Mas Bagus

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

“You are right deary. That history is several generations before my time. Generations that might have died out by now. Though war may bring opportunity and bounties, it’s hard to deny the costs others have to endure. Costs that those displaced were forced to pay. I can’t imagine the memory being that fresh and to watch as the offspring of those abusers forget the role of their ancestors.”

"Miss Fia..." the archeologist said in a defeated tone. The elves as a race didn't ask much, or even wanted to have their grief to be understood. A gesture of acknowledgment was enough and laudable. "Please, don't take it the wrong way. It was part of history that your kin nowadays played no part in. We elves don't believe in inherited sin. All we can do now is to learn from the past and make sure we do better in the future."

Pausing to allow the somberness to pass, he continued. "Now enough of that. Who is next?! Mr Gray?"

The masked elf handed him his sword, which was a single-edged elven falchion with a flawless blade. Unlike his older compatriot, Elc maintained his demeanor throughout the entire introspection.

"Vesemir, I think we have been in this vault for three hours. Unless we plan to stay overnight, I recommend we quickly conclude our business here. Just a suggestion, but I am sure you know how troublesome it is navigating the Land of Twilight at night."

"I think we can have two or three hours more, Miss Jazdia still has things to attend to."

"Right, she is----Well, all is up to you boss. We still have that room to clear," he transferred his gaze to Rezello, who had just finished admiring his sword. "Aren't you and that Miko girl Miwa wanted to investigate that room?"

@Valkon@Randomness

____

@Akari

Eblana suddenly recovered from her small breakdown. Her posture was straight, and she walked like something had taken hold of her. The accumulation of embarrassment and lack of any meaningful explanation---not even a sorry!---had awakened another side of her gentle, healer archetype. She stood against Akari. Eyes fixed on the black-haired kunoichi.

Was she pausing to collect her thoughts? Searching for words? No, she let the silence be her opener.

"Miss... Akari," she said, plain and calm. "You read my lips carefully this time."

She paused to breathe out bottled exasperation, and the next 'you' came straight with veiled disgust. "You... and Miss Miwa shares the same homeland, yet I can see her behaving far more appropriately than you. I will not see that kind of impudent gesture anymore--- it's violating my personal space. I care not if it is permissible in your culture. Are we clear?"
Without letting the kunoichi retort, the radian-looking elf stared at the foreigner viciously one last time before turning her back.

"Hmph!"

******

"It matters when it leaves unfinished business, no?" Verdant inquired, mostly rhetorical. A hand rose, drawing a thumb across her throat, the implication quite obvious. "Kill it, be done with it. Or it'll come back to haunt you at the least opportune moment."

In the olden days, the proud Arcan would dismiss such premonition, but now there was a foreboding feeling that made him unable to produce any rebuttal. He could not explain; it was an instinct he honed after a millennium of existence. Truth to be told, he had none of this feeling when receiving the wizard's party ten years ago, but today, from the moment this party entered the gallery, all that instinctual alarm was sounding gradually, to the point that it had become hard to ignore.

"Guess we'll have to respect each other's boundary, then." That much can be acquiesced. They'll depart the gallery soon enough anyway. "To be free is to be unbound and limitless. I could say more about our differences, but I suspect that will go nowhere. Changing our nature is not happening in a single conversation, yes?"

"Yes."

But the ancient djinn did not care anymore about fundamental ideals. His entire focus was already on the sitting elf. Arcan has been keeping an eye on her even before they entered this section, but now he glared at her like a wild jasmine blooming where it shouldn't. The tears had a connection that was faint but traceable, fleeting but felt, and it was about to fade. He would find out now.

At least that was the plan until the foreigner sauntered between the desk and the painting.

"Perhaps the true reason for Theriadore to keep this painting was exactly for this. To try and understand exactly where everything started to go wrong. Was it everything because of greed and envy? Jealousy...? Did such dark emotions poison and corrupt Lythiel's mind over time? Were they always there? Or perhaps... although unlikely... was it born out of a misunderstanding...?"

Arcan had to rein in his temper. He could not explain it, but there was something about this... Miko, that steadied him, as if her very presence exuded an aura of patience and restraint.
So he stopped dead in his tracks. For a moment, what he sought after was forgotten. The Miko's words seeped in.

