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Your mother is a witch, and witches are burned. Flames licked up the castle walls, searching and hungry, devouring wooden rafters and support beams, searing the stone until it glowed. Adalfriede’s lungs burned. Smoke and fear, scorching her from the inside out. She ran blindly, tears streaking down her cheeks and evaporating before they could even drip from her chin. A young girl of eight, but she already knew. I am going to die here. Arms, strong and wiry, snatched her up and threw her over a bony shoulder. The world jolted upside down in a haze of orange grey. “Leave her, Malcolm! She’s dead weight.” Her brother Wulfram, soot smudged on his face like the beginnings of a beard. Not a boy, but not quite a man, either. “She’s your sister.” Ser Malcolm’s gruff voice rumbled through her. “Family is everything.” He dumped her at the bottom of a boat, little more than a dinghy. He and Ser Hodrick worked the oars until Hexenwald—their home, their family, their legacy—disappeared as embers into the night sky. Three weeks. Three weeks of rain and dirt and endless trees, canopies crushed so close that day turned to night and night turned to nothing but blackness and the distant howl of wolves. Adalfriede huddled by the fire, Ser Hodrick’s fur-lined cloak draped over her narrow shoulders. A rabbit turned on the spit. Rabbits, pigeons, rats. Berries and mushrooms, roots pulled from the earth and brushed clean. They had been reduced to foragers, like the smallfolk living on the isle of Nebelheim. “How long must we live like this?” Wulfram tossed aside a pheasant’s bones, picked clean of meat. Ser Hodrick hacked and spit into the bushes. “Your father didn’t raise you to be soft.” “He didn’t raise me to run while peasants sacked my family home, either. I should be splitting skulls, not roasting rabbits.” He kicked the edge of the firepit, scattering glowing embers through their encampment. Adalfride shied away. In the heart of the woods on the ragged edge between autumn and winter, fire was survival, salvation. Yet it had brought her family such death and destruction, her parents, all of her siblings, burnt to nothing. Except for Wulfram. Wulfram was all she had. “You would have been put to the sword, Adalfriede with you.” Ser Malcolm turned the rabbit, browning its other side. His Daelish accent skipped over consonants and lengthened vowels into long, rolling plains cut with deep ravines and lilting rivers. “Far better to retreat, gather your strength, and strike when the time is right.” Wulfram scowled. At the edge of the firelight, where unknowable woods loomed, the shadows on his face lengthened and distorted until he was a monstrous thing, a creature of the night. “I will rebuild,” he vowed darkly. “In the name of my father, Wulfhard Rademacher von Hexenwald, I swear our family name will not perish to the flames.” It would be many years until Adalfriede shared his fierce loyalty to the name of their forefathers. That night she could think no further than the ache in her belly and in her feet, the bite of autumn near-winter finding her even beneath the heavy cloak. But when that loyalty did awaken within her, a small spark burning to life in her chest, there was no task too great, no length she would not go to, to protect her House. A gleaming white skull on a red field, teeth bared in a rictus grin. They saw the steeple before they saw the church, a wooden Lorraine cross standing in stark relief against the pale grey sky. Milky light shone diffused and weak through the trees, the air hazy like the pre-dawn, although it must have been midday. Adalfriede’s feet stung, wet and sticky with open blisters, but she did not complain. Rademachers did not whinge. “A convent,” Ser Hodrick muttered, pulling a branch aside so they could peer, unseen, at the nuns in full habit drawing water from a well. As one, Ser Hodrick, Ser Malcolm, and Wulfram turned to look at her. “Exile is no place for a girl.” Wulfram’s eyes darkened, the chips of emerald green appearing more like a midnight sea, deep and unpredictable. His thinking face, machinations turning themselves over and over in his mind. “You will stay here until I find somewhere to settle, to rebuild.” “You can’t do that!” Adalfriede’s voice, rough with disuse, came out thin and whining. “I belong with you.” “Your brother’s right, lass.” Ser Malcolm dropped to a knee, taking her by the shoulders. “We’ll be on the road for months, if not years. They’ll take care of you here.” “You’re supposed to take care of me.” Adalfriede looked up into her brother’s face but it was as hard and inscrutable as a cliffside. Angry tears stung the back of her eyes and lodged a stone in her throat. Wulfram’s face abruptly shifted, filled with a depth of passion that could shake mountains and divert the course of rivers. He nudged Ser Malcolm aside and knelt in front of her. “I will send for you. When I am settled, when Rademacher is poised to be a name worth heeding once more. Do you trust me?” Adalfriede nodded. She drew Ser Hodrick’s cloak from her shoulders and handed it back to him, her skin pricking to gooseflesh in the sudden cold. If Wulfram’s resolve could be strong, so could hers. I am Adalfriede Wulfhild Rademacher von Hexenwald. My crest is a white skull on a red field. We have no fear, for we are fear itself. Formido et Gratia. She told herself she wouldn’t look back. It was a weakness. But as she swung open the gate into a courtyard, grass growing unchecked and wild through the cobbles, she turned, eyes roving along the treeline. They were already gone, not even a broken branch or bootprint to mark their presence. Like they had never been there at all. Dead weight she may have been, but nine years later, Wulfram sent for her. Kingdom of Aaun… Lord Captain of the City Watch… engaged to be married… ennoblement… The words blurred, for she was already packing, meagre belongings thrown into a battered travelling case. She had stolen it when she accompanied the nuns to market and stored it under her bed all this time. A talisman, a prayer. She tucked a sliver of quartz into her pocket for protection and slipped through a side door into the decaying courtyard. “Adalfriede? Adalfriede!” This time, she did not turn back. The life of a girl raised by nuns faded in her wake, eclipsed by the story of a girl called to reclaim her birthright. She raced against the rain and summer storms until the great tower palace of Whitespire rose high above the landscape. A needle, a beacon, a white flame reaching towards the Seven Skies. She reached the safety of the gatehouse just as the heavens opened, washing the city clean of refuse and bootprints muddy from the march of war. A land ripe with opportunity… if one knew how to reach out and take it.

