#tqh troupe 2: the living stone

[blightedmikhael]

It’s fair to say that Mikhael has not met a lot of other cambions. Overall, he could count with a hand the number of other cambions he had met in his entire life. Because of that, he tended to assume. Assume that other cambions used their abilities as much as he, that they trained to be able to switch between Infernal Sight and regular sight at a moments notice, that they checked the species of anyone they met just to ensure they kept an edge on the encounter. So he had presumed. And now he has to cover his ass, because clearly Rowan is not picking up what he had been trying to put down. 

“A bastard child of an Ankhurian spearwoman and an unknown father,” he says lightly, slowly sidestepping the secret he thought both of them knew they shared. “That's good. Religion can be a guide in times of struggle, and we are breaching those times as we speak.”

"Your origins being?" Rowan's not sure what makes him so curious about this quest of Mikhael's, but he feels compelled to help him. Granted, he feels compelled to help most people. But this guy had the kind of energy of someone a hero in a novel would meet on some grand adventure. Not like Rowan considered himself the hero in that situation by any means. "I've been here my whole life and I think people are fairly....Spiritual." Or maybe temples and churches had gotten an influx of people due to what had happened in Aventia. Which was actually rather funny when he thought about it, in a morbid kind of way. People always turned to prayer when something threatened their comfort, when it would benefit them. He thought it was rarer that people talked to some higher or lower power on a daily basis. Something tells him that Mikhael is one of those rarities though.

[theportaraceli]

who? @ikarosx where? The Silverlands when? Right after the Blighted Dragon Quest

Their journey back to the Silverlands goes quickly, and once there, the unlikely group begins to go on their separate ways. As much as Araceli wants to follow their guidelines and head back to Eterna to fall into her bed and scream into her pillow for the next several days, Mythal’s words keep resonating in her head. She needs to tell someone, someone who knows more of the elvhen beliefs than a faiman that had struggled to gather all the information for herself. Prince Ikaros, then, it’s the best person possible to discuss the matters. So rather than head home after a long day, she steps closer to the elvhen prince and offers him a respectful bow. 

“Might I have a moment of your time?” She asks quietly. “Mythal spoke to me back in the temple, and I want to share what she said.”

[thequeendomhq]

“One thing we were taught as legionnaires is that, in moments of doubt, you must always give people the opportunity to do good. Sometimes they surprise you. Sometimes they don't." "Which one's the surprise?" "That anyone ever actually gives someone else the chance.”

AVENTIA, a few days ago. 

Aventia was lost.

Weeks and weeks of bombardment had worn down the soldiers that had come to the city’s aid, and as the Blight ran rampant within the walls, hope was seemingly lost. 

Though it was not for lack of trying. Everyone would remember Prince Leander at the head of the Olympians, fire raining down upon the hordes and hordes of darkspawn that pressed forward from the mountains and forests surrounding the city. The Olympians from the Tower giving their all as the ogres and hurlocks constantly targeted them. The witches were strong, the Darkspawn were of hive mind – something, or someone – was telling them what to do. The Elvhen that had come to aid had suffered their own losses alongside the wolves of Haven, who had to turn and head home before the horde decided to turn its sights upon Feronia. 

The city was abandoned, the last of the line of soldiers who had promised never to leave another behind, the people that were born in Aventia and swore that they would die there as well – the horde overtook them the moment the gate was knocked down and the city set alight. 

In the distance, if they were lucky enough to have escaped, refugees could see the rise of smoke from Aventia, a bright light in the darkness of the night. People were funnelled into the Wildlands, into Feronia. They were also pushed into Westreach, into the city of Marinus Bay that had been prepared by Queen Arethusa to welcome the refugees of Aventia into their city. While it seemed promising, the refugees instead found themselves faced with a locked gate into the city – chaos erupted as the fearful and desperate refugees begged for entrance into the city. 

The Blight was no longer a ghost story, it was a rampant fear. The nobility of Westreach did not wish to see the Blight take their city, spread the moment a sick or injured soldier or refugee turned into a ghoul and feasted on whoever was nearby. Wild accusations were thrown around, money that would get the nobility in secretly – they could only hope that the Darkspawn were held back as a refugee camp was set up outside Marinus Bay, a quarantine zone for all who had been too close to the horde, and had taken too long to leave.  

The legion was more than ready to rise to the challenge of finding the source of where the Darkspawn were pouring from, in the hopes that they would be able to stop the push of the horde, or perhaps slow it down. Alucard had returned with new recruits from Aventia, and three from healing the Wildlands from the Blight that had threatened it as well. Within Caer Glas, a decision was made. Five would press forward, past Aventia and above it within the mountains, to where Nornwatch had stood, to find what had caused them to appear. Others would go to support Haven, reinforce if they could and help if the horde were to make it. Three would be sent to Marinus Bay, to try and make peace with the nobility and make sense of the refugee situation. 

They hold no titles, they hold no honorifics – but they are the Legion, and they will stand ready. 

