#moonrisegames

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True love blossoms in the most unlikely of places in Amelor...

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In case you get lost in the magical land of Amelor- a map to guide your way.

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... my letter involves the Oath.

Dear Lady Illyria,

I am truly grief stricken for the sorrow you must be feeling. The loss your father, nephew, and of course, Hamish is a loss that will be felt throughout all of Amelor. I know this is a difficult time for you, and I shall keep my correspondence brief out of respect for you and your family.

Although my words will bring little relief, know that I am here for you and Anders, and the Belzen’s stand ready to assist our great Corsin allies. You need only say the word. You, Lady, are strong and resilient. I have little doubt that you will successfully carry your great house through these troubling times with the grace that befits your name.

The primary reason for my letter involves the Oath. As much as I desire to carry out the promise made by our late fathers, I cannot pretend that this tragedy doesn’t put great emotional strain on your soul. And I cannot in good conscious force you to carry it out. Although he has left us, your bond with Hamish was deep and true. I cannot look beyond that, and neither should you. With our fathers gone, the oath need not become public knowledge.

My only hope is that this small gesture will help ease your pain and allow you to continue with your life as you see fit. You. Deserve nothing less.

May the spirits bless you and guide you.

Yours truly,

Lord Byrncroft Belzen

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This is indeed a dark time...

Lord Byrncroft -

I am grateful for your kind words. This is indeed a dark time, not only for my family but, as you say, for all of Amelor.

I was informed of the Oath by my father just days before his passing, under circumstances that do not need repeating. Your offer to let it slip into the darkness of our parents' correspondence and never see the light of day is kind and generous beyond measure, and I thank you for it.

However, I believe we are both being naive if we think that no one else is aware of what was decided between Mathias and Ferdinand; both of them were more intelligent and, let us be completely honest, more devious when it came to securing their Houses' power. I am positive my father would have told one his his lieutenants, and knowing your brother, Baldwin, this is something he would have heard from someone.

Neither of us are entirely secure, and breaking this oath could lead to problems and threats to both of our positions. It is something that will be used against us.

So my lord Bryncroft, I would ask this: let me mourn for those I have lost and to hopefully have a smooth transition from father to daughter. There has been enough chaos in the land as it is and I mean to try and put a stop to it.

It also seems to me that attempting to solidify and secure the...business assets that have been left under my control, and aiding Anders in securing his part of the estate, all while carrying a child, would be difficult to say the least.

I would ask for one year. None of Amelor would balk at that time, and if I cannot be strongly positioned by then, then I doubt I ever will be. I will most likely be too occupied to see you before this year is out, but know that when a set of seasons has passed again, we shall ensure that there can be no question as to our ability to secure our respective Houses' futures.

May the Uncorrupted Spirit grace your days.

Yours-

Lady Illyria Corsin

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Arsene Jaal heard them first...

I heard them first.

Snarling breath and heavy limbs, some dragging their tools of slaughter with the sharp, high sound of incoming screams. Others opted to carry their weapons with more dignity, but the thumps of their feet gave them away. Those were the older ones, the slower but stronger ones. The fresh ones were more lithe of foot and more in control of their limbs. But their breath, that dragging, labored sound of one trying to catch their breath as if something was caught in their throat, gave them away.

Then there was the smell.

The fresher ones smelled of afterbirth and burning oak (and other scents to cover their unique, pungent aroma), of burnt clothes, sage, fresh cadavers. They were the first to cause alarm, the first to strike.

To be expected, Aldens were the first line to fall. Blue became purple in splatters, showers, from slow, fallen pools. The ones who could fight did so, valiantly, but it was when they made the mistake of tearing off the veiling cover of the Fresh that they would cringe in terror from their twisted, henious visage. Just enough to catch a blade to the temple, or a pick, or a hammer. The Fresh carried small, quick weapons and decimated the first line of defenders. Aye, the Fresh moved with remarkable intelligence, for just as Aldens were ambushed with Corsin like swiftness, it was then screams of horror came from the Corsin tower.

I watched them climb the stone walls with a spider's grace and swiftness, with a predator's intent. Some had clawed weapons, others used picks, and others just used their twisted claws to dig into the stone as they breached the walls of the outer towers of the elite and homes of the fortunate. They caused panic, with panic comes the high screech of women to alert all, and then... the Old moved with new vigor. Knight Commanders barked orders, Aldens went running with clanging weapons and shields. Rangers turned a late, pink and orange afternoon sky near black with torrents of arrows from above. Corsins, the ones that could escape, fled like rodents into the sewers they thought Aldens didn't know about (well, I did). And the Royals..?

