The Wild

Date Unknown — Time bends strangely in the Wilderness.

There is something fundamentally wrong with this place.

Not merely dangerous—wrong. The air tastes of iron and memory. The stars no longer align with the constellations I once named as a child of the elven woods. Even Seren’s light, which I have always felt as a gentle thread upon my skin, has thinned to a whisper. She is here, faintly, but only at the edges of perception. I think she mourns this land.

I write this now beside a flickering fire in the ruins of a stone tower—one of the old watchposts from the Third Age, Wolfthora says. Whatever purpose it once served has long been swallowed by the Wild. Yet here we are, huddled like fugitives in a place no sane being calls home, drinking bitter tea boiled in a dented helm and trying not to dream.

It began in Edgeville.

That town has always worn its name like a prophecy—perched between the living and the lawless. I had passed through before, but this time was different. The air smelled wrong. The wind carried more than frost. And then came Wolfthora.

Her presence always unsettles something in me. She’s flame and I’m frost, and yet… we never burn. We clash, we circle, we anchor each other when the world turns upside down. When she said revenants were gathering—organizing—I knew she wasn’t being dramatic. She never is when it matters.

The encounter at the watchtower—our first glimpse of the entity—still echoes through my mind. A figure cloaked in silence and shadow, commanding the dead like a conductor over a choir of broken bones. It opened a gate. A gate. Not to any known plane, but to something else. Something that shrieked when we shattered the circle.

It didn’t die.

It retreated.

I can still feel where its presence scraped across my senses like shattered crystal. It was not of Zaros, nor Zamorak, nor any god I’ve studied or stood before. It was older. Or perhaps simply other.

And the sigils we found further north, scrawled in blood and ash? My fingers trembled when I sketched one in this journal. Not because I was afraid—though perhaps I should have been—but because it fought the memory. Like it didn’t want to be remembered.

The deeper we traveled past Edgeville, the more I felt like prey.

At the Scour ruins, the stars stopped speaking altogether.

The altar beneath the fortress—that cold, cracked shrine to a forgotten power—brought something forth. Not just revenants this time, but shadows made of memory and noise. The walls screamed. The walls. I still hear it when I blink too long.

We fought, as we always do. Wolfthora is a fury in motion—blood and blade, a storm given form. I anchored her chaos with elven precision, each arrow carrying the resonance of ancient harmony. But even harmony cannot drown a choir of madness forever.

We burned the altar.

It screamed, too.

And still… it did not die. It waits. It learns. It listens.

We returned to Edgeville with more questions than answers. The town has not changed—but I have. We have. Even Wolfthora, who scoffs at faith and prophecy, admitted something is rising out there. Something that watches us back. Not gods. Not even ghosts.

Something else.

A third voice in the ancient choir. Forgotten, buried, and now stirring once more.

I asked myself why I followed her north—Wolfthora, with her half-mad instincts and reckless faith in blades. I suppose I feared what she would find alone. Or what would find her. But the truth is harsher than that.

I needed to see it for myself.

Because I think the Wild is waking.

And it remembers us.

— Nyssarra of the Crystal Glades, student of Seren, watcher beneath the wrong stars

After the descent beneath the Wizard Tower

Location: The coast, looking toward the sea

They called it a foundation.

A place where the great Orders of magic once stood together—Red, Blue, Green, Grey. Balance woven into structure, harmony held in spell and stone. But what we found beneath the Wizard Tower… it was not harmony. It was fracture hidden beneath tradition, truth sealed beneath fear.

And now I can’t stop hearing the echoes.

Some were voices—recordings etched in forgotten glyphs, the warnings of mages who feared where power might lead. Others were older: grief soaked into the stone itself, magic laced with memory, truths that resisted being buried. The Grey Order was real. Neutral, curious, ancient. Not bound by god or dogma—but that was what made them dangerous to those who wished to rewrite the world with certainties.

Thalyria was quiet when she found the seal bearing their sigil. She ran her fingers over it like a forgotten hymn. I could tell it shook her faith, even if she said nothing. Jahn, too. He kept a brave face, but I saw the way he lingered in the shadow of that broken altar—how his hands twitched, not toward his sword, but toward answers. And Wolfthora… she did not mock. Not here. Even she felt it, I think—the weight of history buried beneath doctrine, beneath rubble and silence.

I wonder what Seren would say.

