“Nope, start again,” he spoke to himself, tossing the sheet of paper into the campfire in front of him. Eloi watched as it bounced from the charred logs into the heart of the fire. Within seconds, his second attempt at writing a letter was gone. One with the fire. The campsite was eerily still, beside the crackling of the campfire, there was nothing else. It was unlike the bustle of the streets of Daenlock, the Playero Home, not like the rowdiness of the Scorpion, or the Emporium of New Crookback. For once, this man was left with his own thoughts and one, very simple job to do. He put pencil to paper, but unlike his political statements, grandiose manifestos or cries of oppression, it did not come naturally to him. Because, far from the past, there was a living being on this world that Eloi owed a great deal to. 'To Maevia,' he transcribed onto the parchment. He cast his glance to the campfire again. It invoked the torment of what was the last ten months in Regalia - perhaps the first acts of criminality that landed him in the situation where he was now. There was the option to tell his daughter to avoid this altogether. And he was prepared to. After all, antagonism had only earned him twenty-seven feeble years on Aloria. Crime. That was something that came naturally. Stealing a faux gold chain of a man who had offered him charity, spitting in the faces of Nobles - then legalizing criminality under the guidance of a certain Mercenary-turned-Duke. A log on the fire collapsed, sending embers into the clean forest air. Yet, he couldn’t blame himself for his condition. He held up in his own mind that, different from the crime bosses of Hallonq, his crime served a greater purpose. “I did,” he assured himself. Eloi pressed the pencil to the paper, going to wax poetry about the honour of living a life of principle and resistance. However, he was unable. Not all crimes could be glistened over with the romantic ideals of revolution. Though he never admitted it, Playero had many regrets. Behind the bullishness of his personality, those who he had harmed haunted him. Two Ithanians came to mind, one who he murdered. The other, who miraculously survived, yet forgave him in the end. Being forgiving was something many numerous people had bestowed on Playero, but something he was unwilling to return. There was a smelly Anglian that lied to save him. There was a Daendroque wine addict that forgave him and took him under her wing. There were another two men, a Songaskian man-child and a thirty-something Mercenary that had given him too many chances. Eloi wrote on the letter about the need to live a happy, peaceful and long life. Stay clear of violence, avoid controversy and dedicate your life to service. But he paused. Playero reached for the sigg, sitting by his side. He exhaled a plume of smoke, his eyes turning from the paper to the fire. Immediately, he scrunched the paper up. Threw it into the flame again. He ran a hand through his hair, smoking, thinking. No. There was no way that he would write that, to give that to his daughter. What is a life, as a Daendroque, without resistance? To him, that was a life not worth living. His mind moved to the night after he returned from Daenshore - it was also his birthday. His friends and family were drunk off elation and tequila, some opium too. The speech he made. Eloi couldn’t deny these opportunities from his daughter by warding her away from adventure. It was becoming too difficult for him to write a simple letter. His mind instead was clouded in thoughts of revenge. The fire in front of him only let his mind run wild. “You cannot give authority any legitimacy if they do not deserve it,” he spoke to himself. Only the campfire could hear him. “I have been too subservient to th’ people who want t’see me gone. History will absolve me.” For him, the letter would have to wait. Playero began to pack his bag. No change of a last name could put out the fire that was alive in his soul. It called him toward action, it called him to resistance. Eloi dragged on his sigg, as he began to place three former ale-bottles into his backpack. Filled with flammable liquid, a rag plunged through the neck of the bottle. He finally treated himself with a clockwork lighter now, too. Though, this luxury was short-lived. Perhaps the best inspiration for writing the letter was, in fact, the forest outside of the Sorenvik Estate. Much like everything else at the end of his life, there was not enough time. The letter to Maevia was never completed, but what lay on the paper were the ramblings of a man on the brink of his execution. At the end of the paper was scribbling, and blood. There was not enough time to tell people that he loved them. And in truth, he broke the promises he made to those closest to him, by not returning safely and alive from his expedition. Certain in his own prowess, he neglected to say goodbye properly to his family. Not to Mariona, not to Xabi. There were no proper goodbyes, but that was simply the life of an ungovernable man. Eloi Playero clambered over the wall of the Estate and became one with the fire.
