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This is creative writing, do not metagame Grief. The sister of Tar-Caraneth -the queen of Numendil-, princess of Numendil, stood quietly upon the balcony overlooking the mess hall within the Numenost keep. Not too long ago, she saw all nations united. Trapped in Savoy until the ending, the fleeing of Almaris. Time and time again, she pushed against Aevos war, seeing so many slaughtered to the Mori, to heartlessness, to their own hand, to hell high, and more. A feat within itself to have: to have a common enemy outside of pre-established nations and bloodlines, especially for humankind. Though Aevos... Aevos has proven to be a blight within itself, spreading thin the populous while the nations' grip at the reigns of power rugged terrain of alien soil, all while trying to call it home? There was no holy conquest, no divine right, in this war of spite and hearsay. Have they forgotten the undead legions which linger in the shadows, the poltergeists lapping away at descendants merriment and energy, the monsters which linger in the woods preying on a descendant's seeking refuge? She bet the liches of the land sat back with a cup of tea, to have amusement and death without lifting a boney finger. It was then she understood her birth mother's memoir. A woman of acre, who sacrificed her own livelihood to save others, fighting against those creatures of the planes and flitting between reality and oblivion. In her hand sits a paper, stained with tea. She reads her letter aloud to only the air itself. ~"The very ground beneath us breathes malevolence and the air reeks of the bitterness that has fueled the violent dance of despair. This continent births not life but the twisted progeny of malice, leaving my heart heavy with the weight of a world seemingly beyond redemption. There's no rest for the wicked, but neither is there for the weary. I am sorry my sister, for I do not support this war as its gone far enough, but if you must, I understand. " ~ It was left upon the throne, for Caraneth to read, a morsel of chocolate holding it down. And so, Princess Briar-Rethril Arthalion went to the forest and dug unmarked Graves with shovel and bare hands, all varying in size... Elf... Dwarf... Human... Orc... Halfling... For all those who are to be lost. Holes to place the bodies and burn them within. Briar supported no side. And so, she tended to the dead alone.
