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Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Nov 4 11:36:43 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia Darkonin ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject The Engagement
It was strange, the way life folded in on itself occasionally.
Ezrianne fixed her long, dark hair in the mirror in Sacnoth's master suite,
taking a moment away from frenzied duties in Storm Keep to dress for a
small, celebratory betrothal brunch with polite society. She inhaled as she
tried to shed the all-encompassing military responsibility just briefly, to
morph herself into the part of titled landowner of the flourishing province
of Sacnoth, in Verminasia, successful business owner, and orchard liquor
magnate: a woman of power and prestige. They were just more layers of
herself, among the many she had zealously created, positioning herself in
the right circles and the right rooms.
This marriage was, of course, meant to merge status, lands, fortunes, and
influence - and other things of that nature. It was to elevate both parties
into a higher and better reputation than they'd built alone, "a union of
convenience", as the aristocracy called it. A partnership that had
absolutely nothing to do with love or emotion or yearning tenderness.
Some times, she mused, these marriages didn't even consider "like". In
fact, it wasn't so uncommon for the brides bartered away to enter what would
end up being miserable alliances with husbands they couldn't stand to be in
the same room with - but gods knew plenty of love matches ended the very
same way.
She fixed an earring carefully, knowing she would have laughed once, in the
past, to think she'd give her hand away for something planned and cunning,
rather than loving; but she wasn't one to repeatedly bang her head against a
wall when attempts at something weren't working.
Besides, this one - her betrothed - wasn't what shed expected. Not even
close.
Despite the fact they came from two totally different worlds, racially, she
absolutely did find her intended was likable. He was surprisingly
fastidious with his personal hygiene, his cleverness made her laugh, and his
personality was big enough that she didn't even think about the fact he was
slightly shorter than she was. He was surprisingly thoughtful, too, in that
he obviously cared about what she had to say, made it clear he appreciated
her intelligence, and kept her on her toes by genuinely asking about her
preferences, ideas, and inclinations.
As if he wanted to make and keep her happy. All and all, he was a lot
kinder and selfless than anyone she'd ever dated before. One such prior
fool had called her "belligerent" when he realized he couldn't match her
power and ferocity, couldn't rise to her level, despite her attempts to
elevate him there.
Belligerent. As if ambition were a vice. As if power in a woman equated to
indecency. As if she should shrink herself to make someone else
comfortable.
Her current betrothed didn't flinch from her intensity. He didn't try to
temper her, didn't call her too much, or too aggressive, or too ambitious.
He listened. He asked. No one had ever done that before.
Only time would tell what this marriage of political alignment might bring,
but so far it promised more than anything she had ever stumbled into by
chance. Perhaps it could become a union that challenged her, satisfied her,
and even, in its own quiet, unassuming way, delighted her.
And if it did, she thought with a faint, wry smile, she might finally have
someone beside her to share the weight of the world - not to lessen it,
never that, but to meet it with her, shoulder to shoulder.
Writer: Skiiz
Date Tue Nov 4 13:57:01 2025
To All Darkonin Shadow ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject The Engagement : A Darkonin Stag Party
Skiiz had been bragging since the day the engagement was established,
never having been one to exercise humble discretion when he had something to be
proud of. This was definitely something to be proud of. Not only had Skiiz
found a way to cure the existential loneliness within his soul, but a way to
obtain something he'd never truly dared to pursue.
Sitting around the fires at the hearth deep within the mountain, Skiiz
chatted and joked with those who lived in the tunnels of Darkonin, sharing his
news. "Ya, youz shuld see her! Talk about legz, she'z got a tail that goez on
until tomorrow!" The ogres and bugbears laughed, the hobgoblins cackled, and
the goblins that had joined snickered.
"She gon' smush you!" a giant ogre laughed while pointing at the goblin
king. "Then she gonna eat him!" one of his bugbear compatriots joked. A pair of
goblins jumped around before the fire while chanting, "Skiiz Jelly Sammiches!"
repeatedly.
"Maybe I'z shuld eatz her firzt!" Skiiz happily exclaims, pointing at the
bugbear who made the claim. Most about the fire just seemed confused, not quite
grasping how one would go about eating a dragon. Perhaps a piece at a time? But
that could take months or maybe more. In a corner of the hearth, a pipe smoking
half-ogre gave a faint chuckle, clearly understanding the joke.
To end the somewhat awkward silence, Skiiz shouted out to one of the
skulking hobgoblins nearby, "We'z gonna haz to haz a stag party," pointing at
him in assignment. The capable goblinoid perked up and nodded, wall-eyed glance
looking out in both directions while its nose pointed toward his king. "Stag.
Party. Ya," and the hobgoblin quickly disappeared from the hearth down the
tunnels.
About an hour later, while Skiiz and the others were still gathered about
the hearth telling jokes or making fun, that skulking hobgoblin shows back up.
Off his shoulder he flings down a large highland buck, bleeding and broken,
before those gathered near the fire. The hobgoblin points and states, "Stag."
The energetic goblins who'd teased about 'Skiiz Jelly Sammiches' high five
each other and shout, "Party!"
Having been Arkanian raised, Skiiz was very familiar with the loss of
translation between cultures. This was one of those instances. With a blank
stare, the little goblin king shrugs his shoulders, says "Fudge it," and stands
to join. "It'z party time!"
Writer: Zorreau
Date Tue Nov 4 15:23:59 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: The Weight of Chosen Burdens
A month passed like a held breath.
Storm Keep moved as it always does - boots on stone, steel at drill, murmurs
in the sanctum, but Zorreau walked its halls as though each corridor were a
cloister. He spoke little. He kept the old watch hours, standing on the
parapets until the chill found the seams in his armour and the mind fell
into its narrow, useful silence. When sleep would not come, he paced the
Arid Catacombs and counted the granite-bound tombs in the dark as if they
were beads on a soldier's rosary.
The Realm had shown enough. The toll had been named. He tested himself
against it every day.
He closed the door.
At first, it was practice. He would sit with the bustle of the rest chamber
rising around him, chatter amongst his comrades, preparation and crafting
from others, the roar laughter as a story reaches a crescendo. He would
draw the bar down behind his eyes until the world dimmed to a manageable
murmur. Later, he let the clamour roar and held the bar anyway. Then he
went alone to the long gallery of trophies where the old banners hang and
conjured, by memory, the worst of what Terror had set upon him: the
hammer-beat, the perfume, the accusing faces. Each time, the latch held.
Taceant umbrae; non frangar. Let the shadows be silent; I will not be
broken. The words became breath, and breath became habit.
Only when the silence obeyed him did he begin the other counting, the
choosing of vessels.
He weighed them in the mind first, then by hand.
Rings: elegant, enduring, but too few, too intimate; a circle suits a single
oath, not a choir. Blades: powerful, conspicuous, always asking to be
answered; steel longs to be drawn, and much of his work would be done before
the drawing. Stones: faithful and mute, but the world is full of stones;
nothing to distinguish one covenant from the next. Coins: tempting and
light, numerous but coins belong to other men's pockets by habit, and the
chained deserve more than a jingle lost in trade.
He walked through the armoury. He walked the vaults. He walked the market
in a plain cloak and let his hand pass over the small things men keep near
the heart.
It was at a merchant's stall, a low table pressed against the lee of the
wall, where luck-sellers mutter and soldiers haggle, that the answer did not
so much arrive as arrange. A deck lay fanned in the lamplight: thin leaves
lacquered to a soft sheen, edges catching the flame as though they hoarded
it. The merchant called them fortune. Zorreau watched how the man's hands
moved, riffle, cut, deal and understood something older than the game.
Fate is not one blade. It is a sequence.
One drawn, one named, one laid.
Fifty-two is a choir you can carry.
He did not touch them. He did not need to. The knowing fit into him like a
key finally found. A deck can be prepared in silence and used in noise. It
separates the covenants cleanly, yet keeps them together under a single
will. It hides in plain sight. It teaches order. It obeys the ritual of
the hand. It can be spread like a map or gathered like a secret. It can be
dealt into the living world, one soul at a time, while the cost, All of it,
runs by blood to him.
He left the stall without a word and returned to the Keep, the decision
riding his shoulders like a cloak that had always been his.
The quiet month ended where it had begun: on the parapet before dawn. The
eastern sky was the pale of a blade just before it catches first light.
Below, banners took the wind and cracked it into discipline. Somewhere
within, a bell marked the hour.
Zorreau set his palms upon the stone and let the old ache drum once behind
his eyes, a courtesy to the memory of it, and then set the bar. Silence,
clean and serviceable, filled the room he had made inside himself.
The path forward, then:
The deck to be commissioned, not gaudy, not loud; something that will endure
handling and history. The sigils chosen in quiet. The names left unwritten
until the hour that deserves them. And when the time comes, others will
hold the beast while he lays the chain no one else needs carry.
He breathed, tasting the iron of the morning. The decision had weight, and
it sat where it should. Centered, even.
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Nov 5 05:07:16 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring
The aftermath was more akin to the sudden settling of a hurricane's eye
over them. The intensity of the umbral tide did not ease though, suggesting
that the eyewall was still dangerously near. There was still work to be
done.
The threads of black arcana were alive in each, rippling over and through
armor and flesh. The Black Moonstone had been drawn upon, had been fed, but
ever eager was it to reach for more, to test its wielder. She had won that
battle of wills, there was no question left between she and it, but she
still enjoyed the challenge and it still offered it eagerly.
She knew, so it knew - or vice versa. It didn't matter. The goal was
shared.
More.
Telthian stood with ironbound tome to hand, its heavy chain woven with
threads of dark indigo that jumped from link to link like lightning from the
umbra-cracked flesh, and the pair looked down on the abyss that whirled
dangerously below.
As if gazing into a sea's churning charybdis; a nebula that seethed with
dark purpose. It was into those depths that they sought to delve. It had
been done before.
With the land bound, the voidghasts sealed, and Umbrus Caelum looming behind
them - full of a new dark promise perceived long ago between the priests -
they prepared for a second time to bind the material plane through the Rip.
Even dark stars were luminous, their fire no less potent for the blackened
flame that roiled along their surfaces and so the dark dyad stood at the
edge of the firmament. The Dark Lord cast his free hand downward, to
command the churning channels of the abyss. Dark arcana flowed, unimpeded
and eager, through him as if he were the very lens by which the Black Moon's
rays might be focused and he spoke words that resonated through the very
air.
The abyss below rippled violently but instead of losing its rotation or its
speed, it grew with intensity. A savage whirlpool of dark umbral current
became a downward torrent that exceeded even the most powerful funnel as it
stretched toward pandemonium, and into this passage she called forth a
tether. It took form as she drew on the Black Moonstone, dark arcana
writhing around and through the Draco Dei and the Umbraseer with disciplined
purpose.
And like a javelin shot from ballista seeking a moving target amid a
hurricane, it dove through the veil of the Rip, seeking the awaiting High
Mystic and the moment of its darkmooring.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Nov 5 07:56:21 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Nov 5 07:56:47 2025
Writer: Ithelim
Date Wed Nov 5 08:23:07 2025
Writer: Archal
Date Wed Nov 5 20:24:50 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring II
Purpose.
When Archal's eyes perceived the Moonstone dropping from his Warder's hand
towards his own, he had entered a flow state. He perceived each angular
moment, each incremental acceleration along the infinite scale as gravity
drew it inexorably to his palm.
When he grasped the Moonstone there was instant recognition, a mutual
alignment of purpose as it knew his purpose, and he knew its, for they were
the same. Perhaps because this was just a shard of a shard, or perhaps
because their intent was one, Archal felt no struggle for dominance, only a
swelling of power.
The shard fit perfectly into the pommel of the voidiron sceptre, hard but
brittle prongs emerging, ferro-crystalline outgrowths with a short-lived
purpose.
Purpose. Not a day later and the culmination was arriving. They had made
Tidefall and their Darkmooring was ahead. The High Priestess had cast her
tether, he knew it. It was etched in the arcana, woven in the arcana that
flowed past. It wanted to bind with the Moonstone shard he grasped through
the sceptre. He wanted the Moonstone to bind to it. The Moonstone wanted
to bind to it.
