They called him Silas—but that was merely the skin he wore. Beneath the name, beneath the calm demeanor, lurked Crow: a man forged in blood and secrecy. The Stormcrow had once sailed under a different captain, until murder rewrote its fate. Crow, cloaked in his alter ego, slipped aboard under the guise of loyalty, and slowly, like a tide rising in the dark, he earned their trust. When the time came, they handed him the helm.
Under his command, the ship became more than a vessel—it became a front. A company was born, thriving in the shadows, its roots tangled with the ambitions of Portus Stromberg, a man seeking sanctuary for his beloved and their children. Together, they built something that looked honest. But behind the curtain, Crow moved pieces on a darker board.
Then came the note.
It was unassuming, folded and sealed, but it carried the weight of a world. A whisper from Ar—his Home Stone. The place he had sworn to sever from his soul when he entered the caste of assassins. Yet the bond had never truly broken. It pulsed beneath his skin, a ghost of belonging.
And so, the Master of Masks began to weave a new disguise. A plan. A return.
As Silas, he roamed the ports, gathering whispers and favors. One day, aboard the Stormcrow, a young man named Trajan Cernus boarded—bound for Port Kar. He carried arrogance like a blade, and when denied what he believed was his right, he turned it on a girl. She was not his to command, not his to touch. Her Master had not given permission. But Trajan’s fury was blind.
Crow watched.
The girl died beneath his fists.
The owner of the girl demanded compensation. Silas offered resolution. He led Trajan to his quarters with a calm smile and quiet steps.
When the ship docked, Crow emerged alone.
The girl’s owner had paid well.
And the Stormcrow sailed on, its captain cloaked in silence, its secrets buried in the deep.
Crow was no stranger to transformation. In his relentless pursuit to return to Ar—the city etched into the marrow of his soul—he shed one skin to wear another. The death of Trajan Cernus was not an end, but a beginning. Crow claimed the young man’s possessions, his identity, and with the silent blessing of the enigmatic Priest Kings, began the delicate art of rebirth.
Time became his ally. He did not rush. He studied Trajan’s mannerisms, his knowledge, his ties to the House Cernus—the promise of power and legacy. Every detail was absorbed, every nuance rehearsed. Slowly, deliberately, the illusion took shape.
And then, the old mask had to die.
Silas—the alter ego that had served him well—was dismantled piece by piece, buried in whispers and forgotten ports. In his place rose Trajan Cernus, not the impulsive youth who had once boarded the Stormcrow, but a man reborn: composed, calculating, and cloaked in quiet menace.
When Crow finally stepped onto the stones of Ar once more, he did so not as a fugitive, but as a phantom returned. The city did not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He was older now. Sharper. And far more dangerous than anyone dared suspect.
The note bore no seal, yet its weight was unmistakable. It came from Marlenus—the exiled Ubar of Glorious Ar. Once cast out in the wake of the city’s fall, he had waited, watched, and now, he called for return.
Crow read the message in silence, the ink whispering of unfinished business and buried loyalties. The time had come. The city stirred once more, and with it, the need for shadows to move.
Marlenus had chosen him.
Not as Crow. Not as Silas. But as Trajan Cernus—a name reborn from the ashes of a once-promising scion of a noble house. The real Trajan was gone, his legacy a blank canvas. And Crow, ever the master of masks, would paint it anew.
He had prepared for this moment with patience, not haste. The lessons learned in exile, the alliances forged in silence, the knowledge gathered in the dark—all of it had led to this. Ar would not recognize him, but it would feel his presence. He would not return as a servant, but as a force. A man of lineage, of power, and of purpose.
And beneath the calm exterior of Trajan Cernus, the assassin watched. Waiting for the city to blink.
It might take long before this letter finds you. You might not even know or remember me. It was a brief flicker of time — I saw you. And nothing has felt quite the same since.
I’ve spent days wondering what color your eyes truly are, and whether you hum to yourself while washing dishes. Silly details, I know. But isn’t that how love begins — not with fireworks, but with the sound of someone laughing at just the right moment?
I don’t expect anything from this note. I only wanted you to know: for a single, quiet heartbeat in this vast world, you were deeply noticed. And cherished — if only from afar.
Maybe that’s enough. Maybe not. But it’s real. — A stranger who saw the sun differently after seeing you
Belle was surprised when the man walked up to the bakery with a letter for her. She held it in her hand and looked about the quiet lands, seeing no one except for the man as he climbed into his serpent and sailed off into the distance. Turning and getting a tankard of mead she went and sat at the table and opened the letter and began to read. Her eyes skimming the paper for some sort of clue as to who would of written such words. Was this a horrid prank from her brothers, or a cruel trick of the God’s. Her heart still clung to the man who gave his life for the lands. But after reading such words she felt the small glimer of warmth from her cold heart. Only briefly though as she finished her tankard and folded the letter up placing it in her pouch and returned to work not giving it another thought, for now anyway.
The second letter arrives with a merchant. When asked the merchant only knows that it arrived with supplies. The scroll is tied with a blue ribbon and it says:
Dear Belle,
It is strange that I can’t be truly sure for these letters to reach you. They must cross perhaps so many hands to come to you that I dare to question if they come in the right order. I just have to trust that meeting you was a Godly intervention.
I don’t know if you kept the letter. Maybe it fluttered away in a breeze. But I meant every word. Still do. The world feels strangely richer since I wrote it — as if that moment of seeing you etched something permanent into my days.
I’ll stop here, before this turns into another confession. Only this, then: you were lovely. You are lovely.
And if nothing else, at least this letter got to say so.
The days of the letter had passed. Belle busied herself moving through each day as if ok auto drive. Her focus for anything other then her orders at the bakery had long vanished.
This day Belle was accepting the supplies from the traveling merchant. As she signed the manifest and handed it back to the man his eyes grew wide as if there was something else. That name, he thought to himself..then its as if a switch went off and he held his finger up to Belle and rushed over to a bag filled with scrolls, where he pulled one out and smiled..”This belongs to you also” he said handing it to her and turned to finish his business.
Belle stood there woth the letter in her hand the blue ribbon binding it. Unsure of what it was, as she had hoped it was from her brother or sister in their new lands telling her of her niece and nephews. Stepping over and settling down on the bench she tugged on the ribbon having it unroll in the palm of her hand. Reading it she couldn’t help but to first frown as she looked about for someone but found nothing.
Her eyes skimmed over the letter again and with it held tightly in her fingers she couldn’t help but to grin and rest the hand with the letter in her lap as she looked out upon the waters. Thinking of who this person was and when did they meet.
Every day he wrote a letter and yet not all would truly arrive. But the urge of writing became more and more of moment of calm in his restless life. Some spoke of his feelings, while others wrote of his dreams. And again one letter finds you via the hand of a merchant.
My dearest Belle, I wasn’t going to write again. Not really. But then I passed a bakery where the aroma of freshly baked bread transported me back — and I thought of you. I always do.
There’s a strange comfort in writing to you, like pressing my palm to the warmth of a stone that’s been sitting in the sun. You never asked for these letters. You might not even know from who they are. But they’ve become the way I breathe deeper — as if naming this feeling gives it permission to be real.
