#dawnspiration

[agonydearest]

What outfit is your female Tav wearing? I love it and don't think I recognize it.

You mean Kateryn in the BG3 post I did?

She's wearing a variant of the Selune Robes that I got from a mod. I'll list that and the dye I used below. Here's a slightly blurry picture of the whole outfit thanks to the Magic Mirror (my laptop is older so screenshots aren't that great)

This is the mod to get the armor. It's called Selune Paladin and there's boots that go with it. I think I used the Death Mage dye that's included but I can't remember for sure. The cape came from the deluxe upgrade pack and was simply dyed light blue.

#bg3 #custom tav #anon asks #eldritch knight #baldurs gate 3 #OC: Kateryn Dawnspire

[artsyarcane]

In a DnD session we had a while back, you mentioned that Erasmus had 1 or 2 swords/blades that (I think) had magical properties. Can you tell me more about them and how he got them?

He has 2 swords. Dawnspire (his main weapon) is a +2 rapier (logistically it’s actually a longsword but let’s stick with rapier for simplicity) that does an extra 1d8 radiant damage to undead and is capable of emitting sunlight out to a radius of up to 30ft. It’s basically a sun blade.

His offhand weapon is a silver shortsword. Other than the silver, it has no special properties.

As for how he obtained them, he woke from his resurrection to see that they were lain neatly beside him. He has no idea where they came from. Dawnspire actually became enchanted during his time in Barovia. It was just a unique looking sword before that.

#d&d #answered #erasmus van richten #curse of strahd #dnd npcs #dnd pc

[dream-reaver-shaman]

Elemental Furies D&D group Oberon, Kaun, Neera, Miki and Ten in front of the Dawnspire.

#Elemental Furies #d&d campaign #princes of the apocalypse #fantasy babysitting #Oberon #Kaun #Neera #Miki #Ten #d&d cleric #d&d monk #d&d sorcerer #d&d blood hunter #d&d druid #Dawnspire

[bronzblade]

a shift

The breeze was warm as it flitted through the gardens, stirring the leaves on trees hanging overhead the courtyard and on the multitude of plants around her. Alive, vibrant, bright; a change from where she had spent so long in the cold, amidst the dead earth. The flowers were in reach where she laid across the grass, and she tangled her fingers amidst them to feel the petals under her fingertips. Laying on her back, amidst the flowers and herbs and grass, the sky bright and blue overhead - this was right, this was home.

She was supposed to be here.

But she was supposed to be there, too. Amidst the battles and the soldiers, inspiring, keeping people hopeful until the very last. She’d built a pyre for soldiers she didn’t know, she had fought for the Dawnspire twice over - once to fail and once to succeed. Getting caught up in a war had never been part of the plan of saving her. Much less anything that had happened in the Dawnspire.

A long, heavy sigh rolled out of the archer.

Never in her life had she ever considered something like that - considered that going back on your word could be better. Before now, she would have fought for keeping word, honor, everything like that. It was their way, it was what she’d been taught through her training with the other Arrows - and even before. Word is law, promises are meant to be kept, never besmirch that.

She’d never been in a situation like this, though; faced with so much death and pain. She’d thought about the knights and the way their blood spilled in the streets of the Citadel, the innocent refugees she’d seen - hungry and freezing and desperate. She’d thought about what was important to her, and how that would matter if things changed.

There was one thing that the bard cared about: making sure she survived.

If this war went on, she’d never be able to do that.

Curls stirred and flew across her face with the shifting wind, tickling over freckles on her cheeks and nose. Her flowers were gone for now - hair free, of its own accord. Her spider lilies rippled in the breeze, delicate and bright crimson against the softer colors of her garden. It reminded her of -

“Dork, come inside! Lunch’s almost ready!” Tani’s voice rang out across the garden from the door, but her sister was gone again in a few seconds. She’d asked for time to herself in the garden for a while, and so far her family had been accommodating. This was something so large and new to her, sorting through her decisions felt so strange.

The words still rang true with her though. The Alliance has invaded. Starved people, murdered innocents. First aggression did not matter to her. If they would attack, if they would show no mercy, why would they be afforded it?

She idly plucked one of the red spider lilies, turning it over in her fingers - squinting in the mid-day sun where it warmed her cheeks; pinking the skin across the bridge of her nose. How much longer she laid there, she couldn't say - her mind on the battle, the paths laid before her.

“Sunflower,” Eyes stayed on her flowers and the sky above until a head of blonde hair appeared above her. Apparently, long enough to send her mother out for her. “What’s keeping you? Food’s ready.”

Sunflower, Minn'da always called her. Always reaching for the sun even in the darkest of days.

“Sorry, Minn’da. Just thinkin’.” The young elf reached up for her mother's hand when it was offered, hauling herself out of the grass, up from the flowers and dirt and earth. These things were what would return if they won the war.

The sun, the warmth, and the flowers.

Her mother placed a kiss down against her hair as they walked back towards the estate.

Safety.

There was fire in her veins, and she had long used it as a shield to protect her family. Now, she would use it to fight back. No one would touch her family, not those here or then. They would have to go through her, and she would never allow them past.

It was what she would have done.

#phoenix wars #writing #melo went home and had a think about everything that happened at the dawnspire #that feel when ur character u once would have pegged as 100% honorable changes ur idea of her

[caeliri]

Deadwinter

Summerglen was silent in the dismal winter daylight.

Alabaster drifts had consumed the village, swallowing any errant sound that might have manifested in the abandoned town and obscuring the abandoned equipment of the masons and the carpenters who had toiled beneath the unhindered sun just a few short months prior. Now, the bustling streets were barren, buried in drifting dunes of heavy snow, the even, orderly, repaved roads undisturbed.

The village had not reached completion, not with Caeliri’s lofty aims to capitalize on it’s utter decimation. It was morbid, but the destruction of Summerglen allowed them to alter the wild weave of the gradual, organic growth that had birthed the village into something more conducive to continued expansion and quality of life for villagers and visitors both.

With the remnant stones from the ruined homes and businesses, they had begun to reorganize and rebuild - until the Alliance invaded. Still reeling from the damage done by the last invasion of the Dawnspire’s lands, and the monumental losses that Summerglen had suffered in it’s citizens stubborn desire to remain rooted in their homes, Caeliri had not allowed the same mistake. As soon as the Alliance began to press against the eastern coast of the Dawnspire, she’d all but forced her people to the Citadel to wait out the Siege.

She wondered where they were now - had they escaped to Sunhaven when the alliance took the Citadel? Had they scattered to the winds like so many dandelion seeds? Had they found themselves lost in the endless ebb of snow and sleet that the heavens rained upon them, and been consumed in icy dunes much the same as their village had?

Her breath fogged in the air, but the hazy clouds that wafted from her lips could not compete with the blur of hot tears welling on her lash line.

All that she had accomplished lay in ruins once more - this time by her own hand.

Arbiter moved through the steep sloughs unburdened, his hoof-falls even and measured as he plowed through the knee-deep snow. The Deadwood that haloed Summerglen in a ring of ash had been more difficult to traverse, with hidden pits and overturned trees that had made the destrier stumble more than once. They were lucky they had made it through without him snapping an ankle.

As they approached the estate, Caeliri pulled Arbiter to a halt and dismounted; she lost half of her height in the snow, stiffening as it slid down into her boots.

In their haste to leave Hallowhearth, one of the stablehands had left the stall doors open, and though wind had blown a fair dusting of snow into the empty stalls, it was clear enough to lead Arbiter inside and put him up where the wind could not bite at his haunches and where his own body heat - and a horse blanket pulled down from the upper echelons of the half-attic above the stable - would keep him through the night. If she could have made it to Summerglen on foot, she might have left him in the citadel.

The cherry wood doors of Hallowhearth had been locked upon her leaving - Lyla must have been responsible, for Caeliri would have never betrayed the self-scribed adage of her House - to dissuade looters, and it seemed they had held firm in her absence. With a twist of her gilded key and the wealth of her weight pressed up against the rightmost door, the frozen hinges stubbornly gave way and allowed her enough space to slip in between the two carved goliaths. Within, Hallowhearth was freezing, the stone floors like ice beneath her boots, the thin, stained glass windows doing nothing to keep out the cold. Accompanied by the clack of her own footfalls, Caeliri made her way into the Great Hearth - Hallowhearth’s living room - and set herself down before the vast, empty fireplace.

It was an ashy abyss.