Delayed. A fatal mistake for most of them. Which cost Alden lives for we are meant to protect Royals until our last breath. The last breath was used to swing a sword, and that carried into a Royal's throat to either scream or beg before it was taken by Old, gory pikes and hammers.

Where was I? Watching and listening... What were they..? Not human, they didn't smell like displaced Spirits or Shadows nor did they look like Elves... They looked like... vengeance. As the air filled with smoke and smelled of piles of fresh corpses.

-Arsene Jaal, Alden Knight

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Answer the call to adventure. Give in to fantasy...

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Sir Vance Belzen and Lady Miry Corsin

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Queen Aravah Dargoth Lyris and her fellow arcanist, Lycraf Wyrm receive news of their fallen capital, Storm's Veil.

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"It's hope, it's a plan."- Jordan Fenn

I don't exactly remember leaving the city. I remember tearing out in a panic with my drum and not much else; I remember calling my brother’s name through the chaos of the terrified crowds, and hearing nothing back. I remember smoke and flame, the sound of crashing rock on wood, steel on steel. But beyond that, it's mostly a blur, and my first clear memory is moving at a gallop on horseback down one of the streets beyond the destroyed walls. I don't know whose horse it was. Whoever it was, I don't think they've got any use for it anymore.

To tell the truth, I'm not all that fussed about the city. A place is a place, nothing more, and no matter where you are, there's always a market for good music and stolen secrets. But Durance is missing, and I’ve got nothing but the clothes on my back and little hope of recovering what I left behind. My only hope is to go forward, to keep moving. There's whispered word among those in red that Illyria has secured lodging for us at some Ranger castle deep in the forests. Among my adopted family I'll be safe again; of that, at least, I’m certain.

It’s hope, it’s a plan. It doesn't sate the gnawing grief in my chest, but it’s something…

I lost the horse to exhaustion just outside the Stronghold; I'm walking the last few miles on foot, near to toppling myself. Just as I turn into the long path that leads to the castle, a voice sounds behind me, a shout just as exhausted as I feel.

“Is that my sister?”

Durance lives. My brother lives. And quite abruptly, the despair fades, and I know everything will be all right.

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For Glory, For Honor, For You...

Tarrik,

My brave little man. I cannot say how wonderful it has been to watch you grow. The first time I held you, you were just a wee little babe that could almost fit in my one hand. Your mother was so happy, so proud, your were her greatest accomplishment, a creation of her own flesh and blood and you were beautiful. Beautiful and strong just like your mother. You didn't cry, a tough little lad you were, not til the midwife pinched your foot. Then you wailed like a hell cat, flailing your tiny pudgy arms like you were daring her to get within reach. You were born to be a warrior. Not just because you're an Alden. Not just because you're the son of silly old knight. You were born to it. You took to your training like a fish to the river. My only regret is that I'll never get to see you knighted. Never have the chance to call my little boy, Sir. Keep to it boy. And listen to Hamish. He's the best Knight Commander in three generations. And you stay close to Gregori. Don't let him get too moody, or he'll soak up all the fun. And take care of your mother boy. I love her almost as much as I love you. If you haven't guessed yet, I'm not coming home. Whatever happens to me, I can only hope I can say I died a hero. It'd be a damn shame to lose a father for anything less. Be good son. I love you. For Glory, For Honor, For You. Your father. Jayson Alden

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“A summon-mother I shall be...”

Fiero Corsin finds his wife in her study for what feels like the thousandth consecutive night. For once she hasn’t locked the door. Once upon a time Fiero would’ve considered this an invitation, but now he knows it is nothing more or less than a simple oversight. She doesn’t turn to face him as the floorboards protest his crossing of the threshold. Stepping silently is nothing for a Corsin, yet Fiero is not trying to hide tonight. On the contrary, he wants nothing more than to be seen.

​Tierrel looks even worse than she did yesterday. Her hair, once as bright and golden as her regal niece’s, is so very unkempt Fiero has trouble remembering what it looks like kempt. The food he brought her for evening meal is still right were he left it, cold and untouched. He can hear Tierrel whispering to herself, reciting the words of whatever ancient volume lay open before her. Fiero knows not why, and also knows it would be useless to ask.

​She shudders as he lays a hand on her shoulder, drawing herself further into the great purple cloak that she has wrapped herself in. He hopes that she will speak with him tonight. A silence hangs in the air for a moment. Tierrel begins chanting to herself again, still enthralled by the words of the dead.

​“Tierrel…?” he says, as quietly as possible. If he shouts, she recedes even further into her books and purple cloak. Only gentleness can coax her out of her silence and sorrow. “Tierrel?” he says again. “Tierrel?” he asks a third time, for all things have most power in threes. He applies a little more pressure to her shoulder as he says her name the third and magic time.