A wavefront in the arcana arrived, an overwhelming onslaught of raw magical
potential that parted around his being like solar plasma parting around the
world, a magnetic interference unknown to mortals yet suddenly obvious to
Archal as his will and that of the Moonstone combined to do the same.
He kept one foot upon the threshold of the mirror frame turned doorway, one
hand clasped to it as he stretched himself into the dark forest, sceptred
hand reaching for what approached, what drove this wavefront of raw power.
With the hiss-crack of lightning too near to thunder, Symantha's tether
arrived, unfurling like a whip. Archal caught it with the sceptre and it
coiled around, binding itself to the voidiron. It and the shard at the
pommel sent feelers, splaying and splitting like roots up and down the rod
of the sceptre until they met, connecting under the palm of Archal's hand
with lightning power, and in that flash came the overwhelming will of the
Moonstone, of the High Priestess, of each as one demanding the connection
that was now made.
Made, but not anchored. Archal's hand sizzled as he fought to draw the
sceptre back inside, ask the way into Eclipse Tower, fighting the raw power
which demanded in will and arcana the the sceptre, the pommel, the shard of
the shard be reunited with the whole, but Archal could not let it go. Would
not let it go. He had purpose, one purpose, one gods damned purpose in this
moment and with a burst of effort the shard was under his domain, not just
aligned to his purpose but obedient to it.
In the instant of quiet, he slammed the pommel into the top of the arch of
the voidiron doorframe. The shard embedded into the frame, the frame itself
already embedded into the granite stone of Eclipse Tower. The prongs of the
pommel shattered and the sceptre fell freely with Archal's arm, the tether
and the shard bound tightly together within the structure of the tower.
The tether snapped taut and the rushing tides outside the door grew quiet,
or muffled. The tether made a path, an arbor tunnel like dark trees of
arcana shrouding the passage from the tempest beyond.
Small, in the distance, Archal thought he could make out two figures. They
had made Tidefall, and tethered to their Darkmooring. He stepped into the
Infinite shades of black.
Writer: Ithelim
Date Thu Nov 6 11:18:17 2025
To All Shadow ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Darkmooring III
Ithelim waved his hand and passed through the gates to his estate like
thick fog. His feet crunched along the gravel as he made his way to the
manor and inside. A His feet carried him up the stairs and into the library
where his last project had been completed. The sarcrifices he made to build
that ink that kept everyone safe as they rescued the High Mystic wast still
felt. His carefully tended to garden was only now just beginning to grow
again. What flowers were there were still to young to do anything with as
they were still absorbing the Umbral soil into their roots.
There, within the clay jar he sealed up, was what was left of the ink he
made. Picking it up he swirled it around and frowned deeply. At most it
was half filled. It would have to do. Placing his glaive and shield upon
the workstation, he dipped the silver tipped quill in the jar of ink and
then began engraving the Umbral runes upon the weapon. Slowly, methodically
he chanted in the tongue of the Umbralfiends as each rune took hold, causing
the glaive to shudder under their power. Upon the shield he etched the
runes of protection, seeding them deeper than a coat of paint would.
He was not sure how long of a time had passed as he finished, but there
before him, glowing faintly with the Umbral runes, was his work completed.
Just in time, too, as his last rune left something to be desired as he ran
out of the ink on the last stroke. The essence within him was also drained,
but that could not be helped. Nor could he take the time to truly rest.
"What is the phrase? I will rest when I am dead, " he chuckled as he picked
up both glaive and shield, feeling the power course between them. They
would do.
As he stepped into the shadows he returned quickly to the Eclipse tower. He
was halfway up the stairs when he felt it. The pull behind his naval that
signified the breach of passage between the realms. So it had begun. He
set his glaive on his shoulder and continued the walk up the stairs, slowly,
like a cat stalking its prey.
He watched as the Archal performed his ritual of the tethering where
Ithelim's own soul cried out in need for the power of the moonstone. For a
moment his eyes watched greedily, but only for a moment. In his mind echoed
the words of the the High Priestess and her orders. He would obey and keep
the hunger from driving him forward.
He watched, and waited, as he was always keen to do.
Writer: Archal
Date Thu Nov 6 16:07:41 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring IV
Archal stepped through, his foot received by ground both firm and
springy, like a forest floor. He perceived shapes around him, but turning
to look directly at them, their shape refused to emerge. Looking over his
shoulder, an oval of light confirmed that the doorway back into Eclipse
Tower remained there, powered as it was by the shard of the shard. He
wondered if it would be stable.
Around the oval he began to perceive an umbral impression of the outside
wall of Eclipse Tower. Around, the shapes began to coalesce, almost in
pulsing fashion, but not so regular, nor were the shapes static, but seemed
to drift. All the same, he had the impression of being within a dark
forest, or on the forest's edge. The path ahead felt like a rutted road
through a forest, with tree limbs arching overhead, and such shapes faded in
and out with his impression.
It dawned on Archal that the place they were in now is timeless. Both
ancient and new. Existing because it existed, existing because he willed
it. He and the shard of the shard. What would it be like, stabilized by a
greater power?
Looking back again, he realized Ezrianne and Ithelim were still within the
tower, watching, waiting for his word. 'Theurgist, Supplicant, join me.'
He turned to look down the length of the umbral-arbor tunnel, at the figures
he thought he saw in the distance. Shadows flitted across them, somewhere
between there and here. He took a step forward, toward the narrowing
aperture of the tunnel proper, and two arms of shadow breached the top of
the tunnel as a shade pulled itself inside. Down the tunnel, the action was
repeated, their silhouettes All different, some mere human-like shades, some
phantasmic beasts, some shapeless voids, blacker against the black.
Archal lifted the sceptre still in his grip, the pommel gone, but the monde
of ferrite-cradled distortion yet remained at the head. Soft footfalls
behind him and the shifting of thousands of chain links told him that
Ithelim and Ezrianne were with him.
'Imperium tenebris,' Archal shouted, pointing the sceptre at the first
shade, 'Imperium tenebras! ' He advanced towards it. 'Ambactus a caligo,
flecte animam mihi!' The shade wavered, and Archal repeated. 'I command
the darkness, I command you, darkness! Servant of darkness, bend your soul
to me!'
As Archal reached the shade, it acquiesced, its planeform morphing until it
appeared a shadow of Archal projecting ahead with a darker shade of black
with no source of light to cast it. He repeated the subjugation of the next
shade, its obedience adding to his shadow, causing it to swell. Looking
over his shoulder, he was very nearly smiling when he said to Ithelim and
Ezrianne, 'There, eas-'
It wasn't going to be quite so easy, after all, as another shape emerged
through the porous barrier of the umbral tunnel, its umbral claws scything
through the silksteel of Archal's outstretched arm, visiting a spectral gash
upon the flesh without harming the cloth.
Grimacing as much from chagrin as from pain, he locked eyes with the Knight
and Supplicant behind him. Ahead of him, his shadow rose up to meet the next
threat. There was work yet to do.
Writer: Ithelim
Date Thu Nov 6 19:48:31 2025
To All Shadow ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring V
Ithelim took an actual breath as he stepped through the opening, his
lungs filling with the un-needed breath of the Umbral realm. It was
refreshing, envigorating to his soul and seemed to strengthen him as he went
deeper into the path. His skin seemed to glow ever so slightly in response
to the realm as the runes upon his weapon and shield resonated with the
environment, slowly growing brighter the closer he got to the Umbral denizen
that attacked Archal.
Though it had been long since he was he had tread upon this realm fully, his
eyes began adjusting to the shadows. He could spot it, faintly, darting
deeper into the shadows to try and come about for another strike. Ithelim
slowly sheathed his glaive as he continued to track the movements of the
denizen who seemed hesitant to strike again now that it was seen.
Pulling forth his tome, Ithelim let it fall open, the pages flipping of
their own accord. His voice started silky smooth as he began to read from
it, the runes across his shield glowing brighter in response. As he
continued to chant, his voice began to grow raspier, the words cutting
deeper into the Umbra. Motiong for the Supplicant and High Mystic to stay
by his side, green flames erupted from the tome and lanced out at the shadow
demon, encricling it and lightning it up against the shadows that surrounded
it.
'Sicut factus es umbra redibis ad umbram. Dissolves per potestates quas
quaeris. Redi et obliviscere. '
With that the flames erupted around the demon and fully engulfed it, quickly
drowning out its cries. Only when Ithelim snapped the tome shut did the
flames sputter out, leaving nothing but shadow and ash in its wake. The
brightest light now the glow from the Umbral runes on his shield and glaive.
'That was just a little one. You two, stay close. There are far worse than
that one within. Stay within the glow else you will hit naught but shadows.
The more power that is drawn to this bridge, the more we can expect. The
Umbralfiends will try to take the chance if we get overrun. I would. '
And so Ithelim took tome in hand once more and raised his shield, his eyes
matching the glow of the runes and watched and waited.
Writer: Maligoth
Date Sun Nov 9 14:24:38 2025
To All Shadow Telthian Symantha Drakkara ( imm RP )
Subject Of Ash, Wind and Sea
There it stood, dark and enduring, an image of stone against the endless
waste. A keep, blackened, solitary, rising from the sands like a memory
that just wouldn't die. The heat moved around it in blistering waves, the
air wavering as though the desert itself doubted its own sight. To any
other, it might seem a mirage, some cruel trick of distance and exhaustion.
To see it now, after All these years, was more troublesome than the first
time. It had not changed, least not in ways the eye could fathom.
Something in me had. I remembered the man who first crossed these wastes,
driven by desperation and belief. Now I stood in his place, older, emptier,
uncertain. With an understanding that what I had sought had never been the
truth at all.
It was my fear, as it had been for greater men before me, that they had come
to favor desire over discipline, decadence over dominion. To stand before
this place, as a knight of a former age, stirred a trepidation within me
deeper than the grit that pressed between my bones. But what compelled my
return to these desolate shores outweighed such frailties, the emotions I
had been trained to master and cast aside.
There was a summons here I could not recognize, something beyond the craft
of my own making, beyond the violent forces I now bent to my will. It
lingered above thought, above the tremor of doubt gripping the fringes of a
jaded mind. Like a soul starved for its long forgotten sustenance, or a
spirit weary of its guilt, I was drawn here. Not in search of absolution,
but for a purpose.
So I crossed the threshold, driven by uncertainty and by the writ of service
I had penned and carried through the journey to this place. I clung to it
as I might a shield, believing it could fend off the doubts that clashed
within. It was received without ceremony, though I had expected nothing
more, and my attempt at humility, in hindsight, seemed a gesture the moment
did not require. It made me wonder how others like myself had approached
these gates, in the years after the fall and the slow reclamation that
followed. Perhaps, in time, I would learn what had become of them.
I passed my days within the old library, taking shelter in what familiarity
remained. Much had changed since my years of service here. The presence of
the goddess was everywhere. Seen and felt. I listened to the murmurs of
the underranks and the sterner voices of the newly anointed knights. A new
order indeed, a cast of souls I would need time to understand.
The Dark Lord called upon me. His name had been known to me since the day I
first spoke my blood oath. Though I had never met him in the flesh, his
legend was long and deep enough that the man himself could scarcely
disappoint its shadow. He was not one to be trifled with. His words were
few, and each carried an undeniable heft, striking with the certainty of one
who already knew why I had returned and stood before him.
His command was clear. I was to aid the order in reclaiming what had been
lost, to restore an object whose power was entwined in some way to Storm
Keep's fate and perhaps my own.
Writer: Maligoth
Date Sun Nov 9 14:27:54 2025
To All Shadow Telthian Symantha Drakkara ( imm RP )
Subject Of Ash, Wind and Sea (end)
What I did not expect was to see Symantha Atennim, now Schwartz. I found
her name in the roster scripts, and when my eyes met hers, I knew at once
that she was the one I must seek. Only she could calm the writhing storm of
doubt and uncertainty that churned within me. And she did.
