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  1. "Do you know, Son of Man, what makes a man great?" "Death" In the din of the darkness that began to engulf the prince-consort as his head was crushed under the force of the creature's grasp, a memory played softly from the depths of the man's mind. “¡Madre madre!” a young boy's voice called excitedly, his small hand pointing out towards the ocean “Look! What is that?” Callista, the boy's mother, bent down beside him, smiling “That is a Bellena, a Whale. They are the biggest fish in all the sea! “ Ezren, all of five years of age let out a gasp, his eyes glittering with wonder “A whale… I want to be a whale when I'm all grown.” “Why is that hijo?” His mother looked to him, likely expecting a childish answer, or no reason at all. The boy kept his gaze locked on the immense sea creature as he answered “If I'm that big, I'll be able to protect everyone I love!” The scene was swallowed by the darkness edging around his mind, the word love echoing like a deep chasm. The memory was replaced by a singular person. Sibyl The young girl who was pushed into a small creek by that same boy. The adolescent princess, standing behind Ezren as orcs attempted to rob the two teenagers. The young woman walking from the back of the church towards him, the most radiant smile on her face. The Queen who stood at the frontlines of war for her people. His only wish was for her safety and happiness. “MALCHEDIAEL, AENGUL OF COURAGE!” The phrase that once uttered, ushered in the final paragraph of Ezren Elijah Novellen's existence. It came to him naturally, like the warm embrace of a parent. He no longer felt pain, his wounds mended, and his body ablaze with the patrons burning aura. He fought once more, remade anew and stronger than before. It was for naught but to give time- time for aid to come to his loved one. And it came as the clanging of metal and crackle of fire pierced the engulfed building. John Galbraith and Gwenyth Vuiller entered the burning church, pulling at Sybille I as she fought to get past the gate. It was enough. "Goodbye, mi amor" Sorrow, Peace, Acceptance. Once the others came, the prince-consort fell once more a final time. The fight was finished, and a victor was had, and his soul was reclaimed by Malchediael. [!] These letters and will were written up at the news of the continuation of the war, and instructed to be dispersed to their intended recipients should the Prince-consort perish in battle. To Enrico @garentoft To Ephrem and Callista Kervallen @ECS1999 @Lmcfc To Ophelia @comatoseprincess To Elianos @Lirinya To Ariadne @_yink_ To Alexandros @Harald To Mi Amor @HIGH_FIRE The Will of Ezren Elijah Novellen of Tuvia To each of my children I divide my savings to 100 mina for each child. My remaining possessions, barring the sword “Splendes Ulmi” , be divided equally amongst my children. The sword “Splendes Ulmi” shall remain in the possession of my lawful wife, Sybille I, until a time when she feels fit or after she has passed, at which point it shall return to the Peer of Tuvia, whichever is in possession of the title at the time. If the peerage of Tuvia is disbanded, the sword will be passed onto Ezequiel Kervallen or his eldest offspring, eldest grandchild, and so on and so forth. [OOC Note]
  2. “SCRISA! HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE DIED, BECAUSE OF THEM?! HOW MANY HAVE FELT THIS WAY, BECAUSE OF THEM?!” “I don’t give a f*ck.” Scrisa’s childhood, if you could call it that, was surrounded by chaos. And she liked it. For some cruel, twisted reason- she liked it. Her mother, Ruina Sweist, crime queen of a drug empire. Drugs and excitement entered her life before Scrisa had even left the womb. Her twin brother, Mal, equally as damaged- perhaps even more so. Her father was kind when he was around. Mika Anarion. She loved him, but in the end, it was not enough. He helped her find her path, without caring what that path was. From the docks of Lubba’s Keep, to the Fennic undercity, she was taught how to steal, play dirty, kill, and at the end of it all, survive. Then, Ando Alur, the fallen city- in the wreckage, Ruina was taken into the void. Young Scrisa, plagued by nightmares of a voidal monster, dove into the voidal arts in a desperate search for answers- and for her mother. Valindra took her under her wing, teaching her all that she knew of the world. Scrisa became a voidstalker, as the horror that plagued her mind claimed to be the mother she had lost. It chided her, insulted her, degraded her- yet never once did she doubt it was Ruina. Magic, madness, murder and mayhem- they froze her heart into a block of dry ice, cold enough to burn. For some cruel, twisted reason- she liked it. She ran a successful black market, she brought terror with her name, she killed and she tortured and she smiled all the while. That was, until Juniper. This girl that she had known since her teens. . . She saw her differently, for once. Her short brown hair, fair skin, and soft doe eyes. . . Delicate hands, a fiery disposition- yet little skill or power to back it. So fragile, so broken- yet, pure. Mine. She had thought. Mine to cherish, and mine to keep. At first, it was a matter of pride- but soon, she came to realize that her embrace was one filled with thorns. So she let her go. But she never stopped loving her. She cherished the children they adopted and raised together, and mourned the death of Verena- though she waved her off as a failure. The daughter of a voidstalker, seeking druidism? She was disgraced. Then, Dasyra- and oh, how she loved Dasyra. Raised her, cared for her, gave her gifts- even passed down the arcanium sword her own mother had given her. It was these two elfesses that opened her heart fully, thawed it out. She made allies, some acquaintances- and very few, but very strong friendships. The chaos never left her life, sure- but for once, she had some sort of stability. Even as her titles of Princess of Lurin were stripped, her Anarion name torn away, and her Catacombs caved in- she had them. She had her friends. She had Juniper. “You have just killed EVERYONE I LOVE!” Scrisa saw red. She tasted red. She was covered in it. The monsters and shadows that filled her vision laughing, mocking- as she could do nothing to silence them, or prevent the scene that unfolded before her. Lanre Cerusil, at first an enemy, then an ally- and a friend she cared for more than she would ever admit. Dead. Yera Silveira, the closest friend she’d ever had. Dead. Juniper Rose, her one true love, despite all they had been through. Dead. Even in her last moments, Scrisa’s heart sank like it did every time the Oyashi elfess entered her view. The weight of having what you so want in reach, but know better than to grab it. Knowing a butterfly’s wings are fragile, albeit beautiful. Her scarred flesh painted red, her brown hair damp with ichor, and her eyes lifeless. And her lips, calling for her son. Scrisa lay there, a sword through her shoulder, her leg shattered, and her lungs caved in. Blood splattered with every scream and sob, each word scraping through her throat, clawing out to call for those that could not reply. Her friends- no, family. The only family that had never betrayed her. And there they were. Dead on the ground, slaughtered like pigs. I don’t understand. The words were on repeat, flowing as quickly as her blood did. She was born into crime, into chaos and war- she was bred to fight, to kill, to survive. So how did she die so easily? How did she fail? Where was the strength that she had been born and raised to wield? As the sword entered her chest, and pierced her heart, thoughts flooded through her mind. Despair. Rage. Terror. A desperate urge to stay alive- though it would matter little. A hurricane of thoughts and feelings flooded the voidstalker’s already crowded mind. Too many emotions, too many people to wish well, too many to wish death upon. Yet in the center of that storm was the singular feeling that this could not be the end. In her last breath, she trained her gaze upon he who had betrayed her. And she cursed him. There were no letters. There was no will. For the Fallen Princess did not intend to die.
  3. Fabula honoris et mendacii Within the confines of the Vlasto villa, Leonardo takes a seat and starts reviewing his journal. He flips back to the first entry and reads, "13th of Sun’s Smile, Year 140. Today I equipped my Ma. . ." Upset that he couldn't fix his past, he stopped abruptly. Leo threw his Journal against the wall and started pacing the room, memories of his frater Tullius, late friend Marcus, and young Lucius haunting him. As Leo peered out at the Vrbe, he found himself unable to escape the weight of his past. Troubled, he made his way to Tullius' room and began to write a note: "Frater, Praeteritum ferre non possum. accipere locum praetoris et abdicare se non recuso, nec frater sum nec pater." Pinning the note to the door, he left for the tavern to drown his sorrows in a bottle of wine. A yawn escaped him as he popped the bottle open and took a sip. The wine cleared his mind, and he was once again alone with his thoughts. Reflecting on his past, Leonardo made his way to the Curia leaving his journal on his brother's seat as a last feat of honesty to his family. Leo called for his horse and made his way down south, finding his way to Haelunor. Leo dismounted from his horse and removed its saddle, letting it free. Before stepping onto the bridge connecting to Haelunor, he took one last large swig of the bottle before throwing it onto the ground. As he found his way further down the bridge, Leo peered over the edge, memories flooding back. He started to tighten down his Lorica Segmentata. Leonardo climbed up onto the railing, his mind flashing with images of the past. Turning around, he whispered, “Mendaces non habent honorem.” With that, he jumped off the edge, facing the night sky. His body spread out, waiting for the water to hit him and slowly take him underneath the surface. A few bubbles rose to the surface, but no struggle was seen. The body of Leonardo stayed beneath the surface, departed from life.
