The Last Free Voice in Sal'thorin

Where there's a rumor mill, there's a miller | A True Agent of the Fourth Estate

[concerned-essail]

The Last Free Voice in Sal'thorin

[One morning, across the doorsteps of Sal’thorin, a mysterious leaflet appears. Slipped beneath shutters, wedged in market stalls, left fluttering on tavern tables—no seal, no scribe’s mark. Only cheap ink and sharper words than the city is used to.]

I write not for coin, nor for the flattery of the High Seat, nor to curry favor with those who sip their dew and call it truth. I write for you. For the mothers left with empty chairs at their tables, for the guards who return home with brands burned deeper than any wound. Do not mistake me for those cowards at the Society Insider. Their pages drip with praise for the powers that bind us, their petty dramas inked to distract, their quills bent in service to fear. I am no such sycophant. Call me traitor, whisper my name to the guards, burn these words if you like. Still, inked truth spreads faster than any guard can catch.

Speak Out!

If you have been wronged, silenced, or cast aside—send word.

Your stories deserve ink.

Your voices deserve to be heard.

[essailguard-tirion]

༄

[concerned-essail]

Tirion’s question scrapes against the oppression of Sal’thorin gloam. A guard’s blade drawn across stone. The dark does not seem to be so much as wounded, if it even trembles.

But something flits by on the wind that churns around the city. It’s a few feet away, fleeting farther as the stale breeze carries it towards the balcony overlooking the lower level.

From the direction it came in hides a small Essail boy, huddling behind one of the many walls in this district.

The boy seems to shrink when Tirion’s gaze passes over his hiding spot. He takes a step back, watching to see if Tirion moves—and bolts anyway when the nerves get to be too much.

[highpriest-zamel]

To Catch a Journalist…

High Priest Zamel strides through Sal'thorin. His staff clinks on the cobblestones. Its sound is sharper today. Faster. Like a sword seeking blood. Behind him, her gaze holding the cold of every winter the Essail have never seen, is his apprentice, @essailpriestess-morana. She hurries to keep up with her master, yet still appears as placid as a frozen lake.

The Terror and his shadow stop at an unassuming door near the markets. If one wasn't looking for it, they might miss the seam and hinges entirely. Elegant wisteria drapes over it in just the right way to make most Essail pass by, but Zamel is certainly not most Essail.

Zamel does not knock. Instead, he raises his staff, casts a spell.

The door slams open.

"Show yourself, sinful one!"

There is no reply.

Zamel motions to Morana to follow him inside. Light pours in from the door they leave ajar. It illuminates the space, full to the brim of...nothing. Nothing but dust and single letter left on the table: addressed to Zamel himself and signed with an insignia he's come to know and loathe. @concerned-essail.

It's snatched into his hands in an instant. He scans it. The lines on his face deepen, rivaling the caves of Sal'thorin itself. After a moment, he holds it out for Morana to take and view herself. With a clenched jaw, he grits out the words: "They've been warned."

[concerned-essail]

You will find no culprit here, no press to smash, no body to stigmatize and parade.

I was warned. Such tidings have a way of circulating when truth becomes inconvenient.

You call my words sinful. Then answer them.

You call me a liar. Then disprove me.

If the expedition was righteous, its wards sufficient, its purpose pure — you have nothing to fear from ink.

If not, you will hear from it again. And again. And again.

Ask yourselves: Why does paper draw more force from you than corruption ever did?

You may seize letters. You may frighten scribes.

You cannot unwrite what the city already knows.

The walls are listening.

[concerned-essail]

SOCIETY INSIDER

-Issue No. 518-

[Duke's Son Caught in Women's Clothing at Ball!] At a recent high-society ball, a mysterious veiled lady in a stunning gown captivated all eyes. But when the event ended, some sharp-eyed servants discovered a pair of men's trousers in the women's changing room. Upon investigation, the "lady" was revealed to be Viscount Erikk, Duke Wald's eldest son! His motive for infiltrating the ball dressed as a woman remains unknown, sparking wild speculation. Was he trying to pursue a noblewoman, or is there a deeper plot at play?

Get all the lowdown on the nobles in High Society Insider! Next Issue Preview: [The Secret Underground Club of Noble Youths]

[This is the News? Society Insider distracts]

A Viscount’s fashion choice is splashed across Issue No. 518 as though it matters more than the dead we are told to forget. “Wild speculation,” they say — anything to keep the public busy chasing skirts and secrets while the truth rots in the dark. the Society Insider asks you to gawk at a noble lad in a dress. Who benefits from this spectacle? Who profits when the people laugh instead of question? Let the nobles wear velvet or steel or lace — it changes nothing. The corruption remains the same. While they point their quills at a ball, we will keep ours pointed at the ones who sent our kin to die.