​Her chanting stops. One of her hands stops tracing its way through the arcane labyrinth of symbols on the page before her. She raises the other to his. It hovers there for a moment, unable to brave the nothingness that lies between them.

​He takes her hand in his. She’s cold. He massages her hand gently, trying to impart some of his warmth unto her. He waits for her to speak.

​When she does, her voice sounds as tired as she looks. “Fiero?” she says, just now realizing he stood behind her. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I just get so engrossed in these grimoires. I’ve been losing so much time, lately.” Fiero knows she means it.

​“Not to worry, Lady Dargoth,” he says, lacking his wife’s conviction. “Thought I’d come up and check on you before I went to bed.” He lets go of her hand, letting his hands move to her shoulders. She’s as tense as usual, her entire body drawn taut. Fiero marvels that she hasn’t snapped yet, as frail as she feels in his hands. He starts to massage her shoulders with his usually tenderness, trying to relieve the what little weight of her curse he can.

​“Aren’t you a gentleman, my Lord Corsin,” she says. A ghost of a smile haunts her lips as he continues to knead her shoulders.

​“Nothing of the sort,” he says. “A gentlemen stabs you in the front. We Corsins much prefer to stab you in the back.” She laughs at his little joke. The cavernous library swallows the sound as it comes, shortly returning Fiero and Tierrel to their mutual silence. He wonders how to best bridge the gap between them. He fears to ask about how her research is coming. He fears to ask how she feels. Most of all, he fears being told there’s nothing he can do.

​“I think…” she starts, and then trails off. She still does not look at him, focusing instead on the book open before her. The images and symbols contained within the book mean nothing to Fiero, yet he feels a strange dread descend upon him whenever he looks at the book.

​“Did you say something, Sunshine?” The nickname fits better when her hair is its natural color and luster, bright and blazing as the sun.

​Tierrel sighs, as she so often does these days. She puts her hand to his, signaling that the massage is over. She rises from her desk, letting the purple cloak draped about her fall away. She turns to face Fiero, the dull blue of her eyes a pale shade of the brilliant sapphires Fiero remembered falling in love with. She still does not meet his eyes.

​She wraps her arms about herself, shivering from the cold. Fiero knows that nothing he could bring or do would warm her now, for the chill she feels comes from her bones, her blood. The curse freezes her heart, or so she says.

​In a small voice, she speaks. “What do you see in that book, Fiero?”

​“Nothing, my lady. You arcanists study these ancient tomes- to me, it’s just a book.”

​She sighs again. “I thought maybe you could feel it…” she trails off again. Fiero feels her disappointment dig into him more deeply than any blade could.

​He considers the book again. The symbols remain arcane to him, the images and diagrams just as obtuse. There’s a massive circle spread across the two pages, with what looks like thousands of tiny glyphs held within in an arrangement that he is sure Tierrel understands, but he cannot. He feels ghostly fingers run up and down his spine as he puzzles over the book.

​“I don’t like looking at it,” he says, turning to her. “It makes me feel… I don’t really know. Cold, somehow. Is it enchanted?” Her eyes regain a bit of their brightness. She shakes her head and smiles.

​“Not quite. It’s a…” she says, wracking her brain for the right words. “It’s a gateway, of a sort.”

​“A gateway to where?” Fiero asks. He has no idea where this is going, but he has the distinct suspicion he doesn’t like it.

​“The dark,” she says. He waits for her to explain. She does not.

​“Where’s that?”

​She sighs again, picking her cloak up from where it fell and wrapping it around her. “It’s not exactly a place, Fiero. Not in a conventional sense, anyway. This book is a glimpse into the true dark. The primordial darkness beyond the veil of night, beyond the astral plane, beyond even the very edge of dreams.”

​He shudders. “Why would anyone ever want a gateway into such a place?”

​“The spell on that page,” she says, pointing to the book, “calls a being from the dark into the material world.” The blood drains from Fiero’s face. He feels the chill again.

​“No, Tierrel,” he says. She refuses to meet his gaze. “You can’t. You can’t meddle with such magics, there must be some other way-“

​A third sigh. “We’ve tried all the other ways, Fiero,” she says, in a very small voice. “This is my last resort.” He takes her in his arms. Holding her as tightly as he can. He feels his tears flow down his face. She is not crying. Not this time. Her well of tears has run dry. Her eyes are barren, as is she.

​“If this is truly what you want,” he says.

​“It is, Fiero,” she says, stronger now than before. “If nature decrees I cannot be a mother, then a summon-mother I shall be.”

​Fiero finds himself smiling at her conviction, even if her words give him pause. “Very well, my lady. How can I help?”