I spoke to her of the war that raged inside, and she received my words with
patience and grace. She told me of the fall, and of those who had remained
through its stretching shadows. She spoke of her own trials. Of the
goddess's tests, and the sacrifice they demanded of her. She spoke of
power, and assured me that the purpose of the keep had not wavered, if
anything, it had grown more vital in the time since I had strayed.
She told me the truth of the prophecy, of the dominion now held by the
goddess of night, and that such rule had always been hers. Eternal and
inevitable.
Her words only confirmed what I had long suspected, something that had laid
dormant. That the truth I sought had waited for me. It was time to embrace
the enigma of the dark, whose borders I had skirted for a lifetime. And so
it would begin with supplication to Drakkara, and the casting off of the old
skin, to walk anew within the black of the vigilant night.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:55:49 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:56:23 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:56:58 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:57:52 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:58:30 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 18:59:20 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 19:00:09 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 19:01:05 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Nov 9 19:02:19 2025
Writer: Tash'a
Date Mon Nov 10 03:06:19 2025
Writer: Piknim
Date Mon Nov 10 13:30:34 2025
To Verminasia Shadow Evelline Skiiz Pomacanthus Lavinah All ( rp imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject Dark Heavens
Piknim held a bent spoon up to the moonlight streaming through the Grand
Chamber's latticed windows, watching it gleam. The soaring apex of the
chamber made everything feel smaller--even her collection of treasures
lining the walls in their gilded ebony cabinets. She tucked the spoon
carefully betwixt a small stone beetle and what might have been a very old
potato in the third cabinet from the left--or was it the fourth? No matter.
Each treasure knew where it belonged.
The pouch of arcanewood seeds had finally found its spot on the middle
shelf, right where the light would catch their spark and glow. And the
little white rabbit plush from the Shokonese menagerie looked so perfect
next to the {pa{ub{po{ul{pe{uth--they could keep each other company, could they not?
Her gaze lingered on the fragment of crimson aether from the Cataclysm,
still faintly pulsing in its place of honor. Eevelline's gift. The gnome
had a way of finding the most bizarre things.
She was just considering whether the {ncopper coin she'd found that morning
deserved the place of similar distinction next to her collection of
interesting rocks. It wasn't worth much---next to nothing, really--but
someone had scratched a tiny ship into its face, and the sails were so
carefully done. Who had sat there, patient and deliberate, carving a dream
into metal? That was the real magic, wasn't it? Not gold or spells or
power, but the small mysteries that made ordinary things shine brighter than
any enchantment.
The coin was still warm in her palm when the light changed.
Purple.
Piknim's breath caught. The flash came again, washing across the obsidian
marble floor, reflecting off the dark striations that ran through it like
captured lightning. Her pointed ears perked up, and something deeper than
thought pulled her toward the tall doors with their leaded glass windows.
The coin grew cool and distant in her hand.
Outside, the sky writhed. Lightning--if lightning could be called such a
color--arced and twisted above Eclipse Keep's dark silhouette. The ancient
outpost crouched in the forest beyond the city walls, and above it, the
storm danced. Purple forks split the air in patterns that were almost
words, almost meaning, almost..
Piknim's face split into a manic grin.
"Oh, dark heavens," she breathed, bouncing on her toes. The coin slipped
from her fingers and clattered away across the marble, forgotten. Her
attention was fixed on the arcane storm, on Drakkara's favor made manifest
in crackling, electric glory.
"There's a storm coming..!"
Writer: Agarwood
Date Mon Nov 10 14:51:24 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( religion storyline imm )
Subject The Search of Shinalstin: Peering Through Sands
The desert winds whipped around the priest as he guided his mule through the
faint trails of the Kabir Abyad. Agarwood, not having the eyes of a soft race
like a human, elf or dwarf, was not impeded by the aeolian assault, but the
sand did make it difficult for the arboren to move efficiently. The drag of
the wind on his cloak pulled him to the side, making him prone to toppling in
an unceremonious heap. The mule was having a harder time of it. Michaelangelo,
the stableman called him, could not see where he was going due to the blinds
that covered his eyes. The arboren was his sole guide.
This was an outing not like many others the arboren took in his spare time to
scout the expanse of the Sand Sea for clues on Algoron's forgotten people: the
Shinalfolk. Agarwood exhausted his time imagining the drifting of the continents
with landmasses dragging across the ground, sea, and sky like brittle chalk on
a tough blackboard to leave its trailings. Only instead of chalk, the priest had
hoped to find remnants of a lost civilization dedicated to magic. This race of
people were rumored to be highly advanced in the arcane with a society no one
alive this day could detail. The only clues left to Agarwood were the murals left
to him by Orrysta of the Conclave's Archives, a few small cryptic notes, and the
ominous etchings of a people without a presence.
The wind whipped Agarwood's cloak around violently as it howled in protest of his
and Michaelangelo's presence, snapping the priest from his thoughts. "We should
find shelter for now," thought the arboren to himself as he glanced sidelong at
the mule. His companion could not open his mouth to whine and haw, but he could
hear its pleading moans of discomfort through pursed lips.
This journey through time, with feet firmly rooted in the present, was to remind a
boy that he was still loved.
Writer: Vershae
Date Tue Nov 11 08:46:15 2025
Writer: Geirhart
Date Tue Nov 11 11:16:06 2025
Writer: Geirhart
Date Tue Nov 11 11:18:14 2025
Writer: Zorreau
Date Tue Nov 11 15:38:32 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: The Weight of Chosen Burdens II
Dawn came thin and colourless, a blade yet to catch the sun. In that
spare light Zorreau cleared the worktable, no banners, no relics, just oak
planed smooth and clean as judgment. A coffer stood at his right hand.
Within, the vessel slept in ordered ranks: cards master-wrought for Shadow,
for Binding, for Her.
He closed the door behind his eyes. Taceant umbrae; non frangar.
The room grew serviceably still.
He did not pray. He prepared.
These were no gambler's trifles. Each card had been commissioned without
compromise: a dense, flexible stock of vellum and cotton pressed under long
heat and slow pressure until it held a memory of the hand. The faces drank
light, on a field of midnight lacquer lay sigils traced in moonsilver that
did not shine so much as brood. The backs bore the umbrasign in
dusk-purple, a spiral that seemed to turn only when unwatched. Its edges
were kissed with a hair-thin band of argent metal, cool on the thumb, proof
against time. No expense spared. No corner unconsidered. This was a choir
meant to be carried.
He weighed them as a soldier weighs steel: balance, endurance, obedience to
touch. He tested a cut, a riffle, a deal; the whisper of them was like rain
on stone. When at last he was satisfied, he closed the coffer and set his
palm upon the lid as one might set a gauntlet to an oath-stone.
He left the sanctum and took the long stairs down.
-
They were waiting where the Keep's wind could not pry.
A knight of the Legion stood with arms folded and jaw set, a man built to
break charges on his ribs. Beside him, a sanctum knight in blackened mail
watched in stillness, helm tucked beneath one arm, expression unreadable. A
Gray Robe lingered in the lee of a column, eyes half-lidded, listening to
the room more than looking at it. Two scouts from the Rose leaned against
stone, loose in the body but not in the gaze. An officer of discipline, one
of the Keep's quiet enforcers, waited with hands clasped behind the back,
clean, composed, taking the measure of all.
They straightened when Zorreau entered, not in ceremony, but in recognition.
"This is not a sermon, " he said. His voice carried easily in the narrow
hall. "It is a division of labour. "
He set the coffer on a trestle and let the weight of it sit between them.
"We hunt what I mark, one life at a time. You do not need the why. You
will have the when and the how long. Your task is simple: you corner, you
bear down, and you subdue. Nothing more. "
His gaze moved across them, one by one. "When I say release, you release.
If I say withdraw, you vanish and forget the path you took to get there.
You do not linger, you do not posture, and you do not take trophies. We are
not writing songs. We are keeping count. "
The Legion knight gave a small nod. The hunters said nothing, but their
shoulders settled into agreement. The sanctum knight's mouth twitched,
almost approval. The Gray Robe's attention flicked to the coffer and back,
once.
"This is the order, " Zorreau went on. "Knights, you scout in pairs. No
one alone. You do not bleed for pride. You do not try to be clever for
your own glory. You move with discipline, or you do not move at all.
Officers, you know your own limits. Don't push them. "
He let that settle. Then, quieter:
"Understand this. The burden is mine. "
A slow beat of silence. No one shifted.
"You may carry the labour with me, " he said. "You will not carry the cost.
If you feel a weight that is not yours, you say so and step back three
paces. That is not cowardice. That is discipline. "
The gathering inclined their heads at that. The Gray Robe's lips curved in
approval, or professional interest.
Zorreau tapped the coffer once with his knuckles, soft, final. "When this
opens, we will begin. " Pulling his hand away, he spoke in a more relaxed
tone. "Eat, " he said. "Sharpen what must be sharp. Sleep while you may.
When I call, we move. "
-
Zorreau returned alone to the sanctum, set a single lamp, and opened the
coffer. The cards lay where he had left them: dark, patient, obedient to
the hand. He closed the door behind his eyes and, in the quiet room he had
made within, began the work no second gaze would ever share.
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Nov 11 17:12:45 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:29:05 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:30:10 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:31:44 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:32:33 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:33:20 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:34:10 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:36:27 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Nov 12 13:37:52 2025
Writer: Vershae
Date Wed Nov 12 17:15:21 2025
To Darkonin All imm rp
Subject Again (2)
Looking down at the child and the various wounds on his body, the thirst
calls to him. Looking around he notices there is nobody around, nobody to
see a feeding, nobody to think of him as a monster. He opens his mouth and
bears his fangs, ready to taste the sweet taste of blood but a hand comes to
rest on his shoulder. Vershae stills, knowing well that nobody was there
and the a voice fills his ears. "What are you doing my love? " Vershae
lowers his head as he glances behind him. The voice in his ears can only be
but one person, Asrar. "I don't think feeding off the citizens is wise. Do
you? " Vershae can only nod, a momentary lapse in judgment or perhaps the
desire to feed overwhelmed him.
Together, Asrar and Vershae take the child to a nearby hospital tent and
then venture off into the woods. Attempting to address his thirst, they
hunt together for a forest creature to drain, until hushed voices are heard.
Curious, the pair silently approach the pair of voices only to note they are
soldiers, soldiers that bear a particular crest.
Nordmaar.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Thu Nov 13 10:01:12 2025
To All Knighthood Imm ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Fardoc )
Subject Where stand the Vigilant ( Prologue III )
Geirhart knelt in prayer within the temple of the Eternal Flame, the
light from the central brazier casting shadows on his bald head. Suddenly
the doors opened and a page in Gareth dress ran towards the pews.
'Captain! Captain! ' yelled the page as he ran into the chapel proper.
Geirhart slowly stood, his joints less than helpful, and turned to the page.
'Here I'm just Geirhart, Page. What's All this about. '
Gasping for breath, the page responded, 'The Crown General has just declared
war on the Elves, sir. All Knights are to return at once! '
Geirhart paused for a moment and then gathered his things to depart for
Gareth Keep.
----------------------------------------
'Do you believe it, war with the elves? '
'Bout time if you ask me, cozying up to Storm Keep like they have. '
'What about the Crusade? Does that mean the Crusade is against the Elves?
'
Whispers and murmurs were All about Gareth Keep with news of the war. As
with All things, they took on a life of their own. Geirhart crossed through
the Hall of Knights, his blue cloak waving before him and stopped.
'Listen up! You are All Knights of Nadrik's Keep and you will act like it!
You are not gossip mongers, your Lord Crown has given an order and it will
be carried out. Now go! ' yelled the Captain as knights started to
scramble to and fro.
Standing in the Temple of Nadrik, eyes ablaze was Lepidus D'Laine. Geirhart
didn't need to know what was on the knight's mind as it was etched in
painful detail on his face.
'I know what you wish to say but it must be in private. Come, follow me.
'
Geirhart spent the next few days speaking to the members of the keep, giving
counsel as needed. There was a tense air about the keep and divisions were
forming. For the first time since the Lords of Valor left, the Knighthood
was divided. Some came to General Bouchard's defense, others did not.
