Nobles and History

Gather 'round, we're drinkin'! An ode to the Queen, once young!
3 babes on 'er arm, cup filled to the brim
Thinkin' out loud, she'd sung:

Rather mead in my cup,
or my cup filled with rum
drink too much,
rather than be done!

Can't only have some,
So share some around,
drink too much,
rather than drink one!

Rather mead in my head,
and my head on the run
Than my head on a pike
with none!

Get the rum, and the mead
Get the mead, in the cup
Get the cup to your head
drink up!

One is far left, to the eldest most regal.
The beak of the eagle
rips high clouds and skin,
blood taints the snow as kin pierces kin.

Go right for the youngest, child of the lyre.
A voice to inspire,
cross the sea of despair
and find the ocean's heart there.

Inside the mainroom, along the spine, aching.
One above, one below, both hidden, waiting.

May Queen Pikemead rest eternal - 482 D.A.

King Gormander of Meldore, son of glorious Pikemead, grand patron of the Revelwood and Springlands, watches over all. His vigilant gaze unites us as one, shields us from calamity, and ushers us into a new age of prosperity.

King Gormander's latest addition to Pikemead's Reach is, in my opinion, a disgrace — and the pathetic attempt of a man with timbered teeth to reach his mother's levels of adoration.

It's a narrative more shallow than White Wind's waters. Last midyear, our lord's attempt to rename the Imperial Gardens to "Gormander's Gardens" was foiled by civil unrest. Instead, we've since been blessed with a statue of his likeness.

The statue's gaze is as stiff and paralyzed as our ruler's disposition to the brewing troubles in the North. The grandest thing about Gormander, next to his treasury, is his wooden overbite.

— Ramone Jones, editor of The Pike Weekly.

Status: Horrendous. Impacts today: 17
(The section below is hastily scribbled)

It's gone. Torn apart like cotton. Their catapults — pure devilry. Blighted fire, bright blue and hazy. A rotting stench. Numbers unknown. Too many. Lead by Vorgoth. He's coming.

Heavy boots. Smashed Caden's skull. Lost below. Sludge and mud. All red. A wave of steel, flooding towards market square. My brothers below — yelling. No way down. Everything is loud — the screams. I cannot bear this. Dear lords.

Please. I'm just a squire. Please don't crush my head
Caden, I'm so sorry

The foot soldiers must be marching to the harbor. Encroaching on the gate, no doubt. I'm blessed to have made it to my hidden attic on time. I can't see from here, but I hear them. Their lord, the Guard of the North, is chanting. Something dark and tainted. The sky outside moves? No, it's the clouds! A misty veil with strips of colored, blue light. What on Earth...

I'm peeking now. I see it. The cobblestones rip open like foul flesh. He's removing his gloves. By the Ancients, his hands. They look frozen and dead. Like preserved, rotten meat. Is he raising something from below...? I can't see. I have to lean a little further

Bastards closed the gates to the inner city. Just left us poor to rot and die!! It won't help. Vorgoth's army will get 'em. I hope they burn. Let Gormander taste copper and steel!

I don't go down easy. I'm hidden, but I still have that blasted sickness from last yearfall. If my body fails me now, if I sneeze, if I yap — with the northlings sauntering 'round outside — these sewers will be my tomb.

I'm shivering. It's not my cold flashes. Something is off. There's... there's a breeze in here. No. There's breathing. In here, and sharp like a blade. Can't see where, or what
It's in me
In my throat, so cold
It's acid. It's worse. Worse than the sewer. Help

The north winds are here

Never thought I'd see a war — nay, a live invasion — in the last of my tired days.

I've buried so many. I confess this comforts me. Guiding people on their final voyage. So many last goodbyes. Today comes mine.

Rimgard is past the gates. We can't seek respite in the castle... Gormander locked all doors and lowered the gates. It will not stop the horde. They will find their way. Ancients preserve us, the Shroud is seeping inside. Something drips from above.

If anyone finds this, if anyone is left
I want to be buried next to my wife and son under the old oak
Leave the headstone blank
I have nothing left to say

Wherever he fled — if at all — Gormander is alone. Or with another courtesan.

