Written By Duarte
Dec. 20, 2023, 5:31 a.m.(5/26/1021 AR)
The light casts a shadow! An outline of you.
Its darkened hue a more fitting image of your soul,
unlike the lightened facade of your make-up which provides just a shield of gossamer before your tortured gaze.
And I dreamt of you!
A vision of perfection that could never be attained.
With every daring grasp you floated further into a dreary distance - a sticky dark that would never end
Evil? No.
To be evil is to attend, and you are ever absent.
A true mystery of a woman who finds comfort and mirth in solitude.
Whose only love is the macabre tales of a world in which you play no role.
To know you - fully - is to attain a loneliness that cannot be described.
And to hold a foolish desire that can never be fulfilled.
And still, I yield, and wait.
For the contrast of your soul against mine brings me the most powerful gift the gods have given to men:
hope.
Its darkened hue a more fitting image of your soul,
unlike the lightened facade of your make-up which provides just a shield of gossamer before your tortured gaze.
And I dreamt of you!
A vision of perfection that could never be attained.
With every daring grasp you floated further into a dreary distance - a sticky dark that would never end
Evil? No.
To be evil is to attend, and you are ever absent.
A true mystery of a woman who finds comfort and mirth in solitude.
Whose only love is the macabre tales of a world in which you play no role.
To know you - fully - is to attain a loneliness that cannot be described.
And to hold a foolish desire that can never be fulfilled.
And still, I yield, and wait.
For the contrast of your soul against mine brings me the most powerful gift the gods have given to men:
hope.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 20, 2023, 5 a.m.(5/26/1021 AR)
Journal
I never met Costas again after that night at the cemetery and for good reasons. The first of which, put simply, was I didn't need to. If my time serving in Setarco had taught me anything, it was that assessment was everything. The Lyceum holds no dearth of scandal, but none do scandal quite like Pravus. And the thing to know about scandal is that it is rarely, if ever, what is on the surface. It is a mirage, or it is a smokescreen. The thing not to do about it is to confront it head-on. Rather, the thing to do is step around it. And a man like Costas is easy to step around.
And in the way a sweater unravels when you pull a loose thread, so did his machinations. Except - it was a very tiny sweater. It followed a narrative all too common: a scorned lover using political strife as a canvas for revenge. Propelled by the ruins of a romance within House Pravus, Costas pursued a vendetta leveraging his lofty position in House Malvici to pit Duchess Calypso against Belladonna. His overindulgence in this one-sided feud became apparent when I noticed he had positioned one of his closest intelligence men close to a cousin of the Duchess.
Mercurial in tone and brooding, with emotions sewn into the sleeves of his shirt - the important thing to find about such a man is where his affections lie. And then you don't get close to the man, you get close to his heart.
Writ large, this was the ploy: in open-air public with open seating - there was no question about whom I was meeting and the apparent nature of my meetings. I wasn't even subtle about it. I like to think I drove him mad by simply shmoozing, but the truth is I did nothing to the man. I asked after him not, I watched him not, I conspired against him not. I merely met and spoke with people I found he would rather I not meet or speak with.
And sure as the day is long, Costas brought about his own downfall - swift and self-inflicted. Trapped in a love triangle with two disparate lovers, his actions led to an irrecoverable blunder -- the murder of a heretic named Esra who he slayed with the Malvici heirloom sword. This act marked his exit from his position, the political stage, and public life.
But by then my attention was already drawn to a more enigmatic and unsetting presence - the Eater of Stories. It was a mystery that would shake the very foundations of my reality as I closed in on the identity of this foe and it would change the course of my life for a decade.
The investigation, at first, seemed a path like any other I had walked. But the further I delved the more I felt the sense of "eyes on". (You know what that feels like. Everyone does.) But here it crept into my bones, this insidious feeling. An oppressive sensation of being watched - being scrutinized. I seemed shadowed by mysterious persons leaving me with a constant sense of unease and a looming, all-consuming dread.
It was in this process that I met Orathy Culler - an unexpected ally. A man of the Lower Boroughs, yet sworn to House Pravus, he was a well of information and streetwise savvy. Hired once for a simple task, his presence in matters of interest became ubiquitous. Orland by now had left for Bravura to manage affairs. I had Orathy in his stead.