"There was no misunderstanding." He said in a precise monotone. "Lythiel was shortsighted. The brothers wanted peace between the elves and humans to last, but she undermined what they were trying to build. She spat on the offer to make justice institutionalized and refused the direct order to stand down." He shook his head in a gentle dismissal. "It was just the beginning of her crimes. The error was apparent from the moment Shirathal family took her in."

The error, righted way too late.

****

"I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have asked about the previous member... It seems I am being quite tactless today... I am really sorry, Jazdia."

"Oh, about that? Don't worry too much about it."

Truth be told, Jazdia too, was taken aback by the revelation; she didn’t know how to register the entire thing. Her cheek was still wet with tears, yet she hesitated to wipe them away. The sadness lingered, but her logic struggled to recognize its origin. She dismissed the phenomenon like a judge dismissing an unfair blow---her way of asserting control, not merely a show for the others.

But the inevitable march of hopelessness was still looming, undeterred by emotional pretense. Every page she skimmed added more layer of distress. The elven ranger's hand betrayed that illusion of control as she held Miwa's hand, squeezing it for assurance. She lifted her gaze and saw the curator.

"Curator Arcan. Do you have some other collections---"

But the towering ancient Djinn has already an inch away from the desk, bending forth as his face studied her closer.

"I have a better idea," he said, curt, detached, and methodical. In his spectral blue eyes, an intense emotion sought a momentum to manifest, held by something she couldn't fathom.

"You will not find whatever you are looking for by reading, unless you are willing to spend a few years here poring over every book and flipping every page."

The curator's gloved fingers stretched across the table. "Hold my hand, so I can see what is wrong with you. My knowledge is vast, and it could save us from all the tedium of... waiting. This is the method I learned from my eastern kin." His gaze slid briefly toward Miwa, silent but deliberate, seeking a wordless confirmation.

It sounded tempting, but Jazdia was torn between her instinct and mounting desperation. The rationale in Arcan's assessment was undisputed. Yet, still she looked at Miwa and Verdant. A glimpse of vulnerability that she was willing to show to those who cared enough to know her plight, and now it begs for an answer: should she take his hand?

@13org@A5G

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

"At some point desire for justice warps into thirst for vengeance, I think.""But repaying an atrocity with another is just that, vengeance - calling it pennance is simply making yourself feel better about the whole thing."

"Justice, vengeance, atrocities. Mattered less in the end. What Lythiel had done was not just an act of murder, but the potential for a great calamity. That power of hers is unholy and has to be contained. Whether my master savored a satisfaction from it, I do not blame him."

Arcan still held to his neutral value to the mortal affairs, but understood the scale of destruction a total freedom might bring to those who misuse it. He looked at the youkai, unflinched at her defiant state, but now with a bit more respect than he could usually afford. He did not see her commentary about his situation as an insult, but rather as a not-very astute observation that showed the gaps in their views.

"Freedom, huh? How mundane," he said, but his vibrating voice teased on something deeper. "Some of our kin traded power for freedom of mortals, lucky them. When you are as old as I am and have seen everything, true freedom feels like getting lost in a forest with no direction and no meaning. I don't see my assignment as imprisonment or entombment. I said before, I can occasionally leave and see the outside world if I want to, did I? But the anchor of my very existence is always here. A heartfelt apology for your sister due to my ignorance, I understand your feelings in a way I feel when you make your poison in my gallery."

Favorite character you’ve made?

She is... currently my favorite. No reason! Ok, that's a lie.

Writing her has been a fun 2-hour pastime that cannot be repeated anymore. I like her in a way that makes it a pity she will never be a playable character in a role-playing game.

I have created a monster, not because she is ugly, but because she is an abomination in a collaborative story.

Well, I'd still love to be proven wrong about this matter, though.

The Combat Maid

Name : Alexandria
Species : Human(?)
Gender : Female
Age : 22
Place of Birth :

Apperance

combat maid

Perhaps the most notable aspect of Alexandria's overall presentation is the reinforced maid uniform she wears almost every day. She has dark hair with a distinct shade of blue, styled in a simple ponytail that reaches her waist. In front, her fringe ends in the middle of her eyebrows. Neat and functional. Alexandria has a beautiful face, though it is almost devoid of emotion; there was no luster in her ocean-colored eyes, as if no soul ever existed behind them.