Still, it held her rapt, and hours came, and hours went, and no matter how hard or long she stared at the jagged spikes of charcoal jutting from the ash-licked rack, her frustration could not ignite their blade-like edges.

“Thank the Light, you’re actually here.”

Reflexively her hand fell on the crystalline blade that sat sheathed beside her, gloved fingers tensing over Anar’alah’s hilt until the voice registered.

Liadove stamped his feet at the threshold of the Great Hearth, sending spheres of tightly packed snow skittering across the floor like pale spiders fleeing from a giant. His clothes hung loosely off his frame, layered and vast in an attempt to hold his body heat, and as he moved into the estate’s vast living room his gait was stiff and restricted.

She released Anar’alah before he could round the couch and see, fingers slowly peeling away from the blessed blade that Telchis had gifted her upon her ascension to her station.

Caeliri had never truly seen the need for a personal guard, not in the first days of her knighthood, not now that she was, undoubtedly, a prime target for the Phoenix Guard’s unyielding suspicion, yet through her denials of his aid Liadove Winterthorn had remained steadfast in his duty.

He was not someone to fear.

“I had a feeling -- didn’t want to be riding all over the countryside in this weather though.”

“Not many other places to go.”

“You could have left Quel’thalas all together.”

That made Caeliri snort. They both knew that she would never; running from the repercussions of her actions was not something she did. “On what ships? They’ve all been conscripted by this point. For once, I think my penchant for being familiar and well-known would be a great disadvantage.”

Exhaling, Liadove looked at the empty hearth, brow creasing deeply at the dead space.

“You could have gone to Alah’danil.”

The familiar name made Caeliri flinch - she was trying hard not to think of the coastal paradise that was a second home to her, trying to quell the keening grief at the sudden, violent death of the future she was meant to build there with Lord Dawnstrider.

“Veloestian has no part in this - I would not make him suffer for my choices.”

“He will suffer all the same,” Liadove countered, “if you are deemed a traitor to the state.”

Her.

A traitor.

Anger ignited in her veins, a vicious, screaming heat that burst free from her breast and coursed through her body. At her sides, her fingers balled until her knuckles went white as the snows that enfolded them, and she spoke, her voice low and even and lacking it’s usual melodic ring.

“Do you know why we are even bound up in this moronic war?”

“Because the Alliance invaded our country.”

“No,” her voice static and stony, she continued, “It is because Sylvanas invaded Darkshore. Sylvanas began open aggressions against the Alliance unbidden, for whatever mad purpose drives her. She ordered the Horde to invade the homeland of the Kal’dorei, she ordered the Horde to set their capital ablaze, to murder their men and women and children without scrutiny, to snuff out the lives of innocents, should it further their progress towards their ultimate goal. Sound familiar?”

Liadove’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed as he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Whether we like it or not, we began aggressions against the Alliance first; the Horde struck the first blow, and it was an unholy, deplorable blow. We burned the Kal’dorei’s home to ash for the simple sake of conquest. The Alliance have every right to the rage that fuels their march across our country.”

“How can you say that?” Fury rippled through Liadove’s voice, a rare and poignant flare that made Caeliri’s ears swivel. “You, of all people - you would blame the people of Quel’thalas, the people who are boiling their boots to feed their families, who are being found frozen and blue by cold, empty hearths in their own homes?”

“The common folk of Quel’thalas have done nothing to deserve this,” Caeliri interjected, “they do not lend their aid to wars, they do not involve themselves in the politics of the ruling class. But Quel’thalas, as a nation, is not blameless.”

Hackles still high, Liadove grit his teeth and forced out, “What do you mean?”

“When the Alliance invaded the Undercity, the Archon knew they would come for us next - he said as much to me many months before they made landfall. He anticipated the coming devastation - we are the last foothold of the Horde on the Eastern Kingdom. It does not take a military mastermind to determine they would come for us in time.

And what did Lor’themar do?

Nothing.

What did the Archon do?

Nothing.

Ah, wait, no!” For a moment, Caeliri’s voice crested high and saccharine, a mockery of her common candor, ”Silly me, there was something - we placed a gag order on anyone who dared to speak against her, threatened anyone who would think to question her judgement or her reasoning or the validity of murdering thousands of innocents to further whatever veiled gains she sought to make.”

Her tone came crashing back down again, but her words had lost their measured pace, favoring a furious fervor that caused words to bleed together and her volume and cadence to pitch wildly, “We could have decried Sylvanas’ genocide, distanced ourselves from her decision, assured the world we did not stand behind her actions, and we did not. We remained silent, complicit--

“--For our own safety--”

“-- so that makes it just?” Caeliri stared at Liadove, and for the first time her question was not rhetorical. “It is the same argument I made, to myself, to others, over and over again. We held our tongues for our own safety, and what has that accomplished? Quel’thalas is paying the ultimate price - for someone else’s mistakes. Worse yet, rather than work to remedy such, the commanders of Quel’thalas’ armies have opted to further the animosity between us, to give the Alliance all the more reason to strike back harder and with greater vengeance, to draw blood for generations to come. Novastorm and Silverbrooke claim they act in the interest of their children, but their short-sighted vengeance fails to comprehend that the children of every Alliance soldier they slay will grow with hatred in their hearts, and one day return to kill their children in turn. It’s a cycle, and endless fucking cycle, of hate, of hurt, of violence, of revenge, and it does not stop until someone makes it stop.”

“And you’re going to make it stop,” there was and edge of mockery to his voice that made Caeliri’s nostrils flare.

“No. I’m not an idiot, regardless of what people may wish to think of me. I know I can not stem the tide of violence alone - I’m not a fucking martyr, or some kind of savior. I am a girl who has grown up against the backdrop of war, who has grown tired of the endless cycle of vengeance and death and it’s defendants. I will not be a part of it, not anymore. I will not remain complicit, I will not be made silent. If they wish to vilify me, to call me a fool, to imply I am a coward for standing steadfast upon my principles, let them. I have grown weary of wasting breath to try and sway the hearts and minds of those who were set on violence from the start, and of bending myself to validate every vile action of those around me. I have had enough, Liadove.”

“You would break your oath, then? Sully your own honor?”

A sharp, jarring laugh crested from Caeliri’s lips, and the unhinged melody made Liadove’s body erupt in vast mountain ranges of gooseflesh.

“The Oath-” her composure regained, Caeliri lifted a hand to wipe a welling of tears from her left eye, and if it was unclear if they was laughter-born or honest grief, “do you know what the Sunguard’s oath even is?”

Silence.

“By the light of the sun, for the glory of Quel'Thalas, I vow my life, word, and honor, to uphold the laws of my nation and the code of the Sunguard.   I promise to defend the weak from oppression and protect my kin from foes both foreign and domestic. I will conduct myself with compassion, valor and truth at all times. These duties I take up willingly, in the name of Silvermoon and the Sin'dorei.”

“Aren’t you acting in direct violation of your oath?”

“Aren’t they? Where is the compassion in their actions, the valor, the truth? We can’t choose which parts of the oath to adhere to, and which to discard, else the whole of it is meaningless.”

“But your life will be forfeit if you betray your oath,” now there was anger and desperation both bleeding into his voice, growing ever more fervent with his volume. “What of Summerglen? What of all the plans you have put in motion?”

Caeliri’s eyes shot away, “Summerglen can find a new steward - I’m hardly irreplaceable. You may be lucky enough to have someone with greater experience appointed to the station in my absence.”

Now, Liadove was shouting, his voice echoing through the empty halls of Hallowhearth like thunder, “What of Lord Dawnstrider,--”

“Don’t.”

 “--and your plans to start a family? You would abandon him for the sake of your principles?”

“DON’T.”

“You would let yourself be taken from Firestorm, after all that he as lost as well?”

His words struck her heart, a series of blows fatal to the flames that had been stoked in her breast, and Caeliri began to deflate, her slight form caving in on itself beneath the weight of her own choices, and the ripple of hurt she had cast out into the cosmos. Her jaw, set in stone seconds before, began to quiver violently.

When she spoke again, she was cowed and quiet, words barely above a whisper, “It would be selfish to invalidate the just for my own self-gain--”

“Bullshit!” Liadove slapped a hand on the arm of the couch, “Is your sense of self-worth really so fundamentally damaged that you would not allow yourself the future you have earned?”

Caeliri flinched.

