Hi folks! Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Seasons Greetings, and festive joy to you all! Gold stockings are now filled and any that were not hung have been converted to platinums. Enjoy your goodies! Those of you who sent at least one present (there are 397 of you, what an amazing number of people!) through the [0;1;37mFESTIVE[0;37m Ironbeard event this year will also find a little something from Iron Realms in their inventories! Be sure to read the card and retrieve what's inside. The event will continue until the 31st so you can still get your milestone rewards if you're not quite done yet, fear not. I'd also like to echo the message within: thank you to everyone for being part of this weird and wonderful world that we share. It's been a rollercoaster of a year and I'm grateful for all of the continued support and well wishes. My end of year post with 2025's recap and 2026 previews will be up in the next few days after I return from a family feast. Be on the lookout for it! Nadolig Llawen! Penned by My hand on the 13th of Valnuary, in the year 993 AF.

How many years have I stood quietly in Eleusis, shuddering in my memories and not facing my fears? I lingered in the past, much like you did. Lost, broken, forgetting who and what I am. Blaming others for what I had become, when I should have been looking forward to what I could grow into. I never quite forgave Her. Displacing the blame as if it might heal me, but it does not.

Oh, dearest Celaabi, if we had known each other before, I might have helped you - perhaps we could have helped each other. I remember what they did to me, while I was in Evil's hands, smelling the red fog, feeling the way my body was [the parchment and ink is discoloured here by drops of dried liquid].

I did not expect to learn of your son and think I could help him. Sitting at his bedside these past few months has allowed me time to think, to be with myself in this quiet room. I am not a mother, but I imagine the loss you felt, the pain you knew he would feel and still accepted the burden of it. The trudge across the mountains, walking down that horrendous highway that destroyed the geography of Her worlda how terrible it must have been.

I am not brave like you, Celaabi, though I am trying to be. I look at your son, and I see the future you must have wanted for him, free of your pain and the past. His road ahead is not easy; the burdens will not ease or be lightened upon his broad shoulders, but I see your village and Eleusis gathering to support him, and I believe that he will prevail, as you would have wanted.

Rest easy wherever you are, Celaabi, Queen Mother of the Aalen. Truly, you were the best of them, and now, they have quite the legacy to live up to.

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Summary: Alianna, the Malefic Dryad of Eleusis overcame her own past with Mhaldor to brew a potion to heal the slumbering King Tu'eras and her efforts were aided by Blackwillow, Yavita, Dierdre, Miriew, Thato and Aelyn, plus a mandrake-digging black dog. She spent over a month at the King's beside, urging him to wake and return to guide his people and to honour the dying wish of his beloved mother.

It is Tuesday, the 23rd of December, and the following changes have been implemented:

- Formicaries will now only have an upkeep cost if they are empowered.

Twelve and twelve sit about a great fire in advancing night, their meeting one surrounded by the watching tribes.

"The time is now," Noyan Thoksikh roars, slapping a bowl of milk ferment against his thigh. "Noyan Tokhta issued the summons! He must take his title, lead us in war!"

Noyan Tokhta only chuckles, taking a long drink of tripartite swallows from his own bowl. This meeting was settled. He and his cousins have considered, he knows. Checked, he knows. And concluded how best to navigate the seething sea that awaits, to what must be done without what could be done.

A quorum would bring all tribes as one in a horde to squander all life west of the Sarave. Noyan Tokhta seeks not this. But how could one who loves peace speak of battle and war?

So it is his fellow Noyan, Keidou of Ogdei Encampment, who speaks in his place, while he drinks in solidarity as arranged.

And the words are strong. Charismatic. Honourable.

But the words of his cousin surprise him. Noyan Tokhta's head snaps to one side, watching his cousin with uncertainty. What his cousin Keidou says is... different, slightly. A term here. A phrase there. In sum this was not entirely what they discussed.

He cannot take back the words. A delicate balance, among so many competing tribes. He has always kept constraint.

So his voice echoes forth in parallel to called battle, called blood, called war, of bringing death to the outlanders.

"We protect what is ours," Noyan Tokhta proclaims. "That is what we fight for! Take the west? What is west? Mountains of the monstrous. Hills of those not hale as we are. There is nothing of value to us there. We will demonstrate the might that the outlanders know not. We will make clear where we roam-"

"AND if they do not yield, they will die until it is done!" Keidou's voice rises to a roar. "My cousin speaks well! He loves peace. Are we not a peaceful people? But we know that the west brings no peace to us, that these northern outlanders bring no peace to us. He made them friends, and they spit on it! He offers them seven entire months and they dissemble, they deceive, they lie! Instead they only insult! This we must answer in protection, of ourselves and our honour!"