My nights grew restless and sleep evaded me for days on end. And then came the "dream" - an odyssey of such vivid terror that it left me questioning the boundaries of nightmare and reality. I entered a labyrinth with undulating floors and impossible geometry. Before me were doorways stretching to a distant horizon - never-ending. In this infinite space, I felt closed in. Then mouths began to open. The lines of the walls, floorboards, and door frames became horribly twisted maws of sharpened teeth. They laughed and mocked me in discordant unison, chastising me for drawing its attention and challenging me to say its name. Was it a threat, or an invitation? To this day I don't know.
I did whatever I could to free my mind from this haunting terror. I confided the dream and revelations to Orathy and in many ways, his rough exterior and straightforward manner became a grounding force in the increasingly bizarre turn my life had taken. My interactions with Lianne remained sparse and strained. The unspoken chasm between us only widened by the thing that now pursued me. We became like passing strangers in shared halls.
Something was not right in this city and it seemed everyone with whom I spoke knew of it except for me. As if for me there was a grand secret being kept for my own good, I felt like a child.
But even as a child, I was always good at finding secrets.
I never met Costas again after that night at the cemetery and for good reasons. The first of which, put simply, was I didn't need to. If my time serving in Setarco had taught me anything, it was that assessment was everything. The Lyceum holds no dearth of scandal, but none do scandal quite like Pravus. And the thing to know about scandal is that it is rarely, if ever, what is on the surface. It is a mirage, or it is a smokescreen. The thing not to do about it is to confront it head-on. Rather, the thing to do is step around it. And a man like Costas is easy to step around.
And in the way a sweater unravels when you pull a loose thread, so did his machinations. Except - it was a very tiny sweater. It followed a narrative all too common: a scorned lover using political strife as a canvas for revenge. Propelled by the ruins of a romance within House Pravus, Costas pursued a vendetta leveraging his lofty position in House Malvici to pit Duchess Calypso against Belladonna. His overindulgence in this one-sided feud became apparent when I noticed he had positioned one of his closest intelligence men close to a cousin of the Duchess.
Mercurial in tone and brooding, with emotions sewn into the sleeves of his shirt - the important thing to find about such a man is where his affections lie. And then you don't get close to the man, you get close to his heart.
Writ large, this was the ploy: in open-air public with open seating - there was no question about whom I was meeting and the apparent nature of my meetings. I wasn't even subtle about it. I like to think I drove him mad by simply shmoozing, but the truth is I did nothing to the man. I asked after him not, I watched him not, I conspired against him not. I merely met and spoke with people I found he would rather I not meet or speak with.
And sure as the day is long, Costas brought about his own downfall - swift and self-inflicted. Trapped in a love triangle with two disparate lovers, his actions led to an irrecoverable blunder -- the murder of a heretic named Esra who he slayed with the Malvici heirloom sword. This act marked his exit from his position, the political stage, and public life.
But by then my attention was already drawn to a more enigmatic and unsetting presence - the Eater of Stories. It was a mystery that would shake the very foundations of my reality as I closed in on the identity of this foe and it would change the course of my life for a decade.
The investigation, at first, seemed a path like any other I had walked. But the further I delved the more I felt the sense of "eyes on". (You know what that feels like. Everyone does.) But here it crept into my bones, this insidious feeling. An oppressive sensation of being watched - being scrutinized. I seemed shadowed by mysterious persons leaving me with a constant sense of unease and a looming, all-consuming dread.
It was in this process that I met Orathy Culler - an unexpected ally. A man of the Lower Boroughs, yet sworn to House Pravus, he was a well of information and streetwise savvy. Hired once for a simple task, his presence in matters of interest became ubiquitous. Orland by now had left for Bravura to manage affairs. I had Orathy in his stead.
My nights grew restless and sleep evaded me for days on end. And then came the "dream" - an odyssey of such vivid terror that it left me questioning the boundaries of nightmare and reality. I entered a labyrinth with undulating floors and impossible geometry. Before me were doorways stretching to a distant horizon - never-ending. In this infinite space, I felt closed in. Then mouths began to open. The lines of the walls, floorboards, and door frames became horribly twisted maws of sharpened teeth. They laughed and mocked me in discordant unison, chastising me for drawing its attention and challenging me to say its name. Was it a threat, or an invitation? To this day I don't know.
