic and keep trying to obtain this magic, but however that alone has come with dark costs. Once Balance Magic was released into Atlas by Karren Mrysta, he would not realize that researching such a powerful force of magic would place a curse upon his bloodline that would last all the way until the End of Time. For every firstborn child of his bloodline, they would slowly become a Balance Elemental and cannot revert back into Descendant form for extended periods of time. The Myrsta Bloodline would be cursed once Balance Magic was released. Starting with Karren Myrsta's own firstborn and the curse would not manifest until the child themselves achieved the highest possible tier in Balance Magic. Balance is Forever. --- "Sir, the boy's timeline has fluctuated!" a strange voice would say out into the depths of the Transcended Realms. A man in black robes and silvery hair with Emerald Green eyes would come walking towards the sound of the voice. He would seem to be extremely powerful, too powerful for the world of Atlas. He'd begin to speak with a neutral tone to the strange voice "How did it fluctuate?" "A strange wood elf spoke to him. It seemed to accelerate his timetable for researching the magic of Balance by at least a few elven weeks." the strange voice would reply. "Should we allow this change?" "Let it stay. If the Prince causes any more damage to Atlas, the boy will need the magic. Especially if it can grant him the ability to forge godslaying weapons." the black-robed man would say and then the scene would fade to black..... ---

Everybody lives. Everybody dies. Stories End. Stories Begin. Karren Myrsta felt the cold and unyielding grasp of the Reaper, living to tell the tale of the Regeneration to those he'd call friends. Feanor, Arwenia, Leolin, Ally moon, and even the Praetor himself were just a few people out of the many who began to hear the tale of the Regeneration and the man who rose from the cold icy grip of Death, wielding knowledge of the powers of the Dark Magics that govern over the dark creatures and users of the magic. He begun to see how death worked to fuel their spells and in many ways, this added to his already accumulating research on the new type of magic he wanted to try and learn. In this magic, the users of the magic are able to understand the balance between all things, living and not. They are able to pull the weaknesses and strengths of the various schools of magic, forging them into powerful spells that can be used to attack multiple enemies or even just one enemy at a time, forge barriers strong enough to keep enemies at bay, and even cast healing spells upon those who the caster deems an ally. Even then, with this magic, dangers come knocking. The question is if Karren can protect the one thing that was given back to him. Can he protect Karren's Ether?

Some stories have good endings. Some stories have bad endings. Not this story. Picture if you will a lone Druii wandering the forest in a frozen instance of Time. He would wear the formal attire of someone with royal blood coursing through his veins as if his life depended on his body having such royalty in his body. He had died long ago in a bygone age and wandered the forest for eons after his death, but even in this beautiful scene of the morning sun rising and the peaceful atmosphere of the forest, something had felt off. This druid had forgotten his mortal name long ago and nearly all the memories of his mortal life, though it would seem his story had not been over all those years ago. He did not remember his death at all or how he woke up in this strange place all that time ago, but he felt the Song of Nature sing in a soft hum throughout the forest, but in one very specific area the song would slowly dim until it would be completely unheard. "Curious," the druid would speak as he'd walk into a small clearing, hearing the Song start to diminish. "Why would this beautiful place become so silent here?" He would not feel nor hear someone approaching in front of him, though he could see a distortion in the space in front of him. Ripples in the fabric of spacetime and the forest would go silent as the ripples began to expand to reveal a dark Oblivion behind a mystical tunnel that seemed to be ethereal in nature. In this tunnel, a lone man would walk towards the druid. This man seemed to control the tunnel and the tunnel itself seemed to even respond to his commands. The druid was completely taken off-guard of the stranger who seemed to govern the magical tunnel into the forest and was taking a few steps back as if he feared the being. "In the name of the Aspects..." the druid would say as he'd notice the man walking towards him from the tunnel, sounding scared of the man in front of him. "What in the name of the Aspects are you..?" A strange disembodied voice would meet his question with a soft feminine whisper, almost as if the Aspect of Life herself was replying to the druid. "That is the Lord of Creation, a man so powerful that he could slaughter divine beings with his magic and stop wars with his knowledge in swordsplay and experience in the bow and arrow. He is coming for you....." This would make the druid very scared and run for his life in the forest, but little did he know that the Lord of Creation was here for something else entirely. Something that meant he would be changing the course of History forever. He was there to teach the druid Balance Magic, but even with that kind of magic, he knew that the druid would need to spread it as well. The Lord of Creation knew the druid's name. His name was King Abelas of the Dominion of Malin and he wanted to make sure that Abelas knew what had been done in his time inside of the Eternal Forest. However, Abelas did not know the Lord of Creation's name and he would never know while he had resided within the Eternal Forest... OOC: This is meant to be a short story based upon the character that @Will (TauFirewarrior)roleplayed, known as King Abelas. In NO WAY is this meant to be disrespectful or harmful towards the character as I thoroughly enjoyed his character and as such, this story is meant to be NON-CANON. In this story, the "Lord of Creation" character is based off of my character of the same origin from my upcoming Lord of Creation book series and the setting of the story is set 400-500 years after the PK event (IC-time). Note for Will: Loved roleplaying with you as you played as Abelas. Hope to enjoy your child char in roleplay! -Kev

"The boy. How has he progressed?" A strange figure would say. Strange sounds are heard throughout the cavern as if it was ethereal in origin, almost as if it was trapped between instances of time. This strange figure would seem to be extremely powerful, equal to that of a semi-divine as if the figure had ascended to their current position through Regeneration and acquiring the powers they have, though it seems that the rules of the world bind this figure to this ethereal plane, unable to ever interact with the mortal world. "He has been brought back to life, sire. Through the use of a Totem of Undying." A lingering voice would say from deep within the cavern, rough and masculine. "The boy still has no idea of his destiny and how he shall hold the power to unite two warring worlds. He should still be unable to realize this destiny for the time being." "Then he shall remain ignorant until such a time when Fate intervenes," the strange figure replied to the voice in the cavern, sighing a bit. "So, when will he begin his research on the magic?" "His research has already begun, sire. He has started making headway in such things and gathering the information he believes that shall help him learn of the magic." the voice replied. "He will still need to find his own way to knowing the magic." "That is left to the natural course of Time. For the time being, he shall enjoy this time he has because he is starting a new chapter in his life soon enough." the strange figure would say to the voice. "With the events that is to come, he will need to be prepared. There are dark days coming for the boy, even with the Prince spawned in Atlas." "Of course, sire. I shall update you further once the boy stops grieving for the fallen King of the Elvenesse." the lingering voice would say to the strange figure, sounding neutral in the matter. "A pity the King fell to a dwarf whose own power was corrupted and corroding to the Natural Timeline. The powers of messing with the natural balance of Life and Death can do that to anyone who wields its power, regardless of what magic or weapon the person wields..." the strange figure would say as the scene began to fade.... ((OOC Sidenote: These little Transitions between the chapters are meant to be told in this form in a way of personifying the OOC perspective between a mysterious figure and a mysterious voice that will hold no influence on the Realm of Atlas. It's a new concept of creative writing I'm working on to help with the personal story of Karren Myrsta and maybe even all of my characters on Lord of the Craft. I hope you guys enjoy the reading and perhaps I will make more Transitions and add more indepth storytelling...))