AVALON - Two Days Ago

“The Prince reports that the pool of Mythal has been cleansed within Tarasyl'an Te'las. Animals have once again been cleansed of their blight, and the dragons there press upon the fact that their time is now.” 

The Elvhen who had delivered the report gave a small bow before she turned to leave, quickly and quietly. The circle of nobles sat upon their seats, all turning to look at Titania who remained silent at the head. The golden haired queen looked pensive, and they all sat in silence as the time ticked by them. 

“Aventia has fallen to the Blight, but that was an inevitability that we knew would come to pass,” Titania spoke at last, her voice calm as she looked at the faces of the nobles surrounding them. Too many had seen the Blight firsthand, the sick and dying elder Elvhen withering away as the Light did all it could to fight against it. The Queen’s mother was fighting it, Yavanna’s life slowly withering away. 

Shahrzad Sulamir stood now, her gaze meeting Titania’s as the two old friends thought of what this could mean — and how the argued endlessly on what their paths should be. “Mythal’s Glade has stood ready to search the Laurelin for the Blight. For decades now. The dragons could be an answer. We’ve been missing something for this long—“

Caranthir Thalasir stood now, “Sylaise’s image has completely shattered now. Instead of dragons, why don’t you focus on how we are suffering within?”

Shahrzad only gave Caranthir an exhausted look, “We have tried, Caranthir. Your craftsmen are some of the best within Avalon. Our priestesses of Mythal have offered all their assistance.”

The Thalasir noble seemed contrite, sitting back down.

“All the branches have felt the suffering of the Light,” Titania’s voice echoed through the hall once more, though it had not risen in volume. Shahrzad sat as well, and the nobility looked to the queen again. “None moreso than Varda’s Cavern. And as our elders die, more of the leaves fall.” With each one, she felt it. Like a ripple in the weave of magic that they were made from, the Queen could feel the dimming. “We cannot leave our mortal halves to suffer,” her words were definite, the Silver Elvhen of Lórein’dal would never face such darkness on their own. There were images of them, desperate at the Moongate, while the High Elvhen could do nothing but watch. 

A pounding on the door disrupted the conversation, all eyes now upon the gilded guard who opened it. 

Eyes wide, a young Elvhen stumbled forward, hair a mess and out of breath. 

Shahrzad stood first, recognizing the young woman, “Elanor— speak, what is it?”

“The…the Eluvian! The Eluvian in Mythal’s old temple…it activated!”

Titania stood now, the Elvhen Queen now commanding the attention of the room as the voices and questions that bombarded Elanor quieted, “Take me there, child.” To the Nobles, she looked at them all, “Call home your family. We do not know what lies beyond it, and if something wishes to come through — we must be ready.”

AMON SÚL - Two Days Ago

A darkened staircase stood before Silas. It spiraled down, endless, it seemed, as the light from above eventually yielded to the darkness that consumed the rest of the stairs. Another legionnaire stood behind him, his hand coming up and lighting the sconces on the stone wall. The staircase lit up once more, flickering shadows dancing in a rhythm none could hear. 

Silas didn’t say anything as he stepped forward. Only the one Legionnaire followed, the rest staying at the top of the staircase. The two exchanged a glance, yet said nothing.

The Legion Commander continued to walk in silence, the flames vanquishing as they passed each one. 

The other Legionnaire who followed quietly was a druid, one of the primal elements who absorbed the fire as their steps echoed. “Commander, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Fate leads him who follows it,” Silas paused to look at the druid, Ruadian, “And drags him who resists.”

They stopped at a door, one that was weathered from the sand and air that had buffeted it so long ago. Now, however, the air was stale, the entire stronghold of Amon Sûl built around this single point. Silas’ antimagic pulled at the door now, and it seemed to be nothing more than a snap of his fingers before it was creaking open, pushed back. 

The chamber itself was in the form of a circle, stones that stood standing up with runes carved upon them. Nothing reacted to Silas, as his presence seemingly pulled the magic from the air. Even Ruadian stood there, nervous as he looked upon the runes of old. “Where is he?”

Silas’ gaze was situated forward, and he pulled the palantir from the bag he’d had at his side. The stones around himself and Ruadian flickered to life for a brief moment, but Silas once more pulled the magic from the room. “He is here. Silence is his domain. But he’s been the loudest of them all, recently. Your Dúnedain kind will know that he’s been disrupted. And when I do this, you must do as I’ve asked. If you don’t, Amon Sûl will be destroyed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Commander Silas.”

Silas didn’t say anything in response. Instead, he dropped his hand from the palantír, allowing the magic to fluctuate within the room again. The stones lit once more, the Druidic Standing Stones awakening with a single motion from Silas’ hand. The sound of whispering began to echo in the chamber, until silence fell once more. 

The Dragon of Silence is among us.

The Dreamscape – Present Day

“WE SHALL NOT REST UNTIL–”

“Will you stop yelling? All of the Red Hand has gone.” 