She has always asked us to feel before we name. To listen to the shape of light before binding it with law. What would she say, seeing what the Blue Order had done? Hiding the truth. Fracturing their alliance. Condemning knowledge to darkness because it didn’t fit the new world. Would she forgive them?

Would I?

I don’t know.

There was a moment, deep in the archives, when the ward shattered and that lingering spirit lashed out—not with malice, but with desperation. It didn’t want to hurt us. It wanted to be remembered. I sang to it. Not a spell. Not a command. A memory. One of Seren’s lullabies, laced with the Light. And it calmed. Not because I was powerful, but because I saw it.

That’s what this all comes back to, doesn’t it?

Seeing.

Not with the eyes. Not just with magic. With heart. With intention. With willingness to hold truths that might fracture the world we thought we knew.

I think that’s why I trust them—Jahn, Thalyria, even Wolfthora. Not because they believe what I believe. But because they are still willing. Willing to ask, to feel, to change. And that is more than I can say for many who preach Light.

The sea is calm tonight. I sit where the cliff meets the wind, listening to gulls circle and waves lap stone. I can still feel the hum of that chamber beneath the Tower, like something ancient breathed through me and left its mark. Maybe it did. Maybe I am marked now—not by power, but by remembrance.

We’ve agreed to keep going. The map we uncovered—inked with ancient runes, pointing east—might lead to the next shard of the truth. We do not chase relics. We chase understanding.

And still, I pray. Not for answers. But for clarity. For strength to walk with eyes open. For compassion to stand between orders, between beliefs, between the wounded and the world that hurt them.

There is so much still buried.

But I carry light.

And Light remembers.

—Nyssarra

Edge of the Scorched Canyon

 Date: Unknown—Desert stars do not mark time as the trees do

Location: Al Kharid, edge of the Scorched Canyon

The desert hums in a way the forests never could. It is not a melody of birdsong or rustling leaves, but a long-held breath between storms—sand shifting, sun watching, silence echoing louder than any cry. And yet, even here, I feel Seren’s pulse, distant though it may be.

Today, I faced a spirit consumed by fire and sorrow.

I do not know what name it once bore, only that it was human once—young, broken, afraid. Whatever it had become, it was not born of evil. It was forged in pain. Flame wrapped around its form not to destroy, but to defend. A wounded creature lashes out when cornered... even when it no longer remembers what hurt it in the first place.

I didn’t draw blood. I drew breath. I moved with purpose, not wrath. And in that moment, when I saw its face—his face—I understood. There is so much rage in the world now, so much pain cloaked in prophecy or vengeance or divine silence. But this was not a foe to vanquish. He was a voice lost in the wind, screaming to be heard.

My arrows did not silence him. My song did.

That scares me more than I expected.

Not because it was dangerous—though it was. But because I could feel the moment he saw me. Not as a threat. Not as a savior. Just... as someone who saw him. And I wonder: how many others are walking the world now, burning from within because no one ever stopped to look past the fire?

I don’t know what he was. Some say a cursed genie, others a splinter of a dying god. I only know that he was real, and that the land weeps for him.

And yet... there was no word from Seren. No dream, no song. Only the faintest warmth after the spirit passed on, like a sigh brushing my skin. I don’t know if that was her... or if it was simply the world, relieved that someone had finally listened.

A Saradominist monk found me at dawn. Quiet, kind, curious. He offered water and asked my name. I gave it freely. There was no reason not to. He reminded me a little of Jahn, though gentler in bearing. Perhaps that’s what Saradomin’s desert looks like—humble, soft-spoken faith. Stillness rather than certainty.

I told him I was “just a voice.” I don’t know if I still believe that. Voices pass, fade, vanish into the wind. But I carry something more than words, don’t I? Something older. Something luminous. Even if I’m still learning what it means.

Tonight, I rest. The rooftop beneath me is still warm from the sun, and the breeze carries the scent of cumin and cooling metal. The city churns, unaware of what passed beyond its walls. But I hear it. I feel it. The veil is thinning. Whatever wounded the land out there... it runs deeper than one spirit.

Tomorrow, I follow it.

I do not carry justice like the paladins. I do not carry fire like Wolfthora. I carry memory. Grace. A light that does not command, but waits to be welcomed.

Seren, if you are listening—and I believe you are—walk beside me in silence if you must. I will keep going, even without your voice in my dreams.

I will not let the wounded go unseen. Not in the forest. Not in the canyon. Not in myself.

