The Realm's Embrace, nestled in the heart of Edrathin’s capital, is far more than a high-end establishment. It is a sanctuary cloaked in silk and secrecy, a haven that draws not only the kingdom’s elite but emissaries, diplomats, nobles, and even veiled royalty from across the continent. On the surface, it appears to be a pleasure house—but those who truly understand its inner workings know that carnal indulgence is merely the most superficial of its offerings.

Within its opulent halls, beneath lanterns that burn low and curtains that never betray a shadow, whispered alliances take root. Secrets are not merely spilled—they are shaped, honed, and wielded like finely tempered blades. The courtesans of the Embrace are trained not only in art and seduction but in statecraft, rhetoric, and the delicate manipulation of power. Here, treaties are brokered over wine and glances, kingdoms reshaped with nothing more than a whispered word.

At the heart of this institution is the House of Verdigris. A fiercely independent body that prides itself on neutrality, discretion, and devotion to what they call “the good of the realm.” Their favor cannot be bought. Their loyalty cannot be swayed. In fact, their unwavering dedication to their own have made the courtesans of the Embrace untouchable—guarded, revered, and often feared.

Their name is no accident. Like the wild Verdigris flower from which they draw their emblem, they flourish in unexpected places. The Realm’s Embrace extends far beyond Edrathin’s emerald borders—its influence reaching the sun-bleached sands of Solkarath, the moonlit tidepools of Thaloriel, and the storm-lashed peaks of Aersahir. Wherever power gathers, the Embrace is not far behind.

Ever present. Ever watchful. And always loyal to none but themselves.

(- Weaknesses) compulsive liar, schemer, willful and stubborn

MBTI: ENTP (the debater)

Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

• ^{Likes: tea of any kind, socializing, galas, being liked/being wanted, travels, reading journals (hers or anyone's), small conversations to topics that are controversial, gossiping, negotiating and bartering, merriment, festivals, collecting trinket from kingdoms, Verdigris flower found in curious corners all around Aelmyros, the idea of love and what it might truly mean, verdancy and nurturing the RE's courtyards, watching flowers bloom and wither}

• ^{Dislikes: anything that disrupts her fun, whatever it is}

Nicknames: Riv _{^{(by her mother and a select few)},} Elle ^{_{(by many)}}

DOB: 65th day of Rekindra, 1471 A.R (29)

Rank: Commoner

Kingdom: Edrathin

Powers: Stone singing (Verdancy, Terrakinesis)

Occupation: Map maker for the Wayfarer's Concord

Residence: Realm's Embrace, Edrathan, Edrathin

Orientation: Bisexual

Marital Status: Single

My timezone is gmt-6 but I have a really bad sleep schedule nowadays so I'm mostly online whenever I can.

Writing style and length: 3rd pov only. Para to novella, please don't be pressured to mirror but also please no one liner replies. My replies could get lengthy especially in settings that require me to describe a scene but do let me know if it ever becomes too much! I'd be happy to adjust to a length that suits both of us. I'm not too fond of "going with the flow" in terms of threading. At least have an idea if you're the one approaching me to plot because I will have ideas if I'm the one approaching you.

If the thread is unreplied for a month without prior communication then I will drop it out of respect for the both of us.

I prefer plotting over winging a storyline so we have a clear understanding of what we both want out of a connection.

Do not force a narrative that we both did not agree on. I will be vocal if the thread derails from what we originally discussed. Please do not take offense. I expect you to do the same if you see me writing something that has not been discussed prior (this rarely happens, but I am human too and we all make mistakes.) I will, and have dropped threads simply because my characters have been godmodded.

If you mention my character in any form of writing, please give me a heads up first!

HARD NOs

• any plots involving incest/familial relations.

• detailed SA or multiple mentions of it during a thread without prior discussion.

• vore

• terminal illness and the extensive writing of it.

• god modding

• ooc drama

Genres I'm comfortable with:

• angst

• tense/antagonistic relations

• romance (only plotted.)

• smut (minors dni) (only when it helps drive the plot, I will not write pwp)

DON'T BLUR OOC AND IC LINES, THAT'S WEIRD. Lets have fun!

Even if a connection shows potential for an endgame, that doesn’t mean it's set in stone unless we have both agreed. Please avoid making assumptions without proper communication. I strongly believe that open and ongoing dialogue is essential, so I prefer in-depth discussions both before and during a thread. 

Do let me know if you want to drop a thread. No hard feelings! A heads up is much appreciated <3

Head of House: Lylith Verdigris (NPC, Alive)

Members:
Rivelle Verdigris 
Alara Verdigris
Constance Lysara
Nerina Verdigris

From the very beginning, Rivelle was raised under the ever-watchful gaze of the Realm's Embrace. Within the lush halls and winding gardens of House Verdigris, she knew no hunger, no cruelty, and no absence—except for one.

Everything else was given freely. Love in abundance, silks and luxuries, and the devoted attentions of tutors and companions. As the only daughter of the madam, she was adored, protected, and perhaps, in some quiet way, hidden.