Beyond that, Alexandria looked physically well. Standing at 180 cm with an athletic body, the young woman carries herself with the fluidity typical of a trained servant, but with a haunting certainty to her gait.

Personality

Alexandria is stoic and does not fully understand the necessity of showing emotion. She is a perfect maid in technical level; she speaks softly and formally, her etiquette is impeccable, and she can differentiate all kinds of dining spoons with her eyes closed. Yet she is cold and soulless, like a dwarven engine that does its function as intended, not because it is passionate, but because it was designed to

Before being saved by the Paladins of the Order and taken under Dr. William Schult's guardianship, Alexandria had been treated as an unfeeling and unthinking tool. The conditioning was ingrained so deeply that Dr. Schult theorized it was physically wired into her being and could not be erased by simply removing her slave mark.

As a result, Alexandria often appears literal-minded and somewhat naive. This leads to significant difficulties in navigating social interactions; she rarely initiates a conversation and cannot properly register or express empathy beyond what has been taught, making her seem distant and insincere.

However, whenever the situation calls, she instinctively jumps in to help, whether asked or not. It remains uncertain whether this behavior stems from a genuine kindness or is simply a habitual impulse.

Although she may appear impassive, Alexandria is by no means intellectually impaired. She learns things quickly and has demonstrated sharp acumen during intense situations. Her ability to self-learn became more pronounced after Dr. Schult's passing, as circumstances forced her to become more tactful and independent. The last directives from her late master were particularly helpful in that regard. The maid is still working on it, and there is still a long way to go.

Brief Backstory:

Alexandria's dossier #1: The beginning

Ten years ago, Dr. William Schult was asked to examine a very peculiar waif the Paladins had just rescued from a mad alchemist's dungeon. As a psychiatric practitioner, the task was not unusual for him. Ex-Slaves in particular often need help reintegrating into society, and as a staunch supporter of The Order, it was only natural that he helped to the best of his ability. The paladins described her as 'troublesome' despite their efforts to give proper care. Fortunately, they said, she was calmer now after her slave mark was removed. The doctor could only imagine what she was like before that; the paladins never specify.

This girl had no name, seemed to be no older than twelve, was borderline mute, and could only understand a few words. During the interview, she maintained a lethargic disposition, like a defeated caged beast that already awaits its demise. There was no way the order could let her roam free in this state, and even less so to accept her in their academy. The girl had no relatives, and finding a foster parent to adopt her seemed to be a tall order.

Not counting the maids who regularly work in his mansion, Dr. Schult had been living alone long enough since her wife's passing; he is already in his mid-seventies and had never considered the possibility of having someone to take care of; that was just troublesome for all parties involved.

But sometimes things just happened. He did not remember exactly why he decided to be her guardian. Was it pity? A whim? Or part of Gods plan? He didn't know for certain.

Alexandria's dossier #2: The Name

"Are you... master?"

There was a bittersweet feeling when Dr. Schult heard that. It had been almost a year since he swore to be this girl's guardian, and he had tried every method in the book to stimulate the girl's cognitive abilities and lift her spirit. It was bitter because, despite all his efforts to express compassion and establish a familial bond, she chose words that echoed her previous circumstances. However, it was also sweet because it was the first time the girl had initiated a conversation. Not wanting to disappoint her by correcting her on her first question, Dr. Schult instinctively replied with a yes.

Dr Schult thought their new ways-of-calling wouldn't stick, and he could always iron it out later. But days passed, and the girl patiently waited, not for compassion but for his command. Naturally, he tried to take back what he said, and that would result in the girl standing motionless outside of her room all day, staring into empty space with vacant eyes and repeating the very same question every two hours.

"Master, what is your command?"

It went on for an entire month, and with each passing week, the repeated question became more of a plea than an acknowledgment of duty.

Having had enough and fearing that the girl might harm herself if continued to be ignored, Dr. Schult relented. He started to give her routines, or orders, in the little girl's own words. Recognizing her dedication to help the maids and whoever she came across, he decided to name her Alexandria, as her only interest seemed to be helping others. He hoped that one day her desire to help would stem from genuine passion rather than a senseless obedience.

Considering that he would mostly be busy managing his enterprise, He would enlist the help of his head maid, Inge, to teach her language, writing, and all the importance of being a maid. Well, as long as she is happy, she can roleplay all she wants. That was what Dr. Schult thought when he finalized the arrangement. Later, on his deathbed, he wondered if he had made a mistake on this one.