You still don’t know me. Maybe you never will. But in a world full of danger and noise, you felt like silence — not the lonely kind, but the kind that wraps around you and says, “Stay.”
There’s beauty in restraint, I suppose. In loving without expectation. In carrying someone quietly inside your every day. I won’t say more. I’ve said enough in ink already. But I’ll keep this ritual — writing, folding, letting go — like a lantern drifting on a still lake.
Not expecting this to reach you. Just to remember that once, you made something inside me feel weightless. — Still a stranger, but no longer empty
Belle had missed the delivery on the day the next letter arrived, she had spent the day in the forest collect berries and just taking in all that the God’s surrounded them with, the beauty the unknown. She once enjoyed the time alone but since her days gad grown cold and dark, the happiness that allowed the light the shine through casted out by nothing but shadows now.
Reaching the bakery and walking in to supplies on her table, she at first didn’t notice the letter, not until the rolled up scroll rolled off a crate and onto the floor. Catching it out of the corner of her eye she couldn’t help but to be hopeful. Picking it up and taking it out onto the porch where she sat and read it. Her mind really began to race. Who was this man, where did she meet him. How could she respond to him?
She sat back in the chair and for the first time in a very long time she felt the sunshine on her face, the warmth of the kiss of the sun. Closing her eyes to enjoy it for the moment as she held the letter in her hand and a soft smile curled upon her lips.
This will be the last one.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve tell myself everytime.
It’s strange — how a person you only casually met can become a thread woven through your every season. You, who never asked for this.
And yet, I’ve written to you. Not because I believed I had the right, but because I didn’t know how else to keep this feeling alive. Writing has been my only way of holding truth still long enough to see it clearly.
But now, I find myself wanting more.
Not more letters. More courage.
Strange that this is what is missing. I can face a knife without trembling. And yet when I think of meeting you. I don’t know if that frightens me or sets me free. What I do know is this: if someday — perhaps soon — you find a man standing quietly nearby, hands tucked nervously into his belt, watching the flowers near the bakery or a small gathering near the long hall… that may be me.
I’m not asking for anything. Not your heart. Not even your attention. Only the chance to exist without shadows. To let you know that all of this — the ink, the ache, the wonder — came from somewhere real.
Until then, I remain — Still anonymous, for now. But not for long – so I tell myself.
A merchant comes grinning to the baker stall. “Well Belle, you seem to have an admirer.” he jested totally unaware of the content of the letters. But it was getting the attention of some that these letters with the blue ribbon became more frequent. “This was given with great urgency. The child that brought it even asked if the one that was delivered earlier could be taken and replaced. Of course I would not do such a thing.” he shook his head “I even think the child might have been mistaken. As it was unsure from which the order and this letter came.” He would give the letter. As always the same blue ribbon tied it together. When you unfurl it a small flower that seemed to have been pressed within it falls to the floor.
My Dearest,
I just hope this letter will be more quick—rushed by winds, hurled across distance with the speed of lightning—so it may find you before hesitation catches me once again. If there is any God who peers down upon me with some affection, I pray it guides this message to you before my previous one will.
For I was a fool to even suggest that my last letter would be final. How can it be, when I cannot stop? I cannot stop writing, cannot stop breathing you into every silent space I occupy. My heart refuses to forget. It longs for that brief moment, that single glance that left me weightless and wanting.
You’ve undone me. I never knew these feelings before. This sensation of being adrift and yet more myself than I have ever been. To be both found and lost in the same breath. To be so thoroughly captivated and yet uncertain. You are like some delicate bloom growing wild in an untamed meadow too lovely to pluck, too rare to risk fading.
And who am I to even reach? Not one of those refined southern men with words that charm like wine, nor a northern giant whose strength could silence doubt. I have neither finesse nor force. Only this, this small moment in this quiet corner of the world where I write to you and pretend, to be the man I wish I could be.
Ever yours in silence, but I keep writing.
Ps. Next time I will try and sent something pretty. But I first need to obtain it.
As the merchant approached she hoped it would be, then she saw the letter with the blue ribbon, just like the one she began to tie her hair with. A smile beamed from ear to ear as her eyes danced with happiness. With a raised brow she looked at the man when he spoke “urgency you say” she then looked down to the letter then back up to him “if you would wait, I have one to return to where this came from. Please I dont know if you know but I have to at least try.. just one moment and ill be back.” She quickly hurried off to the bakery where she read the letter, her heart began to flutter briefly as she read it. Quickly setting it off to the side and began to write one back.. a chance she had to take, a slim chance knowing nothing! With the dried flower close she began
To the the man who broke the darkness,
This is a long shot, not knowing who you are or where you are or even what you look like. But its a chance I have to take. Sending you words of my own.
You’ve taken the darkest of days and beamed your ray of light down upon me, brightening everything I do, shinning so bright.
I’ve found myself watching not to see if a letter is to be delivered. Feeling my cold heart filled woth warmth each time it does. My eyes scan the docks, the hall, the paths to see if someone is standing there. But nothing! I’ve found myself hugging myself tightly as I stand on the edge of a cliff looking oht and over it. Even though it be my arms i long for yours.
Come to me, tell me whom you are, I beg of you
Becoming yours, Belle
Rolling it back up and knowing the same blue bow around it, this time though taking a pink flower from the bakery walk and tucking it in tightly as she ran to the merchant and handing it to him..”Give this to the man who’s been giving you mine, or how ever its been happening, pleade I beg you” then reached in and handed him a few coin hoping it would help.
Some time later …
The boy gripped the letter loosely, yet with caution. He hadn’t dared read it—of course not—but something in the way it had been folded made it feel alive and special. He couldn’t explain it, only that it seemed with something heavier than words: hope, maybe, or sorrow tucked between the lines. He didn’t know who the sender was, but he knew—deep in his chest—that something inside this paper mattered. And so he had rushed to the bakery as his father had explained that this letter was to be delivered immediately. “Miss Belle!” the boy called, his voice bright against the hush of the afternoon. “There’s another one,” he added, holding the letter like something sacred and strange. He didn’t move, only stood there with wide eyes. “There’s something in it,” he whispered then, as if he hadn’t meant to say it aloud. A secret, maybe. Or a heart, carefully folded. As the scroll would be unfurled a small gem fell out of it. Not the kind one would often see. Surely something precious.
My Ray of Light,
As I sat to write you, fate intervened—I was handed a letter. Strange, perhaps, but before I even unfolded it, I lifted it to my face, hoping against hope for that familiar fragrance I so vividly remember. Foolish, I know. The merchant who brought it had no knowledge of the precious cargo he carried. It bore instead the scent of sweat and suls. Yet if words had a scent, if ink could carry the essence of meaning, I’d be intoxicated by the very first breath of yours.
Still, the moment made me smile, like a boy triumphant in his first battle, convinced now he will conquer the very world he walks upon. I remember that boy. I remember his vision, the golden future he believed in. I am not that man – I wished to become. But perhaps one day I’ll find the courage to tell you the story of the shadows, the storms and quests. I only wonder… will your light dim if I offer the truth of my darkness?
