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The Adrian Resettlement Fund Issued by the Royal Bank of Númendil, 12th of Malin’s Welcome, 167 SA In the aftermath of conflict, the Adrian people of Veletz find themselves displaced and in desperate need of aid. Misled by leaders who sided with darkness, they now seek refuge and redemption. Your donations will help us offer solace to those who have suffered the consequences of war and deception. Together, we can heal wounds, restore dignity, and offer a new beginning to the peaceful Adrian people. Every contribution counts towards rebuilding lives and forging a brighter future. Join us in extending compassion and assistance to those who have endured so much. For a small donation of just 100 mina, you can provide an Adrian refugee with food and shelter. Together, we can make a difference! Contact a steward of Númendil to make a donation.

LECTORS DECLASSIFIED: FALLEN COHORT VOLUME II - PROVIDENCE SHUFFLE NOTE TO READER Any events mentioned within this document have already occurred. The Archives of Third Mission have deemed this information available to the public; REDACTED information will be noted as such and shall imply potential compromise to operational security. RECAP It was a few Saint’s Days later that we began our mission to Providence. Our orders were to keep a low profile, thus we Lectors disguised ourselves with the Providentian style. Our contact was a man by the name of [REDACTED] who worked within the Providence Mines. It appeared, from first appearances, that this individual was a vagrant of sorts who dealt in information - a shady character not worthy of trust. Upon speaking the requisite code word, [REDACTED] ushered us to follow him to the Cathedral’s courtyard. There, we began to speak before the Northern mausoleum. Lectors in their Providence Disguise As if on cue, our party was beset by an ambush. Mercenaries operating in employment to [REDACTED] attempted to slay everyone in attendance bar the contact, whom they sought to capture. Using a ranged weaponry, the assailants managed to pierce Novitiate Oijin’s shoulder and Lector Dante’s rib. Utilizing GODSFLAME and TANGLEFOOT and the cover of the cathedral, the other Lectors present made quick work of the would-be assassins, slaying all but one who we took captive. Following the bloodbath, a tourist and associate by the name of [REDACTED] appeared and threatened to jeopardize the entire operation by alerting the ISA so that we could be treated for our injuries. Though well intended, it was the orders of our Wise Brother to maintain a low profile at all costs. This caused one of our Lectors to threaten and kill the compromiser, which in turn spurred a heated debate amongst those present. They opted to pursue the individual instead, in order to prevent them from notifying authorities. We caught up with [REDACTED] and ushered them into a nearby building, where we were soon discovered by a local who thought us cultists. Immediately, we migrated to the house next door and settled upon the second floor whilst ISA soldiers conducted a thorough search of the first area. It was truly a miracle that we were not discovered, and that they contained the search to only that building. Our contact and the captured agent of [REDACTED] came to and were soon interrogated. Our contact explained that the first mask location was far to the North-West, and that we were to venture out with the guidance of a sherpa. The prisoner refused to divulge any information pertinent to their loyalty or why they sought to kill the Lectors, and began to scream as to alert the nearby authorities. We [REDACTED] the man to make him silent, and thus we departed the city of the span of many Saint’s Minutes, one by one, so as to not draw further attention. In retrospect, it is humorous that our cousins in Exalted Owyn perceived our conflict in the graveyard as us robbing the corpses of the Orenian dead. It appears that whoever gave such a report did not observe with care or sought to slander us.