Manannán looked like he wished to argue, but the words from Cailleach made him silent. The void they stood in was filled with the lights that were known within Iskaldrik. The many names they held signifying the beliefs of the people that once inhabited the land. Now, the magic from within them was syphoned. Over and over again the Aetherians would try to pull all they could from what they could see. 

Cailleach moved her staff now, her visage shifting between an old lady and a young woman, “The Dreaming is sick. Our dreamers will be plagued, the Dúnedain will feel the shift as the land continues to die.”

“WE SHALL BURN THEM–

Cailleach coughs.

“We shall burn them for ever entering our world. The Dúnedain must rise. They are caught between these worlds. The realm of Avalon is shifting, they grow closer to finding them. And when they do, the Dúnedain will have to pick between this light and their own.” 

“We shall send a message. To each. They must be ready to do their part and alight the stones. Do you hear it? It calls to us. It is alive once more, though the Blight has nearly destroyed it. It must be saved.”

OOC INFORMATION:

Aventia has fallen to darkspawn. They would have destroyed everyone within it, and most likely have connected their tunnels to the city itself to use as some sort of Blighted base. It is not recommended to return.

Isak, Luna, and Nurcan have been sent to Marinus Bay to hold post for a week. They will be the only hope refugees have of getting into the city.

Thora, Aradia, and Althea are posted within Haven to help fortify against the Darkspawn.

The rest of the Legion have been sent with Riandur to figure out the source of the Darkspawn coordination.

Avalon is unable send reinforcements to Haven, but Lórien'dal will be sending aid.

Druids will be receiving a vision. From either the hero of their circle, or someone that is close to them in some way, whether or not they know why. You'll be receiving this shortly in your inbox. You may just post it, or you may write a prompt for it.

A formerly dead Eluvian has come alight within Mythal's Glade. High Elvhen nobles are being asked to return immediately. The Glade has been sectioned off by guards so none may try to slip through it.

[spiralailani]

who? open  where? Aventia, near the refugee paths when? Sometime between week 1 and 3 of the siege

It’s in between the waves of enemies that Lailani does some of her best work. Careful hands guide trembling refugees to safety, words of comfort bolstered by magic and the steadiness of her tone delivered sweetly to those who need it the most. The worst is yet to come, she suspects, but never allows that suspicion to reach her face as she works to reunite mothers and children, sisters and brothers. The chaos of the evacuation had separated many from their families, and when she is not on the front lines, shielding her fellow warriors and drawing the attention from the darkspawn as others work to eliminate them, she is amidst the people. 

It’s an endless work, but one she does patiently and steadily. 

She has just reunited a father with his children, when she senses someone’s interest and she glances around to identify the source, nodding at them when she does. 

“Are you in need of any aid?” She asks as she steps closer, steps light as she offers a friendly smile. As she does, her eyes lit up in recognition and she reaches forward for a handshake.  “I have seen you out on the battlefield, well met.”

[blightedmikhael]

Mikhael has long since learned balance. Balance between his human side and his infernal heritage. Balance between his instinct to destroy and his habit to protect. Balance in the hunt, and balance in respite. The balance between faith and fanaticism is a lesson he was first taught once he had learned why Ankhuria had stopped cleaving their witches, and that was practiced every time he was faced with yet another member of the Astorian Vanguard of the Light that worshiped senseless violence. He had never seen the appeal of violence for violence sake, always more partial to specific applications of destruction in order to eliminate threads. It is why he is partial to contracts meant to hunt down certain individuals, rather than more wide spread battlefields. 

“You were sent by the Divine?” His surprise is genuine, eyes dipping and looking to the side as he considers the rather tasty bit of information the devil had all but dropped to his feet. Is the Divine aware of the devil within her ranks? Of the wolf amidst her flock? He doubts it, and that only cements his disdain for the false prophet that the Astorian Vanguard of the Light had chosen to elevate. Weakness begets weakness, and it is clear the faith within the Vanguard’s ranks is weak. “She must have a great deal of faith in you.”

The observation comes lightly, a tentative thought to which he manages to inflict just enough awe to make it seem real. It’s a dangerous game he is playing, but the more he listens to the devil’s diatribe, the less likely he is to leave things well enough alone. The man before him is a snake, and Mikhael feels the disgust on his spine even as he keeps a hold of his self-control. 

“Doing some good after Aventia— Yes, I would like that,” he admits steadily, softly. The Dark One strengthens by the minute, after all, so it is his duty to mitigate some of his influence.

Fanaticism. That was the bare minimum Dantalion required of members of his Vanguard. And yes, the faith was his. His to use, his to exploit, and his to charge headlong into holy war. His advantage lied in the fact that he stood to win no matter the victor. What Dantalion was after was a country soaked in blood and its people crushed beneath the weight of conflicting beliefs. Mongrels were so easy, which is what made them entertaining.

Fanatics would get it done for him, and if someone didn't have the spark of fanaticism then it was Dantalion Althais' job to spark it. Or destroy the toy who resisted, either or. One didn't simply play a game like his by setting one path, he had multiple avenues to achieve his holy war. It wasn't a matter of if at this point, but when. And he was starting to get impatient.

