[Center][img]https://i.imgur.com/kMGfsSp.png[/img][hr][hr][b][colour=000000]Event:[/colour][/b] Memento Mori (Eshiran's Eulogists). [b]|[/b] [b][colour=000000]Location:[/colour][/b] Various.[hr][hr][/center][center][youtube]https://youtu.be/FhQ6yUIVUQc?si=KKExIpCcYo7cPZqF[/youtube][/center][hr][hider=Brother Alexander]
[colour=660000]“We speak of Eshiran, the destroyer, the hand of death! In life's grand tapestry, he is the reminder of everything we live for, the finale to Ipte's beauty. To truly understand what is precious in the life that Oraff grants us, we need to experience the absence of what is familiar and embrace the unknown, as Shune teaches us. It is through his work that we experience the choices in life that Dami gifts us. While each one of us is but a player in the grand performance, Eshiran is the conductor of the eternal symphony that we call the cycle of life. Neither malevolent nor benevolent, simply essential. Eshiran is the keeper of balance.

Do not think of Eshiran as the harbinger of doom, for he is the ultimate liberator. Through their guidance, we are freed from the trials and tribulations of this world. Embrace Eshiran, my fellow believers, for in his presence, there is no fear, only acceptance, and in their name, we find the strength to live our lives to the fullest.

So let us celebrate Eshiran, with zealous hearts and unwavering faith! Let us remember that in death, there is life, and in life, there is purpose. Rejoice, for our souls are travellers during our sojourn in Sipenta, and Eshiran is our eternal guide!

 Memento mori.”[/colour]

Brother Alexander bowed his head in reverence, closed the Menana in his hand, as he made the sign of the pentad. His audience was small, and most only attended at first to see the spectacle in the street performance, but he knows, especially with his blood, that his words have affected them greatly. More followers and appreciation for the words of Eshiran. He glanced up toward the towering Brother Ignatius, who stood close to listen to his words. Trials and tribulations of life are something his brother definitely wished to see end, but that time would come soon, and Eshiran may grant him that mercy when the time is right.

A girl from the back approached, weeping. She was beautiful with her long blonde hair waving, perfectly attended make-up, mascara running to leave black tears on her face. Brother Alexander stiffened as the Hundrian approached, mentally correcting himself, former Hundrian. [colour=e75480]"It was beautiful, as if delivered by Ipte in Eshiran's name."[/colour] He extended his hand to place it on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze of acknowledgement. Still, there were many vestiges of her Hundrian ways that needed to be shed, but he could not denounce one who embraces Eshiran with such earnest fervour. [colour=660000]"Sister Seraphina, with your zeal, Eshiran will make use of your talents,"[/colour] he released his grip on her shoulder as his eyes followed the remaining figure at the back.

Sister Dominica was standing, awaiting, her head bowed, her features obscured from view. Among many faces she wore, her mannerisms made her easily identifiable to his eyes. [colour=660000]"Sister, have you received word from our broker?"[/colour] She raised her head, the veil from the habit still obscuring her face. [colour=301934]"Mi’lord, The Crisian provided us with what was requested and more, for an additional fee."[/colour] She produced two parchments, which he accepted into his hands. [colour=660000]""The diligence of a Stresian in the hands of Eshiran. What joyous work there is to be done. Gather the others for tonight; we need to discuss."[/colour]

As dusk came and went, the night was dark and eerie, with simple candlelight adorning the room. Brother Alexander had pored through the pages, one after the other. Many had been identified for their meeting with Eshiran, a canopy of foul creatures and monsters masquerading as simple students. If he were a simpler man, he would call it a conspiracy, but is it a conspiracy when it is openly known to be true? Ersand'Enise had been gathering many of interest against their enemies, including the Quentic church. In the nexus of the students, there was one that had stood out, and even more recently been promoted to Tan-Zeno, Jocasta Re. She was the linchpin in the recent expeditions to further the academy's reach into ReTan, Vossoriya, Kerremand, and Xolectoxo. The Crisian had supplied information that was absent in the church's own reports on the events of yesteryear, an ambush with disastrous results that led to the death of Eshiran's most faithful, though that ill-conceived misstep ultimately led to the demise of Hugo Hunghorasz. Eshiran is the keeper of balance, though we cannot always expect a god to do all the work.

