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The Woods of Oren, Two Years Ago The bells of the Basilica tolled loudly, though Markus didn’t notice too much from inside. However, it would seem to be enough to wake him from an apparent slumber- his head would snap to attention. As his eyes flashed open, and he adjusted to the light, he'd notice he stood before the altar. He’d smack his dry lips together lightly, and rock his head back and forth with a subtle crack as he slowly regained his bearings. How long had I dozed off? I couldn’t have been out for too long. He’d glance down, and saw himself wearing unblemished plate armor- finer plate than he’d ever had seen. His best dress. Adorning it, was the Morovarian Coat of Arms- and tucked in his left arm was a fine piece of cloth, which likewise bore the signature of his house. Confused, he’d turn around- to see Konstanz Barclay, likewise dressed as sharply as him. He’d simply shoot a childlike, mischievous grin to his best friend before turning around. Markus had regained his bearings. Markus knew where he was. It was the best day of his life. His wedding day. Excited, but yet nervous, as all prospective groomsmen were- he’d glance at the crowd. He recognized the faces of his many friends he had grown up with. The Vyronovs showed out, as the two large brothers occupied a pew to themselves. The princes, his other friends- Karl, Sergei, Josef, all sat in a pew, accompanied by their Marian. The Dame, Mariya, sat eagerly waiting in a pew- seeming much older than Markus thought was right. Diverting his eyes to another section of the Basilica, he’d eye his twin brother, Petyr, who raised his hand in greeting. He’d poke their mother to alert her- Eleanore would then grant Markus the biggest smile he had ever seen. If she could right now, she’d give me the biggest hug. I know it. His father would look upon Markus with watery eyes, a proud gaze befalling his son. The duo would exchange courteous nods- the message they had just communicated known only to a father and a son. He’d continue his assessment of the crowd. Notably toting their colours, the Baruchs sat in a row- His boss, the Palatine himself, Eirik, sat dwarfed by the always intimidating Isabel, who, in an anticlimactic finish, was followed by Saoirse. The trio noticed Markus’ attention, and proceeded to wave, hoop, and holler at him. Family. He’d then return his gaze back to the altar, to see the Pontiff himself, to his surprise. Breaking free of his astonishment, Markus would politely dip his head to his holiness. After reciprocating the courtesy, the Pontiff would quickly shush the crowd, just as the doors to the Basilica were opened. A veiled woman would enter, in traditional Haeseni wedding attire. She’d begin her slow walk towards the altar, rose petals adorning the floor as she meandered forth. It seemed an eternity to Markus as she walked forth. His heart beat out of his chest, as he averted his eyes to the floor to ease his nerves. Finally, however, the walk had finished, and it was time for the ceremony to begin. The woman ascended the altar, taking the position opposite of Markus. She’d lift the veil hiding her face, causing Markus to gasp- loud enough for only the three of them to hear. She’s… all I’ve ever wanted. All I ever will want. The two would clasp their hands together, as the Pontiff began to rattle off the words he had said a thousand times before- the words flew right on over Markus’ head. I’ll be a papej. I’ll be the best papej there ever was. My son and I, we’ll play forts, play knights. My daughter will rescue me from the clutches of a dragon! And we’ll go and have a tea party! He’d then glance back up at Margrait, his wide smile revealing what he was thinking. And they’ll be as beautiful as her. Eventually, the Pontiff finally got to the part where they exchanged vows- and, in what seemed like a blur to Markus, they finally got to the end of the ceremony. Markus would stride forth to sweep Margrait off her feet, but suddenly, she’d hold her hand out. “Markus! Ye know we cannae! Ye know ah’m married now.” Markus would chuckle, shaking his head. “Da! To me!” “Nae. To Mikhail.” A constant stream of rain began to thud on the roof, and a dull pain began to throb behind Markus’ eyes. “Nie… Nie. Vy canniet be married to Mikhail! Vy… vy are supposed to be married. To me! Niet the abuser! Niet the snake!” “Sorry, Markus. But ye know et must be. Now wake up, love. The Kingdom needs ye.” The roof of the Basilica turned to the cloth roof of his tent, and the warm feeling turned to pain- in Markus’ stomach, in his head, and all over his body. All he felt was pain. And wetness. How can I be wet? The roof of the tent is perfectly fine. He’d lurch forward, and look down at his tabard. It was completely soaked in what appeared to be vomit. With a groan, he’d lean onto his side, and regard the many, many, empty bottles that littered the tent. “Why can’t I just die!” His voice was hoarse after he cried out. He knew nobody listened- he knew nobody heard. He knew nobody cared. Konstanz was long dead by now. It was the fourth time he had attempted to die this way. Each time, he awoke from his attempt- with a pounding hangover, and a lurching stomach. Each time he awoke, he was reminded of his failure. The lady he wanted was in another castle- and he slept in a filthy tent. He’d eventually garner together enough strength to leave his tent, stepping outside into the pouring rain. Eventually, in a fit of anger, he’d begin to abuse his tent. Starting with the wooden frame, he’d begin to smash bottles against it, bend it, snap it- whatever it allowed. He’d pound his fist against the ground, over, and over, and over again- proclaiming his failure. “Loser! Bastard! Weak-minded, effeminate excuse of a man! Vyr not half the man Mikhail is! Vy gave up! Vy need her! Vy need her, and vy lost her!” Lightning would flash, and eventually, after a while, he’d fall to his knees- and eventually, after a while, he’d defeatedly lie on his back. The rain would lightly, yet affectionately, tap on his face. Tap. Tap. Tap. His mind would flash back to the time spent with Margrait in Ghaestenwald, prior to his leaving. His face was flushed red with anger. He’d let loose a little tantrum, kicking baggage as if he was but a toddler who did not want to leave a friend’s house. Meanwhile, Margrait nervously stood in the corner of the room. “The Papej! Me! Me! It should be me! Niet Mikhail! Me! Ea will crumble his walls, if he even touches vy!” Margrait would become angry, shooting an accusing finger at Markus. She’d scold him for his incessant anger, his yelling- his threats. The tapping of the rain would bring him back to the present, and he’d let his body lay at rest. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Eam a child. Eam simply a child, an anguished child who throws vain tantrums. Ea still haven’t fixed myself, my anger, even after Margrait asked. Nie. After Margrait Demanded.” “Mikhail isn’t a snake. And he’s… grown. Moved on. Since we were kids. Eam the one who hasn’t. Eam the flawed one.” He’d shake his head with a sigh, covering his eyes with his hands. “Margrait shouldn’t have me. Eam nie papej. Eam nie husband.” “Eam nie man.”

𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐈 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐧𝐞 /ˌkler də ˈlo͞on/ noun a pale blue-gray or pale green color. ~} ❁ {~ The mid-autumn sun shone across the coastal region, painting everything in its path with gold. The ocean glittered with splendor amidst heaven's aurum rays, and below the cliffside, just barely out of reach, reflected the portrait of a remarkable duo. They sang many cheers upon that cliff, which bliss-filled harmony was soon laced with life's melancholy. "My next trial and I believe my last, is one of the most dangerous trials," Remarked the young lass with a mischievous smirk, her bone-stricken form just nearly cured of its malnourishment. "I have to face the water pressure of the deep and risk death! I'm kinda'v scared, but after today- I'm pretty excited for it." The boy, just nearly a man in his stage of development, frowned with deep concern and asked. "Why are your trials so dangerous? That worries me..." "Thalassa is the goddess of the ocean who is the taker of both man and woman. She is merciless and of fury, she has killed many...but I can't help but empathize with that." Beowulf hummed "The trials ensure we are determined and truly worthy of becoming Thalassa's priests- becoming her hands and eyes...A test of our faith towards her greatness! Hoho! One must face hellfire and brimstone to be worthy of it!" "Are you really sure you want to risk your life like this? This would make me very sad if you were to die..." Beowulf replied with a faint bob of her head as rhinstone eyes shone like stars in midst the amber light of the sun, sparkling orbs interlocked with the glittering sea. "Time is slipping under my feet faster than I can ask what's going on. You and Kera are already moving on without me...and on top of that, growing up. After discovering Thalassa and recent past events, I realised, I'm going to eventually end up alone in this world. You'll have your own friends, and so will Kera, you won't need someone like me to keep you both on your toes. You'll both have things to do and grow up without me." The boy, Echo, remained sat by his friend, speechless. "Thalassa doesn't change, and I believe- at least I'd like to think- that we can both understand each other... Even if you both leave, at least she'd still be there." "Beowulf.." Echo's voice would soften as his expression frowned with sorrow after listening to her. Looking down at his hands to find the proper words to say, he'd return his gaze to the battered girl and replied. "We won't leave you behind... I don't want to leave my friends behind, and Kera wouldn't want to either. Time is indeed not waiting for anyone, but that still isn't an excuse to risk it all. In fact, it contradicts what you stated! Leaving me and Kera will only sadden us!" ~{ Then why did you leave me alone? }~ The cerulean blue sky met with the woman's vibrant serpentine gaze. Head-filled entropy ebbed as quickly as the waves that washed against the woman's callused feet. Memories that sung symphonies of heartbreak now left behind a mind-numbing echo, to which the heart could not properly piece together. What tragic turn of events took place that left her body anchored to the sand-coated earth? Either way, she had to get up; but the mixed feelings of scorn and bereftment left her lying there on the shaded beach. What difference would it make anyway if she were swallowed whole now by the sea or if she got up and returned to her quarters? At the end of the day, no matter how much she had done through all her years of living, no matter the blood lost, no matter the countless nights spent awake working, everything all fell to ruin, loneliness and regret would come to haunt her again. How many years had she spent cooped up in her home under the plateau, lost in the past after replay through replay, so many countless memories which end's were all met with loss and misery? No matter how many times she'd try to reach out, somehow, she was always too late or lacked the necessary abilities to help. Perhaps this was her atonement in life for bearing bastard blood, but if that was the case, why did so many innocent people have to pay for it? Maybe this was life's form of a joke, and sure of it, they'd be laughing now. Still, the question presented itself, to get up or remain in solemn stagnance with the earth. To her dismay, the Storyteller rose with the tides and presumed the trek back home. The mid-autumn sun shone across the coastal region, painting everything in its path with solemn grey. The ocean was as dim as its muted greyed heavens, and below the cliffside, just barely out of reach, reflected the portrait of a single, lost soul. The world seemed dull beneath the plateau, which regrets kept hidden in dimly lit colors. To ease this mind-numbing sense of despair, the elf left a note and ran to the sea. The journey continues... Author's Note: By no means is this a PK, nor am I shelving the character or going on some mysterious hiatus. Since so much has already happened with the character both physically and mentally, I wanted to make a graduation post, or in this case, the final chapter to her book through her journey through life. The story for this storyteller of course still continues. This moment/period in her time though marks the end/death of who she once was, and the new beginning of a changed/different Beowulf/Izanami. In addition to this post, there will be a second/final rp post that also includes art, and during this time I will be working on said pieces. It was fun working on this (also tiring) but the best part was going back to the past and remembering all the great fun I had when I first started this character. I hope to have many more adventures with her. Credits ART: Me Writing: Me / Screenshots of rp that was not me Music: Claire De Lune - Debussy Migraines: Lord of the Craft Forum Site Size limitations