"There's more than simple appeal in my offer. It's a necessity. Why do you think the Divine sent me here personally? To share the miracles the One God has bestowed upon me with these poor, downtrodden citizens, but also to prepare. The people will receive more than his Light, but also his divine judgment as well." Dantalion could speak to his faith and loved doing so, but he wasn't a clergyman. His sermons were merely preamble. Dantalion was a leading member of the militant faith, and sewing peace into the lowest tier of this queendom was merely phase one. "Increase the faith of the meek, strengthen them in His Light, and then work to topple those who reject him. What else would you call Aventia's fall if not punishment for the wicked? Holy war is coming, and for the sake of your soul I'd like to help you do some good before you must take up arms with me." Like the devil he was, every word was its own form of test and trap. Dantalion had been at this game for a long time and knew exactly how to root out those who'd be useful to him, and those who needed to be discarded.

[thequeendomhq]

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.”

Some time during the Dark Age –

A griffon shrieks – its large, dark wingspan making a shadow over the sun. It lands a few feet from a woman, an Elvhen, dressed in dark armor. “Revas,” the woman greets the Griffon, who, after a moment, turns into a rather large mimic of a dog, pressing its head against the Elvhen’s chest.

She laughs, her hand scratching the cheek of the large griffon, the momentary pain forgotten. It had been a long day, the barren land that she had just come from finally burnt and left behind. 

Those who had survived the onslaught of what eventually would become Eastreach had dragged themselves towards the safety of the broken Tower, towards any place where an Old God and the Dark One’s power could hopefully not reach. What they did not expect was the desperation that followed, the death that would rise in these places that only knew how to kill or be killed. More and more took the Joining, more and more would begin to understand their sacrifice, and more and more became ghouls.

“Isseya!” 

Another’s voice pulled the Elvhen from her thoughts, her hand dropping from Revas’ cheek even as the Griffon gave a huff of annoyance. 

A sandy colored Griffon landed a few feet away, a man sliding off its back, “Andoral has been sighted, coming for the islands – what do we do? Valeria Mordecai and the witches have made it to Eterna. They’ll never last against Andoral alone.”

Isseya glanced at Danaro, then to his griffon, “Valeria has the palantír. She’ll know. Take Shrike and wait for me by the ruined Tower. We will fight the Old God head on.” Her words were strong, but even she was just an Elvhen – just one soldier part of the pattern. The Light of the Laurelin still shined within her, blades that were conjured out of nothing that she would send flying towards the Darkspawn that dared to rear their ugly heads, and she was of Sylaise – she would sacrifice blood for her goddess, and pray that those she fought for would continue on.

The city that would become known as Eterna currently lay in waste ahead of her; broken and shattered buildings, a Tower with white marble that was stained with fire and missing pieces that had fallen into the bay below – the city Valeria Mordecai, the future queen, would rebuild stone by stone. It was a ruin from a previous age, the original name perhaps lost to time. Isseya turned towards Revas now as Danaro and Shrike took to the sky, flying towards the battered city ahead. 

“Ir abelas, Revas,” Isseya’s apology was quiet, but the Griffon was noble – it would never turn from such a fight, and the Legionnaire would never ruin his honor by sending him away. She reached for his back, climbing onto the Griffon as she looked at the Tower far off in the distance. “Lasa ghilan, Sylaise,” she whispered, and the two launched themselves forward, the shrieking of a dragon the only answer to the quiet prayer.

Amon Sûl, a few weeks before the fall of Iskaldrik –

“Veilcrest has always been the reason. It’s a stain on all of Taravell. We can’t destroy the Blight without ridding those who worship Lusacan–”

“You’re talking about a full on war with the Queen and all her followers, it’s madness.”

“Taravell has forgotten about us, we’d have no support, not even–”

“You’re right, but if they knew we were marching to our deaths? They’d support us even less–”

“–Or support us more. Lose Veilcrest or the Legion? They’d be fools to choose them over us!”

Voices continued to shout over one another, the halls of Amon Sûl no stranger to strife and disagreement. Legionnaires had been stationed here for years, those they dragged in, blighted and dying, and somehow survived the Joining – they had yet to leave. Even now, as different officers stood arguing around a large table with a map of Taravell, there didn’t seem to be any moment of respite. 

“Every minute we wait is another minute one of them could regain power. There are forces at work for all of them, nevermind the Dragon of Night.” This Legionnaire did not wish to speak the name Lusacan; names had power, and this one held fear in his heart.

“It’s not like they’re thanking Him for giving them a hobby, they–”

“Well what about the Darkspawn? Nornwatch has reported increased activity, they’re responding to someone–”

“Enough.” 

One voice seemed to silence the others, the Legion Commander standing now at the head of the table that the others stood at. The officers placed their arms over their chest in greeting, some looking annoyed they’d been interrupted, others chastised. 

