shealsaythorn

[shealsaythorn]

Yo

[shealsaythorn]

Just Wriath and Elazar having their date outside the veil~ (in secret, of course)

[shealsaythorn]

✦ 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ✦

Welcome, traveller. Below is a growing collection of Wriath’s tales, memories, and moments — both before and after her fall. This space is updated as the story unfolds. You may read in order or follow, whichever calls your name.

❖ MAIN STORYLINE

➤ Chapter 𝐈: "𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑽𝒆𝒊𝒍 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔"

› Where the story begins.

❖ SHORT SCENES / ONE-SHOTS

➤ First Touches – How Wriath and Elazar first touched, first stared too long, first smiled too wide.

➤ What If? – An AU where he didn’t betray her. (painful fluff)

➤ The Burn on Her Neck – The scar she hides, and the night it was made.

➤ Wriath’s Random Habits – She hums while sharpening blades. Sleeps near doors. Collects feathers. (warm)

➤Their first date

➤Who said I love you first

❖ FUN / TIKTOK-STYLE STUFF

➤ Spicy Headcanons (NSFW-ish)

➤ Wriath x Elazar TikTok Trends Soundboard

➤ Dialogue Prompts & Reactions

➤ Elazar is a Delulu Red Flag

➤ Tag Game: If they had a coffee shop, AU...

➤Elazar's green and red flags

➤Wriath’s green and red flags

Credits:

[Divider] @olenvasynyt, @cafekitsune

[shealsaythorn]

I don't know what to name her

[shealsaythorn]

✦ 𝐀 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐄𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 ✦

(or: The Way of Things in These Parts)

𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒇𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒕𝒉. 𝑨 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚, 𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒄, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒌 — 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒔.

This is that place.

Before you step further, I ask only a few small things:

❖ Speak kindly, or not at all.

No venom, no hatred. No slurs dressed as jokes. No smoke that chokes. This place holds enough grief — let’s not bring more.

❖ Mind the line between youth and fire.

If you're a minor, skip what isn't yours to carry. Some stories here burn a little hotter, meant for older hands.

❖ This is sacred ground.

Characters live here. Ghosts of my making. Worlds that didn’t exist until I breathed them in. Please don’t take what isn’t yours. Share, don’t steal.

❖ Don’t drag war to my doorstep.

Leave your drama at the border. If it doesn’t build a story, let it fall.

❖ Ask, don’t assume.

I take requests when the wind allows it. You may knock — I might answer. Or I might be off chasing stardust.

❖ Tagstones are carved in moonlight.

I tag for safety, not censorship. Use your filters, protect your peace. I’ll do my part.

❖ Slandering Elazar is allowed. Maybe.

(That's kind of Wriath's job, in a way.)

Welcome, traveller.

May you find something here that piques your interest... why not stay to find out?

— Wriath

Credits:

[Divider] @olenvasynyt, @cafekitsune

[shealsaythorn]

It's canon Elazar sung shit often Wriath.

I can definitely imagine him seeing I Love You Too Much lol

[shealsaythorn]

𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐬 𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐑𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝

Chapter 𝐈: "𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑉𝑒𝑖𝑙 𝐹𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑠"

Warnings: None

𝕿he last thing she remembered was fire... and his eyes—soft with regret, hard with resolve—before everything went black.

She could be a fool and believed he truly meant his promises. His empty, whispered words of sweet nothings. She clung into that, even as Death took her in her cold embrace.

"Wriath! You ought you to pay attention!"

Her father's sharp words snapped her out of her tiny daydreaming, which, in truth, she'll choose any day. With a huff, she straightened her slightly askew posture and began to pay more attention to the pacing man in front of her.

"Your brother's wedding has to be perfect tomorrow! With you guarding the viel and making sure everyone is safe- you should just let another guard take your post for the day. I fear you won't have much time to rel-"

"Father." She calls out softly, a slight reminder that he, himself, was not relaxing. "The wedding will be perfect. Only the best ceremony provided by our fellow kin." She stood up, placing a comforting hand on her father's shoulder.

"You need not fret over anything. You'll grow yourself another inch of your beard. Besides, you know how difficult it is to change my post at the last minute. It will cause a hindrance."

He sighs, fiddling with his own ring. A respected High Elven noble, calm and proud, master arcane arts, known for his unwavering ideals and strict honour. In the past, Vaerion Naevaris would scoff at the thought of marriage until he met the most wonderful elf of all. And now, his eldest and only son is to be married. How time passes indeed.