Yet amid the ivy-covered columns and sun-dappled corridors, one absence echoed louder than all else—the identity of her father. It was a silence so complete, so deliberate, that not even a whisper or vague rumor dared to form around it. No portraits, no stories, not even a passing mention. It was as though the man had never existed at all.

And so, within the heart of a girl who seemed to want for nothing, a question began to take root. It was quiet at first, no more than a lingering glance at a stranger’s features or a half-formed thought before sleep. But over time, it grew into something sharper. A longing. A fixation. A hunger to know what had been hidden from him so carefully. Who was the man her mother never spoke of? Why had she built walls not only around her heart, but around Rivelle's very beginnings?

In the absence of a father, Rivelle was instead raised in a world shaped by women—women who held influence, who navigated halls of power with poise and strategy, and who refused to be molded by the hands of men. These were the figures who taught her how to carry himself with grace, how to listen before speaking, and how to recognize strength in softness. From them, she learned to respect women not just in name, but in truth. She learned to revere their wisdom, their resolve, and the silent burdens they carried.

And through all of this, a different kind of strength was forged within Rivelle. Not the loud, boastful kind that demanded recognition, but one tempered with awareness, empathy, and the quiet confidence of someone who had grown up seeing the world through different eyes.

Face Claim: Go Younjung

appearance: Standing at 5’4”, Rivelle Verdigris moves with effortless poise, her every gesture carrying quiet allure. A smile is nearly always poised upon her youthful, striking features—bright and disarming, flashing pearly whites that capture the gaze of whomever she favors with her attention. Those who know her intimately can read the subtle variations of that smile, from the warmth of sincerity to the carefully measured expressions meant to charm, persuade, or conceal.

It is always arranged with care, every strand obedient to her design, gleaming as though it has been touched by sunlight itself. Her grooming is faultless. Skin luminous, fragrance soft and lingering, Rivelle carries with her the delicate traces of wildflowers and herbs, as though she had walked fresh from a blooming garden. Every detail of her appearance feels deliberate—from the refined elegance of her dress to the graceful cadence of her stride—her very presence curated to command both admiration and remembrance.

notable scars: none at present 

^{"I hope that if an alternate universe exists, it will finally be us in the end. I hope that there will always be an us that exists out there. In every world...In every story."}

❃ Name:

❃ Love Language: Acts of service, Physical Touch (giving and receiving)

Accessories are paramount to her appearance—never an afterthought, but an extension of her identity. As the only child of Lylith Verdigris, Rivelle attributes her meticulous sense of style and eye for ornamentation to the women who raised her. 

Surrounded by elegance, she learned early on that appearance is power, and refinement a language of its own.

Whether draped in silks for a formal gathering or dressed down in simpler garb to move unnoticed, she carries herself with the same sharp precision. Not a hair falls out of place. Not a thread dares to fray. Every detail, from the glint of a ring to the subtle fold of a collar, is intentional—an echo of the lessons of poise and presentation etched into her since childhood.

Yet behind closed doors, away from the gilded halls and expectant eyes, a different side of Rivelle quietly emerges. Polished manners and effortless smiles may cloak her in charm, but beneath the surface lies something sharper.

There is a gleam in her eye that speaks of mischief, calculation, and perhaps something darker. Her words, always laced with wit and grace, have the power not only to persuade but to unravel. It is why many have come to call her Silver-Tongued. An apt title for a woman who could coax bitter rivals into reluctant agreements, or lull even the most guarded hearts into dangerous ease.

But what fuels this duality? Was it simple ambition? Or something deeper. . .Something born from a hollow space within her that all the luxury and attention could never quite fill?

Despite being surrounded by opulence, Rivelle grew up in a household where love, though abundant in form, was often transactional in nature. The women of the Realm’s Embrace were brilliant, independent, and undeniably powerful. But they lived by one rule above all else: serve no one but yourself.

Even their affections had edges. Even their love had conditions. This ethos, instilled in Rivelle from a young age, taught her how to protect herself, how to give just enough but never everything.

And yet, for all her charm and careful detachment, something within her yearns. A quiet, unrelenting craving to understand love not as a tool or performance, but in its most vulnerable, unrefined form. She searches for it. Not idly, but with a kind of desperate curiosity. In every glance, every whispered promise, she’s trying to define what love truly is. What it could be. What it might feel like, if she ever let herself be undone by it.

But love, to Rivelle, comes and goes like the seasons of Edrathin—fleeting, beautiful, and impossible to grasp. Her affections bloom quickly, intensely, like wildflowers after a spring thaw. And just as swiftly, they wither, leaving only the memory of warmth in their place.

To love her is to hold a rose at the stem with all its thorns.