  4. [!] A rough depiction of the corpse of a man not many have cared to notice. The day was fresh and new. A man trudged along the northern forests smelling of fish and doo, holding nothing but his old, original, fishing pole and a twisted leaf filled with green. There was a strange feeling in his stomach. Something wasn’t right. . . He was hungry! It was another day, another krawn for the young fisherman apprentice. He was fourteen, alone, homeless, and stunk of fish guts. As the highborn children played games and gossiped in the old tavern, the alienated teen slammed his heavy net of fish of all sorts onto the table. As time went on, and the apprentice rid the fish of their entrails in public view, all of the children left. All except one. All except her. Fish. Reliable, high in protein, and sustainable. When living alone in his youth, nobody ever gave him a second glance. No one ever offered him water to drink, or fish to eat. Eventually, he even resorted to thievery. He stole not food, but a simple stick with a string and hook attached to it. It was not enough to feed a town, but plenty for the starving child. “Those were the days”, relented the now sixty year old man. This day marked the 50th year he was alone. Perhaps he didn’t need a companion, perhaps he only needed fish and orcish kief. A long journey lay ahead of the now experienced fisherman, now turned salesman. It was a new city, new opportunities, and a new image. He called it ‘The Dream’. His debut came on the day of debutantes. Royals and peasants alike loved his recipe of fish. However, the prospect of free cod roused suspicion, and apparently, enough suspicion to have him removed from the palace premices. They all sneered, whispered, and gossiped about the outcast. All except one. All except her. Fire popped and embers rose from the pit. For some odd reason, it was warmer in the north. How strange. . . Has spring come early? It didn’t matter. All that mattered to him now was that the war that plagued the once cold land had come to a bloodless conclusion. With that messy ordeal done and the war over, he could rest easily knowing that his friend was safe. That she was safe. “Politics? You want me to get into politics?” The royal fisherman looked up towards the Duchess of Valwyck in confusion. He was not an educated man, let alone a smart one. His short time spent in libraries was used to sell snacks for the younger scholars. Perhaps he was meant to be more than just some fisherman. Perhaps he was finally going to escape his endless pit of loneliness. No longer would he have to sit alone for hours on end at the side of a bridge. When the day came, the man nearing thirty collected the most votes. It was astonishing. How could a random fisherman dominate an election with many educated individuals running against him? Who knew? Who cared? “It’s probably nothing”, the fisher thought. After all, business was poor and his pockets even poorer. In the end no one truly cared about him. No one ever talked or conversed with him, or others like him for that matter. No one did. All except one. All except her. Cactus Green. It was the orcish variety. The normal stuff was tame, too tame. The elder needed something to take the edge off from the stresses of the world. It was a poor addiction his old friends, now long dead or forgotten, warned him of. Regardless, he was still an avid user of the herb. It was exhausting his retirement funds, exhausting his health, but he still yearned for more. It became a dangerous obsession, but he was obsessed with many things. The green. . . fish. . . h- Suddenly, his head snapped as he noticed loud noises in the distant hill south of his position. Curious. . . What was going on today? The Peoples Duma. A failing institution settling into a new world. Somehow, and in some way, a fisherman not only landed himself into politics, but found himself leading it. The Grand Alderman was once a homeless fisher boy from Karosgrad. Despite the honors of holding such an office for over a decade, he despised it. It caused him much stress to a worrying degree. His personal habits became worse and even impacted his performance. At one point, he found himself running the fastest general election in the Kingdom’s history, with candidates being chosen, votes being cast, and results being announced all within the span of an hour. It didn’t help that there was a session to be held afterwards. It was too much for him. By the grace of it all, his worries would soon be resolved as the true leaders, the likes of Lord Speaker Otto Ludovar, took control of the situation. It was a resounding sigh of relief for him and the kingdom. Who could blame him? He was, afterall, just an ordinary man. Not even educated informally let alone to the highest degree. The man spent more time in the royal kitchens and developing menus than he did writing bills that would impact the lives of the population. It was a calm and relatively normal life. The man could not handle that sort of stress all at once. He’d rarely ever seen that kind of resolve in anyone. All except one. All except her. The screams resounded and the madman dashed as fast as he could! Armed with nothing but a sword, a fishing rod, and cactus green, the fisherman chose to hold the pole in one hand and green in the other. He was clearly mad, he knew he was risking his life, but he ran towards danger regardless. And then, he saw. . . Retirement. It was the only way he could ever escape into a life he wanted to live. The life of foraging and living off of nature’s grace. There were successors lined in his place, as now he was an old man. A young Marian Blackwood, now Weiss, continued politics. The Boy Baron Henrik Amador took his seat in the unified Duma. Finally, his days of public service were over. In what he thought would be his final act of any importance, the unknown man raised a boy from homelessness after a daring fishing trip, and transformed the lad into a fine chef in his own right. This was it. This was his lasting legacy. He would abandon it all for a life of calm and tranquil simplicity. All of it. Well. . . All except one. All except her. -A mass of poor and desperate bandits fought atop the hills of Waltonburg. The Triumphant King himself rallied a tired band of warriors in the hopes to drive the men off, and rescue his Queen. The fisherman was furious. After peace arrived to all of humanity, she was still a target. Still in danger. . . Shouting on the edge of the hill, the common man under influence screamed towards the mighty King at top of his lungs “WHAT THE F-” This wasn’t the expected outcome. A victory? In a duel against the leader of warriors? He was an old and retired fisherman. The Veletzian townsfolk and warriors looked at the man in awe, as he helped up the defeated Marshal Hendrik Van Aert. By the sheer grace of either luck or newfound skill, an unimportant fisherman single-handedly rescued the beloved People’s Queen. He did it, not for reward, or for whispered rumors of affection, but because his closest friend was in danger of death. There was nothing beating him that day. He would kill a thousand Marshals if he had to. No one could have stopped him. All except one. All except her. -UCK IS GOING ON?! ONE JOB!” The audacity. . . And to a King no less? Well, no one really taught him courtly manners, and the man was so far gone from society he doubted if he would ever be let back at all after a comment like that. He didn’t care, nor plan on it. His victory in politics. . . his triumph against the enemy Marshal. . . his very survival to sixty years of age. . . all of it was just luck. For his entire life he relied only on luck and lived on it. In that desperate battle for life, the man somehow impacted lives, inspired bards and poets. . . he even made a few friends along the way. None were closer to him than her. He would soon find himself close to her one, final, time as a bandit sought to slay the Queen in his dying breath. There were no sounds of glory. . . No screams or warnings. . . There he stood, a man who either had nothing to lose or nothing at all, as he lept towards his world. In the end, as he tumbled down the hill with a sword in his lung, alongside his wounded friend, he died as he lived. . . Homeless Filthy Unknown Unimportant And- [!] A note would be found bloodied next to the dead fisherman’s wound. By sheer luck, it seemed the letter’s envelope was only bloodied, but not the parchment itself. When opened, it read simply: “Ami, In my lifetime of knowing you, I realized that you were always the one saying thank you to me, and not the other way around. Today I return from my fishing trip, and I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you, for everything. Know that if I had to do it all again without a single word of gratitude, that I would work just as hard. It was never for me, or for the Kingdom. It was just you. It was always only for you. Your far, yet close friend, Timmy” For her. -=-=-=- REST IN PEACE TO A LOYAL FISHERMAN KNOWN AS TIMOFEI “TIMMY, THE KING WHO STAYED AND EMPEROR OF FISH” PETROVICH
  5. A Long Dream In the dead of the night, a young-looking elf with tousled, dirty blonde hair toils tirelessly in the Workforce Building near his residence in the Cargonia District. His cerulean eyes, mirrors of the vast ocean, scrutinize each item he handles. Faelion steals a moment for respite. His arms extend above him gracefully, a hand caressing the fatigue from his other limb, accompanied be a refreshing "Eeeeaaagh... Aaaahhhh..." A melodious contentment echoes through the walls of the Workforce Building. Amidst the tranquility, memories of Lumia's wedding surge. A mixture of exhilaration at the use of fireball and a cloud of worry spawned by Scrisa's assault on the Golden Lubba's marriage. The thought of flinging fireballs makes his heart flutter. Fireballs, of all things. Faelion's shoulders sag, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, before he resumes his work. In the silent night, atop Lurin's Workforce Building, a bright, luminous light—brighter than the noonday sun—emanates from within, leaking through the windows. A voice can be heard, "Faelion... It's time for you to wake up..." =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! The jarring sound of an alarm clock shook the room in the early morning. "Hey! Go down and eat your breakfast, young man!" Aurelia, a woman in her late 20s who bore a striking resemblance to an older, gender-bent Faelion, stood over her slumbering younger brother. She tried to rouse him with a mix of authority and care. "5 minutes..." Faelion muttered in protest against his older sister. He grabbed a nearby pillow, covering his face, attempting to reclaim the remnants of sleep. "You'll be late for your first day of class," Aurelia reminded him, forcefully snatching the pillow Faelion had used to shield his face and giving him a gentle pinch to coax her little brother to get out of bed. "Alright, alright. Ow! Stop pinching me, Sis," Faelion groaned, trying to shake off his older sister, all while feigning resistance to convince her that he was already awake. Aurelia stood up from Faelion's bed and observed the young man, crossing her arms with her right foot tapping rhythmically on the wooden floor. "You'll go back to sleep once I go down on my own." "Fiiiine." Faelion reluctantly rose from bed, finally yielding to his older sister's persistence. As Faelion ambled through the city, making his way to school, he vividly reminisced about the dreams he had. His mind replayed scenes of proud warriors going to war, incredible wizards flinging powerful spells, vast lands and frozen wastelands, forests with towering trees, encounters with demons and dragons, and witnessing unspeakable horrors. Amid these dreamt landscapes, Faelion found kindness, and, more importantly, made friends along the way. It was indeed a long dream—one he wished had never ended. Waiting for the bus to school, Faelion glanced at his watch and realized he had ample time before its arrival. He opened his new college notebook, a fresh canvas for this chapter of his life, and grabbed a pen. In the notebook, he inscribed these words: "I dreamt for miles; now reality smiles. Grateful for the journey, it was a dream that turned. Thank you." "I dreamt for miles; now reality smiles. Grateful for the journey, it was a dream that turned. Thank you." ~ FIN ~