It is clear why they, Eshiran’s wretches, have been assigned to this task. Each of them is seen as broken or damaged in the eyes of man, destined to experience tribulations as they seek Eshiran’s mercy. He had been a shepherd to many, though his collar is held tighter than most, but the others will be fortunate, as they shall be soon liberated. He hoped to be granted that privilege with them, for what is life without death? A man falling apart, a woman fading away, one born to live cursed, and then there was the Hundrian. He closed the book in his mind as he raised his eyes to look at the gathered group before him. [colour=660000]"Let us pray."[/colour]
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[hider=Brother Ignatius]
They say when Brother Ignatius walked, the ground shook, and they were not wrong. Standing at an impressive eight feet, he even dwarfed Yasoi. Clad in armour, he was an imposing sight, further enhanced by his fearsome moniker of the Colossal Skullcrusher. The mere sight of him instilled the fear of Eshiran in his foes, maintaining order and balance as he carried out his divine work in his god's name. Those who dared to oppose him faced a ferocious brute on the battlefield, until they received Eshiran's blessing. However, this was not always the case.

A group of children giggled and cackled as they looked toward the young boy. He was taller than his peers, seen as yet another Eskandish oaf. He helped his parents tend to the fields, digging with his hands, rearing the animals, and attended the church, faithfully giving his blessings to Oraff as they were due. He led a simple life and cherished its uncomplicated nature. However, when it came to going to the market, he used to dread it.

His father had always instilled in him that his hands were meant for protecting, not harming others—a lesson that seemed absent in the upbringing of his peers. They often mocked and ridiculed him, even though the boy never understood why. In hindsight, perhaps he was an easy target, and his towering height made him stand out. The reputation of being superior to the big kid stoked their egos. The bullying became a regular occurrence, and when he attempted to strike back, it seemed as if he was always caught in the act, immediately disciplined by the adults.

This pattern was something the other children noticed and picked up on, making the situation progressively worse. The boy received warnings and was even barred for disorderly behaviour. His parents, at first firm with him, grew perplexed as they failed to identify these behaviours. As soon as the scrutiny stopped, the bullying resumed, with no clear change in their son's behaviour. Even as they realized it was the other children causing the problems, they found no solution to the issue other than allowing their son to find solace within the confines of their home.

As he approached puberty, he found himself growing even taller. After seeking the wisdom of the local priest, they discovered he was gifted with magical potential—a first in their family. His exceptional height was explained by a rare mana-type, shared with Eskandr legends of old, such as the Berserkers. This revelation came as a surprise, especially to someone known as a friendly giant. It meant that he would be eligible for admission to the All-Seeing Eye School for the Magically gifted during their next intake. He began to take pride in this change of fortune, slowly building up the self-esteem he had lacked.

It was around this time he noticed that he had attracted the attention of a girl, learning quite by accident. Her name was Sagga, someone whom others viewed as plain, but for him, he didn't care. She was someone who appeared to like him, and that was all that mattered to him. So, he began to help out at her grandmother's homestead. He never knew what had happened to her parents or why she lived there, and admittedly, he never thought to ask. However, he was welcomed and appreciated for the help he provided. This continued even after he enrolled in the academy.

The academy promised a fresh new start as he entered, full of enthusiasm, only to be met with a new set of challenges. He hadn't really encountered the children of nobility before, but now he was surrounded by them. Even worse, some of the merchant children attended and used this opportunity to continue where they left off, using the way they treated him to show their own worth to the noble kids who took delight in abusing their influence. He withdrew into himself as he suffered, and when word spread about his relationship with Sagga, he was mocked for how 'ugly and fat' she was. This mockery intensified, especially when she mysteriously cut ties with him, denouncing any romantic involvement other than in his supposed sick imagination.

Beatings became regular; he was pushed down the stairs, and bullies crowded around him in groups as they dished out their punishment. His only crime was being tall and possessing a gentle soul. He tried to change the situation, seeking help from the Zeno's, but they did nothing at best, and at worst, placed him at fault and disciplined him. After all, how could one Zeno deal with such widespread bullying and mistreatment? It was ultimately easier for the academy to discreetly pretend it didn't happen or suggest the option for him to seek better luck elsewhere. There was even a petition from the other students to expel him from the academy when he returned home for the week, in an attempt to escape their torment. This petition ended up being enacted under the guise of false charges against him.

He returned to his simpler life, yet he knew he was destined for more. Despite seeking comfort in faith, there was no response, no replies. Had the gods forsaken him? In a moment of weakness, he sought the solace of a tavern, drowning his sorrows in excess, hoping to black out the pain of his thoughts and memories, seeking an end to his suffering. Even then, it seemed that fate had chosen the wrong day as a group entered the tavern. He doesn't recall much, only that they were from the academy and had returned from Callanst, in possession of some mysterious item. He remembered hoping they wouldn't notice him, but they did, and they instigated a fight with him. He was far too gone, blinded by drunken rage. All he could remember afterward was the blood on his hands and the wounds on his body. The artefact they possessed seemed to be some kind of weapon or device, and it appeared they wanted to use him as their test subject. All he could recall were the shouts of "monster" as he was forced to flee, making his way into the woods, too scared to even return home.

