The city is quiet again.OOC Foreword
The entries collected here are private journal writings of Elion Miradove.
They are not letters, proclamations, or official records, and they are not known to exist in-character. No player character is assumed to have read them, discovered them, or heard their contents unless explicitly stated elsewhere in play.
These writings are shared out of character for player enjoyment only. They reflect Elion’s internal thoughts, doubts, observations, and moments of restraint or conflict, some of which he would never voice aloud, even to those closest to him.
Future entries may vary widely in tone and subject, ranging from reflection and philosophy to humor, intimacy, or darker considerations. None should be taken as public intent, policy, or prophecy unless they later surface through in-character action.
Read them as you would a margin note in an old book:
carefully, quietly, and with the understanding that some truths are written precisely because they are not meant to be spoken.
I hope you enjoy!
Quiet in the way a forest becomes quiet after something has moved through it, a storm perhaps. Things are broken, visibly out of place, yet everything is alert. Arandor remembers footsteps longer than stone does. That is not a flaw.
Magnus claimed righteousness. He spoke the word necromancy as if it were an incantation meant to ward us off, as if naming a thing he feared would make it monstrous enough to justify steel. He never asked how we practice it or why. He never asked who was permitted or who watched those hands. He only needed a reason that fit neatly into a story his men could carry without a second thought. Turning citizens who did not take up arms, innocents at that, into a foe he could slay. In the dim light of my office, I scoff at the very idea that something so mundane would bring my people to heel.
Stories are lighter than truth. They travel faster.
The accusation itself does not trouble me. We have never pretended to be unacquainted with death. We catalogue it. We tend it. We remember it properly. We have buried our own in numbers large enough to reshape history, As if we would tremble at bones.
What troubles me is how easily the answer presented itself.
Wood Elves are often misunderstood as gentle creatures who have learned to control their emotions. This is backwards. We are creatures who have learned gentleness deliberately, without forgetting the violence that lies within us. Wood elves do not hesitate because they are kind. We hesitate when we must be precise.
I was reminded of this in conversation with the Queen.
She did not soften her reaction. She did not attempt to cleanse the thought by denying it. She acknowledged the ugliness of it plainly, and then—without ceremony—acknowledged its appropriateness. There was no order in her words. Only permission through refusal to forbid.
That is a heavier thing to carry than prohibition.
There are fates that resemble mercy only because they are quieter than execution. There are outcomes that do not grant rest. There are lessons that continue to stand the test of time, long after the breath has left the body. Nature wastes nothing. Neither do we, when pressed.
I am aware—keenly—that there are those whose faith in me would falter if they knew how close this understanding sits to my hand. I do not dismiss that voice. I keep it nearby. It is part of the discipline. It is the difference between indulgence and control.
I have not crossed the line.
But I know exactly where it is.
And for now, I remain there—still, attentive, and unmoving—so that those who would test us understand that restraint is not the absence of teeth.