Alexandria's dossier #3: Past life

Years had passed, and Dr. Schult had witnessed both Alexandria's talents and her difficult circumstances. However, a significant question lingered in his mind: Who was Alexandria before she was enslaved by the mad alchemist? What about her parents? The Paladins did not disclose much during the early days when he took her in, and they seemed somewhat reluctant to answer his inquiries. So, Dr. Schult decided to try again, this time through formal means. When the letter arrived and he read it, he found himself regretting that he had asked.

From what they could gather in his ransacked underground workshop, Alexandria's mother had been subjected to countless experiments since her conception. The mad alchemist referred to her as a means to create a unique specimen, describing it in his own words as "the perfect, unstoppable killing machine." Tragically, she died while birthing Alexandria. In his journal, the mad alchemist lamented this terrible loss but insisted that the plan must continue.

Not even a newborn was spared from his cruelty. She was immediately immersed in an alchemical solution, injected with various experimental concoctions, and marked as a slave. Since she could walk, her entire world was mostly a three-by-two cell, and she spent most of her time inculcated, tested to her limits, and punished when mistakes were made.

Dr. William Schult balled his fist, letter and all, and tossed it into the fireplace. He hoped there was a special place in hell for that Mad alchemist.

Alexandria's dossier #4:

It was a warm afternoon in mid-July when Dr. Schultz finished reading the letter from the Order. He had grown pale, and his voice was husky. The age had been catching up on him, something he had already seen coming a couple of years ago. That letter explained why The Order cannot accept Alexandria into their cadre. One point detailed that while she finished every assigned task impeccably and passed all the tests with flying colors, the Order felt that her conviction was not genuine from the heart. Another point in that letter was retelling her conversation with the Cardinal, who explained that we are all servants of the Creator, and then she asked, if He was our master, where could she meet Him? The exchange went out of hand when Alexanderia asserted that she only follows a master whom she can see, talk to, and feel.

The news almost gave him a ticket straight to afterlife.

"Master, are you in pain?"

Alexandria, the maid asked guilelessly. Schult raised his palm while his other hand picked his nose bridge. Why... he lamented.

"Is there anything I can help with?"

There was no answer from the old doctor.

"Master..."

"Would you give it a rest already, dumb maid!?" he fired, having already reached the end of his patience. A flurry of regrets came crashing down hard to tell if it was of his doing or circumstances. He had entertained Alexandria's whim for nearly ten years to the point he had embraced it instinctively. A perfect maidservant she was, dutiful and diligent despite her inherent shortcomings. But that was not what he really wanted, never will... and this was not the future he wished upon her. He was disappointed, angry, and confused, and Alexandria is the only person present in this room; she never talks back, just accepts, an easy target for him to lash out.

"You want to help? Go ahead and deal with those lawyers. They will tear you apart like ravenous wolves. Mark my word! The moment I die, they will gnaw my estate piece by piece. They will toss you out like nothing. What would you do without me, hah?! Do you think making tea, baking a cake, and cleaning a piano with one hand can impress them? Change their mind, give you room, and let you stay?"

The maid did not answer. Despite her trademark impassiveness, she had learned not to be literal in this kind of situation. As he observed the flicker of grief in her otherwise vacant eyes, his anger started to dissipate. He had been needlessly harsh with her.

"I am sorry, it's not your fault," he said raspyly, gesturing for her to come closer as he stood up from his chair, enduring an urge to wheeze so this troublesome maid wouldn't barrage him with unnecessary concern.

"You have grown," he said as he stroked her silky, bluish hair. "I will miss you when I am gone. Will you miss me too?"

Alexandria blinked slowly. There was a pause, and a tiny hint of sadness remained in her eyes, but the maid did not know what to do with it. It causes a boiling pain in her chest. She acknowledges the pain, but never understands why it needs to be shown; it is to tell her something is wrong, and he knows this wrong was about her master's health deteriorating. There was nothing she could do about it, and she had accepted the pain,

"I will await your return, master," she said finally.

Dr. Schult smiled.

"That's my daughter."

