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[stormwindian]

Her will was Majesty; her voice, Perennial.

[stormwindian]

I do not pity easily; I was raised not to. And yet—Victor Ziculovich, I do pity you.

At first, it was for mistaking you as a meek Lordson who shied away from the madness of his father, unable to dissuade their ill mind and thus escaping reclusively for studies of magic and reason.

Even when I realized how wrong that was—after reading your journal and sitting with Stella Walpurga, the girl who you cursed despite her only crime being an inquest to your passions, and helping her break free from the wretched state of mind that you hexed upon her—I still held my pity for your name.

Even though I could see the pride, narcissism, and entitlement that your nobility entwined so well with the authority of arcane power, I wondered: "What if?"

It was pity that clung to wistful imagination in the back of my mind. The idea that we could foster in you a change for the people of Ziculi.

If we had more time, perhaps that could have happened. There were already too many wheels in motion though.

When the riots started, and I went to your family's manor, I saw the flash of light in your attic window; you tried to teleport out of the city.

It's for the better—I doubt you would have survived the firestorm. Especially not if you tried to stand with your father in the end.

Not even my pity would save you.

[stormwindian]

Memories: The Fire

There was something outside—A great, ethereal power—that offered itself. With it came brief impressions of a violent dragon; an image of raging fire, swelling within her control, and all she had to do was let it inside. As Alison stepped into the Lord of Ziculi’s manor, she didn’t hesitate.

Through a setting of perilous hellfire, as once richly plastered walls gave way to violent waves of insurrection, the golden haired mage took swift and sweeping strides to find the old library that the House of Ziculovich kept from its public.

She knew the section she was after and she had only finished stowing away its oldest tomes, saving them from a fate of wasteful ash, when she felt a hand nearing for the back of her neck.

It was Baron Dragos—The large man, heavier now not only by incorporeal sins but also a staining wash of blood, loomed with a monstrous gaze as he trained upon the trespassing heroine; he reached to take Alison by her throat, with gloved hands already greased sanguine.

“You,” he uttered with hate. “You did this… !” Yet—his grasp found no satisfying purchase.

What Alison internalized, was not mere sensation of power; it was resolve. Magical strength surged with an immensely burning might that could not be choked away for so long as she took her own breaths. Her will, unbridled, was fury and wrath.

Arcane magic flourished as near-wordless spellcraft bid for her escape; Her lips barely twitched, and she found herself placed to her assailant’s flank in the blink of an eye. She stood at the crumbling room’s entrance, ireful and rebuking.

“This?” was repeated in a leonine tone. Green eyes leveled a ferine stare at Dragos as he turned to meet them, and a fair hand lifted itself with further somatic threat. “This was already here … You—Walpurga—and everyone in-between; you let your own wife be nearly ripped to the streets by her hair.”

Alison’s voice begged him to be brave, hoping to break it whole. The lord, half-drunk by his rage, wouldn’t stand for the challenge.

“This started when we let you through the gates,” the turgid lord seethed with a bloody rapier raising up in threat—Eager to throttle the foreigner that now bore blame for ruining his hold on all of Ziculi. “You’re the Devil’s company! I’ll see you reformed, molded into model citizens!”

Dragos aggressed like a bull, only to be rebuked by more spellcraft.

A second teleport saw him him stumble without success, while at the same time affording little room for recovery. Only the audible click of Alison’s shoes upon a distant floorboard prefaced a bolt of magic flame being thrown at them in rebuff.

It flashed upon Dragos’ brows, brighter than the inferno that surrounded them, and it left him blind for a fleeting moment, but as he reeled—Alison sneered.

“Molded? Reformed?!” With the abhorring quote came a new gesture, unveiling that a hex had been laced into that prior attack; a ruthless charm, with vindictive malice, that had been learned by scrolls handed from the lord’s hated 'Devil.'

