[ExaByte]

Word travels from the land of spring.

A new Warden is inducted, the Dryad of Euphaedra and former Hand of Warden Caelan, Eden Aubreen. A relatively quiet affair held within the Atrium of the White, a formality to make the role that the once retainer filled official. One might expect that to be the end of the story for the next few years until some grand threat once again rears its head-

Before a missive makes its way from Arcadia's borders.

A declaration of war.

"I am done waiting. You've had the luxury of there being a bigger threat for too long. It was always to be tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow-"

"I say today, and I say let that day be judgment day."

"Felice Amarti, your illusion of control shatters. You are left with only a single path before you- judgment at the hands of Arcadia. Take whichever path to it you like."

The Warden's statement rather brief, not one for lengthy war speeches, Arcadian forces can be spotted moving steadily into position to siege the lands that Sanctuary claims as its own. Elzaran rangers and the Druid Corp in wyldshape can be seen scouting and taking up positions. Although...

It seems their banner does not fly alone, and soon sleeping dogs will lie cold.

[DATE: TBA]
[OBJECTIVE: CAPTURE FELICE.]
[ALLIES: To be revealed at their own pace.]

[???]

Arcadia sends scouts ahead, some return to report, some seem to never return home.

"Would you look at that miss Amarti, mister Veythar, it seems the future had very little interest in surprising us.

As promised, we will honor our word."

Shall we enjoy another cup of tea, cousin?

Banners will not fly alone indeed.

Speira comes to assist Sanctuary.

[BloomeForme]

Battalions adorned in cobalt and white armor ride out upon horseback, gilded crests sewn into banners indicating their source. Hooves stamp into wooded landscapes as those less conspicuous, shrouded underneath groves, situate themselves where canopies obscure plain sight. Knights bolstering resplendent armor coordinate alongside druidic forces with supply carts dragged by steeds. Proclamations surface from the very vernal Queen establishing wartime preparations:

"Several seasons ago, it was your leadership that assaulted our people without providing the due diligence of payment for maiming them; merely another moment later, and your Drakanite bandit operated in tandem with opposition malicious to these very lands. We were coerced into weeping for our losses as she did so once more, and now, you brokered an alliance with Fel agents who desire unnecessary turmoil-- stole one from Caethir from us. The balance has been left askew long enough, hinged on your incompetence, Felice.

Return Ser Isshin Ryuma or continue to suffer the consequences of your actions with corrective bloodshed."

Caethir marches to perish the misaligned at Arcadia's side.

[Sale Bête]

The Sage’s presence has been scarce within Meranthe. Glimpses, and other leadership of the Sanctuary have taken to the fore in fielding the settlements day-to-day operation. Rumors speak of a flight, of death, of madness.

As she reemerges and the Shadowlands thrums with a cacophony of rebellious energy, the latter most is given some credence.

More words than she often speaks are offered as Arcadia’s contingent encroaches. Words directed at them and somewhere beyond:


“Father taught me early that lives are not weighed equally.

Many will weep and pine for the death of a warlord in golden plate, enough to justify turning back the hand of Death.

Few will weep for the child slain upon the stone altar.
Fewer still will move for the lost infant led astray to damnation - lest there be profit or ‘glory’ in the doing.

These Truths were taught to me as a girl. 
And in my hundred and twenty two years of living, the fewest of all have shown inklings otherwise.

You worship and place upon pedestals the men who see children slain with false claims of Necromancy.

You decry the destruction of the soul, and yet your idols stand on pedestals of immortality - detached from the lifestream you swear to maintain.

You lament and name foul these arts which pull from the cycle, yet benefit from its means under the guise that it is ‘made clean’.

I see that Atheleon’s children were not pawns enough. Now you send more and name it ‘judgement’.
It rolls off the tongue better than ‘quashing dissent’.

It has ever been a game of image.
Just as all of Goldlight was.”

“No longer can I justify complacency.

No longer will I brook the harm of my Children in a world that maligns them.

No longer will I forgo the use of the weapons by which my enemies and tyrants flourish.

I stand now as example and reminder to all who grow fat and indolent in your master’s fields of green, complacent in your comfort as the world falls beneath a yoke:

Not all Wolves are Born.

The most fierce are Made.”

“Dead clay that did me kindness,”

Slow at first. Then a torrent, an upheaval.

“I can do none to you,”

Bloodshot eyes by the hundreds follow each marching soldier. Creatures of wretched magic pick at those fallen behind, leaving effigies of bone and flesh in memoriam.

“But only wear for breastknot”

That which had lain dormant reawakens. And all the wilds scream, pleading the retreat of those who've already marched too far.

“May my dear Children learn from their Mother’s example.”

“The flower of sinner’s rue.”

Sunday, 4/12

3:30 PM CST

Poetry credited to A.E. Houseman’s ‘Sinner’s Rue’