Atharen, A Fantasy Roleplay Forum

Posted: **Mon Nov 30, 2020 8:29 pm**

22nd of Frost, Year 120

His eyes were affixed to the vastness of the desert, from the broken shambles of rusted pews that loomed above the walls of Shitport, the Badland's commerce-heart. The sands before him were the first he'd really ever seen, outside of the meager decks of a beach, colors of grey and white. The golden grains blew with the wind, whistling in the air, lodging their way into everything they touched. Even now the man stood in a suit-like embrace of cloth, with remnant Clockwork goggles of glass and iron protecting his eyes from the pervasive dust.

He'd arranged with the local merchants here -- supposedly under the auspices of the Bloodbreakers -- a single vessel, meant to take him out to the Straits of Adena where he could meet Daravin's old foe. Lord of the Brine. A being he'd heard about countless times, often in stories of tragedy passed down for so long. He imagined a shambling mess of a creature; a crustacean-being, five hundred feet tall, wielding a triton of corrupted coral and with a fuming rage. Had Taelian been any better at flight, he would've considered ascending above the waves and attempting to find him by roaming above the waters. But he was poor, and as storms came with their heavy winds, he knew he would only plummet beneath the surface and be devoured by corruption. He needed one of the old, heavy, Clockwork boats. He even needed a crew. But the man had already handled that part, or tried to.

The man had posted more than a few notices on the boards of Lower Nivenhain. Most people would likely call them the ramblings of a mad-man, but those who had any connection to the old heritage of the Elves would know that what he called for was very real. That his words meant something, calling for a subset within the populace that many would have imagined did not exist; those within the disjointed Remedy cells of Lorien.

From Oaths, Order.
Order is your commitment. Strength is your tool. Belief is your weapon.
You are one blade among a million, pointed to the forms of our slavers; meant to drive through their necks. To rectify their scourge.

You are the Clerics that will cure the land. If you remember your oath, the time to cure the land has come; come to the Imperial Badlands of the Daravinic Empire by the twenty-fifth of Frost. The capital of those lands is where I will be. There, we will meet with a God of the land itself, and we will bring him to heel to save Sil-Elaine.

Another notice of the same kind was left in Brandt, in the city streets, the Draedan hoping it would catch the eye of Haldir, who he had not seen in some time. A man who probably thought he'd died, pulled away by the orders of Aldrin Sil'Jalus before never appearing again. Most of the members of the Remedy, in Sil-Elaine and Tyrclaid, believed him to be dead and gone -- and he imagined the others thought the same. Heroically, in their minds, he fell at the rake of a gang of Cardinals as his Lord and mentor shaved off the head of Lady Helena Flowers, a newborn Huntsman.

They were wrong, though. He was alive. And while the events of that day had pushed him astray from the idea of rejoining the order, his passion for restoring the land he left still remained, burning within much like the Beacon he once held.

After a while of staring out towards the distant seas of dunes and stray winds, he returned to the grit-filled metal market of Shitport's interior, the old Outpost carrying with it a strange charm. His eyes peered towards another notice he'd left on the board there, calling for a Daravinic resident to help guide him along the coast. He offered sufficient pay, he thought, though he supposed there was no sum large enough to be worth the life that his fellow sailors would likely give. Going out to find Lotheric like this was a mission that craved one's demise -- but he had to do it. This was his purpose. His people depended on Lotheric's aide, and any lives that needed to be sacrificed of those willing to surrender them, were necessary collateral for a feat so likely to shift the tide of the Age.

Posted: **Tue Dec 01, 2020 3:56 am**

☠ 22nd of Frost, Year 120, Final Solstice ☠
Company: Taelian | Thoughts: Long time no see | Mood: Nervous, Excited

☠ I didn't think I would find myself back in the land of my birth mother. I was in Daravin after seeing a poster, a call to arms one would say. from an unlikely source. I hadn't heard from the man that inducted me into the order, only to vanish. Part of me wanted to search for him, but given the circumstances of my life at the time of his disappearance, I was unable. Though with things calm once again, the map to the elven archive safely within Die Schnitter's hands gave me some breathing room.

I didn't want to waste any time, knowing he was alive, but more importantly, he needed help. If I read it correctly, it was a summons to the shambled cells of the order to help heal the homeland of my father. Given my newfound knowledge and acceptance of my Sil'norai heritage, this was something I couldn't outright ignore, that along with the fact that if what I remember from our last conversation, it was dranoch that controlled Sil'Elaine.

These cancerous lesions had to be purified from the land if any progress was to be made in restoring the nation. It made me wonder why exactly he was Daravin of all places. The poster spoke of a place called Shitport, a name that never felt right leaving my lips when I would tell means of transportation at each point where I was headed. They looked to me as if I had insulted them or was playing some kind of joke.

Overall I eventually found someone to take me there, a small skyship that was used to haul merchandise along the trade routes, Shitport being one of their stops. The journey there was interesting, as I met quite the cast of characters, both among the crew of the ship and when docked in port. In all honesty, this was the very first time I was outside of Lorien. I had never been beyond those cold borders since first arriving so long ago.