Tonight, in the hush between heartbeats, I picture you. I see you on that cliffside, arms around yourself as the wind tries to steal your warmth. And from where I sit, I ache to close the space between us—to fold you in my arms and whisper to your ears that you are safe, you are cherished. For as long as I may, I will treasure you.
Ask anything of me, and I shall obey. But this—this confession—is the one task I tremble to complete. To tell you who I am beyond these letters… that frightens me. For never before have I spoken so truthfully, so deeply. And what becomes of a man, once his heart has been so gently, yet so entirely, stolen?
Yours in silent awe, — Anonymous
Ps. This gem was the first thing I ever truly won. It is something one can not give to anyone but the one that is more precious then the gem itself.
In the hustle and bustle of the docks, Belle went about her daily ways, the sounds of the birds landing and sqawking while they fasted on the scraps of fish being tossed aside. The laugher of the people trading woth the merchants that had docked. Her basket hooked on her arm and her thoughts with the man who seemed to light her ways in the words he leaves. Hearing her name she stopped and turned around only to see a young boy run with something in his hand, the blue ribbon she caught right away. A smile gleaming from ear to ear. Handing him a cookie she took the letter and sent him on his way.
Finding an empty bench at the edge of the dock she carefully opened the letter and catching the gem. Her eyes danced with the way the sun would hit it. Bringing it to her lips she held it close while she read the letter.
Once finished she folded it up and leaned back once again closing her eyes as she imagined the scene he laid before her on the cliff. The flashing to the boy he once was and wondered who he was now. Pulling out a scroll she decided to teat fate once again and began to write using the bench to press against.
Im so thankful you were able to receive my letter, I was unsure that it would ever touch your hands. The God’s saw that it did, so im trying once again. Thank you for the gem, I will cherish it and keep it close to me at all times, when I lose my breath in my lungs I will clench it in my hands for it to never leave me.
I nae know of the man nor the boy but im beginning to know of the one who is writing me, and nothing that you’ve done or storms you’ve mastered could change the person in my eyes that sits and writes me. I’ve often pictured you sitting there at your desk, your face lightened by the candle thar burns fiercely beside you. If only I meet this man who has letter by letter given me reason for hope. A reason to smile. As I hope ive done for you.
Tell me of our first meeting, give me that, I beg of you
Yours through the dancing rays of light when you look upon the sun, Belle
Rolling the letter and placing but a dark lilac ribbon around it. And set out to search for the boy whom delivered hers. As she found him she gave him the letter and a few coin. “Please give this to the man you recieved it from and hopes that the God’s take it the rest of the way’ she patted his head and went about to the bakery lost in her newly found dream land
He had been writing, yes—but these past days, the words refused to obey him. Each letter scratched across the page felt lifeless, unworthy. Crumpled pages gathered at his feet, rolling like driftwood across the wooden floor of his cabin as the sea rocked him gently. They whispered among themselves like quarrelsome ghosts: fragments of longing, of dreams too fragile to bear the weight of ink.
She had begged for a letter. A simple thing, really. How could he deny her such a tender plea? And yet, the tremble in his hand betrayed the storm within. Would he survive her silence—if silence came? Could his heart weather that particular kind of tempest?
Still… hope had crept in. Slow at first, shy like moonlight on dark water. He dared to dream. He saw her there on the dock, dress billowing in the salt-heavy breeze, one hand shielding her eyes, the other raised in joy. A smile—yes, he imagined that most of all. That she would be glad he had returned. Was that not the secret yearning of every sailor? That someone waits?
In the rich tapestry of his longing, she did not stand alone. No. In time, perhaps, a small figure would appear beside her. A child—his child—eyes wide, heart innocent. Or more than one. A family. A future.
And yet… what did he have to offer them? A purse heavy with ill-gotten gold, perhaps. But honor? A name that might be carried with pride? No. His deeds were shaded in smoke and blood. He was no hero of tales, no merchant of virtue. He was a thief. A pirate. A wretch cloaked in charm, living off the misfortune of others and calling it necessity.
Still, he wrote. Because in those scattered scraps, in those ghostly quarrels of paper, lay the one fragile hope that love might still anchor him to something pure.
My dancing ray of light,
I have begun this letter more times than I dare count. A thousand times, perhaps more. Because this letter… it could change everything. What if you already know who I am? What if your next words carry sorrow or anger? The fear of that has held my hand still for longer than I care to admit.
And yet, these letters—these quiet confessions sent across—they have been my lifeline. They linked me to something beautiful in a world I’ve long wandered without anchor. Like a single flower pushing through refuse to reach the sun, you reminded me what it is to feel warmth again. How could I ever deny the plea of the one I now carry in my thoughts like a flame?
So here it is. The truth, or as close as I can bring myself to write.
We met only briefly in Hjartaskjold, a village small enough that you’d think the world paused when you laughed. And for me, it did. In that sliver of time, not only did I see you. I found in this village a friend. One who remains, to this very moment, the most cherished I’ve known.
Belle, I have not had an easy life. Since boyhood, I’ve carved my path alone, salvaging meaning from hardship. And yet… when I think of you, I understand why some might see me as unworthy. Why even I sometimes do.
But still—I hope.
Your lilac ribbon is tied to the key of my cabin. It’s a simple thing, but every night as I slip inside, it reminds me that beneath the same star-scattered sky walks someone who has stirred something better in me. Someone who makes me want to be worthy. And that someone is you.
Yours—no matter the tides, A man learning how to hope again
Belle had received the letter, given by the same boy that carried the smile of innocence. She dared not to ask him of the man who wrote such words to her. Words that had brought yet a smile to her lips, a spring to her step abd for once in a very long time a new reason to breath perhaps?
She found herself sitting on the bench that sat at the top of the cliffs over lookimg the rough waters. The stars mapped out above her as if tracing the lines from one heart to a other, a string that binded them together.
My moon,
I’ve given you a name this night as I sit under the star lit sky, the moon shining its soft beam down along the waves below, guiding my hand as the in flows upon the paper, that paper that I am now touching and you soon will touch if the God’s once again allow.
You speak of being unworthy, but to me you are proving to be worthy. I not have the easiest path that has been paved that ive walked. I’ve lost love, or what I thought was love. I lost a child, one who I cherished more then myself. My family separated and off on their adventures while I sit here alone….till you. I’ve been given a reason to smile, to bring air into my lungs. You say we’ve met in the village, a village that ive met many upon the docks. Still unknown on who you are, how is it I feel my heart beat again for someone I know not of, how is it that ive been told the brightness in my eyes have again returned. I dare to think the God’s are playing a trick on me, they laugh at my longing. Or am I to love from afar because if its close they will be taken from me. These are things ive thought of often, more so now then ever.
Your words have brought a sense of purpose to me. A sense of reason. So even if I never lay my hues upon yours, or touch your hand, witness the smile upon your face. Your words are enough.
My moon, dont be ashamed of the road you’ve traveled. Be proud. You are the man you are because of that road. Cherish it, embrace it.
And know when you wake each day, and sleep each night that you are cherished and adored, know that there is someone who longs to feel your breath upon her skin, to feel your arms around her. That someone is me! I will be looking at the moon when the height of darkness meets the rays the moon gives off. Perhaps if you look then too, we will know some where out there we are both at the same place at the same time.