Alexandria's dossier #5:

Dr. Schult's premonition turned out to be correct. Just a week after his death, several lawyers hired by his distant relatives began their efforts to claim his estate. Fortunately, he had managed to secure some funds to ensure that Alexandria wouldn’t end up on the streets. While the amount wasn’t large, it was enough to buy the maid a house near the city limits, with some leftover funds that those greedy lawyers couldn’t touch. It would be declared to be Alexandria's entire salary while working as a maid in his mansion, and while the designations in that arrangement were not at all to his liking, it was the only way.

Dear Alexandria.

If you read this, I am already on the other side. I know you wouldn't weep, but I know how heavy this is to you. Do you like the house? You earned it. Keep it well, keep it tidy, like how you did in the mansion, even without a master to serve. You are the master of yourself now. It's time for you to see the world, its good and its bad. I know you can handle it. I always know.

I have also sent a letter to the Branch Manager of the Adventurer's Guild, letting them know that you will be coming. Should have made an effort to befriend that guy a decade ago---who knows, you might earn the rank Iron on the first try. Ha! But I think copper is okay; everyone has to start somewhere.

Find friends you can rely on, be careful, and walk with dignity. That was my final command to you. I know you may need this advice until you become someone who no longer requires guidance.

Lastly, I know there were hurtful things that I said in the past. I was confused, like everyone else. Perhaps, just perhaps, he entire maid shenanigans was your way of saying thanks, and that was your only way of expressing it. I shouldn’t have mocked gestures that came from goodwill. I was wrong, and I sincerely apologize. Keep doing what you’re doing, and thank you for staying with me for the past ten years.

Sincerely,

Dr. William Schult

Equipment:
- A Zweihänder. Nothing special about this greatsword except that it was made centuries ago and has withstood abuse from Alexandria's brutal training. Pretty durable considering she swings that thing like a toothpick. They don't make things with this quality anymore
- Medium-size backpack

Skills:

Alexandria is inhumanly strong. She is capable of lifting objects much larger than herself without breaking a sweat. She can use a wide array of melee, but a greatsword is her main choice of weapon. Her moves are not by any means clumsy, but it was clearly unpolished, which even a journeyman swordsman could see all the errors and openings.

Consequently, her strong physics also contributes greatly to her overall durability. Alexandria can take the heaviest hit that would knock the strongest out. She is also less susceptible to ailments such as poison and paralyzing substances and spells. This part was like the result of the alchemist's conditioning.

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

@13org

Miwa listened to Arcan's words silently as she turned back, giving another glance at the painting. She did not know what happened to break the group nor what was the grave transgression mentioned by the elf woman, but by Arcan's tone and the animosity he showed made Miwa think it must have been something significant.

"Perhaps your master's intentions behind keeping this painting was simply due to fond memories from his past and not a hateful reminder of an act of betrayal. Regardless of the treachery that might have split the group, I am sure they all once had fond memories of each other... Maybe even in the end, they still harbored some good memories from their past." Miwa said with a smile as she looked at the painting on the other side of the hall.

"People change. Sometimes for the better... others for worse. Regardless, there is nothing wrong in keeping fond memories of one's past. As long as you keep moving forward instead of being trapped in the past." Miwa completed with a smile as she looked to Arcan, hinting that maybe, some of those words could be important for him as well.

"It might not be exactly the same thing, but the way I feel for my temple is somewhat similar. I feel great pride for it's history, but this didn't prevent me from noticing that the temple needs to change if it wants to survive the passage of time." Miwa continued.

"You mentioned an eighth member of the group, didn't you Jazdia? I am sure you also have fond memories, despite having parted ways, right?" Miwa said, remembering Jazdia having mentioned an eighth member a while ago. What Miwa failed to consider though was the possibility that the eighth member didn't just parted ways with the group... but something worse might had happened.

"You admired and loved your master quite a lot, didn't you?" Miwa asked with a smile as her eyes wandered from the painting, stopping on the same cluster of crystals Arcan looked at. Something Miwa had taken for just an eccentric way to illuminate the room.

"I thought this crystal was merely a way to illuminate the room. Was it a part of one of Theriadore's creations?" Miwa asked, curiously.

The ancient hardness in Arcan's face did not soften at Miwa's words about changes and moving forward. It struck him, not as wisdom, but as naïve optimism. The ignorance in the young Miko's part was not only on her failure to understand that elves, and Djinn like him, operate differently when processing grief and bitterness of betrayal, but also the scale of wickedness Lythiel had afflicted.