“Maybe you should REFORM YOURSELF!” Alison spoke, demanding while the School of Enchantment’s own ‘Infusion of Eloquence’ forced the foe to heel. It ripped a lordly howl from their lips that broke past the sounds of the crackling flames and the fighting that echoed from beyond those crumbling walls.

“You,” Alison nonetheless continued, “a boy who would beat his world into reprobate submission, are nothing but a FOOL who is too late to realize his own failures!”

Dragos let go of his rapier and, as it clattered upon the ground, brought both of his hands to the sides of his head, wracking the fingers against his temples like they might seize back any hold of his mind. It was agonizing—Painful antipathy, and it left his very core stricken while a face showed dismay

In the end, even in the sweltering heat of hell itself, he fell upon his knees.

“I- … I am a fool,” he then obliged. Alison stepped forward, repugnant.

The affirmation brought no satisfaction and the flagrant threat of reformation took nerve upon her core—and so she embodied all of the enmity of Dragos’ people, with their ruinous passions coalescing into a single flicker of judgment.

Alison took hold of her own sword, and started taking quicker strides.

She lifted the blade up, then closed the gap to tower over Dragos instead. Without crowd nor ceremony, she went to curtly execute the Lord of Ziculi.

“And every court fool hides behind a smile,” she despised. “So die with one.”

“All will be— ...”

[stormwindian]

Ziculi sits at the heart of Trevaria—There is history, here, with the very name of the region once taking homage from its settlement (or perhaps vice versa). Presumably—It is the longest inhabited place in the whole valley.

Thus, I encouraged Gryphonsoul to come here in the hopes that we might find a refuge for history and culture; knowledge alight in the faces of what great perils we’ve seen lurk in the dark shadows of Castle Malgrave, to help us in our journeys to overcome them. Instead? We found ourselves among the abused, the hopeless, and the feasting rats.

The Baron was named Dragos Ziculovich—A fat, frail-hearted, and ignorant man who’s cruelties carried on a legacy of madness from his father. He believed that the only way to save his people, to stave off the parasites which enjoy Alvira’s blood tithes, was to veil away their problems and pretend they didn’t exist. 

To be joyous, or face sadistic “correction.” He was insane—an escapist, twisted and gnarled by childish ineptitude. For all of the violence he employed, I am glad that Dragos’ illness has been smote. 

I might wonder: “could we have saved him from this fate?” and I think perhaps, with time—while at the same time, knowing deep in my heart that he was long past the chance for aide. 

His time had run out; the fate was thus:

We fought Walpurga, a noblewoman who would throw off their rule and give what was left of Ziculi to the mistress of this cursed realm, and we fought Dragos, who would see everyone here butchered just to start anew. 

We thought to rally the people behind Father Lucian and his church but, as the city caught aflame, the wrath that had swelled in the common man’s hearts finally sundered free—They lashed out at their misrulers. 

Normal citizens lashed out—joining in the momentum, rioting, and pillaging their own homes—and their passions turned to literal flames that threatened what little of value was left in Ziculi. 

It was a festival of anarchy. Smoke and death filled the air. Blood painted the streets and walls.

For all of the violence, I stopped caring for who might rule the ruins. In the end? I killed Dragos myself, as his home burned around us. It was within the heart of his manor, after I went to find the oldest tomes that were kept there; he went for me, in a haze of rancor, and I cut him to pieces.

I sent his wife to the church; I only hope Victor escaped safely. I left everyone else inside- the looters and villains alike - to ash.

[stormwindian]

If Andral's story is one of sad irony, Saint Markovia's is pure tragedy.

She was a priestess of the Light—Believing in Trevaria's "morninglord" deity—who rallied the valley's people for the greatest challenge they could muster against this land's dark mistress.

In one of the tomes I found, I read that their battle at Castle Malgrave lasted for three nights; at a cliff's edge, they fought - and fought - and fought, before finally breaking through Alvira's armies and charging inside to face her directly.