—Nyssarra

Virtues of Seren

Virtues of Seren

As Reflected by Nyssarra, Child of Taranwen, Walker of the Wild Paths

I have often wondered what it truly means to follow a goddess whose voice sounds like music through crystal and whose will is written not in commandments, but in connection. Seren speaks not as one who commands from above, but as one who lives within—the breath in stone, the warmth in starlight, the ache we feel when harmony breaks.

These are the virtues I have come to know not only by her teaching, but by living—by stumbling, enduring, listening. They are not laws. They are companions. They walk with me.

Integrity — The Root Beneath All Things

 To maintain one's courage, one's principles, despite all opposition and influence. This is a foundation stronger than any stone.

Integrity is the virtue that has most often cost me blood. It is also the one that has brought me closest to myself.

To live with integrity is not to be inflexible, but to be centered. There is a world of difference between stubbornness and truthfulness. I have stood with those I did not agree with, simply because turning away would have dishonored something deeper than doctrine: my promise to listen, to protect, to walk with open eyes.

Seren does not demand perfection. She asks only that we remain true—to ourselves, to what we know to be just, even when others would twist that knowing into something more convenient.

Integrity is not loud. It does not scream righteousness. It holds fast in silence, in small choices, in the refusal to betray one’s soul for momentary comfort.

Harmony — The Thread Between All Things

This is the virtue that binds all others together. We are all bound by the Anima Mundi, the energy that flows between all creation. From the greatest gods to the smallest insects, all are linked together. Worlds are the heart in which the Anima rests. When we are in harmony with the world around us, we strengthen the Anima and we strengthen ourselves and each other.

There are times when I’ve felt alone in the world—cut adrift by loss, by difference, by the endless tides of war and ideology. But Harmony reminds me that solitude is not separation. The world breathes with me, around me, through me.

Harmony is not about pleasing everyone. It is about remembering we are not apart. Even the ones we fight, we are bound to. Even the ones we lose, we are never truly without. The Anima Mundi—this sacred flow Seren speaks of—it is not only the source of life, but the reminder that no life is meaningless.

In Harmony, I have learned to speak to beasts, to hear the pulse of the earth beneath my steps, to understand even my enemies. Not to excuse them—but to remember they, too, are woven into the world’s great design.

Prudence — The Watchful Hand

This is the virtue that protects the others. Too often life presents us with a curse disguised as a gift. Be cautious and be prepared for all things: there are snakes in the grass, be watchful of their movement.

I have been offered many things. Power. Allies. Easy answers. I have also seen what such gifts have done to others.

Prudence does not ask us to distrust the world. It asks us to see it clearly. There are snakes in the grass, yes—but sometimes they are the kind that whisper flattery instead of hissing threats. Seren’s light is not blinding. It is discerning. It helps us see, and through seeing, choose with care.

There is no shame in hesitating. No shame in saying, “I am not yet sure.” Those who rush forward often fall hardest. Prudence walks beside me like a quiet guardian—reminding me that timing, truth, and caution are all threads of the same weave.

Wisdom — The Flame Within the Mind

This is the virtue that allows all other virtues to work. It is not enough to know or have something, but to be aware of how and when to use it. Gold is worthless if simply hoarded. It is only when it is spent that it can enact change. Be mindful of the changes you would make to the world and know how to make them happen.

I have read books older than kingdoms. I have walked in ancient groves, heard the songs of trees that no longer grow, spoken with spirits who no longer take form. None of that made me wise—not on its own.

Wisdom is not accumulation. It is application. The ability to know when silence is a weapon, or when a word might save a life. The ability to hold power and not let it poison. The humility to say, “I don’t know,” and the strength to find out anyway.

Seren’s teaching on Wisdom is not about being clever—it is about being present. About understanding the ripples our actions create. About knowing when to act, and why.

Gold hoarded is nothing. Power unused is rot. But when offered with care, these things change lives. Wisdom gives shape to all the other virtues. Without it, even good intent can lead us astray.

Closing Words

These are not ideals I claim to have mastered. I fail them often. But they are the compass by which I walk.

I carry these thoughts with me—etched in the pages of my journal, whispered in meditation beneath open skies, reflected upon after bloodshed or reunion. Sometimes I share them with others. Sometimes I keep them close.

But always, they are mine—not because they were given to me, but because I chose to make them so.

