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Writer: Aurielle
Date Mon Mar 30 13:31:44 2026
To All (Imm RP Conclave)
Subject Conflagration. ({p2 of ??)
The bonfire in the Conclave sea cavern was warm and lively; it warmed the
soul to see such merriment. Aurielle stood nearby, sipping hot chocolate.
With marshmallow, of course - anything less just wasn't hot chocolate, no
matter what others might imply. Now and again, a missive would escape the
blaze, fluttering off on the breeze, lighting the starry night with flickers
of red and yellow - and occasionally green and purple, where magi had used
other, more fanciful ink. Some even left the flaming images of words
against the sky, dancing in the kender's eyes where she had failed to look
away in time.
"By the margin of a single vote..."
It hadn't been her intent, at first, to start the bonfire. She truly had
the best of intentions, truly! The kender had gathered up All the missives,
notices, letters, and assorted announcements that had piled up in her long
sleep, grabbed her endless thermos of cocoa, and gone out somewhere quiet to
make a best effort to read them all. And well. The sea cavern was an
obvious choice - no one ever came here, and some even expressed surprise
that the conclave had such a spot, on sensing a mage there!
"...have found no corruption nor..."
The real problem, Aurielle decided with another sip of her cocoa, was the
chill in the air here. She hadn't brought a blanket, but she was a mage!
She could just, you know - make fire. With her hands! And so, that is what
she had done. At first.
"...down their own dusty halls..."
Burning hands, as a spell, was wonderful for a bit of heat in a chill, but
it didn't last long, and drained a lot of mana. So the kender had, of
course, done the natural thing. She didn't really need to keep most of the
letters she'd already read - just the important ones. And so, she sorted
the letters into two piles, weighed down by a few rocks.
"...are loved and missed!"
Burning hands wasn't enough to ignite something - so of course, Aurielle
cast fireball.
"...is diminished when..."
One fire sparked beautifully, and then so did a second and a third - fires
she hadn't intended. The kender's squeak of surprise was eaten up in the
crackling of flames, but to her credit, she had done a remarkable job of
containing the blaze: it was just, well.
"...looking to advance their magicks under..."
Aurielle contained it to the letters, missives, and notices.
All of them. Read and unread, alike.
"Oh well." the little mage murmured with a shrug, thermos already moving
back up to her mouth, spreading the small mustache of cream and chocolate
on her upper lip. The papers continued to fly and scatter, burning away to
char and crumble upon the winds. The conflagration was warm, at least.
"I'm sure none of it was too important. Probably."
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Mar 31 15:34:40 2026
To All Verminasia ( rp imm Tritoch Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject Heart of Darkness (Part One)
She became aware of the missing piece the way one becomes aware of a
pulled tooth. Not in the moment of extraction, but in the quiet after, when
the tongue found the gap and understood the shape of what was no longer
there.
Piknim sat upright in the Aurora's light and splayed a hand flat against her
chest.
Around her, the black rain fell.
It pattered against the albaster grasses and azure shrubland of the empyrean
landscape in soft percussion, each drop a soul released from the reliqua's
keeping and consecrated by unholy chanting and Drakkara's will. Norfirth
still bore the reliquary. Aothien still held up the dragonscale shield.
Symantha was saying something. Probably something profound. Ezrianne was
fretting. Lavinah's hands were warm where they'd been pressed against the
wound that wasn't there anymore, or rather, was there but differently. The
golden lance had dissolved into nothing when Saatsetzu took what it had
pierced, or so she assumed.
She had sensed a presence behind her moments before. It felt like the Demon
Prince.
"Your flesh is claimed," Cedarmold had said, "by older roots still."
He had no idea.
Piknim looked at her own hand. Then up at the sky where the Aurora churned,
weaker than it had been, still furious, still present. Then back at her
hand.
"Oh, drat it all," she muttered.
. . . * * * * * * * * * . . .
She had felt something similar three years ago by the old calendar. King
Rhylgar had abdicated and named her successor, yet the throne remain
unclaimed for a full year. Drakkara, in Her inscrutable wisdom or dark
amusement, declined to anoint a ruler. The crown sat without a head and
Piknim sat with it, Royal Advisor to no one, Archduchess of Gogothath still,
the highest rung she could reach without transgressing into royal territory.
She had felt it then too. A particular shape of absence. Not grief
exactly. Not fear. Never fear. Something more akin to the specific
awareness of a door that was neither open nor closed, and a dawning
recognition that she stood upon the wrong side of it.
That was when she witnessed a shooting star in the winter sky. The kind
that children were told to wish upon. Before she could make a wish, its
trajectory angled sharply on an erratic path to the Blazing Aurora. It
wasn't a shooting star, but a different sort of celestial body. It was a
wounded angel.
It was an opportunity to catch the Night Mother's eye, and thus she had
given chase without a second thought.
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Mar 31 15:43:11 2026
To All Verminasia ( rp imm Tritoch Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject Heart of Darkness (Part Two)
She chased it All the way to the Silver Ascent of the Blazing Aurora.
The Aurora burned. It reminded her, in no uncertain terms, that kender were
never meant to find a red aura. It discerned, with white-hot clarity, that
which lay hidden beneath the Darkfinder's bright smile and child-like
visage. Her topknot sizzled. Her magic stuttered. Her footfalls landed
with less confidence than usual, which for Piknim was saying something.
The Augur loomed tall before the Arc of Fire. Marble-white. Jackal-headed,
with golden eyes that caught the light in a way that suggested they were not
merely absorbing it but reading it. It held both arms outstretched, palms
turned heavenward.
Waiting.
Piknim crouched before it in the scorching light, burned and diminished and
entirely uncertain, for one of the rare times in her life, of what she ought
to do next. The Augur's eyes settled upon her. She felt the weight of his
gaze pass through her like a hand through water, finding everything,
disturbing nothing. It reminded her of Agapitos, of stern judgment but
without the tell-tale flicker of genuine warmth the paladin still held for
her. At least, a tiny part of her distantly hoped he did.
The Augur extended a hand towards her.
To this very day, three years hence, she did not know what she would have
done. She had the sense that she had been about to find out something
important.. About herself, about the Arc of Fire and what lay beyond, about
whether the darkness was something she had chosen or something she had
become. The Augur seemed prepared to tell her. His hands seemed ready to
receive whatever answer she arrived at.
She would never know.
Saatsetzu's hand closed around her shoulder from behind.
The world went dark, turned upside-down.
"No, no, shh," hissed a voice like smoke and old contracts, and then she
found herself floating in the middle of Nowhere, which smelled of nothing
and felt like the moment between one thing and another.
An imposing figure with skin of glistening obsidian and gleaming green eyes
was looking down at her with the expression of a cat who caught the canary,
of someone who had been waiting for precisely this appointment. The being's
touch was electric and tingly in a way that made her want to hug him, but
she knew enough about demons to know that doing so would be ill advised and
unbecoming of an Archduchess besides.
"How endearing," the Unbinder of Fates said. "I have been partial to you
for quite some time."
She had questions. Lots of questions. She asked approximately sixteen of
them in rapid succession, which he answered in the order he found amusing
rather than the order she asked them. She explored the space between
worlds, stumbled upon the skeletal remains of many a Cracklespark who came
before. Evidently, they had fallen short of expectation.
At the Demon Prince's bidding, she split a lunastone into three pieces with
umbral lightning that she shouldn't have been able to conjure and hadn't
managed to conjure since.
The peered into the mirror-surface of each piece and beheld three versions
of herself. A dark elven shadowmage, a queen, and a knight. She picked the
middle one without thinking it through or asking what it would cost.
"The deal is struck, Cracklespark," Saatsetzu declared.
She heard a keening wail, across time and space, of yet another
Cracklespark, a Piknim who had somehow become Queen only to be destroyed by
a single careless decision. Unto that thread of fate, severed in an
instant, the Darkfinder would now be placed in order to both mend it and to
make her deepest, darkest desire come true.
"Oh, drat it all," she muttered.
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Mar 31 15:50:26 2026
To All Verminasia ( rp imm Tritoch Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject Heart of Darkness (Part Three)
Saatsetzu had visited her from time to time in the years since, watching
from within an arch of lambent stygian rock in the palace throne room. He
offered advice that served his interests while also, on occasion, serving
hers. He had suggested, with the particular casualness of someone who had
already done the arithmetic, that she might want to accumulate as many
reliquae as possible in the war against Marauders and Chaos.
She had assumed he wanted the souls contained within them.
She had been correct, as far as it went.
. . . * * * * * * * * * . . .
The black rain fell.
{u"The Aurora here is weakening," Symantha said. {u"We must not linger."
Piknim took her hand from her chest. The gap was still there, smaller than
a thought, larger than nothing, shaped like something she couldn't quite
name. Whatever Saatsetzu had taken from her today had been small enough not
to notice in the moment and significant enough that she noticed it now, in
the quiet.
She was becoming familiar with this particular arithmetic. The accounts he
kept were meticulous. The interest was invisible until it wasn't.
She looked up at the churning Aurora, weaker than it had been, still
present, still roiling with righteous ire.
The Witch-Queen climbed to her feet, adjusted her topknot, and told the
servants of Darkness gathered around her that everything would be alright.
She wasn't entirely sure that was true. But she said it with no small
amount of conviction, which was enough to make up the difference more often
than not.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Tue Mar 31 21:44:28 2026
To All Piknim Saatsetzu Xenophon IMM RP
Subject A Proposition of Power
Zecnys swept through the towering council doors, his gaze fixed on the
central table where each empty chair stood like a silent judge. A wild elf
lay bound upon the polished surface, ropes biting into his wrists and
ankles. The captive's eyes burned crimson, and bared fangs revealed his
contempt for this humiliating predicament.
Moving with deliberate grace, Zecnys approached the Count's throne at the
head of the table and seated himself, locking eyes with the demon before
him. Without uttering a word, he placed a sheet of parchment and a
sharpened phoenix feather quill upon the dark wood.
Zecnys inhaled deeply, savoring the coppery tang that hung in the air. The
blood's scent carried the terror of its original victim mingled with the
demon's predatory ecstasy as it fed.
In a blur of motion, Zecnys drove the quill's tip into the demon's jugular
with a clenched fist. A fountain of crimson erupted, spraying the table
with corrupted ichor. He withdrew the quill and pressed it to parchment,
writing in the blood of the damned. As he composed the missive, his free
hand seized the elf's ear between thumb and forefinger. With a vicious
twist, he tore it from the head, the wet ripping of flesh echoing in the
chamber. Zecnys popped the severed ear into his mouth, crunching through
cartilage as he focused on his writing. When finished, he folded the
message and sealed it with the Count's wax crest. Now to deliver it to
Queen Piknim.
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Apr 5 12:55:43 2026
To All ( Fatale & Raije IMM RP )
Subject The Offering in the Moonlily Fields
They came at night, beneath three moons.
At Zixlapixs call, the Moonlily Fields filled with steel, spell, and intent.
Clanned and unaligned, kingdomed and the homeless, some seeking contest,
others something quieter, sharper.
There were no lines. No order. Just choreographed moments of violence &
competition.
Blades struck. Spells lit up the night. Bodies fell. Blood soaked the
lilies.
And the lilies drank deeply.
Their pale glow deepened where life ended, each drop drawn downward, then
carried upward, through root and soil, into something unseen. The field was
no mere ground, but a conduit, lifting the struggle itself into the heavens
of Algoron.
Above, the moons watched.
The silver lights held steady. The Black Moon did not appear. But it
pressed close, felt in the silence between deaths
Not All violence rose the same.
Some was loud, scattered ... A war without focus. Some crushed and
overwhelmed. But here and there, a single, chosen strike rang true. Those
moments the field embraced. Those it carried cleanly upward.
Zixlapix watched, small and still among the glow, his robes brilliant white,
"Ah, " he whispered once, as the lilies pulsed beneath a fallen form.
Above, something answered.
Fatale was strengthened: refined through Murder. Raije was honored as well,
though less purely, in the clash and contest. His response... Dulled?
By night's end, the field shone deeper than before.
And Zixlapix, looking skyward, understood one thing -
This was not battle.
This was offering.
Writer: Erindor
Date Sun Apr 5 18:53:51 2026
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom
Subject Vallentales: Erindor's Bad Hair Day
Morning light filters softly through the Vallenwood, pale and diffused,
settling into the quiet of Erindor Shalonost's chamber. Before a
three-sided mirror, his reflection stands in perfect symmetry, composed,
balanced, and unmarred by disorder.