Then, as Geirhart was in prayer, a great light flared from the northern
Temple as Nadrik Himself came for a visit.
Flaming glyphs rose in the air witnessed by all:
"My Light makes way the redeemed. My Light burns wheresoever it must.
MyLight is Strength, my Light is Wisdom, my Light is the Flame of Hope, and
it is given freely to those in need.
A Knight does not not turn away in pride when some may refuse their hand
-for Honor is not measured by welcome, but by unwavering presence in the
hourof need. Pride is the veil of folly that blinds mortal and firstborn to
theVirtue of Wisdom and Temperance, and those who deny the Angels of
theirMaker and lift up their sword in unbridled wrath shall find no Shield.
"
The Lord of All Paladins spoke and His command was given. The Knights would
need to meet and discuss this War as a Keep.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Thu Nov 13 17:07:02 2025
To All thaxanos rp
Subject a thief and a thane
A young duergan, barely into his fifties, crept through the shadows of
Port Flindelgrom. Pale in appearance, with bright orange hair on his
face and head, the dark dwarf wore well-fitted clothes, and was
prepared to sprint away if he was discovered. He was delighted to see
the Mithril Shark tied up in her spot. The agile little scout ship was
gone more often than not, it seemed, as the Thane that designed and
commissioned her used her often to get to Shokono on his mining runs,
and occasionally as his own personal pleasurecraft.
Guessing that Kraxul would be busy smelting, Krelnsworth Rockbottom
took one final look around the port before climbing silently aboard
the ship. This duergan had heard that the Shark had a secret hold for
smuggling, and he had to know if it was true. He had gold in his eyes
as he snuck across the deck, preparing to disappear down below and
search for secret cargo. He thought for a moment that he caught a
whiff of burning tobacco, and dismissed it entirely as he continued
across the deck.
He approached the aft section of the ship. Here was a stout wooden
ladder, leading up to the wheelhouse, and down to the anchor. Aft of
the ladder was a doorway leading to the navigation room. Here, a
flickering light and the deep murmurs that could be none other than
Thane KegBreaker.
Krelnsworth cursed to himself. What luck was this? Surely it would
be folly to descend belowdecks with Kraxul right there. He considered
it for a moment before deciding against it. He would have to try
again another night. He turned to leave, but paused, wondering what
the Thane was up to, and to whom was he speaking.
The would-be thief crept closer to the doorway, and stood in the
shadows near the opening, listening closely to the Thane's speech.
"...only wish t'bring this glorious mountain back t'greatness, lord,
and ef ye make y'wishes known t'mae, ah'll do mae best t'bring em to
fruition."
Krelnsworth stayed perfectly still and quiet, flattened against the
wall. "'e bae prayin. Tha fool. Why couldn't 'e use a temple like
mos' folk do? At least then ah'd bae-" He missed a bit, but after
hushing his own thoughts, he heard "in yer honor first, his second, and
mae own last. May tha tournament strengthen us all, and last, grant
mae th'wisdom, Raije, t'bae ah sound leader."
The duergan slunk deeper into the shadows, knowing the Thane was too
pre-occupied to notice him on his way out. He wondered to himself just
what in the hell he had meant by that bit about a sound leader. He was
already known to be an effective Thane. At this point, Kraxul made his
way toward the foredeck, and Krelnsworth once again became preoccupied
with thoughts of smuggled goods.
Writer: Nathalos
Date Mon Nov 17 09:43:09 2025
To All conclave sebatis imm rp
Subject Sparks Amongst the Stacks
Beneath the Crimson Tower, the old practice chamber had not changed.
Dust clung to every tome like forgotten snow, and the smell of parchment and
ozone mingled in the air as Nathalos eased himself into the high-backed
chair. His once-gleaming arcanium robes now scrubbed free of rust but still
worn thin with age rustled softly as he sat.
A single candle burned beside him, flickering wildly whenever stray sparks
leapt from his fingertips. Basic principles, he muttered, opening a
weather-softened novices text with a kind of reluctant reverence. Storm
take me it really has been decades. The first pages were almost laughably
simple. Conjuration fundamentals. Mana flow. Sigil structure. The
diagrams felt like old friends half-remembered faces in a fog. Yet as he
traced each rune with a steady, sparking hand, he felt something shifting in
his mind.
Not awakening.
Recalibrating.
The storm within him, though undying, had grown wild and unfocused during
his long sleep. Now each diagram, each incantation, each tired practice
spell acted like a metal rod drawing lightning back into alignment.
Hours passed. Maybe days. The novice books gave way to the intermediate
grimoires, then the RedRobes basic manuals summoning sparks, focusing will,
anchoring magical force. He whispered each lesson, voice echoing off the
towers stone like rolling thunder:
Energy obeys shape.
Shape obeys intent.
Intent must never falter.
Finally, when the candle had melted into a puddle of wax and three new
scorch marks adorned the desk, Nathalos exhaled slowly and shut the last of
the basic texts.
The rust comes off the mind the same way it comes off metal, he said to the
empty room. A little fire. A little patience. He rose, stretching his
arms. The air hummed in response.
At his feet lay an array of training weapons, far more than he once favored.
Swords he knew well, daggers better still. But now spears lay beside them,
and maces. Axes. Polearms. Even a coiled whip of treated kelp-leather,
still smelling faintly of brine. A RedRobe's path was balance, yes, but
that included destruction at times. The world had changed in his absence.
Adaptation was survival. He lifted the spear first, feeling the balance,
testing the weight, letting small arcs of blue dance along the haft. Then
the staff, then the axe; each tool awakening dormant instincts, each
movement sharpening muscle and memory long at rest.
When at last he returned to the old, leather-bound Invoker tomes he felt the
storm settle into a familiar rhythm. The sigils of flame, frost, and
lightning glowed faintly across the pages as if recognizing their masters
touch once more.
Now, Nathalos whispered as the storm in his veins crackled awake, back to
real work.
He opened the book.
Lightning answered.
Writer: Lepidus
Date Tue Nov 18 19:59:18 2025
To All Knighthood ( Imm RP Nadrik )
Subject Visiting I
Lepidus tightened the straps on the pure white charger, the horse standing
patiently within the quiet stables of Gareth Keep. He checked the saddle twice,
then a third time, wanting no failure on the long ride ahead. A few days of
supplies were packed neatly into the saddlebags, enough for a journey he had
not made in far too long.
With a last glance at the empty stable around him, he took up the reins and led
the charger out into the courtyard. The gates opened with their familiar groan,
and Lepidus mounted, settling into the saddle with a slow breath. He nudged
the horse forward, and together they rode out from Gareth Keep toward the
road leading around Althainia.
He followed the wall, avoiding the city proper, finally making his crossing of
the Blood River by way of the new bridge. The sunlight brightening the woodwork,
a reminder of the work and craftsmanship poured into it. Crossing over, he
continued east toward New Thalos.
The desert city greeted him with its warm winds and old familiar scents. As he
rode through the streets, memories rose unbidden. He and she had walked
these very lanes together once, laughing, exploring, sharing the small joys
young adventurers often cling to. Those days had felt simpler, gentler.
Passing through a market square, his eye caught a modest stall bearing fresh
flowers. Without much thought, he dismounted and approached, selecting a
small, humble bouquet. It was not extravagant, but it matched her spirit. He
tucked it carefully into his pack before mounting again.
From there he rode eastward, down to the Althainian dock. The ship to Arkania
waited in the harbor, its crew waving him aboard. He guided the charger onto
the vessel, securing the reins before stepping toward the railing.
The ocean breeze carried salt and memory in equal measure. Lepidus leaned
forward on the wooden rail, watching the waves slip past beneath the boats
hull. It took him back to younger days, before portals dotted the world, when he
and she had sailed these same waters side by side.
Back then he had been her shield, his strength on the front lines while she cast
her spells from behind him. The thought brought a faint smile to his face, warm
and bittersweet.
The boat ride was short, and soon the docks of Arkania rose into view. He
returned to his charger, guiding the horse down the ramp and onto solid ground.
Turning east, he followed the familiar road.
Not far along, he slowed at the sight of a cave entrance to the north. It had
been home once to the pirates he had battled time and time again. He could
almost hear their shouts echoing in memory. Nerull. Hideyoshi. Tical.
Hulihuto. Names once feared, now ghosts of an earlier life.
Lepidus urged the charger onward. Nearing the outskirts of Arkane, he saw a
southern road stretch away into the distance. He felt a tug at his heart as he
remembered the path leading toward the Valor Keep. A place he had once
called home after departing Gareth for a time.
Gamo. Chieron. Astas. Toshiharu. For a moment he could almost see them
again, training or laughing in the courtyard. Time had carried them All onward,
as it always does.
He reached the eastern gate of Arkane and passed through, guiding the horse
along the inner wall to the southwest corner. From there he followed the curve
of the south wall until he reached the southern gate, riding out into the
Arkanian Southlands.
The forest greeted him with quiet shade and gentle wind. Though he no longer
wore the mantle of a ranger, his feet and heart remembered the old paths. He
turned from the road, guiding the charger between the trees, down a way long
overgrown. Branches brushed his shoulders as the path narrowed, but he knew
the turns.
A small clearing opened ahead. It was not large, just a quiet pocket of earth
hidden beneath the canopy. In its center stood a single headstone, half hidden
beneath vines and wild growth.
Writer: Lepidus
Date Tue Nov 18 20:00:48 2025
To All Knighthood ( Imm RP Nadrik )
Subject Visiting II
Lepidus dismounted and approached the stone. He retrieved a small knife from
his pack and knelt beside the grave. With slow, careful strokes, he cut away the
tangle of vegetation. Leaves fell aside, revealing the inscription beneath.
"Marf D'Laine"
"Beloved Wife"
His breath trembled, just faintly, as he brushed the last of the debris away. He
returned to the horse and lifted the modest bouquet from his pack, bringing it
back to the grave. Kneeling again, he set the flowers gently at the base of the
stone.
He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the top of the headstone.
Settling down before it, he crossed his legs and let his hands rest loosely in his
lap. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke.
" Marf... I'm sorry I haven't been by lately. "
" Things have been busy back home. I've returned to active duty in Gareth. "
" There's been a great deal happening. Nadrik appeared again... to me, of all
people. I took a vigil for several weeks. It All ended with the old Lord Crown
stepping down, and a new leader taking up the mantle to lead. "
He paused, fingertips brushing lightly over the carved letters of her name.
" I'm working toward earning the mantle myself.. joining my sister in the order
of Paladins. It's a long path, but I think it's the right one. I hope you'd be proud
of me. "
" The new Lord Crown seems good-hearted. He listens. He cares. I want to help
him however I can. So it might be some time before I can return here again. "
He sighed softly, shifting his weight before continuing.
Reaching for his pack, he retrieved a bit of food and sat back down. The quiet of
the clearing wrapped around him as he spoke on.
" You should see All the new pages and squires. Gareth feels alive again. "
" They even made me a general. Still not sure how that happened. "
He let out a faint, amused breath.
" And I made armor for angels, Marf. Real angels. Never thought they'd trust my
work for something so holy. "
Hours passed there in the small clearing as Lepidus talked to his wife, sharing
stories, updates, hopes, and memories. The forest listened in stillness, as it
always had.
When the sun began to dip, he rose and brushed the dirt from his knees. He
walked back to the horse and started repacking his gear, his movements slow,
reluctant.
He stepped back to the grave one last time, setting a hand upon the cool
stone.
" I still think of you every day. I still love you, Marf. More than I can say. "
" I can't wait to see you again one day.. but not yet. People still need me
here. And until my work is done, I can't join you. "
He bowed his head, letting the silence settle between them like an embrace.
Then, with one last touch to the top of the headstone, he turned and mounted
his charger. The horse stepped back onto the faint trail, and together they
made their way toward the road that would lead him home.
