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Writer: Piknim
Date Fri Mar 21 13:54:12 2025
To All Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti_Kingdom Marauders Tamello ( storyline imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject The War Below - Vexation
"And how, pray tell, did a bunch of Marauders slip through our
circumvallation of Fort Ironclad?" Piknim demanded with a promise of
punishment creeping into her tone. The Witch-Queen pursed her lips into an
exaggerated scowl. "Somebody is to blame for this vexation!"
"A system of tunnels left by the sand-wurm or dug by engineers, perhaps. We
cannot discount the possibility that some force elements were operating
beyond the walls beforehand, such as Mruz's ogre battalion, and eluded
discovery by alliance scouts," a human tactician posited adroitly.
"Regardless, Marauders made no effort to hide a series of new camps in their
northern territory - here, here, and here - erected to safeguard and supply
operations beneath the surface."
"Push them back! Surround the camps one by one and crush them!" Piknim
ordered in reply, striking the flat of her hand upon the table with a rattle
and toppling of wooden figurines. She composed herself before affecting a
wide smile. "I want whomever survives the tunnels to receive a warm
Verminasian welcome."
"By your command, my Queen. I suggest night assaults by Shalonesti infantry
or Verminasian goblins. They fight well in the dark. Alliance cavalry will
screen reinforcements from the south and sever supply lines."
A uniformed courier slipped through the door, handing off a parcel of
dispatches before leaving as discreetly as he entered. "Word from Captain
Tamello," an aide declared, spreading open a parchment scroll, "His
exploration of the underground proceeds apace." Murmurs of approval filled
the room in response.
Piknim tapped a sharp fingernail to her chin thoughtfully. "Ironclad is a
filthy mess. Leadership largely absent, but for Fred and Khal. Morale's
gotta be in baaad shape. Here, in the northern territory, they're
overextended and outnumbered," she mused aloud, walking paired fingertips
across the map of Arkania. "We hold every advantage. Let's attack Ironclad
sooner than later, shall we? Wouldn't want the defenders to grow bored!"
"A most benevolent judgment, my Queen."
In the subterannean reaches of Arkania, a solitary Lepori continued his Long
Patrol in search of clues to the machinations of Chaos on an existential
path to discovering the Darkness within himself.
Upon the distant horizon, flashes of light from naval blockade cannonfire
mingled with the crash of siege projectiles as the gears of war turned
inexorably, intent on grinding Fort Ironclad into dust.
All the while, Zandreya's storm wailed and whorled about the tainted edifice
of Raije, a vortex of vengeance for nature defiled.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri Mar 21 16:21:16 2025
Writer: Amex
Date Sat Mar 22 02:15:28 2025
To All Verminasia (IMM DRAKKARA RP)
Subject A man with a purpose.
The dim, flickering light of a single oil lamp barely illuminated the
sprawling vaults of Verminasia. Shadows danced along the ancient stone
walls, their movements eerie and alive in the cavernous silence. Amex sat
hunched over a sturdy oak table, his calloused hands expertly working a
needle through the coarse sharkskin leather. Each stitch of the saddle he
crafted was meticulous, imbued with his unwavering devotion to Drakkara, the
Mother and Goddess of Darkness.
"Great Drakkara," Amex murmured, his voice low and reverent, almost
swallowed by the gloom. "In your infinite wisdom, you have seen fit to
guide me here, to this sacred place, where darkness cradles the soul and
blinds the eyes of the unworthy. For this, I am forever grateful."
The needle in his hand gleamed faintly as he drew it through the tough
leather, the waxed thread pulling taut with a soft hiss. He paused,
pressing the material firmly into place before continuing his prayer. "You
have blessed me with purpose and strength, oh Mother of Shadows. You have
shielded me from the empty, blinding light that seeks to consume the world.
You have given me the skill to craft, to create, to serve your will."
Writer: Erindor
Date Sat Mar 22 21:03:43 2025
To All Calithie Triendal Eridessa
Subject Erindorial Ira: Progress of Ullfe Dorei
The moon hung high over Ullfe Dorei, casting silver light upon the yard.
Erindor Ira, of house Shalonost stood alone, blade in hand, breath steady
and focused. For months, he had struggled, his swordplay lacking the grace
of his peers. Each duel had left him frustrated, his talent in magic a poor
substitute.
But he was not one to accept failure, his mind was sharp, his will unshaken.
If the sword alone eluded him, then he would forge a path that was his own.
Magic coursed through his veins, strong for his age, yet still growing.
He would not abandon steelhe would wield both, as one.
He started small, reinforcing movements with subtle bursts of arcane might.
A whisper of magic steadied his stance, a flicker quickened his strikes.
His blade, once sluggish, now moved with precision guided by careful spellwork.
Day after day, he refined his technique, blending arcane with discipline.
Months passed, and his duels grew longer, his failures, fewer.
No longer was he the struggling noble child, always a step behind.
His instructors took notice, watching as he carved his own path.
Even Syravel, his longtime rival, began to acknowledge his growth.
One evening, beneath the silver glow of the academys lanterns, they met again.
Syravel struck first, his blade moving swift, his stance practiced and sure.
Erindor countered, his movements fluid, guided by steel and spell alike.
Sparks flew as magic flickered along his blade, his steps no longer hesitant.
Their blades clashed in a fierce exchange, neither yielding ground.
Then, with a final surge of arcane-fueled speed, Erindor turned the tide.
His sword twisted in a perfect counter, disarming Syravel in a single motion.
Silence followed, broken only by their heavy breaths in the crisp night air.
Syravel stared at him, then gave a slow nod of respect. Erindor stood tall,
no longer a boy struggling with the sword. At last, after months of effort,
he had found his waysteel and magic as one.