"Brother is not a complete idiot. Though... it confuses me how he could aquire such fine maiden."

Wriath jests, trying to lighten up her father's worries. "Everything will be fine. I promise you." She smiles, the kind that made her father's heart melt. Such uncanny resemblance to her late mother.

Thalira of the Veil, a quiet yet powerful Death Elf, priestess of the God of Death, feared and revered, keeper of mourning rites and secrets unspoken, passed a few years back after the arrival of the Dragon Emperor. It was dark time that boiled anger and hatred inside the hidden land of Elarindor. It only tightened their defences and protection against those who were not of their kin.

Thalira once had a dream of all creatures. Even Elves, alongside humans, become one. She had died believing such.

But just like any other dream... it becomes distant.

And to some, it becomes their own.

"I'll go attend to my post now, do eat your breakfast."

She stood up after gently wiping her mouth before she strapped on the last of her light armour.

"Wriath-"

"Yes, I know, I will be careful. I love you." She placed a quick peck on Vaerion's temple before she she left their humble abode.

Her hair blowed in the early morning wind as she decended down the vined stairs of their large estate.

Wriath Naevaris, a Duskwrought to those who knew her, came from a noble lineage that is marked in nobility by their distinctively unique vanta black hair, uncommon amongst their kind.

She made her way through the winding paths and familiar thickets of illusion-draped hedges, nodding politely at a few kin, preparing for the celebration ahead. Even in light armour, her gait was neither rushed nor heavy—measured, graceful, quiet.

Her post stood at the northern edge of the hidden land, just by the veil-pond where the mists clung thicker than usual, weaving with the soft arcane hum of the protective wards. She traced a runic sigil mid-air, eyes scanning the horizon with the keen sharpness of one who knew what silence meant when it was out of place.

Gaurding the Veil, they called it. In truth, Wriath did more than just watch. She also listened. To footsteps that seemed barely there, to wind currents that whispered of shifts in magic. She felt things—disturbances, weight, and intention. A skill she earned not by choice but by blood.

The duskwrought didn’t come with a title. It came with responsibility.

For though she bore her father's name and his magic, her mother’s shadow always clung to her in some way or another.

Wriath had walked between temple pyres and wept beside grieving souls when she was but a girl. She memorized rites meant for Death’s ears only. Even now, she carried the blade passed down by her late, lovely mother.

Dhe paced quietly along the edge of the veil, eyes locked forward but senses stretching far beyond. Somewhere in the distance, a gentle songbird sang. Somewhere closer, the air shivered unnaturally.

Still, she stood.

It would be a perfect wedding. She would see to it—like she always did.

When the sun began its descent and the veil glowed with a faint golden hue, Wriath gave her final pass along the edge, carving a sealing glyph across the arching roots that framed the northern gate. No threat, as usual. The day had been kind.

She whispered a quiet offering to her mother beneath her breath, words ancient and sacred, before making her way back.

The following day, the morning rose with hymns carried by petals drifting from the treetops—subtle blessings from the grove's stewards. The wedding ceremony had passed without incident, Wriath’s vigilance ensured peace through the veiling. Now, her duty for the moment had ended.

And as per tradition, she shed the light armour of a veilwarden and adorned herself not as a knight but as the daughter of a noble house.

Her ceremonial robes were deep violet stitched with trailing silver thread, each line curling into symbols of her lineage. A high collar framed her neck, embroidered with the woven insignia of both her houses— a cat, for Naevaris, crescent thorns for the Veil. Her raven hair was partly tied back with pins, the rest tumbling in loose curls that framed pale face.

And though many stepped aside to admire her presence, she moved with the same quiet grace she had while guarding the veil— quiet and sure.

She spotted them near the heart of the grove—the newly weds.

Her brother, Saemon, was practically glowing in embroidered robes of goldleaf and sage. His bride, soft-eyed and poised, wore the traditional starweave veil now pulled back behind her delicately pointed ears. They looked... happy. Exhaustedly so.

“Sister!” Elarion greeted, arms flinging open as if he’d spotted a long-lost friend. “You survived the ceremony. And you’re wearing colour! A miracle twice over.”

Wriath raised a brow as she approached, lips curled faintly. “I’d say the miracle is that you remembered your vows. You always had trouble with memorization.”

The bride laughed— kind, something Wriath had grown used to. “He practised by reciting them to a tree for three nights.”