I did whatever I could to free my mind from this haunting terror. I confided the dream and revelations to Orathy and in many ways, his rough exterior and straightforward manner became a grounding force in the increasingly bizarre turn my life had taken. My interactions with Lianne remained sparse and strained. The unspoken chasm between us only widened by the thing that now pursued me. We became like passing strangers in shared halls.
Something was not right in this city and it seemed everyone with whom I spoke knew of it except for me. As if for me there was a grand secret being kept for my own good, I felt like a child.
But even as a child, I was always good at finding secrets.
Written By Jan
Dec. 19, 2023, 11:16 p.m.(5/25/1021 AR)
I am blessed and humbled to have the respect and favor of so many. I don't even have the singing voice of Sir Jeffeth or the nimbleness of Caspian but I couldn't want for better company.
Written By Medeia
Dec. 19, 2023, 10:48 p.m.(5/25/1021 AR)
The people of Saikland are largely a humble, productive, inviting people. In among the many lessons I had to make up from my years away, I would make sure to spend time in the villages. I continued my apothecary and midwife work, expanding my medical knowledge further. I was welcomed into homes and tended ailments and swaddled babies and held the hands of the dying. I made it my duty to know them, to understand them.
When I did allow myself to rest, I often found myself in the vineyards and orchards. I had always been fascinated by the entire winemaking process - that a seed could become a flourishing vine and grow fruits that we crushed and fermented seemed like magic when I was a child. And so, I began working with the vintners. Within a year, I had become head of the house's wine operations.
It felt like I had so much to make up for. I pushed myself to be worthy of my title, to earn the trust that Lucita had placed in me. Whenever visitors came from other houses, I was the perfect hostess - polite and sociable and indulgent. Early in that second year back, Martino Malvici, then an unmarried lord, visited. Looking back, I think some conspirators in Saik and Malvici had arranged for his diplomatic trip to coincide with me being the only one of the house able to receive him.
A story had begun to spread, a variation on the lie Marco had told, an extension really, that claimed the reason I had run away was that I was so frivolous and silly that I feared no one would find me beautiful with my scar. I would never find a husband marked as I was. Variations on that story spread, making me out to be someone I wouldn't recognize - or, perhaps, would only recognize on the other side of a mirror. Martino didn't buy it. And he's the only visitor during that time that I failed to be perfect for.
Still, he saw how much effort I was putting into the house. We spent years writing to one another, and I would visit Southport whenever possible. "The Delight of Saik" - that's what he used to call me. He'd extracted a promise from me, that first visit - that I aid him in protecting Malvici, Saik, the Lyceum, and the Compact beyond. I never imagined where that promise would take me.
Sitting here, in this city with so many memories, holding on to that promise, I can't help but wonder if I would have made that promise if I knew what was coming.
When I did allow myself to rest, I often found myself in the vineyards and orchards. I had always been fascinated by the entire winemaking process - that a seed could become a flourishing vine and grow fruits that we crushed and fermented seemed like magic when I was a child. And so, I began working with the vintners. Within a year, I had become head of the house's wine operations.
It felt like I had so much to make up for. I pushed myself to be worthy of my title, to earn the trust that Lucita had placed in me. Whenever visitors came from other houses, I was the perfect hostess - polite and sociable and indulgent. Early in that second year back, Martino Malvici, then an unmarried lord, visited. Looking back, I think some conspirators in Saik and Malvici had arranged for his diplomatic trip to coincide with me being the only one of the house able to receive him.
A story had begun to spread, a variation on the lie Marco had told, an extension really, that claimed the reason I had run away was that I was so frivolous and silly that I feared no one would find me beautiful with my scar. I would never find a husband marked as I was. Variations on that story spread, making me out to be someone I wouldn't recognize - or, perhaps, would only recognize on the other side of a mirror. Martino didn't buy it. And he's the only visitor during that time that I failed to be perfect for.
Still, he saw how much effort I was putting into the house. We spent years writing to one another, and I would visit Southport whenever possible. "The Delight of Saik" - that's what he used to call me. He'd extracted a promise from me, that first visit - that I aid him in protecting Malvici, Saik, the Lyceum, and the Compact beyond. I never imagined where that promise would take me.
Sitting here, in this city with so many memories, holding on to that promise, I can't help but wonder if I would have made that promise if I knew what was coming.