“I can not stand here and denounce those who act without honor or compassion, and then proceed to do the same--”

“You’re being stubborn. These ideals you are so desperate to cling to are a farce! By your own account, even the Archon, a man you idolize, is vulnerable to abandoning his principles when it suits him. Everyone will if the opposite outcome is advantageous to them! I do not want to see you executed or sentenced to incarceration for the rest of your life because you will yield on this ideal! Ideals are not reality--”

“--nor will they ever be, if we do not actively act towards upholding them. They are not reality, but they are the pinnacle we wish to strive for, and they are pointless if we do not struggle. They are not meant to be easy to act upon--”

“Fuck the philosophy, Caeliri, that’s not the point.”

“Then what the FUCK is?” She leapt to her feet, arms cast wide, bloodless fingers splayed to beseech the air around them, and the reborn anger in her voice was only strengthened by the hot tears that rushed down her cheeks. “What is the point in having morals if you do not uphold them when they are tested? What is the point in striving to survive if you only feed into an endless cycle of misery and hatred? What is the point in saving Quel’thalas today if it will be destroyed tomorrow by the mistakes we have made? What. Is. The. Point?”

“The point is I don’t want you to go to prison!” Liadove slammed his hand down on the couch again, this time hard enough send the whole thing scooting towards him, the sound of wood on marble ugly and loud. 

“The point is, you made promises, to Veloestian, to Vaelrin, to your friends, to your family, and you will break them all in one fel swoop if you break your Oath! The point is, we need you when the war is done, to do what the others will not - do you think they will give a moment’s pause once they are given their accolades to aid those still left suffering? From all that you had said of them, they will, all of them, ride off to their estates or to their places of comfort and assure their lives are stable and good and happy and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces of a country in ruins!”

“The point is, you are my friend, and I do not want to see your life ruined because of a fantasy you refuse to relent on. Caeliri, you deserve the happiness you sought for yourself, and you will ruin everything you have worked to accomplish if you continue on this path.”

Now, the room was filled with nothing but their labored breaths, their points exhausted even if their anguish was not. There was nothing more to say, not without folding back on their own words, without chasing each other ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round and ‘round until one or both of them grew weary of words.

Silence and their slowing breathing reigned between them for several painful, pregnant moments, moments where their eyes were unwavering from one another’s.

“Why did you come here, Liadove?”

He rolled his shoulders - once, twice, thrice - and cracked his neck to release the tension that had built through his upper torso. “Originally, I came to tell you that the other Kin’tari have abandoned their posts. They have disavowed themselves of the Sunguard, and of Lord Truefeather, it seems, and set out across the countryside to serve the common folk, and aid in dissuading and dispersing the bandits emboldened by Morningstar’s offer of clemency.”

Victory roared through Caeliri’s sea-green eyes, and a smile began to creep up her face at the latent validation in Liadove’s news, but he continued, “and to tell you that the Archon calls for you.”

That killed the smile blooming on her features. “What?”

“He has put out a public statement denouncing your actions in the battle for the Dawnspire, and summoned you to appear before him before weeks end.”

Any glimmer of satisfaction that had been worming its way into her features drained away then, and she gawked, jaw slack and eyes wide.

“If you do not go…” He didn’t need to tell her. It was the fate she had already assumed would befall her. “Caeliri, I beg of you -- return to the Archon, bite your tongue, accept his judgement. You may yet walk away from this with your future in tact.” His plea was met with silence, and he slammed his hand again on the plush surface of the couch, the sound dull but loud. “Are you listening to me?!”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Liadove’s desperation ebbed towards anger again. “You said yourself that you can not make this right. It is beyond you. It is beyond any one person to turn the hearts and minds of mortals for more than a fraction of a moment, and even then…” He let his hands fall away from the couch at last, palms stinging slightly from the intensity of his repeated strikes. ”You can not undo what has been done, and you can not atone for the sins of others. Don’t ruin your life to try and teach the world a lesson - you are the only one who will suffer for that.”

Liadove turned on his heel, the move graceless and awkward and stiff, and headed for the door, a miasma of fear and frustration propagating in his wake.

Outside, the pale dunes were disturbed by burst of wind that sent a mournful moan through the village, scattering the snow like so many motes of ash against a grey and gloomy sky. Arbiter brayed in his stable, the sound a muted, distant call of distress, and then Summerglen was silent once more.

brief mentions; @thenaaru, @quelfabulous, @felthier

@thesunguardmg

#the sunguard #the phoenix wars #caeliri #battle of the dawnspire #world of warcraft #writing #my writing

[moonunveiled]

There wasn’t much warning before he sat down, crumpling into the grass like a sack of potatoes tossed off a wagon. His leathers were so worn they didn’t even creak in protest to the movement. The only thing that gave him away aside from the sound of old bones hitting the ground was the weary, slightly forced, sigh that escaped him to herald his arrival. 

Lyrenn didn’t immediately respond, but at length looked up from the book in his lap. He’d seen the ranger approaching in the distance, but it was never a sure bet he would actually make an appearance in your life one minute to the next. Better to just keep doing your own thing and if he decided to approach he had the illusion of surprise. Much like one might react to a skittish animal, Lyrenn’s movements were slow and precise. The turn of his head, the reach for the stick in his mouth. Once the crystal candy sucker was removed he smiled at his new lounging companion. 

“Hi Ryth.”

“Hey kid.” The other elf shifted, eyes peering out at the thinning crowd passing by the open market. “Haven’t seen you in a bit in town, thought maybe you’d moved on without telling me.” “I’m living at the Dawnspire now.” Rythriel’s attention turned to him, thick brows raised toward his hairline. One brow shot up slightly higher than the other,  the feathery ends disappearing in the smattering of silver along his temples. It was a silent question and Lyrenn gave a half shrug in answer. “Thought maybe it was time to do something worthwhile.” Rythriel gave a nod, glancing away again. “I thought as much. You came back from the Isles different.” “You didn’t.”

“Not much to change at my age.” While Rythriel rarely kept eye contact, Lyrenn’s gaze hadn’t wavered. He studied the ranger’s profile, picking out every new line and scar. “You aren’t going to tell me it’s a bad idea?” “Why would I do that? You’re capable.”  Lyrenn snorted. Now he looked away, sticking the sucker back in his mouth as he thought about the truth or untruth of those words. He’d been starving when he’d met Rythriel. Desperate enough to try foraging abandoned homes on the edges of the city, wandering deeper into the wilderness when all he found were ransacked buildings torn apart by people quicker on the draw than himself. Too stupid to think ahead, too weak to catch anything besides grubs and mouthfuls of whatever plant seemed edible enough to take a chance on. He’d been lucky Rythriel had seen the undead before they’d seen him, but if the ranger hadn’t been there he had no doubts it would’ve stumbled over him eventually.  “Thanks to you.” It was a hushed tone- Ryth didn’t handle praise well. The grunt he’d expected in answer followed, and he smiled as he stuck the candy back in his mouth. “So you’re joining that lot then?” It wasn’t so much a question as a consideration, and Lyrenn glanced back to watch him scratch at the week’s old beard covering his jaw. 

“Why, whats wrong with them?” He wondered briefly at his sudden defensiveness. “Nothing, nothing.” The hand went up in a surrendering motion before falling back across his knees. “They’re outside the state you know, but strong. Lotta good soldiers’ve joined up. We’d be in a lot worse shape without’em.”  A vote of confidence coming from Ryth, and as like a compliment as anyone is likely to get. Lyrenn dipped his head, staring hard at the red crystalize sucker he held in front of himself, elbow propped on a knee. He twisted it, watching the light of the market dance off the crystal edges. “I’m gonna be a druid Ryth. I heard him, I know I did. I don’t know how, or why, but I gotta do this. The dreams haven’t stopped, I dont think theyre gonna, maybe not even after. But I have to.”  The confession was met with silence. This wasn’t the first time he’d told the other of the dreams that had plagued him since childhood. That had only grown stronger after the fall. The dreams that had beckoned him to the Isles with whispers that held no words. The deep dark and the moonlight and the silhouette of a great stag moving through them. Always out of reach, always urging.  “I know.” It was a soft admittance. As gentle a tone as the ranger ever used, despite his normal timbre being soft on it’s own. 

#lyrenn #rythriel #writing #lookit the goofballs having a moment #Dawnspire #the sunguard

[myopicstudios]

FACTIONS: RUNECUTTERS

The workshops of the Evergreen were magical and storied places where Master Runecutters shaped the most exquisite and complicated magics. Learn more about Runecutters in today's Factions update!