Writer: Sesa
Date Sun Mar 23 18:33:51 2025
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Mar 24 01:37:28 2025
To All Calithie Eridessa Triendal
Subject Changes in the Mirror
The evening air was still, the soft glow of lanterns casting warm light.
Erindor sat across from Eridessa, watching her as she braided her hair.
For as long as he could remember, she had been his reflection, his twin.
Their features had always mirrored one another, two halves of the same whole.
Yet now, he saw the changes, subtle but undeniable. The softness of her face,
the way her form had begun to shift, curves where once there were none.
She carried herself differently too, a quiet confidence settling in her form.
Erindor's gaze lingered, realization settling over him like a gentle tide.
Had her hands always been so delicate compared to his own? So slender?
And himself, were his shoulders always this broad, his frame less willowy?
The tunic that once fit loosely now pulled at his arms, his stance felt firmer.
The shift was gradual, but now, sitting here, he could finally see it.
Eridessa caught his lingering stare and tilted her head, a knowing smirk.
"Something on my face, Rin?"
He hesitated, then exhaled softly. "For as long as I can remember, Des, when
I saw you, I saw me, though it seems you've changed."
She raised a brow, amused. "And you haven't?"
He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I suppose I have."
For years, they had been near reflections. Now, they were becoming themselves.
Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 12:23:24 2025
Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 14:22:43 2025
Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 14:40:53 2025
Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 18:23:35 2025
Writer: Ghaoshen'ite
Date Wed Mar 26 09:13:42 2025
To Fredrik ( Marauders Kwainin All )
Subject The Iron comes to Court.
The doors of the Crystal Court groaned open, not from rust or disrepair,
but from reverence--a warning that something weighty approached.
Fredrik, High Lord of the Marauders, stepped through the archway and into a
sanctum unlike any he had known. No hall of kings nor war council chamber
compared to this. The moment he crossed the threshold, the silence pressed
in, not oppressive but expectant. It was as if even sound had to seek
permission to speak here.
He walked alone, his boots echoing across a floor of flawless, enchanted
ice. It reflected not only his form but the architecture above: a vaulted
ceiling glimmering with stained glass depictions of ancient myths and
history: creation, balance, ruin, redemption. The sigil of Kwainin, a pair
of scales encircled by the sun and moon, glowed steadily at the far north
wall, casting golden and silver hues down upon the courtroom. Emerald light
danced alongside it, making the frozen walls shimmer with spectral breath.
Massive mirrors and rune-carved crystals flanked the chamber, mounted in
articulated arms of ancient design. They pivoted slightly as he passed,
bending light with precision to spotlight the center aisle. Every step
Fredrik took felt marked, measured. To his left: a jet-black slab of
obsidian, reflecting his silhouette like a shadow unbound. Accusation.
Punishment. To his right: a pristine table of white Carrara marble. Truth.
Clarity. Between them stood a dark lectern of the same black glass, pulsing
with silent magic.
And beyond that...
She waited.
The Judges Perch rose like a mountain of crystalline judgment, carved from a
single block of flawless ice, its surface alive with veins of glowing
arcanium. Frost-laced stairs led up to its platform vast and regal where
Ghaoshen'ite, the Jurist of Kwainin, rested in her full, prismatic glory.
Her scales shimmered like living stained glass, refracting the multicolored
light of the chamber into countless, mesmerizing halos. Her wings, tucked
with grace and power, glimmered with light caught in endless motion. And
her eyes, those molten opals watched him not with hostility, but with the
weight of eternity.
Fredrik stopped before the lectern. His armor, heavy with history, clicked
faintly as he moved. The Court's stillness made every motion resonate like
a declaration.
He looked up at the ancient Crystal Dragon upon her judge's bench.
"You have requested a history of Ironclad," he said, his voice resonating
with the lectern's subtle magic, reaching every bench and alcove of the
grand court.
The light shifted. Mirrors adjusted. The sigil of Kwainin glowed brighter.
Ghaoshen'ite regarded him in silence. Her crystalline crests caught the dim
light and refracted it into radiant arcs above her.
Then, with a voice like cold bells and shifting glaciers, she spoke:
"Yes. Tell me everything--even the things you do not think are important."
Writer: Erindor
Date Wed Mar 26 13:53:44 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Calithie Triendal Eridessa
Subject Erindorial Ira: Secret Night training at Ullfe Dorei
The moon hung high over Ullfe Dorei, its pale light spilling over the glade.
Erindor moved with practiced silence, placing a pillow where he would lay,
placing Eridessa's hand atop before slipping past the watchful Kyorl guard.
The night belonged to him alone, these stolen hours of solitude and growth.
He reached the secluded clearing, the air humming with latent magic.
Drawing a breath, he summoned a flicker of arcane energy to his fingertips.
With a sharp motion, he sent a bolt of force toward a distant marker.
It struck true, shattering the wooden post with a quiet, satisfying crack.
But offense alone was never enough. He turned, raising his shield, bracing.
An unseen force of his own creation lashed back at him, a conjured test.
He pivoted swiftly, his movements fluid, elegant, like a dancer in the dark.
Each dodge, a blend of instinct and precision, left him just out of harm's
reach.
His sword followed, tracing arcs of silver light, parrying unseen blows.
Sweat beaded at his brow, but his mind was clear, his form steady.
Every step, every motion, wove together the grace of his lineage and his will.
In the hush of the night, beneath the watchful stars, he honed his craft.
A nobles son, an arcanist, a swordsman, walking the path he carved alone.
Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:22:35 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Part I )
---Capital City, Shalonesti Kingdom---
The owl flew through the verdant Vallenwood forest with only its night
vision and the luminescent currents to guide him. Landing on a branch it
surveyed the gates of Shalonesti. Eyes like two pale lunar orbs reflected
the hallowed gleam from below. The gates to the elven capitol, beautiful in
their weave and ancient in design, were closed as a group of Sha'falas stood
like silent sentinels before it. Taking flight once more, the owl soared
across the city to perch upon the Temple of Zandreya, the heart of the
ancient elven homeland. There it twisted its head this way and that to get
a full view of the Vallenwood tree, the Moon Tree as it was now called.
However, only a few years ago, this had been the site of something far more
twisted and demented. A tree of pain and anguish, born of elven flesh, had
been risen from the sanctified ground below. This was not the owl's final
destination however.
Grey wings with black stripes extended as the owl jumped and dived down
flying southeast towards the river. Starlight reflected off the
Shalinastra's placid waters. Yet the banks of this river were anything but
peaceful. More Sha'falas guards, dressed in the finest chainmail, patrolled
the eastern reaches of the river. Like ants moving in and out of the nest,
the guards were moving towards and from the roar of the waterfall. Coasting
on the currents of wind, the owl's form darted between rock and water into
the black depths of the cavern behind the river's curtain. There he was
greeted with a multitude of elvish figures wearing the symbols of different
houses.
Finding purchase on a rocky ledge, the owl watched the figures talking and
gesturing at a hole in the cavern floor. A noxious stench greeted the owl's
nostrils unlike anything it knew from its own home. Many of the figures
wore wrappings around their faces and a few were coming out of the entrance
to the tunnels below. Whatever was underneath Shalonesti certainly had
their attention. His mission complete, the owl again took flight out of the
cavern and into the night air. Gathering altitude, he cleared the ancient
forest canopy and headed south out of Shalonesti lands and into a secluded
valley near the mountain kingdom of Thaxanos.
Landing on the ground, the form of the owl twisted and cracked as the
feathers fell and the form of a goblin took shape in its place. Shaking off
the transformation, the green skinned figure mumbled and gestured calling
forth a portal in the space before him. His ragged form, a mix of animal
skins, bones, and other totems walked through the magical gate which closed
leaving a shimmering ripple in the air. The silence of the forest was
broken for just a moment by an owls hoot and the only witnesses to this
occurrence were the animals of the night.
---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---
Upon a throne of granite stone, covered in totemic offerings, reclined the
large form of the King of Darkonin. Drogan, Chieftain of the Bear Tribe,
looked down upon the goblin totemist with coal black eyes that burned with a
reddish hue like cooling embers. His white hair, cropped close to his head,
was clearly visible under the simple onyx circlet he wore as his crown. The
symbol of his Tribe, a bears paw, was marked in red ink upon his bare chest.
At his side, Heartpiercer, leaned upon the throne in easy reach of the
shaman king. His mood seemed neutral as Grok presented himself with respect
before his leader.
It is as the Witch Queen said, me King. Something bad is under the city.
Black ichor with an unnatural smell, something no goblin would make. Me not
know butsomething wrong in elven lands. Spirits of nature not balanced.
Them have many altars but not know why. Rivers of Light not seem to stop
the stench. That All me see.
Drogan nodded his head and said, 'Yus do gud, Grok of Raven Tribe. Me will
think on this. Tell no ones of yus flight or what yus see. Can go now,
Raven Spirit guide.'
Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:25:49 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Part II )
---Northern Desert, New Thalos---
The coyote scampered across the desert sands, its muzzle sniffing at
something unseen upon the wind. A metallic oily smell came to its senses
from over the next dune. As it crested the hill, a vision of carnage came
into view. Though old and picked over by vultures, the battle scene was
large. Bleached white bones with tatters of Thalosian uniforms laid next to
bloated bodies that not even the carrion feeders would pick at. The rank
smell coming from the Warplings was unmistakable. The coyote gave the
bodies a wide berth while taking in All she could. This task over, she
loped southwards to the city proper.
The Ishtar river was the lifeblood of the Althainian continent. Its rushing
waters ran from the far western fields and forests of the Haon Dor into the
arid desert kingdom of New Thalos where it emptied into the Arsataw Yaa
ocean. In ages past it had been a major water way but with the advent of
magical travel, it saw little use. Yet one function still remained, it
cleared the Thalosian sewers of refuse. The coyote padded along the western
riverbank towards the sewer entrance. An ancient grate secured the entrance
but a rusted bit iron was worn away enough for a small animal to enter.
Clearing the hole, the coyote found herself at the beginning of a network of
pipes and canals.
It did not take her long to pick up the odd smell from the twisting and
turning pipes of waste water. It started as a slick oily sheen and slowly
turned into a sludge and muck. It looked like viscous mud and smelled not
of the natural world. She watched as a rat ran along the opposite side, its
whiskers twitching. Catching sight of the coyote, it squeaked and in its
fear, lost its footing and fell into the sludge. The ooze acted like
quicksand and slowly the rat was consumed and vanished from view. A small
bubble rose up and popped in response. The coyote had seen enough here and
traced her trail back to the entrance.
The silent padding of the coyote in the sand changed into the sandaled feet
of a half ogress dressed in hides. The guttural sound of chanting could be
heard from under her cowl and then she vanished leaving only footprints in
the desert sand.
---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---
The half ogress kneeled before the throne of Darkonin and spoke, Hail my
chieftain. I have returned from the desert and found signs of Chaos. As
you commanded, I went to the northern dunes and did find some battle. I
then made my way to the sewers as instructed and found some sludge. While
near the city, I heard tell of more evidence in the sandworm tunnels but I
did not inspect them. The Thalosians are caught between many different
warring factions of divinity mlord. I sense the animal and land spirits
have left as the divine spirits have claimed more. Only the eldest nature
spirits remain.