Needles and Blood. Forenote: This lore is merely the request for LM clarification instead of actual lore approval. Needles So I see a lot of people roleplaying they have hypodermic needles like they are casual and easy to produce things in the roleplay environment we exist in. There was this big idea once upon a time we exist kinda like what the 14th century looks like, unless another piece of lore over-writes that bit of real life history. So, using that knowledge, the creation of such needles is basically near impossible. Something more roleplay correct would be the use of goose feathers. Back in ye' old days needles were made from them. They were big, weak, kinda hard to use things and pumped with a cows/pigs bladder, not with a class tube and pressurized syringe like some people roleplay. So, I am merely asking the LM's, can we enforce something more realistic instead of vacuum syringes and hypodermic needles, better just.. well, making the setting more immersive and less "Here is casual IRL stuff." So here is some ideas on how to roleplay using goose feathers for syringes: It would hurt a lot. It would probably leave a lot of bleeding and a risk of damaging blood vessels. Its not hygienic at all. They can be crushed, or split. OOC source: http://www.exchangesupplies.org/article_history_of_injecting_and_development_of_the_syringe.php Blood! [specifically blood transfusions] So, another thing I witnessed today was the use of a blood transfusion, and the actual mentioning of blood types. Now, this popped into my mind as "A freaking disaster!" Why you might ask? Well, the fact we live in societies that have lived long enough is that we have a lot of races with their own blood types. You then have even more races interbreeding and creating even more blood types! You are talking 6 races with different blood pressure constraints, immune-systems and in fact one is even immortal! Aha, but surely that's not a case human to human, even if there is a 1 in like 8 chance you get the blood group right and they are compatible. Well, sadly no, because we have mixed race blood groups everywhere, and frankly how do we know blood groups exist? There has never been a study. Any studies that did would have resulted in every failure resulting in catastrophic immune response from the person injected with foreign and non-compatible blood. So the moral of the story is, blood transfusions and even mentioning blood types in character just shouldn't exist. The idea is dangerous, the implied risks as stated above, as well with the syringes being formed from goose feathers and the idea of injecting air bubbles into a vein would make the concept of blood transfusion ineffective and not used. Similarly, blood types.. well, they just wouldn't/couldn't have been studied. OOC notes: Well frankly, its just logic. I understand we are in a fantasy setting.. however, if think we should use RP tools and RP technologies because its just more immersive then going "Yeah I casually have glass hypodermic syringes, don't ask me where I got them though!" SupremacyOps agreed with me to get go, it just makes sense.

Philips is a figure, an icon, a strange skull at that. He often talks to Grendor as a friend, an enemy, a frustrated spirit. Grendor, so immersed in his work and skill level as an architect has never had the Social Skill level of that of a Jester or even a peasant. He is often seen as a fool, a hound, a genius too real for his own self good. Many have strayed far to keep from him but others, the more adventurous goers, the ones that had given him the opportunity to reveal a somewhat delightful side to his otherwise repulsive personality have accepted him an his ways into their very own life. The first, more by force than by self choice, was Philips. Philips was once a Clay-Maker. He was just above the average man in his craft but far from the best. He worked often for the King, in his older years, and had seen many of them fall and rise. He had watched the Kings grow mad, become heroes, or rise to the Thrones only to be destroyed by the very foundation on which they built. He was a quiet old man, physically younger for his years and never seemed to grow past the age of sixty-three; he wore the facial blemishes of an old man, but the muscle strength and qualities of a younger. He was wise, being the age far past one-hundred, and had learned a lot. Philips lived in a small monastery just outside the Capitol and lived among the Monks. He attended the prayers and services but had different feelings and beliefs towards blindly following a being never to be seen. None-the-less, he was fond of them as they to him. He lived apart from the rest of the Monks: he did not like the idea of sharing a room with twenty other men and felt he would desire privacy at some moments. So, to appeal to the requests of the old Clay-Maker, the Monks cleared out the Courier House that they stored all of the letters send to the Capitol or other larger towns surrounding. He liked the small home and made it his own by setting up small figurines of clay: children, horses, families, pipes, and other tinkers he would create in times when he was not employed. Philips