FACTIONS: RUNECUTTERS The Creation Game I hate component magic. By design, spellcraft is not science. Yet somehow, most settings present it as an alternate, often competing school of thought. It’s infuriating. Magic is magic. It shouldn’t need midichlorians or eye of newt to run properly. But, as soon as you remove the components, people start asking where magic comes from. That’s fair. Arcane…

View On WordPress

#Dawnspire #Evergreen #Faran #Runecutters #The Dryadeen #Tyrin

[felthier]

Moving to break the siege of Sundial Anchorage, the Sunguard positioned itself to liberate the city entirely. Holding onto the streets bitterly, the Legion attempted to bleed the city as much as possible, knowing the beleaguered elves could do little replace the soldiers that died in the mayhem. Ultimately, the Sunguard was able to sever the tethers the Legion had over the city itself and allowed relief forces to land in the Dawnspire. 

This was an awesome return to events after a short hiatus! This map was perhaps one of the most detailed and challenging ones I have ever vreated and it was a blast to have nearly 30 players enjoy it with me! Awesome event!

#the sunguard #roll20 events #Legionfall Campaign #events #the dawnspire

[curiouslich]

Aftermath: The Weak Die

The front being held by the Phoenix Guard was a bloody mess to be put lightly. A felscape hell of retreat and terror. The Legion crashed in with their demons before proper defenses could be established. Cleaving through the ranks all they could do was fall back with each demonic advance.

Zanarian’s Green eyes darted over the field. As their front line crumbled the Crushers moved on clearing room for their war machines. Praetorians and Faithbreakers took command of the assault shouting out orders and delighting in the havoc.

“Those shields won’t last much longer, they are going to charge up this hill, and if they don’t that cannon fire will” Running his hand over his face he shook his head. Against his better judgement he had stayed back to defend the healers. Two of his favored among the cabal and a contingent of Light users.

“Enough of this, If someone doesn’t help they’ll be over run. I am not waiting for them to upon us. I think it’s time for a snack.” Sliding off the rock he was perched on he walked over to Mara. A warm smile on his face. “The price is paid my Seer, so long as your heart beats I will keep going.” Leaning down he slid his thumb over her ear before giving her a kiss. First her lips then her forehead. Moving on he marched over the other illidari.

Claws wrapping around the back of Vilesun’s neck Zanarian knit his fingers into his friends hair. Holding his forehead against the ink binder he nodded. Felseared eyes boring into the other man. “Whatever happens, you know my orders.”

“I won’t disappoint Overseer.”

Releasing the man Zanarain nodded a second time. “See that you don’t, when this over gather who you can, we’ll have a party like we’ve never seen.” The joke never seemed to let him down and he smiled at his humour.

Turning to the field he charged down the hill his foot fall became heavy. Each step wider, each landing with more force. Blackened scales spread across his arms as spikes began to reach out from under his armor. By the time he slammed into the first demon he had finished the transformation.

Biting into his first target his draconic jaw clamped down hard on the fel lord. Closing on its neck he wrenched the flesh from the demon and with a spray of blood they hit the ground. Where one now struggled to breath the other was looking for his next meal.

In a battle he never had to wait long. The infernal let out a shriek as the construct greeted him. The lumbering machines were slow. Zanarian had more than enough time to dodge its ‘arm’ and capitalize on the strike. Claws aimed forward he pierced its vulnerable spot. The armor was weak below the chest. It was all too easy to grab onto its core. Pulling back he dislodged the molten center of the beast. With a second shriek it came undone and fell to pieces on the ground. He always liked the taste of Infernal, and with a delightful crunch he devoured the treat.

With the way open his real target was in sight. The Fel Cannons. Each war machine was pointed at a different location. Some near the healers, some at the front, and another at the casters.

The battalion of magi rained spells of all schools on the demons. This of course gathered their ire and as the cannons all changed to put an end to that threat.

With the force of the freshly consumed infernal Zanarian crashed into one of the cannons shattering it in his wrath. Tail flinging out he choked the operator before throwing him like a rag doll at the second cannon. He lived for this, and lept at the next one. In the midst of his wholesale slaughter he barely noticed the darkening of the sky, but the searing smell of fel-ionized air was a give away.

In a battle against the forces of the Legion the unexpected had to be prepared for, and when Baal’s forces marched on the Dawnspire there would be no difference. What was the point of a stable front line when facing aerial superiority.

The cry to look above rang out almost too late. In a rain of fire the green meteors shattered the clouds  With a cataclysmic slam the sphere of stone and fel crashed into the ground. The final moments were here and Baal’s elite guard had arrived. Just as soon as the craft had obliterated the earth beneath it the behemoth inside surged outwards. Double edged spear swinging in wild arcs melting away the lines of casters.

Runes on the monster’s glave shimmered as he sent frost, flames, and lightning back at their casters. Sweeping the spells from the sky he advanced further into their back line.

Giving off a deeply satisfied roar the demon pierced another magi. Hefting their body up on the tip of his halberd he smiled as the weakened mage squirmed. “Your magic won't save you now wurm.” Plated hands clamping down on his target he dragged him forward on the spear until the reddened spike erupted from his back. “Pathetic”

Tossing the corpse aside the Praetorian was only able to react just quick enough. Slicing through a bolt of frozen fel flame he turned on his next targets. A pair of Suncasters one with hair like flowing honey, the other a raven’s quill. “Is that the best the Dawnspire can muster!” To end the sentence he sliced the second volley. Clearly the Dawnwards weren’t keen on talking. Eager to meet the Felravens the demon lept at them.

Glave held high in the air he was on them in an instant. With a cackling howl the Praetorian slashed at the pair. His spear stopped short and he was furious that instead of a clean cut and tattered cloth his blow was halted.

It wasn’t in Zanarian’s nature to protect people. There were only two types of people, the strong and the weak. If you couldn’t protect yourself you were weak, if you were weak you died…

At least that's what he always told himself, but he broke that rule often. Curling his arm he did the best he could to met the slash with his shoulder. Metal met demonic armor with a loud ring.

Dirt ground up over his feet as Zanarian was punished back with the blow. The sound of cracking scales filled the air followed by a wet thud the Praetorian was stopped in his tracks.

Blood flooding his mouth Zanarian coughed up the red fluid. His trio if eyes fell down on the fel steal of the spear.

It was strange to see a weapon sticking out of your stomach. The blazing hot sensation of split skin, the piercing ache of cracked bones, and the sense of what felt like frozen metal drinking in your blood. Though, to his surprise it didn’t hurt. Stumbling in shock Zanarian struggled to keep standing.

The Praetorian recovered far more quickly and went to free his blade from the lizard that clung to it. With a grunt he yanked his hand back, but to his dismay the Illidari insect refused to let go.

Biting down on his inner jaw Zanarian dug his feet further into the dirt. Wrapping his tail around the Praetorian’s arm his white knuckles held fast to the blade. Blood flowing from his mouth he gave a toothy smile. “The~ fuck you think your going~”

Dragging the spear deeper into his gut he knew the plan already. The taste of frozen air was one he had become well acquainted with, even missed it. As the ice began to race along the blade's edge it froze his tail in place around the Praetorian’s arm. The thought that neither would escape what came next was his only solace.

The worst of the ice didn’t touch him. Lovete’s magic merely helped to cement them in place. She was always kind to him, but for the praetorian there was a more sinister result of the freezing. His armor, his flesh, and no doubt his blood all ran cold.

From his dealings with her Zanarian knew that Melanei wasn’t exactly one for mercy… or restraint. With a score to settle with them both the heat of fel was only inevitable.  

Sure enough the air began to crack as it was suddenly sparked ablaze.The bright green was a welcome sign, maybe she would calm down after venting this out.

An Inferno that could probably rival the core of Argus met the iced surface of an instant glacier. The result was a shattering blast that shredded the pair caught in the attack. Thrown to the ground in the violent reaction Zanarian had no idea what happened to his rival demon. No doubt he was in worse shape. As his armor was replaced with burnt skin he would have laughed at the situation if he could manage anything but ragged breaths. Darkness creeping into the edges of his vision his charred head slid to his left. Where he expected to see his arm he found the singed look of what appeared to be his legs.

Before the black took him he pursed his dry lips. “Fffff….”