I plan to visit my brother soon and my best friend his wife. If you go sometime with out hearing from me its because im there and have not recieved anything from you. I plan to tell the boy whom delivers yours where I will be so that they can be passed on. I not think I can go too long with out one now. Ive included a bit of myself, I dont have gems or treasures but only a piece of me.
Yours through the night rays, Belle
PS…you mention a friend, perhaps they are also a friend if mine?
She then took her dagger and cut off a piece of her sunkissed locks, tieing it with the same lilac ribbon. Her hair. She also took some ramberry dye along her lips and pressed them to the paper, leaving behind a kiss for him to take with him always. Perhaps if the letter wasnt handled too much he would get a scent of again lilac that was sprinkled on the paper as well. Rolling it up and tieing it with the same ribbon, a color of her own. Finding the boy and handing it off in hopes he would recieve it.
As the letter arrived he could tell by the lilac ribbon it came from her. This time he would take his time. Perhaps afraid of what might be in it. As she asked more of him, he knew the risk of losing it were high. In his cabin he would write. He doubted it was in true secrecy as he had been asking for more papyrus. Niamh had observed him, but had not asked him as to why. But for some reason he believed her far more observant than most would give her credit for. In truth he was sure that there was far more to this woman than Portus dared to tell him. Even if their friendship was rock solid.
The lilac ribbon he tied around his wrist. A constant reminder of the woman that had captured the one honorable man that for some odd reason still lived in his heart. As he started to read his brow raised in question and in doubt.
[04:40] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) came in his brows knitted together as he was contemplating things that were far more serious than his expression normally would show. “Greetings Portus.” he offered. He looked about “This is rare .. to find you alone .. in here.” it was only an observation – no judgment. “Do you have a moment ?” he asks.
[04:44] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): smiles warmly seeing his friend appear although noting he still held the disposition that had indicated he had not been himself for a little while…”of course my friend….Niamh is in the fields an i am only at my papers…you look grave does something trouble you?”
[04:46] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) would again look about himself as to ensure they were alone. “Can we walk ?” he asks. “There has been something that is on my mind and …” he paused. “Perhaps I should ..” he did not end his sentence. “Did I see correct that you invited your entire familly ? Do you know who is to come ?”
[04:48] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): stands a little concerned yet willing to listen to his good friend who had many times listened to him….”come we shall walk to the fishing lake” clasps his arm in a comforting manner and heads out of his ofice
[04:49] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) nodded “Good.” he replied as he would follow his lead.
[04:51] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): relaxes enjoying the sound of the water and waits on Silas…clearly there was something troubling him
[04:52] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) had been quiet during the walk. And as they finally took a seat he leaned backwards. “Do you remember that day when I came to the shores of Hart for the first time?” he asks. The lilac ribbon around his wrists was just briefly touched. As he too stared over the water. Trying to find something to focus upon. Not yet in the mind to truly face his friend. “I met your sister there.” he would cuts a glance now to Portus as to see how this would land.
[04:56] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “how could i forget you were bringing me Runa…that day is etched in my mind forever….not only did i gain an exceptional bond but a good friend and dare i say brother?” smiles at the recollection….”I do believe Belle was there also”…makes a motion for the man to continue as he seemed to be struggling to say something
[05:01] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) chuckles when Runa was mentioned.”yes … if I had known ..” he teased. This time a little more boy’ish than normal. “Yes, I can’t even imagine this doing without you. And you can call me anything. I just try to live up to it.” he stated. He again searched for words. “I met her in the bakery. I think it wasn’t all that long after her and Magnus. Niamh told me their tragic story.” he shared. “Now … I know of this code .. this code not to pursue a sister of a friend. So … ” he paused again “I did not … But ever … ” he would now bring his hands in fists as if beating himself up for this weak attempt to speak of his heart. “How would you feel if I … would try to court her if she would want me ?”
[05:05] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): feels a natural joy bring a smile to my face….”did i not just call you brother?….she has a soft spot for you which is easy to see…but i must ask how in earnest over this matter….her heart has been crushed too many times for me not to consider this as a father would”
[05:09] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) smiled as Portus gave something he considered his approval “I have been writing her letters. Anonymous as I didn’t have the guts to expose myself instantly. I never felt this before.” he admitted. “I had plenty of woman. As you know Carlotta .. if it weren’t for that thrall … I might never truly have seen the extend of these feelings.” he pondered “Did you ever consider my past or how I made my fortune ?”
[05:13] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “it’s a subject i waited for you to broach as what i saw in you i judged to be honourable and the rest would come if you wished to relate it….you are by no means a saint …who of is are…and no doubt have left many women in the wake of the storm crow so if you say you are serious in your pursuit of my sister i will take you at your word”
[05:18] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) understood in these moments why there had been formed a deep friendship. Portus was a man that was reasonable, dealing with things on face value. “I do not share much of my past. As it is paved with events that would not make me the best mate in this world. In fact I would be the man most mothers would warn their daughters for. That fortune was made over the corpses of others.” he shared.
I never saw myself as the type that would court an honest woman. I mean Belle did have her share or grief. Would I not be another that is eventually setting her up for more ?”
He paused “Either way … I think it is best that I will not be here when all your family members meet up. Say I am on a trip to Victoria or some other destination. I am not yet ready to truly face her.”
[05:23] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): finally understood wht the question had now been asked earlier…”you know that Elodi will be very disappointed if you are not here?”…..takes a moment to reflect….”you say you have written her letters?”…puts up a hand…”please i do not wish to know the contents better for a brother not to know but if you cannot be here how are you going to let her know it was you and how would you know her response?….”i will happily say whatever you wish but is this not a good opportunity?”
[05:27] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) chuckled “Elodi.” he echo’d. “She is quite the firecracker.” he mused with amusement. “She might be a handful for her father, but she has become a remarkable young woman. Who ever she ends up with is one lucky bastard. But one that with one step outside what is acceptable will be a dead man walking.” he replied.
“No I can’t face all your family members and tell her it was me.” he replied. “I truly couldn’t deal with the embarrassment if she rejects me.” he sighed. “This is no … casual fling, Portus. I think I truly lost my heart to her.”
[05:31] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): looks surprised as this is the first time that he had appeared thus…”you know if i didn’t think you were then i could not give my blessing for she is all i have left as the others have scattered now….but you must know one way or the other for this maudlin mood is not good for you. How would it be if i spoke to her when she comes and save you that embarassment?”
[05:34] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) tried to reason the words he shared. “She started to ask more and more questions about my identity in her replies. “Perhaps you can talk to her about this. See if she might have hopes on who it might be ? If she thinks it is someone else ?” he would frown. than.
“Try to speak to her about it. But please be discrete. Will you ?”
[05:36] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “you can trust me on discretion…brother….i hold many secrets already…i will take a walk around the land with her and ‘sound her out’ but i am sure you must be on her mind”
[05:38] Silas Drake (melchior.wardell) laughs “Yes, well perhaps as this annoying bug she wants to crush.” he jested. Getting back in a more normal state of mind. “I know I can trust you, Portus. As I said … I leave all I have here for you if ever something happens to me.”