It almost felt Ironic, returning to the place in which my parents died trying to escape from. I was both nervous and excited to see Daravin for the first time, only remembering the few stories from Cereza. From the way she explained it, it was a majestically beautiful land, even if the ones inhabiting it were a bunch of magical supremacists, her words not mine.

My crystal blue orbs, iridescent amethyst hues of my neurocrux glowing behind them, peered into the open Frost sky through the window as I awaited our approach into Shitport. To say I was surprised to see the place up close was somewhat of an understatement. There were countless individuals who looked as though they didn't belong in modern civilization or simply didn't care to. I was immediately warned to be careful in this place by the captain of the skyship as I paid him for my voyage.

I wasn't in the least worried about that, as I found my skill in swordsmanship acceptable and could deal with any thread with arcane measures or with steel. Even though I was anxious to see Taelian, I couldnt help the nagging feeling that this venture was going to get people killed, more so us. Part of me wanted to simply take Taelian and return to fight in the civil war back in Lorien. I didn't want to lose a friend on a mission of grandeur, but as a good friend, I couldn't very well leave him either on his own in this.

I couldn't help but worry, but after thinking my mentor, my friend died, I couldn't abandon him in a time like this. So I had to meet him and see this through to the very end. Though as I was rather caught up in my thoughts, I didn't notice the eyes of those around me till I could feel the malice beginning to swell. I couldn't let my guard down in a place like this and had to keep my wits about me for sure while here.

Nearing the meeting spot, I tied my hair into a ponytail as to not draw any more attention to myself in such a sketchy place. I had brought Heart Stopper just in case I needed to make a point, allowing its metal finishes to shine from underneath my cloak and kept a hand on the hilt of Manslayer. As I got closer I could see .a figure in the distance

"Seems I have kept my friend waiting." I pondered to myself, my eyes catching the rather tall figure in the distance as I approached. I covered my eyes as the sand-filled winds berated me but I wouldn't allow that to stop my advance, the reunion of two old friends. Taking a deep breath, and putting on my best smile, I spoke out to him, to Taelian

"You initiate me, sleep with me, and then leave me high and dry to learn the ways on my own. If I didn't know any better I would think you were avoiding me Taelian?" I mused, setting my travel bag down at my feet and hoping to embrace him after so long. "I'm terribly sorry if I kept you waiting long." I apologized with a low sigh. ☠

"Common Tongue"
"Silvain Tongue"
"Self-Thoughts"

Posted: **Tue Dec 01, 2020 5:54 am**

22nd of Frost, 120

Life had been truly, tremendously, difficult. Without the wherewithal to pay debts nor maintain and purchase possessions, Alphonse had found herself eking out an entirely new life within the past several weeks. Her Animus had stolen away her body, but she still had her mind, and her soul, her Beacon to keep her warm on the cold nights sleeping in the crooks of trees, and the icy rivers she bathed in. Whatever the case, the former Alphonse was no more. Even rendezvousing with her mentor in the art, Vesta, had only confirmed what a lost cause she really was. She had to accept that this was who she would be forevermore, unbound in body but never again able to access what she once was. With time and effort, Vesta thought maybe she could become something more, but Alphonse only retreated inward.

Alphonse came up with a new name. A new identity. She held a private funeral for the old her in the deserts of the Badlands, and settled on a new name for herself. Nuraku. It was a play on words in Vithmi dialect, but the name fit her well. What's more, she was beginning to question the point of even calling herself a woman, what with the template she'd been roaming in being of the other sort. While she hadn't used the name Nuraku yet within the Remedy, she'd been using it elsewhere in daily life, though she'd socialized with a remarkable few ever since assuming the role of 'talking rat' whom the masses cared even less for. While she was avoided as a Rathor for her intimidating appearance, now she was so diminutive as to be completely ignored or shooed away, even hunted by hungering vagrants and the non-bloodthirsty kind of huntsman hoping for a new scarf for his wife. Whomever tried was in for a surprise.

By some miracle, Nuraku had met up with her superiors within the Remedy in Daravin. They ordered her to return to her post in Lorien, caring little for her strange predicament and the nature of her exodus. In addition, they told her to first check on something unusual but related to Lorien matters: unsanctioned orders pandering to the scattered cells of the Remedy. She would pretend to this splinter cell funneling aid to itself, and then report back her findings. As ominous as they made it seem, she couldn't help but marvel at the bit of propaganda. She wasn't told who exactly this was; did they even know? It was anomalous, in any case, and the prospect of meeting a God in the flesh and living to tell the tale seemed like it would be a formative experience. She was, however, entirely skeptical, and she was sure the whole thing had to be the ravings of some lunatic.

Nuraku ventured through the desert swells surrounding the rusted city, its old world rust sticking up out of the wastes like a rusted thumb lined with brown teeth. How anyone lived here was anyone's guess, but the missive said to go here. Wandering the docks for some time with a glowing knife betwixt her little teeth, she saw an inordinately tall man conversing in the dunes with a familiar head of hair whipping in the wind.