Over time, he noticed a transformation in himself. His flesh became malformed and twisted, his features grew more grotesque. He struggled with his newfound strength, often fumbling and breaking delicate items. He realized, for his sins, he was truly becoming the monster they called him. It was his divine punishment from the gods.

Hideous and deformed, a titan of a man, he continued to exist until one day, another man entered the woods. The newcomer wore simple dark garments, and though humble in appearance, he exuded a strong presence. [colour=gray]"Less of an Ogre and more of a Man,"[/colour] the man spoke curtly as he addressed him. He wasn't sure why, but he found himself kneeling before this stranger. [colour=F5DEB3]"I am… Monster... kill me..."[/colour] his tongue withered, his voice guttural, tears welled in his eyes.

The man looked sternly at him and said, [colour=gray]"Your life is not mine to take, for Eshiran spares you."[/colour] He then removed his outer robe and draped it over him. [colour=gray]"The church is always recruiting those of the faith. The tales of an ogre in the woods performing good deeds by keeping the wolves away. Even as a monster, you sought to aid your fellow man in secret."[/colour] The man's expression shifted to approval. [colour=gray]"The church needs a man of your stature and heart. There are more than wolves that plague the halls of men. You will have food, lodging, and the blessings of the Pentad. In service, may Eshiran grant you the mercy of death you desire. Memento mori."[/colour] The man extended his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, it was accepted.

Brother Ignatius, once a monster, had been transformed into a man in the service of the church. As he walked, the ground shook, and those who gazed at him no longer mocked him but responded in fear, as they should with their impure hearts. He cared not for the judgments of others, for he served a higher purpose. His hands now belonged to Eshiran, and may the god empower them to act in his name.
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[hider=Sister Mórrígan]
Sister Mórrígan moved gracefully through the streets, her stride almost ethereal, giving the impression that she floated above the ground. The morning sun cast a soft glow, glistening dewdrops on the leaves as she made her way towards the graveyard, passing by the freshly dug allotments prepared by the grave diggers for the day's burial rites. She had a ritual of overseeing the mornings, standing in quiet contemplation amidst the solemnity of the cemetery. In these moments, she silently celebrated the lives that had been lived and pondered the mysteries of what Eshiran had set in motion for them now.

Mórrígan lived a life that many would consider cursed, for she possessed a power that transcended her understanding. It was a power that broke the cycle of life and death, a personal reminder that there could be no existence without eventual transition into the realm of Eshiran. She had borne witness to the tragic consequences of those who had been denied the merciful release of death, forced to endure the torment of an existence that defied the natural order.

To be denied Eshiran's mercy was a fate she greatly feared for herself when her time would inevitably be called upon. As she watched over the graveyard and the lives that had now moved beyond it, Sister Mórrígan couldn't help but reflect on the delicate balance of existence, a balance she had been entrusted to uphold, and the profound responsibility that came with her unique connection to the aspect of death.

It was on her way back that Sister Mórrígan noticed a commotion in the street. A crowd had gathered around a lifeless body, and she moved gently toward them. The people in the crowd instinctively made way for her as she approached, and she gazed at those gathered there. The death had been sudden, the pained expression frozen on the old man's face. His widow stood beside him, crying and in shock over the sudden loss.

Through her years of experience and careful observation, Sister Mórrígan had come to understand that what was often most difficult for the loved ones left behind was not just the grief itself, but how their loved one had departed from the world. Unexpected or violent deaths had a particularly devastating impact on those left behind. As she looked at the grieving widow beside the old man, she couldn't help but feel deep sympathy.

[colour=gray]"Please… is there anything you can do to help him…?"[/colour] the widow turned to look up at Sister Mórrígan, her eyes pleading for a miracle. Sister Mórrígan knew, however, that there was nothing she could do. With her magic, she could sense that the activity within the man's nerves had come to a halt. She shook her head sadly. The old woman wept as she gently touched her husband's cheek, the frozen pained expression on his face a haunting image for any loved one to witness. Someone from the crowd behind the widow encouraged her to turn away, understanding the futility of their pleas.