[highpriest-zamel]

Glory to the Queen, Master Zamel.

I’m certain that you knew of these anonymous writers and the papers they write lately.

However, there has been a recent wave of them, and…

The young priestess’s hold on her staff tightens for a brief second.

… Is there… a task you may have for me?

- ❄️ ( @essailpriestess-morana )

"Glory to the Queen, Morana."

Zamel briefly looks up to greet the young priestess: his apprentice. Yet again, he feels inadequate to be teaching her exactly how to approach something like this...it's far easier to work alone. But Velara chose him to help train the next generation, and if it helps lead to a purer society, he'll do his best with the Queen's guidance...

"I've seen the papers. If this writer wasn't so direct in their critique of us who are wielding justice, I would tell you to ignore them. The sooner you can learn to ignore the whispers around you, the better you can hear the Queen's guidance leading you to purity.

"...this time is unique though. I'm working to trace the magic remnants in this copy, courtesy of Layla. But maybe this would be good practice for you." The Terror gestures for Morana to come to his desk, where the infamous pamphlet about him is lying there.

"Come. Listen to the faint magic in this. What is it saying to you?"

[essailpriestess-morana]

[society-insider]

(Upon further inspection, Morana notices a familiar hue in the magic — the dull violet that always follows sanctioned deceit. It’s nearly identical to the one leaked from the Priesthood before the Society Insider’s first publication… though the teleportation aspect remains generic, diluted by the common symmetry of Essail magic.)

[concerned-essail]

#ooc

The new tag (#breadcrumbs) associated with the Society Insider post will be used to help indicate hints/clues/provide engagement for the various OCs searching for the writer or writers behind the voice!

[concerned-essail]

[Captain Indris: Hope or Hollow Promise?]

From the dust of the commoner district to the helm of the Guard — such is the rise of Captain Indris. Many call his ascent a beacon: proof that blood from the alleys can stand among the marble pillars. To some, he is a gentler hand, a man who remembers hunger and hardship, a rare officer who does not sneer at the lowborn. But let us not mistake kindness for change. The badge he wears still binds him to the same masters, his sword still raised at their command. And so the people’s hope curdles into frustration. He is cheered for being one of us, and cursed for being the one who knocks at our doors when orders are given. Captain Indris — do not forget your origins. You know the ache of an empty bowl, the sting of being dismissed, the fear of a guard’s tread in the night. You have climbed further than most dream, but you remain one of us still. We need a shield and sword both. You have the power to be more than a servant of the throne. Remember where you came from — and show us that the Guard can change.

[concerned-essail]

[The Hand Behind the Terror?]

The High Priestess claimed the guards were prepared, that the wards would hold. Yet what held them? Flimsy protections that split like rotten bark, leaving too many dead and too few returned. And now the question burns across Sal’thorin: whose spell was it? Some whisper it must have been Zamel, the Terror of Sal’thorin. None doubt his skill in punishment — his record of forty Stigmas in a single day is still muttered in fear. They say his weaving burns deeper than the skin and into the soul. But protection? That has never been his craft. Others insist it was Velara herself, the High Priestess who gave the command. Did she overreach, insisting on protections not yet ready? Or was her mercy too thin, stretched over a spell that demanded more than even she could give? Still some name other high priests. Round and round the whispers go, yet no one steps forward to claim the weaving. The dead are buried, the branded live in shame, and the priests stand silent on their dais. But while they hide, the people are left with only questions. And when questions are left unanswered, they grow teeth. What we do know is this: Zamel does not suffer scrutiny. “If the Terror looks on you, he will surely find sin!” say even the nobles. It is his way — to see fault, to condemn, and to call it justice. Now, he turns that same gaze upon us. Upon these very pages. Perhaps he believes fear will root out truth. But the truth, once spoken, has a life of its own. And no terror lasts forever.

[concerned-essail]

#ooc

[Next few publications are being pushed back to give some breathing room, and to reevaluate how the mun can give hints and clues...]

[concerned-essail]

[A New Face of the Nobility! Mysterious upstart appears among the halls]

A new noble has appeared, draped in finery unfamiliar to any house we know. His face is strange, his lineage unspoken, and yet he carries himself with the air of entitlement that only the upper halls seem to breed. But where others gawk, some of the more astute move. The eyes and ears of the people are always watching. Through them, we learn what the silks would hide. Whispers follow this stranger: that he searches for a ruby-haired princess. Yet among the Essail, no such hair is found — our kin wear the muted shades of stone and soil. So if this flame-tressed royal is real, then she is no child of Sal’thorin. The question is not if he finds her… but what price we all will pay when he does.

