Sometimes, I edit video game/movie trailers.
Sometimes, I do Street Fighter documentaries.
Sometimes, I write stuff for my D&D sessions.
POST 1
The Kingdom of Durn
The Kingdom of Durn, or "The Durns" as it is colloquially known by the locals that inhabit the region, is autocratic in government structure. It is under control of King Walter Durn and his royal family. Durn’s social structure is fairly relaxed, not adhering to traditional “noble/peasant” caste systems of older Elaroth nations, although it is still rare for a peasant to marry into a family of nobles. The native population mostly consists of humans and a minority of dwarves.
It boasts a fairly strong economy that is known for its fishing and mining trade due to its geographical location. The fishing villages of Rotter’s Bay, Mosscove and Emerton generally send most of their trade to Port Mason, where it heads to other parts of Elaroth.
The mining cities of Durnhold and Skywatch (and to a lesser extent Giant’s Eye), built on top of the impressive Durncrag and Durncell mountains respectively, act as early warning posts for the surrounding lands and maintain strong defensive fortifications. Most of the Royal Durnese Army is spilt between these 2 cities as well as Durn’s capital city, Cragstone. The Royal Durnese Navy is based out of Saltfort and Port Mason.
Militarily speaking, Durn has a small army compared to the other nations of Elaroth. However, Durnese soldiers are famed throughout the lands for their proficiency and ferocity with axes, specifically the double bearded axe, which is also Durn’s symbol.
Cultural similarities to dwarven nations have given rise to the joke that Durnese are ‘dwarves as human gods made them’.
In recent times, the Kingdom of Durn has been in an uneasy peace with their larger neighbours to the west, the Nymerian Coalition. This is largely due to the fact that Durn is nearly impossible to siege from the west and that Nymeria itself is facing civil unrest amongst it's smaller states, the closest of these states being Berceau and Le’Bastion.
POST 2
'I Am Your Blood', Dacian War Chant
Dacia, The God Nomad, is worshipped by the bison riders of The Golden Steppes. Chiefly, he represents transience, freedom, and to a lesser extent, nature. A gifted shapeshifter, Dacia favours the form of a bison and falcon - seeing the latter is often regarded as a good omen.
While not traditionally a war-like people, steppe people are fiercely territorial, and consider their domain sacred ground. If ever on the receiving end of this chant, know that running won't save you - death is your only escape.
“Mighty Dacia, the Freeing One,
Hear me, for I am your blood.
Vengeance is swift, but you are faster.
Give me fury.
Judgement is quick, but you are faster.
Give me glory.
Life is fleeting, but you are faster.
Give me death.
Sons of unending plains, to arms!
Sons of limitless sky, to me!
Sons of Dacia, to war!"
POST 3
Set in Stone: A Durnese Excerpt
Historically, Durn’s capital city of Cragstone has always been the seat of power in the region. But for all its splendour and wealth, it is not the kingdom’s true symbol. That distinction is found atop craggy peaks, carved into ancient stone: the mining city fortresses of Durnhold and Skywatch.
More famously known as The Twins, the fortresses are so aptly named for their identical aesthetics, as well as the identical siblings that lord over them: crown princes Declan and Wylan. Their shared bloodline and visage however, is as far as the similarities go.
Together, the twin brothers continue Durn’s centuries-old reign over the vast mountain range - a proud tradition that has brought the nation much wealth, but also much conflict. Yet through it all, Durnhold and Skywatch have endured. As a reminder of Durnese resolve, all who enter The Twins will find an inscription, etched above the massive portcullis to both fortresses:
“Always does the line of Durn reside in The Twins,
for if Mountain-born do not stand with their home,
then the mountain will never stand for us."
4 ages, 7 wars and countless raids - The Twins have never been taken, and for good reason.
Geographically inaccessible and uncharted, the Durnese military consists of Durnese Rangers who employ guerrilla warfare, utilising a network of secret tunnels to ensure that each skirmish funnels enemy forces into easily fortifiable choke points, where Axemen eagerly await melee combat.
Relative to the mountains themselves, The Twins are young. And while the Durnese have mapped out much of the range, there is still much they have yet to uncover, in the ancient depths that lay unseen.