  6. A RITTERS END Leutwin Barclay strolled the tourney grounds just outside of Haense -- Soon followed by a rustling sound that came from the bushes and nearby trees, causing the aging Knight to halt in his tracks - then trailing his gaze towards the commotion. A pair of blue eyes looked upon the man through the darkness. “Who’s there?” Leutwin softly called out cautiously, squinting towards the general direction of the figure. The Barclay received no response - and slowly walked towards the eyes, keeping a safe distance. “Hello?” He called out again, keeping his tone calm. “If you submit to your death, it will be painless, if you struggle, you will feel pain. If you escape, you will be haunted.” The stone figure boomed out, standing at 9 feet tall. The sounds of horses galloping in the distance approached them - Leutwin recognizing one of the horseman’s armor, though unknowing of who the man, Sir Rurik Brezwyck, was. Leutwin gazed to the two horsemen, finding humor in the fact that he thought he was being saved by a Veletzian. The other Veletzian went to fight the being Leutwin had come across previously. Soon after - Sir Rurik trampled Leutwin’s lower body with his horse. “For the sake of my children, don’t do this,” pleaded the now trampled man with a pained voice – Sir Rurik’s visage formed a sly grin as he swung the blunt side of his lance to Leutwin’s temple, knocking him unconscious. Sir Rurik’s brother-in-arms assisted in fighting the unholy being – leaving the Veletzian Knight to grab Leutwin’s body and throw it over his steed. “Y will be back, borsa!” Sir Rurik called out to his comrade, galloping away from the scene to make way for Veletz. Upon arrival, Leutwin was tied to a wooden log planted into the enclosed grounds of Veletz. The movement awakened the injured Barclay from his unconsciousness – the mere question, “Why are you doing this?” escaped his lips. Sir Rurik’s eyes widened in shock upon seeing him regain his consciousness. “Don’t do or say anything stupid, and vy won’t be harmed.” The Veletzian warned, robbing Leutwin of his belongings in the process – most importantly taking his dagger. Leutwin began to pray under his breath, but was interrupted by Sir Rurik forcing his mouth open, “Y almost feel pity,” He coldly stated, attempting to push the dagger into Leutwin’s mouth to butcher his tongue. The Barclay’s eyes widened - a gasp escaping from his lips as he soon found himself digging his teeth into Sir Rurik’s fingers. This action prevented his tongue from being cut out — Sir Rurik flinched away, “Vy really want to die, da?” He questioned, his voice growing gruff. A horse approached soon after - his injured brother-in-arms dropping from the horse, lying on the ground with a wounded shoulder. Sir Rurik turned his back to Leutwin to tend to his friend’s injuries. Leutwin slowly took the opportunity to attempt to free himself from his binds - sawing the rope against the wooden log. Sir Rurik, anticipating this action, swung around to wrap his left arm around the Barclay's shoulders - using his right hand to plunge the dagger into Ser Leutwin’s heart. Leutwin’s eyes locked onto Sir Rurik’s - his face now turning a pained, reddish hue. His mouth opened to speak -- though nothing came out as death soon met him. His head bobbed back then -- his now lifeless eyes facing the sunny skies of Veletz. Sir Rurik returned Leutwin’s lifeless body to Minitz, curling him into the corner of the city, close to hidden - but easy enough for him to be found. The Veletzian then sent off a letter he had written to Leutwin’s brother, Matthias Cardinal Lotharia. Ser Leutwin Barclay 1916-1959
  7. MORS OMNIA VINCIT EST Marcus never wanted to be a leader; the thought was always with him as he looked out his window at what he had helped build. He looked away from the city he had spent the last few years building with his best friend Tullius, and looked down at the plans for further expansion in the near future. He lets out a yawn as he looks over the plans once more; a tired expression on his old face. Yet, he kept working on the plans for this was his duty as a consul of the Caelian people. After a few moments, he would let out a sigh before going to grab the bottle of wine he kept on his desk, bringing the bottle to his mouth he starts to down the liquor. A moment of pure bliss, Marcus sets down the wine letting out a sigh as he looks out the window at Caelia. His mind started to wonder again, at the issue that was plaguing his mind; the issue of how to get the resources for the expansion of the city. Standing up from the desk, Marcus walks out of the room and into the stairway as he takes his first step down; he pauses midway through the step and starts to fall. Grabbing his chest as he continues to fall down the spiral staircase, his memories would start flashing before his eyes. A young boy fighting off the other tribes with everything he had but still failing, watching his mother die by those same tribes he failed to stop. The same boy now a young man leaving the south and moving to a strange land ravaged by war, a man who would see the same horrors he ran from. Joining a warband to fight off the invaders of his new home, a man being captured and forced to confess false treachery, a man who lost his arm in battle for his new home, the lord of his new home threatening to kill the man for teaching a young boy about his homeland. Flashes of his memory seem to go faster and as he hit a wall he would fall down a second set of stairs. Now the man can be seen going through a tunnel fighting anvil cultists. The man arrives from the depths onto an island, building a wooden camp with his people, starting a successful business after leaving said island, getting kicked out of his new home, moving further north, meeting a woman and getting married. He would have children of his own before that same wife would perish. Regretful, and then moving past it, building something new. Marcus would utter a yell of pain as he hit the third wall, his blood all over the stairs as he kept on falling, the memory started to slow down once more and he finally landed onto the ground. Marcus tries to sit up but finds that he can’t; he starts to cough up blood. He goes to blink his eyes as blood comes from a large gash on his forehead and enters his eyes. Slowly he would let out one final breath of air and close his eyes. He would hear a shout from the distance but would no longer care who it belonged to for now he finally got to see his beloved once more. SOMNVM QVIETE SCIPIO VIR
  8. Princess Verónica Weiss Circa 147 S.A. Verónica had been within the courtyard of the Valdev palace before they had gone to meet with their allies on the battlefield. She kept to herself on the side, a knot in her gut. She watched as everyone was chummy with each other. She didn’t offer much in terms of conversation with anyone, it wasn’t that she was being offensive, it was just that those there would rather interact with others. This was her normal, and she had accepted that. Granted, earlier in the day, she spoke with Mikhail and had a rather touching conversation with him. Other than that, she wordlessly went along with everyone as they headed out. During the Battle of the Westmark, Verónica had fought along her fellow soldiers with pride, helping slay the Veletzian foes where she could, and following orders within the ranks. She had been struck by a lance on a retreat called, which had knocked the wind out of her, reducing her stamina for the rest of the fight due to her age.. Yet she pressed on. During one of the times they had fallen back into the treeline, she found herself next to Mikhail Valkonen- offering him a reassuring nod that they were going to be all right in the end. That they were going to make it out alive.. Oh how wrong she had been on her end. Within the heat of the battle, an unknown Veletzen soldier ended up setting their eyes upon Koneas Amaya. Verónica had dutifully stayed as close as she could to her queen, on the field, this allowed her to see the attack attempt. She made her way over; quickly taking action. She raised her Princessa Fatal, a blade made for her by Demitrey Denodado, the sword being her go-to weapon. Her blade parried the long sword of the Veletzen’s, having swung it to her right. The two were mostly left alone as the war waged on around them. With her no longer being a spring chicken, she was easily slain, not having the ability to back up fast enough as the enemy soldier brought their blade up and slit her throat. The red liquid sprayed out like a fountain and covered them as the enemy set out to join their allies. Verónica hit the ground with a thud, time had slowed for her as her life flashed before her eyes. She lay in a pool of crimson that started to gather around her and sink into the earth below. After the battle had been lost, both sides were able to claim their dead. A young Konrad Stafyr had found the Princess’s body first. He screamed out “NO!” in a disdained and agonized voice that carried across the gore-filled field. His cry caught the attention of the now-dead woman's niece. Rosalind Valkonen who now knelt across from Konrad as he took her helmet off, praying that it wasn’t who he thought it was.. Once his fears had been concerned. He desperately attempted to find a pulse in a panicked state. None was found.. Rosalind gingerly did her best to clean Verónica’s paled face off before they could get her out of there and returned to her family Verónica awoke within the seven skies. Her joints didn’t ache and she felt young again.. Her hair was longer than it had in years, she enjoyed her long hair and her face and body were no longer scarred. Before she knew what was really happening, she was walking through a set of pearly gates with others around her who had also fallen during the battle. She ended up stopping at the group that was there for her. To greet her in the seven skies. Finally understanding where she was. Verónica started to weep “No!” She exclaimed in what was utter defeat, crying sheer agony on the spot. Her mother, Laurelie wrapped the newly deceased in a hug “It is alright bebé” she shared in an attempt to comfort her “Ea did niet even get to say goodbye-” she whimpered back in dismay “Ea.. did niet get to say goodbye..” she repeated. Joining everyone within the seven skies should have been a happy occasion but for Veronica. In that moment, it was nothing but a feeling of sheer defeat. Princess Verónica Frisketa Isabella Maria Lucia Elisabetta Weiss died in the Battle of Westmark on the 10th of the Grand Harvest, 159 of the Second Age. Verónica leaves behind, her husband. Four children, two daughters-in-law, and ten grandchildren. Please do not meta-game these letters. Each character listed would be given an envelope that was sealed with spring green wax stamped with the Weiss lion, instead of a sun behind it, there was a lightning bolt. Audo Walter Karl Viktor Martina Mikhail Rosalind Raelle Marian Sofia Y’vette Cesar Demitrey Amaya Roui Konrad Glorier Nova Amethyst