[05:41] Portus Stromberg (brett.pennent): “how could anything happen to you…you are invincible!”….smiles as bahirah appears always a welcome sight
Once again my fingers betray me, moving faster than my thoughts, rushing these words onto the page with nothing but a fragile hope. I do not know if this ink will echo the warmth of the last ones, or if it will drift to you like a lost whisper in the wind.
Your letters—oh, Belle—your letters were balm to a bruised soul. They touched something raw in me. A heart not used to gentleness, suddenly undone by tenderness. It frightens me, how easily I fracture where you are concerned. And when your letter came to me by the bird—your name upon its wings—I could not ignore the cruel poetry of it.
Belle. I held the scroll as if it burned, fearing what would be within. That perhaps the story we’ve dared write across distance might have found its final period. I was not brave, Belle. Not then, not yet. I left. Like a coward flees the storm, not knowing he’s abandoning the shelter.
You know better than most: life teaches you to bend or break. And I bent—sometimes into shapes I despise. I’ve done things I wouldn’t want carved into stone. Things that echo in my quieter hours, when the moon is absent and the waves grow too loud.
But tomorrow—I ask for your presence. At the dock, as dawn breaks. No disguise, no pretense. Let me be the man who doesn’t run. Let me be the one who stays. Let me hold you and tell you that everything—everything—can begin anew.
Portus gave me his blessing. I now kneel before fate, hoping for yours.
If I could, I’d trade places with the bird who carries this message. I’d fly through the dark with nothing but your name on my wings. Until the light returns,
Yours in trembling hope.
Arriving back home on the docks, walking around in a fog, a daze. As if she had been hit hard in the head, everything spinning and her heart beating uncontrollably put if her chest. She waited at her brother’s lands for the bird to return, which it did but returned empty. Not a note saying ‘wait, im on my way’ nothing. Cold silence the depths of a winters day in the most horrendous freeze cold. Stinging as the icicles pierced through her very heart and soul. Needless to say she wasnt expecting anything from him upon her return home. So when the boy ran up to her and handed her the scroll her heart which was barley beating all but stopped as she opened it and read it. The boy waiting for a return. Pulling out a page from her pouch she wrote only 3 words “ill be there” rolled it up tied it with the ribbon and sent the biy on his way.
She didn’t know how to feel she didn’t know how to react. Before she left her brother’s she found his room and roamed about it. Her fingers glided over the desk she pictured him writing at. They picked up the pillow he laid his head upon and inhaled his scent before placing it back down. She also took off the bracelet that her mother gave her when she was younger, entwining a lilac ribbon through it and laid it back on the desk leaving a note using the paper he used “i not know where we go from here but your carried in my heart always, Belle” leaving and closing the door behind her. She made for her house and would wait for the time to meet him, on the docks at day break. Unable to sleep she paced back and forth, a blue ribbon tied again around her wrist replacing the one she tossed in the fire earlier and the gem he gave her pressed tightly in the plam of her hand. Time was there for her to go to the docks and that is just what she set out to do….
There are moments when fate aligns so precisely, so cruelly, it feels orchestrated. This was one of them. The two men must have sensed it—that shiver in the air, the stage set perfectly in the dusky veil of dawn.
The dock lay quiet, deserted. And there, alone, stood the woman. They moved like shadows stitched into conversation, feigning oblivion. They had mastered this. Predators cloaked in casual banter, their intent hidden. Only those who’d seen it before would have recognized the performance for what it was.
When they drew near, the illusion shattered. In a breath, one seized her from behind—an iron grip clamping over her mouth. The other’s hands were swift, intrusive, scouring her for valuables tucked away. Their touch was rough and aggressive, their presence suffocating.
Belle hadn’t seen it coming. Her mind was elsewhere—on Silas, on whatever promise awaited her. Not this. Never this. She struggled, not just to break free, but to protect something clutched tightly in her fist. Her resistance wasn’t just desperation—it was defiance. Whatever she held, she guarded it like a sacred ember. More than precious. Maybe even more than her own life.
The men were relentless. When brute force failed, cruelty stepped in. A blade flashed. Cold steel kissed her wrist—not to kill, but to loosen her grip. Pain as persuasion.
They didn’t flinch. Men like them never did. Morality wasn’t part of their vocabulary. They lived for moments like this. Opportunists. Jackals in the dawnlight. They had seen the gem once before, a fleeting glance as she studied it under sunlight, unaware of what she possessed. But they knew. And they would stop at nothing to claim it—not even murder.
Belle was fighting for the prize she was entrusted with, not for value but for something far more important to her. It was given to her from him. One little gem, it could of been a trick and she would of protected it. While she struggled a flash of him, their meeting…she did remember it..in the bakery, that smile had taken her the moment he flashed it. It was him..she began to struggle harder, fighting for her worth, her family and for them. They were too strong. Prayers for her family were now said. For silas….
Silas felt the odds stack against him with every breath. The tide turned traitor, the wind a dead whisper against the Stormcrow’s sails. The vessel crawled rather than cut—a ship bound by fate’s cruel hand.
It was as though the gods themselves conspired to slow him, to ensure he arrived too late. He would’ve thrown himself into the sea if it meant reaching her faster, but even that wouldn’t bridge the distance in time.
When the dock finally rose into view, it was not Belle he saw first. It was the sound that reached him—a scuffle, sharp breaths, a stifled cry. Then the world narrowed. From the corner of his eye, he saw her—Belle—trapped between two men, their intentions carved plainly into their movements. Blood bloomed dark and damning on her wrist, seeping through fabric like a scream.
“Let her go!” His voice cracked across the morning with the force of thunder, the voice of a man who’d led men into battle and returned. But he was too far—too far to make that instant difference.
He jumped and sprinted. “Belle!” he called again, this time a raw edge of fear fraying the command in his tone.
The attackers stopped. Just a beat. A glance. They knew the name, and worse, the man behind it. “Silas,” one spat, panic scraping his throat. But fear didn’t stop them. It hardened them.
The blade flashed—merciless and fast—as the other pried at Belle’s fingers, desperate for the gem she refused to surrender. When her grip held, the choice was made.
One brutal slash. A life, stolen without pause. So quick. So numbingly final.
The type of death that leaves behind silence louder than screams. “I have it!” the second cried, victorious and vile. The gem was his. The woman was gone. “Run!” And they did—cowards with blood on their hands and fire at their heels—leaving Belle to collapse like a broken psalm upon the dock.
The Candidate had both performed a combination; a combination and capture. Seduction and force were the stronghold. Khutulun had seen the small grains of sands grains combined with her need for escape. The Candidate’s words and coersion had lulled her into a stillness to where she awakened with him slipping inside of her. Her cunt had spread, splaying for the invasion as she protested. And the Candidate used her as if she was any slave to be dealt with. He ordered her to leave and his carelessness produced her vindiction, extracting tassa pins from her discarded clothing and subduing him before departing the semi-comicose form towards the North.
