#Alise Mors

[rene-hl-trashcan]

I have gone too far with CaRiz and there's no turning back 💀💀

The Mom and Dad

The children :

First born, Alise.

Second born (the older twin), William

The baby (the younger twin), Lukas

Those eyebags and freckles are definitely hereditary 😂😂

Can you guess who is the harbinger of chaos@the master prankster among the siblings?

@starryslytherin0, we have gone too far and this legacy is just gonna continue. No turning back with this ship 💀💀

The fact I feel like writing a story of this Slytherin Trio would be hella fun. Continue the Legacy, so to speak.

[crimsonfluidessence]

Faded Cries, Buried Memories

Soon after his confrontation with the mysterious maybe-scholar, maybe-Allagan bard, Esredes got to work. He didn’t know much about Allagans, or those who knew about them. But he did have one simple thing up his sleeve to utilize: Connections. After all, those eight years of networking didn’t go to waste. And he was still, even if it didn’t matter at all here after the war, technically their leader. So he began to ask around.

His search eventually took him to the sole group of harriers hiding out in Mor Dhona. Even after the war, they had elected to stay together and live peacefully. Not an uncommon choice, he had come to learn.

“I used to keep an eye on the excavators at Saint Coinach,” said one of them. “I can refer you to them. They know everything there is to know on Allagans in this region. With my recommendation, you can surely borrow some of their tomes.” Ah, exactly what he needed. He made sure to thank her sufficiently. What a nice time to be reminded that everything that had come crashing down around him could still be salvaged from the ruins when he needed it.

Sometimes, anyway. Faint memories of a passed time traveled through him as he made his way back through those marshlands to another part of Mor Dhona. When he reached Saint Coinach’s Find, he took a good look around at the camp. These people had set up camp in such a dangerous place. They must be truly dedicated to their research to risk so much like that.

But no matter. He introduced himself politely to the leader, and told him of who sent him. To his luck, the man let him borrow a couple tomes to read.

So he walked back to the outpost, and settled in at a table at the bar to skim over these, as quickly as was viable. Searching for anything that might be relevant to this ‘Amon’, though he did not expect anything under that exact name. Until his eyes found their way to that exact name.

He re-read the page a few times, then read over the entire section at least three times. There was an illustration of a giant, skeletal, monster sort of creature... and it was wearing the same hat. No way.

It was actually true.

And not only was it actually true, but the descriptions were horrifying. They spoke of an evil, mad scientist, who had done unspeakable acts of evil experimentation. Esredes felt sick just reading it over. If only he wasn’t an Elezen, he’d suspect he was the ancestor of Thiessen. Equally mad, equally evil. And yet, Thiessen couldn’t look unsuspecting to save her life. Pretend she had any life in those cold, dead eyes, the ones that had killed Alise in front of him, the ones that had injected the blood into all those kidnapped civilians, the ones that had come after his people time and time again wanting blood, the ones that were still on the loose-

Focus. Another mad scientist to deal with. Another demented, remorseless, inhuman anomaly to put down. It made sense why he was pretending to be a bard now. He had found immortality in his experimentation, and now he used the traveling bard guise to find more victims, for whatever else he had planned-- Oh, and if he figured any of his people... they would be first. People transforming into dragons? An Allagan’s paradise of madness. Esredes’ hands crumbled into fists on the table. No. No. No.

He had to do it. He had to kill him. ...Or contain him. He was immortal, killing him was likely not as easy as it looked. And what if that little Elezen form was hiding this monster inside it?

Well, two could play at shapeshifting... Still. He would need a plan. A good plan, to stop such a dangerous, lurking monster. He read on in the tomes, moving to the second when this had nothing more on Amon. This one mentioned a surprising detail: The Warriors of Light had killed the monster form. What? When? What do you mean they killed it? Esredes recalled in his mind the time Rusty had left for Mor Dhona and come back only after the massacre on Snowcloak. He had mentioned something about the Crystal Tower, but Esredes had never thought a thing of it before now. Not when he was too busy being blinded by rage. But yet that still left a rather large question. Then why is he walking around?! No, of course. Immortality. He had died, or appeared to have died, temporarily, but just came right back when those parasites left. Even those bloodthirsty, unrepentant empty husks couldn’t kill everything. ...But they had killed Thordan. And that disgusting Garlean princ-- no, wait, that was it. It was like whatever the hell was going on with that man. Someone who died, but appeared to come back later. All right. Killing was out of the question. He had to contain him somehow. But Esredes knew a thing or two about kidnapping and restraining people from all of his experiences, and fortunately for himself, that former place of containment still stood, like a ghost waiting to be resurrected. It was only a matter of disabling him when no one was around and flying off. Things were so much easier with a dragon form, truly. Even against an immortal monster. Once he had found everything he could about the thing in the tomes, he went back and returned them, asking for any additional detail they could provide. He obtained a more in-depth report of what happened to the Tower. The Warriors had gone in to investigate, and killed all the horrors waiting inside there, including Amon. Okay, that sounded about right. And with that, he moved on from Mor Dhona. Back to the Shroud he would go- after a day had passed, of course- to speak with the associates from before. To learn about the bard’s habits. Word came back to him several days later. One of them had seen him heading into the apartment complex at the Lavender Beds, and obtained his room number. That would be what he needed. So Esredes set to work getting what he needed. He needed baggy, black clothes, with armor hiding underneath. He needed quiet shoes, he needed multiple lockpicks, chains, medical supplies, and a simple rock. Then he needed a few of his fellow harriers for backup. He assembled a small team of three others, and together they forged the plan. All that was left was to execute it properly.