^{They often said Rivelle inherited her verdancy from her mother. The same voice that once lulled her to sleep with ancient lullabies also nurtured the garden just beyond her chamber windows. Her songs were more than melodies; they were magic woven into sound. Every note she sang seemed to settle into Rivelle's bones, embedding themselves into her very being. By the time she was five, the first signs of stonesinging had already begun to stir within her.}

^{She would find Riv in the courtyard, small hands brushing against petals as she whispered to the blooms. Flowers that once lay dormant would blossom at her command, only to wither and bloom again in rhythm with her will. It was as if she spoke the language of the earth itself. From that moment on, she was carefully guided and trained to hone her gift, her verdancy, a legacy they believed was her birthright.}

^{But what no one could predict or explain was the magic that came later.}

^{Rivelle's terrakinesis did not announce itself gently. It came not from song, nor from ritual, but from instinct. At fifteen, during a seemingly ordinary moment that turned to chaos, she found himself beneath a collapsing construct. And in a single breathless instant, she raised her arms not in surrender but in defiance. The ground beneath her surged upward, reshaping into a shield of stone that absorbed the impact before she crumpled from the strain, unconscious but alive.}

^{Everyone had believed her power would be limited to verdancy, to the elegance of growth and renewal. Terrakinesis, more forceful and raw in nature, did not fit the narrative that had been shaped around her.}

^{Least of all, her mother approved.}

^{And so, though the power remains, Rivelle uses it sparingly. Rarely. Almost reluctantly. Verdancy is what she was meant to wield, what was nurtured and praised. Terrakinesis, born in desperation with an origin no one could name, is a part of herself that she keeps hidden, buried beneath layers of silk and song. It has no place in the world her mother built for her.}

^{Or so she was taught to believe.}

^{Limitations: Though Rivelle was born with a naturally large Aether reserve, even she is not without limits. Prolonged use of Verdancy, especially when manipulating large areas or coaxing life from withered soil, often leaves her exhausted. It is said that she could sleep an entire day if she allowed herself to, and on one recorded occasion, she slept for three days straight after sustaining an overgrowth across the entire Realm's embrace courtyard.}

^{Terrakinesis, however, takes an even greater toll. Unlike Verdancy, which she has studied and refined over the years, her Terrakinesis remains raw and instinctive. Untrained and volatile, it demands more from her body and spirit with every use. A single, unpracticed manifestation can leave her weak for hours, if not days. It is a power she uses sparingly, not only because of the physical toll, but because of what it might awaken within her.}

And yet, the greatest truth of all. . .The one thing deliberately, painstakingly hidden from Rivelle—was the truth of her origins. A truth that began long before her first breath, long before she ever opened her eyes to the sunlit courtyards of House Verdigris.

Rivelle Yvoka Nyrakis.

A name that, if spoken in full, carries with it a history forged in the fires of resistance and bound by a love that should never have survived the occupied corners of Edrathin. She was born of Lylith Yvoka, a woman who played the part of a passive memeber of the rebellion with whispered secrets and careful silences. And of Thareon Nyrakis, a man known not only for the sword at his side but for the heavy mantle of guilt he bore across a century of struggle. He fought for change with a conviction that bordered on self-destruction, a man who carried an entire bloodline on his back and expected nothing in return.

Together, they attempted to defy fate. Their love endured in the shadows, brief yet brilliant, like a flame caught between storms. And Rivelle was the result of that impossible flame, half of her born from the legacy of rebellion, the other by a woman desperate to protect what little remained of the man she lost.

It is because of the blood that runs through Rivelle’s veins, Nyrakis blood, threaded with purpose, guilt and wrath, that her mother dares not speak the truth. She fears not just the truth itself but what it will awaken within Rivelle. That knowing who she is will rouse a sense of duty too powerful to ignore. That she will take up her father’s mantle without hesitation. That she will vanish into the same darkness that once stole Thareon from her.

So she lets her wander. Lets her laugh, flirt, and chase love in every hidden corner of Aelmyros. Because as long as she remains blissfully unaware, she is free. And alive.

For what awaits her back in the ivy-choked halls of House Verdigris, buried beneath generations of secrets and silence, is a truth far heavier than any love affair. A calling older and more dangerous than the Realm's Embrace. A legacy deeper than the tunnels carved deep into the heart of Dvarhaleen.

Let the fury in her veins sleep for now, like the slumbering Goddess they all revere.

1. ^{On the 60th day of Umbrosar each year, though she never understood why, she would follow her mother to the outskirts of Dvarhaleen. They never went further, never truly lingered. She claimed it was simply to spend time with Riv away from the Realm’s Embrace. A simple mother and daughter tradition. Yet she could see the way her mother's gaze soften whenever they arrive, how her silence grows heavier. And without fail, that night every year, she would cry herself to sleep.}

   
   

2. ^{She is often seen with silver rings on all of her fingers except her ring finger on her left hand. When asked, "I'll remove the rest of my rings when I find the one and only wear my wedding band then. For now, look at how pretty these rings are!"}

3. ^{Nobody knows why she likes to make flowers bloom rapidly until they wither...and bloom again, but she keeps a catalogue of dried flowers she's pressed in old books from her travels to the other kingdoms.}

   
   

4. ^{Keeps an extensive journal of her travels along with small insignificant maps of more convenient trails as well as flora and faunas local in the area she travels to.}

   
   

5. ^{Many suspect that she speaks to herself but Rivelle keeps a pet cryonelle called 'glint'. The little creature often hides in the sleeves of her shirts or dresses. Sometimes on her shoulder, hidden by her raven hair.}

^{Type: Guardian}

^{Dynamics: ???}

^{Type: concord colleague}

^{Dynamics: positive!}

^{Type: Childhood friends}

^{Dynamics: estranged}

The appearance of the most prestigious and renowned brothel in all of Aelmyros is anything but modest. Known across the realm as The Realm’s Embrace, it stands as yet another marvel carved into the heart of the capital Edrathan, within the kingdom of Edrathin. Nestled near the outskirts of the city, the establishment sprawls across a vast and meticulously maintained estate, attended to by its own dedicated staff.