The city is drenched. They've crushed our wall early morn and now coat our town with thick, suffocating nebula colored like ostrich feathers. I cower here — alone, for the first time in years. Like a little girl.
My heart flutters like a thrashing, caged canary. I should have run away and chartered a ship. Seized it. I can fence and read a map, after all! Maybe it's not too late.
I could still wake up to ocean blues and feel salt on my skin. See mermaids and sing at the docks, loudly, finally! I want to end in a storm, in a blaze, and not a lonely little tower!
Don't laugh at me. I feel so small

I once came eyes to eye with a cold-hearted, frozen-eared Cyclops! Gather 'round the fire for this spine-chilling tale!

I played a lovely little melody at Vorgoth's court, melting his heart to ruby red strawberry wine! The feast's main entertainer, however, was a "tamed" Cyclops! It was chained and made to dance with fresh coals from the same open fire roasting our swine belly and hazelnut brittle!

"Poor thing" I thought, head spinning with wine. As everyone slept, I gathered my newfound valor and crept into the Beastmaster's quarters, lockpick in hand. When I freed the giant, it gazed at my fair visage with a look that screamed "I've got my eye on you!" afore blowing a hole through the dungeon wall!

Needless to say, I haven't been invited back to the royal court.

I'm jotting this down with a racing heart! If anyone finds this — read my tale to your young in front of the fireplace, and toast to my health and valor!

I paddled through the cliffs of a rocky valley, quietly humming a tune when I saw bubbles emerge from below the muddy water's surface! At first, I thought it might be a sign of sunken riches — perhaps one of the capsized boats near me had carried immeasurable treasures? Unfortunately, I was quickly proved wrong!

A terrifying Snapjaw suddenly lunged at my visage, undoubtedly summoned by my lovely voice! Built like a true wyvern, a dragon even, with a shimmering back dark as night! It sank its teeth into my boat, so I thrust my dagger into its neck!

I escaped unharmed, but my dagger is lost... and without my old boots, I'll get stuck in the mud if I try to retrieve it! Ah, what a sticky situation. Literally!

A blazing fire dances atop the roofs of Surat's Rest. We were too late.

They came from Raven's Keep — escaped inmates, with a penchant for fire. Now, our esteemed town is a pyre of madness. I tremble at the sight. What would mother do?

She'd move before the sun rose, crown held high. Leave all baggage behind — swift and silent, carried by the wind. The road to Long Keep is a treacherous one... We must make haste.
Glory to Queen Pikemead. Bless the Ancients.
— Jezmina, 507 D.A.

I should have been awake. I wasn't.
They stormed our camp at night with unforeseen ferocity. Their fur coats were mottled with garnet flecks, now fading to matted rust. We had crossed into their new territory.

About half of my brothers and sisters, gone. Absinthe; foul wormwood licorice, a coating vile and bitter, numbing my lips. I fought for them, I raised my axe for them. My armor, ripped away. My hands, forever stained red. We should never have passed through the Pillars of Creation.

Mother. Please, don't lose hope in me. We share the same blood. I will persevere for them. And I'll never fail again.
— Jezmina, 507 D.A.

I never thought I'd see the sunset on this side of the Pillars of Creation again. The eventide was brighter when I was young. A vibrant haze of lavender or grape, a mix of tangerine and marigold, a florid blush before the dark. Now, gray.
I pray the Ancients protect the northern caravan with their glory and light. I put my faith in Commander Cyrus.
Longkeep is in sight... My people tire, but we cannot rest. We have to push harder for every soul we've lost. Our step must be swift, I learned.

I have a strange feeling. This... dread. That I won't be able to linger, that I'll walk alone once more... Why can I not shake this fear? No, this... premonition?

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, on a mellow yearwake's morn in 508 D.A.

Since our caravan has split into two, every day raises desperation. How I wish Queen Jezmina had stayed — her grace and beauty would be a much-needed balm. Just yesterday, I heard Lazlo sobbing in his tent. He misses home... As do I.

We saw signs of survivors at a Flame Sanctum. It was a whole day's diversion — and for nothing. Despite the Shroud encroaching on them, these fools do not feel the need to join our ranks. They believe this to be a divine Ancient punishment, a curse that may yet be lifted if they atone enough.

Let's see how long their prayers may feed them. We must stay on track... Pikemead's Reach is still miles away.

— Commander Cyrus, 507 D.A.