Night time fell on the Lavender Beds. Esredes arrived at the apartment complex after midnight with his little group. A round of quiet whispers and nods was exchanged, before they all went off, disappearing behind the building.

Esredes slipped on the mask he had brought with him, and headed into the building. He creaked the door open slightly, and spotted someone at the desk through it. He projected into their mind to hide himself, and opened it very slowly the rest of the way, shutting it behind quietly and standing there. He watched as the person looked up and contemplated if the door had really just opened and shut, until they went back to looking at the desk. He slipped up the stairs and stopped in front of the designated room. He took out the lockpick and quietly went to work. A couple minutes later, and the lock clicked. Esredes turned the knob and slowly, very slowly, opened the door, praying the man was asleep as he anticipated. Or that immortals slept at all.

Once inside, the man had to pause and stare. Oh my, it was exactly like he had sort of imagined. Allagan technology. Everywhere. How in the hell did he get all this in here without anyone seeing? But none of it was attacking him or sounding an alarm. He had to move quickly now. He drew his sword from his side and proceeded forward with as quiet of steps as he could manage.

[amplectormors]

The only good side to having guards and servants all around was the opportunity to make new friends. Despite his predicament, Carbuncle was trying to find some sort of silver lining. It was small, but it was better than nothing. He'd befriended one of the burly guards and had been slowly teaching the man sign language. Carbuncle had been smiling, laughing silently with the guard when Mors walked in, and the smile vanished. He folded his arms, an effective silent treatment.

Mors is surrounded by people at every hour of every day. Some who love him, some who hate him. ‘Silent’ treatment is a wonderful thing to him. Well, if he was even paying attention. Right now, he was a bit distracted. He walked past, and his cloak trailed along the floor. It was leaving a wet red mark, and it became clear his outfit was weighed down heavy with liquid. He walked past them. 

“Denise. The bath.” He called out to the maid, and she bowed head head and went to the bathroom. He stripped naked, streaks of red all over his pale skin. “Is Alise here?” He noticed the concubine was laying on his bed, asleep, he glanced, and then went to the bathroom. “I’ll discuss with her later. Clean this up.”

He sat in the bath, dropping random liquid out of the bottles that lined the edge of the bathtub. It was a greenish color by the time he was done, and he sank himself fully. After that sudden arrival, he finally relaxed, and lifted his head above the water to breathe. He assumed Denise was cleaning up the floors and taking the clothes away to the laundry.

After that, he appeared in nothing more than a bathrobe. “Alise.” He lays down in the bed, watching the other stir awake. He had another concubine; honestly he didn’t even seek them out, other countries seemed to just send them at this rate. He pulled her close, feeling her hug him, and he laid down, sighing.

[tob-rpg-contos]

Andorinhas

Naquela manhã, bonita como era, os raios dourados do Sol cintilavam pelo ar e iluminavam o jardim no qual se encontrava Deméter, em cujas bochechas os pequenos feixes solares refletiam ao ponto de parecer que aquela pele fora galvanizada com ouro. A deusa estava alegre, muitíssimo alegre: era um dia de verão. 

Enquanto ela sorria amigável ao vento e aos pássaros, suas mãos delicadas percorriam por uma mesa de madeira polida, arrumando as flores que ali estavam postas, bem como as xícaras, os bules, e as cestas cheias dos mais diversos biscoitos, cereais, pães e frutas frescas.

Mais que um dia de verão, também era dia de chá!

Alguns pintassilgos e andorinhas, abrigados nas copas das árvores que circundavam o jardim, cantarolavam e serviam como atrações principais do evento, juntamente ao farfalhar dos galhos e folhas, que completavam o coro e compunham o instrumental daquela orquestra natural. Deméter adorava aquele som e, como as aves, ela também não fazia o verão sozinha: esperava abertamente sua companhia, a andorinha — filhote, em partes — que se juntaria consigo para que ambas pudessem percorrer os céus, veraneando.