….if you were weak you died…

@stormandozone @captainswingbeard @sakialyn @jessipalooza

#Battle of the Dawnspire #Bye Zanarian #Mara #Vynthius #Melanei #Lovete #TW: Violence #TW: Blood #I mean I guess #I have no idea these things

[agonydearest]

I've got a BG3 obsession now so let me introduce you to my band of weirdos:

Velkan Vernistel - the noble Paladin of Vengeance

Jaxson "Jack" Vernistel - a mercenary / thief (and Velkan's brother)

Kateryn Dawnspire - the Eldritch Knight

Lorsen Shyr - an elven ranger and bard

Damakos Arkill - the Dark Urge sorcerer

Koryel Olonrae - a half-drow warlock with an Archfey patron

And everyone's Guardian, the wood-elf druid Talitha Lockheart

Most of the armor seen here comes from this mod.

Koryel's hair came from here.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #custom tav #can you guess who everyone is romancing?

[vaporwavemonk-art]

Pets of the Dawnspire! Our animal companions in our Princes of the Apocalypse campaign.

Beetle the beetle, Remington the badger, Jasper the weasel, Charles the mouse, and Jellybean the rat!

#d&d #dnd #dungeons and dragons #animal companion #art tag #princes of the apocalypse

[artsyarcane]

Yay! I’m finally done! Erasmus got a lot of new gear in our game (and glasses because apparently his eyes are the only part of him that remember what year he was born) so I decided it was time for an outfit redesign. He also has a small bag of holding that he wears around his neck which isn’t shown here because I was too lazy to draw it.

Current equipment (as of posting):

Wearing:

+2 Studded leather armor

Ratcatcher’s coat (similar effects to pipes of the sewer)

Silver ring

Planchette (Stone of Truesight [10ft])

Weapons:

Dawnspire (+2 rapier has the stats and effects of a sun blade)

Hound’s Tooth (Silver shortsword)

Hand crossbow (17 silvered bolts)

+1 Dagger

Darts (x50)

+1 Darts (x8 [flavored as throwing knives])

Bag:

Thieves’ tools

Journal

2 Flasks of holy water

Chime of opening (10 uses)

Bag of Holding:

Grappling hook+rope (180ft)

Packet of pixie dust

11 Magic beans

Various medicinal herbs

@morezizan, feel free to use this post as reference. Lemme know if I should update as needed.

#my art #d&d #dungeons and dragons #erasmus van richten #sunshine ghost #equipment log #dhampir #van richten's guide to ravenloft #dm also refers to the ratcatcher’s coat as “The Coat of Many Pets” due to Erasmus’ apparent Disney princess level affinity with animals.

[dawnspiration-blog]

Teach your Children, to Follow their Joy

Oh. Did someone call for a Lois Lane/Hot-For-Teacher over here? The script for this series certainly does. Today’s work entails me being a sassy stenographer named Macy.

And, as I slid on her glasses, I recalled how much I loved playing dress up as a child. How much I STILL love dressing up. And, how deliciously lucky I am to be able to do it almost daily in a variety of incarnations.

Parents, trust where your children’s joy lies. That’s the joy they will drive from - and, thrive on - for the rest of their lives. Even if it’s not where you find your joy. Or, if it makes you nervous... Or, if it makes you uncomfortable... Or, if it even scares you to death... You can’t change a person’s joy reservoir. So, take notice of what river they go to draw from. Help them fill it up as much as you can when they are young. And, then teach them to seek it when they need it most. That’s where their joy will be found long after their youth is gone.

#Dawnspiration

#hotforteacher #loislane #dawnmccoy #dawnspiration #joys #acting #dressup #newseries #macy #childsjoy #whatsyourdrive #findyourjoy #joyreservoir #fillyourselfup #findyourcalli #dowhatyoulove #actors #iloveacting #parents #trustyourkids #inspiratio

[vigilantezra]

Chapter One: The Song of The City

Who woulda guessed that taking a job as a janitor for Poseidon Industries would end up with me stuck smack-dab in the center of a mafia war between three ancient gods, fighting a spider-themed bounty hunter, and asking a gun for advice.

Alright, listen up, 'cause we got a labyrinthine twisted task of a tale to tell, and if you don't keep up, ya might get lost. First, to understand how this all goes down, you've got to know a little bit about the world we're talking about.

The world was once full of magic and wonder. Breathtaking dream-like landscapes rolled across the realm and mystical creatures soared through the sky. Blazing their way through this primal world of gods and monsters, there were heroes. The chosen few that could lead the way, cut through the darkness, and give their people hope. But as time passed, humanity did learn to tame this untamable earth. Slowly, but surely, heroes became legends, and legends became only myth. Civilizations discovered science, industry, technology, and the past eroded under the rushing current of the future. We built, and forgot.

It's a sunny Saturday afternoon in Sigil City. Thin, white clouds are stretched like cotton across the sky, split only by the Dawnspires, a union of interconnected, elegant, golden skyscrapers that twirl upwards towards the heavens. The sun beats down on the streets of the city, which are overflowing with thousands of people, all pushing against the tide of the foot traffic. A woman in the crowd reaches towards her purse, and her phone gently floats out into her hand as she takes a call. A delivery biker passes by towering bronze buildings and archways, as well as some glowing runes on a decrepit wall before cycling up a hill, past a rounded skyscraper of steel and glass parting a group of pigeons.

The sounds of construction, car horns, and music thrum together into a symphony that reverberates through the streets into the deeper layers of this megalopolis. We follow this sound through traffic, weaving around citizens, past the storefronts, and into a tucked away, gray cobblestone alleyway. We move through a gap in the lose stones, and as the sounds of the city become muddier and fade away, we see in the darkness a sickly green light, faintly illuminating the inside of an ancient tomb. A hand reaches out, and grabs the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Suddenly, the lights flash on and all that can be heard is the sound of a low, humming fluorescent light. Below it, the interior of the janitor's closet at Poseidon Stadium. I grab my mop, and begrudgingly walk out. I'm immediately met with the stench of cigarette smoke. Standing adjacent to the closet is a barrel-chested man with a bushy mustache and a pair of permanently furrowed eyebrows, accompanied by wiry, charcoal-colored hair and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He claps his hands, then speaks.

"Hurry it up, rookie. We gotta get the stadium clean before tomorrow's show, and I don't think you wanna piss off an Olympian."

"Yeah, yeah", I groan. We start walking down the hallway, a light at the end marking the double doors that lead out into the spectator area of the stadium. As we walk out, we're greeted with the heat of the sun. I look down. We've got a lot of work to do.

"Let's get to it, then", I say, as I walk down the stairs to complete yet another day in the wonderous life of a janitor.

[END]

[thepilgrimofwar]

Liminal

[Follow up to: The Door for Him Backstory for Context: The Curious Case of Apartment 547 Musical Embellishment: Go Tomorrow]

1.

Two and a half years. Two and a half, long, bloody years. Through war, famine, and the chaos that proceeded in their aftermath, Zharia had looked for her father. The Sunguard had said that he was deserter--that the final lead they had of his whereabouts was the ship that had smuggled him out of Quel’thalas at the very height of the Phoenix Wars.

But she knew Arrenir better than that. Her father did not run. When backed into a corner with nothing to lose, he’d have thrown himself into the fire over and over again until he or his enemies were dead. He must have taken that ship for a good reason, she just needed to figure out why.

For two and a half years, she had searched. Now, at last, her leads had finally brought her to Apartment 547.

Technically no one owned it anymore. All three co-owners were dead or presumed dead. Even so, getting the keys from the City Council of Dalaran was no issue, seeing that she was a blood relative to one of them. But when she slotted the key into the front door, she realized that it had not been locked.

Zharia swallowed hard, both excited and afraid of what she might find here. She prayed, Light upon Light, she prayed that she would not find her father’s corpse upstairs. Not after everything they had been through together, not after she had brought him back, and not after almost losing him to misery during The Fall. 

But Apartment 547 seemed normal. A layer of dust had taken residence upon the sheet covered furniture. The pots that Lirelle had left in their conservatory had become soil beds for new life. The kitchen and dining table, where there had been so much laughter and joy in the past, stood still with a contented silence. There was no death to be found here. No blackened stains of old blood, no smells of rot.

Zharia made her way up the stairs as rays of sunlight pierced the frosted windows of the apartment. It highlighted the dust that she was disturbing, coiling and floating upwards as she slid her palms over the guard rails. She had never visited personally but from the way Arrenir used to laugh at the time, she knew that the best years of his life were spent here. The rooms on the second floor were empty, save for the smell of sunbaked linen. Excitement had begun to fade as the fear that this was yet another pointless lead filled her heart.

But her fear quickly turned to dread when she made it to the top floor and saw the door at the end of the hallway. It was ajar.

No you fool. No, no, no.