POST 4
Mosscove: In Unsavoury Company
The drunk musings of Tom Pendleton, Bard of the Mostess, Layer of the Hostess(es), transcribed by Penelope Hope:
Ladies and gentlemen, patrons of The Bleeding Mare. It’s time for some honesty. Because lord knows, we need quite a bit of it.
[Laughter erupts]
Every kingdom has its shithole. And if you ask any Durnish worth their stone, expect only one definitive answer: Mosscove.
[A chorus of boos]
An underwhelming name, for a port town that’s anything but.
[A smattering of applause, table thumps and hearty cheers]
We're home to the kingdom’s notorious: Bootleg Betty, Danny ‘The Shiv’, Volrathi’s Vipress…
[Whoops and grunts in agreement]
‘The Kid’
[A deathly silence takes the pub, as Tom clears his throat awkwardly]
Just to name a few…
[He continues]
Our swampy, algae-infested docks are rife with black market negotiations, not-so-white lies, under-the-table trading, and behind-the-back deals. And if living here’s taught me anything, it’s that a dagger under pillow means a good night’s sleep.
[Soft chuckles]
Outsiders have wondered - how can this damp, lice-ridden, moral-lacking, money-grubbing, whore-mongering town survive?!
[A bated silence]
To them I say: Haven’t you heard of money?
[The pub erupts in laughter]
We’re in so many pockets, Durn’s finest tailor would have trouble keeping up!
[More laughter]
Right! Enough talking. What does my esteemed audience want to hear?
[A cacophony of song dedications]
Ahhh, a fine choice, lass. Fancy a private performance with me later! No? Your loss!
Ladies and gentlemen, a Durnish classic: “The Bear and Maiden Fair.”
[Clapping fades]
Post 5
Diamond in the Rough
A Candid Reflection by Sabine Devereux, Head Matron
My how time flies. It seems like only yesterday when Emilia was just a babe, swaddled in my arms, wailing to high heavens. And yet in two days, her voice shall be heard throughout the kingdom, for a crown will sit atop her head.
Only then shall I know the fruits of my labour. The countless lessons in etiquette she loathed. The utterly trying times with her dreadful sewing. The delightful hours we spent learning, locked away in the royal library. I shall miss all of it dearly.
Much will change after the Queen’s Coronation. It is no longer my voice she will listen to for counsel, for kingly matters are lost on me. Not every voice works in her interest, and I pray she remembers that teaching. But I am sure this worrying is all for naught, simply the ramblings of an old lady.
Emilia is a bright and confident child, astute and naturally gifted at solving problems – a much more balanced individual when placed beside Declan and Wylan. If her twin brothers are two sides of a Durnish axe, she will be the handle that keeps them together. With her father’s failing health, many will turn to her for guidance.
In time, Emilia will be a great queen, I am certain of it. But her journey there will be less so. She does not take bitterness well, and she will have to endure much of it. Till this day, Emilia blames herself for the death of her mother, Emily.
Oh my sweet child, know that I have tried my very best in her absence, for I love you like the daughter I never had.
But you are no longer mine now. You belong to your people.
Love live Emilia, Queen of the Durns.
Long may she reign.
Post 6
‘Gaze Upon: Mosscove’, a monthly column
By Stanley Quartermaine, Gentlemen Traveller
As many of my loyal readers know, these bright, blue eyes of mine have seen many things in their travels. Yet, their gaze is always hungry for more. For this instalment, see what I see, and live vicariously through me, as I take you to Mosscove, Durn’s seedy underbelly.
It’s often said that travel broadens the mind. From my prior research and conversations with the Durnish, they are convinced no good can come from my travelling there, even going so far as to call me, ‘a blooming idiot’. I wanted to prove them wrong.
Set out on a mission to dispel stereotypes, I have to say that Mosscove has truly taken me by surprise: it is so much worse than anything you’ve heard. If not for my lovely guide, Tom Pendleton, I believe the town would’ve sunk its hooks into me, quite literally.
I'd like to thank Master Pendleton for saving me after being robbed. Tom tells me he does it on a daily basis - such bravery. I'm not sure what he gets out of it, but to each his own.
Let me be crystal clear: do not travel there. But if you have the unenviable task of doing business at Mosscove, here’s some free advice Tom gave me, which is well worth heeding:
Don’t be daft.
Life is cheap here, so don't get greedy. Pay a little bit extra for some common sense.