Drogan appraised the totemist, her Bear paw tribal tattoo was placed clear
for All to see upon her throat. She was young but sought her heritage with
the zeal few could match. He would watch her progress.
The King grunted with approval and spoke in the ancient ogre tongue, I am
pleased in your work, Totemist Agluna. Your rise in the tribe is noted as
is your dedication to the Bear spirit. This task has ended but a new one
begins. As a tribeswoman of Bear, you went on your Spiritquest to find the
great Spirit. Now as totemist, you must become one with the Bear. Seek the
cavern on the southwest coast of Icewall. Master the Spirit within you.
Rage of Bear steel you, Agluna.
In the same ancient tongue a response was given from underneath the bearskin
cowl, Great Bear protect you, my King and Agluna left the audience chamber.
Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:28:51 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of {nDarkonin ( Part III )
---Southern Arkania---
A great moose lumbered through the green fields of the valley. Its majestic
antlers swayed from side to side as it walked through the tall grass. Soon
it reached a cavern entrance and stepped into the darkness within. There,
bubbling like a tar pit, was a pool of black ichor. Noxious fumes emanated
from it as it swirled and stewed. The moose stepped backwards as some of
the sludge splattered in front of it. Returning to the sunlit field, its
form condensed and shifted into that of an owl and flew off southward.
Winds and lightning crashed in a cacophony of sound that echoed around Fort
Ironclad making flying difficult for the owl. Swooping down it landed on a
parapet to survey the fort itself. Chaos ritual markings warred with
luminous streaks across the walls and paving stones of the Fort. From this
vantage point, the owl could see the warp beasts strung up as examples in
the courtyard below. The Marauders seemed to still be at war with some of
the Chaos beasts from the Everwar. On the flight over, the owl had noticed
bodies from the two factions strewn across the landscape like broken dolls.
Unfortunately for the owl, the winds and storms were too much for him to get
a closer inspection and so with a hoot, he flew off south towards the coast.
As he came upon the shoreline, he decided to keep his owl form and soar over
the blue waters on his way to Icewall. Spouts of water from whales sprayed
into the air. The fins of dolphins carved their way through the waves. The
owl continued as the frigid winds of Icewall welcomed him and Mount Darkonin
came into view.
---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---
An owl flew into the forge of Darkonin where Drogan stood smelting bars of
arcanium. Each bar was stamped with the seal of the Mountain kingdom and
stacked to the side. The king worked alone, enjoying the toil of his trade.
Changing form, the owl became an orcish shaman with alabaster skin who knelt
behind the Ogre chieftain.
"Mountain King, I have returned from my scouting with a report on Arkania.
"
Drogan took a rag from the floor and wiped the sweat from his brow. No
circlet crowned him, no mantle of the Bear was upon his shoulders, the king
stood plainly in front of the orc.
"Speak Ugluk of Wolf, what have yus senses found on Arkania? " asked the
king.
"As you said, there was a pool of something within a cavern north of the
Fort. It came from far below the earth. The spirit of the land seemed
poisoned by it. I then flew to Ironclad and witnessed the war between the
sigils of Chaos and the veins of light from Nadrik. Corpses of Warbeasts
were strung up as examples within the Fort. However I could not get close
to inspect the bodies. Zandreyas winds howled as loudly as the Wolf Spirit.
It was too dangerous and I had to leave. Im sorry, my King. " and the
shaman bowed his head. As he did, his wolf tooth necklace hung in the air.
"All am gud. This is known to mes and now you confirm. Me have All the
pieces and eyes where me needed them. Yus serve well. Bear protect yus.
"
"For the Pack, Majesty. " replied the orc as he departed.
Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:33:51 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Finale )
---Resting Room, Mount Darkonin---
A circle of shaman sat chanting on various animal furs within the room of
rest. Their guttural cries echoed high up into the chamber. Seated upon
their heads were various animal furs, feathers, or other totems representing
their various tribes. Smoke and incense swirled in the air making it
difficult to see. In the middle of the circle sat the shaman king, his eyes
closed with focused intent. He was painted in various icons; the black
wings of Raven, the white fur of Wolf, the yellow eyes of Leopard, the red
forked tongue of Snake, and his own Bear paw tattoo upon his chest. He felt
the unusual sensation of his spirit detaching from his body. While
practiced in the art, this was no usual spiritwalk. This was the Rite of
Seeing.
His astral form drifted above him, not the image of an ogre but of an ogres
large form with a bears head and claws. Fur covered his body and flaming
red eyes rested in translucent sockets. The spirit of Drogan rose up
through the mountain itself until he was soaring above its highest peak.
There, floating like a spectral entity, he focused his will upon the isle of
Tropica. With the utmost concentration, he willed his essence across
leagues of oceans to the beaches of that sun drenched land, then further
inland to the Warps stronghold.
Before the entrance to the Warp, in the material world, a large spire made
of flesh, bone, and blood rises into the Tropican sky. An oily plume of
smoke hovers over their stronghold at All times like an infernal furnace.
However within the Spirit Realm, the image that presented itself to Drogan
was far more grotesque and tortured. What rites the Warplings had done,
what spells they wrought, created a Soul Anchor.
There before him, were the twisted and agonized souls of every cultist who
had ever died. Their forms merged together into an amalgamation of their
former selves. The apparitions were spread out in the form of a tree
including tortured faces as its roots. A black sheen rose from them and
coalesced into ichor that seeped into the soil. Here then was the truth of
it all. For while the souls of other worshipers go on to heaven, hells, or
the in between, these souls remain to fuel the engine of Chaos works. Just
as Malachive died and his latent power was used by priests and cultists,
what knowledge they had gained was turned upon their very own. So now every
Malachive follower, alive or dead, served a greater purpose.
