Nation Announcement Silence irr er Ar’baor || Mitrona Event Results

haleybug

Trendsetter and Loremaster Buggie
Staff member
[!] Across the Glade were numerous missives passed out by several woodland creatures: squirrels, birds, rabbits. The paper was scrolled with a green ribbon and an antler wax seal to keep it closed. The reader is greeted with the Mitrona emblem and semi-neat cursive in black ink upon opening it. It reads the following:

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25.09.1552
(Moonday 25, Edensrest, 1552)


Lilith's Veil
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"Feryn lle'irrojs."

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Mi Subjects es Mitrona,

We have not witnessed such devastation since the Rotting Plague, a long-forgotten calamity of the Azari'cerr race, before which we have lived in near harmony for over thirty years. Crops were destroyed, and while the 'Cerr did not catch the disease, we slowly starved and grew bestial, turning on anyone who seemed a threat. Not realizing we were a danger to ourselves. Most of the 'Cerr today may remember that wreckage, leaving us scarred and cautious in the years that followed.

The Fight Against the Lycans will be etched in the memories of those who lived through it. Comrades fallen, yet never forgotten, loved ones torn apart and hanging by a thread. Even so-called enemies, once deemed irredeemable, came together under one cause—for the 'Cerr, for the Arb'aor, and lastly, for those we love. Myln Arb'aor is our home, with spirits older and greater than anything we have ever known. These spirits must not be forgotten, and we must fight daily to protect them. To honor our predecessors, those who fought tooth and nail for us. We are merely repaying the favor with our faithful blood.

As we saw our lives flicker before our eyes, it was those who showed courage, fearlessness, and intrepidity in the face of death who stood out. They knew they were surrendering all they had, even in the midst of doubt, fighting through thoughts of worry and turmoil. This is no easy feat. I applaud the following for their courage,

Riven Stygia: For jumping directly between two Lycans with a determined look, all for the sake of the Archers of the Glade. Offering what she had. Her blood and strength.

Fenrin L Lon'solyn: As Riven fell to her knees, sure of death, the Tericyees of Sunscape ran with only a sword, leaving behind his tear to fend off the Lycans, successfully stunning one and killing the other.

Apollon Lovell: The Tericyees of Mitrona, who faced a strange obsession by the vampire known as Andras, going in to add a defense spell for Fenrin, very well putting attention to himself. Without his spell, the Tericyees of Sunscape very well may have perished. Perhaps more courageous than anything I've seen before.

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The Final Five. The treacherous battle between Andras, the one who orchestrated these attacks, and the five who stood against him. As they all laid down their lives for Apollon Lovell, their names will be recorded in history: Thaniel Valsi, Cirlia Zaithrall, Apollon Lovell, and Malakai Montague. Each of them deserves their own missive, yet they all fought for the right cause. When the final voidal standing threatened to take Apollon Lovell with him, seven in total offered their lives. Apollon Lovell had laid down his life for all of us more than once; it was time we repaid that favor.

Cirlia Zaithrall: One who most were petrified of before, not daring to get closer, but showing undeniable love with her attacks and Lunarmancy-- a direct attack onto the voidal beings. Being the one to deal great damage during The Final Five.

Malakai Montague: The one who took the hits, and fended off Andras with help by his side, successfully saving The Khari'cerr's life. If not for him, I would've died, and been handled to The Amber Tree as just a memory.

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For the fallen 'Cerr, I ask for silence after this missive for one day. A vow to not speak, remembering his final moments. Speak his name: Aenerion. We will send further missives when a date is planned. No Azari'cerr is forgotten. His body will be given to the Amber Tree ceremoniously.

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Signed,
Khari'cerr, N’vaestīl “Izara” Vobisere
 
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From inside the infirmary, Malakai scans the missive. He is bandaged from head to toe, with severe bruising around his throat; puncture wounds across his jugular that would likely last him a lifetime. But he drew breath, and each time he did, he was reminded that he was, in fact, somehow still alive.
Malakai had accepted his fate then.
He had never been more terrified than when that creature tore into him, had him by the throat, took more in that moment than it did when it ripped his arm from his body. It was a memory that would live with him for an eternity.