"I don't think there is much to move on from. Or if there were fond memories, they would be ashes under the raging blaze of pain that she herself brought. Lythiel attacked Theriadore and Thealeon, her own childhood friends. Injuring them with a terrible wound that the brothers must endure for decades to come. Thealeone did not survive after several years fighting against the wither and necrosis Lythiel had afflicted. A cruel mercy from fate itself, perhaps."

Arcan was a living witness; he knew, he remembered. Thinking about the recollection coated his tongue with a taste of sickness, and the thought that there was anything happy in it made him shudder.

"I have seen it, the agony that awoke them every night, the terrible smell and the unholy heat it radiated. Theriadore heartening his brother despite fighting a similar ailment himself. He endured it for the rest of his life. The pain, the loss, the betrayal. Oh, I admired not only his brilliance but his focus. He directed all of his pain toward his last creation and measures to hunt and defeat Lythiel. Dark was her power, and wicked were her arrows, but he managed to capture her. That crystal in that corner was a small, unrefined sample of the Snow Terror's prison my master personally built. Touch it and you will feel gradual pain that sears both flesh and soul, aching bones, and suffocates breathing. In Ostianor, my Master encased the Snow Terror in this very same crystal, shackling body and soul and subjecting it to ever-evolving pain. Seventeen centuries of ongoing penance, and it is still not enough to atone."

****

"You mentioned an eighth member of the group, didn't you Jazdia? I am sure you also have fond memories, despite having parted ways, right?" Miwa said, remembering Jazdia having mentioned an eighth member a while ago. What Miwa failed to consider though was the possibility that the eighth member didn't just parted ways with the group... but something worse might had happened.

Jazdia could only offer a dry chuckle, a silent smile that confirmed her own story would have to wait for another time. It still stung... Remembering the memories, and despite her ironclad composure, Jazdia finally allowed her focus to ease.

The books lowered, candlelight swayed softly, and for a moment, the world felt still.

She listened to Arcan's account, but soon found herself overwhelmed by pain that wasn't her own. It was not about her fallen comrades, or even about the tragedy of the brothers. The pain in her heart was a primal cry from a soul terribly wronged and yearned for release. So strong that even though the mask of nonchalance Jazdia often wore remained fixed, tears unexpectedly dropped from her eyes.

What Are You Listening To?

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

Fia looked back at the two elves, “Easy is always easy. But being blunt will better get the point across, darling. Go with that.”

"It was the humans," Vesemir began. His words flew without emotion, as if the scholar were reciting a historical fact and nothing more. "After the Hero of Mankind Areston Lydus drove his spear through Queen Serensie's heart, the humans---being the victors they were---occupied the portion of elven territory we know today as the Land of Twilight."

He stopped himself, and when he spoke again, the voice of the enthusiastic, mostly positive scholar now thinned and edged with bitterness.

"Occupation brought a new set of conflicts. Barbarity from the occupiers was a common sight, justified by the resentment they carried as the former victims of a systematic tyranny. Queen Serensiel had brought untold suffering throughout the continent, and after her demise, the soldiers needed a channel to settle the old hatred, and factions in human governments needed to recoup their loss. Debts had to be repaid—and the common elven populace was the nearest mirror of the queen they despised. Always present, always within reach.

Strife begot resistance, mainly from the so-called Snow Terror Lythiel. Seeing things spiralling out of control, the provisional Government could not afford another war for the sake of our survival as a race.

Theriadore, supported by other statesmen, decided that an Exodus was the answer. The elves would fade to the west, starting anew so they would rebuild in peace, and there would be no more harassment or pretext for invasion."

"The most practical solution---realpolitik at its finest."

It was clear that Vesemir didn't like the simplification it brought, but what Mr. Elc said was, in fact, how it was. They have agreed to be blunt, and historical facts deserve the respect to be represented as they were.

"Practical, but it was also a cultural and spiritual amputation." Vesemir continued, instead of confronting, his tone heavy with lament. The book he held now felt heavier. It was written by Theriadore himself, and if Vesemir was afforded a chance to ask him, he would start with: was it worth it?