Sister Mórrígan knelt down alongside the man, her gaze shifting towards the grieving widow. [colour=013220]"Eshiran can grant a peaceful passing,"[/colour] she whispered softly. The body trembled, and for a brief moment, the eyes fluttered open, locking onto the widow's tear-filled eyes. As if guided by a higher power, the features on the man's face began to soften, settling into an expression of serenity and tranquillity. [colour=013220]"Please, say your farewell."[/colour]

The widow, tears streaming down her face, remained silent but moved her hand to rest on her husband's, their fingers interlaced. In that solemn moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Time stood still as the widow and her beloved husband shared their final, wordless communion of love and understanding. Their silent exchange conveyed more than words ever could. And then, as swiftly as it had begun, the moment slipped away as he closed his eyes for the last time, finding eternal peace in the embrace of death. [i]Memento mori.[/i]

Sister Mórrígan bowed her head in respect as she rose to her feet, leaving the widow to make the necessary preparations for the recently departed. As she moved away, a feeling of unease gnawed at her. She knew that Eshiran might demand penance for this act, for interfering with the natural order of things. But she had sworn an oath, and she was determined to fulfil it, even if it meant seeking redemption in the eyes of the god. Someday, she hoped, she too would be granted the final mercy of Eshiran.
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[hider=Sister Dominica]
[colour=301934]"Mi'lord!"[/colour] The woman's voice trembled as she knelt before the imposing man, her fear palpable. She had been thrown into the cage like a helpless bird into a predator's lair. The air hung heavy with the unmistakable stench of blood magic, an eerie atmosphere that sent shivers down the spine.

The man's intentions were clear as he began his arcane ritual, using fresh blood as his ink and a blade to draw the crimson lines of power. The scene around them bore the sinister marks of witchcraft, with dessicated corpses lining the walls, mute witnesses to the malevolent arts at play.

[colour=gray]"Now, now, my little hummingbird,"[/colour] the man sneered, his voice dripping with sadistic pleasure. [colour=gray]"Just like your predecessors, I am here to drain your strength for my own."[/colour] He collected the blood in a glistening bowl, his movements deliberate and calculated. With a flick of his fingers, he wove binding magic to mend the self-inflicted wound on his wrist, sealing it without a trace.

With his preparations complete, he moved closer to the cage, his eyes gleaming with avarice. He dipped his fingers into the viscous mixture within the bowl, drawing forth a sinister concoction that shimmered with forbidden power. [colour=gray]"It's time for you to submit yourself before the serpent,"[/colour] he hissed, a predatory smile stretching wide across his face. His gaze bore into her, filled with hunger and malevolence, as he advanced towards her, ready to enact his dark ritual.

[colour=301934]"But Mi'lord, I am over here,"[/colour] a soft voice murmured, and the man turned around in startled confusion to find the woman standing calmly behind him. Her presence seemed almost serene as she regarded him with an enigmatic expression. Perplexed, he glanced back towards the cage, only to discover it empty.

His heart quickened as he turned to face the woman once more, but she had vanished. A sense of unease gnawed at him as he began to peer around the room, unsure of what was happening. Suddenly, another face materialized before him, an eerie apparition of a woman he recognized all too well – one of his previous victims.

"Was I not enough to quench your thirst?" she asked, her voice hauntingly familiar.

[colour=gray]"No, you were too weak!"[/colour] he retorted, his voice wavering with a mixture of anger and fear.

As the tension in the room grew, another spectre appeared behind him, a man who had suffered under the man's cruel actions. "Was my death not enough?" he questioned, his voice echoing with accusation.

The man shouted in protest, his desperation mounting as more and more ghostly apparitions manifested around him, forming a circle that seemed to tighten with each passing moment. Their voices blended into an eerie chorus, repeating the same haunting refrain, "Was my innocence not enough?"

Panicked, he attempted to summon his magic, but the ghostly illusions closed in around him, their chant growing louder and more relentless. He tried to break free, running through the phantasmal figures, only to have another materialize at the door – the very woman he had intended to sacrifice.

[colour=gray]"Foul trickery! You won't get away with this!"[/colour] he cried out in frustration.

The woman before him simply smiled with an eerie politeness, her words cutting through the cacophony of voices. [colour=301934]"Wake up, Mi'lord."[/colour]

And with that, his eyes snapped open, as if awakening from a deep slumber. He found himself within the confines of the cage, his heart racing and his mind haunted by the chilling ordeal he had just experienced, only to face a stark reality.

The woman stood on the other side of the cage, her smile enigmatic and unsettling as he slowly regained his bearings, his confusion giving way to a dawning realization of their reversed roles. [colour=301934]"You have a debt, Mi'lord, and Eshiran is here to collect,  Memento mori,"[/colour] she intoned, her voice carrying an eerie gravity.

At that moment, her dark blade gleamed ominously in the dim light. He felt a shiver of dread crawl down his spine as his vision began to fade into an abyss of impenetrable blackness. The world around him seemed to dissolve, swallowed by an encroaching darkness that left him disoriented and powerless.