“We do nothing.” Silas’ eyes were darkened with exhaustion, the commander moving towards a door. Voices called after him, but they were ignored as he shut a door behind him, closing off anyone who would enter the room that led to the staircase for the tower. Up and up he went, silent and weary. No one noticed the tiredness in his voice, or perhaps the way his blue eyes were always watching with an unknown emotion. No one dared question him, and those that had were admonished before they could ever finish their declaration. What good could the Legion be if they spent half their time in single combat, fighting over leadership?

Silas continued to walk the steps of the tower, the stone echoing every movement, every rustle of armor, every sigh – until he reached the top. The hilltop fort was one of the few things for miles around, and within the tower lay the only thing that Silas wished to look at. He walked towards the center of the room, a pedestal rising as he approached. Upon it was a round, crystalline stone. It glowed unnatural colors, twisting and turning, like it was whispering some quiet words as Silas got closer. The Commander pulled off one of his gauntlets, and he reached forward to place his hand upon the glass stone. 

The voices quieted, and Silas’ eyes turned white.

Aventia, Borderreach, Present Day –

“Oi! Get the hell out of my house!” An older man brandishing an axe chased after a young man, who was frantically gathering his clothes and sprinting out of the backhouse that he’d been caught in. The farmer’s daughter was left laughing in her beloved’s wake, watching as he ran, ass out, towards the woods. 

The young soldier stopped when he reached the treeline, a laugh on his lips as he thought about nearly getting axed by the farmer. Pulling his clothes on, he searched for the bow and arrow he’d set down. The woods were quiet, and as he trudged around, it wasn’t until he noticed how quiet that he took pause.

Not a single bird chirped, not even an insect dared to make a noise. 

This farm was settled on the edge of Aventia, the inner town itself a little worse for wear after being on the very border of Iskaldrik and Aetheron’s magical barrier. 

Suddenly, the ground started to shake, the young man falling backwards onto his bum as the noise suddenly became unbearable. Trees began to crash, creatures scuttled from their hiding spots as they sprinted past. The soldier couldn’t move quick enough, scrambling to his feet and discarding his bow and arrow as he raced away, back towards the village.

The farmer still had his axe, holding it up, “Hey! Ya little fucker, I’m gonna…” he cut off as the barrier started shifting, creatures shrieking and the forest seemingly coming alive as it groaned and creaked. 

“Run!” The ground continued to tremble, the farmer and his family gathering their horses. They raced away, despite the barrier…shrinking?

The soldier stopped, watching as it got smaller, and smaller –going further away. 

Eventually, the crashing noises ended, and silence fell upon the farm once more. 

He huffed out a laugh, unsure why they’d taken so much care to run the other way. He started to walk, following the tracks of the horses. It wasn’t a long march back to the town of Aventia, but the hoof prints he followed eventually were paired with…something else. 

Blood splattered in the mud, large sliding tracks that showed where a horse had fallen, where another had been dragged – and a severed leg was all that remained as he continued to walk. His weak stomach simply made him gag; an untrained soldier, he’d barely seen war. Aventia was a town plagued with pressure from the Iskaldran border, used to seeing witchers catch runaways, smugglers pass through with those they’d rescued. It was a strange town, but it had always been relatively peaceful – only because they avoided conflict as much as possible.

Until now. 

Smoke rose from one of the nearest farms, the entire home and field burning. The ground rumbled once more, and the young soldier had to lift his eyes to see the town of Aventia under siege. Creatures that he’d never seen before were climbing the wooden walls. Archers who hadn’t seen battle in many winters attempting to shoot them off. Screams echoed through the valley, and the young man suddenly wished he hadn’t left his arrows behind. 

Pulling the shortsword from his belt, he took a breath, ready to charge forward to help his home. A noise from behind him made him pause, however, the ground shaking with every step that seemed to come closer and closer. 

He turned, eyes lifting up to a monstrous creature that was born easily from nightmares. The ogre roared, and the young man fell backwards, eardrums shattering from the sheer proximity. The last thing he would see was the ogre’s axe swinging down. 

OOC Information:

Enjoy some spicy Legion things and a first insight into what those in Amon Sûl have been arguing about for a while…

Legionnaires will occasionally have visions of a blighted dragon in their dreams. Infrequent, but it leaves a bitter taste upon awakening.

The barrier surrounding Iskaldrik put up by Aetheron has shrunk. 

The town of Aventia is located in Borderreach, you can find it on the Lysara map. 

Aventia is under siege by a massive amount of darkspawn. News has spread towards Feronia and the edges of Northreach, and news will slowly be making its way down through the Silverlands and Lysara to Eterna. This is the first time in modern history that a large, seemingly coordinated attack has been made against a capital town by darkspawn. 

Lady Severian, a silver faiman and the ruling noble, has called for aid from Lórien’dal, Caer Glas Keep, Feronia, and Eterna.

Aventia is not known for its modern defenses, only its strategic location and old but sturdy stone walls. 