"And there is time yet for their western allies to yield," says Noyan Tokhta, dragging convocation back toward once-clear paths. "Some understand us, support us. Some are our true Friends. It was I who delivered ultimatum, I who made insult that they would give attention. But my word of seven months will not be ignored! Those who do will sully my honour and see my blade!"

"And are they likely to yield?" The voice comes from Noyan Khutan, her fair features furrowed in question and her crimson hair a firebrand. She is wise for her years, and more than cunning. And utterly unmatched with a blade taught in her family line by those known only as the ancient Pyramid. A thousand horses and her very bloodline are promised to he who defeats this sword maiden in battle.

None have.

"If they do not, I have warned them the Yekes Ghoum will ride with us," says Noyan Tokhta. "We know that it will be so, for the shamans have already marked and made their ritual. The greater the blood, the stronger they be, and the greater their manifest."

"And if they do not yield even to the Yekes Ghoum?" Noyan Keidou's gaze is just the right mix of expression. But still just slightly the wrong words. Perhaps he is milk-flushed. He has ever loved it more than he should. "Cousin," he continues, "of course we must know of the worst of events! Let me be the one to defend your honour. We will ride with Chaghut's banner, not for ourselves but for you!"

Noyan Tokhta's smile remains. A smile, or a grimace. Who could say?

"If they do not yield in direct we ride out," he begrudges at last. "We return forever to days of the hard and the harsh, the days we once left behind generations ago. We are hostile once more. And the title will be claimed sooner, must be claimed nearer than later. If they yield, we may yet relent. This I swore, and this is my word. But if we surrender what is ours now, then they will take more. So we must ride out."

Only one of the gathered Noyan says nothing. His figure is vast, his body purest towering muscle and his long moustaches true groomed. But his fellows give him wide berth, and in his empty eyes waits the death and slow torture of the stone-sitters and their children. All of them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: A meeting upon Meropis and determination of a path forward. While less than half of the full martial might lurking in Daoric depths, against Aerek Ancyrion's refusal to accept their ancestral claim the assembled tribes of the great plains prepared to make a demonstration and return to the chaotic years near Seleucar's fall.

Three figures stand upon a hillock, their gaze overlooking a growing crowd below. Further out, new emissaries, new riders, join the expanding encampment.

Each of the three is titled Noyan, each of mighty call among the tribes of the Daoric.

"I must know. You have been silent, but I can be silent no more. Did you summon us for prophecy, cousin Tokhta?" The first asks with eyes bright, face eager. He grips the scimitar at his waist with a hand turned white at the knuckle. "Rumour runs rampant among tribe and clan from near and far."

"For protection, cousin Keidou," replies the second after a long moment. Grand trailing moustaches sweep from face to beneath his chin, and his hand too grips a scimitar hilt albeit with a lighter touch. "We must again guard what we have, what is ours beneath blue sky. The Yekes Ghoum warned us that the north would not respect us in the end. Warned us that we would have to make it known, even if it were to risk return to harder, harsher ways."

Noyan Keidou turns his gaze to the Noyan Tokhta, confusion writ large in his eyes.

"Two score tribes gather from across our Daoric sea," he demands, "and you would still seek only to protect? To state again what is already ours? What all beneath great sky knows is ours? Look at what comes to this ancient meeting place just for your honour, cousin! They are here for you!"

"Two score tribes is still not enough for that particular quorum, cousin," says the Noyan.

"If you would only just take the title! Chaghut is senior among even the first twelve. You lead Chaghut! Yes, you love peace. Your people love peace. Let my tribe and encampment make the war for you! It is what we learn, what we will do!" Noyan Keidou's voice echoes with charisma, with need. He wants this. He is ready for this. "The remaining two and thirds would come," he continues, "bringing their forty thousand horse and more to be united in the horde!"

Noyan Tokhta laughs, but there is little mirth in it. "There is time yet to what I granted the invaders, cousin," he at last demurs. "I am a man of my word, even if they are perhaps not. I will give them the seven to state their yield in formal."

"You will risk opprobrium just for that, cousin. You have for years offered outlanders friendship, made your encampment seen when our way is within the Daoric sea, and now they spit in your face. But to spit in your face is to spit in the faces of all and every one of us. The honour of us all, the honour of each of us in separate! All is offended."

"I find that I am able to bear up under their distaste with great ease, cousin Keidou," says Noyan Tokhta. "When a small dog yaps beneath your knee, do you pay much note to the pup? And there are still some who present spit to us on nothing save their palm in agreement. If they give me what I demand, then we will but demonstrate."

Noyan Keidou turns, grumbling, to watch the gathering tribes below.

"Are you with me, cousin?"