Writer: Orutix
Date Wed Nov 19 15:04:32 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Nov 20 17:41:14 2025
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Nov 20 18:01:13 2025
Writer: Asthrid
Date Fri Nov 21 22:17:48 2025
Writer: Asthrid
Date Fri Nov 21 22:19:57 2025
Writer: Imrahith
Date Sun Nov 23 11:08:38 2025
To Crelius Gladrim Riordan Zayk Verminasia Shadow All ( Imm Drakkara RP )
Subject The Weight of Absence: An Axiom of {uAshes
The wind that swept across the broken plains carried the scent of dust
and forgotten things. It was the only scent that ever clung to the altars
of a dead god. Imrahith knelt, the coarse granite of the offering stone
grinding against the worn plates of his armor. His movements were
ritualistic, devoid of the fervor that once fueled them, but precise. From
a leather pouch, he drew three black roses, their petals the color of a
forgotten sky at midnight. He laid them in a row upon the stone, their
thorns catching the thin, fading light.
This was the seventh shrine. The seventh silent prayer to Necrucifer, the
Father of Darkness, whose silence was now absolute. Each rose was a eulogy,
a question posed to the void. "What remains when the god is gone? "
As he stood, a faint scuff of grit, too deliberate to be the wind, whispered
from the slope behind him. He did not turn. For days, a presence had
dogged his steps, a subtle wrongness at the edge of his perception. It was
not the clumsy pursuit of brigands or the zealous hunt of a newly minted
paladin. This was patient. Observant.
He had let them observe. Now, it was time to reciprocate.
Imrahith turned and walked away from the altar, his stride long and
seemingly aimless, leading deeper into the jagged cliffs of Icewall. His
path took him through a narrow defile, where he paused, his hand brushing a
specific, lichen-crusted rock. He moved on, his pace unchanged. Further
on, he feigned adjusting his vambrace, his fingers discreetly scraping a
line in the dust with a sliver of obsidian, its edge humming with a latent,
funereal energy.
He was laying a trail of bread crumbs, but these crumbs were shards of glass
and poisoned hooks. The disturbed rock was a trigger. The obsidian shard
was a focus, a needle that would seek the life-force of any who crossed its
invisible line. He was no longer a knight serving a grand design, but a
cornered beast, and his faith had been replaced by a cold, meticulous
pragmatism.
He crested a snowy rise and finally stopped, looking out over the desolate
landscape. Somewhere in the twilight behind him, a trap would soon spring.
He did not know who followed, or why. He only knew that in the great, empty
silence left by his god, the only answer he could offer was a blade, and the
only prayer left to him was the one his stalkers would scream.
Writer: Asthrid
Date Sun Nov 23 17:53:38 2025
Writer: Imrahith
Date Mon Nov 24 16:12:05 2025
To Crelius Gladrim Riordan Zayk Verminasia Shadow All ( Imm Drakkara RP )
Subject The Weight of Absence: An {uAphelion's Vigil
For three days, the presence had been a shadow at the corner of his eye,
a flicker of wrongness in the howl of the gale. It was not Crelius, but one
of his instruments. And Imrahith would break it, pry it open, and learn the
shape of his father's new will.
Imrahith stood motionless, a stark silhouette of blue dragonscale against
the endless white, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He had chosen this
ground. The sheer cliff face at his back, the narrow, treacherous pass
ahead. A funnel. A trap. He heard it then.
The faintest scrape of leather on ice, not from the pass, but from the
cornice high above. He had been out-maneuvered. Imrahith spun, his
falchion clearing its scabbard with a rasp that was swallowed by the vast
silence.
A figure, swathed in grey furs and seamless, polished bone armor, dropped
from the ledge. They landed without a sound, a serrated blade of obsidian
already in hand. No words were offered. No boasts, no threats. This was
no duelist, it was an exterminator.
The assassin moved with a fluid, unnerving grace, their attacks a series of
feints and lethal strikes aimed at joints and gaps in his plate. Imrahiths
style was born of different wars... Heavy, decisive, meant to break shields
and souls. He was a sledgehammer to a scalpel. His blade sheared through a
spur of rock, sending shards of ice flying as the assassin darted inside his
guard. The obsidian knife scored a line of fire across his ribs, finding a
seam in the armor.
Snarling, Imrahith abandoned finesse. He slammed the pommel of his sword
downward, not at the assassin, but at the ice beneath their feet. A web of
fractures exploded outwards. The figure leaped back, but for a split
second, it was airborne and committed.
It was the opening he needed. Imrahith lunged, his free hand shooting out
to clamp like a vice around the assassins wrist. He heard the bone grind,
saw the faintest tremor in his opponent's frame. For a moment, he stared
into the narrow visor of the bone helmet, seeing only his own grim
reflection.
"You will tell me what he wants, " Imrahith growled, his voice raw against
the wind.
The assassin did not struggle. Instead, with a terrifying, placid finality,
they twisted their captured wrist. A sickening crack echoed, a deliberate
break to slip the joint. Before Imrahith could adjust his grip, the figure
slammed their forehead into his, and a burst of concussive, non-elemental
force threw him back a step.
By the time his vision cleared, the assassin was a dozen paces away, one arm
hanging useless, backing toward the cliff's edge. Then, they simply fell
backward, vanishing over the precipice. Imrahith lunged to the edge,
expecting to see a broken body on the rocks below. There was nothing. Only
the swirling snow and the endless, mocking white.
He stood there for a long time, the sting of his wound a cold brand, the
echo of that broken wrist a testament to a fanaticism he could barely
comprehend. The hunt for his new faith was now underway.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Mon Nov 24 19:37:53 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Chaos Zandreya Kantilles Malachive Xenophon Cayenna Imm Rp Religion
Subject The White Lights and the Light
Andreyna carefully turned the reliqua about as it lay on the wooden
table, leather gloves covering her hands to protect them from the curses
pulsating from the prison of flesh and bone. Sigils and words of blood
magic appeared and disappeared across the flesh as she turned it, allowing
her guest to examine it without having to touch it.
'I think you are right, your Majesty. I would see if there is a way to drop
the entire vessel into the river or perhaps use a dagger blessed by the
Light to try and cut through the flesh', the tall elven priest spoke to her,
his face unable to hide his disgust as he looked down at the cursed
reqliqua, 'It is an evil like I have never seen before. '
The Queen-Priest nodded as her eyes gazed over the flickering sigils, her
lips pursing as thoughts rolled through her mind. The elf priest averted
his eyes as the sigils appeared against, his white robes bristling across
the stone floor as he took a step back. Andreyna didn't even flinch at the
sight, her heart though full of sorrow for the Vallens and Zandreya, had
become hardened to the curses and pure evil of the Warp. Nothing surprised
her or really even alarmed her anymore. She had walked through the realm of
the Warp, survived curses, and even a would-be assassination attempt. The
Warp was part of her every day life now.
Do you think you would be able to begin working on a dagger to be used if it
is needed? It would not surprise me if blood magic is barring it from
opening, or worse, and will release far more than cursed souls upon its
opening', Andreyna asked as she carefully wrapped the reliqua in cloth and
tucked it away in her leather satchel. The elf priest nodded, a noticeable
look of relief washing over his face as the reliqua was placed out of sight,
'Already begun, your Majesty. When it was said that we would be releasing
the souls into the river, I knew that we would need options on how to open
it. '
Andreyna smiled as she removed her gloves and placed them on the table. The
elf priest's eyes moved to the elfqueen's whitened fingertips. 'Many of us
in Kantilles' order feel that you have truly been blessed to have been
touched by the White Moon, Majesty. Is it true that you wish to have your
Darkness restored? ', the priest asked his sky blue eyes finding Andreyna's
own. Zandreya's Cardinal flipped her hand back and forth looking over the
alabaster fingertips and nodded, 'It is true, indeed. My darkness was taken
from me, to help keep CharredAlder alive. It was replaced with the light
that was put upon him, by us. ' Andreyna lifted her gaze to Kantilles'
priest before her, 'I understand how some of your Lord's order may see it as
a blessing, but I did not ask for this. This is not me. My darkness was
taken from me because of actions of our own. ' Andreyna smiled warmly at
the priest, 'I am not of the Light, my dear friend, though I may be marked
by the Ivory, my heart does not belong to it. '
'Do you hope that balancing the lights with the umbra or healing the sapling
will help to restore your Darkness and your Balance.? ', the priest asked
thoughtfully. 'I am honestly not sure what will restore it, but I do aim
to, yes. Whatever it takes, as long as it does not bring harm to the
Vallens', Andreyna responded with a gentle smile.
The priest nodded and turned to open the door, 'There are some who wonder if
you may go further than originally intended', he spoke as he respectfully
bowed his head. Andreyna opened her mouth to respond to his concern, but
the elf gently closed the door before she could.
She honestly wasn't sure what her response would have been.
Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Nov 24 23:08:17 2025
To All Chaos ( Imm RP )
Subject The Ruinspire (I)
"The warp is a reflection of our own mortality. Stripped to its most
base and most perverse form. I phrase it so simply only that your arrogant,
animal mind might grasp a sliver of its meaning. To the enlightened,
however... It is a mirror raised to the soul of creation itself. A
depthless reservoir of power and possibility, waiting for any will ruthless
enough to seize it."
- Xarroroch Bral'garil, Bloodmage of the Sixth Amalgam.
Algoron, one year prior.
A tremor, deep and titanic, rippled through the mire, setting the ancient
stones of the tower to groan and shift. From the diseased depths of the
bog, monstrous tendrils burst forth. Colossal masses of meat and sodden
earth, erupting in a cyclonic fury. They surged upward, coiling about the
tower's base, wrapping up its length like the limbs of some prehistoric
leviathan.
The foul appendages constricted, their odious embrace swallowing the tower
within a heaving mass of mortified plant matter and rotting sinew. And with
a final, wrenching convulsion, the nightmare form dragged its prize into the
mire. The tower, as storied as it was ancient, was wrested from existence,
vanished beneath the churning mass. Leaving nothing behind but a blighted
stain upon Algoron.
*///**\\\*
A million fragments, strewn across the roiling gulfs of entropy. Realms of
rancid dreamstuff, where the sighs of dying worlds lingered and the sundered
dust of realities long dead drifted in desolate procession. Each shard held
the faintest smear of what once was. A memory, an emotion, a delusion, or a
soul. Through torrents of uncreation and chasms where negative life
burgeoned, through dimensions locked in eternal paradox, they fell and they
were devoured.
One solitary spark set them aflame. An almost nothing aberration in the
endless maelstrom, a remnant of a legacy collapsed upon a meaningless orb
adrift in a pestilential expanse. A single drop of blood, reflecting the
churn of a void within the void, carrying the fading echo of a black god's
vengeful death cry.
The shards of soul and stone cast back the shrieking phantoms and ever
changing beasts that prowled the morass, stifling their hungers and rending
their essences in howls of metaphysical dread. The lesser horrors recoiled.
Some into true death, others into millennia long spasms of ecstatic torment.
And there were older and more opulent things that also watched, things that
were not vanquished or displeased.
A motion began to quicken across the chaotic realm, as the rubble strewn
throughout that virulent plane turned and drew itself together. Lifeless
rock, flesh, and things in-between rose and joined together. Each piece
locking to the next like bricks drawn by telekinetic inertia. The fragments
spiraled through storms of malignant whisperers and colossal amalgamations,
ripping paths through their spectral ranks as they hurtled toward a distant
central point.
Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Nov 24 23:15:03 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Ruinspire (II)
The eldritch intelligences of the warp raised their ire. They spat
curses into the ether, casting forth waves of torment to scour the
coalescing masses. Psychic tempests barraged the fragments, blistering
their substance and mutating their forms, seeking to violate what dared
interlope within their corrupted fiefdoms.
Still they pressed on, gathering momentum through the groaning froth of
dilated time and pandemonium. They swarmed toward the fulcrum like
congealed locusts, dragged ever faster by a will that hungered for their
presence. The faceless void buckled as they neared, the warp rippling
outward in waves of withering plasma and discordant geometry.
A silhouette began to coalesce at a central point. An unstable imprint
forced upon the wailing fabric of the immaterium. The nearness of the
rubble compelled its manifestation. From a single bloodlet shadows
thickened, coagulating into darkened viscera and bundling sinew. Bone
extruded and retracted, reforming at wretched angles as veins began to pump
with black ichor.