[theportaraceli]

where? on the road from aventia when? right after the fall

Aventia is lost.

Araceli stands at the back of the last wave of refugees, one of the last to leave before escape had become impossible. In the distance, she can see the smoke curling upwards in a great spire, marking the end to her home. There is an acrid smell to the air, and a bitter aftertaste settling in the back of her throat. 

Despair and rage alight her senses, the desperation born of having to make a choice that would haunt her forevermore settling on her shoulders like a burden. It was the city or its people, and she had always known the choice she would make. 

The city had fallen, the old buildings that watched over her as she ran underfoot gone. No more festivals would be enjoyed within Aventia’s walls, no more singing would echo through the streets. The darkspawn had come and wiped the joy that had once clung to every stone, and replaced it with fear. 

Never again would she taste the delightful sweets of the vendor near the docks when she returned from a voyage, never again would she rush through the streets as she laughed, her crew following as she offered to buy a round. Never again would she walk up the steps of her mother’s castle with weary shoulders, preparing herself for yet another heavy conversation with her mother. 

Keepsakes, memories, people: all gone in the blink of an eye, wiped away without any care. 

The Blight devours all indiscriminately, she had known, from the weakest to the strongest, and there would be no hope of salvation. There is no cure to the sickness pulsating on her home, consuming her joys, no deliverance for the souls who have chosen to stay, despite knowing the end result. 

There is a blighted mark where she once had a home, and despite her greatest desires, there is nothing she can do to wipe it away. 

She has not the experience to fight the Blight, not the magic to seek a cure, not the power to turn the tides. 

She is just a person, just a mortal standing still as her home burns with darkness. 

She is a crown without it’s jewels, a leader without an army, a woman with no resort. 

She is useless. 

She was useless. 

Her home fell apart around her, her people died in her arms, and there was so very little she could do to help. 

A captain goes down with her ship, yet she had fled from hers and left those who refused to leave behind. The bitter aftertaste swells, and all she can taste is death as she looks away from her home.

The tears for what she has lost are held at bay, her courtly mask as steady as iron as she encourages the lagging refugees to step forward, moving ahead to help a limping grandmother move into the cart. 

Araceli is a mockery of what she should have been. A heir without a city, a captain without a ship, a woman without a home, yet she cannot regret her choice. 

Aventia is lost, but its people aren’t. The city has been ravaged, but its memory remains with all the survivors. She had lost the city, but saved as many as she could, and she has to take comfort in those numbers, for if she doesn’t she will lose her damn mind. 

Araceli knew of hard choices.

She had been making hard choices for years, smuggling refugees out of Iskaldrik and lying to the country’s authorities to save yet another life. The threat of the mines had loomed ominously through her every interaction, the threat of what could be lost following her every step. She knew of hard choices, and how leaders could not escape them. She just never thought she would have to choose between her home and her people. 

But she had, and she had chosen the people. 

She had chosen to trust in the enduring hope, in a future that was shrouded with darkness but led to the light. The fall of her home was not the end, it could not be, she would not allow it to be. 

Hope endured, and so would her people, she would make sure of it. Even if she was worn down to the bone, even if she was broken into edges, even if it meant her blood must be spilled. She would not allow the fall of their home to follow them into the rest of Lysara without a fight. 

Something, someone, had coordinated the darkspawn attacks. Something, someone, had chosen Aventia as its target. The Legion of the Death would do that part in the matter, rendering the machinator to pieces, destroying the being that had brought her home to its knees, and Araceli? 

She would do what she did best. 

Making connections, bolstering strength, spreading hope. 

She was not a hero of legends, no grand warrior to avenge her home; but she had always been good at nurturing the hope that flickered, sneaking through the cracks and delivering hope to those that thought it hopeless. There are no borders to cross, no survivors to smuggle, but that does not matter. 

She is adaptable, she is angry.

She will not allow the rot taking hold of her heart and the hearts of her people to spread or to fester, she will fight it with every jaded breath and every swell of grief. It might be a fool’s errand, it might be an impossibility, but she does not care. If there is no path forward, she will build one. 

Brick by brick, step by step. 

There is a future ahead for them, and she will build the path that connects this moment of despair with it. And she knows she will not build it alone. Goodness is not an exception but the rule, kindness a persevering trait. 

Here and now, while she walks away from her burning home, she might feel so very alone, but feeling and being are not the same. Ahead of her there is hope, there is Kay’s laugh, Zeliha’s smile and more. Ahead of here there are people who will help, souls willing to fight for a brighter future, just like her. 

Despair does its best work on the lonely, but as much as she feels lonely, Araceli knows she is not alone. 

Aventia is lost, and her home with it, but she will not allow for Lysara or Taravell to be lost as well. 

And neither will them.