Wriath chuckled under her breath. “A patient audience.”

She stepped forward, gently pressing her forehead to her brother’s in the old way—once for blood, twice for bond. “You look well. Genuinely. You chose... well.”

Elarion squeezed her hand. “Mother would have adored you both.”

Wriath nodded, the moment softening the set of her shoulders. “She watches, brother. Always.”

And then came the familiar sound of measured footsteps.

Vaerion Naevaris, dressed in ceremonial white with cascading silver sashes, his beard freshly oiled and braided in sigils of heritage, approached with his usual air of command—and ever-faint softness reserved only for moments like these.

“You made it in time." He remarked, hands behind his back, though his eyes scanned his daughter’s robes as if checking for wrinkles.

“I always do.” Wriath tilted her head, a half-smile playing on her lips.

He offered a quiet, approving nod. “You look like your mother.”

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Tender.

Her father's gaze lingered on her form— just a moment, fondly— before shifting to her brother and his wife. “You all honour this house. Today, we are strong.”

She gave a small nod, fingers brushing against the ceremonial dagger at her hip. “And tomorrow, we remain.”

There was pride in her father’s eyes, but also something else—age, perhaps, or memory. He raised a goblet in quiet salute to his children.

The music swelled.

Wriath, ever the shadow in the light, allowed herself a moment among them. Amid the laughter, the dancing, the warm gleam of lanterns overhead with fireflies adorned around it— today was indeed perfect.

Credits:

[Dividers] @olenvasynyt

[shealsaythorn]

character background.

`

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ༺ ​ 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ​ ༻

​

⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ 𝐢. ⠀ 𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐀 . . .

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ❛ ⠀⁄⠀ ... ⠀𝒟𝑒𝑠𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 ⠀ ݁ ⠀.⠀ 𓆸

​

​

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ﹒ 𝖻���𝗋𝗍𝗁 𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾 : rauvelore calrith

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗌(es) :

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ rauvel

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗌 : he/him

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗅𝖾𝗌 :

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ former noble of the sylvan high elves

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ healer of reyn

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ race : high elf

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ class : life domain cleric

​⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ occupation : healer

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ⠀ ﹒ deity : reyn, the goddess of care

​

​

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ❛ ⠀⁄⠀ ... ⠀𝒫ℎ𝑦𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑜𝑔𝑦 ⠀ ݁ ⠀.⠀ 𓆸

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝖼𝗄𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 : 340 years

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗈𝗇 : type iii, medium

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾 : mesomorph trapezoid

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾 : 192 cm (6’3”)

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗍𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗄𝖾𝗇 : common, elvish, sylvan, primordial

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌 / 𝖿𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖾𝗌 : Rauvelore is a tall lean, and fair-skinned man with short dark hair and two braids accessorized with silver rings. He has grey eyes, prominent cheekbones, a light facial hair, and two deep scars across his left eyebrow from previous battles. He usually wears light armor consisting of a black worn-out cape with a raccoon fur coat over his navy blue corset-like tunic and a pair of fingerless gloves with his signet ring over it.

​

​

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ❛ ⠀⁄⠀ ... ⠀𝒫𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙 ⠀ ݁ ⠀.⠀ 𓆸

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝗆𝗒𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀 : ESTJ

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹒ 𝖾𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗆 : 8w7

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ​﹒ moral alignment : chaotic good

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​﹒ ability scores :

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ strength: 9

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ dexterity: 16

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ constitution: 13

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ intelligence: 9

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ wisdom: 17

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ charisma: 10

​

​

​

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ❛ ⠀⁄⠀ ... ⠀𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂 ⠀ ݁ ⠀.⠀ 𓆸’

Rauvelore Calrith was born into a house of echoes of prayers that whispered behind closed doors, and the thunder of a father whose voice commanded battalions. The Calrith’s name was noble, but in his childhood home, nobility came not with gentleness but rank and reputation. His father, High Commander Levin Calrith, was a military chief of the Sylvan elves whose legacy stretched generations back, hundreds of centuries ago in their world at the beginning. Rauvelore was to be his heir in strategy and swordsmanship—no questions, no hesitation.

But in the quiet corners of the estate, his mother, Lady Daeondra, offered a different inheritance. She served not with steel but with softness. A devoted follower of Reyn, the goddess of Care, she taught Rauvelore to grind herbs, dress wounds, and offer prayers like promises.

"To care is to bleed for what others take for granted," she would say.