  9. Of Ash and Earth – By Law, Honor and Loyalty 20th of Tobias’ Bounty, Year 105 Second Age “All forces halt! We set camp here.” The commanding voices of the coalition army leaders echoed faintly in the ears of this aging man. Frankly, he did not even want to be here. But the King ordered and by law he was obliged. By honor he maintained a stern expression and his silence. By loyalty to those he left home back home he marched. The ruins of the two castles they sieged in the preceding months still looming in the distance, dark shadows against the pale moonlight on this evening. Weary dark grey eyes, lined with wrinkles from the many decades he had to shoulder. He glanced around camp, men and women gathered around their campfires if not asleep or on night watch duty. From all walks of life, each with their own path through time and existence. A wondrous thing indeed. Strange how a man finds time to contemplate such. But given the years of time he has been granted on this world… if there is nothing better to do with it, then why not dabble in philosophy. 21st of Tobias’ Bounty, early morning A horn blares, followed by drums thrumming in the early morning. Awoken, ate some cold rations, geared up. Breathed deeply for a minute to push out the pain in the bones and limbs. The years even wear down those with the most iron constitution. Such is the fate of humans. “Assemble, assemble! The enemy is on the march!” Now in the early light of the morning everyone was the same. Drab in heavy plate armor that rubs open the skin and makes muscles sore at the end of the day. Good protection, but uncomfortable. Better safe than dead though. The column began to move. 21st of Tobias’ Bounty, midday They circled them like vultures. But vultures wait, these didn’t. Pelted with arrows and javelins, the lines marched forward. And back. And forward. Whenever the King and his men commanded. “Headless chickens.” The man murmured. His heart was pumping. Not of joy, not of anger, not of disdain. But only because it was a physical exercise. At that age to be expected. Cursed heavy armor. “Formation about face!” the command comes. The column turned and so did he. By law, honor, and loyalty. 21st of Tobias’ Bounty, early afternoon Frantic and in disarray. The King was struck down. Alive? The remaining forces remained composed. Into a forest they went. And then back out they marched into the open fields, through a tunnel. But the vultures were always present, picked at them. Back and forth. The man eyed the men on his left and right to whom he has grown accustomed. Left one was the same. Right one… was a different face. Closed up the gap, the youngster who was there earlier was no more. Likely bled out in the forests they just left behind. “Headless chickens.” The man grumbled. “Troops, about! We march for the forest!” the command came again. By law, honor, and loyalty, he marched. 21st of Tobias’ Bounty, late afternoon The clash of metal was deafening, for the first time the vultures closed in. Mounted riders crashed down into lose formations. The trees helped and the coalition footmen were able to pick off a few, but under tremendous losses for themselves. A distant command rang to the ears of the old man, as he avoided a charging rider by ducking behind a tree. The plate clad coalition soldiers began to trudge off. Wait. There he was again. The young man who was on right in the morning. Panicked. Running away. For his life. “Headless chickens.” The old man grunted, took a breath. Pushing out the pain, pushing out the tiredness, pushing out the years. He began moving, just to see the young man being ridden down by the vultures. Though this close… not all of them are vultures. Some fight for law. Some for honor. Others for loyalty. And of course, money. Can’t blame them for that. The man moved between the trees as swiftly as he could. But by then, it was already clear that it was too late. The broken up formation, dispersed among the trees had moved on, back to the tunnel. The armor heavy. The breathing hard. “I guess it is time to go.” The man said. --- 21st of Tobias’ Bounty, Year 159 of the Second Age. Thondorus II. Stafyr, Line of Hanethor, aged 105 years, dies in the battle of the “Ashen Skies”. His body falls to Earth in the forests South-West of Brasca. He leaves behind no children. --- “I am sorry, Arthur-Konrad. That took me a while.”
  10. - PENNED BY THE HOUSE OF DRESNAY C. 1954 The House of Dresnay has now entered a period of grievance, the recent events in this saints week have brought great distress to the Baron and his Siblings. Their Mére, Marie Capucine has officially passed away. Over time she had been ill though hiding it from her enfants out of concern for their emotions. She wanted to see them happy and worry-free before her passing and she was granted that by GOD. The Family had called a dinner as they typically would any other month. Gathering their entire family including the Blanchets, Maries family before she wed… Everything appeared to be fine until she began a spurt of coughing.. blood was splattered onto the napkin she had coughed into. This had been a recent occurring thing when she coughed as of late. She attempted to explain to the group she was fine and it was merely wine that was left lingering in her mouth. Though they hardly believed it they seemed quite weary trying their best to continue on the dinner. Her lungs had been failing her, though tonight seemed to be the night they would officially give out. Marie appeared fine for a few seconds after her coughing… She blinked slowly at the group in as a small smile made its way onto her face. Then Suddenly she collapsed onto the table, her children rushing to her side in a panic tears streaming down their cheeks. She gently pulled them in for one last hug, placing a kiss on their foreheads. Her sons then took her hands sobbing claiming that they could call for the doctor. She declined “It is mon time, Je shall meet tu Père.. Tu all shall do great things in life, and protect each other. For mon sake..” Taking her last breaths that night as she gently held her sons one last time… Her grip grew weak as her eyes shut now she took her eternal rest. Ascending to the Heavens to reunite with her Husband Tristand I.
  11. A Melody Must Have an End How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. The flood of memories rushes by, giving one last adieu “Oh! My little butterfly!” a Voice came, my dearest aunt “Come give Aunty a hug” My earliest memory by far, the woman always came running over with that big childish grin of hers and would swoop me into her arms just as she did now but as she got to me the scene changed. “Grandmama?...” My grandmother passed away and my mother was struck by grief. I had stayed with my aunt for a long time, so long, and my mother followed not long after, my father was never around. I was left alone, or so I thought. “Look what I've brought for you! It's your favourite, but don't tell your mother” Sweets were held in front of me by my dearest aunt, a woman who never let her smile fall in front of me, it was infectious indeed, I was not much of a people person at all, but looking back at it I missed out on a lot, and now all I have is regrets on not trying to do more with my life while I had the chance “It's alright, you alright, things will get better soon” My last memory came to play, my aunt hugging me while we were in our darkest hours. Falling into complete utter oblivion, My eyes slowly fell due to my attacker's actions, but it wasn't all bad, I got to see the birds fly one last time before nothingness. Greyed skin and life taken by force, a body was found under the gate arch of Vikela, this body was unfamiliar to most, but to those who knew the woman, to Medea who found the young woman she was almost unrecognisable Melody de Astrea, she was drained of all blood, with two puncture wounds upon her neck an obvious attacker. However, that did not seem to be the killing blow. Whether or not this was the work of one person or if there was someone else to give the final kill would never be known, From the look of her dissected body it seemed as if someone had studied it like she was someone's science project, she did not at all look like her former self anymore, and the only thing left behind by the sick attacker was a note simply saying. “Thank you for participating” As if it had been all but a game to them, maybe to taunt the deceased loved ones more Melody de Astrea had not lived a long fulfilling life, before this horrid day, she had already been withering away from poor health, her time had already been approaching but it seemed someone had plans to bring her demise much, much sooner. For she had been expecting her demise due to her health a singular letter had already been written to whom she cared for most, to who had looked after her, but sadly this letter had never been finished Dearest aunt Medea You looked after me like I was your own, and for such I can't thank you enough, our fates intertwined from my birth, I would have felt so lost if you had left me alone, being born as your niece had been the greatest treasure to me, to be able to grow and follow you, you shaped my life, but if my time does come to pass by, I wish you to know to look to the skies in hopes a bird flies by, I watched from the window as the birds flew by gliding through the shadows of the clouds up in the sky, I've laid my memories and dreams upon their wings, and in my dearest memories, I see you reaching out to me, and if I should leave this lonely world behind I hope for you to only carry on and remember that… [!] the letter incomplete one would never know what the dying woman had been trying to say at the end of her letter to her aunt. [!] With her Body now buried Melodies of life now gilded forever more amongst the winds of time. Sleep well little butterfly, Melody de Astrea
  12. ────────────── ╭────────────────────────────╮ WASTED SUMMER DAYS ╰────────────────────────────╯ (Written by Alamo, aka tcs_tonsils_) ────────────── [OOC] Hey! I commissioned Alamo to write a fantastic poem for this PK post. He’s currently got a fund set up to self-publish his own book, Beyond The Tides! Help Alamo reach his goal by donating to the cause, and commissioning work from him! [Support Beyond The Tides now!] ────────────── [!] An old memory of Abraham, Aeldin's summer nights spent watching the shooting stars. ╭────────────────────────────╮ Death outruns the fastest of men, Yet, there are some days I still pretend, That I shall go on living through lifetimes, I get wrapped up in those feelings sometimes. To be a Knight meant setting family aside, Days spent apart whilst joining siblings in stride. To fight to keep those monsters at bay. Yet so much has been wasted summer days. O’ how I long to see sparkling eyes, As I look down at the most innocent of lives How I have missed your tender voices Now, all that I hear are distant echoes. I was the one who stood, ever Faithful, Never allowing darkness to claim the light, and still, What honors did it ever bestow me? Except, by freezing every time it was snowing. And while St. Emma preserved everything I was, It is not enough for contentment, simply because I would give it all to see your smiles, And just talk with you for a little while. How I would steal the world just to be with you, To live the life that all families should Just to watch my children grow and play. And laugh with every passing day. I shall ne’er forgo my love of the Knights, But as I watch the stars scatter at night, My mind replays the seconds gone by, I wonder if my children look at the same sky. What good would all memory be, If I could not remember them with me, I am proud of all that they have become, Even if we cannot witness the rising of another sun. ╰────────────────────────────╯ [!] A memory of the sunrise under the red trees in Aeldin. ────────────── REQUIESCAT IN PACE SER ABRAHAM OTHAN RUTLEGE, “THE FAITHFUL” 21 SA - 158 SA (1817 FA - 1954 FA) RECIPIENT OF THE ────────────── ────────────── [OOC] SCREENSHOTS I MANAGED TO FIND ────────────── Thanks for letting me play Abraham with y'all. I’m sorry that I missed the chance to fully play him in his later years. [!] A depiction of Ser Abraham and Nugget.