Know who’s who.
The phrase, “don’t you know who I am?”, can be heard more often than you think. Befriend a local to avoid this happening to you.
Pack light.
Do not have anything of value on you. Yes, a silver tooth is valuable.
[More of my travels in Mosscove on the next page]
Post 7
Durnish Steel: Proving Your Mettle
A Brief Insight Into Durn’s Armsmasters
As much weapon custodians are they are historians, Armsmasters are arbiters of the Durnish military, answerable only to royalty and the High Axemaster himself. But to understand why their role commands the reverence and respect it does, we must first understand the Durnish tradition known as ‘steel singing’.
While most soldiers choose their weapons, Axemen do not choose what axe to wield. Rather, it chooses them, and it is the Armsmaster’s duty to facilitate that conversation in the form of a duel.
It’s often said that you can tell the character of a person by the way they fight – Armsmasters take that to a different level. With every strike, block and parry, they are able to glean more and more of the wielder’s character. What sounds like the clashing of axes to the untrained ear, is an ongoing song of mountain steel that all Armsmasters are attuned to, something acquired after decades of strenuous training. It is this same skill that also allows Armsmasters to discover the true names of axes, aside from the ones given to them.
If ‘the axe rings true’, then a bond is formed between weapon and man – a sacred oath that cannot be broken except in death. Consequentially, losing your axe through negligence is a crime punishable of the same magnitude.
By tradition, the axes of fallen Axemen are never buried with their masters. Instead, the axes’ deeds are documented by the Armsmaster, before being handed down to their next worthy successor. Some axes have grown so accomplished in title, that for brevity’s sake, it is acceptable to refer to them by their true names.
Because Armsmasters are chosen from the ranks of Axemen, the common misconception is that they are singled out due of a lack of combat prowess. This couldn’t be further from the truth. Those selected have a scholarly disposition and strong innate martial talent that is favoured for ‘steel singing’, and while they might not see open battle as much, Armsmasters are exceptional fighters in their own right.
Post 8
Mosscove’s Notorious: Profile 1 of 4
A preliminary report by Spymaster Gideon
Minister Anders, please find enclosed my initial assessment of Mosscove’s chief undesirables, as per your request. The information contained in this folder has required up to a year of intelligence gathering – a combination of dogged surveillance, expensive informants and high-risk, long-term undercover work.
As such, I would like to request recognition for the team assigned, as well as compensation to the families of those lost in the line of duty.
~
Real Name:
Aida Hadir
Known Aliases:
Minerva, The Volrathi Vipress
Background:
Hailing from the distant shores across the Azure Sea, Aida is an exile of the Volrath Empire. While no information can be found on her childhood, based on the earliest salvageable records from Volrathi archives, we place her age at approximately 64 years old. However, sources have cited she does not look a day over 30. Suspected use of illusory magic or elixirs.
Received extensive herb, alchemy and mystic training at the Imperial Volrathi Institute, before failing to complete the final year. Curiously, her records were ordered expunged, though we are unable to ascertain why. Further inquiries forthcoming.
Aida’s trail goes cold for decades, until resurfacing at Mosscove as an apothecary. Her small business serves as a front for black market sales of prohibited herbs and more notably, poisons. Of particular interest are the following concoctions:
Nightbane
Death’s Edge
Tears of Eventide
The Long Night
No noteworthy Durnish deaths have coincided with her appearance, suggesting that her clientele come from outside the kingdom.
Recommended Course of Action:
No immediate threat. Valuable source of foreign intelligence. Maintain surveillance and contact through deep-cover operative.
Post 9
Mosscove’s Notorious: Profile 2 of 4
A preliminary report by Spymaster Gideon
~
Real Name:
Daniel Brydon
Known Aliases:
Danny ‘The Shiv’, Shivers
Background:
Born in Findletown, Daniel was orphaned by age 9 and survived as a street urchin, before being picked up by Cronian mercenaries en-route to Cragstone. During that time, he trained and fought under the leadership of Sigurd Johansson, a former Knife of the Assassinatus Cronia.
After 11 years of service, Daniel parted ways with the company on mutual terms and returned to Findletown. However, the return home did not bode well for Daniel. Gemma Hersch, the town healer, notes:
“For what manner of fate has dealt such a cruel hand to young Daniel, I cannot say, but a boy should not have to endure the hardships of losing his parents, nor the atrocities of battle, let alone both. To say he is maladjusted to civilian life is putting it lightly, for he has spent more than half of his putting others to the sword.
