[!] (A poster marked by a nautilus shell is pinned to the notice board following the devastation of the Requital.) I, Nell, write this as a friend and guide to all Mistans of the Spire, with all my love and compassion mustered. As you may know, leading up to the devastation off our coast, Van Pelt aimed to steal an offering given to the Siren Serene during a ceremony dedicated to her. This treachery cannot be forgiven. To claim that which was sworn to Her for yourself is a foolish thing that leads to great despair. Only darkness comes to those who are foolish enough to steal from her, as the story of the Brine King teaches us. I believe Van Pelt found that darkness within the light of that great and glorious beast. But know this. Van Pelt was dragged into the deep with the offering he sought to steal, after deciding to offer it again to the Serene. We cannot know what happened in the deep, but very well it was not entirely Van Pelt's decision. I would ask that Mistans remain neutral, for the signs are most unclear. Did Van Pelt escape the sirens and do this devastation of his own accord, or was he guided by the sirens to do so? If so, then this devastation was likely a final penance for his attempted theft. No doubt he was destroyed utterly in his final moment. But was this final act the will of the Serene? Instead of holding hate in your hearts for the Van Pelts, though it is justified, I ask that you invite serenity within. I ask you, go and spend time by the shores and the seas, listen to the waves, and perhaps you will know the answer. Muse over the glorious song of despair that the Requital offered in their final moments, it was the Melody made manifest. Find company in your community, and think of the future. Now I tell you, our trials are not over, and the Van Pelts are not our greatest threat. Pay them no mind, they are but crabs burrowing in the sand and pinching at toes. They are nothing that should disturb your serenity.

✦ Melswyn Scrivener ✦ "Heavens! I'd never dream of retiring!" A professional translator from Sirensong. Melswyn was raised the son of a sailor and pearl diver, but never took to the sea like his parents. Instead, his parents funded his studies, and he quickly proved a knack for scribe work. He apprenticed as a scrivener, and developed a strong love of books and stories. Transcribing such texts proved ideal for his fascination, despite being work, as it let him pour over every letter of the text. This love of words developed into a love of language, and with the beginnings of a lucrative career he dedicated his life to a study of language. Eventually he gained renown as a translator, specializing in the transcribing of foreign texts into common for the wealthy patricians of Sirensong. He has read so much of adventure, though, that he has come to yearn for adventure in his old age. He desires to see real adventure, real heroes, in his time, and not just upon a page. Thus he has set out for the Southern Reach to offer his talents there. - Journals & Keepsakes - Appearance: Melswyn can be seen with a smile worn on his face, rosy cheeked, and bright eyed. He typically wears a warm, layered robe. He has white hair and blue eyes. He is well kept, but always seems to take up as little space as possible as he moves. He fidgets often, always some part of him seems to want to move. Age: 62 Years Birthday: 15th of Harrowing Zodiac: Masque Pronouns: He/Him Profession: Scribe/Translator Ancestry: Human, Mistan. Goals: Bring new literature to the Spire and make a home for himself here. Beliefs: As a Mistan, Melswyn has a rich connection to life and the people around him. He believes strongly in the supernatural of the world around him, but is more taken by people and human interaction, especially in tales. He strongly subscribes to the Mistan philosophy that history is one grand tale. Home: Melswyn comes from Sirensong, where he was born and raised. He grew up on the docks, but moved his family into a nice townhouse near them instead once he had enough money. - Dramatis Personae - Carrot - Friendly | Seems a big and honest sort, and friendly too! Adrian - Friendly | Welcomed me to the Spire and helped me along my way. Monty - Curious | Seems a brave young lad, I wonder what stories will be told of him?

[!]A grubby wet Nell goes dancing and skipping through the town, singing: The Mistans are a gatherin, with their mouths a blatherin! We make a fuss, yes that's a plus! So please, oh please, come dance with us! Please, oh please, come dance with us!   Gather round the fire near, Yes with friends you'll have no fear. To jest and jeer and shed a tear! With friends like these the course is clear! Yes, with friends like these the course is clear.   In just a day, the time is thus! So please, oh please, come dance with us! Please, oh please, come dance with us!   The Seaside Ceremony is tomorrow!

