Spiritual Succession

[Titania]

Within the boundaries of Gloomlight Grove, a missive is placed-- a call to action, for any members of the settlement or any wanderers who may be traveling through. It bears the seal of the Oracle and the Holy State of Aphros, an official endorsement of all that it pertains.

---

"The Holy State of Aphros calls upon its spiritmancers and artificers, as well as those of any other nation willing to comply. We are working on a project to even the playing field."

"For those of you who know, we are going to be finishing the great work of former Bastion Commander Lyco Corbin. For those who are not, we are going to be creating something that, by the designs of Commander Corbin, is known as the Spirit Forge. A tool to channel the spirits of the Citadel Upon the Edge, and possibly other honored afterlifes, to offer them a temporary leave to defend the material once more. A means by which we may call upon an army to counter that of our foes, to even the playing field and contest their stranglehold upon Meranthe. We will be forging with mythril and steel and the spirits of our fallen called from the halls of their Gods to defend the home they fought and died for one last time, an army. A force that may oppose their possessed corpses and meet them in the field. I will not sit idly by as they fill my home with the dishonored dead."

"To Lyco, should this missive ever meet your eyes: We need you. Not your skill on the field, but your own mastery of the spiritual. I have not spoken to you, my mentor in the Occult, my teacher, one of my oldest friends, for some time. I hope that you yet remain the man I always knew you were, for Meranthe needs you now more than ever."

---

[RadioHead]

---

Within the realm of the living, Lyco Corbin has not been found for years.

Rumored to be gone, returned to the spirit realm after his work upon the realm within Joruheim. Yet a familiar voice is heard, but it is no louder than a whisper, those who were not listening close enough could have missed what was said in the wind. It was defiant, bold, and filled with suppressed rage from years back.

Some have forgotten what path the Spiritmancers must walk.

But the Spirits do not easily forget.

Nor does he.

---

"Your plea to the Spirit Realm has been heard, and I have answered its call."

"Even I must rest, so much has happened... so much has changed. I'm more than I was, but less who I am."

"We do this my way, no matter the cost, no matter the pain that you will all go through, what we do is in the name of the Spirits and all that have fallen before us. In their memories, in their soul, in their all of being. Shall the damage done upon this land be mended ever so slowly."

"...But I warn you, Oracle. Your cries and pleas have not only reached my own ears... I the one proven worthy by the Herald of Joruheim and the Keeper of the Silver Chalice... have also heard the harrow voice of none other than my rival."

"Ustrea, I have heard your voice once more that screams and tears into the Lifestream. To use the hallowed spirits that you rip away from their time and rest."

"So now we go to War once more. My people against your own, as it always should have been, and as it shall ever be until the end of time."

"Prepare yourself, Ustrea."

"I will mend all that you have ruined..."

[Galion]

"Two little successes have swollen that head of yours like a fat pig's belly, hihi. I'll tell you what, though.

We enjoy fun games, such as:

Chess.

Pin the Tail on the Faeborne.

Theatre

War.

That is all you are. A really silly man about this silly little game, who has not a clue as to this purpose.

I'll tell you what. If you wish to tango with me once more and forever on, then prove something to me."

On one exceptionally normal night, accursed yet fleeting whispers behold to those Spiritmancers of the Gloomlight.

A shade chases a black cat through the nooks and crannies of a broken down old home. A Nethradin is ball dancing with a lifeless skeleton, a step, step, twirl to silent music. A wraith despairs at a sky blackened like coal, screaming, breathing, and screaming again. Twin revenants play catch with a human skull. Around every corner of this city's streets is theater, where specters trapped in purgatory reenact grand tales of malice. The Bell Tower tolls each night for the grave. The bowels are cursed for the many hel pacts that have been forged.

To those who draw their gaze in the same direction as Lyco Corbin, they may see it for those skies cast in crimson- a hideous stain upon these beautiful lands forged by the divine.

Sheol, the City of Revelry remains in a state of devastation & tragedy. It is a desolation akin to the likes of Lyra Moore, a place where dread and malice runs free in abundance. A living nightmare who's population is only of the shadow.

"Follow this course, and perhaps they will have it.

This is my offer. Those brave and willing may come and study my works, and let this history meet its end."