Written By Jan
Dec. 19, 2023, 9:30 p.m.(5/25/1021 AR)
I was so excited for the encampment. Camps are the one of the few places I felt as if I belonged because gods know I never belonged when I was home. Yes, war is a bad thing but camps are familiar. Routines are familiar. The work of keeping them running and the soldiers meaningfully occupied. Or. They were. No longer.
It seems with all that's afoot I am once more out of place. Shut up, mind your place, blah, blah, blah. I have always been shit at knowing my place and it's no surprise that I once again fail to become a piece of the scenery when it's appropriate. Appropriate and I have never really been on speaking terms.
Fortunately I still know what those placed under my command need from me. What the compact needs from us all. That is all that matters and that is what I will deliver.
It seems with all that's afoot I am once more out of place. Shut up, mind your place, blah, blah, blah. I have always been shit at knowing my place and it's no surprise that I once again fail to become a piece of the scenery when it's appropriate. Appropriate and I have never really been on speaking terms.
Fortunately I still know what those placed under my command need from me. What the compact needs from us all. That is all that matters and that is what I will deliver.
Written By Mattheu
Dec. 19, 2023, 8:49 p.m.(5/25/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Ann
In the hazy twilight by the river so wide,
Where the moonlight shimmers on the gentle tide.
I'm lost in a dream, feeling so woozy,
Love flows like a river, and my heart feels bruised.
Oh, the river of love, it's a crimson stream,
A current so strong, like a feverish dream.
In my veins, it courses, a river of blood,
I'm woozy and tangled in this passionate flood.
Whispers of the willows, dancing in the breeze,
A symphony of love, a sweet, soulful tease.
I stumble through the night, feeling so dizzy,
In the river of love, where our souls get busy.
Stars above, they twinkle in the water's embrace,
I'm lost in this woozy dance, caught in love's grace.
The river and blood, an intoxicating blend,
A tale of desire that seems to have no end.
Moonlit reflections paint a picture so surreal,
In this woozy trance, emotions I can feel.
The river whispers secrets, the blood runs deep,
A love so profound, it's a promise to keep.
As the night surrenders to the dawn's soft glow,
I'm still lost in the river, this love's ebb and flow.
Woozy and breathless, in this tender trance,
The river of love, the dance of blood, our eternal romance.
Where the moonlight shimmers on the gentle tide.
I'm lost in a dream, feeling so woozy,
Love flows like a river, and my heart feels bruised.
Oh, the river of love, it's a crimson stream,
A current so strong, like a feverish dream.
In my veins, it courses, a river of blood,
I'm woozy and tangled in this passionate flood.
Whispers of the willows, dancing in the breeze,
A symphony of love, a sweet, soulful tease.
I stumble through the night, feeling so dizzy,
In the river of love, where our souls get busy.
Stars above, they twinkle in the water's embrace,
I'm lost in this woozy dance, caught in love's grace.
The river and blood, an intoxicating blend,
A tale of desire that seems to have no end.
Moonlit reflections paint a picture so surreal,
In this woozy trance, emotions I can feel.
The river whispers secrets, the blood runs deep,
A love so profound, it's a promise to keep.
As the night surrenders to the dawn's soft glow,
I'm still lost in the river, this love's ebb and flow.
Woozy and breathless, in this tender trance,
The river of love, the dance of blood, our eternal romance.
Written By Mirari
Dec. 19, 2023, 8:02 p.m.(5/25/1021 AR)
That last tap is the most important. All your work could be for naught, or it could come together perfectly.
Not like there was any question.
Not like there was any question.
Written By Tesha
Dec. 19, 2023, 2:15 p.m.(5/24/1021 AR)
When I set off with Red Thorn I did not think I was going to be returning to the city as the task at hand was one that I wasn't sure that would be survived.
But here I am again.
But here I am again.
Written By Titus
Dec. 19, 2023, 1:32 p.m.(5/24/1021 AR)
It's a spring morning at the encampment near Harrow Hall and the Compact forces are stirring awake as morning activities begin. The red-tinged moon is bright, painting everything with a subtle silvery hue still.