And they all died—There was not a single survivor; Markovia and her allies stormed their way into the predator's den, never to return again.

I can only imagine the words that were shared, in the final moments. The ancient dark vampiress, smug before a brief flash of holy flames.

It says Alvira herself carried Markovia's body to the castle catacombs.

Is that a mark of honor or a curse to eternal unrest?

The people think that Markovia's spirit survives, at least, and that it looks outwards for heroes who can help free them from the monster that they were unable to overcome alone.

A mural in Trevaria Village's church, opposite of Saint Andral's, shows Markovia peering through the great mists at a group of champions that enter from realms beyond.

I swear that I saw myself in that company. I wish I hadn't—I hate the idea of "fate."

That there is preordained consequence to all of this suffering—A cycle, where my choices are demanded by momentums not my own and which suggests my deeds are not self-won but instead expected and scribed before ever having been thought?

I find that belittling; it's an insult.

And yet—Fate or not, I hope to achieve. I would put Markovia's tragedy to rest.

[stormwindian]

The story of Saint Andral is a sad thing.

I first learned his name within Trevaria Village's chapel, where I saw a mural that depicted him and a group of forgiven sinners moving towards a setting sun in the distance; while hardly visible, I noticed that there were even creatures of the night with them—repenting so that they might be reborn in the Holy Light.

I can't help but think it was a furtive addition for the vapid hopes of a desperate priest surrounded by monsters; it's no wonder why Father Donavich thought we might save his son, Doru. If only, though—That would take a miracle. No—Here, in Ziculi, the truth of Saint Andral is that his life was more about rebuffing evil than affording it any refuge. His very bones are a holy relic that wards the town's chapel from any creatures of death or darkness; a testament to his divine, immovable faith.

And yet—For as much as they might protect from the monsters outside, those bones were ineffective against the evils in man's heart.

Saint Andral's bones were stolen and sold by one of the church's own, Milivoj; for gold coins and cursed items, which he foolishly gifted to the orphans that he hoped to enrich with this "deal," bones of the Light's Defiant were nearly yielded to the very creatures they dismissed in life. For all of our strife—We were still late. How many people burned alive in the fires? How many more were bled dry in the streets?

There were explosions—Then screams. I fear we were following only a single thread, tangled with other pieces to make one agonizing yarn? Alvira's spawn were feasting, steps ahead of us, and taking advantage of the town's own self-ruin.

A self-ruin that was born from sins within. Saint Andral's bones are rolling in his crypt.

[stormwindian]

From the Laws of Ziculi

A torn piece of parchment has been slid into Alison's journal.

The depravities of the desperate. I hope they haven't burned their libraries down for joy.

By ørder øf his Eminence, Barøn Ðragøs Zikuløviç, Burgømaster øf Zikuli, in ørder tø ensure the køntinued peace and prøsperity øf the Great and Jøyøus tøwn øf Zikuli and the sekurity øf its fine citizens, all  visitørs and residents shall kømply with these laws in additiøn tø thøse øbserved by kømmøn kustøm within the Valley øf Trevaria:

Før punishments bearing a variable sentence, the severity øf punishment shall vary depending øn the severity øf the krime  and the intent øf the øffender. If an øffender is sentenced tø hang frøm the galløws, they shall first be imprisøned in the støkks før nø  møre than twenty føur (24) høurs tø serve as a publik example, and shall be subsequently exekuted the next mørning følløwing their arrest.