Drogan watched the eldritch horror too intently and had not realized strands
of the aura were making their way towards him. Sensing his astral form, the
tendrils lashed out and wrapped themselves around his wrists. Slowly they
pulled him towards the multitude of maws that opened and closed in silent
anguish. Fear crept into the Kings mind and he couldnt wrench himself free.
He could only watch in horror as the mouths closed in. Yet there, within
this mass, he saw the face of an orc, then a goblin, then an ogre. His
people, his people were trapped.
Long ago the rage had awakened in his soul. The Bear Spirit could be many
things but one of its greatest aspects was its anger. This is why he had
followed Mencius, this is why he now followed Fatale. So upon seeing the
suffering of his people, the All consuming power of Hate welled up within
him. An astral roar resounded from his muzzle and his teeth tore through
the spectral bindings. The black tendrils dissipated into oily ash and once
free his large bear claws tore at the tendrils that sought to bind his legs
and chest.
Drogans rage however did not dull his wisdom, he could not fight such an
entity here in its home plane. He had to retreat but it was a bitter one.
His form took flight from Tropica as black tendrils reached far into the air
behind him but they could not extend across oceans. The astral projection
returned to the Mountain and dissolved through the rock and stone back into
the flesh and blood of a furious King.
Writer: Asreel
Date Wed Mar 26 22:09:05 2025
To All Abaddon ( IMM RP Xenophon Fatale )
Subject The Macabre of Mystery
Asreel sat back as he looked at the boards placed in front of him. He
connected the strings into the various pieces of information. He began
writing notes in his journal that put words to the graphic.
In his notebook is scribbled with a bullet list:
1. Caustus wanted to replace the Queens. 2. Blood Wars and bringing to
heel the support. 3. Queen poisoned by Slayers. 4. Queens taken away by
the Eldercoven. 5. The Grail to restore the Queen of her affliction.
Asreel Paced back and forth through his room. He reflected to himself, "Why
does it matter that the Queen is poisoned and Caustus protect her?"
Asreel couldn't shake the sequence of events. He strolled the empty streets
of Abaddon. He found solace in this. He found that the roads possessed
memories and wisdom.
"His Will"
This was a constant whisper in his head.
"Patience"
This was the word that sat with Asreel. He sought the Tenet of Patience.
"Why now Caustus?"
Asreel spoke with perplexity and understanding. Caustus waited for the
disruption in the kingdom. He waited for the drama to unfold and like that,
the Macabre of the events of Abaddon unfolded. Leaders, Citizens, Wars,
Blood spilled becomes a great distraction.
"What is next?"
Asreel spoke with gleeful uncertainty as he pondered the edge of the
unknown. He pondered his role in this Act. He... He... He wondered to
venture outside the realm of the mundane into the realm of possibility.
Outside of the box thinking. Of course to Asreel falling in line was
typical. Caustus can identify typical. Can he identify unpredictable?
Asreel closed his book, grinned, to his next part of the Macabre.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Wed Mar 26 22:43:19 2025
Writer: Zecnys
Date Wed Mar 26 22:54:45 2025
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Thu Mar 27 13:45:53 2025
To All ( Immortal RP Drakkara Piknim Maccus )
Subject In Contemplation of Jerks
Sidorinath sat at the edge of Ezrianne's orchard in Sacnoth, long,
draconic fingers idly tracing a pattern in the dirt. The apple trees were
beginning to bloom, petals of white and pink trembling in the wind. The
scent of earth, pollen, and fermenting fruit from last seasons remnants hung
thick in the air. It was a perfect day for quiet contemplation - if only
her thoughts were so peaceful.
What made mortal beings so vicious in their judgment of others? Sidorinath
had seen how quickly a whisper could turn into a brand upon someone's soul,
how the weight of the past could be used as a weapon, long after someone had
changed.
What made them so eager to tear others apart with nasty, scathing chatter?
Was it boredom? Was it a desperate need to feel superior, to seem taller
than they were in their own life, that made them sink their teeth into
someone else's name and gnaw it to the bone? They always spoke with such
certainty when they hissed their insults, as if mistakes were carved into
stone, as if no one could rise from their own ruin. As if a man were only
the sum of his worst moments, stretched out like a hide on the butcher's
block for eternity, for All to sneer at.
Some people, she supposed, needed villains to blame, and once they found
one, they clung to it, feeding the fire until nothing but ash remained.
What would it take for those ridiculed to carve a new name for themselves in
the eyes of the condemning, to become unmarred by the missteps of their
past?
Or was such redemption impossible, and every step forward always destined to
be tethered to the weight of what came before?
The aggressors forgot, however, to give credit for the battles fought in
silence, the nights spent wrestling demons that left no visible scars. They
forgot the weight of regret, the way it settled in the bones, heavier than
any blade. They forgot that change was earned in sweat and blood of battle,
at the hands of countless hours spent with mentors, in the process of
discovering who one aspired to become, and also in the realization of who
one did not want to be. They dismissed the way those they mocked stood
their ground when no one watched, the decisions made in private, away from
prying eyes.
Sidorinath had watched those who spoke the right words in gossip falter when
the world tested them, while those rejected by the masses proved truer than
Light-smothered saints to those who truly knew them. She had seen those who
wore the mask of perfection crumble, while those who endured mockery rose
stronger, rebuilding themselves better than before.
Were those underdogs not the very ones worth allying with?
Mortals may judge, but the Dark Gods were the only jury she cared about.
They did not weigh a man by the whispers of lesser creatures, or in the
ever-shifting opinions of mortals. They did not tally up the scorn of the
faithless or the jeering of the weak. They looked at will. Strength. The
capacity for self-reflection and growth, the tenacity to claw forward when
every road was blocked: even when the general public was not privvy to the
effort.