traveled a lot, being the created of fine pottery and other decor, and had once come across a man with a strange vial of a clear substance. The man said that it would animate anything smaller than a hand and nothing more. The Clay-Maker was thrilled at the idea of his wonderful little community of clay being able to interact with him; as if they were his own family. He then returned to his home with the vial of Animant and was eager to try it on his friends. He pored the Animant over one of the boys: one with knightly clothing and a small wooden sword with detailed, fine runes embedded in the clay sword. The boy ran and jumped around and attacked the other clay figures. The Clay-Maker immediately took the boy and punished him by dipping him in small goblet with wine inside. The boy became motionless and looked as though the life in him had been drained to the very last remains, never to be seen again. The Clay-Maker grew sad at the result and set the boy down, gently. After a while Philips just loathed around his small home and say by the hearth, away from the Monks and the cold Winter air. He took the goblet and pored the whole thing into his mouth and swallowed with disgust as the wine tasted very sickly and gross. He stumbled around and walked out of the home into the white abyss, blinded by the brightness of the snow. He marched on, going to a place he had not known and walked for days and days until his body had reached exhaustion. He collapsed onto the ground and bowed his head. He spoke a small prayer he remembered and fell onto the soft, glistening snow. Years had passed and Philips lay there, motionless yet somewhat alive. His body had long gone except for one: a round, grey, perfectly shaped skull that had seemed to frown somehow but lacked the capability for facial expression. It lay there, frowning at the trees and animals, seeing through the charade of life and witnessing the truth of all. Grendor had been treking across the lands, searching for Schoolmen to learn the teachings of Architecture and mathematics only taught by few in the Realm. He had come across Philips while smoking his long, dark wooden pipe. He took the skull and thought it a beauty, perfectly shaped and a warm grey tone seemed to radiate from the figure. He stuffed it into his bag and continued on, smoking his pipe. Days after he had come across the skull and had forgotten it had been in his bag, whispers came from the skull: insults to Grendor, compliments on the writings that lay within his bag, and other speakings that were quite unpleasant. Grendor removed the skull and held it in his hands, listening to the whispers. He whispered back insults about him lacking a body or attractive features and the skull shouted back at him indescribable things. Grendor tossed the skull into the woods and looked back in his back for a journal. He often felt it soothing to write about his adventures for not many would listen. He took the journal and began writing. As he had finally come to the conclusion of his entry, an old, dusty voice came from within his bag asking to read the writing. "I want to know what you are saying about me so that it may be a heroic tale of the Great Clay-Maker Philips!" Grendor reached into his bag as he set his book down on a log and found that the skull lay there, looking back with a frown. "How are you hear?" he asked as he took the skull from the bag. "I threw you into the forest, yet here you are, spouting out nonesense about your great, mystical powers as a dirty bone of a man that played with clay." "Why are you so relaxed about conversing with bone? Are you a daft, do you not have the brains of a small child?" the Skull said, snapping his jaw around. "You sure are a mean little head," Grendor replied as he dropped the skull next to the book. "How can you see, anyway? You haven't got any eyes." "Magyk?" the Skull said, trying to move closer to the words that lay on the page. "How am I talking and alive? How could I possibly be here if I don't even have shoulders? What else could it possibly be? I was just an Old Clay-Maker; a damn good one at that. I drank some nasty wine and here I am, talking to a daft." "So, you are a magykal Wizard that took the form of a skull?" Grendor asked. "Yes, Boy, I am a great and powerful Wizard that can only be summoned by the blessings of women and wine!" The Skull read the entry and sighed. "You don't even know my own name. Isn't it obvious? I shouted the Great and Powerful Philips! How could you not gather at least that much information?" the Skull said, mockingly. "All right, Great and Powerful Wizard. Your name is Philips, mine is Grendor H'ghar-Builder!" he said, proud of the name. "Is that a relation to Tom Builder II? Are you his daft son?" "No, it was given to me by my father, a stone mason." "He must have made the prettiest rocks in all the land," Philips said as he tried to hop around. "Yes, he did. He also had arms, legs, wine, and a beautiful wife, living a happy life with an entire body and never resorted to talking to daft young Elves," Grendor said, frustrated as he shoved Philips deeply into the bag and continued through the thick forest.