The last thing he registered was the woman's smile, a haunting farewell before the darkness claimed him entirely.
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[hider=Sister Seraphina]
[colour=e75480]"Ipte enchant you,"[/colour] the warm, sincere, and heartfelt smile of Sister Seraphina radiated a genuine warmth that was both captivating and precious. Her arrival into the Turquoise Order of the Hundrian's was met with a joyous celebration among the brothers and sisters. Seraphina hailed from a family of skilled artisan sculptors renowned for their work with statues, and their talents in creating lifelike recreations of people and the world around them was held in high regard. It was as if they had the power to capture the essence of life’s poetry in stone and clay.

Seraphina herself was a living testament to her family's artistry. Her own beauty was often described as if she had been sculpted from the finest marble by her own parents. Her enchanting presence and exquisite features made her an ideal fit for the Turquoise Order, where the celebration of beauty and love in the name of Ipte was a cherished tradition, serving as a live model for when the artists capture the ‘human form’.

What set Sister Seraphina apart was her unique blood type. Seraphina was a Moodcaster, and her magic was intricately tied to her emotional state. She had an uncanny ability to channel her emotions into her art, using chemical magic and substances to enhance her work. During moments of manic euphoria, her creative spirit soared, and her craft seemed to transcend the limitations of mere sculpture. Her statues took on a lifelike quality that bordered on the surreal, capturing not just the physical appearance of her subjects but the very essence of their souls.

Sister Seraphina awoke from her unsettling dreams, the memory of her previous life haunting her even in her sleep. Beads of sweat clung to her skin, a common occurrence when her nights were filled with these dark visions. She knew that these dreams were a reflection of her profound transformation—from a creator of beauty to a harbinger of decay and destruction.

As she rose from her bed, her scarred body was on display, bearing the physical reminders of her journey into darkness. The blemishes and welts spoke of the trials she had endured, the sacrifices made that led her in pursuit of Eshiran's path. She moved gracefully to refresh herself in the cool water, her morning ritual a series of meticulous steps to prepare for the day ahead.

Seraphina's morning routine involved a careful application of makeup, but it was far from the cosmetics she once used to enhance her beauty. Instead, she applied pale makeup to conceal her imperfections, using a blush to accentuate her features. The black charcoal powder was brushed onto her eyelashes, and her lips were darkened with the same substance. Her appearance was now a stark contrast to her previous life, a reflection of the darkness that had consumed her.

Once ready, she began her work, seeking out discarded pieces of art. These forgotten relics would serve as the canvas for her eerie creations. With a meticulous hand, she repurposed these objects, transforming them into hauntingly beautiful and macabre sculptures. Her art was a reflection of the inexorable decay and impermanence of all things. Each piece captured the essence of mortality, serving as a solemn reminder that what was once beautiful in life could be equally so in death.

Seraphina's Moodcaster abilities had taken a darker turn as well. She discovered that her powers grew more potent when she experienced feelings of loss, sorrow, or despair. In her moments of darkest grief, in imperfect drawing belied a second power that manifested—a chaotic force that disrupted nearby energies, known as Chaosgrasper. It was a reflection of the turmoil within her, allowing her to channel her emotions into destructive forces.

As a devoted servant of Eshiran, Sister Seraphina had fully embraced her role as a guardian of the balance between life and death. Her mission was clear: to bestow Eshiran's blessings upon the unworthy and to confront the foul and despicable creatures that lurked in the shadows, those who evaded the light of the gods. She had become one with the darkness, a harbinger of death and destruction.

Her very presence now exuded an eerie and haunting aura, sending shivers down the spines of those who encountered her. They felt an overwhelming sense of unease, as if they were stepping into the realm of death itself. Her gaze possessed a hypnotic effect, drawing others into the depths of darkness, where they could glimpse the mysteries and terrors that lay beyond.

Gone were the days when her love and beauty were dedicated to Ipte, the god of beauty and love. Now, her heart belonged to Eshiran, the god of death and destruction. In their name, she was bestowed the final blessing, the Bloodied Kiss, a solemn and profound ritual that marked the passage from life to death, and she wielded it with reverence, offering those who had strayed from the light a chance at the ultimate mercy of Eshiran.

[colour=e75480]Memento mori.[/colour]
[/hider][hr][hider=hex codes]
Brother Alexander [colour=660000]660000[/colour]
Brother Ignatius [colour=F5DEB3]F5DEB3[/colour]
Sister Mórrígan [colour=013220]013220[/colour]
Sister Dominica [colour=301934]301934[/colour]
Sister Seraphina [colour=e75480]e75480[/colour]
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