A Blue Ribbon Pumpkin by Sendrenx hal'Cingedoz An Excerpt Characters for Scene Grimaz: A poor farmer who spends less time working than he probably should The Winter Sprites: A group of 4 fey who with little magic of their own, promise much. Act 1 Scene 1 Enter Grimaz and Winter Sprites. Grimaz holds in his hand a poor misshapen pumpkin that bears a disheartened look to match his own. In the other, a bag with his lunch and a bottle of wine inside. Grimaz (To Audience) Oh, what a slipshod time it is. For me to find myself with nought but a pumpkin of unkind countenance to offer for the autumn festival. Alas, ruined am I! Struck down, bankrupt- (Grimaz notices the Winter Sprites). Wait a moment... should fortune be so gracious as to look my way. To gift mine weary hands with the loving outreach of our nature’s children? (Grimaz approaches the Winter Sprites, they shy away.) Do not fear me gentle servants of the soil. I mean you no harm. Many can speak of my character! My cunning, my kindness, my... (Grimaz looks to the audience and speaks in a stage whisper). Say something... something grand, but not so grand as to startle their temperate hearts. A moderate amount of grandness shall be best! (After the audience speaks their ideas, it is best to incorporate one or two as fits the rhythm of the scene. Should the audience be drunk, children, or otherwise unburdened by the art of comedy, the following will also do.) Oh, of course, my humility! Kind spirits, I beseech thee, do not abandon a simple, humble, farmer to the shame of gourdish forfeitures at no fault of his own! (Grimaz drops to both knees, holding his poor pumpkin towards the Winter Sprites. His bag falls and its contents spill out. They approach.) Sprite 1 Poor farmer, we wish that we could help but- (Sprite 4 claps a hand over the mouth of Sprite 1 as Sprite 2 strides to the front, the others eyeing the bag.) Sprite 2 (Musically) Why of course farmer, thy bidding is our call. We merely ask, a meager task, for a taste of your alcohol. A simple sip, a hasty taste, will put us wisps at ease. And then we can, for you good man, do anything you please! (Grimaz hands them his wine from the ground.) Sprite 3 And of course he’ll, provide a morsel, of freshly baked wheat bread. A simple labor, for the woodland neighbor, and we’ll do as you’ve said. (Grimaz, a bit more relentingly hands over his bread.) Sprite 1 (Breaks free and steps forward) I want cheese. (He is promptly pulled back and silenced again by Sprite 4.) Grimaz Of course kind spirits, anything I can provide to shield my honor and virtue from the piercing claws of fairground mockery! Oh, what a joyous and exquisite day to find as kindly and helpful souls as yourselves! Take it, take all you’d wish from my satchel, please, amend my squash’s saddened visage. (He hands over the rest of his bag and the pumpkin.) Sprite 2 Then off we’ll go, and soon we’ll show, how to save your ribbon chances. We just need time, alone with your wine, to do our spritish dances. Tomorrow you’ll see, your troubles will be, a worry none the longer. By then we’ll do, all we can for you, and make you the greatest pumpkin-monger?! (Sprite 2 looks to the other sprites for confirmation on the quality of his final rhyme.) Both Grimaz and Winter Sprites look pleased with themselves before turning to the audience and in a stage whisper proclaim in unison. ALL Aha! They fell for it! (Grimaz and Winter Sprites exit stage at opposite ends) Google Docs Link in case anyone needs it. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ErK9cjnnkxfFlbkZrDbPhMrxtBjB9W4aYUSgr7CIXHQ/edit?usp=drive_link

Chapter 1 In days long past, when the sun kissed the peaks of Almaris, and the gentle whispers of the wind breathed life into its verdant landscapes, the tale of a prophecy was born. Born not in the grand halls of the wise or the whispered corners of the sages, but in the elusive dreamscape of a select few. These chosen few, plucked out seemingly at random from among the descendants, began to receive vivid, bone-chilling visions. Echoes of a looming apocalypse that initially seemed too horrific to be real, too cataclysmic to even fathom. It was a nightmare that clawed at the edges of their waking minds, leaving an inescapable dread that gnawed at their peace. Yet as the hands of time continued their relentless march, the skepticism that had once been a comforting blanket began to fray. The veneer of denial cracked, the raw fear seeping into their hearts. The terrifying truth of their prophetic dreams was acknowledged, setting forth a wave of alarm that reverberated through every corner of the realm. The threats of the worm, the malevolent necromancers, all those foes that once terrorized the lands, were now but shadows before the terrifying face of this prophesied cataclysm. The might of Iblees was manifesting itself, taking horrific forms that threatened to plunge the realms into chaos and destruction. The sinister September Prince then, the ravenous undead befrore, and now the demented Mori'Quessir with their abominable beastoids, they all converged, their horrifying powers suffusing the air with a palpable dread. The very lands trembled in fear, the skies darkened, and a chilling wind swept across the landscapes, portending the doom that was drawing near. Chapter 2 Against this maelstrom of despair, a flame of hope flickered to life. The diverse races of the realm, roused from their disjointed existence, found common ground under the looming shadow of annihilation. The descendants, who had long been at odds, buried their old grudges. Magi, druii, xannitesi, and even blood magi, once immersed in their own individual pursuits, now came together. They discarded their differences and instead, combined their unique wisdom and arcane powers to create a beacon of hope. It was a light that pushed against the impending darkness, a beacon that stubbornly burned in defiance against the terrifying might of their adversaries. This newfound unity, though born out of dire necessity, held a beauty that was both poignant and inspiring. It hinted at the possibility of what could be, of a world where harmony was more than a fleeting dream, if they only dared to put aside their discord. Their fight, however valiant, was not without its losses. Almaris, a realm once teeming with life, succumbed to the onslaught. Its beautiful landscapes, once the epitome of nature's magnificence, were laid to waste. This once thriving realm was now nothing more than a desolate expanse of destruction. This bitter defeat set off a ripple of panic among the descendants. If a realm as grand as Almaris could be decimated, what chance did the others stand? Chapter 3 This spirit of resilience pervaded the human kingdoms as they faced the monstrous threat of the Mori. In the shadow of their malevolent power, humanity found strength and unity. They banded together, forming alliances that stretched across their borders, creating a tapestry of hope and camaraderie. They were ready to fight, their hearts burning with the unquenchable fire of their shared conviction. In this newfound unity, they were more than just individual races or kingdoms, they were a beacon of resistance. Their resilience breathed life into their ravaged lands, their unyielding spirit becoming the drumbeat of a defiant anthem against the growing darkness. They rose like the phoenix, ready to protect their land, their people, their legacy. The courageous men who dared to tread the desolate landscapes held onto the rhythm of their songs to keep despair at bay. Among them, a youthful Haenseti man bid adieu to his kin with a promise of a swift return, his melody echoing, "We all go marching, all go marching, all go march away. When I come back, we'll have a Baron-ay". His memory persists in the mournful cries of a desolate Mamej. The elves, once a race characterized by their discord, were also caught in the throes of this fight for survival. They too sought unity, desperately trying to pull together the frayed threads of their kinship. But old habits die hard and the old prejudices and biases of the past still lingered. Haelun'or, once the shining city of their people, was yet again left out of their discussions. A poignant reminder of the divisions that still plagued them. They hadn’t learned from their forefathers' mistakes, and now, they dared to dream of a future where all elves were united, their strength combined to face the looming cataclysm. Yet, in the face of these challenges, the spirit of hope still shone bright. Amidst the darkness, a symphony of whispers echoed through the realms, weaving a tale of unity, of resistance, of resilience. They clung onto it, the flickering flame pushing against the encroaching shadows. Their hearts were steadfast, their resolve unyielding. Descendants, diverse in their origins yet united in their purpose, toiled ceaselessly. They were like a legion of ants, their efforts harmoniously orchestrated, their spirits indomitable, working towards a shared goal. They served their kin, their nations, their esteemed monarchs—Kings, Queens, Sohaeran, and Maheralan—with unyielding dedication. They sought not just their individual survival, but the collective survival of their realm. Their unity was their shield, their shared resolve their weapon against the looming apocalypse. Despite their valiant efforts, the reality was a grim specter that loomed over their dreams of survival. The realm of Almaris was lost, its glorious landscapes now a desolate expanse, a painful reminder of their defeat. And while they had banded together for now, there was a gnawing fear that their unity was as fragile as the peace they sought. It was inevitable that once they fled to a new continent, their old rivalries would resurface, and the cycle of destruction and death would continue. Chapter 4 Yet, amidst the struggles and the bleak outlook of their future, the symphony of their unity continued to resonate. It was a symphony born out of necessity, out of desperation, but it was also one of hope. Despite the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded them, they dared to hope, to dream of a future where they could survive, where their realm could thrive once again. But the passage of time, relentless and unyielding, continued its march. As the echoes of their struggles faded, new challenges loomed on the horizon. In this new land, untouched by the shadows of their past, fresh battles awaited. The descendants would have to face these new threats, their hearts filled with an unsettling blend of fear and excitement. The tranquility they had found was fleeting, a mere prelude to the upcoming turmoil. The Mori'Quessir, who once loomed as an invincible foe, was now but a haunting memory. Their past transgressions, which once seemed insurmountable, were now whispers carried by the winds of time. The descendants had found respite from their overpowering grasp, but this was a brief reprieve. For hearts that longed for power and purpose, the lull was a test of patience, a harbinger of the battles that lay ahead. And so we found, the lands of Braveos. An empty canvas, awaiting colour. I write these words hoping you'll pay heed to my warnings, for only the resilient shall endure. Your inconsequential presence is a mere fleeting moment in the vast tapestry of time. Direct your attention to the collective rather than the self, lest we find ourselves trapped in a cycle of errors. The harmonious songs of birds already carry whispers of discord within. We are inclined to replicate the blunders of ancient legends, becoming victims of the very same missteps committed by our ancestors. - Oem Mali'thill