I am running at my wits end to find a remedy for Daniel’s persistent state of paranoia, restlessness and hallucinations. The more I try, the more I am convinced the damage is irreversible. Lately, I have heard rumours that Daniel has been travelling to Mosscove. For what purpose? I dare not wonder.”
Eventually, Daniel sought comfort in the bottle and illegal substances, once again taking up mercenary jobs in Cragstone to fuel his vices. Not long after, he moved to Mosscove, where the jobs paid better as long as less questions were asked.
Corroborated by our representative from the Assassinatus Cronia, we believe Daniel has at least 12 murders to his name this year alone (including 5 of ours). Previously, lawful apprehension has eluded us due to a lack of eyewitnesses.
His notable murders include:
Augustus Schultz, Durnish Wine Baron
Imelda Amaline, Duchess of Berceau
Kingsley Thompson, Durnish Merchant Mogul
Efforts to isolate him from Mosscove for interrogation have proven difficult. Surveillance has also been challenging. His residence in the town is unknown – scouts report him entering at least 2 dozen homes.
Recommended Course of Action:
Issue an executive order for his arrest. Requesting for the assistance of Sentinels.
Post 10
LOVELY LULLABY OR TERRIFYING TRUTH?
‘A Hunt for Elaroth’s Darkest Secrets’ by Luno Xenophilius
Brothers and sisters, I’m sure we’re all familiar with ‘A Mother’s Woe’ – a lullaby sung by many a mother, desperately trying to put their child to sleep. As sweet as it may sound, what I am about to share will make you quiver with fright, for something much sinister lies at the heart of this song.
According to extremely credible sources, whom shall remain anonymous, gripping new evidence suggests the lyrics originate from an old wives’ tale once told centuries ago, when a dark evil plagued these lands.
It speaks of an unseen shadow, a deathly gale – a demon of the night. Known by many names, save for one that Heaven no longer acknowledges. An angel’s mighty fall from grace that wrought terrible wrath upon the realm she was banished to – Elaroth.
Why did the gods see fit to punish our ancestors with such wanton evil? Time has eroded that answer. But for you, I will endeavour to chip away at the stone that is truth.
Knowing what you now know, read the lyrics below and tell me that it does not sound like a unsettling warning of much darker times.
~
'A Mother's Woe'
Hush now child,
Not a peep.
Night is here,
and you should sleep.
Quiet as the
field mice go,
Quickly now,
Or there'll be woe.
Say a prayer,
Count to four.
My oh my,
Who's at the door.
Hold my hand,
Clutch it tight,
Everything
Will be alright.
Close your eyes,
Don't you flee,
Learn this tune,
And hum with me.
You can't move,
You can't run.
Not when it’s last
of the evening sun.
POST 11
Durn Everlasting: The kingdom’s patron god and religion
Hathor, The God Mountain, is the patron deity of Durn. Depicted in legends as a titan, he is one of five gods attributed with the creation of Elaroth. As a symbol of permanence and perseverance, these two themes are central to the teachings of Durn’s religion - Aeternum.
Practiced widely throughout the kingdom, Aeternum’s core tenet of 'permanence through perseverance’ embraces a nobler, more enlightened definition of immortality. One that is not achieved through everlasting life, but in the hearts, minds and words of those who remember you.
This has greatly shaped the temperament of the Durnish, who are extremely dedicated to seeking and focusing on their life’s work - deeds and ideals which usually persist from generation to generation. And at the beginning of each day, this Aeternum prayer is recited as a reminder of that commitment.
A Prayer of Stone:
Hathor,
Stone Father,
Mountain Mason,
Eternally unyielding.
Bless us with hard weather,
For we endure in your shadow.
Bless us with hard lessons,
For you are our rock.
Bless us with hard labour,
To keep these hands strong.
Bless us with hard times,
To unearth life’s true value.
POST 12
Singing On The Plains: A Look At Dacian Riding Songs
by Gywnevir Lorelei, Scholar of the Bardic Arts
While it is true that riding comes naturally to the bison nomads of The Golden Steppes, the same can be said for their love of singing. Fortunate enough to accompany the plainsfolk on a week-long journey to their capital of Odagan, here are some of my observations and insights about a side of steppe culture few have rarely seen, let alone heard of.