"They were not moving troops; they were moving families, elders, children, artisans, farmers. They were tearing people from their livelihood, from forests they have known for millennia, from the very soil that holds their history. Núria was not just a capital city; it was the heart of our civilization, now abandoned to become haunted ruins. We remember this region as Rhovan ar-Lúrëa, a collective mourning so profound it became a scar that would never fade. The name itself was a testament to our loss---the land where our Núr, our light, went out."

He looked away, as if seeing the twilight in his mind. Old as he was, Vesemir had not lived through those tragedies, yet elves are empathetic creatures by nature. The pain carried through stories passed down, and the ruins that remained echoed that sorrow deep within his heart.

"We elves abhor the idea of reclaiming this region because it reminds us of that tragic exodus, that every step westward was a reminder that we were not marching to victory, but fleeing from injustice. The 'peace' we purchased was paid for with the home of our people. It was a peace that tastes like ash. We don't speak much about it, because we have lost so much in trying to right the old ways our Queen had forged, and mankind did not make it any easier for us. Their part in this tragedy was merely an episode of cruelty from a distant antiquity, but for us, the elves, the scar still aches."
@Randomness

What Are You Listening To?

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

"All done, Master Rezello." He said, respectfully holding the blade with both hands and presenting it to the masked knight."May it serve you well!"

Seeing that his ceremonial gesture didn't earn him any sort of showmanship he expected, Vesemir bit his lip and awkwardly placed the large spadone by the knight's side, then retreated back to the table. He drummed his fingers on its surface, feeling the weight of the ancient book he had just discovered in his hands, and tried to be optimistic.

“I suppose then that book is your claim from this place? Or are we allowed to learn of its secrets for free? If I’m being honest here, I’d prefer the second, for it gives us plenty to choose from otherwise. However, with a limit of two, it would be appropriate for you to have the final say, darling. That said, I don’t think we can carry that enchantment table with us if it as fragile as you say.”

"That's a good question, my dear Fia," answered Vesemir, transferring his gaze from the book in his hand to the human mage across the table. Fia, despite all she said, eluded a unique scholarly charm he could respect. He understood her pragmatic desire very well, but regarding this matter, his own was deeper, almost like a physical ache. "The nature of the enchantment is easy to understand. Most of the gist is in the scroll and a specific spell Theriadore had outlined in this book. Mastering it would take... several years maybe, but beyond that, this is a valuable piece of historical item. No matter if Varenhaim has a hundred students remembering every line and every word in this book down to the letter, to have the real, authentic thing---the very pages Theriadore himself touched---lost forever would be a tragedy! I would love to bring this tome with me, if you don't mind. I am sorry, but we will have a lot of opportunities ahead of us, and I am sure we can retrieve more than just two artifacts."

Vesmir could only offer an easing, thoughtful smile to the human mage. Fia seemed to accept his reasoning diplomatically and shifted toward Stepan.

“At the very least, I’m surprised our dear Stepan hasn’t said anything. He seemed to be most into the hidden treasures we’d find than most. I wonder where he has gone?”

The mercenary was not far, leaning on the wall near the entrance with arms crossed on his chest.

"I am still here, lassie. Don't worry." He approached them with a brow furrowed. "Been thinking a lot about what that ghostly fella said earlier. Those who came before us. They were doomed because ain't none of them could agree on what shiny trinkets to pick. I don't want ours to end like them, infighting and all that crap. My share is what I get from my own sweat, and I am happy with it!"

"Then again." continued Stepan. "I'm more curious about the history of the land itself, anyway. Been meaning to ask that for ages, but I feel it would offend you elf folks somehow. It's just... you have a vast and fertile land here, boss. Why abandon it? Monsters?" he shook his head. "Don't believe elf-folk couldn't handle that. The bossman, and that lassie with whitening hair are fairly powerful. Can't imagine specimens like you two are a rare sight in elf-land. So what is it?"

If the first question was a matter-of-fact that was commendable in nature, the second part brought up a sudden sense of uneasiness for the elves presented in that room, enough to have Mr. Elc roused from his idle daydream. Vesemir, who was the oldest of them all, raised his face to look at the masked ranger who observed the situation with shoulders tensed.

Both elves seemed to be in a process of weighing what answer should be told. Understandable considering the majority of people in this outfit were humans; Stepan could be forgiven as a questioner, and Akari was a foreigner with no significance in this matter, so the only person worthy of consideration was Fia and Rezello, who was a native to this continent.

