The Order of Ash
A thousand years of scheming to reckon.
.
A thousand years of scheming to reckon.
Frost 30th, 4621. Bardona, of Ciseperant.
By way of spelled wind, by shadow or by bird, a letter fragrant with the savory, tart scent of pomegranate arrived with the bold and striking name of its intended conspirator recipient scrawled in long, drawling prose upon the front. One each for Amyas, Ellasir, Jean.
They appeared appeared speckled and browned, weathered by time, as if written months ago. Each bore the seal of House Lorraine, the Lady on the Hill. The contentious fury of Lorraine dignity and honor.
That rugged vellum holstered a single, elegantly penned missive written in a language most familiar to the recipient, a page of firm and noble demands.
Dignitary of House Lorraine,
You are hereby invited to the cradle of elven hospitality, to the fertile lands of Ciseperant, within the humble lands of Bardona. You are to be given an audience with the Montese,
her excellence,
the magnanimous,
Lierel Lorraine the fearless,
Victor of the Battle at Vendigad,
Army of One,
One Above Armies.
You shall report to the embassy barracks in the royal quarter upon the dawn of this 30th of the Frost, to be prepared for her audience that hallowed eve, as you have been chosen for your zeal to enlist with the Omen in accordance with the Pontifex' call for aid in the struggles with oceanic corruption. That cursed false god, that damnable Lotheric, to be her eminence' faithful contribution to Ulen's rebuke of sinful abominations.
You will not refuse the veneration of our one, true, God.
Hallowed be Ulen's chosen, and especially the elves of Daravin in these trying times.
91, Rue de l'Église
Ciseperant, Bardona,
Royal Embassy of Bardona
Royal Scribe of the Efreet Order, Council of the Slayer,
Estelle Lorraine
An innocuous, inconspicuous, invaluable, indispensable creature by the name of Asphodel Avarice had been summoned as well, by different means than letter. An outside element to quell any scheming to the contrary of Lierel and Brilan Ald's intention. A piece to trip an oathbound tongue, and to aid in secrecy no doubt.
That Oath.
That troublesome thing.
Jean had attempted a process of deduction with an expendable slave soon to be Sundered. He could not find the words - they had been snatched from his throat, and his fingers drawled when trailing treasonous ink. In all his entitled wroth, he wanted to yell to the heavens his regrets for, but even such intentions were glutted into a growl.
Silver haired and proper with a decidedly youthful and pointedly elven face, Jean now stood with upstart curiosity behind lock and key. It was the first any who had survived Brilan Ald's court had lain eyes upon his elvenity. Each conspirator was recognized and guided to that quaint little room with a large dining table, an ocean of candles above glimmering over reflective tiles above.
It would not be such a bad thing, were the humans to have their legacies dashed, and the elves take back their lands. We are the superior race, after all. Even if we had chosen such weak gods in our time.
White gloves with tattered frills on the cuff of his wrist, Jean held his finger upon piles of treasonous, even heretical papers scattered over the lacquered, dark wood. Schematics. Plans. Correspondence. Histories of the Omen, the Pontifex, and of Necromancy - excerpts on Liches, anecdotal accounts and prophetic warnings.
By way of spelled wind, by shadow or by bird, a letter fragrant with the savory, tart scent of pomegranate arrived with the bold and striking name of its intended conspirator recipient scrawled in long, drawling prose upon the front. One each for Amyas, Ellasir, Jean.
They appeared appeared speckled and browned, weathered by time, as if written months ago. Each bore the seal of House Lorraine, the Lady on the Hill. The contentious fury of Lorraine dignity and honor.
That rugged vellum holstered a single, elegantly penned missive written in a language most familiar to the recipient, a page of firm and noble demands.
Dignitary of House Lorraine,
You are hereby invited to the cradle of elven hospitality, to the fertile lands of Ciseperant, within the humble lands of Bardona. You are to be given an audience with the Montese,
her excellence,
the magnanimous,
Lierel Lorraine the fearless,
Victor of the Battle at Vendigad,
Army of One,
One Above Armies.
You shall report to the embassy barracks in the royal quarter upon the dawn of this 30th of the Frost, to be prepared for her audience that hallowed eve, as you have been chosen for your zeal to enlist with the Omen in accordance with the Pontifex' call for aid in the struggles with oceanic corruption. That cursed false god, that damnable Lotheric, to be her eminence' faithful contribution to Ulen's rebuke of sinful abominations.
You will not refuse the veneration of our one, true, God.
Hallowed be Ulen's chosen, and especially the elves of Daravin in these trying times.
91, Rue de l'Église
Ciseperant, Bardona,
Royal Embassy of Bardona
Royal Scribe of the Efreet Order, Council of the Slayer,
Estelle Lorraine
An innocuous, inconspicuous, invaluable, indispensable creature by the name of Asphodel Avarice had been summoned as well, by different means than letter. An outside element to quell any scheming to the contrary of Lierel and Brilan Ald's intention. A piece to trip an oathbound tongue, and to aid in secrecy no doubt.
That Oath.
That troublesome thing.
Jean had attempted a process of deduction with an expendable slave soon to be Sundered. He could not find the words - they had been snatched from his throat, and his fingers drawled when trailing treasonous ink. In all his entitled wroth, he wanted to yell to the heavens his regrets for, but even such intentions were glutted into a growl.
Silver haired and proper with a decidedly youthful and pointedly elven face, Jean now stood with upstart curiosity behind lock and key. It was the first any who had survived Brilan Ald's court had lain eyes upon his elvenity. Each conspirator was recognized and guided to that quaint little room with a large dining table, an ocean of candles above glimmering over reflective tiles above.
It would not be such a bad thing, were the humans to have their legacies dashed, and the elves take back their lands. We are the superior race, after all. Even if we had chosen such weak gods in our time.
White gloves with tattered frills on the cuff of his wrist, Jean held his finger upon piles of treasonous, even heretical papers scattered over the lacquered, dark wood. Schematics. Plans. Correspondence. Histories of the Omen, the Pontifex, and of Necromancy - excerpts on Liches, anecdotal accounts and prophetic warnings.