Our objective is in sight, but it may be for naught — Pikemead's Reach is nothing but a burnt-out pyre, still choking the horizon in blue smoke.

If it's foolish to assume we'll find refugees there, then damn it all — a fool I'll be! If just one poor sod still hides out in the sewers, afraid to emerge... if one woman, one child continues to cower inside a locked tower... if any peasants have gathered to rebuild, reshape the heart of their land, their kingdom... we find them and gather them.

We will forge onward and see what awaits us at the Pike.

— Commander Cyrus, 508 D.A.

To Commander Cyrus, Day 62 of Yearwake, 507 D.A.:
Where is Queen Jezmina? I am in desperate need of her counsel!
When she made the decision to split our caravan in half, there was so much confusion and chaos that my younger brother, Gustav, was placed in the southern caravan. He may look like a grown man, but he has the mind of a child and is confused easily!!

I was under the impression that he was in the wagon behind me, sleeping... by the time we awoke, I realized he was gone. What will Gustav do without me to care for him? Please, Commander Cyrus, I must reunite with Gustav before we head towards Rattlebleak!

Dearest Jezmina,

Everything was perfect last night. I'm beyond excited to know that you enjoyed my cooking! And since you requested the recipe, I figured I would leave it here before tending to the caravan's many hungry mouths...

THE QUEEN'S GLAZED & GRILLED YUCCA

1 Yucca
Salt
Oil
Honey

Trim off the ends. Cut them into pieces about the size of a thumb. Boil in salted water.
Reuse the same pot, but remove all the water. Add a bit of oil. Fry until they are a medium golden brown. Add honey for glazing and sprinkle with a pinch of salt before serving. (The salt reduces the bitterness and enhances the sweetness of the honey!)

Ta-da! Perfectly grilled yucca!
The trick is to serve them hot... and with love!

I am consumed with worry. It's one thing to mobilize an army, quite another to move entire towns across Embervale. And yet, I am Queen of Orindell and my kingdom relies on my steadfast leadership. We must light out for other lands. Seek fertile pastures. Find safety. Tomorrow, I will give orders to evacuate and form a caravan to Longkeep... I fear my voice will betray me, shake and quiver. I will push through, for mother.

We'll head into a land of fern and moss. Lush greenery, emerald horizons... and yet, I see only darkness. Will my brother Vorgoth have the same idea? I cannot bear to face him after what he did to Gormander and his kingdom, Meldore. My nightmares are drenched in scarlet, still. I hear his voice, and it is unkind. Changed.

I must rest. A big day awaits.
— Jezmina, Yearfall, 505 D.A.

Fear not — I am unharmed. I felt compelled to travel out ahead of the caravan to Brittlebush! Yes, I know it is uncommon... maybe dangerous, as you'd say, dear Cyrus, but nothing could hold me!

I spoke to inspire the troubled masses! Many of them had seen firsthand their fields and livestock wither. I feared it would be difficult to gain their attention, but they clung to my words like golden honey. One of them — a striking brunette who introduced herself as a farmer and a cook — spoke up and vehemently agreed with me. "We must go with our Queen!" she shouted as the crowd cheered.

I'm filled with hope once more. I can't let them down, Cyrus, even if the journey to Longkeep is long and treacherous.

— Jezmina

Out of all the realms under the ever-stretching skies, I've been burdened with the wildest. Half my dominion lies strangled in vines; every root and rock conspires against my claim.

My men are too weak-hearted to gain control of the old ruins. A trap laid in a watery tomb sends them scattering like vermin. Not one among them dares lay hammer to the temples, to grind them to dust so that order may reign once more. It may be wiser to turn eastward... the peaks aren't haunted by memory.

Meanwhile, my dear siblings have summoned me to the annual ball — a tiresome charade of civility, forcing me to leave my throne unguarded. Do they not see the peril? My borders serve as the only defense against the conniving trickster gods! Mayhaps their invitation is yet another trap, another tomb to drown in...!
...Foolish thought. The vines enrapture my mind, wrapping me in paranoia. I shall attend, as duty commands — and I will urge them to build ballistas, not "Night Sanctums". Offering wisdom to a wordless horde... Truly, my kin have grown indulgent, bewitched by the Ancients’ secrecy.