AD MORTEM US PARTEM He rose from his bed with a groan that echoed through the stillness of his chambers. Slipping on soft woolen slippers, he turned out of his bed, thin sheets rustling underneath the man’s weight. He shuffled towards the window, floorboards creaking, his hands wrapping about the heavy drapes before ripping them open, daylight flooding into the room as his chamber was set ablaze by the midday sun. Closing his eyes, the man did not open them until accustomed to the light. Upon an old desk in the room lay a pile of papers, tattered and bruised from poor care. The man sat. He procured a quill from a jar and dipped it in the silky black ink beside his hand. And so he began, burning hours away, while below him rang out church bells, echoing throughout a bustling marketplace crowded with people from all corners of the realm. The shouts of store tenders played as a soundtrack to his writing. And when he found that the night set upon him and the sounds quieted, an oil lamp he burned. Another day came. Birds chirped outside amongst the roofs. The ISA patrols moved throughout the city, greeting passersby on the road below the man’s chambers. Elves gave delicate curtsies to the men, dwarves headbutted each other in passing. Orcs grunted harshly at each other, usually ignoring the patrols of soldiers. And the man wrote, as he did for months before. Toiling endlessly at the stack of papers. Tap tap tap tap, a knock. Four times. The old wood door shook violently with each knock. An object outside the door thudded harshly on the hallway’s floor. The man trudged lifelessly towards the door, a wistful glance offered back towards the stack of papers sitting upon the desk, now whittled down to the last few pages. Tearing the barrel bolt from its rusted confines, he yanked open the deadbolt as the door creaked open slowly, a faint glimpse of a smile forming on the corners of his mouth. Nothing. And just as soon as it had come, the rise in his mouth had fled. He looked right. Empty halls. A portrait hung at the end of the wall stared him down, the cold eyes of Emperor John VIII following him. He shuddered. Left now. A mother entering her room with a baby, cooing loudly. She fumbled for a moment, hands shaking and palms sweaty as she fished through her pockets for the key, and he turned back. Now, down, he looked. To a box. He hefted it up into his hands and brought it into his room, letting it down onto the bed. The man examined the box, running his hands along the smooth, white cardboard. Shaking it briefly, he listened for sounds within the box. The man began pulling at the colorful ribbons wrapped around the box, tearing them apart and throwing them to the side, digging his fingernails under the lid as he pulled off of the top of the box a stack of papers. New, no blemishes upon the clean white sheets. Small, black letters and words littered the papers front to back. Butcher’s twine was holding the stack of papers together, he ripped it off as well. The man flipped the box over onto his desk, making room for this new batch of work. Crumpling up the unfinished old papers, he set them into a separate container and placed the lid of the newer box onto it, taking it out and setting it outside his door. He did the same with the finished older papers. Another day came. This time, horses prodded around the outer walls. The bells did ring, but not church bells. Raid bells. Women and children ran inside, men stayed around to watch their shops, taking arms. But, even still, nothing came of the such, and the city resumed business as normal. The market was still alive and buzzing with elves, humans, orcs, and more of the sort from all over the island. Another day came. Another package arrived at the doorstep. Another two were shipped out. Another day. More writing. More shopkeepers yelling throughout the market. More lively music playing, only to be interrupted. More bells. Another day rolled on by. And another. Another. Another. The days slowly melted in with the nights. All of it was a blur of words and ink blotches, melding together to form some semblance of a method. Some sort of structure to his work. Weeks rolled by. Hagglers in the market kept at their business, yelling over the crowds at the shop tenders as they hollered back their disgust. The bells kept ringing. The man worked endlessly as the bells, the bells, chimed out in a symphony to his toil. The market seemed quieter. Less orcs, at first, he noticed. His morning glimpses of the world were becoming more dull. The elves soon followed, and the dwarves next; retreating to their homes in the mountains around them. The city was hollow. Nothing but the sound of the bells echoed throughout the once full streets. But the silence was deafening. Every once in a while a passerby could be seen, but nothing more. Another day, another bell. The attacks began. Soldiers were sent to fight against them. And the number of patrols walking the streets dwindled. Another day. Another bell. Fighting broke out in the streets. And now, even the number of heartlanders chatting in the marketplace dwindled. Still, he wrote. But the marketplace had all but become deserted by now. The patrols of soldiers roaming the streets had all but left. And the man worked still. Engrossed by his writing. Until one day, he looked outside at the world around him. Carts were rolling out of the city, taking everything in their wake along with them. He’d never seen this before. They were leaving. Why? They’re safe here. This is Providence, after all. He went outside in a rush, papers flying through the room as he abandoned his workspace, throwing his quill across the chambers. Dust kicked up as the man walked across the bedroom and out into the halls. He took the right stairwell down at the end of the halls, running past a painting of King Adrian I that had been knocked to the ground. He stumbled out into the street. “What’s going on?” The man called. “What are all these carts for?” “Haven’t you heard? The Mori are coming! We must make it to Savoy.” A passerby called, halting his cart. “Hop along, I have room in the back for you.” He kindly let out a hand. “Mori? Savoy? This is Providence, isn’t it? We’re in Oren, we’re safe. The ISA is here to protect us.” His eyes, red, bloodshot. Denial plagued the man. Horrible, shaking fervor and tremors rippled through his demeanor. The man upon the cart cast a mournful gaze down towards the man, before looking down at the ground and soberly moving along. “Wait! Sir!” The man's voice shook as he looked about the square, “Please!” Nobody stopped to help, and the sparse gazes he had gotten turned quickly away as he dropped to his knees. Where was he to go? This is his world. And so he returned to his chamber. Writing. Only this time, no new packages came. None were shipped out. The world was dark. Empty. Cold. He was the only one left. Writing on papers over and over again, the silence of his own desire. His own creation. And as days and nights passed, the man felt uneasy. He felt empty, like a part of him was gone. Weeks later, strange dark figures rolled through. As the man awoke and went to sit upon his desk to write, it took him too many moments to realize what was happening. Men, shouting in the streets, razing the city. Flames, harsh, scorching, red flames, billowing from the streets and carts upon the ground. Ashes picked up in the winds, spreading the flames across the market, up the stalls, through the shops. Horrible, screeching celebrations from the Mori echoed through the streets and alleyways of the city. Buildings came crashing down, succumbing to the insatiable beast rippling through the town as it grew ashy, the monstrous flames lay waste to all around it in a horrid display of brutality. But there was nobody to see, nobody to notice, nobody to scream but the man. The dark figures were shouting a language he couldn’t understand. He didn’t want to understand. His eyes were glued shut, hands over ears. As much as he denied it, it was here. He knew it to be so. And the bells, they kept ringing. The whole time… the bells. And as the world caved in around him, his world, he denied it. His chamber burned around him. Fire leaked in beneath the door, eating up the carpet, the rugs, the trash scattered upon the floor. It crawled around the room like a lion, engulfing everything in its path, climbing up his desk, up the chair, tickling the papers upon the desk. And it set fire thereafter, going up in a brilliant inferno of red, orange and yellow. All of his work set alight, consumed by the pyre. But the man began to smile. For once in his life, he had witnessed true beauty as the flames swirled and grew around him, a perfect, passionate storm engulfing everything that he held so dear. A spark, however briefly it lasted, burned inside him like nothing had before. And how nothing would after. AD MORTEM US PARTEM