[spiralailani]

who? @drystan-fiore where? One of the bars Fiore works at

Usually, Lailani avoids meeting Fiore while he is working. There is a subtle aftertaste of deceit that floats all around the young elvhen, but she is far too polite to address it most of the time. It’s harder, when she sees him at work, the edge is something she should prod and poke until it unravels and she understands the why and how. Fiore’s emotions are strange, to say the least, but they never feel dangerous. Not when she is around him. More importantly, the little thread of the Veil wrapped around her fingers never tugs when she notices the oddness. It is not a secret she is meant to unravel. Not for now. So Lailani leaves the oddness alone, content on the knowledge the Veil would let her know when it is necessary for her to act, and when it is not. 

“Evening, sunshine,” she calls out with a warm smile as she slips into the establishment and heads towards Fiore. “Come up with any new questions, or shall I tell you the story of another of Mythal’s triumphs?”

[spiralailani]

who? @nylathriasoulseer when? Post fall of Aventia where? Eterna

Turning back to Eterna when they have declared Aventia lost was a bitter pill to swallow. Part of her had rebelled against the order, demanded to turn around and fight until the bitter end to ensure that the people of Aventia didn’t lose their home. Lailani had held them as they cried, soothed their fears and anguish and reassured them until hope took root, and yet she could do nothing but watch as the armies pulled back. 

Bitter optimism always pushed her forward, but even then, there is a pit of disappointment as she moves through the streets of Eterna. The light will not always prevail, she knows, but the hope is always there that it will. Another sigh filled with melancholy leaves her as she weaves through the streets, following the careful tug of the Weave as it leads her forward. Always forward. 

For a moment, she wonders if there will be another fight when she reaches her destination, but then her eyes fall in Nylathria and her spirit lifts as the tug disappears. 

“I see you have stepped out of Avalon,” she calls out, tone teasing and smile wide. “Going around taking the sights?”

[theportaraceli]

who? @ageofkarme where? The Silverlands When? After Aventia’s fall

Araceli has not rested since the fall of Aventia. It’s a constant hubbub of work, moving to ensure the refugees are settled. She is the heir to a region without a capital, and she has to ensure that she is seen by her people. She can’t afford to take a moment to step back, to hide in the shadows and fall apart so that she can gather herself once more. At the very least, she can’t afford that now. Instead, she moves around, always busy and always trying to come up with ways to bolster the failing morale of her people. 

It’s amidst her work that she catches a glimpse of Karme amidst the crowds, and yet another idea comes to mind as she remembers the little ball full of colors. It will probably be only a momentary relief for the weary souls, but even brief moments of happiness can help in the long term.

“Karme,” she calls out with a warm smile as she hurries to her side. “It’s good to see you. Are you well?”

[thequeendomhq]

Coming Fall 2024...

The savages speak to their gods in the cave passage. They call it the Mouth of Echoes. They light fires and feed them with green spruce and shout their questions into the deep. They say answers come to them on the last whispered echo. Superstition, we laughed. And now Andoral is silent and madness descends. I can only think, what if? What if there are irregularities in the Veil here? What if we could secure the cave and bend it to our purposes?

The men are gathering materials. We will build a shrine to the Dragon of Change—implant foci into the walls, cut sacred designs into the stone, the better to hear her with. We will hear her voice again, or we will die.

— Scribbled in blood-red ink on parchment found in the Mouth of Echoes

[spiralailani]

The Blight is a worldkiller, a life-ender. There is no return from being blighted, no hope but that of joining the legion. Honorable as the choice could be, it was also one driven by desperation, and one that did not always lead to survival either. The blight is unstoppable, and she is aware of how it will consume the young soldier before her, eyes tracking the blighted veins path to his heart and towards becoming a ghoul. The knowledge doesn’t stop the burst of grief at the young life lost, nor the melancholy that follows, but the despair is dulled by the soft emotions born from a good dream and she smiles softly at the dying soldier and the druid that had offered one last kindness. 

“Little might be left, but life will find a way, even amidst desolation,” she disagrees gently, even as she approaches and raises her shield hand to show the slightly unnatural bent of it. “And yes, I stopped a hit from hurlock and I believe I have broken it.”

OPEN STARTER Location: Aventia Notes: Inside the city, probably near the wounded tents.

Ankhuria had seen some of the worst of the blight, history had said. Two Old Gods, a barren wasteland that left no stone untouched or safe. To Ramesses, that world was not vastly different than this one. The telltale sound of a rock crashing against the stone walls was now a comforting background noise; it meant Aventia's old walls had not fallen – it meant they were safe, for the time being.

Ramesses stood next to one of the cots, his hands wrapped around a soldier's who tossed and turned. Already, he could see the edges of the blight curl around the wounded's veins, and the druid whispered something in Ankhurian beneath his breath, releasing the hand as the body finally stilled. The soldier's chest rose and fell for a few more moments, before it finally stilled.

"This war will take too many from this town. I don't think there'll be anything left when it's over." He didn't mean to remain desolate, but his gaze drifted to the one closest to him, "Sorry – are you injured?"