Trudging through the sand, Nuraku galloped right for the pair, stopping well over a dozen meters away with her back to a little hill that kept the sand off of her. Lowering her knife, she fed it to her tiny paws and hugged it against her chest, standing on two feet--she was only barely a foot tall standing like this. Embers sparkled from her blade like specks of sand, the butter knife showing its astounding power. "From Oaths, Order," she called in a holler across the expanse between them after their display of intimacy. Her voice had been soothed by the smaller vocal chords, which had matured towards masculinity. Now, she had a young, male voice. "I am a Cleric hailing from Lorien by the name of Nuraku!"

For now, she would not tell Cyrus who she was, but she could not help but admire him for answering the call. She might have done the same. She would know Cyrus as Nuraku, and she would learn their plight from new eyes. Vesta had helped her to become more humble in the last season, and it was really starting to show.

Posted: **Tue Dec 01, 2020 11:33 am**

The Promise, Part One

22nd of Frost, Year 120

"Yes, but what does it mean?”

Khaori’s odd expression was split between the notice and his ex-bodyguard. He gripped the paper he had found on the streets of their town long ago. For some reason, it was intriguing at the time; although his common had improved, the lord was still somewhat illiterate. He could not help it, but compared common sentences and words to eldhan. This often caused a lot of confusion and frustration on his behalf. And when he was often confused, Khaori went to Xethe, who was good at explanations. The half-sil’s explanation this time was supposed to imply that the young lord should do nothing more than shrug the situation off. It wasn’t his problem. It wasn’t even Xethe’s problem and he knew Sil-Elaine well.

And he was right, Khaori should’ve shrugged this situation off. Khaori usually would too--other people’s plans did not concern him. However, he felt compelled to help this person out after Xethe’s explanation. There was no genuine feeling to this decision either, he isn’t one to help people out based on a feeling like that alone. Especially a stranger. He was possibly hoping for compensation. After all, the fae did not have a real job or profession. It’s the right thing to do. That was at least the explanation he gave his ex-bodyguard who was against it. Xethe did not feel Khaori was up to it.

Gods, the travel was so harsh. Khaori doesn’t recall traveling through the desert before today, and he wasn’t exactly prepared for it either. His clothes were thin aside from the cloak that was wrapped around his body. He could feel the sand kissing his ankles whenever the air blew. There were a few times he had to close his eyes to avoid getting the same sand in them. But he also closed his eyes to forget the transportation he was taken there as well. He squeezed himself on a rickety old wagon that could barely trudge through the desert. Other men’s, much bigger men, bodies rubbed up against his own which left a terrible smell on him. This was Xethe’s way of discouraging him. He knew he shouldn’t have trusted the elfling’s word on finding the best transportation. He found the opposite, most of his companions looked like runaways with their tattered clothing and misshapen visible scars. What they were running away from is truly a mystery. To distract himself, he often thought about the bounty on their heads and how much he would get if he turned them all in.

That would be nice. The money.

He hoped whatever he was doing would give him enough; enough to return to the life he cherished so much. Or maybe it would be a good sum of money to stand on his own, instead of depending on other people. Khaori would need to eventually ask whoever was in charge of what he wanted most out of this.

Khaori was one of the first to jump off the wagon after the destination was reached. He slung a small satchel over his shoulder with a longbow made of a dark wood sticking out of it, almost twenty arrows too. The fae did not want to come empty-handed. It’s been a while since he used a bow. At first, it was a sport, nothing more than a game he’d play with his mother on cool evenings in the garden. His shots weren’t always on point, he can admit that. His was a different story, he had a stance, not even a typhoon could disrupt and concentration like no other. The longbow is the only weapon he knew to use and boy, it was hard finding one in the ghettos. Something told him he should acquire one before arrival though.

Eventually, he’d push his way through the crowd of people. Relying on instincts alone, he searched for whoever wrote the notice. The search proved to be hard since many people’s faces came to mind whenever he imagined who could’ve possibly written the notice. Then something happened. He heard a person yell words that matched the exact ones written on the paper he had found. The person’s words seemed to be a response, nonetheless, it was the same words. Pulling his cloak to his face, Khaori inched closer to a group of people. Not saying a word, he decided to listen and wait to see if any one of them wrote the notice.

"Kill Them. Kill Them All"

Posted: **Tue Dec 01, 2020 2:19 pm**

It was good to see a familiar face, in that of Cyrus -- Haldir -- the first man to stand before him. He caught a glimpse of him the moment he entered Shitport's market, the stalls surrounding him with their hungry vendors, each reaching out to him to try their 'purified eel fats' or their 'authentic' Clockwork scrap. It was obvious to any person here, just who was a Badlander and who wasn't, and none of the people that came by Taelian's odd invitation were from the port, that was a certainty. Still -- surprisingly -- they were mostly left alone. From whispers he'd heard within the outpost corridor, the Bloodbreakers were engaged in a wide-scale turf war with the Anointed, causing for most of their hideous berserkers to be far away. It was fortuitous timing: he had no interest in trouble from the rabble of this place.

Taelian peered towards the other man as he finally approached him and spoke, seeming to rebut him for the actions that had occurred months ago. The former-Ebon Knight grimaced, before pressing his lips together so as to not show too much. To some level, he preferred his motives ambiguous; the way he did things was better left an anomaly, as he was always hopping around and plotting these days. Scheming. And -- after Riven, he felt reticent to grow too attached to any one person. That wasn't the reason he disappeared on Cyrus, but... it was possibly something that would've happened anyway. There were so many conflicts on his mind, of late.