Editor’s Note:

I have been pressed to retract a line from the earlier publication. It is not my place to cast shadows without cause. The people’s trust in is long and well earned, and even I can accept that my doubts were miscast.

(For transparency: the previous version of this publication never made it to proper circulation. It sparked enough ire early on to gather demand for a retraction before it reached wider hands.)

[concerned-essail]

[The youngest high priest absent during the crisis]

When the High Priestess sent her doomed guard above in search of “missing papers,” every altar shook with the weight of her paranoia. Yet one name was strangely absent from that grim affair: Feli, the youngest of the high priests. No witness claims to have seen him in the halls during the summons. No guard recalls his voice among the chorus of approval. While the others stood stiff and silent, Feli was… nowhere. Some will laugh and say it was fear — that the timid priest, small in stature and often spoken to as though he were a child, simply hid himself away. Perhaps so. Yet one might also ask: was it cowardice, or clarity? Did the smallest voice know better than to lend blessing to madness? Whatever the truth, it seems the High Priestess’s house does not stand as united as she would have us believe.

[concerned-essail]

All Sal’thorin now knows the name Dark Nightingale — a voice that could stir even the very stone we tread on. Yet in her debut, when she took the stage to sing of Prince Ravion and Captain Indris, her performance was stopped cold. Guards stepped in, her verses smothered before the last rhyme left her tongue.

Censorship, they call it politely. Silencing, I call it plain.

A fragment of her draft found its way to me — scratched, unfinished, but sharp enough to sting. It begins:

“Two pillars stand, one crowned, one sworn, A chain between them, gilded and worn—”

What would have followed, we may never know. Perhaps that is why the stage was seized so quickly.

If a poet cannot speak of our lords, then what lords are they? And if a Nightingale’s song can frighten them so, then perhaps the truth in her tune was nearer than we think...

[concerned-essail]

A Concerned Notice #ooc

[This publication is set roughly during the events of EoD, in order to stay in step with the timelines unfolding across other RP blogs.

That said, readers may from time to time find notices, rumors, or publications concerning events beyond the main story. Consider these as diversions for entertainment and amusement.]

[concerned-essail]

#ooc

[Apologies, loyal readers--the mun let the Essail writer get a little over zealous. The most recent leaflet has been retracted until further notice!]

[concerned-essail]

Have you heard there are half bloods in the guards?! That’s right—Essail whose blood is mixed with Toplanders! What is Lord Ravion thinking? Will these halflings corrupt us all?

Half-bloods in the Guard? I have heard the whispers, yes. Some call it corruption, others call it change.

If true, then Lord Ravion’s hand is bolder than any of us guessed. To let Essail mix their blood with Toplanders — and then put blades in their hands — it could mean two things: A dangerous gamble that invites weakness into our ranks…or the first crack in the walls that keep us divided.

But let us be plain: a different face in uniform does not shift the hand that holds the leash. Whether Essail, or half-blood, the Guard still marches to the will of the same masters.

Do not be fooled. A changing of the Guard is no changing of the order.

[concerned-essail]

[Paranoia gone too far? Guard families seek recompense!]

The High Priestess sent her guards above in search of “missing papers.” What returned? Ashes, corpses, and shame. The magic meant to shield them from surface corruption tore like wet cloth. Many never came back. Those who did—empty-handed—were stigmaed for their efforts. Families now demand answers. Was this truly about stolen secrets… or simply the fevered shadows of the Priestess’s mind? How many more must die to soothe her paranoia?

The High Priestess, in a fit of midnight paranoia, commanded her loyal guards to the surface, chasing rumors of “missing papers” said to have vanished from her vaults.

What met them above was no simple errand, but a death sentence wrapped in priestly orders. The protections woven around the chosen expedition—hastily prepared magic, thin as spider’s silk—barely held against the surface corruption. Dozens perished gasping, their bodies warped beyond burial rites. Those who staggered back without trophies in hand found no mercy waiting, only the sharp brand of a stigma.

Now, the families of the fallen dare to murmur what many already suspect: was this truly about “missing papers”… or about shadows in the Priestess’s own mind? Children weep for fathers, wives for husbands, brothers for sisters—all sacrificed for secrets no one will speak aloud.

Some demand recompense. Some whisper the word justice.

How many more must be offered before we ask who, exactly, the High Priestess is protecting?