As I reflect upon the question of unity - what truly binds us together in this tumultuous world - I'm drawn not to the common answers of armies, gold, or even divine will. Nor do I find solace in the raw, visceral pull of vengeance. In my contemplations I find a deeper, more profound connection in the power of stories.
It's in stories that we find the essence of humanity, a force far more potent than any army or treasure. Stories transcend the ephemeral nature of physical entities; they are the soul's speech, the heart's song. In stories, we find our fears, our hopes, our dreams, and our truths. They're the mirrors reflecting our collective experiences, our struggles, and our victories.
In the sharing of tales, whether by the flickering campfire or in the hushed tones of a war tent, we see ourselves in each other. We realize that our joys and sorrows are not ours alone but part of a grand tapestry woven through time. In stories, the stoic and the sentimental, the warrior and the scholar, find common ground. They are the threads that bind us, not just as members of House Vaevici or citizens of the great Compact, but as part of the human condition.
As I pen these thoughts, I'm reminded that our legacy is not solely written in the annals of history, but in the stories we leave behind - tales that will be told and retold, long after our physical forms have returned to dust. In this way, we achieve a kind of immortality, a lasting union beyond the constraints of our mortal existence.
We should then continue to share our stories, for in them we find our unity, our strength, and our enduring spirit.
As I reflect upon the question of unity - what truly binds us together in this tumultuous world - I'm drawn not to the common answers of armies, gold, or even divine will. Nor do I find solace in the raw, visceral pull of vengeance. In my contemplations I find a deeper, more profound connection in the power of stories.
It's in stories that we find the essence of humanity, a force far more potent than any army or treasure. Stories transcend the ephemeral nature of physical entities; they are the soul's speech, the heart's song. In stories, we find our fears, our hopes, our dreams, and our truths. They're the mirrors reflecting our collective experiences, our struggles, and our victories.
In the sharing of tales, whether by the flickering campfire or in the hushed tones of a war tent, we see ourselves in each other. We realize that our joys and sorrows are not ours alone but part of a grand tapestry woven through time. In stories, the stoic and the sentimental, the warrior and the scholar, find common ground. They are the threads that bind us, not just as members of House Vaevici or citizens of the great Compact, but as part of the human condition.
As I pen these thoughts, I'm reminded that our legacy is not solely written in the annals of history, but in the stories we leave behind - tales that will be told and retold, long after our physical forms have returned to dust. In this way, we achieve a kind of immortality, a lasting union beyond the constraints of our mortal existence.
We should then continue to share our stories, for in them we find our unity, our strength, and our enduring spirit.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 19, 2023, 4:42 a.m.(5/24/1021 AR)
Journal
My return to Arx was without welcome and fanfare. The echoes of my former life had already begun to reverberate through the silence of my new existence. Whereas the wards and boroughs were once familiar pathways for clandestine endeavors, they were now unrecognizable. Adorned with the title 'Count', I found myself adrift in these streets with an unsettling uncertainty. I was met with cynicism and scorn in places I was once known and welcome. I was navigating through unspoken expectations.
I found my days consumed by idle wanderings and an array of meaningless social events. I threw parties, playing the part of emissary for my new holdings, yet I grappled with a sudden emptiness in the absence of being of use in the capacity to which I had grown accustomed. The thrill of intrigue that had once fueled my existence had diminished to a mere flicker.
My encounters with Lianne, now Countess of the March of Nilanza, once marked by ease and intimacy, were now formal and restrained. She held something back, a hidden concern or secret, and I refrained from pressing further.
Duchess Belladonna was silent and inaccessible.
My days passed in a blur of whiskey-hazed frivolity. It was a stark contrast to the meticulous plotting and maneuvering of my former self. But unbeknownst to me, in a period where all seemed dislocated and vapid, the threads of my life were weaving to a pivotal juncture.
In this altered world, a subtle yet disquieting change was palpable. Costas Voducce, then Sword of Southport now slain, watched me with eyes that conveyed more than a casual interest. I had met him once, in my former life. Once, when I delivered an innocuous message in his presence. Such could not have set the stage for the way I found he observed me now in a local shop, approaching like a man with a vendetta, and as cordial as an adder. Poorly veiled threats wrapped in gratuitous ambiguity - whatever he was playing, he was not suited for it. Rather, the man was a hammer-to-nail sort. But now his words hinted at a game with stakes ostensibly political in nature, but with an emotion that veered into the personal.