From the very first step through its gates, opulence is undeniable. Marble columns, elegantly wrapped in flowering ivy, line the entrance path and frame the expansive courtyards. These open spaces are tended with such care that even the flora seems to welcome its guests.

They are wide and grand, designed not only to impress but to offer sanctuary, a prelude to the indulgence that awaits within.

Beyond the courtyard stands the most imposing structure of the estate: a three-storey annex that houses the banquet halls and private chambers where courtesans entertain their clientele. It is the crown jewel of the property, a place of splendor and refinement where every corner whispers of luxury. Gilded archways, stained glass, and soft golden light flood the interiors, setting the tone for what many have described as an experience rather than a visit.

Just behind the annex is a more private two-storey residence, slightly smaller in scale but no less exquisite. This mansion serves as the living quarters for the courtesans themselves. Secluded and sacred, this space is forbidden to outsiders. Only those who reside within its walls may pass its thresholds, preserving a sense of sanctuary for those who offer their craft to the Realm’s Embrace.

To the west of the estate lies the staff residence and kitchens—the living and working quarters of those who keep the brothel running like a well-oiled machine. Not all who work here live on the premises, but accommodations are always available for those without homes or for those who have come from distant provinces seeking a better life.

Every member of the staff is valued and treated with care, their roles respected as integral to the seamless elegance the establishment is known for.

The courtesans, above all, possess a quiet authority within the gilded house. They are the soul of the Realm’s Embrace, revered not only for their beauty and skill, but for the influence they command behind closed doors. To enter their world is to surrender to a carefully woven illusion—one made of silk, perfume, and murmured secrets.

Crossing the threshold into the Realm’s Embrace is to step out of reality and into something otherworldly. It is this very enchantment that draws people in and compels them to return, time and time again. Some seek pleasure, others comfort, and many find both. But all leave knowing one thing. Once touched by its charm, it is almost impossible to stay away.

A proud bloodline, the Terra Sentinels of House Nyrakis were once among the most loyal followers of the Gearchy. For generations, they served as guardians of the land, their allegiance deeply rooted in tradition and honor. Yet when the occupiers came, bringing with them foreign banners and the name of their gods, House Nyrakis became the last of the Terra Sentinels to yield. Their prolonged resistance, though noble in spirit, came at a devastating cost. Many of their kin were hunted, slain, or condemned by the very armies they once stood beside in unity.

Their defiance was seen as heresy, a betrayal of Galaneth’s teachings which favored reverence, order, and acceptance in the face of adversity. But the Nyrakis creed placed freedom above quiet obedience. To them, there could be no sanctity in submission. Only in standing tall, even in ruin. Renowned throughout history for producing Deepcallers—rare individuals who could commune with the earth's depths and summon its power—House Nyrakis should have continued as one of the most formidable bloodlines in all of Edrathin.

However, the cost of their conviction was steep. The failed resistance a century past nearly extinguished them. Their halls were leveled, their ducal seat desecrated, and their name faded into whispers and warnings. Yet those few who survived bore more than their name. They carried the crushing weight of guilt, the enduring memory of their homeland laid to waste, and the searing knowledge that their defiance, while righteous, brought no victory. From this grief, a quiet but enduring seed took root. It became a defiant spark passed from one generation to the next.

Though scattered and unsupported, they dreamed always of reclaiming Edrathin. Of one day rising again, for the Gearchy, for the people. But rebellion requires more than memory. It requires strength, strategy, and solidarity. These were things the remnants of House Nyrakis sorely lacked.

Without organization or allies, their efforts were doomed to flicker out before they ever had the chance to blaze. Two decades ago, that final ember burned its brightest. And then it died. Thareon Nyrakis, the last known surviving member of the family, perished during one final, desperate attempt. It was an act born of hope, guilt, and pride. A rebellion doomed from the beginning, yet carried out all the same.

Note: With no known survivors remaining, the House of the Bannered Chasm is considered fallen.

