House Kappel of Witnesses
Across the ember-stained hills, beneath a sky bruised with fading light, stood the Manor of House Kappel.
Once a beacon of dignity and vision, now weathered by time and whispering secrets through its scorched stone walls. The estate—part Mansion, part battlefield—loomed with the weight of a history etched in blood, art, and quiet wars. Its halls were decorated with trophies not merely of victory, but of ideology.
This was no ordinary seat of power. This was the home of the Witnesses—those touched by the Ember Veil, granted with the rare gift of Sight.
Founded centuries ago by Lady Quinlan Kappel, a known Blue Visionary, the House emerged thirty years after the cataclysmic Regal Envision—the event that changed the fate of mankind. It was then the Authors first descended from their cryptic realms, bestowing upon humanity the gift to see beyond... to dream, and from dreams, to manifest.
But inside that storied manor, beneath chandeliers forged of crystallized thought and walls engraved with medals from the Grand Cathedral, unrest brewed like a storm behind velvet-draped doors.
"You are missing the point, Witness Charlie!" The voice cut through the chamber, sharp and frantic.
"This is truly the prefect time to strike, With the Lord of the House far beyond our reach?"
Another barked back with venom.
"Witness Lane, have your senses gone awry?" He slammed a hand to the table, shaking relics of old wars.
"We speak of a House full of Visionaries! Their numbers may be few, but what chance do we, mere Witnesses, have against power we barely comprehend?"
Lane's eyes burned with contempt.
"Careful with your words, Charlie. You speak of Witnesses of House Kappel—the same who've kept this House from crumbling, the same who brought you into this world!"
Their voices clashed—rage wrapped in fear—as if they believed volume alone could balance the power.
Outside their quarrel, I Leith Kappel First Son of our Lord, remained silent. Merely watching.
A thought slithered into my mind, naïve perhaps, but loud enough to make my chest ache: Even I, an Artiste nearing the spectrum of Yellow, am leagues below the reach of their power.
Yes, the Lord of House Kholer may be absent. Strategically, we held an advantage. But power—true power—cannot be measured in numbers. It dances in Spectra, not statistics.
And just as the debate reached its boiling point—
A voice shattered the room.
"ENOUGH CHILD."
as if a thundering of Thor shot the center of the squabble, rolling through the edges of the manor and the drapes of its curtain even the air dare not speak, how words demanded silence in the gritting mouth of these plebians
There he Stood—Lord Stein Kappel.
Ninety-three years of age, yet his presence eclipsed time. Draped in ancestral robes, eyes sharpened by generations of Sight, he commanded the air itself. His voice, carved in stone and seasoned by battle,
it was law.
"We are not like the heretics, nor barbarians, we are not the beggars for power stabbing behind with trembling hands...
His gaze swept the chamber like a knife on our throats
We meet our foes with our names spoken, our lineage bared, and our honor intact."
And then—his voice sharpened.
"Or have you all drowned in arrogance, believing your Purple Spectrum makes you gods?"
In that moment, none questioned him. For in House Kappel, the word of Lord Stein was not a warning. It was commandment. And when he spoke, the very walls listened.
But behind those bowed heads and solemn eyes, some of these dogs not yielded.
Some Witnesses, fevered by ambition and illusion, still dared move in secret—shackled to shadows, forging their own myths in blood and ink.
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Orchried St. Front of House Kholer
The Bloodboon Moon wept. High above, swollen and crimson, it hung like a wounded god bleeding across the heavens—mourning a truth yet spoken, a lesson not yet learned. The night was too still. Even the wind dared not move.
Across the blackened cobblestone, in the shadow of the revered House Kholer, a maelstrom of fools gathered—hoods drawn, talismans clutched, pride thick as smoke in their throats.
"How many?" "Thirty Witnesses. Including yourself, Sire."
A nod.
That was enough.
"Lord Stein is too old," the voice growled, bitter with ambition. "Too blind. Visionary or not, wisdom without power is nothing but rust. And numbers, ah... numbers still command the table."
He raised a hand—calloused, trembling with lust for legacy.
"Prepare your manifests. Draw your tarots. Bring forth the image of blood and ink. Tonight, we cleanse the name of House Kholer. Tonight... I become its Lord—"
"PLAYING HOUSE I SEE"
The words were not shouted. They need not be
They were spoken—low, cold, and final—like the click of a coffin sealing shut in an instant,
A voice like razors scraping glass, familiar not by memory but by fear, sliced through the gathering like a scythe. Bones stiffened. Hearts faltered. Mouths dried in mid-imagination
They knew that voice.
Not for who it was, but for what it had done.
And in that terrible, frozen instant—before a single muscle could flinch, before a breath could be dared—their end began.
Not a single Manifest was conjured. No glyphs. No flash of desperate magic.
It happened.
The world folded. Gravity turned traitor. Flesh betrayed its form. One.
by.
one.
they collapsed—not downward, but inward—as if the very laws of nature rejected them. Not torn. Not burned. Not even dismembered.
Unwritten.
Erased with the precision of an Author's quill. No scream. No plea.
All that remained were pools of blood, wide and deliberate, soaking the cold stone like signatures in book from its author
A message.
An omen.
A promise.
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HOUSE KAPPEL
The Manor Door Screeched open, with sound Rumbled through every stone paved wall, through every ornamentation of every room of every wing, of ever floor,
it was not silent but thundering, it was not discreet but like an opening of a Circus Parade as every chandelier and every glass pane danced the song of death
every Children of House Kappel wake in terror not from sound of the banging door but from the stench of iron, and blood of their kin, many were unnerved most are the elders, and acted upon instinct precise and concise no query nor question
But only One was expecting, one knowing, of the Omen that would soon befall,
There across the Manor Hall, waiting before the horror
The Lord of House Kappel, LORD STEIN,
"I see you have come, despite it being the squabble of ignorant kids,"
Silence*
you have come, despite the truth?"
Then He spoke.
Of all people, Stein you should know that in this world, "truth and lies don't differ, it is an illusion made by the many, to fool the wary, the accepted lie turned to reality."
or has your aged sight blurred your vision?
Their exchange draw the Children, on every direction, making him look cornered in box of Lions, waiting to be gnawed, a rat in cradle of cats
there he whispered loud
"Lord of the House Kappel, Dignify your Crest, Fight with Honour"
A LAW WAS ORDAINED
NON SHALL INTERVENE, THE SQUABBLE OF CHILDREN WILL BE SETTLED BY KINGS.
"I Lord Stein Kappel, First of the Lesser, will fight with Honor, Come Nicaisse Kohler, the fourth of House Kholer"