Amidst burgeoning turmoil there was yet a beacon of stability. It was in the form of Bianca, Archlector of Vellichor. Though our friendship was warm and fond, there was a distance there. It was as if our subtle flirtations were not meant to foster closeness but were rather like little flags that served to mark territories too close to tread. And yet, it was a respite from my newfound isolation.
One day, on the beach, I confided in her something inconsequential but of great curiosity to her. She rewarded me with a bit of purpose. She had some rumors adrift in her discipleship that spoke of a peculiar connection concerning so-called Eater of Stories. Little did I know that accepting this task would mark a turning point in my life.
There was Bianca, and there was Costas. I recall him one night stalking me into the Lower Boroughs. I still ventured there at the time to seek some semblance of the familiar. He caught up with me at the cemetery. It was an encounter that resonated with ominous undertones. His insinuation that my every move was being scrutinized for motives that I myself hadn't grasped left me perplexed, but curious.
What was he up to?
My return to Arx was without welcome and fanfare. The echoes of my former life had already begun to reverberate through the silence of my new existence. Whereas the wards and boroughs were once familiar pathways for clandestine endeavors, they were now unrecognizable. Adorned with the title 'Count', I found myself adrift in these streets with an unsettling uncertainty. I was met with cynicism and scorn in places I was once known and welcome. I was navigating through unspoken expectations.
I found my days consumed by idle wanderings and an array of meaningless social events. I threw parties, playing the part of emissary for my new holdings, yet I grappled with a sudden emptiness in the absence of being of use in the capacity to which I had grown accustomed. The thrill of intrigue that had once fueled my existence had diminished to a mere flicker.
My encounters with Lianne, now Countess of the March of Nilanza, once marked by ease and intimacy, were now formal and restrained. She held something back, a hidden concern or secret, and I refrained from pressing further.
Duchess Belladonna was silent and inaccessible.
My days passed in a blur of whiskey-hazed frivolity. It was a stark contrast to the meticulous plotting and maneuvering of my former self. But unbeknownst to me, in a period where all seemed dislocated and vapid, the threads of my life were weaving to a pivotal juncture.
In this altered world, a subtle yet disquieting change was palpable. Costas Voducce, then Sword of Southport now slain, watched me with eyes that conveyed more than a casual interest. I had met him once, in my former life. Once, when I delivered an innocuous message in his presence. Such could not have set the stage for the way I found he observed me now in a local shop, approaching like a man with a vendetta, and as cordial as an adder. Poorly veiled threats wrapped in gratuitous ambiguity - whatever he was playing, he was not suited for it. Rather, the man was a hammer-to-nail sort. But now his words hinted at a game with stakes ostensibly political in nature, but with an emotion that veered into the personal.
Amidst burgeoning turmoil there was yet a beacon of stability. It was in the form of Bianca, Archlector of Vellichor. Though our friendship was warm and fond, there was a distance there. It was as if our subtle flirtations were not meant to foster closeness but were rather like little flags that served to mark territories too close to tread. And yet, it was a respite from my newfound isolation.
One day, on the beach, I confided in her something inconsequential but of great curiosity to her. She rewarded me with a bit of purpose. She had some rumors adrift in her discipleship that spoke of a peculiar connection concerning so-called Eater of Stories. Little did I know that accepting this task would mark a turning point in my life.
There was Bianca, and there was Costas. I recall him one night stalking me into the Lower Boroughs. I still ventured there at the time to seek some semblance of the familiar. He caught up with me at the cemetery. It was an encounter that resonated with ominous undertones. His insinuation that my every move was being scrutinized for motives that I myself hadn't grasped left me perplexed, but curious.
What was he up to?
Written By Mabelle
Dec. 19, 2023, 1:29 a.m.(5/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Amari
I personally know a few people who will be less than thrilled by what you've wrought.
Written By Theo
Dec. 18, 2023, 6:11 p.m.(5/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Mattheu
The other day marked an extraordinary event in the realm of exquisite tastes and refined palates as Lord Mattheu Rivenshari, a true connoisseur of the finer things in life, emerged victorious in a duel that tested not swords, but the discerning judgment of wines. I extend my heartfelt congratulations on the well-deserved victory in the recent competition. The display of skill, refinement, and sheer mastery in the chosen endeavor is a testament to the dedication and prowess of Lord Mattheu Rivenshari.