Axe Glacier welcomed her in its vastness and silence, the Aurea Borealis becoming a companion as she recovered from the violation. Khutulun dealt with sporadic corpses, her thoughts shifting towards Tyros and the main slaver’s demands that she had denied. She was vulnerable, aching in body for her rough treatment. The body on ice was her release as she began to practice her skills, releasing the dead, bloodied hearts of slaves from chest cavities with as much respect as she could muster and as much she could be paid for. One was sent in accident, the other sent with purpose to display a twisted sense of affection with hopes of reciprocation.
This was where the dreams began – a past that was foreign to her; she was familiar with the Black Caste, respected their demands and needs and simply remained on the outskirts of what was demanded of her. She was simply, accepted life as it came. But those hanting images of her namesake – moonlight featuring beasts of legend from her mother’s side. They were the kailla, the crow, and the lart. A trio beneath the Gorean moons according to the Wagon Peoples. Khutulun awakened and made prepations, finalizing details of her macabre profession and sharing with others briefly in the Tyrosian infimary. A chest cavity was pried open and a heart was sent to the wrong person before correction in her approach. Khutulun would stand at the beach, waitinyg for the return as a ship approached to relieve her of the south as she clutched a freshly treated skull in her hand and slipped it into her bag.
Al’sah was late with the pomise of a trainee, but mattered less to her. He and any other Black Caste had proved to discover her existence if she was needed. She movied to the docks and waited for the impending ship to dock before she would board with her favored items. The ship would discover the nearest port after Tyros, a location similar to where a butterfly once landed and met a descendent of a storied history. She was simply the shifting light of a single Gorean moon reflected by the sun, orbiting a fellow Earth planet. Making her presence know among stars if required and simply with a trio in the vast sky if it was demanded.
——– ℂ𝕣𝕠𝕨’𝕤 ———– ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟙
Crow was not in the best of places. The fall out with Scar, the run in with Ost and his long ongoing quest. The last took him too long to keep Haru. He had gifted her to another. She had been an excellent slave. As ever his charm had her fall in love with him. A love slave as she mentioned it. Little did she know that when it came to his profession little was true when it came to his emotions. Any slave might have considered him in love. Yet very few had managed to penetrate the depth of his emotions. Sol, Scar and Serpent made sure of that. So when he told Haru that he would gift her to another he could tell that she had been telling the truth. The expression of her face would be etched in the countless nightmares that occupied his sleeping hours. Crow was terribly sophisticated when it came to manipulating the feelings of others. In such there was no honor. Only the killer and assassin that used any means to his benefit and certain outcome.
Crow had countless contacts that over time believed him a loyal and trustworthy ally. These whispers informed him of all kind of matters. Some significant and some simple gossip. Perhaps it made him one of the most informed men in Gor. Not that he wished the credit. It was simply a way to his means. All depended on the source, the information and its value. Even here in his hide out these whispers seemed to find him. This time about a woman that docked. When he was told about a woman holding a skull, he simply thought it was a story one created out of fear or lack of something better to say. Surely a woman wouldn’t want to be questioned as to whom it might belonged too.
Perhaps out of boredom or simply to see what this contact tried to convey he found himself at the dock, studying the woman.
𝕂𝕙𝕦𝕥𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕟
Khutulun disembarked from the ship with the few belongings that she ws carrying. She was heavily garbed and about her waist was a series of medical supplies in the form of a leather belt. The physician preferred the lack of heavy trappings of her office – sumptuous green robes, silks and jewels most high caste free women preferred to wear. She found it impractical for her purposes, instead finding drab, cheap peasant-type gowns that would sustain her if an emergency occurred or if bodily fluid splattered on her she could easily discard of the gown. She boldly traveled alone, appearing diminutive and harmless. That was what made the supposed Candidate break his vows and overwhelm her. She seemed to be one of the few in this place, wherever it was. It seemed to be some sort of hold as the island was empty save for lush trees and birdsong and a few buildings. Anticipation did not prepare her for the black-clad figure who languidly regarded her at the end of the dock, the boards holding his weight. The physician then turned to him, studying his features. He was unfamiliar to her, but his clothing suggested that perhaps he was an emissary or some sort trainee that was sent by Al’sah. A throaty chuckle filled her throat – Al’sah certainly had his ways of discovering her location, making her more impressed with the Assassin. A mistaken submission of a heart was all it took for her to be held some interest. Yet, there was hesitation in her – in her cognac eyes and in her body as the memory of one who had violated her was fresh and that timidness would be constant, but her serene expression betrayed none of her internalized apprehension, “You are looking for me I presume?” She inquired of Crow. The Moonlight did not realize she was face to face with a legend him and mistook him for one of Al’sah’s, “You were sent Al’sah correct?”
——– ℂ𝕣𝕠𝕨’𝕤 ———– ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟚
Crow was known for his patience, his talent with silence but also with how he listened and voiced his thougths. Mysterious when he wanted to be, direct if it was needed and violent if the situation asked for it. Always measured, considered or thoughtful. “I am looking for you.” he replied blunt and to the point. “But not because I am sent.” he added surely to confuse her. The name she mentioned made him the more curious. He pushed himself from the little wall he had leaned against. The leathers of his attire, the claok and the feathers held this shine of the finer quality of Ar. His weaponry mostly hidden or consealed although his dagger could be seen at his waist. The golden sheath rich and adorned with jewls. Crow was in a way vain to his wealth. He had earned it over the many years in his craft. It was why he allowed his slaves to adorn themselves with silks, expensive jewelry. None had ever dared to question or challenge him for it.
“Rumor has it that someone is missing a head and you might have it?” he stated as he would move close – but just far enough to be out of her reach. Keen eyes upon the woman. Studying her face and expression. “Is this true?” he asks. His voice and question held a degree of authority. As if it already might tell her that a lie could have severe consequences while the truth could make an ally
𝕂𝕙𝕦𝕥𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕟
Khutulun appraised this black-clad man before her. He was one she had never seen before but the scent of the leather, freshly oiled and the finery of the jewels reminded her of Imperial Ar and all the experiences she once had there. Her veiled expression was expectant as she anticipated him to be one of Al’sah’s. But this man seemed to hold decades of experience with the furrowing of his brow and the pursuing of his lips. The lines in his forehead and his eyes which beheld faint mixture of curiosity and something else. Often she glimpsed into milky white, pearlescent eyes accompanied by chilled skin. This man was warm, he had endured and his confidence had an ease that no warrior could ever have
A smirk formed on her features, dimples forming in her cheeks as her hand rested on the bag. It was a black glove, digits folding over the brown fabric that was sturdy enough to hold a heavy weight so it seemed.
“Rumor holds true, Killer,” she replied with amusement in her voice, that surreptitious timidity subsiding as she languished in the moment. Her attire was opposite that of the Assassin’s – a brown, peasant attire, raven hijab and veil. An attempt to be close to that forbidden caste not of it. Cheap fabrics were easy to discard and change out of. One did not wear their best when opening tissues.
“It is a specimen I use. A simple slave’s skull. Sometimes for demonstration purposes and others… well it helps me think in some aspect.”