When Rauvelore came of age, he was pressed into the army under his father’s watchful eye. At first, he fought, he led, he killed. But the silence after the battles broken only by the gasps of the wounded and the dying stirred something older in him. In those moments, he did not hear the commands of his father. He heard her—his mother’s voice, and through it, the soft guiding hand of Reyn.

He began tending to his comrades in secret at first, then openly. He spent more time with the injured than on the field. The war hardened him, but not in the way his father intended—it carved space for his compassion for healing. He carried no holy symbol then, he served Reyn all the same.

Rauvelore died as he lived in those final years: protecting others—a sacrifice to the Paladin closest by his side whom he’d take an arrow for. But death was not the end. He awoke in Hiraya for a second chance to avenge the people and the family he had lost, a land unfamiliar yet strangely luminous as if the goddess had drawn him here.

Reborn's path was no longer bound to his father’s legacy but to Reyn's will. He embraced the divine calling as a Cleric of Life and Protection, not as a soldier, but as a guardian; one who would bear shields instead of swords, and offer sanctuary in place of wrath.

Rauvelore is typically observant and reserved, preferring to stay quiet and cautious when faced with unfamiliar situations. He carries himself with calm confidence, speaks with deliberate precision, and maintains a sense of propriety in formal settings. However, once he grows comfortable with others, his walls come down to reveal a dry, sarcastic wit. He is practical, often thinking several steps ahead before taking action, and doesn’t sugarcoat his words—his honesty can be disarming, but it's rarely unkind.

[shealsaythorn]

` ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ༺ ​ 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 ​ ༻ ​ ⠀⠀ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​⠀ 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​The Starwoven is no ordinary tome. It is a sanctified relic forged from the ashes of dying stars and bound by the divine will of Reyn, the goddess of care.

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​Its pages are vessels of living starlight, inscribed with sacred words that echo the first breath of the cosmos. Through it, the faithful do not merely wield magic; they become conduits for the eternal life that flows through the heavens, drawing upon Reyn's radiant power seeded in the stars at the dawn of creation.

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​Passed down from the cleric Daeondra Elenelwa to her child, Rauvelore, the Starwoven carries prayers and invocations, memory, lineage, and unbroken devotion. Its presence is serene, steady like the stars themselves, and it thrums with quiet power when held in reverence.

​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​ ​It is said that the book does not merely contain spells; it channels the divine architecture of creation and life. Every word written upon is a note in the celestial symphony. A harmony that heals, sanctifies, and reminds the soul of its place among the stars.

[shealsaythorn]

"𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒍𝒇 𝒂 𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒚, 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒐𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒐𝒘 𝒐𝒇 𝒆𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆."

— Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera

➪𝑺𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆! 17, 𝚜𝚑𝚎/𝚑𝚎𝚛 - 𝙳𝚗𝙳 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛/𝙲𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚛/𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬

➪ +18! Here lies a chronicle spun in shadow and blood. I write chiefly of Wriath — a daughter of dusk, phantom-born and blade-bound — my DnD soul-forged creation. Her story coils around Elazar, the sun she should not have touched, the warmth that curses her still. Within these pages, you’ll find: ✦ fragments of their woven past ✦ relics of art and ash ✦ quotes carved like runes ✦ truths and half-truths, canon and chaos ✦ songs stitched with sorrow ✦ tales from the table, where dice seal fate This is a place for lore, for love, for loss — and the lingering ache between them. And also just stuff I like, fuck it.

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝘿𝙣𝘿 𝙋𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚:

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞

The Dragon Empire is on the verge of victory in their crusade to conquer Hiraya. An army of goblins, monstrosities, and even demons roam the land, serving the Dragon Emperor’s cause. The God of Death has summoned you from beyond the grave to fight once more as warriors of the people! Earn a second chance and reclaim the ancient wonders, treasures, and magic of a bygone age.

The Dragon Empire is a large-scale living world 5th Edition Dungeons and Dragons campaign set in the fantasy realm of Hiraya. As players, you play as the Returned, warriors that were slain by invaders and then given a second chance. The Dragon Empire is a “west marches” style campaign where players group themselves according to their schedules and then book a timeslot to play. All players within the campaign belong to one faction, The Risen Heroes, and all work together for a common goal - the liberation of the people of Hiraya from the Dragon Empire. In order to do so, you must slay monsters within the Dragon Emperor’s forces, raid dungeons, steal magical artifacts, or any number of daring quests and adventures!

Credits:

[Divider] @olenvasynyt