Save for one detail.
A single strand of pale hair rests just above his brow, curved in quiet
defiance of the otherwise smooth and measured fall. It neither aligns nor
settles, existing apart from the order that defines the rest of him.
Erindor's gaze fixes upon it, steady and unhurried.
The air around him holds a subtle presence, a natural energy that does not
stir or flare, but rests in quiet equilibrium. It gathers close without
movement, like a breath held without tension. The space itself feels
attentive, as though aware of the imbalance, however minor.
His fingers rise, precise, deliberate, adjusting the strand into place.
For a moment, it complies.
Then, without resistance or hesitation, it returns to its prior curve.
Stillness follows.
The quiet energy surrounding him deepens, not in intensity, but in
awareness. It does not press against the strand, nor attempt to shape it.
It simply exists, steady and present, as if waiting for alignment rather
than forcing it.
Another adjustment.
The strand bends again, nearer to the intended form, though not entirely.
It settles at a slight angle, neither fully compliant nor wholly defiant.
Erindor observes.
There is no frustration in his expression, only consideration. The
imbalance is acknowledged, measured, understood. The energy around him
remains calm, unchanged, offering no correction beyond presence.
The strand shifts once more, easing back into its original curve.
Unchanged.
A breath passes, quiet and even.
His hand lowers.
The mirror reflects him as he is: composed, precise, and marked by a single,
persistent imperfection. It does not diminish him. It does not disrupt the
balance he carries. It simply exists within it.
His hand closes around the staff resting beside him.
Carved from an elder branch of the Vallenwood, its form follows the natural
line of its origin, unforced and unaltered. Its grain bends where it once
grew, its shape defined by acceptance rather than correction. It rests in
quiet harmony, whole in its imperfection.
The strand of hair remains.
Unmoved.
The energy surrounding Erindor does not shift to correct it. It remains
steady, aligned, complete without the need for refinement.
The chamber door opens to the Vallenwood beyond, where no leaf grows in
perfect symmetry and no branch follows a single, unbroken line. The forest
breathes in quiet imbalance, sustained not by perfection, but by harmony.
Erindor departs as he stands.
The strand remains as it is.
And nothing within him finds it out of place.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Sun Apr 5 21:19:20 2026
To All Abaddon Piknim Saatsetzu IMM RP
Subject Weakness of the Gifted
Ryzzynth uncoiled his massive form within the sand dome, sprawling across
the floor with deliberate grace. In his peripheral vision stood a
malnourished ogre clad in rags. Slowly, the brown dragon craned his neck,
offering the vulnerable flesh to the starving creature.
The ogre's features twisted grotesquely as fangs erupted from his gums and
his eyes burned crimson. He lunged at Ryzzynth's exposed throat, desperate
for a taste of the dragon's essence. The moment his fangs made contact with
the dragon's neck, they shattered against the impenetrable scales covering
the leathery hide. The ogre recoiled, stumbling backward with a look of
confusion and profound disappointment etched across his face.
Ryzzynth turned his massive head, realization dawning in his ancient eyes.
Anger rippled across his features as scales shifted and brows furrowed. His
eyes ignited with demonic fire at the creature's failure. With lightning
speed, the dragon's hind leg shot out, claws extended, impaling the ogre
against the sandy dome wall. The impact sent a cascade of gold, purple, and
brown sand showering through the chamber, accompanied by the sickening
crunch of bone. Blood pooled around the ogre's dangling feet.
Ryzzynth withdrew his leg, and the ogre slumped to the floor like a broken
puppet. From the sand, the creature looked up, eyes struggling to focus on
his tormentor as his left arm extended grotesquely, the ulna jutting through
torn flesh. Using his only functioning limb, the ogre began dragging
himself inch by agonizing inch toward the dragon.
With a growl that vibrated through the dome, Ryzzynth opened his maw,
revealing serrated teeth coated in thick, viscous saliva. His serpentine
tongue shot out, coiling around the ogre's broken body and lifting him into
the air before dropping him into the waiting jaws. The crunch of bone
echoed through the chamber as the dragon devoured his failed servant, then
huffed sharply, sending sand swirling around the dome in a final,
contemptuous display.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Apr 6 13:51:18 2026
To Sorien Piknim Ryzznyth Aelyn ( All IMM RP Cayenna Xenohpon )
Subject {uNo Man Passes Through Water{u Dry ( I of II )
That he had not chosen the Black Tower to watch over him was, perhaps,
the most telling detail of all.
If any of his present Black Robe colleagues learned whose hands he had
entrusted with his body, they might mistake it for insult, or strategy, or
some new species of ambition. In truth it was simpler than that, and
colder. Blinx did not trust them with his vulnerable flesh. Not as they
were now. Not while the Tower hesitated, measured, stalled, and watched
itself instead of the world. Whatever regard he still held for the Black
Robes as an order, he did not mean to leave his sleeping body in the care of
peers who had grown too political, too timid, or too complacent to be relied
upon when the matter ceased to be theoretical.
So he had chosen otherwise.
His ward, the Ancient Brown Ryzznyth, would stand one watch. Queen Piknim
Cracklespark, Darkfinder of Verminasia, would hold the other. Ancient
loyalty and sovereign cunning: those were the sentinels he preferred. There
was intrigue enough in that choice, and he knew it. A Magus of the Black
Robes, preparing to cast himself into the Dreaming, had placed his
undefended body not in the custody of his own robe-brethren, but in the
keeping of a dragon bound to him by wardship and a queen whose favor was as
dangerous as it was precious. Let others make of that what they would.
Blinx had not chosen for appearances. He had chosen for competence.
And because the danger was not the Black Tower itself. It was the
possibility of being left helpless among those who no longer understood what
true vigilance required.
He hovered in the dim comfort of his private chambers, letting that thought
settle and harden. Here, among his notes, vessels, reagents, and
instruments, his mind moved more cleanly. The room was close with the
familiar atmosphere of old study and concentrated will. Nothing in it was
accidental. Each object had been placed, used, stained, or preserved
according to purpose. Here, at least, the world still obeyed the older laws
of inquiry: distill, divide, examine, extract.
Soon he would leave even these comforts behind.
The preparations had already been made. He would conduct the entry into the
Dreaming within his own rooms, not in some shared hall, not in borrowed
sanctuary, and not under the eyes of the curious. He would strip himself
bare and lay his body in salted water, in a chamber made soundless and left
wholly dark. No candle would burn. No ember would remain. No murmur from
corridor or tower would reach him there. There would be only the water, the
salt, the dark, and the careful loosening of mind from flesh. The body
would rest in ritual stillness while thought went walking elsewhere.
The image of it did not disturb him. If anything, it pleased him with its
severity.
He already knew the face he would wear upon the far side of that dark. He
would go under a harmless enough premise: that he meant to answer Sir Sorien
KilCannons questions about the Gifted. That was plausible. Even courteous.
A scholars errand. A measured exchange. Let the Knight believe the meeting
concerned inquiry, classification, and whatever noble curiosity had stirred
him to ask.
But that was only the door.
Blinxs true interest lay elsewhere.
Sir Sorien KilCannon, Knight-Crown and confessor of Gareths Keep, had fixed
himself in Blinxs thoughts with the persistence of an unsolved problem. The
knight listened to suffering. That alone was enough to invite scrutiny.
But he did more than listen. He absolved. Men and women came before him
burdened with shame, secret hunger, guilt, betrayal, cowardice, grief, and
blasphemy, and from his lips they received release, or something
sufficiently shaped like release to quiet their consciences.
Blinx could not believe such labor left a man untouched.
( I of II )
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Apr 6 13:55:54 2026
To Sorien Piknim Ryzznyth Aelyn ( All IMM RP Cayenna Xenohpon )
Subject {uNo Man Passes Through Water{u Dry ( II of II )
That was the polished lie of holy offices: that one might handle
corruption without contamination, receive the weight of others without
bearing any measure of it, immerse oneself in the moral ruin of the world
and emerge unstained. Yet to Blinx that seemed as foolish as walking
through water without expecting to get wet. Worse: it was like trudging
through a black marsh and insisting one still kept a clean room. The mud
came home whether one named it or not. It clung to the hem. It dried in
the seams of the threshold. It marked the floorboards sooner or later.
So too, he suspected, with sin.
What did a confessor do with the sins he absolved?
Not the ceremonial answer. Not doctrine prettied for public use. Blinx
wanted the hidden mechanism. He wanted to know what became of corruption
once it had been spoken aloud into sanctified ears. Was it dismissed?
Absorbed? Buried? Transformed? Did it settle somewhere within Sorien,
confession by confession, the way black silt settled in still water, each
soul leaving behind some fine dark residue in the vessel that received it?
And what of Soriens own sin?
That was the richest question of all.
For no confessor could remain mere vessel forever. To hear sin was to learn
its grammar. To receive guilt endlessly was to become intimate with its
textures. Somewhere within Sir Sorien KilCannon there must be a private
fracture, some inward compromise, some appetite, grief, vanity, or hidden
wound that confession had not washed away. Perhaps the office had only
refined it, taught it better manners, given it holier language. Or perhaps
the greater danger was stranger still: that after bearing so much of others
hidden darkness, Sorien no longer knew with certainty where his own ended
and theirs began.
That was what Blinx meant to test.
He did not seek darkness in the Knight merely to admire it. He sought it in
hope. Hope, that is, of finding some buried seed already presentsmall,
denied, perhaps even unknown to its ownerand giving it what it lacked. Air.
Attention. Permission. A little warmth. A little pressure in the right
place. Not corruption imposed from without like a crude stain splashed
across clean cloth, but corruption coaxed from within, fed from the
confessors own hidden stores until it recognized itself and began to grow.
That was always the finer art.
A holy man who had never harbored darkness would be merely a disappointment.
But a holy man who had carried darkness unsuspected within himself, watered
over years by exposure to suffering, guilt, and intimate ruinthat was
something else. That was something that might yet flower.
He drifted slowly through the room, wings beating in soft, dry murmurs, his
small shadow crossing glassware and parchment alike. The chamber soothed
him because it reminded him that All mysteries, however reverently hidden,
could be opened if approached with patience and the correct instruments.
Distillation. Separation. Extraction. Reduction. The confessor himself
had begun to seem like such a problem: not a man to be admired or despised
in simple terms, but a vessel to be tested, a sealed chamber to be sounded
for hollowness.
If sin could be confessed, could it also be transferred?
If transferred, could it accumulate?
If it accumulated, what form did it take in the soul of the one appointed to
receive it?
And if Sorien knew the answernot in doctrine, but in marrowwhat might betray
him when pressed close enough? A hesitation? A fascination? A note of
hunger mistaken for pity? Some minute softness toward the very darkness he
named in others?
( II of II )
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Apr 6 13:57:52 2026
To Sorien Piknim Ryzznyth Aelyn ( All IMM RP Cayenna Xenohpon )
Subject {uNo Man Passes Through Water{u Dry ( III of II )
Blinx wanted very much to find out. Not because he mistook the Knight
for dull prey, nor because he expected sanctity to split open at a
fingernail's touch. Sir Sorien KilCannon was no fool. But the holy were
forever vulnerable to one especially fragrant vanity: the belief that a man
might descend into the black marsh of human shame, wade waist-deep through
its sucking filth, and still come forth with his robes unstained, his hem
unsullied, and no reek of the mire clinging to him.
That was the conceit Blinx wished to test.
Soon he would lie down in salted darkness and let the flesh remain behind.
Soon Ryzznyth and Piknim would keep watch over the husk he left in the
material world. Soon he would go to the Knight beneath the courteous
pretense of answering questions about the Gifted.
And beneath that courtesy, he would look for sin.
He would listen for strain beneath the doctrine. He would search for
sediment beneath the grace. He would probe for the hidden place where pity
had grown too intimate with suffering, where absolution had become
familiarity, where the handling of other souls' corruption had left
something soft and fertile in the depths of the confessors own.
For no man passes through water dry.
And no man, however devout, can spend a lifetime receiving the sins of
others without one day discovering that some portion of them has begun to
feel like home.
( III of II )
Writer: Zecnys
Date Wed Apr 8 21:31:36 2026
Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Apr 10 18:19:44 2026
To All piknim zecnys ( religion rp immortal dragoth )
Subject Shadows and Spiderwebs
The Temple of Dark Magicks was still with its heavy, floral humidity.