Warp-light detonated from a singular point within the simulacrum of a skull,
and the figure solidified. Dragged into form by a collision of countless
contradictory forces. A riven soul made semi-corporeal, a man shaped form
wreathed in blackened shadow and ravening warpfire. The two forces
annihilated and remade one another in a frenzy of primordial and conceptual
warfare. They battled across his body before they tore apart into twin
nimbuses hovering besides his shoulders. A living conduit of energy
crackled between them, forming a tenuous equilibrium.
He hung suspended within the field of twisting souls and degeneration.
Slowly, he extended a pale hand into the ether, fingers curling in command.
He beckoned the oncoming remnants, dragging them through the warp as if
calling home his wayward kin.
They streamed to him one by one, thickening into structure as they spun
about his form in a hurricane of unnatural industry. Their outlines burned
black as they fell into alignment, solidifying only under the demand of a
furious intellect. Soon the figure was swallowed entirely, entombed within
the growing shape they wove around him.
A tower rose, wrought of flesh and darkness, its surface coiling with the
madness of a soul shattered and reforged against its will. As soon as its
final configuration took shape, space folded inward upon an axis that did
not exist. In a silent explosion the tower was gone. All that remained was
a seared impression, that was eagerly consumed by the distorted empyrean.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue Nov 25 19:50:39 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring VI
The three advanced down the umbral tunnel, the tether between Skull Keep
on the Verminasian outskirts, and whatever place the Dark Lord and the High
Priestess awaited.
The shades kept coming, clawing their way through the fragile tunnel,
dripping out of the tumultuous umbral flows outside. Each shade that bent
to Archal's will, bolstered it. Each that defied his will, deepened his
fury, and most were felled by the sceptre in his hand, the ferrite-cradled
amethyst head absorbing the umbral and arcane energies of the dark
creatures.
He no longer uttered the ancient words as they progressed down the porous
tunnel. His mind had entered the flow, his will radiated before him, his
intentions clear. More shades joined him, his shadow rearing up ahead of
him, monstrous and deformed. The sceptre vibrated in his hand with
subjugated souls, their resistance broken.
In this flow state, Archal gained awareness. He felt the roiling umbral
currents outside the tunnel, realized they swam through the froth and foam
which seeped through its incomplete membrane. His soul flowed through this
umbral churn but the raw arcana of his manatonic mind existed apart from it,
separate, and it could reach out like a hand upon the surf.
Clarity washed over Archal and an instant passed like a lifetime. He
genuflected, taking a knee and placing his hand on the bottom of the
forest-like floor of the umbral tunnel. The tether. A killing blow of a
shade passed over his head, the shade itself meeting its demise to a strike
from Ithelim. The substrate of the air vibrated with Ezrianne's melody of
meditation.
Archal could feel the fabric of the tunnel, each woven strand. Each porous
opening where the weave was not yet tight enough, requiring the power of the
full Moonstone to seal the tunnel in perpetuity. He felt the arcane ether
and the umbral flows, felt the blood coursing through his body and the souls
contained in the amethyst of the sceptre in his hand. He drew from each,
becoming both the conduit and the capacitor, drawing in the power of the
umbra, the arcana, his own body, his own soul, and the souls of the defeated
shades, inky black filling him and radiating out from him within this one
instant until he pushed it All through his hand into the fabric of the
tunnel.
The weave constricted, pulsing outward from his touch at the speed of sound,
and Archal tried to let go of the power he had gathered in his grasp. The
instant stretched into a moment as the tunnel's newfound integrity stopped
the drip of shades. The moment dragged into regular time, and the remaining
shades were dragged, stretched, elongated towards Archal who was
increasingly obscured within a singular darkness.
Archal himself was trying to remember why he wanted to let go of this power.
This immense power. Someone nearby coughed and his mouth filled with blood.
Was it him? It was hurting him, killing him, but why did he want to go
back? He felt the vastness of the umbra stretching away from him in all
directions, awareness of All it touched. Struggling now to even remember
what he wanted to do, he was aware of an enormous concentration of umbral
power, then another, their auras so much greater than their physical forms,
and Archal reached out to touch those auras-
And remembered himself. He spat blood, saw it in the real and saw the
ripples it created through the umbra. He wanted it all, wanted this power
but he refused to give himself over to it. Would not surrender to the chaos
of the void.
With a final imposition of will he focused the gathered umbral power into a
final expulsion, an explosion of negative energy that left him poorly. He
stumbled as he got to his feet and fought to control his outward appearance.
The tunnel was calm. Ithelim and Ezrianne were exchanging looks behind him.
Telthian and Symantha waited at the other end. Wearily, Archal lead the
trio on.
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Thu Nov 27 16:08:26 2025
Writer: Eevelline
Date Fri Nov 28 00:38:08 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Nov 29 11:45:32 2025
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Sun Nov 30 13:43:38 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 17:39:38 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 18:14:37 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 18:41:46 2025
Writer: Kayla
Date Tue Dec 2 00:19:37 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Dreamer Caps 1
The mist clung to the marsh like a lover who refused to let go. Kayla
Black-Mane moved through it on silent pads, the calico fur of her lower legs
already soaked black with peat water. Dawn had not yet decided to arrive,
and only a sickly greenish glow filtered through the cypress knees and
hanging veils of moss. Somewhere a bittern boomed, low and mournful, the
only sound besides the soft suck of mud giving way beneath her clawed toes.
She sought the Dreamer's Cap, a pale mushroom said to bloom only where an
adder had chosen to shed its skin.
Kayla's ears flicked at every ripple in the black water, but her golden
eyes stayed fixed on the low hummocks ahead. There, beneath the twisted
roots of a drowned tupelo, a clutch of ghostly caps glowed like tiny moons.
Beside them lay the papery husk of a cottonmouth's slough, still faintly
fresh. Perfect, she reflected with victory in success of her search.
Kayla knelt, murmuring thanks to the swamp in the old tongue. Then,
with a bone knife she sliced three caps free, careful not to bruise the
delicate gills. One hand clutched the harvested caps while the other tucked
the shed skin into a small pouch at her belt. From another pouch she drew
dried bog myrtle and a pinch of withered lizard's tail. These were binding
agents that would keep the visions from shattering her mind completely.
She found her usual refuge twenty paces farther in an ancient hollow
cypress stump wide enough to sit inside, its heartwood long rotted away.
Water lapped at the rim, but the interior stayed dry. Kayla slipped within,
tail curling around her ankles, and sets her treasures to the side. She
kindled a thumb sized fire with a snap of flint as a breath of sparks from
her clawed fingers fell into dried moss and broken twigs.
Writer: Kayla
Date Tue Dec 2 00:20:27 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Dreamer Caps 2
The caps went into a small tin cup with the herbs and a finger of
brackish water. Soon the tea steamed. It smelled of wet earth and something
sharper, something old, something sacred. Kayla lifted the cup in both
handpaws. Her whiskers trembled. She inhaled deeply and whispered in the old
tongue, "To whatever truth awaits."
She drank. In moments the world folded like wet parchment.
Suddenly the stump became a coil of shifting serpents, sickly green and
heavy with years. The coil rose around her in silent rings. Their tongues
tasted the air while her heart raced at a thundering pace. One serpent,
larger than the rest, wore a crown of faded crimson. Its hood split to
reveal eyes of black void. From its fangs wept a single bead of venom, thick
as sap, old as mountains.
The great snake did not strike. It only watched, patient as torpor
itself, while the bead fell slow and inevitable toward the black water
beneath. The instant it touched the surface, the water rippled with building
rings. Those rings began dramatic at their core, then softened and slowed in
perfect circles until All perception twisted and faded.
Kayla woke with a gasp. The empty cup was clutched to her chest. The
fire had burned down to smoldering embers. Outside, true dawn finally bled
rose gold across the marsh. Her fur prickled. The taste of the vision still
coated her tongue like copper and nightshade.
She whispered thanks to her shelter, then rose and climbed out of the
stump. Her eyes squinted against the light. A migraine already threatened
with the coming sun. She turned and trudged the path back toward the city.
She had to report what she had seen.
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Dec 3 17:03:26 2025
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Sun Dec 7 18:40:24 2025
Writer: Nathalos
Date Tue Dec 9 11:17:28 2025
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 9 12:06:03 2025
To Geirhart Lepidus Knighthood All Austinian Nadrik
Subject Virtues of the Knighthood, a Parable of the Past (I of II)
The Temple of Virtues stood silent beneath the pale glow of dawn, its
octagonal chamber carved from marble that shimmered like frozen moonlight.
Eight alcoves encircled the hall, each bearing a fresco that seemed to
breathe with ancient wisdom. I walked among them slowly, my boots
whispering against the stone, my heart heavy with the weight of the task
laid upon me.
In the first alcove, the Shepherd of Humility watched his flock beneath a
silver moon, crook in hand, his gaze tender and unassuming. In the second,
a pious man knelt before the shining ankh of Spirituality, his posture a
prayer carved in eternity. The third burned crimson with Valour, where a
knight stood upon a precipice, sword raised against a demon whose maw could
swallow the world. The fourth bore Justice, a judge enthroned beneath the
scales, a heart cradled in his left hand, his right raised in solemn decree.
The fifth showed Honesty, an open hand painted upon a wall, a mage pressing
his palm against it as if sealing a covenant. The sixth glowed with
Compassion, a bard giving alms to a beggar beneath a sun shaped like a
heart. The seventh was stark
and parched, the fresco of Sacrifice, where a soul poured his last water
into the mouth of another beneath a sky that held only one drop. The eighth
was Honour, though its paint was faded, its meaning clear, a knight kneeling
before a fallen foe, blade lowered in respect.
I stood before them, a squire clad in steel that still smelled of the forge,
summoned by the High Council to bear a burden I scarcely understood. Their
words had been iron.
Ride east, Squire Sorien. End the despots reign.
The despots name was whispered like a curse across the valleys, a warlord
whose banners burned villages and salted fields, whose men left ruin in
their wake. I bowed my head before the ankh and whispered, Grant me
strength, though I did not yet know what strength I would need.
The road east was a scar across the land. Villages lay in ash, fields
salted into sterility, banners of black and crimson fluttering like carrion
birds. The people spoke of the warlord with fear and hatred. They said she
was merciless, a butcher of innocents. I rode with my sword ready, my heart
hardened by duty.
At night, the frescos haunted me. I saw the Shepherd of Humility in my
dreams, crook in hand, tending his flock beneath the moon. A knight is no
tyrant, I thought. He serves, not rules.
The keep loomed like a broken tooth against the sky, jagged and defiant. I
entered expecting a beast in steel, a demon in flesh. Instead, I found a
child.
She stood at the far end of the hall, clad in armor too large for her frame,
its weight bending her shoulders. Her eyes were sharp as shattered glass,
her voice brittle iron.
Do it, Knight. End me like they ended him.
I lowered my blade. Who?
My father. Her chin trembled, through her words did not. They murdered
him The lord of the west. His men followed me because they loved him.
Because they could not forgive.
Her defiance cracked, and in that fracture I heard truth. The fresco of
Honesty burned in my mind, the open hand upon the wall. Truth is not always
spoken. Sometimes it bleeds through pain.
My sword trembled. The fresco of Justice rose before me, the judge with a
heart in one hand, scales above his throne. What is justice here? To kill
a child for vengeance not her own? Or to break the wheel of hate?
I thought of Sacrifice, the parched soul pouring his last water for another.
Could I give something of myself to save her? My meager savings, the coin I
had hoarded for a horse of my own, could that buy her a future?
And then Compassion, the bard giving alms beneath a heart-shaped sun. I saw
her not as a warlord, but as a child robbed of childhood. My blade lowered.
I spoke of Spirituality, the man kneeling before the shining ankh. There is
a path beyond blood, I told her. Not in steel, but in thread.
She stared, uncomprehending, as I led her from the keep.