TRIGGER WARNING Chapter 1 Cindy’s breathing grew ragged, her feet staggering across the dry earth. A trail of red did her leg leave behind, and hungry noses did follow. In recent months her usual stamina had declined, her muscles weakened, her emotions muddled. But she wouldn’t change it for a thing, albeit she wished the world could be a better place for her love. She placed a hand on her stomach, her resolve steeling twofold as she remembered her purpose, turning a corner. A dead end. Her blood ran cold, how could she have let this happen? She knew every street, every alley, every building of these ruins, how could she have forgotten? She spun back towards the alley entrance, but already could she hear them. She could hear their feet dragging, their ragged breaths more broken than her own. She could smell their stink, rotting flesh and the metallic tang of fresh blood. What was meant to be a simple resource run for gasoline, all gone wrong in a matter of minutes. A sharp pain ran up her leg, causing her to cry out, an unneeded reminder of her mangled foot. She clamped a hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. But it was too late, the shuffling steps stilled, before a single sound rang out, only able to be described as a groaning scream. Another howl rang out, and another, and the shuffling grew louder again, closer. How stupid could she be, first stepping on her own trap, now losing her way? Focus. What street is this? She stilled her mind, brown eyes scanning her surroundings. A door. She prayed beneath her breath as she tried the handle, thanking the stars as it turned. She quickly slammed the door behind her back. Perhaps her luck wasn’t out yet, the sharp smell of acetone filling her lungs. A hospital. But a putrid smell soon followed, one she knew well, and she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. Resisting the urge to hurl, she gazed at the wreckage. Bodies littered the floor, but they were still and unmoving. For now. She limped past the corpses the best she could, even now unable to fully accept the reality of it. Focus. She thought again. Focus. BANG. Cindy’s whole body flinched, whipping around to peer back down the dark hallway. BANG. Louder now, she saw the source. She could have sworn her heart had stopped, gazing at the door she entered from in helpless fear. BANG. And the door flew open, the stench of decomposing bodies only growing stronger as they poured in through the door, a sob of terror wrenched through her lips before she could help it. She turned and did the only thing she could, she ran. She ran through the hall, turned right, then left. A dead end again. The only way out were the stairs. Rule one, when running never go up. The words echoed through her mind, her heart aching at the memory. But there was only one option. Fire, I need fire. Why did I leave without fire? Up the stairs did she go, gasping out in pain each time her foot hit the ground. But no matter, for the footsteps of the dead never slowed down. Her breath hitched as she felt something tug at her cargo pants, was it one of them or a nail poking out the building’s skeleton? No matter, she only climbed faster, the adrenaline kicking in and driving almost all the pain away. Fate’s final gift spurring her towards the door she knew was near, giving her that burst of energy she needed. She threw herself at the door, praying it was unlocked. It gave way, and she fell forward into… Nothingness. There was nothing. It was dark… silent… nothing but black. Yet somehow she was standing. She could feel her heart pounding, the terror melting into anxiety. She spun around again towards the door, and there it was. Floating in the dark empty space, a rectangle of light. She took a gulp, and took a step towards it… And another… Until she could peer down the stairs from which she came… “No…” She whispered, her hands traveling to her mouth. “Please…” She begged, not knowing whom she was pleading to. “PLEASE!” She screamed, falling to her knees as she sobbed at the sight of her limp and bloodied body on the stairs. Tens of them crowded round her, tearing at her flesh with their claws, ignoring the girl as she screamed in pain. From the other side of the door, Cindy couldn’t hear a thing, but the pain and horror in the girl’s face, her face, were easy to see. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t bring herself to stop watching herself die. Blood poured from her wounds, dripping down the stairs where more of those aberrations awaited to lap it up. Her bloodied handprints painting the walls, a forbidden art piece of hell. Till at last her arms fell limp onto the ground, and her empty, lifeless gaze staring up at Cindy through the open door. Author's note:

[None of this is public knowledge/merely just a creative writing; please refrain from metagaming against any of the characters mentioned.] Cold and damp were the rocks she clung to, as water trickled down from the jagged crevices and filled the pools at the very bottom of the cavern. Ancient ruins, pillars of stone, and the like decorated its walls; only a small portion of the gigantic graveyard of Almaris, appropriately dubbed the Tomblands. She breathed through her clenched teeth, cold sweat dribbling down her chin as she made her way toward the three thrones that towered before her. There, sat a malignant figure of ectoplasmic sludge and a husked metal body, with a grin as toothy and crooked as the dozens of souls taken to forge it. The woman bowed her head, and muttered out a quiet greeting. From the corner of her gaze, she watched it rise and float toward her, and in the next moment, she felt her souls -- all three of them, writhe and scream within her mortal coil. . . . "Viktoriya." It was as though time had stopped. The Wight before her stared joyfully as its hand, which had plunged into her heart and out the other side, clutched two gleaming orbs of light. Why had the pain ceased? The screams faded? "Do you blame yourself?" Like a rush of wind, she felt her consciousness fade. All of a sudden, she stood, not knelt, beside another of her Mystic brethren -- his name long forgotten to her. It was the beast she'd just seen torturing her, she'd almost forgotten they'd both learned the craft beside eachother as mortals. Azakrivel ... Vevodrok. The Barrowlords of Arcas . . . At least, the only Barrowlords she ever knew of back then. She recalled dealing one of the last blows to the behemoth of an Apparition to ascend him to Wightdom as Khorvhaditz. And then, the student she taught and called a sister of her own. Veil. "It's quite common for patients in this sort of situation to have a sort of ..." She'd grown so much, she truly had. And she was there, unmoving, watching as Khorvhaditz tore her souls in twine. How had she gotten into this situation? Wasn't she a soldier? A ... Woman who fought for the 'greater good'? "Guilt." Again, her consciousness veered back to an even later date than when she'd begun to walk upon that darkened path. The Inferi War. She was only a Lieutenant of the army, then, but she'd lead her brethren with great success. Perhaps it was only a small dent they'd ever put in the demons' numbers, but it was a triumph to them nonetheless. Her hopes were high, until that faithful day. She could tell, as she sat in a boat beside her husband -- her Captain, that this was the very day. Not wishing to see it over again like she had so many times, the Knight finally croaked out in response to the voice. "What situation?" Time jumped forth again, though only in minutes. There she was, trapped beneath a tree as her soldiers were being slaughtered left in right and the man who caused it, Captain Velhrun ... Viktoriya scowled. He was the only man to nearly equal her in her insanity and her accursedly long lifespan. She wished she could forget him like she had all the others. He was fleeing. The remaining soldiers had fled, too, yet the Inferi chased after the Captain instead. She could've let him die, and she could've swam off later, but instead she limped toward the party and screamed. Screamed at the top of her lungs, so they'd chase her, instead. "The ACCIDENT." Within a blink she felt a spear skewer her thigh. She threw some odd concoction she was holding. She felt another blade penetrate her arm. She blinked, expecting death, yet in however much time had passed she was instead contained in some cell. The wretched form of the demonlord, Tichar, stood before her. Her will had been broken. She had been broken. And she'd done something unspeakable; she pacted with It. The next sequences flew by her vision like bolts of lightning and claps of thunder, tearing her mind asunder and leaving her frothing on the floor of her abode . The vision of her past had now gone away, she was in the present, now, but she couldn't breathe. She couldn't see. She couldn't hear ... Anything, except them. "GET UP!" Knock, knock. The door to her house shuddered against the weight of someone's fist. Right, she lived in Krugmar, now. "THE DOOR, THE DOOR, THE DOOR!" "DON'T OPEN IT!" "OPEN IT!" "THEY KNOW WHAT YOU DID, WRETCH!" "DEMONIC KNATCH!" "OPENOPEN OPǪ̸̺͖̘̭̦̩͆͂͗̒̅͌̏̚͜͝P̷̧̹̩̍̒̄̑̔͠É̴̛͎͐͗̉̍̀͜͝N̷̢̬̠̳͓͈͍͖̜̽̑̈͆͠ ̶̘̰̥̆̀͋̾̃̄͊̐I̸̱̗͔͔̪̥͛͋̎̚ͅͅT̶̛̹̹̻̩̭͚̤̗̉̈́̽̓̒͆̚!" Wordlessly, she crawled on her hands and knees toward the door and swung it open, her dagger unsheathed, yet there was no one there. They were taunting her, weren't they? This was a trap. She was going to die. Viktoriya stumbled down the street, wildly looking about like a wolf lost in the midst of a human city. A goblin side-eyed her as she scrambled past, and she whipped around to try and nail him in the jaw. "IT WAS YOU!" Luckily, however, she was as weak as she'd always been after becoming a Voidal mage. Her hand missed by a longshot, and she stumbled forward. An Uruk of her own clan cautiously shuffled nearer and placed her hand atop Viktoriya's shoulder. "Yahzlak ... Mi grukkz latz need moor zleep. Mi bring latz back, ukee?" Her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths, confusedly being tugged along by the Orc. "Apologeez, bruddah. Shez ... A bit awf tuday, agh--" "I'M NOT! I'M NOT CRAZY, GENERAL RUTHERN! I CAN PROVE MYSELF AGAIN!" ... "Please. VEVODROK, LET ME PROVE MYSELF! GIVE ME A SECOND CHANCE!" ... "Tichar -- TICHAR, I SWEAR! STAY, I CAN GET YOU OUT OF THERE! I PROMISE!" ... "Velhrun ... You can't die yet! YOU CAN'T! NOT AGAIN!" History was repeating itself. Realities were colliding. What was she? Was she imagining everything, again? Was ... She real?