Arrenir had told her about the doors long ago. He had wanted to get her opinion on their nature, seeing that she was a woman of logic and reason. Zharia had told him that they were the workings of a man who could not let go of a past--much like he used to be. She had warned him to be careful with them, lest they tempt him with their empty promises.

She was immune to the alluring claims that they could take you back in time, because unlike many others--often the ones who were time obsessed--she was not as naive. Zharia knew that in order to get where she was today, many things needed to have fallen in place exactly as they did. 

Even so, she could not deny that the thought of going back and fixing past mistakes was attractive, but the idea also opened up the possibility of so many other things going wrong. So in the end, she was glad to leave the past behind. It meant that the mistakes she could have made could no longer touch her. It was as Arrenir had told her, once upon a time, ‘that to fix one’s mistakes, it needed to be done in the present, not within the reach of the past.’

The man who had left the door ajar, the door at the end of the hallway, was not the man who she thought her father was. The Arrenir she knew would have never run--not from war--never from life. In a way, this revelation was so much worse than finding his body. It was suicide, only of a different kind.

Zharia stormed towards the door and pushed it wide open. The walls of the hallway seemed to narrow around her, but she ignored it. Dead, alive or something in between, she was not going to let the apartment stop her from tracking down her father.

As if sensing her intent and picking up on her desires, the hallway beyond the door warped and changed. Space seemed to compress until there was but a singular door for her. One that looked exactly as the one that had been left ajar.

“Much obliged,” she muttered as she opened it up to a hallway that led back into Apartment 547. Another Apartment 547.

2.

Everything was wrong. Because everything was right.

She could tell by hopeful chatter in Silvermoon’s streets, and by the way that eternal spring clung to the air of Eversong woods. It was as if the winter, born from the Phoenix Wars, had been nothing more fleeting nuisance instead of the catastrophe her people had suffered. Heading to the Dawnspire, Zharia passed Goldsea where its fields remained unblemished by the ravages of war, and through Autumnvale whose residents had raised a monument to the heroes who had so courageously given their lives for it.

As she gazed upon the alabaster towers of the Dawnspire Citadel, it was clear that the years had been kind to the Sunguard, this Sunguard. Here, following the war, they seemed to have the gratitude of the entire Thalassian nation in their debt. Here, they had been the Honor Guard of a new era of peace. But as abundant as it had been for the guild, the talk of passersby made it clear that it wasn’t nearly as bountiful as it had been for its leader, who apparently was expecting his third child in two years.

The old Guard had retired. Zharia gathered that from the bored receptionist who had been staring at the gates that were never breached, in the courtyard that had never seen blood. According to the girl that manned her uneventful station, the officers had all stepped away for a new generation of leaders. Officers Shadowsunder and Stormsummer had married and now looked to mend the House of Sunders of Shimmervale. The Sunfires had turned their duties to their children once more. Sunshard received a lordly commission of her own: a fleet from the crown itself. And as for Firestorm, the old man had finally settled to administer his realm of Shallowbrook. 

When it finally came to the topic of her father, after much gossipping, the receptionist was all too happy to inform her that he had too settled away from the Guard. Marrying one Lirelle Dawnbrook.

3.

Zharia paused at a lovingly crafted door to a cottage by the sea. A part of her didn’t want to knock. It would be so easy to turn around now, head back through the door at the end of the hallway and consider her father dead. But she needed to know if it was him. Really him. The man she had sought for so long.

Is where you went, you old fool?

The door swung open, revealing a war-scarred man with tied crimson hair. “Oh, Zharia? I didn’t realize you were visiting your father today,” he said with a smile.

“Sederis?” Zharia cocked her head involuntarily.

“We’re having a little reunion dinner tonight, but I suppose it wouldn’t be too much trouble if you joined us,” Sederis said, looking back into the cottage where a woman toiled away in the kitchen. “Right dear?”

“We’ll have more than enough food for her if you just leave her some!” she replied with a laugh before joining Sederis at the door. The woman wrapped an arm around her husband’s growing waistline and extended the other to shake Zharia’s hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met dear,” she said. “Ny Dawnbrook, Lirelle’s sister.”

Zharia stood still for a moment, stunned by the sight of the man who had long been dead. She hadn’t known him personally but Arrenir had spoken fondly of him, once upon a time. “Zharia,” she croaked, before shaking the offered hand. “Arrenir’s daughter.”

“Well come in,” Sederis said, welcoming her inside her father’s cottage. “He’s at the beach with Lirelle, probably catching crabs or some other nonsense!” The crimson haired man chuckled. Zharia had never seen him so happy. The times she had seen him in her own time, Sederis had always seemed to carry a weight about him. A burden that he no longer carried in either world.

She made her way inside as the couple returned to the kitchen, aiming to fill the house with the aromatic smells of roast meat and baked garlic before the sun set. It was a quaint place, with exotic plants around every corner, each of them flanked by display cases filled with beetles and bugs. 

You never put anything you loved on display. You never wore anything on your sleeve. Why now? Why here?

Her thoughts were cut short when she reached the back door to the cottage, one that opened up to a pristine beach. There, amongst white sands and gentle waves, she saw him. Arrenir Silversun, treading lightly upon rocky tidepools and pointing things out for Lirelle who followed in his wake.

He waved at her.

She waved back.

4.

“Your father will be along shortly,” said Lirelle as she arrived back at the cottage, thrusting her thumb behind her. “He got caught up wrestling a mudskipper for an aquatic crustacean he wanted.”

“Hasn’t changed a bit,” Zharia replied. “How are things?”

“Things are good, The Crows are having a well deserved break after putting down a rebellion against Lord Dumbass’ vassals over there.” Lirelle gestured in Sederis’ general direction before adding, “I told you so!”

“Yeah, yeah I know,” Sederis waved her off like a bad smell as he continued grilling dinner.

Zharia shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve...I’ve been away. Expedition overseas. A rebellion?”

Lirelle sighed as she leaned against the doorway. “You met my sister? I assume she failed to mention that she’s next in line to Dawnveil after my father eventually croaks it. Anyway, the only way she’d marry was matrilineally, and Sederis decided that he wanted to marry her.”

Sederis cleared his throat, carrying two skewers of meat in each hand. “Long story short. A few nobles got uppity because the Emberglades could end up with the Dawnbrooks in a generation. So we crushed them. End of story.” The Lord of the Emberglades leaned in to kiss his wife who batted him away, already preoccupied with a pan of paella. Seeing that he wasn’t wanted, he shifted over to Lirelle offering a peace kebab. “Thanks by the way.”

“Your gold was most welcome,” Lirelle replied with a smirk. She took a bite of her peace offering as she joined her sister in the kitchen when Arrenir finally appeared at the doorway to the cottage.

“Zharia, I didn’t know you were coming!” Arrenir bellowed as he wiped his boots on the welcome mat before taking them off.

“Neither did I,” Zharia responded.

A long silence followed, filled only by the chatter of the other guests in the kitchen as it slowly dawned upon Arrenir that something there was something amiss. She watched as the realization spread across him like fire.

“Zharia?” he said at last.

“Hello father,” she couldn’t bring herself to smile. A storm of emotions circled within her as she tried her best to speak.

“Dinner is served!” Sederis called out to them, interrupting the moment as he set a spread of food on the table.

“We’ll talk later?” Arrenir asked, as if to confirm that she would be staying long enough for them to speak.

Zharia nodded.

5.

“We visited Thandiel’s grave,” Sederis said somberly as the evening began to wind down, and drinks became uncorked. “Esheyn came with a bouquet of flowers. Biggest and brightest she’s ever grown. Personally I think the old Bloodknight would’ve much preferred a good bourbon, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture nonetheless.”

“We’ll be sure to leave her some the next time we go,” Lirelle replied. “Have something decent in one of your stashes we could borrow?”

“Stashes?” Ny raised an eyebrow at her husband who merely shrugged.

“Look, I committed to drink less, not banish every hidden cache of alcohol I have,” he said.

Lirelle snorted. “He probably doesn’t even remember where half of them are. And I can tell you where the other half is hidden.” She started ticking locations off on her fingers, “Way behind in the back of the cabinet in your bathroom, under the huge pot in the kitchen that Elan never uses, in the corner of my shed…the usual.”

“Well,” Arrenir interjected. “Highdawn’s death anniversary is coming up, so that’d be the best time for us to visit. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a second visit from the two of you,” he said with a smile.