There are songs for every occasion, and riding is no exception. As a blend of ritualistic chanting and singing, Dacian riding songs are usually sung to sustain morale. But during particularly long journeys that require hard riding through day and night, these songs take on another purpose.
Combined with consumption of Goldroot, a mild stimulant, it is not uncommon for riders to enter a trance-like state of hypersensitivity when chanting these songs repeatedly in unison. The fastest riders have even claimed to converse with the Dacia himself.
What is also remarkable, is that different riding songs are sung by the Canterer: whose role is to control the pace of the ride as his First Bison commands. One such song that I learned in my travels talks to the steppes themselves, cueing a godly enquiry about the conditions the riders can expect in the near feature.
The Sky and the Plain:
Sky, my oldest friend.
The places you have been.
Have you spoke to Falcon?
The sights he must have seen.
What of Sister Wind,
Is she quick or is she slow?
And of Brother Rain,
Does he come or does he go?
~
Plain, my oldest friend.
The ground that I call home.
Have you spoke to Bison?
The things that he must know.
What of Mother Moon,
Does she smile or does she glow?
And of Father Sun,
Will he hide or will he show?
~
Sky and Plain my friends,
Will you sing our song in kind?
Strong like He who tramples,
And swift like He who flies.
POST 13
Mosscove’s Notorious: Profile 3 of 4
A preliminary report by Spymaster Gideon
~
Real Name:
Bethany Bartleby
Known Aliases:
Bootleg Betty
Background:
A 3rd generation Mosscove native, Bethany is the only daughter of notorious pirate lord, Samuel ‘Blackwaters’ Bartleby.
Having spent most of her life at sea, she has inherited her father’s fearsome reputation, formidable piracy skills and considerable wealth upon his passing a decade ago. In the years following his death, Bethany has shown great leadership in maintaining the fleet, and a head for business which Samuel did not – using the capital to start the Bartleby Shipping Consortium, a business alliance with several legal shipping businesses across Rotter’s Bay, Port Mason and Saltfort.
Upon her succession, Durnish Navy has reported a decreasing frequency of piracy in domestic waters. While we have yet to confirm with reports from our deeper scout patrols, it seems that Bethany has opted to focus more on shipping and smuggling, with her pirate fleet operating seemingly independently outside Durnish waters. At this point, I am still unclear as to what her intentions are, but between this and piracy, it is certainly the lesser of two evils.
That being said, with her wealth and power, Bethany is the mayor of Mosscove in all but name. She wields considerable influence there, and across all of Durn’s port towns and shipping routes as well, thanks in part to her shrewd networking between Durnish nobility and aristocracy.
Recommended Course of Action:
Befriend. Her preference for civility and appetite for recognition can be leveraged upon. If swayed to our side, Bethany will be the foothold in Mosscove we have long been looking for - bringing some semblance of law and order to a town that is sorely lacking in either.
POST 14
Painting the Town Red: The City of Le’Bastion
by Tom Pendleton, Bard Extraordinaire, Gentleman Most Debonair
Oh, Le’Bastion! My burgundy mistress, my crimson caper – how you make my heart flutter like no woman can. You are my home away from home, and each time I visit, I find myself more enamoured than the last. I wonder, what sort of saccharine spell do you have me under?
Could it be how you look?
The ruby minarets that gleam brilliantly in the setting sun.
The grand cathedrals and houses of rich, red marble.
The fairest maidens draped in haute couture.
Could it be how you sound?
The chirping robins of a morning after.
The boisterous haggling in the market square.
The angelic voice of Royal Songstress, Adele Granier.
Could it be how you taste?
The finest, full-bodied reds Elaroth has ever produced.
The delightfully pungent cheeses from neighbouring Berceau.
The plumpest, juiciest ducks this side of the realm.
Could it be how you smell?
The heady fragrance wafting from Madam Buchard’s perfumery.
The appetizing aroma from The Regal Rooster.
The floral scents of Le Royal Botanique.
Could it be how you feel?
The lustrous silks imported from the heart of Nymeria.
The bohemian ambience of the Artist’s District.