Lavender and roses, the Mistress' markings, warred with the cloying scent of
burning spices under the gray marble dome.
Standing at the base of the stairs, her form a study in structural decay.
Translucent flakes of skin drift off, floating down to join the rose petals
on the floor - small, silent offerings to the Mothers house. She doesn't
notice as Swarm within her hums a rhythmic, industrious approval. They are
her, she is them, and All are His.
Beside her, Zecnys carried the loud, restless energy of his human shell. He
speaks of souls and crowns, his focus narrow on the violence of the hunt.
She listens, filtering the Count's bravado from the conversation.
Her mind clicked. It was a soft grace, a spider gliding to the center of
its web after hibernation. The Queen's cruelty was inspiring. Lavinah had
watched it bloom for an age, carefully nurturing the Queen's best and worst
instincts yet these were darker petals than she might have dared dream.
Then, by chance, the idea became something much grander and far, far darker
than the jittering kenderkin realized. Lavinah schemed, and both listened,
her words moving through the darkwood pews like a draft.
She did not need convince either one. The plaque behind her spoke of skill
and authority that transcended crowns, something the Queen knew well and the
Count had just begun to understand.
Inside her, the Swarm went silent as they spoke, settling in for the harvest
ahead.
Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Apr 10 18:59:50 2026
To All ( Black_Robes Symantha Piknim Ryzzynth Drakkara RP? )
Subject {uOn the Shape of Restraint
The Temple of Dark Magick receives Blinx in its usual way: first by
sound, the low cadence of chanting and prayer, then by height, by stone and
shadow and the impossible upward reach of the place. Beneath the murdered
Necrucifer's painted gaze and the soft pulse of the alabaster statue, the
quarrel with the High Priestess seems at once smaller and more maddening.
Not gone. Only made harder to hold.
He pauses long enough to make certain he is alone. No one nearby. No eyes
upon him but those of the Dark Queen's image and the towering stillness of
the temple itself. The smoke from the braziers rises in pale threads, the
scent of spice and lavender hanging in the air, and for a moment he simply
stands there in the hush of it, worn thin by thought.
He had tried, truly tried, to understand what the High Priestess meant.
Turned it over, worried at it, worried at himself. But after a while it had
begun to feel less like reflection and more like standing before some unseen
thing in the dark, hands outstretched, trying to know it by touch and never
quite managing to make the shape of the object.
That is what exhausts him most.
Not guilt, exactly. Not defiance either. The failure of it. The sense
that he and the High Priestess were each speaking to something the other
could not fully see. She spoke of discipline as though the matter were
plain. He could only keep returning to the same blunt fact: the Shadow
Knights began the war, and Blinx had not gone after them until Archal, their
Dark Lord had attacked him. After that, it was not only him. Students.
Apprentices. The young and the lesser-guarded. If there is a lesson in
restraint there, he cannot yet find where it begin with the Ebony. Was the
Black Tower meant to turn the other cheek while its own were bloodied? Was
that the wisdom being asked of them to endure violence in silence and call
it discipline? The thought sits bitterly in him, not because he rejects
correction, but because he cannot see how such surrender could be called
service. Mock the abyss if you like, but do not whimper when it opens
beneath you. At last he flutters forward and kneels before the statue of
Drakkara.
His voice comes thin and wheezing in the great dark stillness, but he makes
himself speak anyway.
{uDark Queen, please hear me in my uncertainty.
Grant me clarity where my thoughts knot upon themselves, and reflection
where anger would make easy answers. I do not understand whether I am being
called to discipline, or to silence before harm. If I am proud, humble me.
If I am blind, sharpen my sight. But if the Black Robes are struck by
Shadow Knights and I am meant to stand idle beneath the name of restraint,
then help me see how stillness serves you and Tapestry of Night.
{uShow me the difference between vengeance and duty. Strip false
righteousness from me, but do not let me mistake surrender for wisdom. May
I see the shape of Your will more clearly, and have the strength to bear it
when i do.
In service to the night, I reflect at the intention of the lesson.
When the last words leave him, silence settles over the temple again. For a
while he remains there, kneeling in the shadowed grandeur, with only the
drifting incense and the towering statue for company. He has no answer yet.
No revelation. Only the faint comfort of having laid the confusion down
where it belongs, before something greater than his own anger, greater than
his own certainty.
He still cannot make the shape of it.
But now, at least, he has admitted that to the Dark Queen herself.
Writer: Zew
Date Fri Apr 10 21:17:18 2026
Writer: Pror
Date Sun Apr 12 16:28:41 2026
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 08:08:26 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP
Subject The Confessor Dreams (I of VII)
The coin felt cold beneath my palm.
I remember that first.
Not the pain. Not the blood. Not the screams that would come after. Just
the weight of that small, simple thing as I pressed it beneath the pillow,
as though it were enough to purchase rest or forgiveness.
Aelida lay beside me, her fingers laced with mine, steady and deliberate. I
could feel the quiet strength in her grip, the precision of a mind that
understood exactly what she was doing. The white dust traced its careful
circles around us, the stones humming low, like distant voices speaking in a
language older than memory.
Sofie stood watch. I knew she did, even as my eyes closed. Samaritan.
Guardian. Witness.
I let go.
And the dark took me.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 08:12:43 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (II of VII)
My heart begins to beat.
Slow at first.
I am no longer in the bed. No longer in the quiet. No longer held.
I am in the Arena.
The Clan Wars rise around me in a roar of sound and heat, a living thing
made of screaming throats and pounding blood. Sand grinds beneath my boots.
The air tastes of iron and smoke.
I am younger.
Faster.
Colder.
I move before thought, before mercy. A flick of the wrist, and the smoke
blooms around me, thick and blinding. Shapes stagger. Cough. Panic.
I am already inside their guard.
The blade slips between ribs like it belongs there.
Once. Twice. Again.
Malice. That is what they called them.
But I remember their eyes.
They were no different than mine.
My heart beats faster.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 09:04:49 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (III of VII)
The Arena is gone.
I am on my back.
I cannot move.
Hands. Claws. Teeth.
They hold me down, pinning me to the ground with a weight that crushes
breath from my lungs. The demons are everywhere, their laughter wet and
hungry as they tear at me.
I feel it.
Every inch.
Flesh parting. Bones straining. The hot spill of blood as it leaves me.
I try to rise.
I cannot.
I try to pray.
No words come.
Only the sound of them feeding.
My heart races, frantic now, slamming against a cage that is already
breaking.
I do not die.
I endure.
That is worse.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 09:06:33 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (IV of VII)
I am standing again.
The Hall of Thanaxos stretches before me, vast and echoing, its stone scorched black by ancient flame.
The Chromatic Dragon descends.
Color shifts across its scales, a living storm of hatred and hunger. Its roar shakes the marrow in my bones. Fire follows, a torrent that consumes the world.
I do not retreat.
I drive forward.
The lance strikes.
Once.
Twice.
I feel the resistance, the impossible density of scale, then the sudden give as it breaks. Heat washes over me. My armor screams.
The dragon screams louder.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 09:10:18 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (V of VII)
The roar changes.
Becomes something else.
Crowds.
Hundreds. Thousands.
The Algoron World Games.
I can hear them chanting. I can feel their hunger.
The Metallic Dragon gleams like a god beneath the light, silver scales
flawless and cold. It moves with purpose, with intelligence.
With judgment.
I meet it head on.
The lances bite deep.
Too deep.
Like a hot knife through butter, I remember thinking, even as I drove them
in. The ease of it. The wrongness of it.
The crowd erupts.
Victory.
They called it victory.
My heart pounds so hard I think it will tear free from my chest.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 09:12:49 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (VI of VII)
Faster.
Faster still.
Arkane burns.
The streets run red beneath our feet.
I stand before Malachive, shoulder to shoulder with every clan in Algoron
save The Warp, as the world comes apart around us. Fire tears through the
air in great sweeping cones. Lightning cracks the sky open. Ice forms and
shatters in the same breath.
He does not fall.
We strike him down again and again, and still he rises.
A False God.
Or something worse.
My staff hums in my hands, the bloody aura flaring with each blow. My
shield splinters under the force of his power. Men and women fall around
me, their voices cut short, their blood joining the rivers in the street.
Some of it is mine.
Most of it is ours.
We do not stop.
We cannot.
My heart is no longer beating.
It is hammering.
Writer: Sorien
Date Mon Apr 13 09:16:27 2026
To All Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knightood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams (VII of VII)
"Hello," she says.
The war falls silent.
My heart still drives hard in my chest, not from fear, never fear, but from the fight. From the clash, the struggle, the place I have always belonged. That rhythm does not leave me. It never will.
I turn.
I see her.
And for the first time in All of it, the blood, the battles, the endless war, something shifts.
I am not alone.
It is rare.
It is a gift.
My heart still beats for combat.
But now it beats with something more.
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Apr 14 07:38:42 2026
Writer: Cieran
Date Tue Apr 14 12:41:52 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Tue Apr 14 21:27:21 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Apr 15 11:41:30 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Apr 15 11:41:53 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Apr 15 11:41:57 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Apr 16 00:58:00 2026
Writer: Zecnys
Date Thu Apr 16 19:02:39 2026
Writer: Maccus
Date Mon Apr 20 22:35:47 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:33:02 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:36:44 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:43:10 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:47:54 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:52:47 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 17:56:45 2026
Writer: Pror
Date Thu Apr 23 18:30:19 2026
Writer: Seyzule
Date Thu Apr 23 19:18:11 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:29:57 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:30:38 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:32:33 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:32:38 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:32:43 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:32:58 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Apr 23 19:33:03 2026
Writer: Sofie
Date Sat Apr 25 22:25:25 2026
To All Sorien Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knighthood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams - Sofie's Slant (I)
She didn't trust it. Or him. Or their safety.
'So I may learn more of vampirism, I am about to take a sojourn into the
dreamworld of Magus Blinx. Aelida will travel with me to guard my spirit,
and Sofie will remain here to watch over our bodies. '
Introductions between Sofie and the Aelida had barely concluded before the
Confessor wasted no time delegating duties.
To say she was ill-trained to protect her friends - one old, one new - from
the invisible forces of a vampire attack would be a grave understatement.
Collector, recruiter, giver-of-directions, and requisitionist were just a
few of the many hats she wore.
Bodyguard? Not so much.
Sofie stood for a moment longer than necessary after the words settled, as
if remaining motionless might allow the assignment to politely undo itself.
It did not.
The armory against the southern wall brimmed with All manner of blade and
buckle, but these implements alone would not be enough. Not against
something that, by most accounts, did not require doors, walls, or courtesy
to enter a room, even if from a dream.
With mere minutes to prepare, the bardess did her best to collect a few
provisions: Dried fruit and bone broth. Prayer beads, holy water, and other
relics harnessing the holiness of the Gods of Light. Enough torches and
candles to make the sun seem unnecessary.
And finally, and more effective than any silver stake, a proverbial ace in
her pocket should the situation unravel.
(cont.)
Writer: Sofie
Date Sat Apr 25 22:38:24 2026
To All Sorien Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knighthood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams - Sofie's Slant (II)
A candle guttered once, as if reconsidering the atmosphere.
She cast a glance towards her sleeping friends, disturbingly vulnerable in
the way only unconsciousness could achieve. There was something offensive
about how easily trust had been converted into stillness.
Sofie adjusted the placement of the torches again. Then again. Not because
it changed much, but because movement gave the illusion of governance.
If vampires were, in fact, as pervasive in lore as they were inconvenient in
logistics, then she would need more than relics and optimism. She would
need awareness. Structure. Timing.
Possibly several conversations she was not currently qualified to have with
anything that could bypass a locked door.
She exhaled slowly, as though testing the air itself.
Then, with careful precision, Sofie arranged the final candle in the center
of the cottage. Half ritual, half stubborn insistence that if anything was
going to happen, it would at least have to announce itself properly.
(cont.)
Writer: Sofie
Date Sat Apr 25 22:42:34 2026
To All Sorien Blinx Vampires Xenophon Knighthood Austinian RP Whiskey Imm
Subject The Confessor Dreams - Sofie's Slant (III)
Large windows of clear glass lined every wall of the one-room, barely
one-thousand square foot cottage. By day, it served as a proper solarium,
boasting a grand view of the housing district. But by nighttime, they were
quite exposed, the glass offering no claim to concealment. Only a
continuous and unbroken invitation to be observed from any angle the dark
might choose to favor.