"Would you like a blunt but honest answer or the easy answer?" Vesemir asked back.
@Randomness

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

@13org

"What do you mean by 'absurdly high-heeled'? They're not that long!" Miwa replied, huffing in a similar way Verdant had just a moment ago, before recomposing herself.

"A-anyways! These are a traditional footwear from where I come, called Geta. They might look a bit uncomfortable but when you get accustomed with them, they are quite practical. The very fact they aren't made of a flexible material means water and dirt won't get flung unto the back of your legs when you're walking in wet terrain. They also help to keep one's feet and clothes, especially longer ones, dry and clean." Miwa explained, using her own skirt as an example when mentioning 'longer' clothes.

"Despite being practical, part of the reason why I wear them is also because they are somewhat of a tradition for young Mikos. Like children, who also wear high-heeled getas instead of normal, shorter heeled ones, young mikos usually wear them to remind them that despite being miko apprentices, they, much like children, still have much to learn." Miwa said, explaining a bit of her culture and some of the traditions from her temple with a satisfied expression.

"See? It has nothing to do with making myself look taller or anything. It's about tradition and practicality!" Miwa said, concluding her explanation despite no one having said anything about her using high-heeled shoes to make herself look taller.

The ancient being smiled. Amused when Miwa went all technical and passionate about her getups, explaining all of their significances, values, and cultural symbolism. His jab at the heels was a mere jest, but the Curator quickly recognized his impudence.

"I see now..." he said, calmly. A bit too friendly that Jazdia instinctively peeked from behind the book she was reading. "I apologize for my impertinence and ignorance about your tradition, which was very inappropriate of me. It pleases me to hear you celebrating your cultural heritage," he placed his hands on his chest and bowed slightly. "What was your name, Foreigner from afar?" he asked as he raised his chin.

"Shirakawa Miwa, the dutiful Miko." The Miko makes a small, discreet bow in return, seemingly a silent thanks or acknowledgment.

Arcan repeated the name. "Shirakawa Miwa." and he nodded, letting the words hang before abruptly addressing her curiosity earlier by walking closer toward the painting, silently beckoning her to follow like a proper curator he was.

"Standing on the right is My Master, Theriadore Shirāthal. A genius artificer and one of the eight statemen who shaped the elves' modern Government after Serensiel's Fall. The one in the middle was his brother, Thealeon Shirāthal. An astute diplomat and charismatic general. Level-headed and... kind. It was the very same kindness that became his undoing."

Although there was a grim implication by the end of his elaboration, there was no doubt that Arkan spoke about the brothers with overwhelming respect and admiration.

That was until his gaze fell on the third person in that painting.

"Lythiel Luringwë." The name escaped him like a curse.

"Was a gullible waif--orphaned by the war. Serensiel took her in as her protégé for a decade, perhaps more, before her death. My master's family took her in out of kindness..."

His voice hardened. "And she repaid them with wickedness."

"If it were up to me, I'd burn this painting to ashes. But apparently, my Master was against such an idea. He willed to have this piece remain hung here. A remainder, perhaps, of the betrayal. Oh, I tell you, he needed a lot of such reminders when finalizing one of his most fascinating creations."

The curator glanced at the cluster of crystal in the corner of the room, where its purplish glow washed over the nearby wall and bookshelves. It was the moment when his voice rang with ominous edge, and a hint of vigilance---sharpened by seventeen centuries of duty--- all etched in his ancient visage.

Duplicitous Ruins in the Land of Twilight

A hint of amusement flickered in Arcan's ethereal yet blue irises. "I am just doing my duty to remind you. It is commendable if you remember, and we understand each other."

The Curator's curious gaze fell on the youkai. A djinn she was, same as him. Though the ancient race like him wasn't known for its cordiality with its kindred, Arcan couldn't help but be intrigued.

So he walked from his station and approached the sulking youkai. His gesture was still stiff, but lacked the pompousness he usually displayed. Ok, just a bit. Still, his stare-down toward Verdant was as unnerving as it was toward Jazdia.

"You... I can't get a good understanding of you. Most of your friends come here with a purpose, yet you seem to be different in that regard. Curiosity and freedom--that seem to be what drives you, and your little pet sleeping in that grim hair accessory of yours." He reeled back and continued. "No regard for rules, or any expectations. Without duty. Without purpose. I wonder how you could live like that."