Dear Delilah Dear Delilah, As I start this letter, I wonder if it would ever reach you. I remember when we first met with your curious and childish nature that had screamed to thyself as innocence; which had intrigued me deeply. You may beg to differ now that you have grown into a fine young girl. I cherished the moments we shared together -- watching beyond the gates of Elysium to making your gown for the Snowball -- and wish that later in the future that we could do more. However, it seems to not be very soon that those new memories would be created. To my beloved sister, I am off on a sojourn to search for something that could possibly help with my internal conflict. It may be days, weeks, or even months before I could come back as the head strong and worrisome older brother you know. And as I write this, I wonder if leaving you would truly be worth the pain and suffering I'll face on this journey. What would I gain as a lone wood elf with no seed, wandering around this earth like a lost lamb without it's herd? In the end, I've chosen the option to run. How our conscious makes us cowardly that thy chases the easy rout against problem. If I could, I would laugh along with you about my stupidity. With this letter, I lend you minas that would help you buy whatever you desire; be it a house will you? I have a feeling that staying all over the place will become a problem. Focus on your studies for now and enjoy your life unlike myself. I might as well make you a new gown while I'm out and about around the world. I bid thy farewell and good prayers. Your Brother, Amadis Faedi

Hyphae You find a journal locked by a green ribbon. It's edges are worn, yet it is still firmly kept together. A crow and a rose are engraved onto its dark leathery face. Entry I My dear mother. Once a respected druid, now a sickly woman on her death bed. All because I ignored the underlying stress she bared. It had all started when I ventured off into the woods again like any normal day. I had failed once again to heed the worry of my mother, who had now fallen ill to an incurable disease. Not even all the doctors of our Seed - nor herself - could cure the wretched fevers, coughs, ill pale skin, or freckling chills that felt like needles to the back that she felt every time she woke up. How could I, her only son, be so ignorant. Now she lies there every day, as if waiting for her last breath. Now my graceful father works harder until he could work no longer. Now I sit here writing, as if writing my woes could ever cure my mother. That is until I prayed to the gods. Cerridwen and Cennunos, Mother and Father of the nature that is gifted to us. Even after every moon and sun did I wait and prayed for an answer. Patience grows thin, and and so did my inpatient mind thinned until it could no more. I have packed my bags up for a journey far away, into the deeper areas of Almaris. There, I can find some sort of cure, or at least hope to help my family. Entry II In my extensive knowledge I have gain from travelling around Almaris, I would have not known I would gain a sister, or well adopt one. As I was looking for some sort of person with a medical background, I had met the young prodigy Delilah coincidentally along the way to Vortice. She had kindly greeted me and swooned me over with her childish nature. How dearly I love her. As we grew closer the following month together, she was immediately under my wing. Through her, I had learned more about the people in the East, and even settled down at Elysium to understand the herbs around there. From Bat's bulb to Jailer's Moss, I studied hard to get to her level. I wished for my parents to meet her. They always ways wanted a daughter. Entry III The peaceful life of Elysium had taken a turn for the worse. Krugmar, the warring nation up the road from Elysium. War has stepped into our lives as they threaten us with raids and kidnapping our people. Delilah resides in Fenn for her studies; where it is safer. On the other hand, I have decided to stand my ground and stay at Elysium, in hopes that our kingdom is strong enough to keep the Orcs at bay. I watch over the walls, always anticipating death at our gates. Entry IV Uruks. Crude in nature and powerful in battle. They had somehow gotten into Elysium while I was away gathering more herbs. They side with Krugmar. What crazy racists they show to be. I used the citizen tunnels to quietly get in, spying on them as they lurk the streets of our home. Seven in total I have seen. How could a handful of them get in when we had guards on every post? I have heard their prideful yells of how we are cowards, how the guards ran away, and how they would not let anyone in; mostly because they did not have the key. They vilely spill alcohol down their throats, celebrating their success. I hope this ungodly hour ends before Delilah returns home. (Entries will be added continuously in the later future)

Mourned and Remembered Alone. Alone stood the flaxen-haired debutante. Strumming the silver strings of her illuminating golden harp under the looming moonlight. The multiple celestial bodies up above looked down at the pity-filled Halcourt. Her milky gaze kept and lured towards the stars and moon up above. Still playing her aureate harp, a sad and mournful tune coming from the pearly strings plucked by the feminine hands of the Halcourt. “So much lost. My sanity fades away like ghosts.” She’d say to herself with a croaky voice, a tear falling down from her eye while she then began to dance in front of the fountain within the Palace gardens. None to view her madness but the heavenly night looming above with shadows and light. Heloise, being earthbound to the gravel which her gown’s train flowed across while dancing, doing an elegant waltz. Beginning to hum to herself, her tone depressing as the music coming from the strings of her harp. “To be scorned by so many now. My friends, my allies are none.” “Oh, father, mother, brother. I am sorry to disappoint you so much. I wish for the fields of Aeldin, where the poppies grew fresh upon the darken soils, the locks of my flaxen hair spread across the grass while the screams and cheers of children are heard. To feel the breath of fresh air from the heavens once more. Away from my pain and torment.” The Halcourt expressed her sorrow within the empty gardens, still played, even when playing and plucking the individual strings of her antique and valued harp. Performing alone. A lone rose among poppies. Her eyes, beginning to tear up more and more. Suddenly stopping her pitiful performance, throwing her instrument down. Falling down to her knees. “Aunt Amelia, Uncle Victor. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I failed you both. You two were always there but I can do nothing to pay back. John, my friend. Gone. Nikolai, my oldest ally. Gone. Carolina, my mentor. Taken away. What else must I do to pay the sin of existence and human behaviors. I am too brash, too stupid for Odessa and her rules. The court, the life of a noble is one which is chained by pearls and roses. Only to suffer. Fit into the box. Wear the porcelain mask. Keep on acting for my villains on this cruel stage.” Tears began to suddenly come out from the Halcourt’s milky eyes. The tears did not stop, pouring and pouring while she’d muffle under her arms which she laid her head upon, her head and smooth skinned arms resting upon the dry and cold stone of the fountains. Alone. No one there. None to hear her suffering. The cracks of her perfect porcelain mind became clear. Her gown becoming dust-covered as she laid there, crying her eyes to crimson red. Her face covered with a completely peachy and velvet complexion. Her thoughts, beginning to speak words which twirled and danced around her cracking mental state. “Why does this always happen?” “This is all my fault!” “People have always been like this!” “Wench! Savage! Useless!” The Halcourt suddenly stopped at the sounds of the pompous courtiers. Standing up. Quickly wiping away the tears and placing on makeup to hide the cracks of her doubts, her disappointments. Her sorrow. The red complexion was sourced from her hours of crying. Placing back on her mask of lies, entering the stage once more. One thing lingered in her mind while exiting the empty gardens of Aster Court. One word stood out amongst the shadows of self-loathing and depression which clouded her mind. Loved