The loving embrace of my sweet Josephine.
Oh, Le’Bastion! I could go on forever. But a man must make a living, even for one as golden-tongued as me.
POST 15
The Artistry of Death: Assassinatus Cronia
By Corvo Altaire, Historian in Residence at Academia Cronia
Life is cheap. Take a dark turn down a wrong alley in any city and you can find a dozen thugs willing to murder, if you have the coin. Since time immemorial, the demand for death has never been in short supply. But if you simply want somebody killed, you’ve come to the wrong place.
If you want to make a statement however, then the doors of the Assassinatus Cronia are always open. With blades as their brush, blood as their paint and Death as their muse, Elaroth’s most fearsome assassins have shaped the canvas of history in more ways than we dare to know.
While the nation of Cronia is predominantly elvish, members of the guild come from all walks of life, from all four corners of the realm – leaving the lives they know at the door, forsaking their name and renouncing the gods they once held dear. Once becoming an initiate, the Assassinatus Cronia are trained to be part physician, part alchemist, part engineer, part mage and all assassin, with their specialisations decided after taking the final test.
As followers of Mortana, the Goddess of Death, each full-blooded member of the guild is formally inducted through a symbolic and literal sacrifice, committing suicide as the ultimate pledge of their eternal servitude. Not all return to the living, but those that do are deemed worthy of Mortana’s favour, and granted unnatural boons tailored to the individual.
Although there is no denying the application of complex, powerful energies in the resurrection process, there is uncertainty in ascertaining the root magic it belongs to. While most mages acknowledge presence of necromancy, it is this writer’s humble opinion that it closer resembles a purer, darker form of restoration magic.
Whatever the case may be, I hope I never find out first hand.
POST 16
A Veneer of Civility: The Lie About Le’Bastion
Friends, comrades, countrymen. I am a loyalist. And I have had enough.
Let us not lie to ourselves any longer. Our once proud city is barely a shell of its former self. While things may seem unchanged since our vassalage to Nymeria five decades ago, cracks are starting to form at the seams, and that façade is soon to unravel.
I am simply here to help that along.
The Nymerians will tell you that we did the right thing. That being a vassal state was the best course of action our leaders could have taken. That they avoided needless bloodshed. That there is dignity in surrender.
Tell me, how dignified do you feel when you see our fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters enslaved in our own vineyards and estates, supervised by spineless cowards who turned on us at the drop of a hat?
How dignified do you feel, to know that we will never reap and share in the rewards of the industries we’ve worked so hard to build.
How dignified do you feel, to know that our liege is answerable to their viceroy? A king in every sense of the word, save for where it counts the most – leading our people.
Curse the king. Curse the Nymerians.
Down with the king. Down with Nymeria.
My voice has been heard, as have thousands more. Will you stand up and be counted, comrade? Will you be part of history?
For life. For love. For liberty.
Yours unequivocally,
Guy Dupont
POST 17
Illvari: The Ancient One
By Eira Aesophyr, Mysticiar of the Elven Enclave
From the day every elf is born in Etharios, we are taught to fear the Orcs – to hide and avoid them at all costs. Once we are old enough to wield a blade and notch an arrow, we are taught to hate them – that the only good Orc is a dead one.
In my two centuries as protector of these lands, my dealings with Orcs have proven the adage true, time and time again. But as of last night, I am forced to confront an unsettling truth, one that can never see the light of day.
We come from the same ancestor.
Of late, my scrying sessions have become less and less controlled, as I feel my mind slowly giving way to unfettered streams of consciousness – free spirits that exist in the Ethereal.
Most of the time, their company and guidance is appreciated. But what I encountered last night was no free spirit. It felt older. Ancient. And unlike anything I have seen on this plane of existence, it had form and more importantly, features.
Not entirely an orc, nor an elf, it spoke in a long-forgotten tongue that shared some phonetic similarities of both languages. Alas, I did not understand much, save for one phrase the being kept repeating: Illvari.
It was at that moment that my scrying was severed. Steward Loren had decided to check in on me after I had failed to attend the morning’s council meeting. By his account, my body was convulsing on the floor. Thankfully, my secret is safe with him.
I shall attempt another scrying tonight, with Loren by my side.