I must rest. Before dawn, I shall attend the audience of a wanderer who's wormed his way into my court. He claims to bear a gift from beyond. I will hear him. He promises diversion.

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North

The wanderer arrived on the 49th Day of Midyear, 492 D.A., as promised — a gust of freezing winds trailing him. As he entered my throne room, an unsettling mist lingered where he stepped.

His face was cloaked to hide a ghastly sickness... a kind I had never laid eyes on before. His flesh was pale and tinged blue; his face lacking symmetry as if he had suffered a stroke in years past - or as if he had been assembled, not born. Such a pitiful being.

Thin hands held out a bright blue flask, shimmering in the candlelight. A weapon, he called it. A secret... hidden from us by the Ancients.
He needed not say more. I had long been aware that the tricksters only reveal what they please.

I grasped the flask and I gulped down the mystery inside. Dust motes began to swirl at the edges of my vision. Mist rose around me, enveloping each breath I took... crept inside me, breached my heart, my skull, and settled behind my eyes. It was pulling. Pulling upwards, towards my eyelids, fluttering, til my feet left the palace carpet.

Levitation. I floated above the ruins, above the vermin, the cowards, the liars.

Once I reunited with the familiar ground below, the wanderer flashed a smile. He had given me both means and reason to strike.
My hands shake, still... but I must grip my blade firmly.

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard

Such a trivial pursuit, now that I've tasted eternity... but I did not go without a plan, nor a convincing argument.

Just one drop of the Elixir to sweeten the wine. That was all it took for Gormander, old fool, to call forth his advisers and engineers. They may caution him against building the Elixir Wells at first, but their words will wither soon enough.

Jezmina, however, could only be silenced through a swift backhand. The brat still believes the Ancients may have good reason to hide such power... A private contractor will build the Wells in her stead, should she not oblige. Once her yammering faded into weeping, I forced her eyes open and told her the truth amongst lies.

The Ancients HID this from us!
They're sleeping snakes, and all but me are too fearful to wake them! Cowards, I say! Rats before Dragons in disguise, I tell you!

We are right to defend ourselves. Dig just a little deeper — What else lies hidden below?
Will Earth spill her secrets if we split her tongue, crack her open, leave her bleeding?

I trust only the mist under the wanderer's hood, the twitch of his shadow, the gaping of his hundred mouths
He can make us rise
Can make us levitate
Can change the mice to men

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard

Perhaps "Architect" is too grand a term — the blueprints were provided by the traveler, after all. The engineers and builders only have to fall in line.

The monolithic structure is twofold, stretching both towards the setting sun and the sleeping core. A hollow crown reigns above to imprison within it the light of the fading moon. Its shadow is as black as its stone.

From below rises the fabled mist. Most don't see it, or pretend not to. When I brought attention to it, the workers fell silent. The "Architect" stuttered under his breath, gaze averted... his lowered head betrayed his words. He mistakes me for a madman.

My wanderer came forth from my right side and spoke to break the silence.
"A bit of mist is to be expected. No harm will come from it. In fact, we may welcome its arrival." The words echo in my head. We may welcome its arrival.

Yes, perhaps it will guide us. Guide our hands. Our shaking hands
Ever shaking, leaving traces. Traces of a ghostly silhouette, reverberating
A wraith chained to its own afterimage, chasing it, spinning a vignette of fading blue
With eyelids pulled towards the moon
Telling truth from lies, a floating spiral of the past
and present, and future, and eternity
We may welcome its arrival

— Lord Vorgoth, Guard of the North, Ruler of Rimgard

We swore to protect our Queen and her lands, and to never let royal blood get spilled. Even now, over 20 years after her demise, that oath still binds us.

It's no surprise that not many of us are willing to spill Vorgoth's blood, it will cost us our titles. They call us dissenters because we refuse to look away. They say to raise the blade against royal blood is the death of honor, but what honor is there in apathy.

The island has cast us into exile. It's monastery will never open it's doors for us ever again, but we will not be silenced. We will not bow. We will protect what we believe in until the very end.

For the Queen we swore to. For the realm she loved.

I see now that this is the end.
I saw my sisters die. I saw them get torn apart, swallowed by one of those horrendous beasts. I can still hear their screams. I think they will haunt me in death.