Several Hours Later... The Songaskian lied in his bed, blankly staring at the ceiling above. The Greygate Barracks were silent. No one moved throughout the halls or inbetween rooms. It was calm. Only hours before, he laid eyes on his previous best friend burning alive on a pyre. Part of him, was terrified to even be witnessing such a thing. But, on the otherhand, something about the entire situation didn't seem to sit right. He choked out a cough. A wheeze of sorts. The damage Playero had done to him upon capture was... excruciating. While the Lord Commander, Triss, and the Matron might have saved his life, the pain still seemed to linger. Instead of being verbally able to explain his thoughts like he normally would, he moved from his bed to his desk and began to do what Triss had told him to do before. Write. Spoiler: What Taeron Wrote "To my ex-best friend, The stab. What was it for? The arguments? The crime? The injuries? For what? Part of me wishes all the dreams I had about us being friends ‘til the end were true. The Ivories, damn man, you were the person I considered closest to me. Was valuing my job over your safety really the right way to go? If I had not turned you in for murdering someone, would I feel more or less guilty than what I do right now? Part of me, wishes that somewhere in a different life time, I didn’t fuck up as much as I did in this one. You hurt so many people. Destroyed so many lives. But you could have been forgiven. If people attempted to see another side of you. Where is the side of you that I met when I came to Regalia? Seven months ago, you were my best friend. And before you died, you were my one true enemy. But seeing you up there on that pyre? Every single memory I had with you rushed through my mind. Was it really worth it, Playero?" Spoiler: OOC AYOO WILVAHELM ITS MEEEE OwO SO, I'm very sad to see Eloi go. I hope the last bit of Roleplay that we had together was satisfactory enough. Eloi and the Playeros will probably some of my favorite characters on MassiveCraft. But, I'm glad to say that we all sorta closed this chapter together as a team. It was fun while it lasted. Thank you for giving me so many different memorable RP expereinces- From drinking with Taeron in his basement, setting buildings on fire with Mariona, and dealing with Vanora's psychotic tendencies, here's to the end, for real this time, of M i S T E R d e G o n z o. <3 - Emma
Dusk settles over Daenlock. A young woman wanders the street, clutching a damp blanket over her shoulders as rainwater drips from her tempestuous mane. Her shoes are mottled with dark wet patches. She stumbles across a weathered stone bridge, gazing down at the murky canal below. Finding no solace in the dark water, she rounds the corner. Her feet stop at the entrance of an empty home. Inside, several candles have been blown out on top of a dresser, contorted and frozen in death. She brushes past them, the gold chains adorning her dress rattling with an unseemly garishness. The blanket is tossed aside, and the woman trudges upstairs. After climbing the steps to the third floor, she reaches a door marked with a wooden sign, haphazardly nailed on the wall: Eloi’s Room. The door clicks, floorboards creaking as the woman enters. To her right, a desk. Dashes of sandy wood show through the dark varnish, betraying its age and the fiery temperament of the writer who used it. To her left, the bed, donning a wine-red blanket that pooled in awkward lumps over a cheap mattress. She sits down at the escritoire. Rapping her knuckles on the scarred surface, she aims to count the nicks one by one. She fails, vision clouded by hot tears. She bangs the desk with her fist repeatedly, cursing his name. She weeps, she howls, she paces the room. She collapses onto the bed. She breathes in the faintest scent of tequila and siggs, left cheek pressed to the blanket, and remembers when he used to hold her in headlocks. Morning comes and the woman is gone. On the desk are the ashes of a letter that once read: Eloi, My brother and friend. Mamá always said Playero men are like sparks, hot as fire and if you blink, you’ll miss them. To love one is a fool’s errand. But I never had a choice. Keep your head high. I’ll see you one day. Reselda
As the rain that night washed away the tragedy of the day, a woman sits in her empty home, devoid of furniture as she looked out the balcony door, quiet fussing from the bundle in her arms that she rocked, soft shushing filling the air. "My sweet, wee lass. Yae will ne'er be alone." Mairian would take to the streets the next day, walking the length of the city with her joy. It was quiet, but she would not be at peace for quite some time. Hours passed, and sitting in the chair of her newly built nursery, she wrote. Spoiler: Máirían's Note: Dear Future Us. "I don't know who I'm writing this to, maybe myself. Maybe Eloi's spirit, maybe for Máevía. This is another phase in all of our lives, I suppose. Soon the ashes will wash away and it'll be a distant memory for many. To some, a massive tragedy, to others? A relief. I know for myself, it is a tragedy. It's strange, this pain. My head is so clear yet my heart feels like it's muddled, lost. I know I have much work to do, yet I can't help but sit here and watch her sleep, wishing I had her peace. Eloi, my first love. I'll never forget your story." Spoiler: OOC Note! GAH what a ride this has been, I can't wait for the next leg in this amazing adventure. Stay fucking tuned for adult Máevía and all her eventual chaos (let's hope she has her mom's foresight). It's been a blast with Eloi, Wilv! I know you warned me jokingly he'd probably get executed when we met but GAH, agony! Cya gamers, stay awesome x3
In the distant Highlands a letter is given a simple notice of the execution of Eloi playero. The Url sighs, “I remember once long ago when nothing but raged burned in my heart for the Playeros. For the first to earn himself execution but…I almost pity them now. Pity the folly of this pattern and the harm they inflict upon their kin dying in this way.” —————————————————————————— A Celate fishes out a picture from the sea lighting a silent candle of vigil beside the image of the Playero Family. The Nobleman sighs shaking his head thinking of this fellow daen. “I prayed for you Mr. De Guenzo, prayed you would head my advisement that you would realize the Daendroque do not have to rebel to be respected. I prayed and prayed you would seek repentance, atonement to cease crimes that seemed senseless to me.” The feka lord kneels his head down in prayer, giving a silent benediction for the dead. “You died a traitor, but now your crimes are tried in the heavenly courts. The matter of your sins is the Everwatcher’s now but even if it wasn’t you’re still mortal, sinning. It’s our duty as Celates to ensure such are forgiven in death and their families seen to. Worry not the remaining Daendroque will continue and in the hands of us Nobles. We can guide this empire to proper glory for Daendroque and all who live under its Emperor.”