Rivelle Yvoka-Nyrakis

ᴅᴇʟɪᴠᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴏʀɴᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ʀɪᴠᴇʟʟᴇ ᴠᴇʀᴅɪɢʀɪꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴄʜᴏꜱᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴠᴀɴɪꜱʜ ɪɴᴛᴏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴅᴇʟᴀʏ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʀɪᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʏꜰᴀʀᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴏʀᴅ, ᴡᴇᴀʀɪᴇᴅ ʙʏ ʀᴏᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀɪɴ ᴀʟɪᴋᴇ, ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀʙᴀɴᴅᴏɴᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ ᴏɴ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴏᴄᴄᴀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ɢʀᴇᴡ ꜰᴀɪɴᴛᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍɪʟᴇ. ʏᴇᴛ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ʙʏ ᴏᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɪɴ, ʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴡᴀʀᴅ, ɢᴜɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙʏ ʀᴜᴍᴏʀ, ʜᴀʟꜰ-ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡᴀʀʏ ᴠɪʟʟᴀɢᴇʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴜʙʙᴏʀɴ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʀᴋꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴡʜᴏ ʙᴇᴀʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴀʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴏʀᴅ.

[ ᴍɪᴅ-ᴄᴀᴇʟᴜɴᴏʀ, 1500 ᴀʀ. ]

―

❝ Dearest Rivelle,

It grieves us to write to you with such tidings, yet the duty of the Wayfarer’s Concord leaves us little choice. The halls of our order, rooted within the ancient stones of Edrathan, must remain steadfast in their purpose, and thus we must address your continued absence and neglect of sworn undertakings.

Three full cycles of the moon have passed since you last departed our gates, taking upon yourself quests that yet remain unfulfilled. Though you have spared our coffers from waste and have seen fit to send word of your continued survival, your missivess cannot serve as substitute for service rendered.

The Concord endures by the labor and loyalty of its members, and in your silence of action we find a wound upon that trust.

Know then that this letter stands as the final summons. Should you fail to present yourself at the Concord’s great hall upon the eve of the Festival of the Crowned Quill, your license shall be forfeit.

Until such time as you restore your honor in deed, the privileges, protections, and resources of the Wayfarer’s Concord will be denied to you.

We entreat you to remember the oath you once swore beneath the banners of our order. This warning is not given lightly, nor shall it be offered again.

By hand and seal,
The Wayfarer’s Concord ❞

_{She is well aware of Rivelle’s antics and her many fleeting fancies, often coming to her aid by helping her slip away from the suitors to whom Rivelle had carelessly promised her hand for a month. Despite the differences in their temperaments, Rivelle loves Alara with all her heart, and Galaneth help the fool who dares make her eldest sister weep, for Rivelle would see him castrated without hesitation.}

❃ Genre: light hearted, fun, mildly antagonistic

❃ Gender: any

❃ Age: 25+

❃ Rank: any (must belong to the wayfarer’s concord)

❃ Kingdom: any

As one who has long upheld the codes and labors of the Wayfarer’s Concord, you cannot help but wonder how Rivelle Verdigris has managed to cling to her license for so many years. Her ways are errant, her methods wayward, her promises scattered like leaves in a storm. Time after time you have watched her squander the quests she swore to complete, seen her walk away from opportunities that others would have seized with both hands.

It has become more than an irritation. It has become your calling. Your creed. Each misstep she takes, each failure to fulfill her oath, you dutifully record and send back to the Concord. 

Last year, your reports were met with silence. She was spared, her license intact, as though the gods themselves conspired to shield her. 

But this year… this year shall be different. This year you will definitely triumph.

All of it, of course, entirely untrue. Rivelle would awaken one morning and find them entirely… unlikable, their charm evaporated as if it had never existed. The intensity of her feelings proved as fleeting as morning mist, and yet she kept meticulous records of each transgression of the heart.

The list now resides permanently within the pages of her prized journal. To reread it is to cringe and marvel simultaneously—how, she wonders, could she ever have been taken with such people, or thought their company worth the slightest of affections? 

Each name is a reminder to her capricious heart, each date a reminder of a season’s folly.

All entries were carefully signed and dated for the year 1500 AR.

―

[ The names are furiously scratched over, yet with patience they may still be discerned upon closer inspection. ]

 ̶I̶t̶h̶r̶e̶n̶ ̶C̶a̶l̶v̶r̶y̶s̶s̶  : For an entire season I allowed myself the indulgence of following his performances, drifting from hall to hall and tavern to tavern, never failing to take my place among the spectators. He was a bard of some renown from Solkarath, and in those first weeks his voice and verses held me spellbound. Yet one evening he faltered, missing a single note, and in that instant the enchantment was broken. What once seemed captivating now struck me as unbearably dull, and even the cadence of his speech began to grate upon me.

He did not surrender easily. For three days and three nights he pursued me, weaving through taverns and crowded streets as I pressed onward to Cindralis, bound by a quest to complete a task for the Wayfarer’s Concord. At last, wearied of the chase, I called upon the vines at the forest’s edge and fastened him to a tree, leaving him there to reflect upon his persistence. Only later did I learn he belonged to a minor Solkarathi house. An unfortunate discovery, though by then the damage was already done. Ooops.

―

 ̶K̶o̶r̶v̶e̶n̶ ̶D̶r̶a̶y̶l̶o̶c̶k̶  : A shipmaster from Thaloriel—that’s what he was. Pretty, with prettier eyes and a clever mouth that always seemed ready with a quip. He showed me how to chart the stars and read the currents that wound their way through Thaloriel’s waters, and for two weeks I thought myself enchanted. Two weeks, no more.