—Nyssarra

Nightfall

 Nightfall, under silverleaf branches — southern border of Asgarnia

JD Stirling carries his faith like a sword.
Straight-backed. Measured. Always with purpose.

I used to believe Saradominists were too rigid to listen, too convinced their light was the only one worth following. But JD… he listens. He speaks like someone who’s fought for every word in his creed. And he looks at the world—not to judge it, but to understand where justice might take root.

I respect him. Deeply. More than I expected to.

I’ve watched him tend wounds that weren’t his. I’ve seen him walk into danger without fanfare. There’s something steady about him, something that calms the wild within me. And yet... that same steadiness is why I keep a step behind him, or ahead. Never quite beside.

Because I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me.

Does he see a contradiction?
A half-elf raised in crystal light, walking paths softened by Seren’s breath but sharpened by necessity?
Or does he see someone he could grow beside?

I think I want him to. And that terrifies me.

There’s a kindness in him. But also a rigidity. A paladin’s weight. I wonder if he could ever understand that I follow a goddess who speaks in silence and stillness, who believes truth grows wild and uneven.

And still… I want to know him.
I want to ask him how many times he’s questioned his god in the dark.
I want to teach him how to listen to trees, how to read wind from wings, how to let go of absolutes without falling apart.

I want to hear his thoughts when he’s not trying to be good. I want to see if he would still choose that path anyway.

There’s a part of me—faint, but present—that wonders if this could be love. Not the wild, crackling kind I feel near Wolfthora, that chaos-lightning in my chest whenever she grins like she knows my secrets. That’s fire and smoke and the risk of ruin.

What I feel for JD is different. Softer.
Like a song I haven’t learned the words to yet.
One I’m afraid to hum aloud.

And maybe that’s why I keep my distance. Not because I don’t feel something… but because I feel too much. And I don’t know what it would mean to reach for him, or what I would do if he reached back.

For now, I will walk the edge of his light, where shadow meets understanding.
And I will let the wind decide which way the story bends.

—Nyssarra

Nyss...

Twilight, just beyond the campfire’s glow – Wilderness fringe

It was just the two of us.

No scouts, no merchants, no curious followers of Seren or Saradomin trailing behind. Only the hush of the wild around us—brambles whispering in the wind, stars blinking into the bruised sky, and the distant, pulsing heartbeat of the Wilderness.

I was tending to my arrows, tuning their balance with careful touches. Wolfthora lounged nearby on a slab of broken stone, one boot kicked off, fingers laced behind her head like the sky was hers to cradle.

She doesn’t sit like someone on guard. She sprawls. Like a flame that doesn’t care what it catches.

And then, in the middle of something ridiculous—something about a Zamorakian she’d decked for eating the last bit of smoked hare—she said it.

“Right, Nyss, you’d have shot him in the leg just to make a point.”

It was so quick, like a flick of flint. Nyss.

Not Nyssarra. Not “you.”
Just Nyss.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

My hand stilled on the arrow shaft I’d been adjusting. I didn’t even look up. Just let the sound sink in, like cold river water slipping under armor.

No one has called me that since... before. Since Tirannwn. Since before I learned what my name needed to mean in two tongues.

“Nyss” wasn’t a title. It wasn’t even a nickname. It was... bare. Easy. And in her mouth, it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded familiar. A moment of knowing.

She didn’t look at me after she said it. Just kept talking, staring up at the sky like nothing had shifted. But something had. I felt it in my bones. In the way the firelight didn’t quite reach the silence between us.

I don’t know if she’ll say it again.
I don’t know if I want her to stop.

—Nyssarra

no

- Nyss

Moonlit Mercy

 Tonight, moonless shadows cloaked the ruin near Varrock's edge. My quarry: Griznak's goblin tribe. 

They scavenged discarded cargo, unaware of my presence. Griznak wielded a cruel hook sword; his followers brandished crude spears and rocks. My bowstring tightened, targeting Griznak's heart...

But then I saw her – a young goblin girl, hiding behind crates, eyes locked on mine. Fear and curiosity warred in her gaze. 

My arrow hesitated. Mercy whispered in Seren's voice: "Spare the father, save the child."

I chose restraint. Griznak fled with his tribe, warned never to return. The girl... lingered. 

She accepted a piece of dried meat from my pouch. Our eyes met again – a spark of trust?

Did I forge an unlikely ally or merely delay vengeance?

— Nyssarra