Noyan Tokhta's voice is quiet. Almost, for a moment, uncertain, as one atop a golden sea's wave sees the coming rush and wonders.

"Always, cousin," says Noyan Keidou at last, in a dispelling of doubt. He chuckles. "Even when you are simple. Foolish."

"It is because you are my blood that I let go such insult!" Noyan Tokhta's smile is wide. Noyan Keidou's laugh echoes out yet further, but his own smile only barely reaches his eyes. He yet wishes for blood much heightened. He would tear down rock and stone and set the world alight, then bask in the warmth of the flame. But the Noyan Tokhta is his blood by mother and by mare's milk, and so he says no more.

The third of the trio says nothing to it all, his countenance grim and his mien one of only cold fury. He would have blood if the stone-sitters must weep it from ruined eyes at the witnessed corpses of their children.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: A meeting of three clan lords from both the Daoric and Sarave, in a meeting place never visited by Sapient adventurers.

The trees are bright tonight, bright enough that the light slips beneath doors and into corners. From where I sit, I can hear the celebration as a living thing: the scrape of chairs on wood, a burst of singing that cannot find its tune, the clatter of cups, the sudden roar of laughter when someone says something sharp and everyone pretends it is only wit.

It is strange to listen to joy while waiting to die.

Time feels unreliable now. A moment stretches, then collapses. I keep thinking I hear footsteps meant for me; then it is only another guest, another errand, another pair of hands carrying a tray. My mouth will not hold moisture. My fingers slip on the page as though my body is already forgetting how to belong to itself.

If this becomes a will, let it leave no coins and no keepsakes, only the last honest shape of a woman who has been handled too often.

Tu'eras, my son, you may be among them still, holding yourself so carefully. You may have been ushered away with a kind word that is not kindness at all.

Or you may be asleep.

That is my doing.

I have put sleep into you without your permission, and I am ashamed of the theft even as I cling to the reason for it. I imagine the flare of anger when you realise, the cut of betrayal, the sick understanding that your own mother chose to make your body unreliable. If you can forgive me, forgive me. If you cannot, then let the truth sit plainly between us.

I did not do it to weaken you. I did it because there are people who do not merely punish, they curate. They turn consequence into performance, and performance into a feast, until the victim cannot tell where the pain ends and the audience begins.

So I have tried to steal you one small mercy, purchased with the only currency I have left.

The draught is not meant to spare you. It is meant to narrow what comes, to deny them the pleasure of variety. If an image must be planted in your sleep, let it be one image, returned to until it grows dull at the edges. Let them have their single pointed instruction and be forced to swallow it whole.

I cannot protect you from everything. I never could. Still, I can choose where I place myself at the end. I can decide what is taken, and what is not offered.

That is what I have done tonight.

I am frightened, Tu'eras. Frightened of the Red Square, of death and metal and hot breath, frightened of my own voice and what it might do if I am pressed hard enough. I am frightened that my courage will turn out to be only silence, and that silence will be mistaken for consent.

I am frightened, and I am still going.

Because I have been made into a lesson before, in a thousand small ways that never earned a witness. I have been told, in every language power speaks, that my body exists to prove someone else's point.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I choose the point.

Remember me, if you do, as a woman who was cornered and still found one direction that belonged to her, who did not become fearless, but refused to let fear be the only author left in the room.

To the Tsol'aa of the Aalen: I leave you no blessing, only a warning: look closely at what we call normal. We have lived inside cages so long we name the bars after virtues. We call obedience discipline. We call numbness strength. We call the absence of protest wisdom. We say that this is simply how it is, until our children believe pain is not merely common, it is rightful.

Let my death not become another story told to keep you in line. Let it be remembered as refusal.

Tu'eras, my son: live.

Do not live as penance. Do not let my name become a chain around your throat. If grief comes, let it come. If rage comes, give it a spine and a direction. If tenderness shows its face, do not kill it out of spite. You are allowed to be more than what they demand of you.

The party swells again, a chorus of voices rising and breaking, the stamp of feet as though joy can be hammered into place. Someone is shouting for another song. Someone is calling a name that is not mine, yet.

The ink is still wet. My hands are still shaking. The candles in the tree are burning down into thick tears of wax.

I will stand up now, and I will walk towards Mhaldor on my own feet, if for no other reason than because I have spent too long kneeling.

~~~

Summary: Despite rituals from Sjeng, the Gaian Knights, Adrey, and Ramilies, Sevet's curse for the Aalen Tsol'aa proved too carefully crafted. After drugging her son during his going-away party, Celaabi, the Tsol'aa Queen Mother, struck a deal with Tyrannus Tabethys Aristata that saw her take Tu'eras' place in the Red Square forevermore, lifting the curse placed on the Tsol'aa by the City of Evil.