Sofie made a mental note to ask Sorien why he held such a dislike for
curtains. Or basic privacy.
Pacing not out of imitation of the Sultan's guards but out of nervousness,
her soft footfalls established a steady cadence. At half-time to her steps,
Sofie tossed the labradorite contained within an iron bezel the size of an
apple. With each toss, it turned in the candlelight before settling again
in her palm.
'Keep this in your hand, both of you. ' Aelida instructed them just moments
before their slumber. 'It will ground you to Sorien within the dream. You
may experience it as a gut feeling, a sense of danger. Or not. '
The bardess accepted the instruction without immediate rebuttal, though the
explanation left her without a clean way to categorize its certainty, or its
usefulness.
(cont.)
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Sun Apr 26 09:22:13 2026
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Apr 26 10:01:41 2026
To All ( Fatale Raije IMM Religion RP )
Subject Offering of War & Murder in the Lily Fields (ii)
They returned.
Not as they had been.
The first gathering had been noise--glorious, violent, instructive noise.
Blades without patience. War without shape. The Moonlily Fields had
answered, yes--but unevenly. It had taken, but not always accepted.
The second time... Something changed.
Steel met steel again, but not always loudly.
Stherian moved like a closing thought--quiet, decisive--ending fights before
they could become spectacle. Nearby, Azerog carved through opposition with
force undeniable, each clash echoing with the raw thunder of war. Where one
refined, the other overwhelmed.
Across the field, Krilup surged forward in bursts of violence- -rapid,
relentless--only to be answered in kind, struck down, rising again, part of
a rhythm now understood if not yet mastered.
And then there was Ragnor. Where Ragnor passed, the field shook. Not
chaos--momentum. A rising, crushing tide of victories that bent the flow of
the struggle itself, until even the lilies seemed to pulse in time with it.
The soldiers of Shadow appeared, newly minted elves carrying HER vestiges,
Morsril, Khexisth and the human (?) Ezrianne entered the fray quickly
notifying All that neither friend or foe would be spared.
Zixlapix watched. No longer wandering. No longer merely delighted.
Watching. Learning.
The lilies drank again, but differently.
Where once they had flickered in confusion, now they responded with clarity.
Some deaths vanished into the soil, thin and wasted. Others--precise,
chosen, inevitable --sent a visible shudder through the field, their essence
drawn upward in clean, unbroken threads.
Above, the three moons held their vigil. The silver lights reflected the
clash. The Black Moon... Pressed closer, drinking deeply.
And Zixlapix understood: the first offering had been invitation, this
offering was instruction.
War still had its place--Raije's domain echoed in every clash, every contest
of strength. But it was no longer enough to simply overwhelm. Not enough
to rage, or to endure.
The field demanded more. Fatale demanded more.
The forces of the Warp, alarmed in their tropical den, awakened to obstruct
the worship: Justian, the centaur priest of Chaos, Ryger, the ariel of many
trades & Mayume, a twisted and craven pixie worked in unison to fight the
world.
They won.. Some.. And lost most, the skirmishes seeing the cacophony turn
against them time & time again. Even the Knighthoods Sorien, an old and
aged knight, came forth to teach the young what martial spirit meant.
Near the end, Zixlapix stepped forward- -not apart from the struggle, but
into it. His strikes were fewer now. Chosen. Measured.
When they landed, the lilies did not merely glow. They answered. By
night's end, the Moonlily Fields were no longer the same place they had
been.
Nor were those who had fought there.
The veil held stronger.
The heavens were fed more cleanly. And somewhere beyond sight, something
watched with growing interest.
Zixlapix looked upward once more, quieter than before. "Yes," he murmured,
almost to himself.
"They are beginning. "
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Apr 27 22:38:26 2026
To All ( Malachive Fatale Raije IMM Religion RP )
Subject What the Lilies Remembered (1 of 2)
The Moonlily Fields were called to murder and war.
Zixlapix proclaimed the rite. Fatale would be honored through murder,
deliberate and coarse. Raije would be honored through combat, raw and
willing. The flowers, bound to lunar divinities, would drink the blood that
fell and remember.
Before the clash began, Justian went to the Tree... Beneath murals of gods
cast down and the golden image of Malachive tearing chains from the world,
the horned Tree stood wounded but not dead. Light had scarred its bloody
bark, yet blood still welled from within and darkened the floor around its
roots.
The centaur priest worked without haste. White robes shifted over white
silksteel as he prepared the parchment. The eight-pointed star carved into
his brow seemed less a scar than a seal. With quill, ink, and blood drawn
from the Tree, he wrote for no audience at all. He wrote neither sermon nor
warning. The blood of the Tree became seed.
Each page bore the eight-pointed star, the mark of Chaos. Each page carried
the Trees memory. Each page was folded, hidden, and carried from the Warp
to the field where another faith meant to feed. The Moonlily Fields were
beautiful enough to lie.
Flowers blanketed the earth so thickly that no soil showed between stem and
leaf. Trees ringed the grove, hiding the pasture from sight. It looked
untouched. Ready to receive. Justian made it ready to answer.
Before the ordered cacophony began, he buried the parchments in silence.
One point. Then another. Then another. Beneath lily, root, and damp
earth, the hidden pattern widened into an eight-pointed star.
When the faithful of Murder and War came, they saw only the field. Steel
was drawn. Magick answered. Flesh opened. The lilies drank.
Zixlapix watched with brighter understanding than before. No longer merely
delighted, he studied the rhythm of death and marked which offerings rose
cleanly from the soil. To him, the field answered better. To him, the rite
had found its shape.
Chaos answered otherwise.
Ryger stood within the field and endured the blast and press of those who
would bind war to cleaner purpose. Mayume moved twisted and quick, small
only to those foolish enough to measure threat by height. Justian passed
among them with calm intent, shielded in prayer, his athame bearing the star
already hidden below. They won some. They lost more.
The field saw Krilup fall and rise. It saw Azerog's force, Stherian's
precision, Shadow's new soldiers, and old Sorien teaching younger blood what
martial spirit still meant. It saw Zixlapix step at last into the work
itself, his strikes fewer now, and better chosen.
The lilies glowed. The heavens fed. For a time, that was enough for those
who stood above the roots.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Apr 27 22:40:26 2026
To All ( Malachive Fatale Raije IMM Religion RP )
Subject What the Lilies Remembered (2 of 2)
Yet as the fighting neared its end, Justian disturbed the soil and
revealed what had been waiting beneath it. Parchments marked by Chaos.
Blood from the horned Tree. A hidden pattern laid before the first offering
ever touched the field.
Some saw. Some struck. Some may have torn or burned what he brought back
into sight. It did not matter.
A single revealed point was not the star. A single ruined page was not the
pattern. The visible loss was only the part others knew how to count.
When the Moonlily Fields quieted, Zixlapix looked upon the changed place and
believed the veil held stronger. He believed the heavens had been fed more
cleanly. He believed Fatale had received, and Raije had answered.
Perhaps All of that was true. Yet beneath the lilies, where roots curled
around buried blood and parchment, the hidden star remained.
The field remembered more than one prayer.
Deep in the Warp, a hushed "Waaaaaagh" trembled through the ether. The
beast gave no heed to contests so meager. Better meat waited ahead.
Greater thirst. A truer field where hunger and slaughter might meet.
Writer: Khexisth
Date Wed Apr 29 13:40:37 2026
Writer: Khexisth
Date Wed Apr 29 13:48:37 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 17:02:13 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 17:10:53 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 17:16:51 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 17:26:07 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 17:43:21 2026
Writer: Abraxas
Date Wed Apr 29 17:53:17 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 29 18:16:25 2026
Writer: Kemo
Date Wed Apr 29 18:36:07 2026
Writer: Cieran
Date Thu Apr 30 14:07:01 2026
Writer: Ryger
Date Sat May 2 00:55:56 2026
To All ( IMM RP Malachive Religion )
Subject Charting the Unseen Shape. (I)
The Ariel did not rage. Rage was for the unawakened. What stirred
within him was something deeper, colder, an understanding that the gods of
falsity were not merely to be opposed, but unmade.
In the dim vaults of the Warp, where dust lay undisturbed upon forbidden
scripture, he moved with reverence. Each scroll he touched was not read,
but consulted, as though the ink itself still whispered with breath. Page
after page yielded nothing, until at last it answered.
His wings unfurled deep scarlet, their blackened tips drinking the light,
and the shadows they cast upon the walls twisted into forms not meant for
mortal sight. They watched. They approved.
With deliberate care, he laid the map of Algoron upon the altar. No tremor
touched his hand as he took up the rod. Not as a tool, but as an instrument
of will. The first mark came as a circle, carved into the heart of the
ocean, where no kingdom dared claim dominion. From it, a line stretched
northward and straight, unwavering, inevitable.
When the arrow was etched, it did not merely point. It declared.
Ryger stood in silence, gazing upon the mark as though it gazed back.
Recognition flickered, not of memory, but of calling. The place was not
chosen.
It had waited.
He turned then to the horned tree, its presence looming, ancient and
listening.
''This is the place, '' he said softly, though the words carried like a vow.
''This is where the silence breaks... And the shape is revealed. ''
Writer: Ryger
Date Sat May 2 22:49:47 2026
To All ( Imm Religion Malachive Scorn )
Subject The Rite of Desecration
The glimmering of twilight was cast upon the ocean, as white crescent
waves reached up in awe. Silence was upon the world at this hour, except
for the calming breaths of the living black waters of Arsataw Yaa. Ryger
knelt in the white sands of Tropica's northern shore before springing upward
into the stillness of night. Neither iterest nor desire were present in his
mind, only detirmination coursed through the veins of this Ariel. He flew
to the charted circle on the map from before, only he did not stop there.
The path drawn on the map began to take shape unto the world. As if his
obediance corrupted something in the ocean below him as he flew his charted
course.
Soon, the sheer cliffs and jagged walls of Icewall came into view as he
soared across the seas. Small flickering lights of Ganth and Nordmaar came
into view as Ryger drew near the road that lead to both cities. The earthen
ground yelped out a loud thud as the Ariel switly landed onto the path.
Crimson wings shook and then folded behind Ryger as he persued the Temple of
Nadrik to the north.
With a raised hood and a lowerd head, Ryger pushed both wooden doors inward.
A loud creeking from old oak doors demanded silence from the local town folk
who were in the middle of evening prayer. The assassin slowly drew himself
inside keeping his cloaked head hung from view. As Ryger drew near the
alter the priest stumbled his words. ''wh.. Wh.. Who are you sir? ''
Only silence and shaky breaths from the priest answerd. The Ariel drew both
hands to his hood and slowly revealed long brown hair. An old woman to the
side held up a shaky finger and pointed at the recently revealed 8-pointed
star that was visible through the Ariel's stringy strands of brown hair.
''Chaos! '' The woman shouted out with a dramatic tremble. In an instant,
a blade wreathed in chaotic eneryg was unshiethed and impaled into the
priest. People began to scream and run, but the Ariel, who was nimble and
quick, was too much for them. Without mercy, Ryger slew every last peasant
in the Sanctum. At least a dozen corpses were dragged into unnatural
positions that were meant as a challenge to the one they prayed to, and
8-pointed stars were carved into every body defiled.
Before making his way to the statue of Nadrik, Ryger fashioned a large
8-pointed star from the blood of his victims onto the wall directly behind
the alter in the Sactum of Nadrik. Upon leaving the temple, the corrupted
Ariel pushed over the statue of Nadrik causeing a large crack in it's head.
Writer: Aroc
Date Sun May 3 13:38:52 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun May 3 15:09:32 2026
Writer: Olyndros
Date Sun May 3 21:47:23 2026
To All Nadrik Imm RP
Subject Arrows in the Dark
Olyndros was still a boy the night the village loosed arrows into the
dark.
No moon marked the fields, only shifting shadows and the fear of something
unseen. The call went up, bows were drawn, and without a clear target, the
first arrows vanished into black.
Then came a cryfrom the road, not the field. A traveler, struck.
The line faltered, but fear pressed them to nock again.
Hold, his father yelled. If you fire blind, you risk hurting more than your
target. Defend with honor.
Instead of another arrow, he raised a lantern.
Its light did not banish the darkness, but it broke it. The road came into
view. The wounded man became more than a shadow. And beyond him...