Dame Viktoriya -- revered by some, and hated by many more, found herself wandering among an infinite forest. Here, the sun never rose and the starry sky visible through the trees gave that old woman something to stare at ... That wasn't engulfed in darkness, anywho. She'd been walking for some time, now, yet she hadn't tired or become hungry, nor did her feet become callous and her limbs never ached. After so long, she figured she'd finally succumbed to death; perhaps she was dragged to Ebrietas and merely hadn't noticed. In the calm and quiet, her mind too did wander. ♫"It always feels so quiet in the dark It always feels so stark ..."♫ The earliest memory she could recall as a child, scampering along old Helena's streets, gawking at those old peasant fiefs and gossiping about the palace boys. Compared to Orenia now, they were all cavemen -- the cannon hadn't even been thought of yet! She recalled the lectures of her parents, and how long she'd spent hiding from her peers. "At last, Vikky -- we fixed yer' ears. Your hair, too." She hadn't understood when she was young, not until her first husband Phillip Pruvia. She was an elf, and that was something to hate. Being in the army? Married to humans? If anyone had known, surely she would've been burnt at the stake. Viktoriya's first love never knew, but sometimes she feared it with the way he acted; his brief glares and scowls. It would've been more likely that 'Godan' itself descended from the skies and gave her wings than for her to end a conversation with him without welts and bruises. She entered the army soon afterward, and there, she'd meet ... A god-awful amount of future love interests, six too many. ♫"How silence grows under the moon ... And it's always gone so soon."♫ The Fourth Brigade's Captain hired her to refurbish their headquarters in the palace, for a gigantic sum of mina, too -- it'd help her pay for her education. His name was Ser Alaric DeNurem. It was the first true friendship she'd made in however many years. As she worked, she spoke to him and found out what it was like to smile again. What it was like to speak without fear. Neither of them were looking for anything further than friendship and it was something she was thankful for. Her husband was coincidentally his brother-in-law, and Alaric's wife Bernadette, her sister-in-law; she came over frequently to both the Brigade's base and her own home to chat, though her friendliness was cut short. "Viktoriya, you cheating bastard!" The Dame's figure shivered as she recalled the sickening thud of his boot hitting her skull. "Alaric, you're ... Having an affair with her, aren't you?" Philip and Bernadette both figured the pair of them were together despite the lack of romance between the two thus far. As Viktoriya was left in a confused, bloodied heap on the floor of the Fourth Brigade's barracks, Alaric arrived shortly afterward to console her. They fell asleep together beside the fireplace after he mended her wounds, and there, perhaps the sibling's claims had then become a reality, as two dejected soldiers mourned their broken lives and came together to form a new one. Not even a year afterward, once Viktoriya had become divorced, Philip and Bernadette tried to kill her in broad daylight. As she fell from the second floor, evading a sword's edge, she made eye contact with Alaric. ♫"I used to think that I was bold I used to think love was for fun."♫ The General of their army -- Alaric's father, Alren, ordered the execution of Bernadette by firing squad. In the end, it was not she who killed Viktoriya, yet Viktoriya had killed her alongside the other officers. From there, her life had been a downward spiral. Alaric & Viktoriya had been faithfully married for decades in peace, but once they'd become Occultists of the Synod, their love began to splinter. She found him in the caves beneath their home with another woman, he sought the attention of her friends -- he met them in secret and had kissed one. Grief overtook her and she killed him, splicing his soul into one of the Synod's Menhirs upon his death. She never officially remarried, not even a hundred years later. Though, that didn't stop her from courting others in secret. Sir Heath Linnord, Sir Erik & Sergei Othaman, Edward. Time and time again, she'd fall in and out of love, and almost every relationship ended with their blood on her hands. She'd loved Edward dearly, though he'd disappeared; she'd loved Heath dearly, though between his racist outbursts and his hate for elvenkind, it made their relationship ... Strained. Viktoriya became crazed for approval and affection, but too fearful ever to indulge in either. During her long tenure as the Fifth Brigade's Captain, she fell in love, truly, for one last time; an agonizing unrequited love for the same soldier that'd caused her to be captured by demons and tortured for years, who'd thought of her at first as a god and then some dangerous felon -- Sir Velhrun Darkwood. Viktoriya cackled, interrupted her monologuing. "Why in the great hells did I try to court him? Mmh ... Anywho." The Captain protected him with her own life, and in the end, sat beside him as he withered away to old age. She could read everyone she spoke to, besides him. She never understood why he did something, nor his motives. Despite what he'd done, he harbored her in his home while she was banished from the very same Empire he served to entertain her schizophrenic ramblings. Despite what horrific crimes he'd seen her do, he'd never told anyone. Why? As she trudged onward and wracked her brain, old Viktoriya found herself completely befuddled. He really was the only person she couldn't understand, and with his death, now she never would. "Well, besides Ostromir ... Though that's a whole 'nother can of worms. I don't think anyone understood him." She flinched as she recalled her last interaction with him in his old form. She was almost certain that she was one of the few women he never tried to court, be that a compliment or an insult -- yet his last words to her ... "If only we'd met sooner, Viktoriya. Perhaps things would have been different." "Mrmphf. 'nother can o' worms, in-deed. This was a much needed vacation." Dame Viktoriya sat down with a thud and sprawled out on the grass. She'd made her way onto a hill above the trees, staring off at the vast horizon. She'd come so far, and yet there were hundreds -- thousands of miles beyond her. "Good grief. I'm 130, already ..." Tears pricked her eyes as she rolled over onto her back, her gaze lost among the cosmos. As she drifted to sleep for the first time in days, she hummed a lullaby she recalled her father singing to her as a child. Tomorrow was another day, and another dozen hours she'd have to reflect on her woe-begotten existence. ♪♫ "And if the seven hells collapse, Although the day will be my last -- You will be okay. When I'm gone you'll be okay." ♫♪

Left at the threshold of the Keep of Sunbreak, those that frequent such a place would find an immaculate stone tablet, wrought of bizarrely heavy navy stone tablet. Upon it's surface lie words carved in the common tongue, but an esoteric gleam of might wavered over it's crystaline form, causing the words to shift to a darker tongue for mere moments. Holding such a tablet, one could feel the burden of sorrow of which it's scriber had hewn into each and every word of the text. "To the one known as The Shrike. I hope this reaches you. Ive no real clue where you reside, but I have left this in the only place I know where your kind gather. If those that find this are not The Shrike, then heed the text all the same, for I scribe this as an attempt to educate the ignorant. To contemplate The Enemy. In my Brother's name, do I take up the mantle of Hierophant, Educator, Elucidator. I seek to bring light to the unlearned, though no doubt those that feel the fell handed truth of my cleaving axe see naught what it is I truly wish to teach. I consider myself a savior of the World itself, and all that rest within it. I have taken up, as many before me, and as many will after me, the most burdensome of mantle. The crown of tireless warden to the Umbrage of which I strive weighs heavy, and in times such as this, my dual minds wander to distant, strained memory. A story offered to me, your enemy. Now, you would hardly recognize me Shrike, but I remember you. Amongst the fragments in the ocean, you burn for mere moments before fading, as all things do under the crushing hand of Will. I am one that takes comfort in the sunless hope, the crushing waves of the Shore offer frigid, soothing comfort. An embrace the likes of which I wish all to understand. The Dark devours, but in such teeth there is freedom, safety, and comfort. There is hope for true freedom. And yet, you and your ilk would consider such comforts to be anathema to your ways of life. You find only harrowing fear, for you are