——– ℂ𝕣𝕠𝕨’𝕤 ———– ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟛
Crow could tell she was smirking even if she was wearing a veil. The amusement in her voice was noted too. A woman with his kind of humor? As she answers he would dip his head as in this gesture of acknowledgement to her being that forthcoming. He guessed that her attire was done with reason. She didn’t seem to be the type that went her way without thinking, surely not when her answer came.
“I was once sent a head by a slave. A token of my kindness.” he shared. “I gave her a choice, while another felt I shouldn’t have.” he shrugged there. Perhaps there was something odd to share that story, but he guessed the woman was the more macabre type. So for casual conversation they could compare notes. “I disposed of it. Who knows it might be the one you are tossing about.” As she wasn’t now she could guess that he had observed or was told.
“Now … Since we are talking … I am called Crow.” he offered as to create this scene of familiarity. “You mentioned Al’sah.” he added while keen eyes would almost seem to be piercing through hers. If there was such truth as the eyes being the doors to ones soul, Crow was diving in. Searching for answers to his questions and curioisity. “I was once told it is dangerous to speak names … For one might turn into a turtle.” The story was true, although the one sharing the story – might not be totally taken seriously. “But serious … why would you wait for one of his contacts?” he just asked – ready to receive no answer. Surely he would keep the information for future references although he was hardly in the mood to police the caste.
𝕂𝕙𝕦𝕥𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕟
Khutulun reached into her bag and extracted the skull that was referred to. Her hands gripped the smooth, bleached bone and turned it this way and that. She had cared for it, tended to it and embraced it like a child in his presence. All the while her gaze never left his. Her digits seemed to know the edges and ridges of the bone. A hearty smile appeared on her lips while the Assassin shared his own personal history with bones, “Well,” she began morbidly, “At least it was a gift from the heart. Perhaps you may be correct. It could be your old companion,” she cackled at her own dark joke, her gloved hand smoothing over the ridge of the temple while her other curled beneath where a neck joint would have been, the tips of her fingers curled against the teeth. As he introduced himself, she allowed her smolderin, cognac eyes to appraise his apparel and whispered to herself, “Black hides blood stains,” It was her reasoning for drab, darker clothing that seemed to vex some and her eyes returned to his, “Well met, Crow. I am Khutulun,” A polite nod was offered to him and listened intently to his reasoning, another smirk forming beneath the layers of her veils, “I mentioned Al’sah… you are acquaintaned with him? I am such because of a small, minor mistake… regarding a heart that was accidentally sent to him instead of my original target. A misunderstanding that turned into something lucrative for both of us.”
——– ℂ𝕣𝕠𝕨’𝕤 ———– ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟜
Crow would very much keep his attention to her. Trusted his senses that he would be aware if others would walk up to him. These senses had been developed over many years. First in his training and later in his profession. As he studied her and kept that gaze upon her. He could note the eye colour that held that mystery to them. When the white skull was presented and seemingly caressed he would regard it. “Nope, isn’t the same one.” he reasons. “See this.”as he pointed the space between the eyes “There was more space between them. And this piece here.” he again pointed “looks less well developed. Surely this head belonged to someone that was ugly.” of course he jested as his eyes searched hers once more.
When she spoke of black hiding blood stains he shrugged “I rather try to keep it from staining my cloak.” It was true. Surely some kills were quite messy, but most were done with deadly precision. Quick and swift.
As she introduced herself the name would role over his tongue as if to taste it. “A pleasure Khutulun.” he answers while his head dipped slightly forward. Still his gaze never left hers and remained focused. His brow raised when he learned as to how she had learned to know Al’sah. A killer he respected as he had spoken to him and still knew of his words in the court of the Black Lodge. He had understood his intent instantly. It reminded him of himself so many years ago. The same drive and view as to better the caste. Yet Crow had learned the bitter side of it.
“Now I know I am very easy to trust fellow. But one might be more careful to whom one speaks of being an acquaintance or having a lucrative business with him.” he warned. “Not all have the caste in their good graces. I am quite certain some would rather extinguish us.” He explained.
“So not only a head but also someone lost a heart?” he asks. “One wonders to whom you would sent mine, if it ever was yours?” his question of course to taunt or to learn something of the woman that in short time had intrigued him.
𝕂𝕙𝕦𝕥𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕟
Khutulun had inherited her mother’s eyes, those of which had seen the coming of seasons and the setting of suns and the rise of the moon. She felt the Killer’s gaze keenly upon her heavily garbed form. Unlike some other high caste women who preferred to accentuate their curves to entice, she could easily blend in with low caste and remain unassuming if she wished. She attempted to see the shade of the Killer’s eyes – windows to a soul that had witnessed much and had been part of a legend.
Her name rolled off of his song like a song as he pronounced it correctly in the manner of how he stated it, “I was named after a legendary female wrestler of the Wagon Peoples. Legend has it she would only mate a man who could defeat her. She ended up collecting 10,000 kaiila. She was supposedly never beaten. Khutulun means moonlight.”
While he gestured to the skull, his regard and noted the inaccuracies that compared to the previous one he had, a chuckle departed her throat. “One wonders why you call yourself a bird. I do of course. But it suits you… it means you are swift to fly away when the intensity is much… or is it because your represent death as the crow often does?”
As she listened to him, she tried to place his accent. She had been virtually on most of the planet but his tenor was something that was musical, soft… and lethal. “Ah perhaps you are correct. I was too free in the exchange of names. Aren’t all of you Killers affiliated with one another?”
The heart situation was still the fore front of their discussion and his jest caused her eyes to widen and another smirk to form on her countenance. “Well, Crow if I gained your heart… it would remain in my keeping. But who would offer a heart to a woman who would probably dissect it just to study it?” She was rather enjoying the banter and would move a bit closer to him, but enough distance to where if she needed to escape, her small weapons and vials could aide her and to provide him space should he feel the need too.
——– ℂ𝕣𝕠𝕨’𝕤 ———– ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟝
Crow gained more respect for the woman that didn’t shy away from his gaze. His eyes with their green hue. These eyes are deep and enigmatic, like the moss-covered stones of a hidden grove, whispering tales of forgotten lore. They draw you in, leaving you wondering what mysteries lie behind their depths. He knew that they were often considered one of his best assets when it came to luring people in and keeping them as this flute that would dance before a snake.
He chuckled as she shared the origin of her name. “I know of the tale.” he shared. “I wasn’t aware of the name though.” he admitted in all honesty. Truth often was one of the best weapons. It would not powerplay. It would create this atmosphere of trust and intimacy.
“You wish to know why I was called Crow?” he asks. “I guess it was once chosen because I came from Ar, was a tarnsman with a grand future and enjoyed the shiny things.” he jested. “Over time .. I hope I live up to the name fully as it stands for transformation in a manner of mystery, intelligence and adaptability. ” As he spoke she would learn that his dialect was that of Ar. His ‘former’ Home Stone and the place he grew up in. Her words of him flying away when things would get too intense were met with a arched brow. He was not one that would flee a scene that quickly. But smart enough to not engage when the outcome was uncertain and not in his favour.
He smirked when she spoke of all killers being affiliated. “Some wish.” he simply stated leaving it there. It was up to her as how she would perceive his reply.