Maliciøus Unhappiness

• Referring tø a certain tyrannikal individual, whø lairs within Kastle Malgrave, by her given name is førbidden within Zikuli walls. Nøne shall speak this name aløud ør karry written døkuments bearing this name. If this individual must be  mentiøned, she shall be referred tø simply as The Ðevil. • A Festival øf Zikuli is held eaç week in the tøwn square tø celebrate the køntinued prøsperity and sekurity øf øur Great  and Jøyøus tøwn, and tø shøw øur køntinued suppørt and appreciatiøn før his Eminence the Barøn Ðragøs  Zikuløviç, whøse wise dekrees have kept The Ðevil at bay and whøse efførts and guidance shall return øur lands intø the graces øf the Mørninglørd sø that we shall ønce again feel the warmth øf the sun. Attendance at all festivals is  mandatøry. • Nøne may speak ill øf any festivals held within Zikuli, nør høld any døkuments that present them in an ill light. Happiness is the key tø Zikuli’s safety, and any resident ør visitør that threatens tø harm mørale alsø threatens tø  harm Zikuli as a whøle! • All residents, and any visitørs staying within Zikuli walls før lønger than five (5) days, shall assist with all festivals within Zikuli, suç assistance inkluding but nøt limited tø preparatiøns and klean-up. These duties shall røtate thrøugh  the general publik øn a basis determined by løts drawn biannually. • All residents and visitørs, irrespektive øf length øf stay, shall attend all festivals. Tø enførce this dekree, the Zikuli  guard shall gø døør-tø-døør in the time beføre and during a festival, and patrøl the streets tø ensure that nø attendee has  been left øut.

 Any Zikulian ør visitør whø breaks these laws shall be çarged with Maliciøus Unhappiness, whiç bears a punishment øf nø less than twø (2) and nø møre than twelve (12) days øf publik humiliatiøn in the støkks, and/ør a fine nøt tø exkeed five (5) gøld pieces. Repeated øffenses øf Maliciøus Unhappiness are punishable by kømmitment tø the Zikuløviç Reførmatiøn Center.

By the Grace øf the Mørninglørd and the wisdøm øf His Eminence the Barøn Ðragøs Zikuløviç, Burgømaster,

All Will Be Well

[stormwindian]

Avery swears that we’ll return. I won't waste my breath next time.

We are traveling with Honorine, now; a half-Zarani student to Rudolph van Reichen, the monster hunter whose manual I have read a dozen times since coming to this land.

 "Begone, afore you taste the arts of Old Ceithlenn" —Old and soon to be buried; Try me.

[stormwindian]

How many more nights must we suffer this absurd anxiety? This trepidation and fear, for being deep in the unknown?

Please!

We are not where we are supposed to be—That is the nature of this Trevarian descent—but we are also NOT so weak or frail that we must be cowering before any monster that we realize in this vile nightscape.

For fuck’s sake—We have a woman who has been into HELL and come back. We have veteran warriors who’ve smote undead in the heart of ICECROWN, we have a dark magician who has made a BITCH of her voidwalker, and we have two capable healers with a nature-blessed gem!

And what were we faced with? Hags—A vile coven of eldritch, malevolent crones mothered by a single cursed woman who has made dark pacts, thieved and fed upon children in the night, and spawned an ugly brood from her rituals.

If I didn’t think we could win, I wouldn’t have struck first; the only reason we DIDN’T win, is because they didn’t stand behind me!

I am WELL aware of what we’re capable of, Janewell; don’t tell me “If you make decisions like this, you’ll get us killed!” when you’re so witless that you still think we’ve all died already!

I knew exactly what I was doing in that wind mill; you just didn’t listen!

They were hags in a windmill—the symbol of Trevaria Village’s Durst family—and that windmill was overlooking a circle of ancient stone monoliths, built upon land that was actively being TAINTED from any druidic value.

And for all our time thinking about the Fanes’ fates? I would make the same decision without hesitation!

I know there is something important at that windmill; I know we can defeat anything of threat there, and I know that we will NEED TO if we ever want to succeed in this wretched fucking valley!

The only reason Honorine thinks we're fools is because we forced ourselves to run like a group of hens without their heads. That is NOT my fault.

[stormwindian]

Where a raindrop falls, a storm may follow.

- Hildira Rosaline

[stormwindian]

Something I neglected to ask Alvira about was the “Fanes.”

