#nerissa.txt

It has been said and told, told and said, that this world did not always look the way it does now; that there have been Resets; times three.

Before the Second Great Fall, when creatures of monstrous and great Stature rode alongside humans and their fire-breathing, war-bred stallions, stood the noble realm of Ellan-dur. It is more likely than it is not, that you all have heard of some variation or another of that name; Ellander, Ellandor or so on and so forth. It is of no matter, no real consequence, which name you use, exactly because your mind will reject the reasoning that it all refers to the exact same place.

And yet, your hearts will already-and always-know.

There is nothing to be gained by this tale, nothing at all by this knowledge. But Souls circle, in Dance Eternal in the grander realms of matter, particles and laws of Physics. Have you never wondered why some people seem to get these absurdly difficult math types, seem to have an inherent wisdom about what does and what does not consitute the Bounds of Reason?

These people are the products of their Age; the products of their World, where a Reset seems as insane of a notion as the existence of Magicks and Hexes and Jinxes.

If however, the Magick calls to you instead of Reason, then chances are, you once belonged to the learned and wise dwellers of Ellan-dur. The Fires Eternal, the Blood and Wine of the Birth, it all resonates, clearer and stronger than any math form, diagram or type.

But Reason is no Enemy of Magick, no enemy of the Ellan-durian, for they know one cannot exist without the other.

Long gone are the Days when the Hallowed Blood flowed through the Noble Sovereign of Ellan-dur and its loss led to its downfall, and eventual erasure of all modern memory; no traces left of the spiralling minarets reaching for the heavens, covered in diamond-studded moss; no traces of the Lemuriarn artistry of their jewels left to witness, of beauty so radiant lesser men had lost all sense at their sight. That is a tale for another time.

For Ellan-dur is no more; the Thyme-Burners to the Mother no loger burn; the shadow of its last monarch locked itself in the body of a bird of prey, unnable to sing of the loss, but only cry for wrath.

So, dear reader, should alive eyes be looking at this scroll, look for a Dragon; do not be discouraged at the lack of scales or cat-slinted eyes; make them Think. Then and only then, ask for directions to the Ruins.

AFTER YEARS OF TORTURE I CAN FINALLY SIT DOWN AND WRITE MY STUPID FANDOM OPINIONS ON A WORKING PIECE OF TECHNOLOGY (in all honesty, they all end up reading like minor treatises on ethics or loosely medieval inspired morality plays but whatever).

It's very funny how i introduced people to this hellsite but then I literally fucked off for more than a year AT THAT. Been through a lot of shit but I guess I am back? Y'all may come to regret it but here i am now lol

p.s. i have been through a Witcher hyperfixation since the end of February along with other minor fandoms like the one of my poor vampire Constantia and her idiot of a son that I have been torturing for entertainment since 2022 but oh well. I have written essays on Blood and Wine and Hearts of Stone DLCS AND BY MELITELE'S TITS THAT'LL BE EVERYONE'S PROBLEM.