If that was enough for the gods of the Infinite Night, then why should it
not be enough for her? Mortals were fickle and foolish, but the Firstborn
had long memories. Grace was given and reserved for those who sought to
improve themselves within Drakkara and her sons.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Sat Mar 29 21:17:18 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Chaos Xenophon Cayenna Zandreya Malachive Imm RP Religion
Subject The Nightmare Must End
The Vallens had suffered twice now under the influence of the Warp's
disease. Elves had been sickened, some even losing their lives, the
Mother's blessings were unable to cleanse the lands for She was unable to
enter the Vallens, driven away by the diseased ichor that now flowed freely
from the very earth within Her Holy Lands.
They had to come up with a solution, the Vallens had to be restored and
cleansed once and for All from the remnants of the Warp's disease and curse.
Andreyna worked closely with druids, clerics, and magi of the Vallens trying
to come up with a solution. They would need not only to rely on their faith
and love for the Mother, but they would also need to power to overcome the
Warp.
Altars had been built All about Shalonesti which kept the lights at bay.
These altars were built in honor of the Mother's cycles- Her seasons and Her
elements. Perhaps empowering them further would aid in restoring the Mother
to the Vallens. How could they do so?
Andreyna thought back to the first time they battled the Warp. The Vallens
had called upon the power of the moons to aid them in destroying, or at
least crippling the curse within the lands, perhaps they could do so again.
The moon tree was filled with the power of the moons, its very leaves bore
the influence of the arcane power within.
The hope was to harness that power and send it to the altars to further
enhance the Mother's cycles across the Vallens. The question was how to do
so? Andreyna's mind kept going to crystals. Crystals were known to reflect
light in different directions. Could they reflect magic as well?
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Mar 30 20:18:47 2025
To All Marauders Crelius Piknim Andreyna Nereza ( Imm RP Kwainin )
Subject The Test
Fredrik tried to maintain his composure as he walked from The Dominion, that
place of All his nightmares, back to his quarters. He was damp with sweat and
felt as though he were floating through Ironclad, his mind in a daze from the
conversation. He had not been expecting much, and as such was wholly unprepared
for the intensity of the assault upon his mind. It was as if his enemies knew
precisely what strings to tug at to unravel him, to topple his weakened psyche
after years of stress. And now he was so spun around, reaching out to touch the
walls of Ironclad as he walked, that he could not even answer a simple question.
Had he passed the test? Did it even matter? Was he damned merely for exposure
to the question? Who would be the judge?
He waved the guards posted outside his room away dismissively as he kicked off
his bloody boots and left them outside. Blood and stench everywhere in the Fort
these days, and he had thought things couldn't get worse. Walking into the room
he could already feel the profane revelations, lies? of the test burrowing into
his mind, seeds of doubt that found fertile soil and were quickly taking root.
Heart racing, he scrawled a few quick missives thinking that he should do some
thing about what he had learned, wondering if anything could be done. He pushed
a wardrobe in front of the door, feeling countless eyes boring down on him from
the depths and the heavens, and squeezed himself under the bed. As if cradling
a small ember against the howling darkness descending upon his world, Fredrik
began to whisper the tenets of Kwainin to himself until exhaustion took him.
'In balance, you must look further than your senses to surpass illusion and
trickery....'
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Mar 30 22:30:04 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Mon Mar 31 00:00:30 2025
To All imm rp
Subject Entertaining the tyrant
Ryzzynth coiled his enormous body around the walls of the church, its
scales glistening like wet earth in the flickering torchlight. The air was
thick with the stench of smoke, sweat, and blood as the dragon's eyes
gleamed with anticipation.
In the center of the church, a group of combatants stood, their faces set
with determination. They were a motley crew, each with their own unique
skills and strengths. There were humans, elves, dwarves, and even a few
ogres, All gathered together for one purpose, to entertain the dragon. They
knew that the only way to appease Ryzzynth was to fight, to spill blood and
to sacrifice their own limbs and lives for the beast's amusement.
As the combat began, the church erupted into chaos. Swords clashed, axes
bit deep into flesh, and the sound of screams and grunts filled the air.
The dragon watched with rapt attention, its eyes gleaming with joy as the
fighters clashed and fell. The battle was brutal and merciless, with no
quarter asked or given. Limbs were severed, bodies were broken, and lives
were lost, but still the fighters continued to clash, driven by their desire
to entertain the dragon and claim the reward that had been promised to the
victor.
As the fight wore on, the number of combatants dwindled, until only a few
remained. Among them was an ogre, its massive body and powerful muscles
making it a formidable opponent. The ogre fought with reckless abandon, its
club smashing into its opponents with deadly precision. One by one, the
other fighters fell, until the ogre stood alone, its chest heaving with
exhaustion.
Ryzzynth laughed with joy, its thunderous roar echoing off the walls of the
church. The ogre, victorious, stood tall, its eyes fixed on the dragon as
it awaited its reward. And then, with a wave of its claw, the dragon
summoned a servant, who brought forth a chest filled with 10 jeweled eggs.
The ogre's eyes gleamed with delight as it claimed its prize, the eggs
clutched tightly in its massive fist.
As the ogre departed, the dragon's laughter faded, and the church fell
silent once more. The bodies of the fallen fighters lay scattered on the
floor, a grim reminder of the brutal contest that had taken place. Ryzzynth
sat upright and opened his maw, scooping up the corpses and swallowing them
whole. A perfect feast.
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Mar 31 02:44:32 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Cayenna IMM RP
Subject Insult to Injury - Abandoned Twice
Erindor grips the missive, his fingers trembling, knuckles whitening.