But for Apollon, and Fenrin, and the Khari'cerr; for Gwyn who saved his life, for Elaine, Arven; for all those that had risked so much for him- it'd been worth it.

The 'Lunn carefully folds the piece of paper and tucks it into his satchel, before slumping back against the bed, staring off at the ceiling. Electricity gently pulses through his many wounds and lightning-scarring, giving him a calming warmth that soothes that bubbling anxiety; and he finally allows himself to sleep.
And at long last, he doesn't dream.
 
Though Fenrin opted not to leave the Palace to recover his physical and mental health, he would still be one of the first to view the missive, standing over the Khari'cerr's shoulder as she wrote it. Relief didn't come easy, for as grateful as he was to have those he loved returned to him, a death lingered over his conscience. Blood spilled where their Capital is to stand, a place of unity. All the 'Lunn could hope for is the spirits carrying his prayers to the gods and for life to blossom where decay had set in.
 
The Solar Conductor rested now at the bar side, his brow no longer furrowed as he waved to injured passing by on their way to the clinic. As he lifted his drink to his lips, he glanced at his wrist and grimaced. Apollon told Andras not to blink; the man was no art piece, no canvas for Andras to paint red. When he was pushed into a corner, the webs he'd weaved were unmatched.

Alas, there were no more chords to play on his radiant lyre for now; Pulling up his sleeve he'd return to that sly grin, just the fox of Mitrona. Though, as confident as he was in their result, fear and appreciation for the battle stayed in his heart. One of his daughters, her loved one, his ally in the moon, his sister, his brother, his mother, and his son laid down their lives for him and all of Mitrona with them. That was true love, not the obsessive promises of the beast they hunted.

There was a lingering itch in the back of his mind; more were coming. Perhaps not any time soon, but he would have to be ready if they were indeed to remember Malakai's face. Vespra's trial that came next, and with any luck, he'd ascend as an Archmage. . . Archmage, if only Elaine could see him now. This was his purpose, right? He would defend them all.

The man shook his head.
"I only ever belonged to one," he whispered to himself. "I will not forget you, Andras, if only for the lesson learned. However, I belong to Mitrona; I belong to Elaine."

Apollon places his thumb on the scar left on his chest, burning away the signature of his torturer...
 
Riven reads the missive from her resting place letting out a rather weak sigh as she is reminded of the one who had died. She wonders what would've happened, if only she was faster could she have saved him, would she have died. Setting the parchment to the side she closes her eyes, visions of the fight replaying in her mind before abruptly ending ending as her consciousness did when she was struck from behind.

The tiefling wasn't even sure who to thank for saving her when she recklessly had charged in herself. Fenrin? She remembered seeing him beside her right before she was struck. One of the many other mages who were there? No, it'd be more accurate to thank the people of the Dominion. Her name shouldn't be on that missive, she was just an outsider with no healthy fear of death before now.

The woman opened her eyes to glance at the parchment, reaching over to hold it one more time.
"Mon name should not be listed here with the rest." she mutters weakly before tossing the parchment further away this time. "Je n'étais pas anything more than a walking snack for those creatures."
 
A shadow moves across the walls of the Waterfall Palace, and silence across the near-empty halls. Watching the shadows move, the Aeri'Cill sits on the steps of her prison. A time came to her mind when the halls rang with laughter and joy, when she and her brothers were young. On the steps beside her sat the scroll, half rolled up as if she'd only seen half of it

Movement from another shadow across the wall caught her gaze, a shiver running through her. "Leave me be-" Her voice is quiet, just as it had always been. For a moment, it looks like Andras's armor. Eldrion's form. Then the armor of Godwyn. At the image of A'mos, her eyes closed, letting her fingers run over a stone, well worn with faint grooves running through it.