When she spoke of his heart and moved closer his eyes give that dare for a moment. It had been since long he felt that excitement in his groin, but he enjoyed this steadfast and courageous woman. Surely the woman must know that there were dangers to and around him. Yet instead of keeping her distance she would move closer. He did not underestimate her though. Perhaps she was armed to her teeth with pins and needles. One more deadlier than the other.
“One wonders what will be found in that heart of mine when it is dissected. Some say it would be empty, while others like to speculate about the depth of it.” he would adjust his leathers – shameless of the effect of the woman upon him. It was her guess as to what would have triggered such. Perhaps he was just like any average Gorean man. Enough appetite for any women that might cross ones path. Or perhaps it had been too long?
In the heart of a bustling city, there lived a dancer named Seraphina, whose every movement was a symphony of grace and mystery. She wore a jewel known as Luna’s Enigma, a rare and beautiful amulet that shimmered with an otherworldly light. As she danced, the jewel seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, casting an enchanting glow that captivated all who watched.
Seraphina’s performances were legendary, drawing crowds from far and wide. Each night, she would take to the stage, her movements fluid and mesmerizing, as if she were weaving a spell with every step. The audience would hold their breath, entranced by the ethereal beauty of her dance and the mysterious allure of the jewel she wore.
But it was not just her talent that made Seraphina unforgettable. It was the way she seemed to transcend the ordinary, her presence a beacon of rare beauty and enigmatic charm. She inspired dreams and stirred hearts, leaving an indelible mark on all who had the privilege of witnessing her art.
In the grand city of Ar, there was a powerful Ubar named Marlenus. Known for his strategic mind and unyielding ambition, Marlenus had heard tales of Seraphina, the enchanting dancer, and the mystical jewel she wore, Luna’s Enigma. The stories of her beauty and the amulet’s mysterious powers captivated him, and he became determined to possess both.
Marlenus believed that Luna’s Enigma held the key to untold fortunes and power, and he was convinced that Seraphina’s grace and charm would be the perfect complement to his reign. He sent his most trusted emissaries to seek out the dancer and bring her to his palace. The journey was fraught with challenges, but Marlenus’s desire to obtain the amulet and the dancer drove him to overcome every obstacle.
As the emissaries approached the city where Seraphina performed, they marveled at the tales of her mesmerizing dances and the jewel’s ethereal glow. They knew that convincing her to join Marlenus would not be an easy task, but they were prepared to offer her the world in exchange for her presence at the Ubar’s side.
The stage was set for a meeting that would change the course of their lives, as Seraphina’s destiny intertwined with that of the ambitious Ubar, Marlenus.
When Seraphina was brought before Ubar Marlenus, she listened to his grand promises and offers of wealth and power. However, her heart was not swayed by material riches or the allure of a grand palace. She valued her freedom and the joy she found in her art above all else. With a calm and resolute voice, she declined his offer, choosing to remain true to herself and her passion for dance.
Marlenus, unaccustomed to being refused, felt a surge of anger. His face darkened, and his eyes burned with fury. He could not comprehend how anyone could turn down such an opportunity. His rage was palpable, but Seraphina stood her ground, her serene demeanor a stark contrast to his tempestuous outburst. In that moment, she embodied the true power of inner strength and conviction, leaving Marlenus to grapple with his unfulfilled desires.
In a fit of rage, Ubar Marlenus decided that if he couldn’t possess Seraphina and Luna’s Enigma, no one else would. He summoned a shadowy figure known only in whispers—a feared assassin whose skills were unmatched. The Ubar’s command was clear: eliminate the dancer and take the amulet. The assassin, driven by loyalty and the promise of a hefty reward, set out on his dark mission, determined to fulfill Marlenus’s vengeful wish. The stage was now set for a confrontation that would test Seraphina’s resilience and the true power of Luna’s Enigma.
In the dead of night, the assassin struck with lethal precision, ending Seraphina’s life and claiming Luna’s Enigma. Ubar Marlenus, now in possession of the coveted amulet, expected his fortunes to change. However, as days turned into weeks, he found that the jewel brought him nothing but emptiness. The wealth and power he sought remained elusive, and the once-mighty Ubar was left to ponder the true cost of his ambition. The legend of Seraphina and Luna’s Enigma became a cautionary tale, a reminder that some treasures are beyond the grasp of even the most powerful rulers.
Indeed, the true power of Luna’s Enigma was revealed to be bound by honor and valor. The amulet, when taken through deceit or theft, brought nothing but misfortune and emptiness. However, when won in a fair fight or battle, it bestowed great fortune and prosperity upon its rightful owner. This revelation turned Luna’s Enigma into a symbol of integrity and courage, reminding all who sought it that true fortune could only be achieved through noble means. The legend of Seraphina and the amulet lived on, teaching generations the value of honor and the true essence of fortune.
The amulet, now known as Luna’s Enigma, has become the coveted prize for the grand tournament. Warriors and adventurers from far and wide gather, each driven by the legend of its power and the promise of fortune it bestows upon the worthy. The tale of Seraphina and the amulet’s true nature spreads like wildfire, igniting the hearts of those who seek honor and glory.
For those that wish to participate in obtaining this prize – there is a tournement held at the Whipstock 2025: JAN 19TH SUNDAY
Before I started Crow I played my slave character Karlotte. In time things happened in which it made me decide to have her shelved. After recent events in Crow I took a step back from him and dusted of this character. And it is one amazing story.
So in order to inspire others – I take you within this blog – in the story of Karlotte who is at this moment known as Synin.
In Port Akita there is a man named Kenryoku Natsu. He is a man of honor, having served the Shogun with unwavering loyalty and dedication. His heart and soul are intertwined with the duties of his office, and he takes great pride in his role as the Minister of Justice.
Natsu’s childhood was filled with rigorous training and lessons in the ways of the samurai. He learned the art of the sword, the principles of bushido, and the importance of serving with heart and soul. His father would often tell him stories of the Shogun’s wisdom and bravery, painting a picture of a ruler who was both just and compassionate.
As Natsu grew older, his dedication to the Shogun only deepened. He took great pride in his role as the Minister of Justice, ensuring that the laws of the land were upheld and that the people lived in harmony.
The Shogun, a wise and just ruler, had always been a beacon of righteousness. Under his guidance, the land flourished, and the people lived in harmony. They even went and ventured upon Mainland and in Port Akita. But fate is often cruel, and the Shogun’s untimely death left a void that seemed impossible to fill. Natsu felt himself now restless and burdened by the weight of his grief, he is struggling to find peace.
Despite his inner turmoil, Natsu knows that the balance of the land must be restored. He understands that it is not his place to claim the throne, but he will try to ensure that those who are destined to rule will be as honorable and righteous as the Shogun had been. With this resolve, he sets out on a mission to guide and mentor the potential heirs.
Natsu’s journey was never an easy one. He faced many challenges and obstacles, but his determination never wavers. He searches out for the young nobles and would teach them the values of justice, honor, and compassion. He will share stories of the Shogun’s wisdom and bravery, hoping to instill these qualities in the future leaders.
In the end, Natsu’s legacy was not just in the laws he upheld or the justice he served, but in the hearts and minds of the what hopefully will be future leaders.
Crows Murder 