His name, his birthright, Shalonost, forever beyond his grasp. Not stolen,
not stripped away, but refused. A royal, abandoned. Forsaken. The words
claw into his chest, sharp as daggers, twisting deeper with every breath.
His breath stutters, and his mind is wrenched back into memories long
buried. His mother, distant as the moon, standing beneath the ancient
boughs. Pale, serene, untouchable. Her eyes held him for but a moment,
then turned away.
He remembers reaching for her, tiny fingers grasping at emptiness. A
promise unspoken, broken before it ever took shape. The hollow ache left
behind, a wound never tended. How many letters had he sent? Countless,
each inked with longing, each one swallowed by silence, discarded as if
nothing more than an afterthought.
The seasons passed, hope dwindling with each unanswered missive. He buried
his sorrow in the discipline of Ullfe Dorei, where magic and steel became
his sole inheritance. Yet no spell, no blade, could carve a path back to
her.
Now, the final answer lay in his hands, cold and unyielding. The inked
decree, as merciless as fate itself, denied him his name, his place, his
blood. Not unworthy, not dishonored, simply unwanted. The last fragile
ember of hope was snuffed out with a mere stroke of a pen.
His breath quivers. The past crashes into the present, and his vision
blurs. Tears spill onto the parchment, smearing the words yet never erasing
them.
The Vallenwoods, his home, could not claim him. His lineage would never be
his own. Not because he failed, not because he strayed, but because they
had long decided he was nothing to them.
The ink smears beneath his grip, but the decree remains unchanged. Erindor
clenches the missive, shoulders taut, his body a vessel of silent agony.
Abandoned by blood, cast aside by legacy, what was left of him now?
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 13:33:29 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 13:42:12 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Tue Apr 1 21:20:36 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 21:36:54 2025
To All ( Drakkara RP )
Subject Survival and Disappointment
The torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the underground
arena, casting long shadows as Ezrianne rolled her shoulders. The bruises
blooming beneath her tunic ached in ways that should probably worry her,
send her scrambling for a cleric, but she ignored them.
She had gone looking for another no-holds-barred, ruthless brawl, and she
she had found one. With her mood as foul as it was, rage had been nine
tenths of her staying power this evening, leading to yet another win. When
things got tough, Ezrianne Scott doubled down. She had the relentlessness
of a cornered beast and a spirit that refused to be broken. It was as true
in every other aspect of her life as it was standing in front of a being
three times her size and begging him to hit her with his best. Literally.
The taste of the Orc's foul blood still lingered on her lips where he'd
smashed her face into the floor and ground it with his huge, open palm. She
would scrub her teeth later, but for now, she just wanted to breathe. She
climbed the steps out of the pit, her limbs dragging as if she were wading
through something thick and suffocating. Her soul was worn, and her heart
was shattered and aching. The battle hadn't drained her into numb
exhaustion the way she was hoping it would. Sleep would be a futile effort,
again, this evening.
The air outside was cooler, crisp against her sweat-damp skin as she pushed
through the exit. Onlookers murmured as she passed, some nodding in
respect, others looking away quickly, as if sensing the storm inside her, as
if afraid they might get caught in it.
They had no idea why she really came here - to alleviate the crushing weight
of things she couldn't outrun, when things beyond her control made her feel
restless, powerless. When there was no one left to battle but herself.
Life was a war in more ways than just The Fray, the military, in units
standing off against an enemy. War was just existence itself, sometimes.
Sometimes things went according to plan and you prospered immeasurably, and
sometimes life kicked you in the ribs until you spit up blood. It was the
same for everyone - mortal, Firstborn, or otherwise.
The key to keeping the former plentiful and the latter at bay was that you
had to keep standing when you got knocked down, keep moving through the
rough current, keep fighting, even when you were beyond exhausted and you
wanted to give up. As a pirate in her former life, long ago, she knew that
when the seas got rough, you adjusted your sails.
Ezrianne was a fighter. A survivor. She didn't know how to give up, and
and when the odds were against her, it was just one more reason to keep
swinging, to keep scrapping. She leaned against the rough wooden post near
the door, watching the next fight begin. A younger competitor stepped into
the ring, clearly nervous, obviously jittery, eyes darting toward the crowd
for reassurance.
Ezri knew that look. She had seen it in the streets, in the fields, in the
faces of those who thought they were strong, thought they were fierce -
until the world chewed them up and spit them out.
Unlike her, some people weren't built to withstand hardship - not the kind
that sank its teeth into your bones and never let go. They weren't made to
claw their way through the dark, to endure when every road seemed to lead to
nothing but ruin. They stopped mining for gold long before they struck
paydirt.
If she kept assuming everyone shared her warrior's heart, one day it would
consume her, tearing her apart from the inside out. Like it was threatening
to do, right now.
Ezri turned away from the ring before the first blow landed. She didn't
need to see how this one ended. She had already learned this lesson.
Writer: Godferey
Date Wed Apr 2 19:50:52 2025
To Knighthood All Imm RP Austinian Nadrik
Subject Contrition
Spring brought light rain and dappled clouds to the Empire of Althainia.
The sun peaked through the clouds in shafts that shone down upon the city
streets in patches. Godferey wandered the streets through the Poor Alley,
handing out alms and food to the needy.
"Takest these silver pieces Good Sir, and this bread. With the blessing of
Gareth Keep" He said to the man who smelt distinctly like old brandy and an
unwashed body.
He had been wandering the poor alleys for hours, giving out what he could,
and giving minor medical assistance to any who needed it. For the last two
days he'd made a habit of spending at least three hours at a time here. It
felt like not enough.
He had asked for twenty lashes and a week of exile for his failure. The
Lance and Shield General had denied his request. Lord Pharis indeed had
deemed the best punishment to be more responsibility in fact. This was not
something Godferey understood.