Nothing. No threat. Only fear given form.
Olyndros watched as bows lowered, one by one. His father placed the lantern
in his hands.
Darkness does not make men evil, he said quietly. It makes them blind to
consequence. And blind men strike whatever stands before them.
Olyndros looked out across the dim field, no longer unknowable, only
unclear.
By Nadriks will, we bring light first, his father continued. Then we choose
our actions with honor. Else we are no better than those who shoot arrows
in the dark out of fear.
The lesson held.
Not All who stand in darkness are enemies.
But All deserve to be seen before judgment is passed.
Writer: Ryger
Date Mon May 4 00:34:14 2026
To All ( IMM RP Religion Malachive )
Subject Charting the Unseen Shape (Part II)
With grim purpose, the triumphant Ariel drifted through the marble
corridors of the Warps gathering hall, not as a conqueror, but as something
claimed. The silence clung to him, thick and listening. Every step echoed
like a confession.
The tattered map was unrolled with reverence rather than haste. Its surface
had been scarred by more than ink, old sigils carved shallow into the
parchment, stains that had long since darkened to black. At its center, a
circle drawn in drying blood marked Asataw Yaa. From it, a rigid line
stretched northward, ending in a jagged arrow that pointed to the Temple of
Nadrik which was now quiet, now emptied, now wrong. What he had done there
had not ended with desecration. It had begun something.
Ryger did not smile at the memory. He bowed his head.
The map was placed upon the altar once more, though ''placed'' felt too
casual. He laid it down as though offering it up. Slowly, carefully, he
rotated it forty-five degrees clockwise, aligning it not with the world, but
with something unseen. Something that watched through angles and
intersections.
Devotion had hollowed him. Derangement had filled the space left behind.
His fingers traced the imagined line, not searching, but listening, waiting
for the tremor beneath his skin that told him where the will of the unseen
converged with his own unraveling mind. His lips moved soundlessly before
the words finally broke free.
''At last... ''
The marble walls did not echo him. They absorbed the sound.
His gaze lifted toward the horned tree at the far end of the hall. It stood
impossibly rooted in stone, its bark twisted into shapes that suggested
faces without ever forming them. Its antler-like branches scraped softly
against nothing at all, as though stirred by a wind that did not belong to
this world.
Ryger extended a trembling hand and pressed a cold finger against the map.
There. A shrine marked only faintly, purple blossoms encircling a pyre said
to burn without fuel, without end. A place of quiet worship, untouched...
For now.
His breathing grew uneven, almost reverent, as though each inhale brought
him closer to something vast and suffocating. The grin that crept across
his face was not joy, it was surrender.
Behind him, the horned tree answered. A low groan shuddered through its
trunk, deep and ancient, and from the obsidian bowl nestled at its roots, a
thick, dark liquid began to rise. Not poured. Not spilled. It welled
upward, as though drawn by an unseen hunger, until the bowl brimmed with
blood too fresh to belong to any living thing.
Ryger did not turn. He already knew. The tree had accepted.
Slowly, he dipped his fingers into the warm surface of the offering. It
clung to his skin, resisting separation, as though reluctant to be used...
Or eager.
''The shape is not yet complete, '' he whispered, though no one had asked.
With deliberate care, he returned to the map and began to draw again, not
lines, but fractures. Angles that did not belong. Connections that twisted
the logic of distance itself. Each mark deepened the stain already
spreading across Algoron, transforming the land into something ritualistic,
something bound.
The next rite would not merely defile. It would open...
Writer: Rakkit
Date Mon May 4 15:03:54 2026
To All Verminasia ( IMM RP Rattlebone )
Subject Chronicles of Rakkit: Living up to his Name (I)
The swamp did not wake to light.
It woke to rhythm.
A slow, hollow, thump... Thump... Thump, uneven at first, like something
testing the air. The sound rolled low across the mire, disturbing insects,
sending ripples through shallow water, stirring things that preferred not to
be stirred. Inside a sagging hut of bone and hide, Rakkit Rattlebone sat
cross-legged, his massive form hunched forward. His long dreadlocks hung
like damp ropes around his face, beads and teeth ticking softly together as
he moved. The dim glow of coals cast flickering shadows across his green
skin, across the broad, heavy curve of his belly. His hand rose.
Then fell.
Thump.
His other hand followed. Thump... Thump.
He watched it as he worked, black eyes deep and intent, as if the motion
were not his own but something taught to him by the swamp itself. His
fingers spread, striking with different weight, different rhythm, drawing
out a strange, layered sound. Not just impact, but resonance, a dull,
living percussion that seemed to answer back.
The charms hanging from his neck began to sway.
Thump... Thump... Thump.
The rhythm grew steadier.
Outside, the mire listened.
When he stepped from his hut, the sound did not stop.
It changed.
Rakkit lifted the ragged edge of his garments, exposing the full, heavy
round of his belly to the damp air. For a moment, he stood still, head
tilted, listening for something far beneath the surface.
Then he began to move.
A side-to-side shift, slow at first. His weight rolled from one foot to the
other, the motion traveling through his hips, through his torso, into that
broad, soft mass at his center. It followed, delayed and exaggerated,
swaying with a life of its own. The beads in his hair clattered softly.
The bones at his waist knocked together. His belly moved again, more
forcefully this time, a wobbling, deliberate motion that carried its own
quiet, fleshy rhythm.
Rakkit's lips parted slightly.
A low chant slipped out, rough and grinding.
The movement continued.
Left. Right. Forward. A subtle bounce. A roll.
Not graceful.
Not meant to be.
But purposeful.
Each motion seemed to pull sound from him, from what he carried, from the
very air around him. The swamp responded in kind, the faintest echoes
answering back, hidden in mud and root.
By the time he reached the deeper bog, the rhythm had taken hold.
(To Be Continued....)
Writer: Rakkit
Date Mon May 4 15:10:16 2026
To All Verminasia ( IMM RP Rattlebone )
Subject Chronicles of Rakkit: Living up to his Name (II)
He stopped at the edge of a blackened pool, its surface still as glass.
The world around it felt wrong, too quiet, too empty.
Rakkit stared into it, his reflection warped and wide.
Then he raised his hands.
They hovered for a moment over his belly, fingers twitching as if listening.
Then..
THUMP.
Louder now.
THUMP THUMP.
Faster.
He leaned into it, striking in patterns, alternating hands, dragging his
fingers, slapping, pressing, building layers of sound that echoed outward in
thick, pulsing waves. His body moved with it, shoulders rocking, belly
shifting under each strike, amplifying the rhythm.
The chant returned, deeper now.
The air grew heavy.
The pool trembled.
Clack.
Something beneath.
Clatter.
Answering.
Rakkit's eyes gleamed, those endless black depths reflecting nothing but the
motion, the rhythm, the sound he was dragging up from below.
He struck harder.
Faster.
The swamp answered.
Bones beneath the muck knocked together in uneven chorus. The water rippled
though nothing touched it. The silence shattered, replaced by a rising,
chaotic percussion that matched his own.
He grinned.
Wide.
Tooth-filled.
When the sun dipped, what little of it that could pierce the canopy, the
noise began to fade. Rakkit slowed.
The strikes softened.
Thump... Thump...
... Then stopped.
His hands rested against his belly for a moment longer, fingers splayed,
feeling the last echoes fade beneath the surface.
The swamp grew quiet again.
But not the same quiet.
Never the same.
That night, back within his hut, he sat once more before the coals.
Still.
Silent.
For a long while.
Then, almost absent-mindedly, his fingers tapped once against his belly.
A soft, satisfied thump.
And somewhere, far beneath the mud
Something answered.
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Mon May 4 16:51:59 2026
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Mon May 4 16:53:58 2026
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Mon May 4 16:56:24 2026
Writer: Ryger
Date Tue May 5 11:43:57 2026
To All ( IMM Religion RP Malachive )
Subject The Rite of Desecration - The Shrine of Drakkara
Marble walls approve as they sing out the clinking of Ryger's chisel as
the Ariel worked tirelessly at a piece of horn. Each hammer strike chanted
like a vow, understanding that the tree must surrender the piece as if it
had a will of its own. Hours went by... The clouds passed... The sun
set... And the chiseling continued throughout the night.
With each fading strike, Ryger felt exhaustion, pain and his body begging
him to give up. He felt obliged to give in to this request, however,
devotion kept him working the horn.
''Suffer well'' he chanted heavily, as each syllable reflected the pain he
was experiencing. Time went on and the clinking continued...
Finally, a crack appeared in the horn and the ground below him seemed to
recoil. A piece of horn broke free, about 3 inches in diameter and about 7
inches long. Ryger, who was now overtaken by exhaustion, fell over in
relief. Heavy breaths left him incapacitated on the floor for a time, but
soon, he would take flight yet again.
After sleeping through the rest of the morning, Ryger began to clamber to
his feet just in time to see the sun set. ''It's time'' he said softly to
himself and with horn in hand, he spread his wings and headed towards
Verminasia.
The wound from the Aurora filled the sky as he approached, and he could see
large cracks in the ground spewing light upward and growing towards the
city. The shrine he targeted already glowed in this ethereal light as he
landed just outside.
Walking into the shrine, he noticed the line of petrification had grown up
the tree further since his last visit, and more flowers have succumbed to
stone as well. Ryger gently pressed the sharp end of the horn into the tree
just above the stone line and began to hammer the horn into the tree. With
ease, the horn was lodged deep into the oak tree with 3 firm hammer strikes.
The tree seemed to recoil in what appeared to be fear as the essence in the
horn tried to spread.
Ryger now turned his attention to the statue of Drakkara. Slowly, he
approached the almost animate statue with a chisel in hand. He placed the
tip of the chisel on Drakkara's marble belly and began to strike the end
with his hammer. After about 20 minutes, one word was left inscribed. It
was a name... ''MALACHIVE''
Then he opened a flask containing some of the blood that he gathered from
the Warp's horned tree, and outlined an 8-pointed star around the name he
recently chiseled. Before exiting the shrine, he poured the rest of the
blood over the piece of horn he jammed into the oak tree earlier.
The rite was completed. What would happen next? Would the horn take shape?
Would Drakkara be pleased with the desecration of her shrine? Only time
will tell, but for now, Ryger must move on to the next target. Of which, he
was still unsure of.
For now...
Writer: Porthaux
Date Sun May 10 15:00:19 2026
Writer: Thuken
Date Mon May 11 17:54:01 2026
Writer: Thuken
Date Mon May 11 17:58:12 2026
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Wed May 13 03:55:25 2026
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Wed May 13 04:00:09 2026
Writer: Khelthrai
Date Wed May 13 04:04:02 2026
Writer: Agapitos
Date Fri May 15 12:46:50 2026
To All Althainia Conclave Knighthood Immortal ( Nadrik )
Subject Acceptable Losses I
The sounds of labor were heard through the wooden walls of what was to
become a war room, of men and women at work levering the blocks of stone
that would become the inner redoubt of a castle reborn. A nascent citadel
of Imperial might was taking shape, an expansion of the heart of Empire
built around the waxing power of the Lucent Throne. Within the chamber,
courtiers crowded over a curious artefact, the Generals and adjutants to
matters political and mercantile who looked at what appeared to be a
painstaking replica of Algoron laid out over a stone tabletop.
By the light of the glowing spheres of white light that drifted in the upper
reaches of the room, the inner circle of the Emperor's trust turned their
focus upon the Imperial body and the aged man at his right hand. Geirhart
Sol'Canta and the man known as Agapitos di Lucis pondered the table, the
rendering of Algoron marked by small motes of light that shone in various
colors. Above the Empire itself hung a golden glow, while to the northwest
the Keep of Gareth glinted lights of white. The Forest of Shalonesti and
Mount Axpirvjib similarly glowed in white as the light above the miniature
White Tower, while the states of Nordmaar, Ganth, Arkane, and New Thalos
were marked in grey luminescence, just as the small representation of the
Red Tower, the Wrath of Justice, and Fort Ironclad were, though the latter
flickered dully with a darker underlight that threatened to turn black. Red
were the spheres that marked the Dungeon of Bloodlust, the Black Tower,
Darkonin, Abaddon, and the Slayers, while an ebon ball hung above
Verminasia, standing out amidst a strange haze of uncertainty that hung like
a mist over the dark jewel of Drakkara's power. Its twin over the deserts
of southern Thalos were similarly uncertain, the mark there seeming to waver
as though placed without full confidence. Of the Warp, only a single thread
of white light speared into Tropica, a spear in miniature pointed
symbolically at the heart of corruption that glowed with a fire to match the
golden light that burned upon the Emperor's brow.