Nevertheless, he decided to be honest. He turned towards the man -- the one he'd initiated -- and spoke softly. "It was beyond my control," he replied. "Aldrin brought me to fight Helena Flowers with him in Tyrclaid -- I don't know if I told you about her, but, do you remember how he approached me as I initiated you? When that man comes, it's best that one heeds his call. He takes his dues for the power he gives us, you see. And my due came."

The man lowered his gaze, sighing. "I died in the fight against Helena. Unlike Aldrin, I guess I wasn't that special. I wasn't as good as I thought I was."

Another 'person' came -- a stranger. What appeared to be a small animal was, indeed, something else entirely; a soft creature with the voice of a young boy, with a proportionately long, white body of fur. It spoke its name -- Nuraku -- and confessed to being a Cleric, of Lorien nonetheless. Taelian had thought he and Cyrus to be the only Ebon Knights in the Kingdom, but he was quickly proven wrong. Peering at the odd creature, he could only imagine that they were either a Rathor or an Animist. He himself had been an Animist before his Divine Spark drew in his Marks, so he knew a little of them. Something like the fledgling, verbal creature before him was feasible. An interesting addition to their team; but then, he'd left a crackpot message on the board, so he supposed he couldn't complain about who he reeled in.

"We'll talk later, about what happened," he concluded, for now, with Cyrus. "As we sail," he added. Taelian then turned to the small creature and bent down before kneeling, offering his hand to allow the ermine to climb onto his fingers and perch on his body. He looked towards it, one brow raised curiously. "Are you... initiated, fully? As in -- do you have the Black Sigil?" he queried. It was surely somewhere on the body, but he couldn't immediately see it through the fur.

Whatever the answer, the man stood up and began to speak to the nature of their mission, though he noticed eyes on him from the crowd: a young-looking man who appeared to be Fae'Norai, most notably. His eyes snagged onto him for a moment, as if transfixed: he hadn't seen a Fae in so long, and least of all expected one to be here, in the Imperial Badlands of all things. Curious company, they had.

Nevertheless, he imagined it would be rude to keep those who had gathered waiting to discover why they were here, when they'd already traveled all this way. The man began to speak, in a low and authoritative voice. Cyrus might have noticed there to be a different air about him from before; one that was more demanding, more austere.

"Our mission is a dangerous one -- I imagine survival to be the exception, rather than the expectation. We will be sailing out through the Straits of Adena until we encounter Lotheric, Elven God of the Brine." An introduction. He held his breath for a moment, glancing towards Cyrus again as his eyes maintained a stony, unfaltering gaze. "The two of you gathered are both well-versed enough on the ongoings of Sil-Elaine, I imagine. The war is at a stalemate. It is a stalemate that cannot be won, as the global spread of the Dranoch blight swells their numbers to a far higher rate than we can match. Only less than a month prior, Aldrin and I were forced to fight a new Huntsman -- their intended replacement for Courtier Dalen. We imagine there are more of these growing seeds across Atharen; perhaps even in Icheron and Ganeron, seeds so far they spread beyond our web of information, impossible to quash. The war cannot be fought in this way forever; as tides sway the direction they do, we will certainly fail."

He placed his arms behind his back, clasping his hands together as he straightened his back. "While the addition of another Huntsman would ensure the defeat of the Remedy, there is also a death knell for the Courtiers: the engagement of the Elven Gods in the war. We have prayed to every star that floats in the sky that they may take pity on us, or may diverge from their pointless war with Daravin for our own revenge -- or may even notice us at all. But these prayers have failed. Tyrnac evades us as we approach him in Sil-Elaine, and Lotheric lies within a sea of corruption and waste; the heartland of the Sundering, where the corruption itself emerged from. For this reason, any members of our Order have been reticent to approach him, and surely they would never sanction this mission had they known I was undergoing it. But, they that believe I am dead cannot counter-act me. If I die in the ruins of Adena, seeking out Lotheric as corruption grates my soul, then I will simply be in the state they already thought me to be."

The man continued. "I do not expect any of you to be considered heroes, in the wake of this, except for by me. But if we do manage to survive, and to sway Lotheric to our side, Tyrnac will likely join the fray as well. Two Elven Gods added to our ranks means that we could likely take Morian, Silfanore, Calanon and Tel'Norel. If you truly committed to the Vows because you believed in them -- again, the time has come to cure the land. We can -- we only need aide."

Posted: **Tue Dec 01, 2020 5:33 pm**

Approached and equally hopping through the sand to meet him, Nuraku stood on her hinds and tilted her head as the towering man stooped to meet her. She gave a nod to his question--that might not have been obvious enough given her size, so she spoke with affirmation. "I do indeed bare the Black Sigil," she admitted sternly to his prying eyes. Her fur hid each rune well, but there were parts on her back where the fur was thin--places she'd been initiated through the carving of flesh rather than ink. The runes of Masquerade, and Transposition were somewhat visible to the perceptive. Upon the center of her back between the shoulders sat an obvious red marking: the Rune of Animus. Nuraku's Black Sigil and her Rune of Summoning were however hidden by the fur on her chest. She spoke up, so that the gathering group could hear more about her.
"More than that, I have survived five initiations as of yet, but I cannot profess much talent beyond cantrips, hardiness, and luck. However, my Animus has developed a grating quirk for me, in that I can no longer assume the form I was born with. I am still reeling, but I will persevere. I may be small, but my arcana speaks where my body cannot."