Ela estava ansiosa, como sempre ficava antes do fabuloso dia do chá. Era um momento único, embora eterno dentro de um ciclo estacional. Esperava dias, meses, meia dúzia, até que pudesse transmudar suas tristezas e consumar sua felicidade. Porém, ainda achava que aquilo tudo era uma tortura para seu coração divino, por mais que já estivesse acostumada a esperar. De todo o modo, o pior já havia ocorrido, agora ela apenas primavereava.

A divindade suspirou e acomodou-se em sua cadeira de metal, de pés levemente curvados e moldada com linhas sinuosas, mas harmônicas. O assento fora projetado ao estilo Art Nouveau e havia sido adquirido, assim como os outros que ali estavam, em uma feira industrial, na França da Belle Époque, durante o início do século XX, auge do movimento. Era engraçado, para Deméter, como os mortais tentavam reproduzir as nuances das vinhas e das flores para trazer graciosidade à estética das coisas. No mais, ela aceitava que aquela peça, como tantas outras,  era bonita.

Depois de terminar a interminável arrumação da mesa, a mulher olhou para o céu, caçando com os olhos a posição da Estrela-mor. Com apenas essa informação — a localização do Sol —, embora carregasse um miúdo relógio no pulso, sua mente já desvendava os horizontes do tempo; sabia perfeitamente que horas eram. Ela não confiava as horas a um mecanismo de lata, usava-o simplesmente por ser elegante. Um toque de vaidade para quem renegava a totalidade desta.

Ela ficava cada vez mais ansiosa. Estava prestes a pegar uma das maçãs para comer e assim tentar distrair sua mente quando finalmente sua filha, Perséfone, chegou, para se juntar ao verão, após brotar no jardim através de uma abertura no meio das árvores. Deméter sorriu com a presença e levantou-se da cadeira para recepcionar a convidada, dando-lhe um abraço envolvente e caloroso.

— Finalmente! Eu esperei tanto por você... 

— Eu também! — Perséfone retribuiu ao abraço da mãe, acolchoando o queixo em seu ombro. 

Então Deméter despregou-se da filha, pegando em sua mão e guiando-a para a mesa que outrora ela arrumava com tanto esmero. Sentou-se novamente na cadeira em  que estava e passou a mão num dos pães de centeio, que fora feito por ela mesma.

— Sente-se, sente-se! — Dizia alegre. — Tem chá de morango, camomila, laranja e branco. Pode beber!

— Fico feliz em vê-la tão animada. 

— Ah, querida, eu sempre estou alegre nessa época do ano. Ainda mais hoje! — A olimpiana enlaçou uma das xícaras com a mão livre, regando-a cuidadosamente com chá de morango, e ergueu-a no ar a fim de propor um singelo brinde. Perséfone fazia o mesmo, mas com chá branco. — É dia de chá!

 A felicidade delas era compartilhada e fora concretizada no sorriso que ambas deram entre si, banhado num espírito de maternidade sem igual. Sequer pareciam lembrar que, na mesma contagem da euforia contemplada, a outra iria voltar para o seu exílio ao lado do que outrora a raptara. 

Deméter bebericou do líquido em sua xícara, apreciando o adocicado do chá que escolhera. Na sequência, assim que repousou o recipiente de volta na mesa e provou do pão em mãos, ajeitou o cabelo, jogando uma mecha perdida para de trás da orelha. Alisou, também, a capa que recobria seu ombro, a qual a deusa usava para regular a ordem e mudar as estações nas terras por onde passava. Ela era feita, aparentemente, de um tecido bege,  leve, lânguido e parcialmente translúcido, parecia tule francês. Uma cascata de folhas ornava-a, ascendendo de maneira simétrica das laterais; de um lado, estas apresentavam cores vivas, puxadas ao vermelho e amarelo intenso, e, do outro, estavam  em tonalidades azuladas, algumas aparentavam até estar mortas, junto a galhos secos salpicados por entre elas. 

Nisso, as duas continuaram a prosear o quanto podiam sobre tudo que podiam. Semideuses, deuses, flores, abelhas, presidentes... enfim, tudo. A conversação, porém, fora interrompida por barulhos vindos do meio das árvores. CREC. CREC. Na mesma hora, os passarinhos das copas voaram de seus refúgios, expondo que algo ameaçava a então paz.  Alguém, ou algo, as observava.

Mãe e filha entreolharam-se, temerosas quanto à identidade do Desconhecido. No mesmo momento, uma lebre-do-ártico irrompeu das folhagens, atravessando o jardim a saltos despreocupados. O que aquele animal curioso fazia ali? Não era o lugar dele. 

Deméter levantou-se, imponente, pronta para investigar aquilo, quando de repente as temperaturas diminuíram e a manta da deusa quase foi tomada por completo pelo azul de um dos lados. Durou exatos dez segundos até tudo voltar à normalidade, com pássaros cantando como se nunca houvessem saído dali. O que poderia ter acontecido?

Era o Inverno querendo se juntar ao Verão.