'About the White Robes.. ' one of the ministers of mercantile had begun to
speak when the Emperor reached out, touching the orb above the White Tower.
It shivered, as did the one above the Red, and as one both turned red,
turning the White Robes' abode an uncertain hue of fresh blood in the new
light, 'Sire, is this wise? '
'Too often of late, I have been vexed by willful Kantillians, Merov.
Copper, Bronze, White. They continue to bite at the hand of kinship and
prove insincere and infirm of purpose. Were it not for the bonds of
Family'
'Your own Regent is Kantillian, is she not, Emperor? ' the old man's words
cut the Emperor's disdain off before he could gain momentum, the verbose
expression primed to be laden with much invective against those who had cast
aspersions over the Imperial goals, 'That willfulness is something you value
as well. '
Agapitos snorted, drawing a line with his fingertip over the map. The stone
surface reacted, drawing a line of gold in the wake of the Emperor's touch,
'It must be a trait of the Bright Lord, then, though it requires constant
management. We have seen too often what its lack of temperance has brought.
' The line bisected the Althainian continent, scooping out the Empire, the
Keep of Gareth, Shalonesti, and Axpirvjib in a solid white glow, augmented
by the golden light of the Lucent power, 'To your point, Merov, my messages
in confidence to our allies have been handed to our enemies. No matter how
seemingly innocuous such communications are, the fact that our trust cannot
be properly invested in the Tower and their lack of accountability make them
a liability to the Imperial goals. '
Writer: Agapitos
Date Fri May 15 12:48:37 2026
To All Althainia Conclave Knighthood Immortal ( Nadrik )
Subject Acceptable Losses II
The minister seemed uncertain, watching the change of lights with a
wavering gaze, 'And, Sire, what of your need for their services? If we are
to cut them out of the Empire's grace, what of their needs and our own? '
The Emperor leaned forward and placed his hands on the oceans of the map,
allowing the table's glow to light him from beneath. The effect shadowed
his eyes, and despite the golden flame that burned upon one, the effect was
that of something implacable and remote, of an inevitability like the rising
of mountains. Merov did not shrink away, though with the weight of the Eye
upon him he understood many of the mutterings in the court from those who
despised the Imperial will resting upon their person. The Emperor, despite
his pretensions as a man, was anything but. Twice-blessed and terrible, his
kindness and his wroth ever seemed to be a copper's-width separated from one
another, never arbitrary but both elemental. The minister continued, 'If
the Lantern is to be made of transmuted silver'
'To answer your first point. ' The Emperor's words were firm, but his tone
was not raised. A few courtiers shifted, making space around Merov as the
Emperor's Advisor rested a hand upon the taller man's shoulder in a subtle
remark understood only by them, 'The Empire has not benefitted from
friendship with the White aside from the spiritual gratification of oneness
with the Bright Lord's favored disciples. Their works have, as is the
mages' wont, remained cloistered in their Towers and Libraries, to be shared
with none. Their magicks have been requested more than once by the Throne
for assistance, and never given, their powers held at bay for their own
private enjoyments. We suffer not for this step, and indeed benefit in
other regards. '
The Emperor showed the map again, his palm lit by the white and gold lights
as he passed it over the mass of allied lights. Elf. Dwarf. Knight.
Empire. All neighboring blocs sharing borders and areas of influence
despite the clustering of neutral and wicked markers to the east and south,
'Our friends to the north, despite being foes with one another, retain
excellent dealings with us. Both, however, disdain the arrogance of the
scions of Shinalstin. To be above and apart from the world is to invite
such ill will, ' Geirhart's hand on his shoulder squeezed gently at the
remark, 'As such, we have no need of alliance with the Conclave itself.
Indeed, we endured it solely for the friendship of the White Tower alone.
When they wielded their autonomy to the benefit of the Cause, it was met
with joy and brotherhood in kind. I do not know why they have laid down
their independence so meekly, but they have fallen once more into that
shadow of the Enemy. They allow the Black Master to speak for them, they
rebuke the Throne when that is made clear. They are--' there was another
warning squeeze, '--willful. They may not find much use of the Empire's
trade or people, but they must be shown that we will not accept betrayal of
our confidence, either. '
The war room's inhabitants nodded uncertainly. The Emperor's propensity to
combine philosophy, zealotry, and policy in one wordy exposition had created
a need for scribes in his presence, at times simply to decipher his will
after the fact. The one appointed this day scribbled dutifully, ink
flecking the kender's face as she tried to keep up with the Emperor's mode
of thought, 'To your second point, the Mages of White, Black, and Red are
not the only loremasters left in the world. There are powers yet that might
produce that which we desire. '
Writer: Agapitos
Date Fri May 15 12:49:54 2026
To All Althainia Conclave Knighthood Immortal ( Nadrik )
Subject Acceptable Losses III
Almost as if on cue, a page knocked upon the chamber door, admitted by
the winged-helmed warden who stood sentinel within the room. The half elf
bowed as he entered, doing so as he moved to the dignitaries present and
finally stopping near the Emperor and his Advisor, breathlessly dropping
into a proper prostration as he felt the weight of the Imperial Eye,
'Pardon, lord Emperor. The audience chamber is ready for you, majesty. The
alchemists have been assembled. '
The Emperor nodded, drawing away from Geirhart and addressing his courtiers,
'We have assembled a unified power within the heart of Althainia that we
might cultivate into an Empire that will truly withstand the long night. If
the White return to their reason, I will forgive them gladly and embrace
them with tears of joy in mine eye. Until then, however, we must use the
means available to us. See that a record of the minutes reaches the Regent.
She has a right to know my mind. ' He turned to the Page, 'Let us away. '
The ministers of war and peace looked to one another as the Emperor
departed, and then to the map upon the table. For All of the Emperor's
words, the white lights seemed so pale in the sea of reds and greys.
Consolidated, yes, but few. It would be the truest of miracles for such a
thing to endure, but it had been decreed. So it would have to be.
Writer: Faridoon
Date Sat May 16 23:05:44 2026
To All ( IMM RP )
Subject A Curious Friend Perhaps
The Conclave Common Room was quiet, full of sleeping cushions, old magic,
and half-watched apprentices. Faridoon sat among the colored cushions of
the Trinity, broad of shoulder in his White Robes, his silksteel sleeves
resting heavy over orcish arms more suited to crushing skulls than handling
small mysteries. The fountain chittered a clear little song. Above, the
strange sphere of floating objects turned slowly in place.
Then Faridoon felt something on his sleeve. A small tingling. He frowned
and looked down with the hard suspicion of one who expected a spell, a
trick, or some Tower lesson he had not yet been told about. His eyes
searched the white fabric until he found the culprit: a small black spider
crawling up his sleeve.
It was no monster, summoned horror, nor assassin with fangs full of doom.
Only a spider, black and tiny, moving as though Faridoons arm were a road
built for it alone. He leaned closer to study it. The spider continued on,
unaware or uncaring that it had drawn the attention of an orc Wujen of the
White Tower. It tested the fabric with delicate legs while Faridoon
watched, his confused frown slowly shifting into something more curious than
wary.
He had many spells, dangerous enough to make larger things regret facing him
on the battlefield. He never even considered using one of them. Instead,
Faridoon rummaged through his possessions and produced a knight doll, a
small black knight riding proudly on a black steed. Holding it always made
him feel like he could strike just a little harder. Now, rather than use it
as a charm of battle, he held it near the spiders path and offered it like a
bridge.
The spider paused, touched the dolls fabric with its legs, judged it
acceptable by whatever laws govern spiders, and climbed aboard. Faridoon
set the doll down before him and rested, watching. Abraxas, seeing the
scene, asked if he had made a friend. Faridoon gestured toward the tiny
black traveler and said, "A curious friend perhaps." The spider explored
the knight, then climbed down to the floor and crossed the common room
without hurry. Each step was small enough to be missed by those who only
watched for great things. Faridoon kept his eyes on it anyway.
At last, the spider found the shaded underside of a cushion and slipped
beneath it. Faridoon pondered this for a moment, then said, "Perhaps a good
thing none rest on them at the moment." When the spider had vanished from
sight, Faridoon took up the knight doll again. He looked once more toward
the cushion where the small creature had disappeared and said, "Safe
travels, little one. Perhaps you will learn something new under the cushion
or find a tasty treat under there."
It was not a battle. It was not a lesson shouted by a master. It was not a
grand working of magic beneath the moons. It was only a spider on a sleeve,
but Faridoon pondered what he could learn from it.
A White Robe should know when to strike and when not to. They should know
that small things still have paths and that not every surprise is an enemy.
Not every living thing that crawls across his arm needs to be crushed.
Sometimes the right spell is no spell. Sometimes the right strength is a
steady hand.
Sometimes a small black spider is just a small black spider, looking for
better shade beneath a cushion.
Writer: Gaibrielle
Date Tue May 19 21:10:31 2026
To All Imm RP Religion
Subject Pilgrimage - Learning the city and people (Day 1)
Upon reaching the gates of Shalonesi, Gaibrielle spoke quietly with the
guards. One agreed to escort her once his relief arrived. As she waited,
her gaze wandered over children at play, and then over the trees that still
bore the lingering scars of the poison that had once ravaged the land. The
weight of what had happened pressed heavily on her heart, yet she could also
see the quiet signs of healing taking root.
As she and the guard made their way through the streets, she could not
understand the words spoken around her, but she felt their presence All the
same. Conversations in the elven tongue flowed like something intricate and
beautiful, though beyond her grasp. Wary glances followed her passage, and
she noticed how some drew their loved ones closer, a quiet caution woven
into their movements.
Then, a haunting melody drifted through the Vallen, catching her attention.
Drawn by its gentle pull, she followed the sound toward the temple. There,
a young elf stood, their voice rising in a soft and reverent song. The
guard spoke in a low voice, translating its meaninga hymn of devotion to
their goddess. In that moment, Gaibrielle saw the depth of their loyalty to
their homeland, their faith steady despite All that had been endured. It
was both beautiful and surreal.
A quiet longing stirred within her. Though she did not understand their
words, she could feel the meaning carried within themthe weight, the
reverence, the care. It awakened in her a deep desire to truly understand.
She resolved then to learn their languagenot simply to listen, but to speak,
to close the distance she felt between herself and the people around her.
Memories surfaced of the few elves she had known in her youth, their voices
patient and kind. She would seek them out, she decided, hoping they might
still remember her and, perhaps, be willing to teach her.
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Wed May 20 11:49:22 2026
To All ( Nadrik Austinian Imm RP )
Subject Beginning of the Pilgrimage
Atop the newly constructed Lucent bridge, spanning over the expanse of
the pit and destruction upon the land, the ceremony began. A fitting place,
as it symbolized much. Gaibrielle and Geirhart led the opening prayers and
discussion before the crowd of humans, elves, and other assembled pilgrims.
Throughout, Pyrsas remained quiet, bowing his head in prayer when necessary.
The occasional smile and nod to their words and prayers. But mostly, he was
focused upon the crowd and their surroundings. From the vantage point on
top of his empyreal warhorse, he could see much. Particularly from the
bridge, he could see their surroundings very well.
Even though this Pilgrimage was peaceful and their intentions honest and
pure, Pyrsas was always wary of potential threats. He'd received no reports
of suspicious activity or threats, but one can never be too careful.
Once the opening ceremony concluded, their procession began. Passing over
the bridge, they entered a bit of the Dwarven countryside, passing through
the steep foothills before the mountain, before making their way to the
elven forests. This area was the one he felt would be the most treacherous
part of their journey. As the crowd slowly traversed the foothills, Pyrsas
retained constant vigilance. But it was thankfully uneventful. Those
gathered smiled and laughed, joking amongst each other and enjoying the
company of their companions. Pyrsas himself looked over them occasionally,
smiling at their merriment.
Once they entered the forest, Pyrsas relaxed a bit. There were none that
knew the forests better than the elves, and he was confident that they kept
the place secure. But he still kept a watchful eye. Slowly meandering
through the forest, eventually they made their way outside the gates of
Shalonesti. They were guided to the inner depths of the city, where they
were made familiar with the local museum.