Offered Latham's hand, she fed the butter knife to her teeth and hopped up atop his fingers, seizing whatever clothing or sleeves she could. In the time she had spent living as an ermine, she had become more adept in this body, and so normal ermine kinematics had become more or less synchronized, and even if her Immersion had flaws, it was enough to make her look much like a true stoat as she skedaddled up his arm and took a seat upon his shoulder before shifting her blade back down to her paws, holding it against her abdomen. It was unusual, to her, but she supposed it brought her to the same level as everyone else. Being the mascot of some sordid crew would afford her a good vantage point to the mission; would she really rat on him, however? He seemed nice enough. It depended on whether or not his goals were in conflict with the interests of the Remedy.

Hearing his explanation, Nuraku's claws tightened against Latham's shoulder.
An Elven God?
Does this man possess a death wish?
So this is how I die. I have my orders, but I pray for Malek's mercy that we will succeed.

The rest of his explanation gave reason to the cause. It seemed so hopeless, so bizarre, but the ideal truly did have merit. If they could swing the war by earning the favor of living Gods, then Silfanore would be liberated. Of those Latham mentioned, she at least held a connection to Tyrnac. The way he articulated the message gave her the impression that this person was a higher member of the Remedy, likely someone who held some sway either within the faction or somewhere else. Someone whom had gone rogue upon being left for dead during his pursuit of the cause. That did not matter much to her: she understood the necessity of shedding ties to try something not permitted to them by their station.
"I am a Summoner of the Irothar. Tyrnac is one of my Patrons, the other being Veravend. I am afraid I cannot help with the God of the Brine, nor do I know what such a relationship would afford me in person to begin with, but I will accompany you in the hopes that my presence can help the mission succeed."
"As silver as your tongue may be, I do not imagine an Elven God to be easily swayed. I am hopeful that you possess something to convince them with so that this mission does not end with us dead beneath the waters of Adena."

Nuraku had surpised herself. That cantankerous, grating gutter-speak she'd been known for was eroding as well. Much about her was changing, from her voice to her dialect. Maybe it was the identity holding on to all of those feelings that made her talk that way, but she could not say she hated the change. Being more diplomatic would help her in the future, as being small and mean would not help her in the slightest.

Posted: **Thu Dec 03, 2020 9:09 am**

X

The strange note was brought up after supper, when Julian was braiding his grandfather's newly-combed hair. His handiwork was illuminated by the crackling hearth as the two of them sat in silence, both drifting away in thought. It was comfortable, until Thanasis posed a rather worrying request.

"Promise me that you won't be upset, Julian. I have something that I'd like to tell you." The tone of his grandfather's voice was enough to make Julian's weaving fingers halt momentarily. That could mean a number of things, most of which were sure to undo the progress that the young man had been working tirelessly on when it came to his grandfather's ailing health. Still, he resumed his work.

"What is it, Thappa?" Julian mused, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible as he tied the braid into place. Thanasis looked behind him with hesitant eyes twinkling in the presence of the fire, his hands gripping onto the edge of a nearby table as he shambled himself onto his feet. Once he was up, Julian gave a smile at his accomplishment. The older man took that as a good omen, returning the smile with a sharpened grin.

"As you know, I am more than grateful to be under your care, son." Thanasis started, the floorboards of the townhouse beginning to groan under his heavy steps as he languidly paced in front of the hearth. "I feel better than I have in years."

"...And you should continue to, if you stay under it." Julian promised, his heart catching in his chest nervously. "You don't want to stop treatment, do you?"

"Oh, no. That isn't what I'm trying to say." Thanasis stopped in his tracks, resting his arm against the hearth ledge in order to steady himself. "...While you were out today, I took a walk."

Julian's shoulders immediately dropped, a pulse of relief rushing through him.

"Very good!" He nodded in approval, beaming. "Fresh air will be very beneficial in your recovery." Before he could say another word, the older man held out a crumpled note to him. The pleased look on Julian's face dissolved into confusion again, taking it from him and unfurling it to read what it said.

It was nonsense. Bringing a God to heel? Whoever wrote it must've had quite the power fantasy. Even if they were this powerful, Julian thought that it seemed rather cryptic to be leaving them around, waiting for someone to bite. Why not go to those who they thought were best suited for the job, instead of relying on vulnerable pawns from Lorien, some of which who would gladly sacrifice their lives for some coins in their pocket? It was confusing, to say the least.

"To celebrate my growing strength, I've decided to join them." Thanasis said proudly, Julian's eyes snapping up from the note in absolute bewilderment. His face told the old man exactly how he felt about his decision, but Thanasis was steadfast in wanting to convince him.

"Sil'Elaine is my homeland. Our homeland. It's my duty to make things right once and for all to repent for what our clan have done to those waters." The older man knelt down in front of him, his face contorting into a smiling grimace as he placed his hand on his grandson's shoulder. "All of the preparations have been made for my travel. You can take that time to relax, son. Spend some time for yourself."