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 9 12:09:51 2025
To Geirhart Lepidus Knighthood All Austinian Nadrik
Subject Sorien: Virtues of the Knighthood, a Parable of the Past (II of II)
The air was tainted with the harsh smell of dyes. Thick pieces of fabric
hung from the walls, All different shapes and sizes. Several large vats sat
toward the back of the shop. Gnomes worked silently, stretching thread
across boxes, bolts of cloth stacked high like towers of color.
Ramhiller, the shopkeeper, stood measuring a piece of fabric from a great
bolt. His clothes were perfectly tailored to his size, and his noble
bearing belied his humble trade.
I placed a pouch of coins on his counter. For her apprenticeship, I said.
Teach her to weave, not to war. He looked at the girl, then at me, and
nodded.
In the end, I failed in my task. I did not kill her. I gave her every coin
I owned and walked her to Althainia, to the dye-scented halls of Althainian
iles. Sometimes, when rushing back to Gareth, I do stop by Althainian
iles. She is a kind young woman now, where she works diligently earning
her coin. She measures fabric instead of lives. Her hands weave cloth, not
war.
The eight frescos still stand in the Temple, but I know now, they are not
walls. They are doors. And I walked through them.
Writer: Pror
Date Fri Dec 12 19:42:23 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 12 21:04:52 2025
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Dec 13 10:30:27 2025
To All Austinian NewThalos
Subject The First Law I
The practice yard rang with the dull crack of wood on wood.
Ezekyle stood barefoot in the dust, sleeves rolled, hair damp with sweat,
gripping a splintered practice sword. He was young still. Broad-shouldered
already and tall for his age. His arms burned and his breath came hard.
Across from him, another squire hesitated.
Again, Ezekyle said.
They came at him, one after another. Wooden blades, clumsy footwork,
shouted challenges. Ezekyle met them all. He drove them back with tight,
disciplined strikes, forcing mistakes, knocking swords from hands. One
fell. Another yielded. A third staggered away, nursing a bruised wrist.
The yard slowly emptied.
Only then did Ezekyle notice the silence.
His father stood at the edge of the arena, arms folded, watching. He wore
plain training clothes, the same as Ezekyle, but there was a firmness in his
stare Ezekyle was not familiar with at this stage in his life.
Enough, his father said. Ezekyle straightened, chest heaving. He nodded,
respectful but proud. His father stepped into the ring and picked up a
practice sword.
Face me.
The first strike came before Ezekyle could settle his stance.
Wood slammed against wood. Ezekyle barely blocked, stumbling back. His
father pressed him immediately. He struck with clean, efficient blows that
never wasted motion. Ezekyle countered, faster now, desperate to prove
something. It didnt matter. Every attack was read, turned aside, and
punished.
He went down.
They reset. Again, he went down.
And again.
Each time Ezekyle tried to adjust. He changed footing, altered timing,
struck harder, faster, but nothing worked. His father never raised his
voice. Never showed anger. He simply defeated him, over and over, driving
him into the dirt.
Finally, Ezekyle lowered his sword.
Im done, father. He said, breath ragged. Im getting hungry.
He turned to leave the ring.
The blow struck his back before he took three steps.
Ezekyle spun, panic flaring as his father advanced without pause. There was
no signal. No mercy. The training sword cracked across his guard, his
shoulder, his ribs. Ezekyle retreated blindly, fear mixing with exhaustion.
He tried to run. He tried to shield. He tried to fight.
Nothing stopped it.
The yard felt smaller. The air thicker. Each strike drove the lesson
deeper into his bones: strength alone was not enough. Skill was not enough.
Wanting was not enough.
At last, Ezekyle collapsed to one knee, sword slipping from his hand. His
arms shook. His vision swam. He had nothing left.
His father stopped.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Ezekyles breathing.
Then his father spoke, calm and steady.
You may never win the fight, he said. But you are not allowed to give up.
He set the practice sword down and turned away, leaving Ezekyle alone in the
dust aching and humiliated.
Ezekyle stayed there until the yard emptied, the words burning deeper than
any bruise.
He never forgot them.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Dec 13 10:40:22 2025
To All Austinian NewThalos
Subject The First Law II
You may never win the fight, but you're not allowed to give up.
Ezekyle repeats the words under his breath as he tightens the strap on his
practice armor. The leather is worn thin from use, the buckle bent slightly
out of shape. It was not made for him. Nothing here is.
His days as a servant of Austinian are quiet and unremarkable. He copies
scripture until his fingers cramp. He drills with a wooden mace under the
watchful eyes of men who correct more than they praise. He cleans floors
that will be dirty again by morning. No one asks his opinion. No one
should.
Faith, he is learning, is not proven in moments of glory.
The lesson comes when he is sent alongside a senior cleric to deliver last
rites to a condemned man. The crime is real. The evidence is clear. The
sentence has already been passed. Ezekyle is there only to observe and
assist.
The man is calm. Too calm. He asks whether Austinian truly cares for law
more than mercy. Whether Nadrik watches those who fall through the cracks
of justice. Whether goodness survives when the outcome is already decided.
Ezekyle does not answer.
He is not qualified to.
The senior cleric recites the rites precisely, without deviation. There is
no cruelty in it, but there is no comfort either. When it is done, they
leave the cell exactly as they found it.
Outside, Ezekyle feels something twist in his chest.
He wants the world to be cleaner than it is. He wants justice to be simple.
He wants faith to fix things.
But his fathers voice rises unbidden, steady and merciless.
You may never win the fight.
That night, Ezekyle prays longer than required. He does not ask why the law
is harsh, or why evil persists, or why the gods remain distant.
He asks only for the strength to stay.
Good Father, I do not ask to win. I do not ask to be spared, or praised, or
understood. If law must be carried, give me the strength to carry it. If
justice must be silent, give me the strength to endure it. If the road you
set before me ends in duty, let me walk it without pride. If it ends in
sacrifice, let me face it without fear. If goodness must be small and
unnoticed, let me not despise it. If it must be broken, let it break
through me and go no further.
I ask only this:
Do not let me stop.
Drive me where you will.
Writer: Seyzule
Date Sun Dec 14 09:43:17 2025
To Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP )
Subject Vallentales : Mending Sails
It was only one small tear in the sails. Seyzule knew that the port
entrance would be difficult to navigate into, yet she steered the ship as if
she were going to Tropica's port, with that port sitting away from the
coast, inviting ships to dock. The turn was too sharp, and the sail
strained as it caught the wind turning the other direction against the
sheltered coastline. A snap and crack was All it took for Seyzule to
register her mistake in that most difficult turn. The sail split at a
weakened point.
She wanted to show her complete competence, but in her hurry, she erred.
Fortunately, none were hurt, and repairable damage occurred. The mark of
her moment of inattention haunted her the rest of the voyage. Now, she had
to fix the signs of her mistake by repairing the sail.
Down in the hull, she fished through the crates to find the sail mending
supplies: sharp antler needles, strong thread, and spare sail. With those
items gathered, she took the main mast and set about repairing the sail.
With the help of a few crew members, she loosened the sail to the deck.
Section by section, she worked with the aid of other crew members to find
any new weak points and reinforce the stitching of the sail. Her mind was
on the main visible tear, but she knew there might be smaller ones where
Turpa's wind, no, it is Zandreya's wind now, could expose their flaws.
As she worked, she finally saw the point of shame, that one main tear. It
was not very large compared to the rest of the sail, but it was glaring.
With the threaded needle, she worked on the patch of canvas to strengthen
the weakened fabric at the tear. Repeatedly, she worked stitches into the
patch with her webbed fingers, sealing and reinforcing the tear.
The work continued until the whole sail was examined and repaired. Upon
completion, she and the rest of the crew tightened the lines and secured the
sail back to the mast, ready for the next voyage.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Dec 14 20:05:29 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:27:16 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:29:32 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:35:46 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 22:53:26 2025
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Dec 15 11:10:23 2025
To All Imms Austinian
Subject The Second Law
The cart creaks as it moves, its wooden wheels catching on stones and
ruts left by weeks of neglect. Ezekyle grips the handles harder than he
needs to. The smell never leaves his clothes anymore.
Dalakard walks beside him, younger in the eyes if not in years. He is
quieter than usual today.
After a long stretch, Dalakard finally speaks. Do you ever wonder why we
keep doing this?
Ezekyle does not answer at first. They stop at another body. It was thin,
wrapped poorly, already stiff. Together they lift it onto the cart. Wood
groans. Leather straps tighten.
Dalakard continues, voice low. The gods are falling silent. It feels like
the world is losing faster than we can help.
Ezekyle exhales through his nose and after a long moment of staring off in
the distance, he replies, My grandfather had a vineyard.
Dalakard looks at him, confused, but does not interrupt.
He laid wide stone paths through it, Ezekyle continues as they walk. Right
through the middle. You could see them from one end to the other.
Dalakard tilts his head. Wouldnt that ruin the yield?
It did, Ezekyle says. Some.
Then why do it?
They start pushing again.
He always told my father to build for the future you wish for.
Ezekyle remembers sun-warmed stone beneath bare feet. The sound of laughter
carrying between the vines. His grandfather standing at the edge of the
field, hands on his hips, smiling as children ran the paths meant just for
them.
He wanted to watch us play. His grandchildren. Ezekyle says. So he made
room for it amongst the vines.
Dalakard nods slowly. He sounds like a good man.
Yes, Ezekyle replies.
They stop again. Another body. Then another. The cart grows heavier.
The road bends, and the land beside it opens into long, ordered rows. Posts
lean where they should stand straight. Vines lie tangled and unkept.
Between them, pale stone breaks through the dirt in long, familiar lines.
They lift another corpse.
The yield mattered less than the hope, Ezekyle says quietly, more to
himself than to Dalakard.
Dalakard slows, not hearing Ezekyle as he looks out at the landscape next to
them. Ezekyle this place-
I know, Ezekyle says quietly.
They move on, pushing the cart along what remains of a forgotten vineyard,
torn but standing, its paths still wide enough for children who will never
run them.
And Ezekyle does not stop.
Writer: Nathalos
Date Mon Dec 15 11:50:34 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Sat Dec 20 14:17:31 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Sat Dec 20 14:33:47 2025
Writer: Kayla
Date Sun Dec 21 12:54:02 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Tribal Elder 1
The humid breath of Tropica's jungle wrapped around Kayla like a living
shroud, thick with the scent of rotting orchids and rain soaked earth. She had
crossed the churning strait between the southern coast of Althainia and Tropica
by rickety skiff, guided by scribbled maps she keeps. Her calico fur matted with
salt spray she is now deep in the emerald labyrinth, vines tugging at her cloak
as she pushes forward with golden eyes scanning the undergrowth for signs of the
old leonine tribes, forgotten kin who might hold the secrets she seeks. Her
whiskers twitch at every rustle, the old tongue of leonine ready on her lips for
parley. She prayed silently, let this green path lead to enlightenment.
The canopy above wove a perpetual twilight, pierced by shafts of golden
light where ancient kapoks pierced the sky. Kayla's clawed toes sank into the
leaf litter, silent as a shadow, but the jungle was alive with hidden eyes. She
paused at a stream, preparing to cross with a bound, when the air shifted and a
low growl sounded from the vegetation. With the snap of a twig, before she could
whirl, powerful forms erupted from the ferns. Wemics, their lionine bodies sleek
and muscled, tawny fur rippling over quadrupedal frames. Three of them, hunters
with bone tipped spears and necklaces of fangs, encircled her in a blur of
motion.
"Intruder!" snarled the lead wemic, his mane bristling, voice a rumble in
old leonine tongue. His spear hovered at her throat, while the others flanked,
their tails lashing. Kayla froze, hands raised, her own tail curling
submissively. "Peace, kin of the pride," she replies in the old tongue, her
words laced with the accent of distant swamps. "I am Kayla, felar of the mother.
I seek the wisdom of the tribes, not their blood."
The lead hunter's emerald eyes narrowed, sniffing the air. "A wanderer from
Althainia's mires? Your scent carries death's shadow." But he lowered his spear
fractionally, gesturing with a massive paw. "Bind her. The Elder will judge."