“Will do,” Sederis said with a nod, and as the dinner drew to a close, the mellowed out Lord of the Emberglades rose to his feet and insisted on doing the dishes despite Arrenir’s protests. “Guest, or not guest, seeing that my brother is buried in paperwork and is not here...I’m the only one without more catching up to do.” The Pilgrim of War donned an apron, rolled up his sleeves, and with a weightless smile began to clean up.

“I’ll leave you two to it then,” said Ny, standing with her husband. “I’ve got to scold my sister here for not visiting home often enough.”

Lirelle stood up. “I visit plenty!”

“Ever since you two built your cottage, you’ve been coming back here between leading your campaigns with the Crows...” Ny trailed off as she left for the living room with Lirelle who chased after her elder sister with an incredulous look on her face.

Arrenir laughed at first, waving the both of them off until he was left at the dining table with Zharia. His Zharia.

She sat as she had throughout dinner, in a daze. Surrounded by the living dead, she wondered how differently their counterparts would’ve been if only they had lived.

“We should talk outside.”

6.

They sat upon the deck that overlooked the seaside. Stars dotted the skyline, reflecting off a dark and undulating sea below. Zharia couldn’t bring herself to speak at first, unsure if doing so would lead to catharsis or a gaping wound that would never close. But she needed to.

Arrenir broke the silence first, staring at the night sky as he did. “I--I never thought I’d see you again. It’s good to see you Zharia.”

“Is it?” she spoke at last. “You ran. Away from it all. Away from reality. Away from me.”

“I did,” Arrenir replied, staring at the night sky. “I’m sorry.”

She scoffed. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Arrenir spoke quietly as he turned towards her to look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry for abandoning you without a word. I’m sorry I left you without a body to bury and with questions, millions of questions, left unanswered.”

Zharia saw that there was genuine pain in his eyes. Her father didn’t do what he did lightly, that much she could see. And as Arrenir reached over to embrace her, she flinched at first, but quickly leaned into his shoulder and descended into tears.

“Why?” Zharia sobbed, shedding tears of grief and anger. “I never mourned you because I knew you weren’t dead. But this, this, is so much worse than that! Do you understand what you’ve done? You chose to go to a place where I can’t follow. Do I mean that little to you!?”

Arrenir held her as she yelled into his shoulder. “You mean the world to me,” he said softly. “I thought by coming here, I could do better. Be a better father. Be a better soldier. Be a better man. It was only after everything--the war, the life I built here--did I realize that you wouldn’t be a part of it.”

“And yet you never came back,” Zharia sneered as she tore away from her father’s embrace. “I guess it’s because you found what you were looking for.”

Arrenir looked back at the cottage he had built. The life that he had earned for himself through fire and blood. From each plank of its construction and each display case filled with the collections he had gathered. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I did.”

“Good for you.” Zharia said as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “Because this, all of this, is wrong. It belongs in another life. To another Arrenir. A life you’ve stolen it from him by coming here.”

Arrenir shook his head. “He’d have made the same mistakes I made. Nothing would have changed.”

“Would it?” Zharia shook her head. “I’m going now, back to where you ought to have been. Where your friends are dead and where your daughter is missing a father.” She rose from the deck. “This will be the last you’ll see of me.”

Arrenir swallowed hard, trying his best to choke back his tears. “Goodbye Zharia,” he said. “It was nice seeing you again. I was hoping that you’d stay--”

“Save it,” Zharia spat and turned to leave her father behind. “You raised me well enough to know not to run from my mistakes.”

7.

After long moments spent in deep thought, Arrenir finally returned inside to find that it was quiet. The kitchen was spotless, plates and pans drying on their respective racks. The living room still bore the scent of tea, but it was clear that his guests had already gone.

“Lirelle?” he called out to his wife but received no response. After checking each room of the cottage he finally found her on the front porch that overlooked her garden.

“Who the fuck are you?” She asked.

“How much did you hear?”

“Hear? Do you think I’m blind? I figured something was up the moment she spoke to me,” Lirelle glared at him. “She came through the apartment, didn’t she?”

“She did,” Arrenir said, knowing better than to mince words with her. “And so did I.”

“I always wondered why you became less insufferable to be around all of a sudden,” Lirelle said. “I thought it was because you finally understood who I was.”

“You aren’t wrong, though the only difference is that the realization happened elsewhere.”

“So I married a dupe,” Lirelle rested her face in her hands. “You’re not even my Arrenir.”

“I am your Arrenir,” he said, folding his arms. “Your Arrenir would’ve continued to be insufferable. Trying too hard to be something he thought you wanted him to be. And failing.” “Speaking from experience?” his wife got to her feet and folded her arms. “Fail with one Lirelle, but wait, don’t worry, there’s an infinite more to choose from! All you need to do is keep crossing fucking dimensions until you succeed in pinning me down. God I’ve got to be the worst Lirelle of the lot,” Lirelle spat as rage welled up inside her. “So is that it? Is that why you came here!?”

Arrenir looked her in the eyes and held her ire-filled gaze. “No,” he said. “I came here because you died.”

“What?”

“Sunstrider Isle, fighting Dame Everleigh’s forces. But instead of crushing them together, we had parted on poor terms. You died there, with Sederis.”

Lirelle’s demeanour changed and she sat back down. “And the Crows?”

“Died with you, save for a few. Garris sent me your death letter.”

She ran her fingers through her hair and shook her head, trying to wrap her head around how differently it could have all played out. “So you came here, because your Lirelle died.”

“You’re my Lirelle,” he responded without hesitation. “The Lirelle where I came from was never mine. Neither were you until you gave yourself to me.” 

“Really?” she said skeptically. “I bet if I had died on that field, like she did, you’d just have jumped ship again. Gone to another door. Tried again. Again and again until I lived.” 

“No.”

“No?”

Arrenir shook his head. “I didn’t come here because I wanted you to live. That wasn’t my regret. My regret was that I didn’t ride out with you. I came here, to this world, because I wasn’t there with my friends when everything came to an end. I should have been. I would have been, if I wasn’t so damned selfish.” He brought his hand to her cheek, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “I came here to die with you. If you had fallen, I’d have fallen with you. Because I love you. You.”

Epilogue

“Take me home,” said Zharia as she climbed the final steps to the top floor of Apartment 547. The door at the end of the hallway waited for her, already open. She took one final look at the world she was leaving behind. A better, brighter world, but not her’s. For better or for worse, this one belonged to her father now. She had hoped for catharsis--to bring her father back--but it was clear he was no longer the man she remembered. But even so, Zharia was content with closure.

I’m glad you found what you were looking for. I’m glad you finally found yourself. I just wish I could’ve been a part of that.

Goodbye, father.

She stepped through and the door to this world closed behind her, never to be opened again.

-fin-

I’ve been meaning to write this for a long long time. First, I told myself I’d do it after the Phoenix Wars. Then I told myself I’d do it after the Guild’s last day. Again, when I told myself I’d do it after The Emberglades Civil War.

I guess it took so long because I’ve always meant for this story to be a symbolic goodbye. As the last story I’ll ever write for WoW and it suppose it was hard saying goodbye to characters that I’ve role-played as for 5 years. Some even more than that. It isn’t the end of course, I’m still game to keep role-playing them from time to time. But as for the arcs that I’ve been doing since the Emberglades Saga go, this will be the last one.

I want to thank everyone who has made these last 5 years probably the best ones of my life. Guildies, raiding buddies, friends, and everyone who suffered with me through my Emberglades Civil War Campaign. Special shout out to Sean for not only for letting me use his Roll20 system to bring that story & campaign to life but for leading the Guild that has left so many fond memories for so many people over the years.

Photo Credit: Toast_91

#Arrenir #The End

[caeliri]

Wake of Woe

[[ Belated aftermath to the last Summerglen event, Fallow Fields and Hallowhearths!

Thank you once again to everyone who came to the event, it warms my heart that people have taken an interest in Summerglen and the story I’ve been slowly writing around it!]]

The bitter tang of blood was heavy on the air, plumes of sickly sweet rot rolling over the ruined floor in billows and bursts, permeating upheaved stone and sinking deep into the dark soil below. Spring was on the wind, bearing with it wet-heat and pollen that danced in heavy clouds through the fel-streaked valleys, but within the devastated halls of the chapel it only served to hasten the putrefaction of flesh and heating stagnant smears of blood until they birthed a more belly-churning scent. A hellish haze hung around her shoulders, and Caeliri let herself be swallowed whole by the trademarks of decomposition.

“Why do you return here?”