They warned me of the risks. I went anyway, pushing the doubts aside.
Even now, surrounded by blood, I cannot say that standing with them was wrong. I would rather die knowing that I did not abandon my sisters than live knowing that I had.

Our cause was just, and our intentions were pure. Be certain, I would choose this path again.
At last, we are reunited with our true queen.
Glory to Queen Pikemead.

- Celia, Guard of the Blood Rose

I saw the Ancients as a monolith. A web of lights, like stars in the night sky, connected through wisdom and Flame... but they're far more split than I believed.

The "young" Ancients alongside me explained that this Night Sanctum is the creation of their elders, the "empyrian". It predates the Shroud and used to contain a wealth of human knowledge offered as sacrifice, or for trade. Neither Flame nor sunlight can reach, making it perfect for one of our emergency Cinder Vessels. We've rigged the traps to activate after the vessel is filled. Hopefully, that should protect it even as the Shroud fills the valley.

When I trace the constellations on the door, I sense a desperate longing — a pull towards the firmament. I cannot read my fellow traveler's expressions, but their silence betrays them. They feel it, too. A shame I won't see another Night Sanctum so soon. The Ancients speak of an even more hidden haven... deep within the Blackmire, a stretch of land I thought forsaken.

The more I learn, the less I seem to understand...

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, 509 D.A.

No brushstroke, no melody, and no setting sun can compare to the beauty of this untamed wilderness. The lush green of the vines reminds me of my home before the drought.

Without the Ancients leading the way, I would surely end up lost. I am thankful for their guidance, but my heart aches for all the folks I left behind... Alas, this mission is important. It is our calling to scatter the Cinder Vessels around Embervale for every soul who cannot reach the Springlands in time, after all.

The Ancients want to "send a signal to the worthy" when the deed is done, but I wonder what they mean... Even when walking side by side, they are still eager to keep their secrets.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, 509 D.A.

I never knew the Ancients had once built structures here. My mother, Queen Pikemead, called the Blackmire a no-man's land. Did she keep secrets from me after all?

We placed a vessel inside the main building and learned what it means to "send a signal to the worthy".

The Ancients formed a circle and stretched their hands towards the firmaments. One spoke in a foreign tongue as the starry constellation in the night sky changed.
First, the stars began to twinkle, then twitch. I thought I saw the sky fracture into a thousand pieces, all glittering above, reflecting the light of my own eyes like a kaleidoscope. A clear refraction of all, symmetrical and divine. The light overwhelmed my vision as my head started to spin, and I fell to the ground, where I later awoke.

Perhaps these are secrets both my mother and I must keep.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, 509 D.A.

This is it.
Blackmire's final haven — a sunken city, guarded by moor and bramble.
Whoever wanders here shall rest behind a magical gate, the doors of which may only open through buttons stitched in the thicket.

Looking at these crumbling walls fills me with awe... and fear. This city's memories are lost to time, forever slumbering beneath tar. I've mistakenly added a few keepsakes of my own to this hidden treasure trove... not only leaving footprints in the mud, but my very own boots! I shall leave them behind... my garb is weighed down by remembrance and grime.

This makes me wonder... Could humanity be forgotten, just as the stories here were buried? And if we are — if we crack, crumble, and fade to black like the bones below... can we rediscover, and rebuild ourselves? Only the Flameborn will know.

I hope to help build your tomorrow. To carve the path you will blaze, to catch your fall, to raise you higher... I hope my words reach you, constellations apart, an echo through time.

I believe in you, Flameborn.
And one day, I hope to thank you.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell, 509 D.A.

The Ancients' light brought not blindness, but vision. As white enveloped us, their kaleidoscope rays shot downwards and sent me into a deep slumber. And there, I had a dream.

I found myself in my brother's lands, in a time before the corruption. Lush fields, nestled within the saddle of a valley, kissed by the coast. From the ocean came a beckoning call. It was a sign. We ought to place Cinder Vessels beyond our own shores, no matter the cost.
Upon sharing my vision with the Ancients, I learned that words were of no use. They already understood where we had to go. So we went, streaks of faint light still dancing among the stars.

This bridge facilitates the fastest route to the Veilwater Basin, but it's in disarray. My fellow travelers deem it possible to stroll eastward and then loop around the thicket's border until we reach the sea. I shudder at the thought.