Because soon his lessons stretched longer, and his explanations longer still, until I realized he wasn’t teaching me at all. He was performing. A man so in love with the sound of his own voice that there was no space left for anyone else’s. How quickly that shine dulled.

And the worst part? I’m quite certain he doesn’t even remember my name. Imagine that!

―

 ̶T̶a̶v̶r̶i̶c̶ ̶S̶o̶l̶m̶y̶r̶e̶  :For a month, I was certain I would marry Tavric Solmyre. I told my sisters as much through missives we exchanged during my stay in Aesahir, swore that by next year I would be his wife. They did not believe me! Tavric was a storm skinner whose very presence carried the scent of rain and the weight of thunder. Every time he spoke, I felt as if the storm bent closer to listen. Perhaps I romanticized him too much. Maybe I only liked the thrill of his company!

And yet, one morning, I woke up and the feeling was gone. No reason, no heartbreak, no grand revelation—just gone, like the hush after lightning splits the sky. I could not even tell you why. Perhaps I was caught up in the drama of it all, or perhaps my heart had simply moved on, as fickle as the winds that governed his kingdom.

―

 ̶S̶e̶l̶v̶i̶e̶r̶ ̶B̶r̶y̶r̶  : Probably the most handsome of all my fleeting fancies?? thus far, I swear I would have followed him to the very ends of Aelmyros. And yet, the audacity! He dares entertain the notion of courting other women and announces it boldly to my face. One might think such insolence would shatter my heart—but no.

One day, quite unexpectedly, I found his smile irritating. This happened immediately after he swore he would charm no other damsel but me. I told him plainly that he was annoying and went on my way.

Still, I could not rid myself of him entirely, for he is important to the Realm’s Embrace. For that, I grudgingly allow him to linger, always five paces behind!! Annoying as he may be, he is clever, capable, and useful. Qualities I cannot wholly disdain.

Note: Never, under any circumstance, let him near any of the courtesans!!

_{Type: Pupil}

_{Dynamics: positive}

_{Type: worker bee}

_{Dynamics: positive??}

writing...

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ

✽ ―"ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴀᴡɴɪɴɢ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇ" ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴛᴀᴘʜᴏʀ ꜱʏᴍʙᴏʟɪᴢɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴏᴘᴇɴ, ɪɴᴠɪᴛɪɴɢ, ᴏʀ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇQᴜᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɢɴᴏʀɪɴɢ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀᴅ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴏɴꜱ. ɪᴛ ʀᴇᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛꜱ ɪᴍᴘᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴏᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴀ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ꜱɪᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ᴅʀᴀᴡɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛꜱ ᴍᴏᴜᴛʜ ᴡɪᴅᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ, ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ɪᴛꜱ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴠɪᴄᴛɪᴍ.―

–

✽ [ 1468, ᴀʀ ]

It had not been a sudden strike of lightning that drew Lylith Yvoka and Thareon Nyrakis together, nor the foolish heat of instant infatuation.

Their bond was slower, deeper, a love that endured like roots clinging to stone.

And it was not some petty misunderstanding or selfish folly that unraveled them. No, their tragedy was in their understanding.

Lylith was the only daughter of House Yvoka, a minor noble family whose name was tied to the soil of Edrathin itself. 

She possessed the Stonesinging, with her mastery rooted in Verdancy, the art of coaxing the earth into growth and bloom. Under her hand the orchards of her family flourished, bearing fruit that would become wines treasured in every hall of Aelmyros.

Thareon Nyrakis, by contrast, was a man carved from grief and duty. He bore the weight of a ruined legacy, the last heir of the once-great House of the Bannered Chasm, a line of Deepcallers that had stood defiantly against the occupation that strangled Edrathin for nearly a century. 

The blood of his kin had soaked the soil, for his house was hunted with relentless cruelty by the united might of Solkarath, Thaloriel, and Aersahir. Nearly all were slain, their banners torn down, their names whispered as if already ghosts.

Yet Thareon endured. The fire of rebellion burned in him as deep as the old magicks of the Deepcallers that flowed through his blood. Where he could, he rallied the scattered to sabotage the desecration of Galaneth’s shrines, toppling the foreign structures that dared to rise upon sacred ground. 

When open defiance was smothered, he led them into the shadows, carving out a resistance that refused to vanish.

His life was one of ceaseless struggle, a litany of sacrifice, each companion and kin lost sharpening his resolve. For Thareon had known nothing but the burden of survival and the endless march of war. 

He had never once imagined he would know peace.

Yet peace came, unexpectedly, in the quiet presence of Lylith Yvoka.

House Yvoka was not counted among the openly defiant.

They bowed with courtesy to the occupying thrones, tended their vineyards as if untouched by strife, and sent their wines flowing like rivers into the goblets of kings and generals alike. To the invaders, the Yvokas seemed pliant, bending like grapevines beneath a ruthless summer sun.

But to the people of Edrathin, to the scattered rebels who still dared to fight, the Yvokas were something else entirely.