  13. -=- Laid in solitary within the confines of her chambers, as most of her days were now spent, a lowly and gaunted clergywoman listens closely to the sounds of the square just outside her window. War, they cried, impassioned and patriotic for their cause. She listens closer, drawn by the striking cries of the crow. This same worn woman now exhales, unsteady. Faltering. “I’m crippling.” She thought to herself as her stare burned into the wall across from her bed. Unmoving. Unwilling to move. “I’m dying.” Then came, a thought most striking and new. “I’m dying.” she says aloud this time, and with it a visible breath comes to break through the frigid air, no candles for warmth or light. “Decaying.” she mutters in comical spite, too aware of the larger picture to really feel. And she knew it herself, as it had always been that way. Too much thinking — too many thoughts. In her old age, the woman had resigned to these thoughts, made a recluse by the perils and hyper existentialisms of her own mind. Though, this woman was once a mother, and a daughter, and a sister and an aunt and a wife. Now, all that was left is the memories. Memories of her dear Father, and his union of the shattered and faltering Heartlands of Almaris. Of her Mother, the overbearing Queen Eleanor and her ambition for Anna. Of her late Husband, executed viciously in the Adrian rebellion, of the house they shared in the heart of Velec. Of her brother, James, and her murdered nephew, Henry. And of his son, too, the baby Edmund. Slain — and reduced to a memory. And as her bones grew weary, this woman accepted that her time was running thin in this world. She could not hold that sadness, truly, for deep within her heart she had always known of the lacking importance any of it truly held. She had lived to live. In the following days, Anna had begun to draft her will, sifting through an abundance of papers and thoughts. Everything that she had to show for her life, there, laid out before her. She had seen four kings reign upon the Paradisian throne in her lifetime, heaving along with her the burden of time. Burden no more. Last Will and Testament of TRM Anna Lucilla Varoche née Alstion. In the name of GOD, Amen, I Anna Lucilla Varoche nee Alstion of House Alstion and the Principality of, being of sound mind and memory, do make and ordain this as my final Will and Testament. THE ABBEY OF SAINT JUDE & IT’S HOLDINGS Of which shall be devised to the Reverend Vicar of Buron and Pastor of Whitespire, Father Leofric. This includes the physical three-storey Abbey located in the North-East region of the City of Whitespire and the surrounding area and land previously designated to it. This also includes the title and responsibility of Abbot of St. Jude to govern and serve in the Order and memory of the late Saint Jude. This also includes any other holdings the Abbey of St. Jude may hold; Such as, the Priory of Andregrad. This also includes responsibility for governing and caretaking of Owyn’s Flame to be used in any important proceedings involving the State, as well as the title Keeper of the Flame. @MCVDK COLLECTION OF VINTAGES & FINE JEWELRY Of which shall be bequeathed to my only son, the Baron of Napoliza and his wife, the Baroness of Napoliza as well as the House of Varoche. This includes all fine Jewelry and wine purchased or gifted from the continents of Almaris, Aevos, or Aeldin. This does not include Royal jewelry paid for at the expense of the Crown. This does also include the remaining excess wealth gained independently after joining The Church of the Canon. @Enlightenment @Cubicita THE LUCILLIAN TIARA & WEDDING DRESS OF HENRIETTA, PRINCESS OF ALSTION Previously on loan to Princess Charlotte and The Baroness of Napoliza respectively, will be ceded back to the ruling House Alstion and the Aaunic Crown as property of it. This includes any other fineries designated for Royalty. @Ramon TOMES ON PERSONAL PHILOSOPHY & RELIGION Of which will be bequeathed to my only daughter, the Marquise de Haute-Epine. This includes all written diaries, findings, and travel journals as authored by myself or by servantry on my behalf. This also includes all unpublished studies or philosophical works. This also includes my beloved Astrolabe, gifted by the late Grand Prince of Minitz. @neii AS SIGNED BY, TRM Mother Anna, Abbess of St. Jude ANNA LUCILLA ALSTION 1883 — 1954
  14. A PRINCE NO MORE The death of the Prince of Merryweather, Heinrich II Lothar von Alstreim One cold morning in the year of our Lord 1904, there was a great commotion within the white walls of Corwinsburg Castle in the Arentanian Alps. Servants ran from chamber to chamber, carrying towels and water, doctors arrived from the capital, soldiers waited quietly for news. Many footsteps echoed through the corridors that morning, but then silence engulfed the Waldenian castle before a quiet scream echoed in one of the chambers. “It’s a boy, Your Highness. Do you have a name for him?” Inquired a maid “Heinrich Lothar…” Silence was short as a trembling voice of the mother answered the inquiry. On that day it began. It was a warm, summer day in the year of our Lord 1952 when the Prince of Merryweather and his party travelled to Whitespire in order to hold an emergency Royal Diet meeting before a planned conference regarding some pressing international matters. There was no indication of what was to come. Everything was going according to plan until a mass of soldiers clad in purple and black streamed into the castle. They all drew their blades and started killing. It then became evident, Stassion betrayed all the Kingdom stood for. AN ORDER WAS GIVEN, THE VOICE OF A TRAITOR ECHOED “Do not harm the Chancellor, Duke Janos, or Grand Prince Ferdinand! Kill the King, kill the Prince of Merryweather!” Heinrich’s eyes widened as he faced the blade of an armoured soldier of Stassion - there was no escape. The last thing he saw was Johannes running to safety, Boon jumping out of the window, Walter with raised hands and the awful sound of a body being cut open. It was a quick death. It was a painful death. One he feared for years. One of which he told his dear Aleksandra so many times. The very death she did not want to hear of was real, and it claimed her husband. The tip of the blade pierced the Princely throat. The redhead fell to his knees, bleeding out. The man who stood at the head of the state, always in shining armour, held in high esteem by his enemies, was humiliated - cut up like a piglet for a feast. The pain was immense. The last thing he managed to think of was his family. People he loved but failed their trust in the end. His pride would never allow him to admit this failure. Definitely not after he fell to his knees begging for his wife's forgiveness so many years ago. There was no turning back now. Henry managed to mutter out his last words while choking on his blood… “I FOUGHT I LOST NOW I REST” The rest was darkness. He was free of all his burdens. The Prince of Merryweather and the Rhine, Landgrave of Alstreim, Baron of Corwinsburg, Lord of Blackwater, Elected Margrave of Vanderfell, Lord Vandalore, Lord Regent of Aaun, uncle to the King and most importantly husband and a father was now lying dead on the floor of the Hand of Horen, a few meters away from his office. Now the Principality was in his son's hands, safe at last. He failed his family, especially his wife Aleksandra who he loved dearly. He failed many. Heinrich II Lothar passed on that day but he did it with dignity, defending the boy he proudly called his King... On that day it ended. HEINRICH II LOTHAR VON ALSTREIM PRINCE OF MERRYWEATHER 1904-1952
  15. Death of a Serpent The sky darkened as Sorcaril's horse rode up the main road towards the Midlands. His horse's breath could begin to be seen as the cold crept up over the lands. His day had been long, finally revamping the Sillumarian pay reforms and submitting them to his council while dealing with a local bandit group setting up a toll. With his new position came a change in his workload; with the shift in his workload, Sorcaril had found the uncomfortable fact that his days leading troops into battle had been traded for days behind a desk. He'd venture north to conduct business and diplomacy to remedy his newfound boredom. His first stop is his fellow Mali'thill in Celia'nor. Perhaps stopping on the road would have been wise given the day he had, or maybe it was fate, though Sorcaril Sythaerin wasn't prepared for what he'd encounter. In the distance, one could spot the pillar representing the fork in the highway. Indistinguishable from other pillars, it sat atop a large hill that would lead to the Principality of Celia'nor. Upon approaching the ridge, a small band of what he thought to be Midlanders would come over the cliff, eyeing him from a distance. Multiple times, Sorcaril would stop and wave at the trio, getting no response. Using his best judgment, he'd ride to the city's gates. Getting off his horse, Sorcaril's hair would rise on the back of his neck. He'd swing his head quickly to see the party had closed the distance; their features, or lack of features, came to fruition through the dark. Without removing his eyes from them, he'd slowly back up onto the drawbridge entrance to Celia'nor, placing his hand on his blade. The air would become thick with the smell of sulfur and rotten flesh; Sorcaril quickly began to understand what was approaching him. He'd heard the stories through merchants that had passed through the Silver City of the undead that roamed the Midlands, though he never thought they'd come so close to the gates. Sweat would form on his forehead as he called out to the approaching group, his voice sounding calm but confident, unsure if the trio could see through the facade he was putting up. The spearmen would approach ahead of the others, with a deep echoed voice he'd speak. "Halt, our dark lord wishes to speak with you" Sorcaril would begin to slowly back peddle towards the gate, all while speaking back. "For what reason does your lord wish to speak with me?" The party's dynamic would become apparent as the spearmen broke off ahead, leaving another man with two axes and a lone rider. Sorcaril would pause as the spearmen approached. "A toll to be paid to the dark lord" With a quickness, the man wielding two axes would charge forth, closing the distance. The lone rider slowly approached from behind, riding along the middle of the two men. The smell of death got stronger as his horse got closer. Sorcaril would find himself mere feet from the gatehouse to Celia'nor and could see a small group of mali' forming behind him. Not knowing if they were armed, he'd prepare to defend who stood idly. "No mali'thill I know bends the knee to a dark lord. I shall not be the first" Sorcaril would draw his blade for the last time, eyeing the civilians behind him. The spearmen would charge first, stabbing outright at Sorcaril's torso as a green wall of fire grew in front of him. Quickly parrying the spear with his blade, his confusion of where the flames originated would promptly be dulled by the sound of hooves as the lone rider jumped over the flames, swinging his sword manically at Sorcaril's head. He barely had time to lift his blade as the horse fell strongly on his body, crushing his chest and shoulder. His scream would echo throughout the gatehouse as he was thrown to the floor, the horse standing on his body. The lone rider's entourage climbed carefully over the wall of flames, eyeing him screaming on the ground. With a single horrid cry, the rider rushed towards the crowd, slowly retreating into the city. As the horse lept forward, Sorcaril would scream out once more, and blood would pour out from his body. The spearmen would lower his gaze to the near-lifeless Sorcaril as he plunged his spear into his chest, quickly finishing the Okarir'til.