Rough vines looped around her wrists, not cruelly but firmly, and they prodded
her forward through the underbrush, their powerful strides forcing her to trot.
Writer: Kayla
Date Sun Dec 21 12:54:49 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Tribal Elder 2
As they emerged into a hidden glade, the tribe's encampment unfolded with
thatched huts on stilts, woven from palm and vine, encircled by a palisade of
sharpened stakes. Smoke curled from cooking fires, and the air hummed with the
chatter of felar and wemics alike while kits tumbled in play. Kayla's gaze
sharpened on the drying racks. There, strung between poles, were the scaled
hides of bakali young, their cobra like hoods peeled back, skins glistening with
curing salts. Nearby, slabs of reptilian meat hung over smoldering embers, the
faint metallic tang of venom lingering in the smoke. Her heart quickened, these
were the cullings of serpent kin, proof she had found those who danced with
danger in the deep jungle.
They led her to the largest hut, where an ancient felar awaited, her
silvered fur etched with ritual scars, eyes milky with age yet sharp as thorns.
The medicine woman sat cross legged on a mat of woven reeds, surrounded by jars
of herbs and dried glands. "Untie her," she commanded in leonine, voice like
wind through dry bones. The wemics obeyed, retreating to the shadows after.
Kayla knelt, bowing her head. "Wise one, I come from Abaddon, seeking
knowledge of the bakali. I seek a cure to their bite, and my visions told me of
an ancient one."
The elder's whiskers quivered. "The bakali... ah, the scaled furies. The
young we cull for meat and hide, to keep our pride safe. Their bites paralyze,
and their tempers ignite like dry tinder. But the ancient ones, the colossal
serpents in the heart of the forest... their venom is legend. It can still a
heart or stir it from death's grasp, binding life and torpor in a single drop.
Dangerous to hunt, child. Many warriors return broken, or not at all."
Kayla leaned forward, golden eyes intent. "I seek to cure that power. For
trade, what would you ask for the glands of the culled?"
The medicine woman pondered, then nodded. "You will give your knife, and
your hands. Take the sacks of venom from the ones our hunters have brought." The
elder felar places fingers below her chin against both sides of her throat in
signal to where the organs reside. "Cut them free, and you will have what you
seek. When you are done, give thanks to the mother, and be gone."
The elder felar points with purpose to the exit of her hut, the bone
jewlery about her wrist and arm sounding as the wemics emerge from the shadows
to usher Kayla away. She spends the remainder of her day cleaning and skinning
the day's kill, speaking to the hunters and her tribal kin. When the task was
done she wraps the harvested glands in the leaf of a giant taro, tying her prize
with vines. She gives thanks, as directed, and leaves the pride's glade north to
find the coast once more.
Writer: Pror
Date Sun Dec 21 20:43:17 2025
Writer: Pror
Date Sun Dec 21 21:41:36 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Dec 22 14:08:04 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Dec 22 14:14:39 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Tue Dec 23 18:59:49 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XVI
The warmth of the fire in the Abbot's study felt strange after the bitter
winds outside. The room was small but comforting with plush chairs gathered
near the hearth and magical gloves of light floating overhead, causing the
faint shimmer of crystals braided into the Abbot's dark hair catching the
glow. A simple altar rested in the corner, its surface dusted with frost.
Ulyssus stood before the large oak desk, his staff held respectfully at his
side. The Abbot sat in his padded leather chair, eyes closed, his golden
robe humming softly with enchantment. For a moment the elderly elf simply
breathed, serene as the mountain itself.
Then his eyes opened, gentle and knowing.
"You have walked a long road, Ulyssus MacAllen, " the Abbot murmured.
"Longer still than you expected when you first climbed these steps. "
Ulyssus dipped his head. "Aye. And now Ai 'ave step'd aside frum tha
Conclave proper, ef onlae fer a toime. Tue learn roightlae tha ways o' Lord
Kantilles aes priest, nae onlae wizard. "
The Abbot rose, the firelight playing across the runes embroidered
in green along his sleeves. He moved with the ageless grace of his kind,
circling the desk to stand before Ulyssus.
"A sabbatical, the world below would call it. But here, in these halls, we
name it by its truer word, Transformation. "
He lifted a hand, laying his palm upon Ulyssus's brow. A thin ribbon of
radiance spilled from his fingertips, bright and cold as moonlight on ice.
Ulyssus felt it sink into him, familiar, and yet different. Not the studied
precision of alteration, but something gentler and deeper.
"You were always meant to serve Kantilles in both paths, " the Abbot said
softly. "But magic must be honored in its fullness. You put aside your
robes to learn humility, devotion, and the divine breath that runs beneath
all spells. And you have done so. "
Ulyssus exhaled, frost curling from his lips.
"Then am I truly to serve Lord Kantilles named as priest, Abbot? "
The Abbot gave a small, serene smile.
"Yes. From this day, you stand in the Light of Kantilles as one of His
clergy. Tha magic you wield will answer you as priest and wizard alike.
But to return to your Tower... "
He paused, eyes bright as polished crystal.
"that road you must walk yourself. Not in defiance of the Conclave's ways,
but in demonstration of mastery of the divine magic of Lord Kantilles. When
you have proven to them, and to yourself, that these paths can live as
one... Then the Ivory Tower will open its doors to you once more. "
The words settled on Ulyssus like fresh snowfall.
He knelt before the small altar. The Abbot placed a crystal shard into his
hands, glowing with a faint white aura.
"Rise now, Ulyssus MacAllen, priest of Kantilles. Go forth, Vizier of the
Whitethough you walk without clan name for a season. Your path is
not broken, only bending, as All rivers must, before they meet the sea. "
Ulyssus stood slowly, staff shimmering with new light, the Abbot's blessing
lingering like frost upon his skin.
A sabbatical. A metamorphosis. A step away... So he might return
stronger.
And beyond the study door, the crystalline halls of the monastery waited,
resonant, bright, and ready to send him back into the world forever changed.
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 23 21:02:39 2025
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 23 21:02:44 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Dec 24 14:18:17 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 26 16:51:06 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 26 16:55:33 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Jan 2 15:25:48 2026
To All Conclave T'asha Piknim Symantha - ( Imm Drakkara Admin Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Death of Thindyss (Shiegnath) Ka'tath?
Clutching to my symbol of Drakkara, I began my final preparations, having
transferred power in the most ceremonial way possible little was left to be.
Instructions and research notes were given on his project but one note was
omitted, the cost. Wealth cast to the wind, possessions forfeit I set down
the symbol I clutched on the alter ready to give myself to Her as I came
into this world.
As much was left undone as was left done, it was only a short time ago that
memories of childhood flooded back upon seeing symbol of the Ka'tath in the
Shinalstin mural room. Uncovering a hidden floorboard within his childhood
house missives oddly written, "The moon sets on the blue orchard, waves of
sun rises on the pink rose." All stamped with that crest, Ka'tath. As I
child I wrote it off as hidden and odd hobby of my overbearing parents and
assumed Ka'tath was a pseudonym. Seeing that crest there, I knew the truth,
the reason for my capture, imprisonment on Shokono, the depths of my
despair, the hidden letters, the only piece I was unaware is if they led or
were lead.
None of it mattered now peering down at the telescope, scepter, and the
altar. All magic had a cost energy replenished daily, small fragments of
ourselves, the greater the magick the higher the cost. To bear one's own
dreams into the world through magick alone a sacrifice of equal value had to
be forfeit. It is the reason you do not see this magick, for the sacrifice
of another, even of those you love, is not enough. Looking down at the
telescope I had forged I knew that my life would be the regent for a new
future.
Activating the runes on the telescope the shaft transformed into a tip sharp
enough to pierce the scales of an ancient dragon. I climbed onto the alter
grasping the scepter and lying it across my body and plunged the tip into my
heart. Hues of purple, magenta, and deep red faded into blackness. Thud.
Thud.. Thud... Thud.... Was that my heart?..... For a moment I thought a
saw a figure, no just blood being coughed up from my mouth onto my eyes.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Jan 3 22:25:47 2026
Writer: Calreth
Date Sun Jan 4 14:02:53 2026
To All (Imm RP)
Subject A Practical Error in Perception
He thought illusion would begin with study. With diagrams, careful
gestures, the slow obedience of light. Instead, it arrived All at once,
unexpectedly.
He stepped into the Room of Somnolence at its center and suddenly there were
others. Dozens of him, each occupying the same breath of space. One leaned
against the wall with his posture. One sat on the floor and looked up with
his eyes, his real eyes. Another stood close enough that he could feel the
warmth of its body, as real as flesh. When he reached out, his hand passed
through nothing.
His heart hammered. The visions did not blur or fade. They breathed apart
from him, gestured apart from him. These were no mirror images.
Then the floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by stone slick with
moisture and age. A cavernous ceiling loomed overhead. No! He cried.
Mineral, damp, old. He sucked in a breath and tasted iron where there
should have been dust.
Stop, he thought. Focus.
His hands disappeared.
Not faded. Not cloaked. Simply gone. He could still feel his fingers
flex, still feel the slight drag of air across his skin, but there was
nothing to see. Panic surged hot and immediate. He turned his palms
upward, downward, pressed them together, desperate for confirmation. His
hands touched. The sensation was unmistakable. Yet there was no sign of
them.
He looked down at his chest. It followed. His legs. His feet. The world
remained, sharp and present, but he was being erased from it piece by piece.
A sound tore from his throat before he could stop it, sharp and instinctive,
a hiss he was not meant to make. The sound echoed too loudly in the small
space, and terror followed close behind it. His breath came faster. Too
fast. He pressed his lips together, one hand rising to his mouth by reflex,
even though he could not see it.
Not here. Not now.
He forced himself to stillness.
Slowly, deliberately, he breathed. He imagined weight settling into his
limbs. The cavern dissolved. The extra selves blinked out one by one, like
candles pinched between unseen fingers. The room returned, bare walls and
scattered notes, the dull comfort of ordinary space.
His body followed last. A faint outline first, like heat rising from stone.
Then substance. Then skin.
He sagged against the table, fingers digging into the wood. His hands
shook, but they were there. Visible. Acceptable.
He wiped his brow, careful to keep his breathing even, and allowed himself a
thin, controlled smile. He would need to get the hang of this.
Writer: Hindera
Date Sun Jan 4 17:47:20 2026
To All Ganth ( IMM ADMIN RP Religion Raije Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject Raije Sets The Path
I remember the moment our paths crossed as clearly as the sound of my own
breath within the stone halls.
He stood near the entrance, a minotaur broad of shoulder and plainly
traveled, his fur matted with road dust and age. There was nothing
remarkable in his appearance at first glance. No ornate armor, no proud
markings, only the quiet posture of one who had wandered long without
direction. When his dark eyes lifted to meet mine, I saw hesitation rather
than defiance, a strength held back by doubt.
"You seek Raije. " I said, not as a question, but as recognition.
He shifted his weight before nodding, his voice low when he spoke of unease
that followed him from place to place. He did not claim visions or divine
signs, only a persistent feeling that his path had gone astray. He feared
the gods would have little interest in someone whose life had been shaped by
labor, conflict, and survival rather than devotion.
I answered him as a priest, but also as a minotaur who had once stood in the
same uncertainty. I told him Raije is not drawn to spectacle, nor to those
who shout their faith. Raije listens for resolve, for the will to endure,
to learn, and to take responsibility for ones strength.
I spoke of the god as a steady presence, like stone beneath the hooves,
demanding honesty above comfort. I told him that faith is not a reward for
the flawless, but a burden willingly carried by those who choose purpose
over drifting.
When his head bowed, it was not submission, but relief. I placed my hand
upon his arm and turned him toward the long road beyond the gates.
"Go that way. " I said. "Walk with intention. Pay attention to what tests
you, not what flatters you. If Raije has any claim upon you, it will be
made clear when you are asked to endure. "
He departed without ceremony, his steps heavier but surer than before. I
remained behind, offering a quiet prayer, not for certainty, but for
perseverance. For in the service of Raije, it is endurance, not certainty,
that marks the faithful.
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