~ The Second Seaside Ceremony ~ With threats from the seas hounding our shores, it is a restless time for Mistans and our kin. Your Master of Ceremonies, Nell, invites you all once again to the Second Seaside Ceremony. We shall make merry, and give offering and song to the Serene and the many things that watch over us. We shall gather upon the beach by warm bonfire in these long days of summer. You are invited to bring a guest of any background or origin! But only mistans and their guests may attend, for such ceremonies are a sacred and often private matter among kith and kin. It is Nell's hope that we may share knowledge of the present crisis.   This ceremony will also have a Guest of Honor! We are pleased to announce that former councillor Meriel Noctis shall be Guest of Honor for her service to the Spire on behalf of us Mistans. [ ~ ]   When: 3:00PM CST, July 27 - Convert to your time! Where: The Tidal Pools Details: A spiritual ceremony to the Serene will be held. Be sure to bring an offering of some kind, be it a poem or piece of jewelry. These will be offered to the sea in one way or another. Nell shall be the Master of Ceremonies, and guide all through a traditional mistan ceremony from their home. A time will be taken to address concerns and share knowledge on the present crisis facing the Spire, and how Mistans can act to help. Beyond that, we shall be in the company of kith and kin to make merry.   If you are NOT a Mistan and would like to attend, seek out an invitation IC from a Mistan who is attending. Rumor would be going around of a gathering in Her honor. All Mistans welcome!

King Cyrworn and the Singer of Steel [ A later tale of King Cyrworn detailing the forging of a fabled blade, Alnobl, from the Pearl Coast. ]   There was known in the southern islands of the Mists a land known as the Pearl Coast. And in those days good King Cyrworn traveled too and fro in his great conquest, and in time he arrived in those southern lands. The most noble people of the Pearl Coast were in awe of the good King, and swore allegiance to him so that he would not invade their land. They did this in each city he came upon, and few gave him reason to draw arms against them. The clans of the south quickly became subjugated by his majesty, and he knew them as loyal vassals and allies each.   It was after such a visit that the most noble king heard tale of a master smith who lived upon a cliff overlooking the sea. The tale spun that this smith was known as the Singer of Steel, for his practice of singing to his blades as he forged them. In this tale, it was said, that the Singer of Steel imbued his arms with great and magical power through his songs. And so, most wisely the good King Cyrworn set off at once to find this smith to inquire about his services- for this was certainly something he must accomplish!   So armed in his finest steel from helm to sabaton, he went with shield slung around his neck. He traveled for a time until he came across a bridge, where on opposite side stood a most intimidating warrior. He wore the arms of the Pearl Coast, with fine mail and feather tipped helm. And he held in his arms a shield with fine heraldry of a yellow field with a pair of black fish. And in the other hand he bore a blade that was alight with tempestuous fire like a great torch upon a fine hilt.   King Cyrworn called out to him, “Most noble warrior who stands before me and guards this bridge, stand aside at once if you know what is good for you!”   So that the man at the far side declared, “I shall not move aside, for any who would cross this bridge has means to reach the Singer of Steel- a task I will surely not permit without a test!”   And the king replied, “Noble knight, if you are to test me and my mettle I would know what you are called.”   To which the warrior called out, “I am known as the Shield of the Yellow, and I have given many-a-man pause to cross this bridge, and fewer yet have I permitted to cross. For near all who think to challenge me find themselves bested and sent away! Now tell me, who are you?”   Then the king said, “I shall give you no name until our battle is complete, and only shall I fight you if this is amenable to you.”   “Then it shall be so, though I do not know why you would hide your name so, unless you were someone I should know.” The Shield of the Yellow replied.   “Then let us fight!” Cried the King as he drew his sword.   The two stood upon the bridge and did battle, bringing sword against sword and shield pressed against the other in heated combat. The warrior who stood opposed to the king was a most fierce warrior, who bore a blade of incredible prowess. The heat of its flames licked at King Cyrworn’s face as he guarded close with his blade. The Shield of the Yellow had a great advantage, and King Cyrworn began to fear defeat. Yet he knew that if he felt fear, the battle was already lost. So the king stood back.   “What cowardice decouples out melee?” The Shield of the Yellow asked.   “No cowardice, but a moment of strategy.” King Cyrworn replied as he strode forward again. He locked his blade to his enemy’s, then pushed fiercely forward with his shield. He knocked the warrior off balance, and with a singular blow he knocked the flaming blade from his hand and into the river below. It let up a great steam as it stuck into the riverbed by it’s blade. The King continued, “Do you yield, most noble foe?”   “I have been bested by a warrior of great prowess this day, though I do not so much as know what he is called. Dishonor will shame me until I know this thing!” The Shield of the Yellow lamented.   “Then you will know I am King Cyrworn, liege lord of these lands.” The King announced.   The warrior gasped, “By the Serene! Had I known, I would not have challenged you, good king.”   “Thus is why I had not told you, for I would not cross this bridge without first proving myself to you.” The King explained, sheathing his sword away and hanging his shield back around his neck.   “I invite you to pass, then, though I warn you will likely not find what you seek. The Singer of Steel only gives out arms to those he finds worthy, and you may yet be unworthy for him.” The Shield of the Yellow stood aside, and bid the king pass.   The good King Cyrworn carried on past the noble warrior who guarded the bridge. He saw upon the distance a cliff by the sea, upon which there was a hut with a great plume of smoke coming from it. A path led up the cliff, which the king took until he had reached the top. There he heard a most beautiful singing and saw an old man with great and long hair of snowy white hunched over an anvil. Beside him was an intense forge which belched fire. The Singer of Steel clearly stood before the king, and hammered at some blade as he watched.   The king declared, “Good smith, oh Singer of Steel, I have come before you! Look upon me, for I have come to ask of you a blade that may aid in my conquest. So skilled have I heard you to be, with a song that can enchant blades beyond anything I have seen. Tell me, was the warrior who stood at the bridge bearing that sword forged by yourself?”   The smith turned around and appeared as a wizened old man of dark complexion, with thin arms that betrayed his talent. He addressed the king, not knowing who he was, “That sword was indeed forged by me, and sung with the Song of Flaming Lament- oh what a terrible song, that yields such wonderful fire! But I see you must have defeated him, but know this, you will not find what you seek here. I bid you turn and depart at once, and leave me to my work.”   The king lamented, but said, “If that is your will, I will do so. But I ask first that you let me prove myself, so that you may forge for me a most wonderful blade as I wish. What may I do for you?”   “You are a great and noble warrior, I can tell. But for someone like you, I will not forge my blade. If you wish a blade, take this barrel and carry it down to the shore. Fill it with water, then carry it back here.” The Singer of Steel bid.   So the king did as he asked. To take the barrel to the base of the cliff was a small trial that took little effort. But, once the barrel was filled with water, it became greatly difficult to bring to the top of the hill. It took nigh an hour, and with great exertion, but the king accomplished this task and delivered the barrel.   “Now take this axe to the wood half a day’s walk to the south, and bring me back wood for my fire- and do so before the sun sets or I will be greatly displeased.” The Singer of Steel bid.   The king went with the axe, but lamented. The day was already halfway through, so how could he possibly do as was asked? He ran quickly along the trail, axe in hand, and his legs grew sore after an hour. Then, he saw a man leading a donkey through a field. The king stopped by and said, “Good traveler, I humbly ask that you loan me this donkey. Should you do this, I will not only return it but feed you this day.”   The traveler heard this, and saw that the king was of noble stock, so leant him his donkey. On which the king rode hard to the forest. He not only chopped the trees and gathered firewood, but he also hunted and caught a pair of hares. He returned along the path he came, and finding the traveler he returned the donkey and gave him one of the hares. Then, with the firewood in hand, he ran back and arrived shortly before nightfall.   “How good!” Declared the Singer of Steel who took the firewood into his hut to stoke a fire under a cauldron. He continued, “Now, return to the forest quickly and bring me food. Do so quickly, before this pot boils!”   “Ahah!” Declared the king, who revealed the spare hare he had retrieved. “I thought that you might be in want of food, so I brought this from the forest already.”   “What noble consideration!” Cried the smith, who continued, “Then I say, come morning I shall forge you the finest and keenest blade I can muster!”   And so the king and the smith enjoyed their meat, which was stewed. They rested, the king humbly sleeping on the floor. In the morning, by the time the king rose, the Singer of Steel was outside hammering away. When the king emerged from the hut, he saw there a most fine and keen blade being drawn out with steam from the barrel of water he had brought the day before. The Singer of Steel presented the king with the blade. It was beautiful, and inscribed with the name ‘Alnobl’. As the smith held it out, he sang a song, and the words of that song impressed themself along the length of the blade.   When he had finished, the smith spoke, “This blade is sharper than any other I have ever smithed, and so infused with the Melody that its blade shall never dull. It may cleave stone, ships, even the air itself with one clean blow. Take it, but tell me, to whom do I give this thing?”   “I am known as King Cyrworn, the new liege of this land who has come in conquest and fellowship.” The king declared.   “Then rejoice, good king! For this blade shall fell any enemy, nomatter the strength of their arms, and your conquest shall be certain. Only a foul fate me halt you, so go with my blessing that none may come to pass.” The smith passed the blade into the king’s hands gently.   Then, departing that place, the king returned with Alnobl in hand to his fleet. His people were so impressed that each renewed their oath to him on the spot, asking to be ordained by the blade. Each knelt before the king and were greatly honored by the blade's touch, which left a perfect cut upon the tabards they wore where the blade gently touched. They did so, and prepared for the next stop on their great conquest.