"To relax?" Julian scoffed. His voice was remarkably calm for someone whose stomach was twisting within him, his shoulder flinching backwards at the presence of his grandfather's touch. "Thappa, if you were out of my sight for more than a day, I would spend all that time worrying about you!"

"My health is improving, Julian." The older man retorted firmly.

"You might be well enough to get onto your feet more often, but you're still on thin ice. One wrong move, and you'd be done for. " His face began to tingle, his fists curling up as waves of familiar panic started to ride through his body. "If you go... I may never see you again." Julian croaked. His nerves were stretched beyond their limit, and he felt almost like a parent trying to grasp firmly onto a slack leash that kept escaping from his hands. His chest shuddered, and he began to weep. Weakness was something that could not be afforded in Lorien, but when it came to his grandfather, he couldn't handle it. The very thought of losing him, especially losing him before he was ready to capture his essence, was enough to send him into a frenzy.

Thanasis was quick to embrace him tightly.

"...Perhaps you're right." Thanasis admitted. "It would make me guilty, worrying you so." A sad chuckle escaped his lips, and although Julian could not see his face, he knew that he was crying from the way that his voice sputtered while he spoke. "My only wish is to make things right...You understand that, don't you?" Even though the older man had largely conceded, Julian could hear him softly pleading. He felt terrible about keeping his grandfather from his higher purpose, but the two of them knew deep down in their hearts that it just wasn't possible. Unless...

"I'll take your place."

_______________________________

Julian felt small as he pushed through the market of Shitport, finally reaching his destination after leaving his grandfather in the care of a trusted colleague and traveling for what felt like ages. His head was down on instinct, hoping to fit in with the crowd and not draw too much attention to how out of place he was in the region. His clothes were the same as he wore on the streets of Lorien, albeit stripped down a bit to compensate for the warmer climate. (He regretted it, though, due to the way his dark shirt billowed in the wind and sent a chill up his spine.) His arm was settled on his crutch, as he didn't dare leave without it if his leg were to seize up while on his journey, but his other hand rested on the handle of his pistol. If someone felt like he was weak enough to be taken advantage of, that was not the case. After years of living in the slums, he'd rather put a bullet between someone's eyes before allowing himself to be pickpocketed. Such paranoid thoughts ran through his head as he stepped onto the dunes.

He soon came to realize that he'd shared the wagon into town with another young man who sought out the author of the note, one who wore a cloak and walked ahead of him. This wasn't the only familiar face that he recognized straight away. When he peered over the expansive horizon he could see Cyrus standing alongside a tall man who he assumed was the leader. It did seem like his superior to take on a quest of this nature. The man was a wild card, a Necromancer such as himself, but he had trust in him. As much as he could allow himself to have, that is.

Slowed down by the sand and his stunted movements, he walked at a slower pace and reached the group just as the man in the center was speaking. He fit in beside Cyrus, gently grabbing the back of the man's arm to steady himself. "Cyrus..." Julian spoke in a hushed tone, careful not to interrupt the speaker. "It's good to see a familiar face." He murmured.

The mention of the name Lotheric was enough to make his blood run cold when he began to focus on the leader's speech. His grandfather must've had an inkling that he was the God that the note was talking about... no wonder that he deemed it so important.

"Asking Lotheric to join your side is quite the feat. I'm not sure if he will be so generous ." Julian spoke up impulsively. His eyes flickered to Cyrus for reassurance now that he'd brought attention to himself, before speaking again.

"Julian Blythe. From Lower Nivenhain." Julian introduced himself. "My grandfather is a former Vethcairn elder who fled to Lorien... I'm sure you can probably understand why he left." His futile attempt to lighten the conversation was followed by a clearing of the throat as he looked over at his new companions, feeling rather puny by comparison. He gestured towards himself, gripping onto his crutch and Cyrus' arm in tandem for support. "Admittedly, he would be a better fit for the job than I, but he cannot be here today, so I offered to take his place." His silvery eyes locked more firmly with the man in front of him, hoping that the man could see the slightest glimmer of potential in him from behind his glassy Clockwork lenses.

"I hope I can be of assistance to you."

Posted: **Thu Dec 03, 2020 11:47 am**

The Promise, Part One

22nd of Frost, Year 120

In time, the leader of this little gather soon revealed himself. A very nonchalant human--gods, why did it always have to be humans? Anyway, he revealed himself and spoke of the mission. He was straight to the point too, Khaori liked that. The fae did his best to hold his posture and listen from the shadows (or really, behind the sea of people he tried to cloak himself with). The more the man spoke, the harder it became to remain in the same position. To be truthful, the first sentence to leave this man’s mouth already left an impression on Khaori. As if his ideas of humans and other races weren’t distorted already, this man had to show the young lord that his theories shall remain. In his head, no other reason should make an encounter with an elven god dangerous unless they were planning on attacking it. Pulling his cloak off his face, Khaori felt the need to show him, the speaker, his twisted expression.