Lord Rivenshari, your triumph in the competition showcases not only your impeccable taste but also your ability to navigate the nuanced world of refinement with unparalleled expertise. Your victory is a celebration of the artistry and finesse that you bring to every pursuit.
May this victory serve as a source of pride and may Lord Mattheu Rivenshari continue to grace us with his extraordinary talents in the realms of refinement and sophistication.
Sir Bayweather's resilience and charisma are a testament to the qualities that make him an outstanding Champion. It is evident that, in the face of any challenge, he would rise to the occasion with honor and excellence. Lady Medeia Saik your choice reflects a keen understanding of the multifaceted nature of true championship.
May the bonds of friendship and camaraderie forged in such competitions endure, and may the spirit of noble pursuits continue to thrive.
Lord Rivenshari, your triumph in the competition showcases not only your impeccable taste but also your ability to navigate the nuanced world of refinement with unparalleled expertise. Your victory is a celebration of the artistry and finesse that you bring to every pursuit.
May this victory serve as a source of pride and may Lord Mattheu Rivenshari continue to grace us with his extraordinary talents in the realms of refinement and sophistication.
Sir Bayweather's resilience and charisma are a testament to the qualities that make him an outstanding Champion. It is evident that, in the face of any challenge, he would rise to the occasion with honor and excellence. Lady Medeia Saik your choice reflects a keen understanding of the multifaceted nature of true championship.
May the bonds of friendship and camaraderie forged in such competitions endure, and may the spirit of noble pursuits continue to thrive.
Written By Amari
Dec. 18, 2023, 1:16 p.m.(5/22/1021 AR)
Do you, reader, ever have a moment in which you are forced to stop, look upon the gigantic results of your actions and think to yourself; I really should have fully pondered the ramifications of this plan before I 'hatched' it.
Yet, deep in your heart, you're still thrilled by what you've wrought.
Yet, deep in your heart, you're still thrilled by what you've wrought.
Written By Medeia
Dec. 18, 2023, 11:35 a.m.(5/22/1021 AR)
I offer my sincere congratulations to Prince Theo Velenosa and his Champion, Lord Mattheu Rivenshari, for their victory.
I don't regret my choice of Champion at all. Sir Jeffeth Bayweather is an exemplar of what it means to be a Champion. Aside from being physically challenging - truly, he did not make it easy on his opponent at all, he is a delightful and engaging performer, one who knows how to work a crowd and ensure that both honor and entertainment are fulfilled. In the face of a more dire challenge, I am certain he would be equally as exceptional.
I don't regret my choice of Champion at all. Sir Jeffeth Bayweather is an exemplar of what it means to be a Champion. Aside from being physically challenging - truly, he did not make it easy on his opponent at all, he is a delightful and engaging performer, one who knows how to work a crowd and ensure that both honor and entertainment are fulfilled. In the face of a more dire challenge, I am certain he would be equally as exceptional.
Written By Lucita
Dec. 18, 2023, 8:50 a.m.(5/22/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Avary
The Archlector of the Sentinel is wise and it is so interesting to hear her speak of judging one's own actions and honesty, choices. Her skills at verbal eloquence and wealth of knowledge help bring comfort and cut away uncertainty.
Written By Mabelle
Dec. 18, 2023, 8:19 a.m.(5/22/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Amari
There is such a thing as too many 'OOPSes', it seems...
Written By Skaldia
Dec. 18, 2023, 7:27 a.m.(5/22/1021 AR)
Take heart, children of the Compact. We have allies. Some are seen, some unseen. We will not stand alone.
Written By Ainsley
Dec. 17, 2023, 11:23 p.m.(5/21/1021 AR)
There is nothing more I would like than to ride out and raise my sword against the legion, but I know I have made the right choice to stay and protect the city and the king.
Written By Raven
Dec. 17, 2023, 10:57 p.m.(5/21/1021 AR)
My prayers are with all those who are the places I cannot be, tending things I cannot do-we each have our part. If it seems like I don't care-maybe it's just that I am only one person and can only do so much at once. Not that I don't care.
Written By Jan
Dec. 17, 2023, 10:23 p.m.(5/21/1021 AR)
It seems just a little too convenient
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