POST 18
Illvari: Of Gods and Their Creations
By Eira Aesophyr, Mysticiar of the Elven Enclave
Ever since my first encounter with Daemos over a month ago, the scrying sessions have intensified. What was once mere minutes now takes up entire hours.
Alas, Scry Sickness has taken hold, and its symptoms are unbearable. Despite my steward’s best efforts, I suspect I only have a few more months at most. However, as I have told Loren, that is a price I am willing to pay – for who would reject the company of a Divine?
There is much to learn from him, for we as mortals have lost too much through the sands of time. But in the Ethereal, as I have recently learned, time has no hold. And so, much of what we have lost remains here, waiting to be reclaimed.
Imagine the knowledge. Imagine the power. Imagine the possibilities. Daemos is my chance at getting all of those things, and transcending this mortal shell.
Understandably, absence from my duties has greatly displeased the Enclave, and they have threatened my expulsion. But by the time they realize what I have been doing, it will no longer matter.
I suspect I am one of the few in Elaroth to ever hear Godspeak, a language older than Elaroth itself. Through much effort, I have also learned that Illvari does not represent a single being as I had initially surmised. Rather, as Daemos has explained, it is a collective of ancients – the first of each of our races, created to carry on with the creation of mortals.
I do not know where Daemos fits into all of this, for he is reluctant to share. But I suppose I shall find out when the time is right.
POST 19
The Durnish Dervish
By Armsmaster Dorian
Every Durnish soldier is no stranger to battle. But there is no one who knows it better, and loves it more, than the First Axe of Durn, Eskel Voss - the Durnish Dervish.
If you have to ask how he got the name, then you’ve never seen him fight. Most Axemen spend their whole lives devoted to a single axe, but Eskel is one of a handful who have been attuned to two.
Our enemies say he fights like the devil.
Our men say he fights like a god.
In truth, he fights with the favour of one.
And I should know, because I was there the day that happened.
While it is my duty to ensure that Durnish axes find their rightful wielders, there are moments when it is an absolute joy and honour; like one such occasion fifteen years ago, when I attuned Eskel.
In the art of steel singing, Durnish Armsmasters sometimes speak of the Song of Steel - a martial contest so rapturous, that it is heard and witnessed by Hathor himself, elevating ritual combat well past its purpose of axe attunement.
On that fateful day, I was part of history when my duel with Eskel became the eighth recorded Song of Steel since Durn’s inception some three centuries ago. What felt like mere minutes actually lasted five hours, as we fought well beyond the limitations of our mortal bodies and minds.
Thoroughly enthralled by our contest, Hathor appeared and saw fit to grant us with his boon, for no other reason than not wanting our duel to end. However, the duties of the Divine are many, and eventually his gaze turned skyward as he bid us farewell, but not before proclaiming Eskel as his champion.
As a follower of Aeternum, we are thought to forge our own destinies. But when I look at Eskel, I can’t help but feel that the Divine must have a plan for individuals like him.
POST 20
The Last Words: Mortana’s Prayer
By Corvo Altaire, Historian-in-Residence at Academia Cronia
What does Death sound like?
What does one hear in that final, fleeting moment?
For those marked by Mortana, it is but a whisper.
While many have taken lives in the name of war and religion, the Assassinatus Cronia do so in the name of Death Herself. And as harbingers of demise, it is customary before each kill to recite The Last Words – meant only to grace the victim’s ears.
Barring the guild itself, no one alive has ever heard the full recitation. Therefore, Elarothian scholars have long held the belief that this practice is a psychological tactic to instill fear and build on the guild’s dark reputation. Indeed, several eyewitness accounts have reported victims in various states of distress before their untimely end, insofar as to intentionally causing self-harm and deafness to silence the voice.
However, new literature uncovered casts the practice in more reverent light. As much a send-off as it is a greeting, The Last Words' purpose is to prepare those marked by Mortana to accept death:
“O' Marked of Mortana,
I am the whisper of freedom.
This is Her release.
O’ Marked of Mortana,
Lover of Life,
I grant thee: life everlasting.
O’ Marked of Mortana,
Lover of Time,
I grant thee: time unending.
Unshackle from mortality.
Untether from finality.
You are no slave.
You are free."
Existing as words on a published academic journal, there may be no doubt about The Last Word’s original intent. But if there is an important lesson one might take away from this article, it is this: the medium is the message.