He understood the feeling all too well--this was for a country the man loved dearly, he supposed. Khaori understood the need to free Sil-Elaine, he did not need an explanation or to be well versed in what’s going on to know that this country’s politics is failing them. Still, fighting for your countrymen could not be worth sudden death. Frankly, he believed many countries’ politicians to be failing and incompetent and he was sure there were other ways to solve such terrible issues. These people, the dranoch, could not hold the strength of an army individually. If this man rallied enough support and came up with a tactic, Khaori was sure he could put up a fight. Bothering an elven god cannot be the only way. He could think of many. Being related to a few militant figures, the fae knew there were many different ways to go about this. Lotheric just isn’t one of those ways.

Now that he knew for sure who put the notice up and the group he would work with, the fae pushed his way through the crowd then squeezed himself between the druskai, that he’s seen somewhere else before, and the large half-elf, purposely pushing them both behind him. He heard only bits and pieces of what the-- what is that? A squirrel? A ferret? He didn’t know what was on the speaker’s shoulder, but he knew that wasn’t a domestic pet. It talked too much to be one.

“You must be mad.”Khaori glared at the speaker as he spoke common.”An elven--AN ELVEN god?” His mood began to shift. He soon slumped a bit and pinched his nose, mumbling to himself at first before speaking loudly in eldhan,” gods, how come you humans don’t know your place? Generally speaking, how come mortals don’t know their place? This is why the fae keep to themselves. This world has no respect or dignity.”

“So what is plan?” he clicked his tongue as he spoke in common again.”You plan to offer us as sacrifice?” He twirled around to get a good look at the two guys he pushed behind him. The elf looked like he could put up a good fight. The druskai was a different story.”You offer big one for strength, fish for good eating, and me as holy virgin? I’m a little tainted, but could pass.”

“Oh!” He clasped his hands together before facing the leader of the group again and pointing at the ferret.”And you offer the blood of animal.”

He nervously laughed at his joke. They had no idea how crazy he thought this idea sounded.

“You say this is dangerous mission, but this is no dangerous. It is funeral. Do you have good plan or nothing to lose?”

"Kill Them. Kill Them All"

Posted: **Sat Dec 05, 2020 5:57 am**

☠ 22nd of Frost, Year 120, Final Solstice ☠
Company: Taelian | Thoughts: Long time no see | Mood: Nervous, Excited

☠ I couldn't believe my ears, nor my eyes as my friend professed his own death at the hands of a dranoch. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that he had died, yet he stood right in front of me, so I couldn't fathom it. The only explanation was that of divine intervention, Taelian being spared from death.

I had many questions to ask him, but our discussion would have to wait as this creature approached us. It seemed to be sentient, actually forming speech. My brow quirked as it spoke, the voice young making me think that this was a mage, another sound explanation for this. They too seem to be of the order, which brought another to mind.

"I wonder where Alphonse is, I was almost certain something like this would be right up her alley. It's a shame she'll miss this." I pondered watching as more came to gather, some familiar to me than others. Julain was one of those familiar faces. I was truly excited to see him.

"Its good to see you" I whispered back, listening to Tae as he went into detail about what we were brought here to do. I had to say, I was just as much in doubt like most people here. To bring a god of all things to heel, that was truly a suicidal ambition. I couldn't believe my ears, but I had to support him.

If he could read the room he would understand the insurmountable amount of fear it brought to people. As if mere mortals could do that? It was truly ludicrous, but something about it seemed plausible. I listened to the concerns of those present, hearing the concern and doubt in their voices and words. It was understandable, but to ensure Taelian didn't lose hope I felt I had to give my peace as well.

"To say we are to bring an elven god to heel is absolutely ridiculous, even for you Taelian." I began, moving from Julian's grip and coming to stand next to Taelian. "But if we didn't think it was remotely possible none of us would have shown up. That being said, I think if there was any other option to gain as an advantage as possible, then we wouldn't be here. To add to that the ones in control of Sil'Elaine are not fans of diplomacy."

I mentions this while looking at the one who made the most mockery of the plan. A gust of wind blew as I continued. "They are subversive, voracious, and brutal. They don't care about what political advantage you have, and unfortunately we don't have time to try and cement alliances with foreign powers. We have run out of time, and unfortunately this has become our only option." I stated, patting Taelian on his shoulder as I grabbed my things and went further up the dock awaiting whatever means of transportation was secured. ☠

"Common Tongue"
"Silvain Tongue"
"Self-Thoughts"

Posted: **Sat Dec 05, 2020 11:44 pm**

The crew that assembled only became more intriguing -- Nuraku, the small 'weasel' he almost referred to her as, had been initiated into five different magics. One of her patrons was Tyrnac, but ultimately even if she had been a summoner of the Viddashan, it would not have made an impact. The Elven Gods long since closed their ears even to their summoners, with perhaps a breath of words flowing through the lips of their Intermediaries, enough to sway their mind for perhaps a moment, but with little impact on their actions. Eloise had told him of the well-intentioned mediators of the Eldhan Weald, and often, their gruesome fates.

The Gods had been filled with wroth. Vengeance was the sole directive in all but Lachrann, though somehow the Draedan deeply understood that motivation of theirs as if it were as deeply internalized into his own form. His goal was not to make them any less vengeful, after all, but only to direct their ire towards the traitors from within, rather than those from without.