We believe it is another identity for the Ladies Three, which I read about in Salvaza Capello’s library so many moons ago; supposedly ancient nature deities, all but forgotten in their old country now that it has been conquered in an eldritch void.

We also believe Lady Capello’s gem—the viridian jewel hidden in their family brooch which Adam Caldogne sought so fiercely—is related to them in some way, by dint of its near-druidic magic.

If we had asked Alvira about either, would she realize a threat in us? She severed this land from proper nature; she subdued it, including the fanes, and I worry to face her wrath now and here.

Perhaps if there is any kindness left in these lost spirits, they will lend us the strength to survive her.

[stormwindian]

During dinner, one of Alvira’s servants - a man named Escher - asked for Wind to assist him in the kitchen. I tensed, thinking it a trap of some kind, but Wind tells us that she was given a warning.

Escher took her before a set of hanging men and women, each with their throats slit and spilling red “wine” into the casks below, and told her not to take Alvira’s courtesies for what they seem.

What the fuck.

No matter what, she is a predator. I swear that we will not be her prey.

[stormwindian]

We were greeted by the sounds of music.

The cries of an organ—loud and rapturous—were performed by our soon-to-be hostess while her Hand played the role of a distant guide to bring us through her castle gates and into a lavish dining hall.

Adorning the walls were trophies worth a dozen lifetimes; weapons, art, great tapestries and prizes to connote a myriad of conquests, and even the preserved skull of an elder dragon.

We presented ourselves just as the crescendo swelled. I remember how, after their hands went still, there was a moment where I could only hear the vespers of her melody—ringing against the stone and lilting to chambers beyond our ken.

And there was tension with those echoes; a tremor in my heart.

I saw pale skin beneath a shroud of raven hair. I saw crimson eyes gazing above sanguine lips.

The woman who visited my dreams—Alvira von Vesnoira.

(Art by Saltmatey!  😳😳) 

As much as I recognized her, however, I don’t know if she saw the same. Was she being coy? She didn’t need to be for anything else if so. 

In fact—When we mentioned the dreams that led us into this hellscape, she  claimed to have no part in them; Alvira merely allowed us through the mists after feeling our presence and, on a whim, sent this invitation to learn who we were. 

It could have been a lie; playing us like a game? If that’s so, we were all playing the game with her. 

Our evening was a series of idle queries, prosing courtly kindnesses in attempts to discern if either side had violent intentions. Alvira asked us about Azeroth and our skills; we asked about Trevaria and her role in its torments.

In that way, she wore truth on her sleeves; Alvira confirmed to us that the whole of Trevaria is twisted in an eldritch curse—and all of the souls are trapped within.

Even she can’t leave—She said that she’s bound by the mists until she finds a successor who can inherit her rule over the demi-plane in her stead.

—A successor. 

Everyone seems aghast at that. Everyone except me, I guess.

Even Tisaine, despite how aligned she and Alvira were when it came to talking about the dark magics of Azeroth, clearly wasn’t so much as teased by the prospect of replacing their rule.

Granted—I don’t envy the idea of staying here forever.  But what if  the land had a Queen that was kind to it?

The idea of staying here forever isn’t very appealing, granted, but I can’t help but value the chance for a diplomatic end to what makes this an eldritch purgatory.

[stormwindian]

Landscapes by Shen Fei

This artist on Instagram

[stormwindian]

This entry is dated "October???"

We're finally accepting her invitation. Most of us are, anyway.

A few people are escorting Antonella to the town of Ziculi, where her brother thinks she'll be safer and where we hope there'll be a library that can help us learn about Lady Capello's Brooch.

That's the thing that brought us to Trevaria in the first place, anyway. I have more questions now than when I was inside Stormwind's library staring at maps with Professor Feroneus.

Now it seems the best answers will come from a castle-date with an allegedly centuries-old neck-romancing tyrant people think is a Devil.

Most people are preparing for a fight. I'm hoping for a fruitful conversation.