[spiralailani]

who? @fyrenxsolon where? A tavern in the Silverlands

“I still don’t think that killing the leader was necessary,” Lailani sighs dramatically as she steps into the tavern and keeps the door open for Fyren. She is sweating from exertion, and she is already making a mental shopping list for when she gets back to Eterna. She is going to need some linseed oil for her battleaxe, after the last battle. More importantly, she is irritated that Fyren had gotten to the faiman bandit before she had. “There is a bounty on his head, yes, but the bounty is fulfilled if you turn him in alive as well.”

She hadn’t even been given the chance to talk to him, and she takes a moment to grieve the life extinguished too early. Perhaps it had been the Veil’s design, perhaps she would have killed him if he had refused to see reason, but she never got the chance to figure it out, did she?

[spiralailani]

who? @vuldakrcque where? Mercury’s Bazaar

Shimmering rays of sunshine warm her as she weaves through the crowds, humming a little tune as she walks. It’s a wonderful day, and she had made a series of wonderful deals. She is in a celebratory mood, and that drives her steps as she heads towards one of her favorite little stalls in the market. They sell the most divine little trinkets, and she thinks she might indulge in a nice hairpin or two as a treat. Happy and warm as she is, she almost doesn’t notice the tug of the Veil threading through her fingers. 

Almost.

But Lailani has spent the last century, give or take, following the designs of the Veil. Her steps come to a stop and she hesitates, eyes glancing longingly to her favorite stall before sighing and following the tug through the crowd. Swift and purposeful, she moves towards one of the alleys, and winces when she feels a sharp spike of anger and pain from someone within. 

“Excuse me, hello?” She calls out gently. “Are you alright? Do you need help?”

[thequeendomhq]

THE HISTORIAN ~

NAME. UTP AGE & BIRTH DATE. 300+ SPECIES. High Elvhen FACTION. Nightingale OCCUPATION. Historian of the Elvhen

Your people lost so much when the Cataclysm sundered Avalon, breaking your home like a mirror and fracturing the light of the Laurelin from Taravell. The elvhen had histories upon histories, stories upon stories, and as the noble child in the Dalathor family you were raised on these tales. The grand library that once held the great histories of the elvhen, the gods, and the races of humanity. Lessons of magic and innovation were lost to time and all that remained were whispers of former glories. An age of darkness saw the world brought to its knees, the elvhen scattered in strands of silver and gold. You could see them dance in the memories that were offered to you, but even memory was imperfect and changed from person to person, from place to place. The past was lost and the present was misunderstood, so you’ve decided to piece it together: the history of the world since the Sundering. Lost ruins, old stories, faded relics of an age shrouded in mystery, heroes, and romanticism. Origins of the Blight, the fall of the elvhen, and the absence of the druids. If the old was broken, then it was time to press forward, this age needed authors and historians, and through ancient ruins and word of mouth you’d scribe together was long thought lost.

CONNECTS

N/A

NOTES

TQH: Troupe 2 - Living Stone FAMILY: Dalathor. ABILITY: Memory Projection: The ability to share memories with someone else within any given space, allowing others to add their personal memories of an account as they choose.

[spiralailani]

Manicured fingers tap against the table before her as Lailani thinks. Change it’s in the air, for all who look closely to see. The Pattern moves and shifts, the Veil fettered against her fingers tugging one way or another with knowing insistence. Iskaldrik’s fall was the prelude to something bigger, something heavier. Old things stir awake, both those who have been hidden in the shadows and those who are meant for the light. Rumors had reached her ears of the nobles gathering in Mythal’s Glade. The All-Mother’s home calls, and soon her justice will be delivered. 

“The pattern protects and destroys as it wills, and we must ensure it remains untouched by anything but the light when the darkness grows near.” There is a cadence that presents itself in conversations such as these. Heavy and thoughtful, two old souls standing before the other and reflecting on what they know and what they don’t. “Do you have a clue as to the provenance of this song? A name perhaps? I can see what I can find, or ask my friends to research it on Arvandoril if you deem it necessary.”

Nature had been out of balance for so long, the world spun on its axis with a jilted tilt, a heavy grasping breath from corrupted lungs and it was on the verge of collapse, poison toiled underneath the Earth's soil as the blight stole flora and fauna for itself. Humanity lost itself along the way, fighting in the gutter for it's bread and butter. Yet she could feel an awakening, Sceafa had visited in her dreams and spoke of the Old Song, of life that was stirring again out of dust.

She was use to a disjointing of spirit and mind, of recognizing familiar ground in her soul of old that her mind of current had not seen and had yet to understand. Lailani was one that understood often before Lily could find the words, it brought comfort to feel so understood in such an uncertain world. "Dark creatures will often desire to fed on the weave, the pattern will protect and yet even fate can be changed. Remember that whatever may come that you are not alone, our voices can topple Queendoms with a united whisper." A breath as a faint smile tugs on her lips. "I had a vision of a druid who had existed long before this age, the vision still lays in shadow, the edges are blurry. It's an old song of a creature that slumbers below the Earth, there is an opportunity for light from it's awakening but an equal moment for darkness."