unwilling to embrace the truth......the same could be said for me and my ilk. We, who so find your light callous, cold, and unfeeling. You find strength and warmth in such incandescent brightness, just as we find solace and reprieve in the all devouring ebon sea. Yet do we not both seek to save the world? From each other, perhaps...but if only the universal truth of things could be found, perhaps...perhaps. That is what it always comes to. Perhaps. Such infuriating worthlessness is the what if. But even as the over bearing, zealous dogma of my education seeks to grind all hope down, the bleeding wound that I no longer have still spurs me to flights of hope. I would hope we all could join in Truth, yet I know you will never see mine, nor I yours. Thus it is we shall always be seeking to save the world from each other, instead of facing The Enemy. The greater things that spur us all to fight. The lies woven deep in your hearts, and the blinding light that keeps your eyes closed. Thus, with heavy heart do I raise my axe each time, to bring about blessed Truth. Perhaps I am merely feeling sentimental in my stagnation, or perhaps this is a true attempt at saving my enemy from The Enemy...or perhaps the night is merely long, and my long since dead heart stirs against it's own fading. Always the perhaps." Upon the back of the tablet, one could find scripture written within a fell tongue, hurting the eyes of mortal folk to bear witness to, along with a symbol beneath it. The skull of a Goat, horns curled back in noble might, with eyes of swirling black pits that stare back into the viewers own.

Concealed words The first lights of day broke through the window reflecting onto the dark elven man’s face that rested onto his messy double bed. The man groaned in displeasure as he felt the sun rays on his face, he turned around letting the light now light his back, showing his many ugly scars on his skin of soot in great detail. He then patted the empty space on the other side of the bed, feeling the wool fabric under his palm, as he did that he slowly opened his eyes as he looked at the empty spot with a frown and blurry vision. A groan left his mouth as he raised his back to now sit on the bed, he felt his head spinning as he did that.... right... the other day was very active one for him: he attended his beloved son’s wedding and enjoyed a beautiful night with his fellow mali’kers and family, he organised an exciting fist scuff night too. But after that he had a talk with his latest partner, he now was alone again and got rightfully called a “bastard” by that woman. After that memory all he could remember was running to the tavern with his lads. He now fully understood why he was sick, he surely chugged a whole stock of alcohol, he knew he was a shameful alcoholic and when he saw drinks and started sipping the first he would not stop until he was satisfied, of course he never was so he just ended up wobbling around the tavern while complaining of his crappy life choices and crying about irrelevant things like the drunk man he was. He still now is wondering how his poor liver can still function with this quantity of toxic alcohol passing through it. Other than the spiralling down situation of the other day he stood there with a stupid smile on his face, thinking about the marriage of his son and that sweet girl named Aver’wyn, as he did that he turned to the window and whistled. From the open window a menacing crow with feathers of soot heavily landed on his right shoulder. As it’s claws grabbed onto his skin the man did not flinch, instead he started to write on a piece of paper, he folded it once finished and attached it to the golden crow’s collar “go an’ do yer job, Schwarzer” he said softly as the crow soared out of the window with unnerving speed. You may be wondering who might receive these letters... or what it may be written on them... these letters were merely dropped from the diligent Schwarzer somewhere in Stygian Hollow, lost to time until a lucky folk manages to get their eyes on the mysterious piece of paper. Perhaps Zirath wanted to have some fun after the stressful life he led. He patiently waited for a stranger to pick his letter up and send a bird back.... who knows... he may give a little prize. [ooc: there will be a sign around stygian that needs to be found! it's a letter! good luck :) and when you find it send me a screenshot with you in it on discord! sorry if i made typos and sorry if the sketch is unfinished, bad quality and kinda sucks. i made a little story because i discovered i love writing these! so thought to integrate my creative writing with events on lotc more often, for some reason the post has gray ugly lines...]

I am nameless and amorphous, but the mortals call me Hamatsa. The sea is my domain. I ride the ocean currents, listening for the calls of the faithful. They leave me offerings at their shrines; seashells in sharp spirals tinged with pink and blue, driftwood bleached bone pale and worn smooth by the tide, carvings in what is supposed to be my likeness, but I have no face. This pleases me. There is a mortal who catches my attention. Elf. The word rises from the depths—I do not know what it means, only that it is the correct way to describe her, this female mortal with long, tapered ears and skin like the underbelly of a brown trout, only darker. She sings to the lapping waves and lays my offerings before a huge painting on the side of the cliff face. No, not a painting. Shards of glass, wood, clay, and gemstones have been set into the stone, arranged in a careful pattern of blues, greens, and yellows. I have never seen anything like it before. Vines creep in to reclaim it, but the elf gently coaxes them away so that my likeness can catch the sunlight glittering off of the surface of the still and placid bay. When she prays to me, I listen. She prays every day. For strength, guidance, a steady hand while healing. It is not onerous for me to grant these boons, so I do, and she continues bringing me gifts. I do not know how long this goes on. Years, days, centuries—it is all the same when the passage of time is nothing but a single raindrop in the wide expanse of the ocean. However long it lasts, it is enough for me to consider it a constant, a familiar rock in the tideline that the waves crash against and around, wearing smooth. She stops praying, and it is like the rock disappears, leaving a disconcerting gap the water must force itself to fill. I return to her prayer site—the seaglass mosaic, I have heard the mortals who roam the seaside citadel call it. It is empty, but I wait. Moonlight and sunlight and moonlight again seeps through the surface of the water before she appears with two other elves. One has hair as red as coral and eyes like the glint of sunlight off of silver scales. The other wears a necklace of blue flowers, with white blooms threaded through the pink tufts of his hair. They are both smaller than her, my elf, but hold either one of her elbows as though keeping her upright. She has never been anything but graceful, leaping between the slippery stones to reach my mosaic, or paddling through the warm shallows. Now she is shaky, unsteady on her feet. I am worried. Is this why she ceased her prayers? She falls to her knees before my likeness, pressing her hand against my dorsal fin. I am shapeless, without skin or sinew or muscle, but I feel her fingers on my back. “I failed you, Sulien. I should have saved you, but I couldn’t.” The voice that is usually so sweet with song is cracked and broken, hoarse, a seagull’s cry. “Please, forgive me.” I am no stranger to grief. Mortals cast their prayers to the sea, begging for mercy from their pain, and I listen to their sorrows and soothe them, if I can. Healers, especially, raise their hands in supplication. The high, keening pain shivering across the surface of the waves to twine around me is familiar, and I know that this is her first death. The first time her hands could not erase the hurt, and whoever she was healing succumbed to their injuries of the flesh. There is nothing I can do for her that the two young elves cannot. They rest their heads on her shoulder, her lap, holding her tight as darkness falls and the stars begin sparkling, bathing everything in silver. I leave them to their mourning and their prayer, watching from afar. ..... She stands at the prow of a ship when next I see her, the citadel by the sea disappearing into the horizon. Beside her is a sandy-haired elf. They both wear headpieces—crowns, my memory tells me—like spikes of coral around their brows. The ship cuts through the waves but I keep pace easily. I