  16. “Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.” The month prior had been filled with so much joy, so much care. A gentleness that made everything so soft. Ambrosine felt like things were going to turn around for her- one way or another. A hope in her heart that she hadn’t felt in a long-long time. That hope would not last long… Blood and screams filled the air in Celia’lin that fateful evening. The sound of horse-hooves clambering upon stone, the sound of flesh being met with a blade- everything had turned so wrong so quickly. An uttered phrase of “Igne’Sae” was made, yet barely did that flame begin to alight. That warmth died just as a new warmth had spread upon her left shoulder. The smell of iron filled the air, the smell of rot as well- no… not rot… Sulfur. It was a suffocating smell- and it carried with her as she had heard the last few words of her Haelun- something she tried to hold onto. “Try and stay alive oem’ii…” Tears couldn’t bring the amount of pleads she wanted to share, how she had thought- “No- please- not again. Not again. Anything but this.” But she was not so fortunate, not like the times before. No comfort would soothe her anymore- not this time, not even the uttered apologies of one of her captors. “Please… live…” She thought to herself, but as she kept her teary eyes shut- she could only remember the faces of those she knew… Aiyeis, her Haelun Erendriel, a trusted friend Elarhil, a longtime llir Seth Calith, a Maln figure Soris, someone she aided and thought of as a friend Alistair, someone she cared too much about Ser Artel, a trusted Alchemy buddy Kendall Cooper, a momentary llir Mare, her teacher and llir Kyl’lian, an old fiance- a man who had her heart Valazaer, even in death- she could never have hated him Her birth Haelun Her birth father Her sister… There were many more, but soon her mind was plagued as the flames of a firepit licked at her skin- her screams filling the night air as her tears felt like boiling licks at her skin. Only did her nerves finally burn away- did her mind have a fragment of clarity- the cheery macabre sound of a woman cheering for her demise- as soon the elfess’ ashes had taken to the skies. A little lizard would watch in silence- now in the presence of someone new- someone darker. Nothing could be done, and nothing could be said. The only hope of a bright soul now burned away, only having a thought that she hoped she was remembered, and that she had finally found love… somewhere in the hearts she left behind. In the night sky- Ambrosine would fine three familiar faces- and she finally... finally, found home. Ambrosine Decebal- Made 535 Days and 22 Hours. Died; Age 132 Born; SA 22
  17. [OOC: Keep in mind that although all of these things are accurate IRP, the knowledge or announcement of these things are not. Any information regarding personas mentioned within this post is not to be considered common knowledge. This was my first persona on the server that I’ve been playing for over 4 years now, so I became very attached to him, here is the story of his life and death.] Recently, the Anthroparion known as Philos met his end in a duel with a mage. He lived a long life before that, though many of the stories are lost to time. One of the few records of his life is in entry 6, before he became an Anthroparion. It is unknown what happened to him in between writing this and when he emerged again, but he was much different from the man who Kariv had known. https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/193771-character-diary-sivians-notes/?tab=comments#comment-1788171 [OOC: The character doc that I had made for him. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1hKEP3ctgyCqDjIWMMMIZqfWLkDOpQ8A4Qnt3L7Ua7tg/edit?usp=sharing ] Shortly after having become an Anthroparion, when talking to his creator: Learning of the fate that comes to him, of losing his soul, The Mad Poet is furious. He treasured his soul above all else, it was a major part of his being. He begins to feel lost, shattered, he is not The Mad Poet anymore. The creator tries to calm him, he tries to reason with the man who is now unsure of himself. With the complete death of The Mad Poet, rain began to pour. … However, that was not the end. He discovered an ability. He was an experiment of this mad alchemist, and this ended up leading to a discovery. He did not die. His body, with this mysterious vivacion, could reform itself. He was the second Anthroparion to ever be made, and the last one left from his time. His creator, having tried to play God, had created something that would have lived on for eternity. Philos, what came to be his new name, his new identity, after his previous self had Shattered, would die countless times, the vast majority self-inflicted. He found only one goal remained, and that was to reunite with his soul. The true fear that he would be utterly gone after his death, with no afterlife awaiting him, or the Anthroparion mind, they both had a looming psychological horror they faced, that of the certainty that there was no afterlife. When it all ended, things would just go black. The soul would never know that the body had lived on, they were truly forsaken creatures. … One day, Philos met up with a friend of his, named Juniper. They met a friend of hers named Lanre, and after chatting, Philos and Lanre decided they wanted to spar. Philos said the words that he believed to be the truth, “I am immortal.” so that Lanre wouldn’t hold back. There were spectators, bets on who would win, and yet the duel concluded in a blazing fire destroying the body of Philos. In his last act, he threw his head out, to give himself a few more seconds. For the first time, after dying hundreds of times, he had felt true pain. He experienced mortality again. He knew he was dying, and so he gave out his last words. As the eyes of the head dimmed, the last sign of life on the corpse finally burned out, after the long decades the body had to live well past its expiration date. It was a fitting end for this one of two brothers. Kariv Siv, his brother who had died long before him, had died in a similar way, in a duel. Both were untimely ends to their tragic lives. Fitting. At last, the Sivs are truly at rest. … The fears were right. As the head loses consciousness, all that is left is black. In misguided hopes to revive it, the head is stored, preserved, but there is no afterlife. This initial experimentation by a man who tried to play God, has finally come to an end. There is no more pain, no more death, no more life. There is finally nothing.