I'm taking a hot bath, setting out the only nice dress I brought to this Light-forsaken hellscape, and I'm preparing some spells to escape with just in case something goes horribly wrong and we need to run.

After learning what our hostess is capable of at the Durst manor, I don't want to fight her at all if I can help it. Which—Maybe it's for the better that some ours won't be joining for the confrontation.

Jane wanted us to perform a "citizen's arrest!" Like—who is going to oversee that trial, Jane?

The ravens???

She might be going crazy—I think she thinks we're all dead here. Which, we're not; we're just in a strange place and need answers.

Like—Who and what is Alvira? Why is Trevaria the way it is?

Why did the Zarani and Alvira's letter both entreat us like we're here to "save" this valley from a curse, when it seems every party that's entered before us has resolved to attack the latter?

Were most of them led astray? Made ignorant by something? In fairness, the people of Trevaria are clearly suffering.

I don't know—I still think about the woman upon that castle parapet.

Is she really a monster? Or is she a victim too?

[stormwindian]

This entry is dated "October???"

After leaving the church, Hildira and I took a walk through the village. We discovered the ruins of an old manor that belonged to a group of cultists led by the "Durst" family. Antonella says they worshipped the devil—Alvira von Vesnoira—until she personally slaughtered them all.

I was told this happened years ago but, when I was there, I found that the interior was STILL saturated in magic. It was like an arcane lance pierced the building from the sky, consuming everything inside.

Almost everything, anyway—Aside from ruined family portraits, there was a closet with a skeleton inside, I assume hiding in vain, with a letter to the Dursts from Alvira herself.

My møst pathetik servant, I am nøt a messiah sent tø yøu by the Ðark Pøwers øf this land. I have nøt køme tø lead yøu øn a path tø immørtality. Høwever many søuls yøu have bled øn yøur hidden altar, høwever many visitørs yøu have tørtured in yøur dungeøn, knøw that yøu are nøt the ønes whø brøught me tø this beautiful land. Yøu are but wørms writhing in my earth. Yøu say that yøu are kursed, yøur førtunes spent. Yøu abandøned løve før madness, tøøk sølace in the bøsøm øf anøther wøman, and sired a stillbørn søn. Kursed by darkness? Øf that I have nø døubt. Save yøu frøm yøur wretçedness? I think nøt. I muç prefer yøu as yøu are.

There was a hole in the manor's floor that went for at least 2 more levels before being swallowed into darkness. We didn't want to try delving to see what was inside, after spying their ruined altar.

One might suppose confusion, knowing that Alvira was the one who destroyed their house of supplication; after all, she is supposedly the "Devil-Vampire Mistress who rules over ALL of Trevaria." Right?

I'm not confused, personally. If anything I'm a little endeared.

After all—This was more than a group of cretins enacting blood crimes in her name; they were a cult beseeching power that wasn't their own, then giving it a name and philosophy that wasn't true.

They were claimants to something far beyond their privilege. They were liars; they were pretenders; an insult to real power. They were bugs in her dirt, and she killed them for trespassing.

Good.

[stormwindian]

This entry is dated "October???"

She was taken—In the frozen wastes, she was lost.

They showed me her weapons. I made sure they were brought home. For the friends that knew her better than I, we mourned her, together. She was taken beyond that tear in the sky—She was gone.

And yet, not at all.

Sorelah of Andorhal is Hildira Rosaline.

She told me, in the Beyond, there are many great and terrible realms. When she was stolen from ours, they pulled her into a place of torment and scarring. I didn't ask her to describe it.

Instead—She described the people who helped her; soul bearers who lost one of their own in this place; she's hoping to find more about that disappearance.

If what we've heard about the spirits in this valley is true—that they are trapped, unable to leave and only reincarnate—then I can only fear the worst for her.

And still—For their price, Hildira was given back to us. I don't pretend to understand Death, but I appreciate this.

Someone I can rely on.