will never tire, but at some point, the wind will give out. For now, they make good progress, and soon the land is nothing but a thin sliver behind them. They lift the crowns from their heads. Together, side by side, they sail for something in the distance without turning back. Their new home is a shallow cave by the sea on a distant island, altered to provide the amenities of mortal comfort—carvings at the mouth of the cave, a door constructed of driftwood, the foliage outside clipped and tended to. Fishing nets drape themselves through the shallows, weighed down by heavy stones. My elf has begun work on a new mural, scraping away at the cliff face, helped by her fair-haired companion, who breaks off heavy chunks of stone with his fist. This is unusual for a mortal. They do not usually possess such raw strength. On closer look, his hand is not of flesh and blood, but stone, threaded through with bright veins of red. His segmented fingers vibrate as he strikes his fist against the cliff again and again. I do not like this. It is unnatural. Huge slices of stone plunge into the sea, upsetting the water and the sand beneath, puffing up in great clouds, scaring away shoals of fish. I am happy to see him leave, even if it fills my elf with sorrow. He approaches her on the beach, once again wearing his crown. He holds hers out but she gently pushes his hands away, shaking her head, and he places it on a nearby rock, instead. Water rolls down her cheeks as he leans in to press his lips to her forehead. Tears, I know they are called; saltwater rolling from the corners of eyes. They continue to fall long after the elf with hair like sand has pushed their ship out into the sea, boarded it alone, and sailed off into the gathering dusk. She watches until he is nothing but a speck, her hand lifted in farewell. I never noticed the markings on her hands until this moment—intricate flowers the same colour of a warm sea at midday. Many elves who pray to me bear these same marks. It is soothing, watching the flowers shift across the delicate, fine bones as her hands move, grinding leaves and flowers in a small stone bowl, cleaning her daily catch, running her fingers through her hair to comb it. Her life is a simple one, but she seems to relish in the smallest pleasures; sunlight on her upturned face, treasures washed up on the shore to add to her mosaic. I visit every time she dives for seashells in my honour and leaves them in a pile for the tide—for me—to reclaim. She suns herself on the beach, the mosaic whole and glittering behind her, and I wonder, How long has it been? Time means nothing to me, but the trees have grown taller, more gnarled, and the carvings around the edge of the door are worn smooth by wind and rain. Long enough for her to tire of the solitude. When I next return, she has built a raft and sung her prayers to the sea, asking for swift winds and gentle waters. My brother, who lives in the free, wheeling spirits of the albatrosses on their long flights across endless oceans, guides her raft through the waters. Home is what she yearns for, but the seaside citadel she once knew has long since been abandoned, a cold and empty husk of what it once was. Home, home, her spirit sings. Home is wherever the elves she prayed, sang, loved, and cried with reside. We lead her there. I follow the vibrations of abundant faith, letting the threads of song and prayer show me a path to land. There will be new offerings in my honour, beneath the dolphin statue on the shore, and at the stone altar of a shrine replete with a shimmering seaglass mosaic. I leave my elf safe in the arms of the ocean, eager to see the new gifts the mortals have brought for me. ..... She kept her crown. I thought she may have allowed the sea to claim it, but it sits across her brow, casting long shadows along the wharf and into the nearby ocean. I taste her sorrow; deeper than her first death, more bitter than watching her love disappear from their tranquil island. Her sadness is ancient. I know this, for like calls to like. Another elf stands beside her, garbed in verdant cloth, her hair spilling around her shoulders, stirred by a breeze rolling in from the harbour. “This was to go to my daughter, when she came of age.” My elf lifts the crown from her head and presses it into the other’s hands. “I can think of no one else I would rather have it.” More tears. These mortals shed enough tears to fill another ocean. The centuries might have hardened me to their sight, made me brittle and sawlike inside, but their tears still strike me. Compassion. Mercy. That is what the mortals call it. I like those words. I embrace them. She prays, and I listen.

Entry One Eliza Raven carefully opens the cover of her brand-new book. The leather binding creaks softly as it stretches. The pages, utterly blank, cry out to her; waiting to be filled with her words, thoughts, emotions… Reaching for her quill at the corner of the desk, she pulls it from the inkwell, dabbing it gently on the rim. Eliza places the ink-filled tip to the off-white paper and the ink immediately begins to melt into the page. She slides the pen across the surface, the light scratching sound soothing her untidy thoughts. “Today, things happened. Today, my life changed drastically. Again. Today, the remnants of my recently-healed heart were shattered again and left on creaky wooden planks. I’d considered leaving them there. After all, how many times can one’s heart fragment and rebuild itself again? I did not leave my destroyed love there at the dock, however. Be it the right or wrong answer, I picked the pieces up and took them with me as I stumbled my way to Ryuu’s apartment in Providence. The four flights of stairs to her rooms felt like a mountain. Upon entering, my entire body collapsed on the rugs, and I slept. For how long, I do not know. All I know is I feel…wrong. Unsettled. I feel as though I’ve been plucked from a world I understood and loved, to… nothing. Perhaps it is better to feel no emotions. I have cried all the tears I could produce. Bless dear Bernard for showing up and forcing me to eat. Such kindness in him that so few see. “Bernard says I must find a way to move forward. So, move forward I shall. Rose will be here soon and I long to see my daughter’s face. I can hardly believe she is thirteen. I hope I recognize her. I must be strong for Rose. She cannot see her mother this way. She must see a brave, strong, independent woman that cares for all and takes no one’s ****. I must be that for her. Rose will be my guiding light as he had been before. She will be my reason for waking up every day and making the most of it. Perhaps she will heal my broken heart. “I can’t get it out of my head, though. The last thing he said to me. “I will always love you, Eliza. But we simply cannot be. Not in this world, and not in any other. I'll sacrifice my own heart to keep you safe, and hope someone mends both of ours someday. I will be here, whether you see me or not. A silver falcon bequeathed in sunlight." I’ll never forget those words. I’ll never forget how he looked. I’ll never forget watching him walk away and the light shining off his icy-white hair. Even from a distance, I watched him. He left me behind, for what, I do not know. I do know that I will love him until I die. And, though he may live forever, I hope I am never forgotten. I hope he thinks of me as a raven on the wind. I hope he remembers me being cheerful, happy, in love. For that is how I will always remember him. Not the cold, broken man he was on our last day. But the cheeky, clever, poetic soul that I loved with my whole being. That is what I choose. “And tomorrow is a new day. The sun will rise, as always, and I with it. I will meet each day with the innocent joy of a child. I will grow from my pain. And I will always remember my Si.” Eliza holds the cover open for a moment, allowing the last of the ink to dry before closing it carefully. She places her quill back in its well and takes a deep breath. Her red eyes and tight throat remind her that healing takes time. And although she yearns to feel better tomorrow, she will not. Pushing her chair back, she rises and heads for the bedroom with but one thought. ‘I must get some rest. Perhaps it will help the pain.’ As she curls herself into a ball in the center of the over-sized bed, another thought comes to her, just before a restless sleep overtakes her. ‘I wish I had some of Avalor’s whiskey….’ [[Characters mentioned in this post: Rose Raven (Plaguedocling), Bernard (Joseph_V_B00), Avalor Astasel (SpaceOddity), Silas Astasel (ThatTromboneGuy), Ryuu Nova, Eliza Raven (gurlpirate)