Caeliri’s eyes swept along the long-dried river of blood, following the snaking trail of maroon down it’s path to the edge of similarly colored skirts. She did not need to raise her eyes to her Seneschal’s face; she knew the woman’s pale, thin lips were pulled into a solemn frown and that the crimson brows above her bright blue eyes were furrowed tight enough to cast shadows over her sallow skin.

Lyla Redgrove was not a woman to question her employer or her oft-odd habits; the quel’dorei was stoic, polite, statuesque in the way that frightened people are, still when they did not need to move, exact in their motions when they did, trying to minimize their existence until they blended into the woodwork. It did not make her less effective in her position; she ran the young Dame’s small household with a terseness that did not allow for error, as if error was the foremost thing to be fearful of.

Thus, she did not question commands that came from Caeliri’s lips, nor offer argument as Liadove did; it was not her.

Not usually.

It was beyond the scope of Caeliri’s downcast vision, but Lyla’s hands - pale and near skeletal, ran through with veins so stark blue that her skin seemed almost translucent - curled tightly together, catching a loose length of blood-colored skirt and sliding it between her knuckles to soothe the tension twisting in her belly.

Caeliri said nothing, turning her head slightly towards the gruesome mound of flesh that had once been villagers, then a monster made of their disparate parts, then nothing more than loose skin and punctured organs that the Sunguard had laid to rest.

For days she’d come to the chapel and sat among the rot and ruin, and it was beyond worrisome.

No answer given, Lyla pressed on, her voice wavering --

“This behavior… is beyond unseemly. It speaks of madness--”

Reflexively Caeliri laughed - a short, sharp sound, entirely unlike her normal symphony of sweet giggles - and it did not help her case, “You think me mad, Lyla?”

The corner of Lyla’s mouth twitched, nearly reeling back into a fearful grimace, “Not mad,” a pregnant pause passed between them as the frightful woman selected her next word with a scholar’s scrutiny,”... morose.”

“Morose,” Caeliri parroted back, her shoulders heaving with a sigh. She forced her eyes away from the floor to the heap of rotting faces. In the slurry of skin, there were faces she recognized - decrepit and looseleaf as they were - and it made her stomach turn. Light be blessed there was nothing but bile in there. Guilt, hot and sharp, panged in Caeliri’s chest, and she drew in a deep breath, tasting turning flesh and old blood on her tongue, “...I can’t just leave them--”

“They are no longer; you mourn nothing but meat.”

It was a harsh truth; when the Legion’s fel-fissures were purified, the magic that bound the unwilling spirits of the dead to Summerglen was severed, and they had fluttered away like so much sand on a windy beach. Still, Caeliri could feel a lingering presence, a whisper of agony still etched in the stones of Summerglen, an unending reminder of the life lost here.

She’d noticed it first with Elleynah, in the ramshackle ruins of Azsuna; phantom fragments seemed drawn to them both - Elleynah for her Sight, Caeliri for her sundered soul, still marked by death, blackened by the Winter of Woe and the time she’d spent in the unwieldy Inbetween - and even now, a thousand miles away from that cursed place, she felt the fear and pain of those whose lives had been ended here. Caeliri had hoped that employing the talents of those Light-blessed would purge the spirits in their entirety, but it seemed as though the echoes of their violent end would never fade.

Or maybe it was all in her mind. Maybe at last all the guilt she slung over her slim shoulders was crushing the sense out of her.

”You only make yourself suffer more.”

Silence swelled between them again, and Caeliri could not - would not - pull her eyes from the bloody avenues that ran through the crumbling floors. “Do you know why I built this place?”

“For spiritual enlightenment?”

“For sanctuary.”

At last she hauled herself up from the floor, the motion slow and labored, as if her slight frame weighed a thousand, thousand pounds and ached with ages that did not belong to her. She kept the same haggard pace she moved to the nearest support column, fingertips finding a vein of pale grey that snaked lazily through the creamy stone, tracing it up and out as far as her arm could reach as she spoke, “Lord Firestorm advised against it; he told me that funds would be better spent on arms and armor, on barracks, on something befitting war… but he ceded to my judgement. He let me make my choice, because I knew Summerglen better, and put forth the money to build this place.”

“It was a noble endeavor,” Lyla offered, an earnest edge in her voice; what else would a Confessor say?

“It was,” Caeliri agreed, letting her fingers slide back down the stone, until her hand came limply to her side. “This place was supposed to be for everyone, all faiths, for them to find solace and comfort, for us to hold sermons or village meetings or just give people a place to be alone with their faith. I wanted to fortify this place, so that it would be a bastion, a final stand for the people of Summerglen if ever the time arose. Tahnuu was meant to help me secure the supplies to erect Lightforged barriers.”

The Draenei had not failed on her part; with old hatreds laid to rest, it was easy to facilitate a meeting with engineers eagerly adopting the blessed metals of the Lightforged, and several Artificers of the Lightforged themselves. But no warrior of the faith would freely relent on their divine gifts without scrutiny, and rather pursue her initial plan to fortify the chapel with other worldly advancements… Caeliri had burned her favor on a gift.

“You spent the allotment of supplies on Lord Dawnstrider’s arm,” Lyla stated simply, her voice bereft of judgement - that didn’t stop Caeliri from flinching where she stood. “You feel guilty.”

“I am guilty,” Caeliri turned, letting her back thud against the pillar, “I told them this place was safe. I told them, time and time again, that this would be their safe heaven should anything happen.” Her hand shot out towards the lingering, lifeless lump in the corner, but Lyla’s eyes would not follow her arm. “They all came here, seeking safety, and they died here.”

“You ordered the evacuation of Summerglen prior to the assault, did you not?”

Caeliri let her hand drop heavily to her side, her wrist striking her own bony hip so hard it sent an ache shivering through her arm. “I did.”

“Many citizens stayed behind, did they not?”

“Yes, but --”

“There is no ‘but’ -- there is nothing more you could have done. The Archon, your Lord, ordered you to the west to defend the Evergrove, and you went. What difference would it have made, had you come to Summerglen?” Lyla’s pale, thin lips pressed into a stern line. “You would have traded lives in the Evergrove for lives here - maybe. More likely than not, you would have died here.”

“I would not--”

“You would have stayed and held the line until every last villager escaped. Do you know who stayed to hold the line?”

Caeliri did not answer the question - it felt pejorative and foolish to offer a response. She knew the names of the Guardians who had stayed behind, and she knew where they were now.

Lyla did not press her point. Between them the silence drew on, until it was taut and oppressive.

A sigh slipped through the former Confessor’s lips, and at last the tension that trembled through her knuckles eased ever so slightly. Daintily, she lifted up her dark skirts and crossed the space between them, small feet weaving artfully over the filth that stained the stones. Lyla laid one pale, bony hand on Caeliri’s shoulder, and Caeliri could feel the cold seeping through the shoulder of her blouse. “This is not penance - this is self-mutilation of the soul. You ruin yourself with this quest for moral purity. Your suffering now does not ease theirs then. You have already committed yourself to Summerglen’s renewal, this,” Lyla let loose her skirts and wafted her now free hand through the air, her skin catching the light and seeming to glow, “solves nothing. Nor does it help you grieve, stewing in your mistakes. Reflect, adapt, but do not linger in the remnants of what-has-been.”

The effort of touch grew too much for the Steward to bear, and she pulled her hand away, taking a few shuffling steps backwards to regain a more appropriate distance. “The Anori priests will be here any day now to assist with the last rites and the funeral pyres; you needn’t maintain this vigil any longer.” Lyla offered nothing more than a polite curtsey, and left, artfully dodging the ruined remnants of the chapel as she made her way back to the manor.

Caeliri was not so quick to depart, tethered to this place by a thick strand of remorse, but slowly, she pressed forward, down the stairs, along the aisle, and out into the white-hot light of day. It was harsh enough to sting her eyes, and she lifted an arm to block it, wincing against the brightness. There was a clarity in the burning as enlightening as Lyla’s harsh words, and when the world around her began to bleed back into view, Caeliri hefted a mighty sigh, deflating slightly where she stood - before pulling her shoulders up and back.

She had sworn to see this through unto the end - she would not renege on her promise to the citizens of Summerglen. If she could stare down the black-rot face of death and still stand to swing a sword and bear a shield, she could rebuild a village ravaged.

[[ Tags: @vaelrin @stormandozone @veloestian @thesunguardmg @telchis ]]

#writing #summerglen #the dawnspire #the sunguard #fallow fields and hallowed hearths #caeliri