"We will offer Lotheric that which we can give him: an alliance of similarities; similar desires, equal ambitions, and reasoning towards his goal. He wishes to punish the New Clockwork Empire for their ancestors -- fine. I, too, wish to carve the realms of Daravin into ones where the Norai can return and live in peace. But that cannot occur when Sil-Elaine is besieged by tyranny, starved and extorted for blood and meat. The people who he so wishes to avenge still live, directly beneath the waters he so churns in his rage. He will learn that."

As he finished his words, another voice sprung from before him, from a man that initially moved through the stalls of the rusted market. He first addressed Cyrus, before introducing himself as one Julian Blythe, from Lower Nivenhain. It was a familiar place to him, now; he'd stayed there with Arkash for a glimpse of time before his journey to the Empire. What struck him most, though, was the man's Vethcairn heritage -- a fact that instantly made him appear imminently valuable to the Knight.

"Julian," he repeated his name. Taelian pressed his lips together firmly for a moment, as his eyes peered over the other man. His skin tone was unique, his features strange. They spoke of a half-Drusk, a unique arrangement within the world that they lived. Lower Nivenhain brought a cosmopolitan mess of strangeness, though, all of the diverse natures of the people from the outside world being confined to one domain beyond the walls. Finally, he nodded, recognizing him so easily as a member of their crew. "Welcome aboard," he softly replied. "If you know Valgoth, you would be incredibly helpful in not only persuading the Vethcairn not to kill us, but to bring us to Lotheric. I would be more than pleased to see you join with us," said Taelian.

And then, the Fae man from before approached, speaking of Taelian's madness -- first in Common -- and then, spouting in Eldhan. He could recognize the language, and could even understand much of it; it was the sister-language to Silvain, after all, its old progenitor. Many of the words coexisted, only with small divergences that kept them apart.

Taelian replied in Silvain, believing that the Fae would be able to understand his words at least in fragments. "I am not a human," he replied. "I may appear as one, but this is a ruse. A convenience to afford me privilege in Lorien, where I have lived. I am a Sil'norai -- the favored people of Lotheric, Tyrnac and Veratelle. More importantly, I am not mortal," the man added. Radiant, glowing lines of what appeared to be energy began to unveil themselves along the length of his arms, and between the sculpting of his cheek-bones and his ears. His eyes became a faint gold, not entirely matte or opaque, but with a dim set of copper-colored pupils within the sun-like shade around them.

He only continued to stare through Khaori, as if glaring holes through him.

"If you are here, you must be willing to accept the inevitability of death. I am well aware that we may be consumed by the sea without ever even seeing Lotheric at all -- or perhaps we'll be fired on by a Warbarge, or who knows what else may lie in store. I have things to lose, Fae, but also much to gain. And for me to gain them, I must go as far as to risk my life. Given your heritage -- you, too, should care of the fate of the Elven Gods. So, I ask you to join me even if only to honor your ancestors," he said.

"And," he began, "Cyrus is right. Our options continue to dwindle; I imagine we may only have a year or two at the most before the Dranoch threat becomes untenable, the Remedy is destroyed, and Sil-Elaine is plunged into an even greater and more repressive tyranny than ever before. A punishment for defiance. I will not allow that to happen, and neither will Lotheric. My father helped to create him to defend and shepherd the Elves, to teach them of life, liberty and their potential. He shirks on that duty to murder arbitrary scores of human innocents -- I have had enough. We all have. Eldashan is a broken pantheon due to the madness of him and Ridhain. I do not believe even Adena's rot would blind him to that undeniable truth."

The man turned, and beckoned for everyone to follow him as he moved through the rusted corridors of the outpost, through strange hallways of metal and broken old wires; the lost technologies of old, ones that made little sense to them now. After only a few minutes journey through the considerably warm corridors, they would find their way to the harbor, largely covered by a metal roofing that stretched out across the thin gap of river, one of many from the Amoras' length. It effectively encapsulated the dockyard within a metal dome, only allowing an operable gate through which the ships could move through if it was allowed to open. It protected the water and the ships from Daravin's corrupted dust storms, though in its effect, it offered them a strange and majestic view of old technological marvel.

"I have a ship ready, and you few should be more than enough. It is a simple cog ship largely lined with metals that help to stave off corruption. Turns out most of these outposts were corruption-research facilities from the waning days of the Empire, as they sought to harness raw energy for their ambitions. Fortunately -- this research has proven useful in the wake of the Sundering, and these ships will help us find Lotheric without sustaining lethal levels of corruption in the process. The materials seem lined to absorb it, and the sails appear to be magically crafted to reduce and repel corruption within a certain area around them," the man explained.

All of this, he'd learned in his last few days here, though what little information he could find in the Pact-Covenant library, he had perused.

"Holy virgin or not, we should be able to make it through. Apparently the rat's got five magics, and I'm a Draedan, if you couldn't tell. We can beat back the Vethcairn if it comes to it -- I can fly and easily light their ships ablaze. The real concern will be getting lost, becoming trapped in a storm, or being struck by Lotheric himself. If we fail to persuade him to help us, we best at least persuade him to let us return safely, or I expect that all of you will die; probably me, too."

The man paused, narrowing his gaze. "Any other queries, or are we set to leave...?"

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