  18. [ Lady Sierra Weiss ] The grand halls of Novkursain lay shrouded in profound silence, a rare contrast to the usual bustle of the Weiss family's daily routines. All were engaged in their busy lives, save for one exception: Lady Sierra Weiss, who rested within her chambers, battling yet another bout of ill health. Her condition had deteriorated significantly over the years, especially after the heart-wrenching loss of her beloved husband and children. Sierra had fought valiantly to hold on for the sake of her cherished family, but her body had reached its limits. After composing poignant letters to her loved ones, Sierra's chest tightened, and a raspy cough emanated from her frail form. She desperately sought the assistance of her household's servants, yet her voice failed her. Gasping for breath, she stumbled toward the door and fell to her knees. Was this the ending she desired? Weakly, she dragged herself back to her bed, determined to meet her fate with grace and dignity, sparing her family from the anguish of finding her fallen on the floor. With her last reserves of strength, she pulled herself onto the bed, her face flushed from the effort to breathe. She had been prepared for this moment for some time, and as she lay there in her final moments, a faint smile graced her lips, her memories dancing before her eyes. The memories transported her to a simpler time, a crowded family home echoing with the youthful laughter of Sierra and her siblings: Audo, Haus, and Via. In their innocence, they were a boisterous bunch, with Sierra at an age where she was not too challenging to handle. The young girl regaled her family with tales of becoming a Soldier Princesa Witch, their imaginations running wild. During those early years, Sierra had a best friend who taught her a lesson about loyalty to family. In her final moments, she wondered about Lucy and whether the girl still existed as a cursed child. Even now, Sierra could not bring herself to judge those born under unlucky stars, such as cursed beings and demons. She wondered if they felt a sense of loneliness. In her youth, she often befriended them, leading to moments of trouble that temporarily strained her relationship with her brother. Despite her youthful mistakes, her father was a constant source of guidance and support. He remained her anchor as she grew older, emphasizing the importance of family bonds. Through her trials and tribulations, she learned that blood was unbreakable, and family was a pillar of strength. Her troublesome days eventually gave way to more refined lady lessons, which transformed her into an honorable lady. Upon returning home, she discovered the beauty of love and married Carolus Colborn. This should have been the pinnacle of her life, but it was marred by the loss of her beloved father, a pain that continued to haunt her even as she lay dying in her chambers. Yet, the most painful thought was that she would leave her precious daughter, Levisa, alone in the world, a pain she had experienced firsthand and wished to spare her from. Sierra pondered whether she had done enough and whether her friends and family would remember her in a positive light or forget her, harboring resentment for her perpetual illness. As her thoughts wove through the tapestry of her life, her breaths grew slower, ushering her into a peaceful slumber. In that final moment, her mind cleared, and she saw only light. It beckoned to her like a door, and she reached for it eagerly. Upon opening it, a warm, humid breeze washed over her, making her feel young again. She stepped through and beheld the paradise her father had spoken of so many times, her namesake, Sierra. Tears welled in her eyes as she gazed upon the breathtaking scenery, resonating with the sounds of nature and the echo of her father's chuckle, sending shivers down her spine. She spun around, her eyes locking with her father's, who awaited her with a warm smile, just as he had promised. "Papej! Papej!" Sierra joyfully cried out and embraced death, rushing towards the old man with boundless love. At last, she had found her paradise, her heaven, her Sierra.
  19. Across the snowy city of Haense, in a house that was once filled with happiness and the joy of a family, lies the cold body of Daniel Ketch, a man who now resides in that very same house, which is now filled with dust and loneliness. And although he passed away alone, a smile could be seen on his face, for he knew he'd finally be reunited with his loved ones. Three letters could be seen organized from left to right on the table next to his bed, each of them addressed respectively to Gregorious Roa, Rosa, and lastly, his family. Gregorius Roa You're probably the only friend I have left, and even though you're insufferable, I'm glad I've lived long enough to keep being your friend. Looking back I might have missed a lot of things when I said that I would rather die than becoming a Roa, but seeing you raising a family made me want to do the same, and that gave me the opportunity to finally be happy again, so I'm thankful for that. And lastly, I have a request for you, I know you're already old but please, stay with your family a little longer. I've already seen most of your children such as Aurora, Percy, and Gven and I saw how much they love you, so please stay with them as long as possible and try to be a better father than I was. Rosa Rosa, you're the one who made me want to keep living even though I couldn't anymore. you were my hope,pride and joy, and I couldn't be more happy than I was the day I found you wandering in Haense. I know that nowadays you're busy with all of the new things in your life, but if you ever feel sad, or unworthy, I want you to remember that your grandpa will always love you no matter what. I wish that that one day, you have the chance to find someone you love and remain by their side as long as you want to, so as my last request, i want you to be happy. PS:I've also attached the recipe of those cookies I used to make for you. My dear family Family is a strange concept, some say that your family is composed of those who share your blood, while others say that family is shared between those you feel happy and comfortable with. In my case, I'd have to say that the second option is more appropriate, because even though I lost mine once, I had the chance to build another one. So this letter is addressed to all those I consider my family. Tobias, my dear son and his daughter, Rosa, Luke my one and only husband who helped me overcome all of the hardships in my life, Gregorius Roa and his family who inspired me to raise one as well, Leon, who by asking me to join the warband, changed my life as a whole and allowed it to become what it is today, all those who served the theodoric's warband and shared this same feeling :Valens, Reeve, Siegfried, Damon and everyone else. And last but not least,all of the friends I made throught this beautiful journey I call life.
  20. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Night quiet fell upon Bodbwodz, a starry veil glimmered overhead. Cunimund closed his eyes as he felt mountain air buffet his mantle drawn across his shoulders. The cold feels good against my head after my feet walked the hot ash of the Fiendlands. He stood watch in the tallest of the thatch-roofed towers, striding from one end to one end; keeping watch across the valleys of the Reinmaren and the Crownlands. A cruel death that Um'thraka warned me about is farthest in this serenity. His head swiveled, looking over the meadhall to Sendrenx's woodwork shop, pausing and facing a figure pacing between crannogs capped with fur walking in from the north. "Ormar bjarga mér, this is the most civilized place I've seen!" the figure exclaimed, lofting a hand up as Cunimund made a motion with his carnyx warhorn in hand. "That is a first ta' hear, most find us ta' be on ta' precipice af' savagery compared to ta' Heartlanders who live in ta' valleys below from Lemon Hill ta' Whitespire," Cunimund remarked with an inoffensive chortle before greeting, "Wæshæl! No harm will come ta' ye' here." Cunimund looked the man up and down, dressed in thick Highlander garb more suited for winter than for temperate clime. He saw the man drum his fingers nonchalantly against a belt-purse laden with goods near to spilling out. "Ogbiju andlet oiman! We can sit in ta' meadhall down ta' hill a few paces so ye' can unpack wot' goods an' belongings ye've brought an' kick yer' feet up fer' a spell," Cunimund suggested, opening a palm in the direction of the establishment and waving the man through with the other. They both went downhill and reached the meadhall, the pair shuffling through stone mugs until two were found clean and filled them up with spiced metheglin. "Skál!" the man excitedly cried before downing an entire mug's worth of mead. He wiped his soaked beard with the back of a hand and began to undo knots along his belt purse; he had seal pelts, Hyspian bracelets of gold and sapphire, and octagonal coins of no distinct minting. In response, Cunimund stood up and fetched polished fragments of amber, rounded beads of precious coral, hides from bighorn rams, bronzen torcs, and a few books. The two sat at their table, sliding different goods across from one another as they negotiated an exchange. "The goat hide interests me, as does the amber, and the armhringr too," the man said, pointing to the bronzen torcs at the end of his statement. "I'll take ta' seal pelts an' ta' bracelets af' gold an' sapphire," Cunimund said with a tone of agreement. The two exchanged goods for goods, three seal pelts and three Hyspian bracelets for two pieces of amber, two rolls of hide, and two torcs with terminals shaped in the form of crows. "I have one question for you o' member of the Cingedoz tribe" the man began, leaning his head forward and removing his fur cap. He rested it gingerly on the table, the oblique bill facing Cunimund. Cunimund nodded, smiling with the exchange of trade and words. "I want to fight one of your tribe, is this possible?" the man asked, as matter-of-factly as he spoke while trading. Cunimund eyes lit up with full attention. "Would ye' accept me as duel-partner?" Cunimund asked in return. The man nodded. "Let us agree to an arm, a shield, an' a sidearm. Neh' armor an' we shall fight upon ta' earthenwalls facin' Merryweather," the two men nodded as they stood from the table in the meadhall. They went one after the other outside and towards the walls. "I assume like most southlanders, you are disinclined to a fight to the death?" "By mine honor, I accept t'is duel ta' be one to ta' death. Let it naught be known that a Cingedoz warrior flees ta' prospect af' perishing," Cunimund responded. By then, the two stood face to face, ten paces from one another. Cunimund, having chosen a falx as his main arm, brings the blade to rest flat against his nose and his lips embraced against frigid steel. "You are the first one down here to gain my respect o' Cingedoz," the man conceded as he removed his lamellar hauberk and woolen undershirt. His torso glistened in the moonlight with a dozen freshly healed-over scars; his arms and legs seemed like vine-stakes with swirling blue tattoos winding around them shaped in serpentine iconography. He held out a round-shield and held a spear underhand. The Baron began the duel with a single step, crouching slightly and holding his scutum shield forward to afford him coverage from neck to knee. He kept his falx-blade upright and behind the shield. His opponent stepped forward in unison, the two soon coming to clash. Metal against metal, Cunimund's opponent thrust his spear forward and struck against the boss of the scutum shield and worked it over the top of Cunimund's shield. The Cingedoz warrior ducked, pressing his right ear against the back of his shield and swiped his falx from edge to edge against the top lip of the shield; his opponent's spear clanked against the side of the shield as the falx pushed its shaft from over the top of the scutum. The opponent sidestepped as Cunimund pressed forward. Cunimund felt the boss of his opponent's round-shield drum him in the right shoulder, he continued with the momentum of his falx-swing and the opponent's hook to spin completely around and bore down falx-steel against spear-shaft. The Cingedoz took the opportunity to press his scutum shield against his chest as the opponent's spear was thrown back. He is smiling. The opponent hiked up a boot and kicked Cunimund with all his northern might. The shield whined, wood warping slightly, as the boot squarely met the shield and sent Cunimund wheeling backwards. The Baron winced, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he was sent flying into the earthenwall parapet; up and over the Baron fell off onto the other side. Um'thraka warned me that death would give chase to me upon accepting his grimoire, but this is a good death. A hale death dictated by honor. Cunimund gasped for breath as the wind was knocked out of him, having fallen off the wall and onto the snow caped ground below. Strong breath came to him before clear vision, a blurry figure grew to nearly encompass his sight. His hands reacted instinctively, gripping a cold shaft of wood that stuck out of his chest. Yellow-green eyes met his as his face froze, a death mask set in rigor. "Thank you good warrior. . ," the opponent bore witness. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Men, women, and horses streamed up through the Langkette Mountains towards Bodbwodz. Ser Ferdinand Barclay led a troop of Minitzers towards the Cingedoz village as towers of smoke teetered with the carrying winds lofted above. The first to arrive crossed themselves and bowed their heads with modesty. A decapitated body with an impalement wound bounced with all its dead weight, having been strung up from the earthenwalls that faced Merryweather. Scattered belongings including two books written by the Baron laid around a slight impression in the ground below. The firefighters passed through the walls and found crannogs, hovels, and towers crumbling in on themselves in a burning inferno. A single set of footprints and drag marks from stools dotted a beeline from the meadhall to the centre of the village. Only the runestone circle stood unaffected, though scorch marks from flame flashes and coughed embers streaked the limestone.