Satisfied that the pilgrims were safe, and that they could begin their time
in Shalonesti without trouble, Pyrsas passed his regards to Geirhart,
Gaibrielle, and the others gathered before returning to his other duties.
Upon return to his office, a stack of reports and other paperwork were
neatly gathered on his desk. Pyrsas sighed and frowned, he'd rather be in
the field pushing back against the Darkness than battling administrative
matters. But he was happy with how well the Pilgrimage started, and had
high hopes for the venture.
Writer: Sorien
Date Wed May 20 15:57:22 2026
To Gaibrielle Pyrsas Vampires Knighthood Althainia All Imm RP
Subject Pilgrimage - Shalonesti
The pilgrimage to Shalonesti began beneath ash-gray skies, the banners of
the Knighthood dragging through freezing rain and mountain fog. At the
front rode Gaibrielle, leader of the sacred procession, smiling calmly as
the company crossed the ancient roads. Beside him rode Pyrsas, the Lord
Crown, draped in resplendent steel platemail that gleamed like silver fire
beneath the storm. Near them walked Geirhart, the priest leader, his
expression warm and quiet as the faithful entered the holy lands.
But Sorien Kilcannon did not march among them.
Hidden beneath a black cloak soaked by the rain, Sorien followed from the
wilderness edge, apart from the regular troop. No holy crest. No polished
armor. For the first time in years, he returned to his roots, not as an
administrator, but as a scout and a guard. Silent. Patient. Watching the
pilgrimage from a distance while the others laughed softly among themselves.
When the Pilgrimage entered Shalonesti and the footsteps echoed through the
stone streets, Sorien split away from the procession to scout the forgotten
lower ruins beneath the city.
Through dead gardens, collapsed pathways, and fog-covered corridors, he
searched for Qiin.
And with every step, the memories returned. The hidden mansion. The den of
darkness. The chained dwarves bound in rusted iron. The bloodletting. The
smell of rot and iron lingering beneath the stone halls.
As Sorien disappeared deeper into the fog beneath his black cloak, no one
from the Knighthood followed to see whether he truly found the guardian
waiting for him in the dark.
Writer: Altacas
Date Thu May 21 08:00:04 2026
To All Slayers Raije (IMM Religion RP Cayenna Xenophon ADMIN)
Subject Investigating Ruins - Hope
A trepidatious knock, gentle and hesitant, danced softly on the door. Like a booted
foot in mud, Altacas was reluctantly pulled from his thoughts, his attention turning
to the door, which was now slightly ajar. The face of a young guardsman appeared,
the human nodded towards Altacas. Smiling, the wemic rose to his feet and nodded.
"The moon is out then? The time is here." Altacas' voice was low, as always, and
his tone a deep hum.
The guardsman didn't say anything, instead he smiled then saluted Altacas and, once
dismissed, turned back down the hallway away from the Lord's room. He knew where the
Overlord of Greystoke was headed and what hope rode on the excursion.
As he passed through the Manor, he stopped in the Hall of Honor, near the statue of
Jahrial. The statues bright blue wings reflecting the dancing flames of the torches
lining the walls. He dipped his head respectfully to the statue of his friend, not
knowingwhere the ariel was but knowing he would feel more joyous regarding this quest
were the ariel to join him.
Altacas exited the Manor as a shadow, the pads of his feet making no noise against the
cobblestone road. The guards watched as he turned northeast, heading towards
Gaar Volen.
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu May 21 16:55:56 2026
To All Imm RP Religion
Subject The First Step of the Pilgrimage
Olyndros had set his cloak aside only for a moment.
That, at least, was what he told himself when he found it folded over a
chair in the Common Room of the Blue Gryphon, half-covering a missive he had
meant to read much earlier. The room was warm, busy, and full of the
ordinary noises of Althainias finest taking their meals, but to Olyndros it
all went suddenly distant.
The Pilgrimage.
His first true grand adventure beyond the familiar roads, and he was
already nearly late.
Devions mischief, he muttered, snatching up the missive. Where did I
put it?
A frantic search followed. Gloves were found where maps should have been.
Notes were folded into the wrong pouch. His gear, which he had been certain was
organized, revealed itself as a treasonous heap of buckles, straps, and
scattered intentions.
He swore, then caught himself and softened the oath into something more
fitting for Nadriks ears.
I will be more prepared, he promised the empty air, though the promise
sounded less noble while he was cramming possessions into his bags with
both hands. And organized. Very organized. Starting after this.
Outside, Dreem waited with the patience only a proud charger could manage.
The beautiful white coat of the horse caught what light there was, steady
and accusing.
Olyndros patted his neck.
Hey buddy. Time to shove off and see whom we can help.
Dreem gave no answer, which Olyndros took as agreement.
The ride to the Lucent Bridge was short, but it felt like crossing the
threshold of a much longer road. Althainia gave way to the grassy plains,
the wind tugging at cloak and reins. By the time the bridge came into
view, the pillar of light ahead seemed less like a landmark and more like
a summons. Mithril, diamond, and radiance filled the place with a
brilliance that made even his hurried arrival feel solemn.
Then he saw the others.
They looked seasoned. Composed. Gathered as though they had stepped from
tales already written. Pyrsas rode with the bearing of command. Geirhart
carried the calm gravity of a priest who had seen enough roads to know
what waited beyond them. Bragin seemed alert even in stillness. Gaibrielle
stood at the heart of the gathering with purpose enough to draw the rest
into orbit.
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu May 21 17:02:20 2026
To All Imm RP Religion
Subject The First Step of the Pilgrimage II
Olyndros adjusted a strap that had twisted wrong beneath his arm and tried
not to look like a man who had just fought his own saddlebags and barely
won.
The Pilgrimage began not with trumpet or charge, but with words. They
spoke of renewal, of doing good deeds, of leaving behind the walls and
habits that made kingdoms and clans strangers to one another. Geirharts
counsel settled into Olyndros thoughts: that perfection could become the
enemy of good, and that action, even small action, mattered.
Olyndros listened intently.
He had expected peril, perhaps puzzles, perhaps some grand test waiting
just past the bridge. Instead, the first lesson was quieter: walk, listen,
learn, and help where help could be given.
Still, even quiet roads had their trials. The rain came. Blessings faded.
Spells flared. Auras gathered and vanished. More than once Olyndros winced
in the saddle as the day seemed determined to remind him that a pilgrimage
was not simply a parade of noble intentions. The road had teeth, even when
it smiled.
When the company reached Shalonesti, the gates themselves seemed grown
from beauty and caution together. Marble towers, leaf-wrought designs,
emerald metal, and forest shadow All stood before them. The city beyond
was breathtaking: emerald grasses, flowers stirring in the wind, buildings
nestled among trees as though stone and wood had agreed to become part of
the forest rather than master it.
Yet welcome did not erase watchfulness.
There were eyes on the pilgrims. Guards stood near. The Steward of the
Moons received them. Seyzule looked upon the visitors with dark,
unreadable eyes, and Olyndros felt the truth of the frontier there.
Shalonesti was beautiful, but beauty was not the same as trust. These
lands had histories, wounds, laws, and suspicions of their own. A traveler
who wished to do good had first to learn where he stood.
That thought humbled him more than any mistake with his packs.
When the laws were shared and talk turned toward learning, Olyndros found
himself drawn to a simple idea. If the pilgrimage was to pass through many
lands, then perhaps he should not merely pass through them as a stranger.
Maybe I can learn a new tongue at each stop he thought.
It sounded small after speeches about renewal and five months of travel,
but the thought stayed with him. To learn a peoples language was to admit
they were worth understanding. To ask for teaching was to admit he had not
arrived already wise.
The museum was mentioned next, a place where elven history was said to be
well kept. That stirred him. Books, records, old battles, names carved
into memorythese were not lesser things than swords. A crusader could
serve justice with a spear, yes, but also by knowing whose road he walked
and whose grief he risked trampling in ignorance.
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu May 21 17:07:21 2026
To All Imm RP Religion
Subject The First Step of the Pilgrimage III
Later, beyond the formalities, the group moved along trails around
Shalonesti. They found pools, temples, forest paths, and places where the
land itself seemed to whisper old devotion. Olyndros asked questions when
he did not know. Sometimes he asked clumsily. Sometimes the answer made
him feel younger than his years. But each answer added a stone beneath his
feet.
He was embarrassed, a little, by how much he did not know.
He was also inspired.
The others carried themselves with the ease of those who had learned
through long service. Olyndros had no wish to pretend he stood equal to
that. Not yet. But he could listen. He could keep walking. He could learn
the laws, the tongues, the histories, and the hidden roads. He could
become less scattered than the man who had nearly missed the beginning
because his cloak had swallowed a missive.
Rain still clung to Dreems coat when the day began to settle. Olyndros
brushed some of it away and patted the chargers back.
For All the confusion, All the missteps, All the awkwardness of being new
among seasoned companions, he felt something steady inside him.
This was not merely a journey to Shalonesti.
It was the first proof that he could step beyond what he knew and not turn
back.
At last, when the road quieted and the morning light of another day found
them, Olyndros looked to his faithful charger and smiled.
It was a good day, Dreem.
Then, after a pause, he looked toward the work still waiting.
Now. What do we do first?
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:23:19 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (I)
Faridoon did not find Gladithilnim by instinct.
He had been given the way there, and he followed it as an Orc follows a
difficult order: with stubborn care, a little uncertainty, and no desire
to admit that the path itself was already part of the lesson. From the
Conclave he made his way out toward Shalonesti, past the ordered halls
of magic and into the older silence of forest and stone. Near the green
marble wall of the elven kingdom, the path turned along the edge of the
land. To the west, sheer granite cliffs dropped away into a lush green
valley far below. The narrow trail bent sharply, following the polished
wall that protected Shalonesti while weeds and underbrush tangled around
his feet. Somewhere beyond sight, water fell from a great height, its
distant sound carried on the cool breeze.
There was a deep pool there, shimmering in a white stone basin, but
Faridoon did not stop long with it. He had come for the glade.
So he went south.
The forest changed around him. The thick underbrush and dense foliage
thinned into a circular clearing, and the verdant canopy overhead broke
open to reveal the sky. At the forests edge, ringing the entire circle
of the moonglade, softly glowing white moonlilies marked the boundary
like quiet stars set low to the earth. Large standing stones, each about
four meters high, stood at regular intervals around the hidden glade.
Some nearly blended into the encroaching trees, half-swallowed by the
grove, but their surfaces were not wild stone. Mystical runes and
ancient elvish script had been carved upon them, alluding to
astronomical events Faridoon did not yet understand.
At the center of the clearing rested a smooth circular slab of pure
white marble. Inset upon its face were moons made of ithildin, each
metal disc showing a different phase as they rounded the edge of the
marble circle. The metal waited for moonlight, ready to burn with a
bluish white glow when touched by it. On the eastern edge of the holy
glade rose an enormous old vallenwood tree, towering far above its
neighbors. In its massive base was an arched hollow opening, tall enough
for an elf to enter. To the southwest, a thick grove of pines hid what
lay beyond, though faint musical notes of falling water could still be
heard through the deep green boughs.
Faridoon looked about in wonder as he somewhat stumbled into the glade.
A small silver plaque hung upon the circular slab of marble, naming
Lindanilis Shatavas Shaenlas as the presiding priest of the place,
understanding more clearly whose sacred place he had entered.. Before he
had fully gathered himself, Lindanilis smiled playfully at his arrival,
her gray eyes alight with amusement.
"There are many complexities to the world," she said in a gentle,
sing-song voice, "but for us who love Lord Kantilles, tolerance of those
who are different will help us to learn more about the magic of the
world."
Faridoon had not yet asked his question. He had barely arrived, and
already the lesson had begun.
Lindanilis was unlike the battlefield teachers Faridoon understood. She
did not bark instruction or press weakness until it broke. Her voice was
musical, her movements graceful, her hands delicate enough that when she
later clasped them before herself, they nearly vanished into the long
shimmering sleeves she wore. Yet nothing about her seemed fragile. There
was strength in her serenity, and a kind of authority that did not need
to raise itself to be heard.
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:27:29 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (II)
Faridoon gathered himself as best he could. He had come with questions
about magic, about Kantilles, and about what the Art was meant to be. He
had also come with the blunt honesty of one who did not know how to make
uncertainty sound polished.
"I still learn. Learn to use magic. Learn to study. Learn to...control
self..." he said.
Then he asked the question that had brought him there.
"What is magic for?"