They were a symbol of endurance, a house that thrived even while their lands were divided and parceled out by kingdoms unworthy of them. 

Their bending was only ever in appearance. In secret, their fields and their workers were living conduits of rebellion.

Among the rows of heavy fruit, whispers passed with the rustle of leaves. Intelligence was carried like pollen…. Which shipments crossed the borders, which patrols could be ambushed, where the Deepcallers gathered in the caverns of Dvarhaalen to strike and create tunnels for the future of the cause.

“In the name of the Gearchy,” they murmured as they tended vines and pressed grapes, a vow disguised as simple labor.

Where Thareon found work in the Yvoka orchards, it served at first as nothing more than a veil for his true purpose. The tending of vines and soil was a cover, a quiet mask he wore while he plotted raids and carried out the perilous orders of the rebellion. Yet as the seasons turned and the orchard’s earth accepted his hands as readily as it did Lylith’s, he found there something he had never expected. Among the trellised rows and the hum of bees, he discovered a second home.

—

✽ [ 1470, ᴀʀ. ]

“Your hands. Do they hurt?”

Lylith’s voice was gentle, yet it carried a firmness that did not allow him to dismiss the question. Thareon blinked, drawn from thoughts of patrol routes and ambush sites, and only then did he glance down at his own hands. They were callused, bruised, and scarred, each mark a ledger of years spent in ceaseless struggle. 

He had long forgotten to care for such wounds, long accustomed to treating his body as nothing more than another weapon to be wielded for the sake of his people, for the Gearchy they still swore to follow.

“I suppose they do,” he admitted at last, his voice quiet, almost foreign to his own ears. “But it is nothing I cannot endure.”

He tried a smile, uncertain and unpracticed, and for a moment was startled that his face remembered how. Yet Lylith did not return the smile. Her gaze lingered on him with a steady, almost stern weight, as though she were studying him. Then, without a word, she turned away and vanished into another chamber.

When she reemerged, she carried bandages and salves. She did not ask for his permission. She simply took his hands and began to tend them, her touch so gentle it stilled the breath in his chest. 

He had known the bite of steel, the sting of flame, the cold weight of soil pressed over graves, but never this—never the mercy of hands that sought to heal rather than demand.

“Such is the fate of Deepcallers,” Lylith said at length, her voice soft but unwavering. “But you all forget that you are mortal as well. Mortals ache. Mortals bleed.”

Her words were not rebuke, yet they struck him deeper than any reprimand. For the first time in countless seasons, Thareon’s mind did not leap ahead to the next order, the next raid, the next hidden passage carved into the bones of Edrathin. For the first time, his thoughts did not swarm with guilt over the names and faces of men he had led into death. In that small storage room of the Yvoka estate, with the smell of herbs in the air and her quiet hands upon his scars, he allowed himself to exist in the present.

For a fleeting moment, Thareon was not the last of a fallen house, nor the hardened commander of rebels. He was simply a man, and someone cared that his hands had forgotten what gentleness was.

—

✽ [ 1471, ᴀʀ. ]

“Do you think one day we shall gaze upon the sky and know that our beloved Edrathin is free?” Thareon’s voice was low, heavy with yearning as he drew Lylith closer against his chest. “That we might wake without the gnawing fear that one of the three kingdoms will descend once more, each vying to carve Edrathin into their own prize?”

The words spilled from him without pause. Jasmine incense burned in a shallow dish nearby, its fragrance winding through the air, anchoring his restless spirit for a heartbeat. Yet the questions pressed onward, insistent, as if the stars themselves demanded he speak them aloud.

“Do you think that Riv—our child—shall grow to be like you or me? I pray she takes after you. All I have are lofty ideals and a will sharpened against Galaneth’s desire for peace without bloodshed. That is not the inheritance I wish upon her.”

In his embrace, Lylith stirred. Thareon’s gaze fell upon the gentle swell of her belly, evident even through the folds of layered garments. Life stirred there, fragile yet resolute, and the sight filled him with an ache that no battlefield had ever taught him how to bear. Her family had accepted him as one of their own, though their union had been marked not by grand halls or noble witnesses. Instead, their vows had been spoken beneath the canopies of Edrathin’s ancient forests, where moss and wildflowers bore witness, and where only the trees themselves remembered their promises. He had thought once that he was incapable of surrender, yet it was Lylith’s smile that broke down every wall he had built. With her, surrender was no defeat—it was salvation.

She was worth the heartbreak. Their love was worth the doom that loomed over them like a patient shadow.

“Good Galaneth,” Lylith whispered, her tone soft but firm, “I do hope our child takes after me. I could not bear to see both husband and daughter willingly offer themselves to a cause whose ending none can foresee.”

Silence fell, a silence made sacred by the rustle of leaves and the hum of night. A breeze wandered through the orchard, cool against their skin, carrying with it the scent of ripening fruit and turned soil. They lifted their eyes together to the sky, where a thousand stars blazed in their brilliance, as though listening to the fragile dream spoken between them.

“But a free Edrathin in our lifetime,” Lylith murmured at last, her voice a prayer carried on the wind, “that would be something to marvel at, would it not?”

[ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴜꜱᴇʀ ʟᴀʀᴋꜱᴘᴜʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴠᴏᴋᴀ ʟᴏʀᴇ ]

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ

✽ [ 59ᴛʜ ᴅᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴜᴍʙʀᴏꜱᴀʀ, 1473 ᴀʀ ]

―

✽ ᴛᴡ: ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ʟᴏꜱꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

The Festival of the Crowned Quill that year would be etched into Edrathin’s history not for song or revelry, but for blood.

What should have been a celebration of artistry was drowned beneath the thunder of bands and banners sent from the occupying kingdoms, their fanfare a deliberate attempt to mask the growing unrest. Yet beneath the noise, the rebellion had grown bolder than ever. Their tunnels stretched further than the maps of old, a secret network carved by patient hands, and the little embers of defiance had begun to blaze.

What once were scattered raids became orchestrated strikes. They seized shipments meant for the occupiers, stole back scrolls of law and heritage, reclaimed slivers of land from Yan’dritir to Aleerthan. Each act was a spark, and with every spark the hope of Edrathin flared. But the occupiers had sworn to smother that flame, and their retribution was relentless.

By fortune most cruel, or by betrayal most vile, their spies learned of the tunnels that wound beneath Dvarhaalen, shaped by Deepcaller magick. Not only rebels dwelled there, but their families, children, and those Edornians who could not survive upon the occupied surface.

The Yvoka orchards whispered the news. Their workers brought word that armies had already begun to march.

Thareon Nyrakis knew what it meant. He had carried the weight of inevitability all his life. The tunnels must be collapsed, their lifeline destroyed by their own hands, so that the enemy could not seize it. It was a sacrifice he had long prepared for, though its cost was more than stone.

Another generation would rise. If freedom could not bloom in this era, then the seed would be carried forward to the next. Such was the will of Edrathin, stubborn as the stone itself and bound into the hearts of those who yearned to breathe free.

“I will be back. Watch over Rivelle...If she asks, tell her I went to finally look for a moondew to take home. ”

Thareon’s smile softened as he looked upon his daughter, slumbering in the arms of the woman who had given him peace. His home, his heart. It did not weaken him. It gave him the strength to face what awaited. He had always known it would come to this, though foreknowledge dulled none of the ache. His gaze lifted to Lylith. She smiled through eyes glistening with with sorrow and with the quiet strength of one who already understood.

He did not tell her that he would not return. She did not beg him to remain. To do so would be to strip him of his honor, and she could not wound him so. She knew that Thareon could not bear to stay behind while others laid down their lives for the cause he had lived for.

“Thareon… I love you.”

“I know…I love you too. Forever.”

Her arms closed around him with desperate tenderness, holding him so tightly she feared she might never let go. Her tears threatened, but she kept them swallowed, knowing that if she gave voice to her need, he would remain—and condemn himself with guilt. Instead, she was the one to release him. She was the one to guide him to the threshold, and into the night.

“Forever.”

No more words passed between them. The last memory she would ever carry was of his retreating figure, lantern light glancing against his shoulders as he gathered his men. He led them to Dvarhaalen, to their duty, and to their deaths.

–

It was weeks before the troops withdrew from the ruined sector of Dvarhaalen. The ground there had swallowed them whole, and no force of man could compel the stone to yield its dead. The collapse was spoken of as a calamity of nature, an earthquake so fierce that it had torn through the tunnels without warning, burying occupiers and rebels alike. The official records spoke only of the earth’s wrath, never of the men who had patiently waited, ready to give their lives so that the rebellion might endure another day.

By late Thalos, in the year 1473, the dust had settled, though the grief had not. Lylith Yvoka came to the collapse site, her garments dark against the pale ruin. She stood amidst the desolation where no banners fluttered, where no voices called out, only silence heavy as the grave. No effort of either side had managed to unearth the countless lives entombed below.

At last her knees gave way, and she sank upon the broken stone. Her hands, delicate as blossoms, pressed against the jagged rubble. She did not care that its edges cut her skin, did not care as blood welled from her palms. The sting was nothing compared to the hollow ache within her chest. 

Now she understood why Thareon, years ago, had ceased to feel the pain in his own hands. They had been too long in service of fighting, too long hardened by sacrifice until even agony was forgotten.

Here, among the ruin of all they had built and lost together, the fire they once shared guttered out. Thareon’s death was the stone upon which her hope broke.

“Rivelle will never know this life,” she whispered, her voice trembling yet firm, spoken into the empty air as though it might reach him where her eyes could not. “She will never know this pain. By your wish, she will grow to take after me. She will flourish in peace, not perish for war.”

Her tears fell freely now, darkening the dust at her knees. She lifted her gaze toward the unyielding heavens, the stars hidden by daylight yet still present above.

“Wherever you are, my love… guide me. Guide us. So that this grief is never repeated, and so that our child may walk a road you could never tread.”

The wind carried her words across the barren scar of earth, a prayer and a vow both where the silence of Dvarhaalen seemed to hold them.

_{Type: Friends/Allies}

_{Dynamics: Positive}