  21. [Kipchak Helmet worn by Saxton Von Stroheim at the time of his death] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A deluge of rain fell across the surface of the Ritter Tower whilst Saxton faced down a goliath warrior alongside his brothers. "Barbarian, Heathen, Scum!" Saxton mutters through gritted teeth; he's faced this Barbarian before, 'The Lord of Bones' they called him. A behemoth Frankish warrior, wearing bits and pieces of stolen Minitz Lamellar, in their first encounter Saxton's shield and armor was shattered by a single blow from the Frank. Fighting him alone was suicidal; but he wasn't alone, both of his brothers stood beside him, both were knights, both were templars. With such allies' victory was all but guaranteed. The Stroheims began to close in, Saxton made the first move; reeling back his Warhammer and swinging it toward the Barbarian. However, The Lord of Bones was fast for his size; the Barbarian swung as well, slamming his hammer into Saxton's. A thunderous BOOM rang out as the two hammers clashed. Saxton staggered back as his hammer was flung from his hands. "Boomsteel ?" he nearly gasped. Before the Frankish warrior could follow up with another swing both of his brothers kept him occupied. One of the brothers, Peter, clashed his hammer with The Lord of Bones'. Boomsteel clashing with Boomsteel, causing another Thunderous clap to ring out. The other brother, Robert, blinded The Lord of Bones with a radiant light bursting from his body. Saxton saw his chance; he had no powerful weapons or holy magics like his brothers, but he did have his instinct. And now his instincts told him to strike. He unsheathed a kriegsmesser, gripping it in both of his hands before lunging at the blinded Barbarian. Victory was all but guaranteed, but not without a cost. Saxton swung his messer down at the Frankish warrior, yet instead of cleaving his head in two he only managed cut deeply into the shoulder. Before, he could react or adjust Saxton felt something, a sharp and crushing pain in his chest, then he heard it. The sound of Thunder boomed from a-top the Ritter Tower and as it did Saxtons body was flung from the walls. As he fell, he felt pain for a short while, then he felt cold, and then nothing. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  22. Steel's strength, both fierce and fair, In time, it too will wear and tear. Corrosion's touch, a slow decay, Marks the end of steel's display. Once proud and strong, it stood the test, But in the end, it finds its rest. Mortality's embrace is real, Even for the mightiest steel. Tensei was a construct, originally known as A.L.E.C that arrived in Valdev as a gift for a Doctor, but eventually left as a friend to most in the nation. Though commonly found to be a little disobedient and to exert human behaviors, his loyalty was within Haense until the very end. During his first years, he made plenty of friends which he would fight and die for, some that can be specifically named, know who they are by first name. Marian, Laurissa, Amaya, Aleksandr, Demitrey, Fredrich, Juniper. Though he called many others his friends, these people have demonstrated unconditional friendship to Tensei. It was not his time, but it is what happened due to an unfortunate series of events. His final thoughts hoped someday, he may be able to see Haense in it's future glory. And that he would get revenge for hurting his friends like this. Somehow.
  23. Mi Nepos was a complicated man, he was a fighter, a drunkard, a scholar and lastly he had a heart of pure aurum. Lucius Ramneseii Brutus died way too soon and way too violently for my liking and today is the day we make a vow as a people that we will not let any more of our own die to the servants of the wealthy one. For too long we have suffered at the hands of many different groups; in the deserts of Almaris it was the numerous desert tribes and in the distant past it was the LaVassieur Forest Dwarfs. All of these foes we have beaten back; and we will beat these new ones. The Mvs Rexum will be hunted for their crimes and crucified The Caelian people must be vigilant once more for around any corner could be your enemy. Lucius was killed in his own home with no one there to hear his last words; he clearly fought bravely like a true Caelian but even the brave Lucius could not beat the mvs alone. The Caelians must work as one to fight off these great threats or we will never be as great as our ancestors. However, we can not forget our great heroes like Lucius, who shall be remembered as one of the great heroes of Caelia up there with Caelianus Ramneseius and others. Signed ~ Marcus Ramneseii Scipio
  24. [!] A neatly written note would lay beside the aged man who had slumped on his desk, his quill resting beside his hand. I am dying. I feel it coming when I lay down and when I get up. Yet I am not saddened by this. I have lived a life worthy of writing about. And so, I have dedicated my last few years to recounting it. In those pages I continue onward. In those pages, the memory of who I was lives. I am a storyteller, and I have told my story. I have been writing for a long time and yet I find some new story every day. There is not one that goes by that I regret the things that I have written, for each piece holds aspects of reality. The Kingdom is so different than it once was. I am one of the few who remain from my time. So many have passed on and yet I continued to write. Now I am the one passing on. There is freedom in that, I think. I am finally able to see those long past. I long to hear their voices and to witness them smiling again. It is close now, I feel it slipping away from me. My eyes grow tired and I have no reason to resist. So I say the last thing that is to be said, a final piece, perhaps, my best piece. Now, it is my time to sail beyond the tides, that place you cannot go. ~~ Beyond the Tides The night draws hither, O’ wintered breath, The jovial turn to cold display. Aged leaf from thrones on high, Welcomed to the ground below. The hour draws thither, O’ crippled touch, The desperate pray upon weak knees. Purest light of God above, Watch over as I take my leave. The time is nye, O’ faded sight, When at last the soul relents. A spark that fell from dulled eyes. Trailed by quivering exhales. The end is here, O’ Fallen Lord The quill slipped from my grasp. Taken to my olden friends, To rest with those I love. It dipped before the depths, This last light of mine. Descending betwixt sky and sea.
  25. The End of the Warpath The Terror of the West of Arcas, The Blackguard of the North, The Torchfield, Roman had been called many names over his many years of life, all filled with hardship and blood, so much blood. Within the cursed forest of Aevos, the warmonger had found himself. He gazed upon a hulking figure of cobbled stone, shaping an all too familiar figure that looked like a visage he had not seen in several decades. A looming statue of dripping waters, looking like that of the armor of the much defunct Vira’ker. “How I hate seeing old enemies of my past.” It rumbles out, a long blade of cobbled stone, blunted edges being pulled from its form. “It’s been a long time, Roman.” The large armored man stares ahead, the gears in his head turning before a realization comes to him, a wicked grin coming beneath that dark helm. “Xavis Ashwood, now I know I’m the better man. While I aged you have died becoming this, how it must wound you.” He taunts, drawing forth his dreadful weapon from his hip, the Wartorch. With some twists and turns flames would ignite alcohol-soaked cloth, flames roaring at the head. “You always overestimated yourself, Roman, always thought yourself the strongest.” The Eidola counters on its march forward a hefty swing of its blade slashes forth. Roman would pivot to the side, his flaming mace arcs forth in the air, striking at the arm of being, chipping and causing mild cracks. Upon missing the first of his blows, Irlioz, the stone abomination, arcs his blade of stone in a backswing to Roman’s legs. Despite this, The Torchfield swings his mace upwards, meeting the stone chin of the being, crunching and breaking away the stone. The looming stone blade however impacts, sending out his legs from underneath him. “You’re slow in your age, you are WEAK!” The pale knight would bellow out, turning down the blade to attempt and plunge it towards his right arm. The aged warrior rolls out of the way, flinging up his Wartorch to use the cinders as a way to aid in his recovery from the ground. The tense battle between the two would go on, Roman using what little dexterity he had over the stone warrior in his old age. But it had been clear since the beginning that Roman was not going to win this fight, and he knew that. The blade easily smashed his shield into splints in one move, where Roman struck true once more causing great cracks in the stoneborn arm. Water was now pooling out of Irlioz like gouts of blood. The warmonger’s strength was draining, his breathing growing ragged and heavy as the battle waged on. As Irlioz caught that Wartorch in his last attack he would stumble back, falling down as his breathing was now labored, his damaged bones and age caught up to him after all these years. Irlioz approaches the warrior who was now propped up against a boulder, his helmet discarded, his weather-aged face on full display. “You were never going to win..” A tinge of sympathy was in the Pale Knight's voice. “Did you know?” He paused looming over Roman. “Of course I knew Xavis.” Roman let out a hoarse laugh as he sat there. “I knew it from the beginning, but if anyone were to finally strike me down it would have to be Xavis Ashwood.” A fierce grin still on his face. “A battle to finally put an end to Roman Torchfield.” Then will a somber feeling in the air between the two the Eidola would approach furth where the man was sat, the finality of the situation now brought forth; OOC NOTE
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