In. Out. In. Out.
It was an exercise taught to her by her first mentor, and his face was beginning to blur in her memory. Manual breathing, turn the stone over and over in your hand until you can count the ridges in your mind.

One...Two.. Three...
Her eyes open, and the shadow was formless. Her gaze dropped to the scroll, putting the stone away in place of the scroll. It had grown too dark to read, and in response her palm lifted a few stars to light the steps. Her gaze picks up where she had left off, before her own name catches her eye

"Love....?"

She blinks. A small smile forms, holding the parchment that much tighter. When she looks up, the shadows on the wall had disappeared in the wake of her starlight

"Maybe... Finally it will work.."
 
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“Dear departed,
I'll cry for you in a dream.
Now I must rise to be queen.
Be worthy.”
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As Izara wrote the missive before her, sitting at her desk, right next to her was the same six foot seven elf she’s slowly warmed up to. Her head quietly rested on his abdomen as she wrote the missive. The stoicalness returning to her face. She had only given herself that moment to shed her pitiful tears, and sworn off for anyone to see that ever again. A leader does not show emotion in front of her subjects. That doesn’t exclude the ‘Cerr here. As Fenrin was looming over her, though, she felt far more safer than ever before. A major improvement than just the week prior. How good it felt to feel at home again.

N’vaestil, by every means, stills look relatively rough. But would not dare go outside the palace in such shape. Bandages covered her chest, arms, and stomach from the beat down she received from Andras themself. Although Aeri’cill did the best she could, not even a miracle could take away all the pain. Everytime her chest moved with a breath, a small wince. But she had to prevail. People cannot be forgotten and she’d be damned if she got any bit of the spotlight. She gets enough from Tericyees next to her. All those who risked their lives. For whatever reason, even selfish, the action stays remaining. If this battle was not won, who knows what would’ve spread throughout the Arbor. If he died…

Two elven deaths so far. One she constructed, the other against her will. Growing up, she thought it’d be no different than killing the bear.

But you don’t kill elves to survive.
 
[!] This reply was made as an Event Team member. 𓃦

Lounged on a tree branch, there was Pimple! Boredom filled her eyes until her gaze fell on the parchment she got from a dead bird.

Her face shifted from mild disinterest to disappointment as she read the name– Andras.
“He lost?” She muttered, eyes narrowing. “…Pathetic.”

But when she reached the names of his killers– N’vaestīl Izara Vobisere, Fenrin L Lon'solyn, Apollon Lovell, Thaniel Valsi, Cirlia Zaithrall, Malakai Montague– her disappointment turned to rage.
Her crimson eyes glinted as she recited each name in a low, venomous whisper.
They think they’ve done something special, don’t they?"

The parchment crumpled in her hands as rage took over, her sharp claws slicing through the fragile material. Her heart pounded, her chest heaving with raw, unrestrained anger.
“How dare they? My weak brother– MY blood– stolen by these nobodies?”

“They'll all pay.”
 
Briette sat at her mother's grave as she read the message over and over again, committing every word to memory, every name. Her father had been in more danger than she'd realized, the direct target of this 'Andras.' She looked up at the statue of her late mother, a heavy weight setting over her heart.
She hadn't been there; she couldn't have been there.
The very thought of picking up a weapon and fighting made her stomach churn, not just in fear but in wrongness. So she studied and studied and studied; every book she could get her hands on, every scrap of information about anything that she could use to help, to heal. It wasn't enough. She couldn't be left at home for the rest of her life, waiting to hear if her loved ones survived the battles they threw themselves into. She laid back on the cool stone of her mother's grave, looking up at the sky, dreary and grey.
It was not enough to do no harm, she needed to help.
 
Aedan read the missive, from... wherever he even was. He let out a sigh remembering what he had left behind, and wondering what had gone on in his absence.

"Thi fuck happened..?"
fashionably late per usual
 
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