As soon as he asked it, he started suddenly and fumbled for a quill,
ink, and journal. The question had left his mouth before his hands were
ready to capture the answer. He dug into his robe of many pockets,
pulled out a peacock quill, a bottle of dark squids ink, and the
Journal of Faridoon, then tried to arrange himself into something like a
student.
Lindanilis nodded gently.
"Those who are wise never stop trying to learn and master those
important things."
She smiled in delighted amusement, then echoed the question in her
gentle cadence.
"What is magic for? It is the method and power by which we may change
reality. How or why one would do such, of course, depends on ones
motivations. But the gift is the method of touching the very weave of
the universe, and altering it as we will."
Faridoon listened. He had understood strength before this. Strength
changed things. It broke bones, opened doors, marked faces, and ended
lives. Magic changed things too, but it reached deeper than muscle. It
touched the weave. It altered reality itself.
Lindanilis continued in her musical tone.
"That is the Gods of Magics gift to us: the very power to edit the
world around us, to borrow the power They themselves use to make our
world."
Faridoons stomach chose that moment to betray him.
He looked embarrassed as it growled loudly, but he kept taking notes in
his journal and nodded along. Lindanilis did not rebuke him. With a
reverent gaze skywards, she gracefully traced an arcane crescent shape
in the air with a delicate finger. A feeling of divinity overtook the
glade.
Then she uttered words and the miracle of the feast came All around him.
Faridoon understood suddenly, in the bluntest way possible.
"Oh, like that!"
Lindanilis quirked a playful smile and remarked, "Yes, like that. I
could change reality to fill your belly."
Faridoon thought through it slowly, the way an orc handles a fragile
tool that might still prove useful.
"Power borrowed to feed...not feed? Maybe feed? Me."
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:30:51 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (III)
He nodded at Lindanilis, then thought further. The glade remained around
him in its quiet holiness, the moonlilies ringing the clearing, the
stones holding their ancient script, the white marble waiting beneath
the open sky.
"Orc learns early that strength changes things. Bones. Doors. Faces.
Lives. Magic same, but different. Magic is more. I do not have words for
my thought."
He frowned.
"Strength only not fill belly. Magic fill belly."
Lindanilis did not dismiss the roughness of the answer. She nodded at
him, her expression sympathetic.
"It is daunting to think of All the possibilities. There is much we can
do with magic, and much we All have yet to learn. In study and
understanding the natural world around us, we understand reality better,
and then our magic can better connect with it, and change what we need.
As well as understand the consequences of our spells on the world around
us."
Then she added, "It is a huge responsibility to maintain the weave of
the world."
Faridoon nodded.
Lindanilis smiled softly at him and asked the question that turned the
lesson from magic alone toward the shape of his life.
"How is it that you came to choose to follow Lord Kantilles,
Apprentice?"
Faridoon opened his mouth to speak his next question, then paused when
he heard hers. He frowned, not in anger, but in thought.
"I needed more than strength."
The answer was short because the truth beneath it was not.
After a pause, he continued.
"Strength. Anger...FURY! I have. Lust for blood...I have lost. Fight I
will, but it is no longer my purpose."
The words were crude beside the glades beauty, but they were honest.
Faridoon did not pretend he had never been shaped by anger. He did not
pretend that fury had vanished from him. He only named that it was no
longer meant to rule him.
He paused, then spoke again.
"I saw power in White Robes. I saw restraint. I peek at wisdom, I
think."
Lindanilis tilted her silvery-haired head a little and replied with a
serene smile.
"The strength of Lord Kantilles power comes not from holding on to His
Gift, but in giving it away with love and joy."
Those words struck harder than a blow.
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:34:43 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (IV)
Faridoon had known how to use strength to take. He had known how to use
anger to move through the world. He had known bloodlust well enough to
recognize its absence as a loss and a freedom both. But love and joy
were not old tools in his hands. They were unfamiliar. Difficult. Maybe
dangerous because he did not yet know how to carry them.
Faridoon considered what she had said until he finally answered.
"Love. Joy. I did not know these things before. Joy, I see now. Love,
maybe I see. These good lesson for me."
Faridoon looked again at the sacred clearing: the moonlilies, the
standing stones, the marble slab, the ithildin moons, the old vallenwood
tree with its hollow opening, the pines hiding the faint music of water.
Lindanilis smiled playfully, humming a few notes of music before she
spoke again.
"Keep living life, learning All you can from those around you. Respect
life, even if it is difficult, and love for it will follow. When you
have love for life, it will find its way back. That is the secret to
Lord Kantilles gift, and why it must be given away to have power and
meaning."
Faridoon answered, "Respect first. A path I will walk."
He looked down at his hands, carefully holding his journal and quill.
Lindanilis spoke again.
"It is a bit of a paradox, a riddle, and a leap of faith to give away
what is most precious. Our Lord enjoys a good riddle."
Faridoon knew something of taking. He knew less of giving. But the shape
of the lesson was beginning to settle into him. To give away what was
precious was not weakness in the faith of Kantilles. It was the opposite
of hoarding. It was the opposite of evils counsel to gather All power
to the self and clutch it until the hand forgot how to open.
"I know how to use strength to take," Faridoon said. "I will learn how
to use strength to protect."
He nodded at Lindanilis. "I will think long..."
Then, after glancing at her, he added, "My kind of long. Not your kind
of long."
He nodded again,"On riddle-lesson."
Lindanilis nodded gently and observed with her musical voice, "We All do
our best to understand ourselves and what love we have to give the
world. That riddle lesson is the heart of lifes meaning, short or long,
a life spent loving learning, and learning to love is not wasted."
Faridoon finally asked the question that had been gathering beneath all
the others.
"If I fail lesson, how will I know I have failed? How will I know I
succeed?"
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:38:05 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (V)
Before his own words even finished settling into the night air,
Lindanilis gave him another measure to hold.
"We might pause and observe that giving our magic to others, is the
direct opposite to Evils path, which would counsel to take All power
you can reach for yourself."
Faridoon paused in his writing at that. He looked up and around, rolling
the words in his head while the moonglade held its silence.
Then Lindanilis answered him directly.
"Failure is part of life. We can do our best, and still come up short of
our aims. It is not the outcome Lord Kantilles measures, but our
intentions and methods taken. Our love for life beyond ourselves is the
true measure of success."
Faridoon nodded once, "I like this saying. It speaks to me."
He understood some of it. Not all. Perhaps not even most. But enough to
know that the lesson was not small.
"Understand. Some. I will think on this. No goal, goal. Is hard goal."
He frowned.
That was the truth of it. A battlefield had a clear goal. A body fell or
did not. A gate broke or held. A spell struck or failed. Lord Kantilles
measured something less simple. Intention. Method. Love for life beyond
the self. Success was not only whether the spell worked, but whether the
mage had become worthy of working it.
Lindanilis let the silence rest a moment after Faridoons answer, as
though giving the lesson time to settle before placing more weight upon
it. Then she smiled softly and reached into her satchel with the same
reverence she had shown in her prayers and spells. What she withdrew was
not a weapon, not a relic meant to dazzle, but a book.
"Here is a collection of writings from Lord Kantilles first Bishop,
years ago, whom I did study from," she said. "He was human, and thus his
life has passed from this plane now, but I would be glad to pass this to
you, Apprentice. He was a teacher who loved to share his life with all
mages and clergy."
She offered him *Kantilles: Writings of Khanyth Naish*.
Faridoon accepted it carefully. The gift suited the lesson too well to
be mistaken for a simple book. Lindanilis had spoken of magic made
stronger by giving, of wisdom that was not meant to be clutched and
hidden away. Now she placed into his hands the writings of a dead
teacher whose life had ended, but whose teaching had not. The lesson had
become physical. A gift passed from priest to apprentice, from one life
to another, so that the Art might keep doing what Lord Kantilles
intended it to do.
Writer: Faridoon
Date Fri May 22 23:39:46 2026
To All Lindanilis ( IMM RP Kantilles Religion )
Subject The Gift Given Away (VI)
To the priest of Kantilles, Faridoon began to understand, the arcane was
not a weapon to hoard. It was a gift made stronger by giving. The log
did not give him that line as a carved answer spoken whole from the
Cardinals lips, but the lesson stood in what she taught: that Lord
Kantilles power came not from holding on to His Gift, but from giving
it away with love and joy.
To Lord Kantilles, magic had to be shaped by love of life, right
intention, and right method. Lindanilis had said the outcome was not the
true measure. Intentions mattered. Methods mattered. Love for life
beyond the self mattered.
To His flock, the Art was a duty. Not a trophy. Not a private weapon.
Not proof that the mage stood above others. It was a responsibility to
maintain the weave of the world, to study and understand reality, to
consider the consequences of spells, to feed when hunger came, to
protect rather than only take, and to give the Gift where it had
meaning.
Faridoon left Gladithilnim with Kantilles: Writings of Khanyth Naish in
his keeping and Lindanilis words still turning in his head.
He had come to learn what magic was for. The answer had seemed simple at
first. Magic changed reality. It could fill a hungry belly, mend flesh,
shield the weak, or bend the world by will. But the Cardinal had shown
him that the spell itself was only part of the truth. The reason
mattered. The method mattered. The life touched by the spell mattered.
That was the harder lesson.
An orc could learn to strike. A Wujen could learn to cast. A White Robe
had to learn why the hand was raised at all.
Faridoon did not leave certain that he understood love. But he
understood respect. He understood duty. He understood that strength
without purpose was only another appetite.
So he carried the book from the glade as more than a gift.
He carried it as a charge.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Sat May 23 12:28:28 2026
To All Althainia Knighthood Justice Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom ( Imm Religion Rhelic )
Subject Pilgrimage: The Statue and the Child
Wind blew a warm breeze down Emerald Lane as the Abbott walked amongst
the people of Shalonesti. He had not come often to this place since the
rivers of Light had been summoned by Nadrik. The old man had not wished to
raise any tensions additionally between the Elven people and the Pantheon of
Light. Yet the actions of Lord Bouchard had made it clear that there was
work to do to forge a better relationship. Months of work had hopefully
restored some semblance of friendship between those of the Light and the
Elves. The cleansing of the Vallens by the Abbottess through the work of
the Aurora had ushered in a time of healing. Now the Pilgrimage was the
capstone to hopefully renew ties not just with the Elven nation but with the
realm as a whole.
The breeze kicked up his robes as he stood outside the Museum of Heroes.
This was a spot of great importance to the Elves but also to Geirhart for
here was also the last vestige of the ancient pact between the Light and
Neutrality. He wandered into it's marbled halls to gaze upon the statue of
Almaran. As he stood, pondering what the life of Almaran must have been
like, a small elven boy took up an equally pensive gaze upon the statue.
Geirhart smiled and looked down out at the boy out of the corner of his eye.
'What do you think of him? ' asked the old man in elvish.
The boy let his eyes stay upon the statue and then turned to look at the old
man and answered, 'He's alright, I suppose. Faloria just seems so well
sculpted and I wondered why the artist didn't give him the same detail? '
'Do All humans have such large fuzzy eyebrows like you? ' asked the young
boy without any thought of insult, just childish inquisitiveness.
'No, my boy, my eyebrows are the stuff of legend! ' smiled the old man in
response.
'As to your question, perhaps the artist forgot a bit of what Almaran should
be. Perhaps in celebrating the woods and Zandreya, the memory of Almaran
became more distant? In our minds, there are things we remember over and
over and other things we let go to time. Our minds can not contain All of
our life's moments' explained the priest.
'Maybe, I know my father doesn't recall where he places his boots from time
to time. My Mother however ALWAYS does. ' stated the elvish boy matter of
factly.
'That's why mother's are amazing. They remember All sorts of things we all
forget. Yet our fathers also teach us many lessons. Sometimes a father's
love is not as overt as a mothers but it's there. It's always there. '
smiled the priest, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening.
'Well, if we have a statue to him, I guess that means he's always here! I
better be going, mother and father are already two rooms away! Bye, sir! '
waved the elvish boy has he ran to find his parents.
'Yes, he'll always be here. Seen or not, loved or not. For a father's love
is much like the wind, sometimes never seen but felt in small or large ways.
'
Geirhart bowed his head, whispered a silent prayer, and touched the foot of
Almaran before leaving the museum.
The wind kicked up some leaves that playfully danced around him and then
swirled off to the west as the old man smiled.
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Wed May 27 12:24:28 2026
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