By now, my brother, Lord Vorgoth, would've set forth towards the risen Islands... the home of the Ancients. Despite this, I fear seeing him. Behind a brush of branches, in the twisted shadow of a Monstera leaf, as a reflection of my own features while submerging in a lake, in my deepest sleep...

He and I are of the same blood. Sometimes I fear we are closer than I'd like.
I pray that my dream shan't turn into a nightmare.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell

As much as it pains me, we must halt our journey briefly.

Supplies are running low, though at times I seem to be the only one eating. At least the horrors of this new world haven't tamed my appetite... Though I admit, the stale bread and bitter fruits that fill my belly hardly satisfy.
Oh, how I yearn for some grilled, spiced yucca... for the honey to run down my lips and fingers, for the even sweeter scent of lovely company — It's hard to clear one's head whilst the heart is aching.

Once we've regained our strength, we will leave the cover of this Ancient structure. There's no telling what surprises the domain of Lord Vorgoth may hold. Are you still there, brother? Does your ghost haunt these wilds?
As I linger on the edge of tomorrow, memories I thought buried rush back. A throbbing pain rips at my cheek. I feel the impact of your armored hand, as if it never left me. I remember the fall that followed, the cold alabaster floors, blood seeping from my nose and lip.

Wherever you go, you leave traces... in the rivers, the winds, the people — My deepest desire is to make mine matter.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell

We trekked through mud, stalks, and marshland until we reached a clearing. Beyond, the tar turned to water, and the reeds gave way to bamboo and palm trees.

I lowered myself to wash my hands by a pond lined with daylilies, which reached towards vines and mossy stumps further out. Their vibrancy and scent reminded me of my love. Perhaps this moment of carelessness spelled my demise.

A family of frogs sprang from the thicket, each more panicked than the last. I looked up, and my gaze was met by a spear's tip that rushed from the shadowy overgrowth — its reflection below broken by the water's wake.
The rumors rang true. The Drak had returned... and in this moment, I was facing their hunger for blood.

As I held my breath, the spear-wielding Drak let his eyes wander. When his gaze found that of the Ancients around, he straightened his stance, shouted, and dropped his weapon with a splash. His body coiled into a prayer pose, sinking to his knees in the tarn before me. I rushed backwards, grasping a sharp rock as a makeshift defense tool as I stumbled — needlessly, for the beasts revere my fellow travelers as messengers of their gods and gatekeepers of Ark Morgo, their land of the dead.

How this fateful misconception was born, I am not privy to. But today, it saved me from crossing into Ark Morgo myself. Had I been alone, I wouldn't have been so lucky.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell

With the Drak'Dal present, I don't think it is right to place any Cinder Vessels down. Its inhabitants may not be saved but imprisoned by a metal cocoon. They could be pried open too easily, falling prey to these beasts... and their Ancient encasing won't save them then.

Therefore, we're setting our sights on the horizon, as planned. I hope to find a ship in Stillwater Bay to charter... perhaps then, we'll see how far the rot has spread and will trace its path on a map.

I wonder if it's right... not to turn around, not to ride towards the flying islands where the Elder Ancients linger... not to defend them despite their rigidity, not to bring my brother to his knees before he barges through their gates. But with what army? With what might?

We ought to live. For the future, and for everyone who depends on us. On me. For you, Emily.
When I come back, I will weave daylilies into your hair and serenade you with my lyre until my voice grows hoarse. One day. I promise.

— Queen Jezmina of Orindell

Your skin, tinted olive brown, stunning and soft... Your voice — a roar, a hush — always a sweet sonnet on your lips. My heart blossoms at the sight of you. I want to walk alongside you, to see your footsteps next to mine in the sand... to feel the desert wind, and to dance with you in my arms... It's all I hope for.

— Emily

Jezmina, is it true? The Ancients call upon you to stay behind as the rest of us slumber? Will you be there when I awake? Please, you cannot leave my side! You're my all!

Why must we change? I miss the old days when we used to travel... together, side by side. You let me linger next to you. You held my hand. And now? All this secrecy, for what? I thought you could confide in me. I don't want the Ancients to drive us apart! I'll lose all faith!

If you must go, at least give me a farewell kiss.

All my heart,
— Emily