In confession with the Abbott, he had asked how he could wipe clean this sin
from his soul. For there was no way to undo this harm. No matter what he
did, there was no action that could cancel out his mistake. He remembered
Geirhart nodding sadly for him as he spoke.
"There is no way to undo what has been done... " The aged priest had said
to him. "But through great effort, you may be able to put enough good back
into the world by way of Contrition"
It was a difficult thing to come to grips with. A mistake that could not be
undone, a great failure that could not be made right. No pain or punishment
would come for him so that he could bleed for his crimes. Instead, he had
to live with it. He had to work to create good in the world, knowing that
it would never be enough. Perhaps that was what true contrition was
supposed to be. The unending effort to make right, wrongs that could never
be undone?
Godferey supposed that there was more to think on this matter. But for each
drunk that threw up All over his boots, he understood that there were in
fact many kinds of suffering.
Writer: Fredrik
Date Wed Apr 2 21:03:07 2025
To All Marauders Piknim ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Meetings
Fredrik was sitting in the war room as he often did, listening to the scouting
reports and updates from those in charge of various projects, encampments,
battalions, and strongholds across the Marauder lands. The type of thing that
is quite exciting the first few times you're involved but quickly becomes as
banal as any other chore in the Fort. Fredrik, to the detriment of All perhaps,
was hardly a master strategist or tactician when it came to the minutia of each
individual conflict and warfront. Instead, he trusted to pursue a high level
strategy and left it to his subordinates to execute the finer points. As such,
much of the content of these meetings was not very interesting to his plans.
His mind was wandering, as it frequently did, to dwell upon impossible horrors
from the Warp or to brood upon the well placed barbs and contradictions that
Piknim undermined him with in conversation.
'Shall we attack then, Highlord? Try to force the lines back?' a gruff mul
was asking, breaking Fredrik's inattention to remind him of the meeting. It
seemed that in following Fredrik's orders to strike north towards the known
tunnel locations, Marauders had encamped dangerously close to the troops set
on beseiging their kingdom, with at least one group facing foes on multiple
sides where they had probed too far north. The type of tactical blunder caused
by an inattentive Warlord and over eager field commanders, spoiling for a fight.
Iodorzul.rkrftgnwteusl h hr oo tt od le ie s
tujpdera.ioeosasherrbo...opinions? e ed mn h ue i ml a
cleaiopn.sufraitavlkew a see a snd k hsf y
as he felt arms that were not his own reach for a goblet and bring liquid to
the parched lips of his body. He watched Fredrik gestured to another officer
that he knew to be more cautious, wondering whether he was actually in control
of anything at all. He gripped the table to stop the room from spinning and
scowled, trying his best to play the part of a frustrated commander while the
tactical debates continued, until he abruptly stood up to regain attention.
'You make fine points, comrades. I trust in your ability to find the middle path
path that will satisfy our goals. That is why you have made it to this room.'
Before they could object or bring up additional problems he watched himself
glide out of the room, pulled his cloak up to limit his vision, and made his
way towards Hammurabi Square.
Writer: Erindor
Date Thu Apr 3 15:57:26 2025
To Eridessa All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Cayenna IMM RP Calithie Triendal
Subject Erindorial Ira: Renewed Vigor
Erindor's hands tightened around the parchment, his violet eyes scanning
the decree over and over, as if the words might change between blinks. But
they did not. His name had not been absent this time.
Yet, for the first time, he felt his name was not beyond his grasp.
The decree was clear: he was eligible. Not disregarded. Not abandoned.
The name he had once thought forever denied to him now lay within reach, so
long as he proved himself worthy. The weight in his chest was not despair,
but something else, something steadier. Determination.
The scroll remained clenched in his fingers as he moved through the halls of
The Vallenwoods, its edges crinkling under his grip. His next lesson
awaited, Dwarvish, the rite of passage for All who would claim the Shalonost
name. He took his place before the instructor, an elder scholar with an
expression carved from stone, and stared down at the unfamiliar script.
The letters were sharp, angular, nothing like the flowing elegance of Elven.
He listened, but his thoughts swirled elsewhere. He had spent years
wondering if he would ever be acknowledged, and now he had an answer. He
would be, if he proved himself.
At last, his frustration broke the surface. "Why? " His voice was steady,
but a storm lurked beneath. "Why must we learn the language of our enemy?
"
The instructor regarded him, his gaze unreadable. Then, with the patience
of the ancient halls around them, he answered.
"Because, Lord Erindor, knowing your enemy is as important as knowing
yourself. "
The words settled within him, heavy with meaning. Knowing himself. He had
spent so long waiting for others to define him, waiting for a name to be
bestowed upon him like a gift, as if it was theirs to give. But now, it was
his to claim.
His gaze dropped back to the dwarven script before him. It was foreign,
difficult, unfamiliar. But it was something he could control. A task he
could master.
He lifted his quill, dipped it into the ink, and began to write.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Apr 4 10:51:42 2025
To All Verminasia Symantha Telthian Piknim Maccus ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject Beneath the Black Moon - Conversion
The quiet of the night was profound in Ezrianne's study, the flickering
candles casting shadows against the stone walls. There was no rush in her
movements as she turned the pages of the ancient tome, each word from the
text pulling her further into Drakkara's teachings, into the teachings of
Her faithful and Her priesthood.
Drakkara had always been a presence in her life, as a powerful ally,
lingering on the edges of her reverence for Necrucifer. As a Firstborn of
the Gods, Ezrianne had been fully created and born from Necrucifer's
Darkness, had been molded by its rigid rules that demanded strict control
over every facet of her existence. She had respected Necrucifer without
question, trusting in His unyielding structure, and although she hadn't
chosen to serve in Storm Keep, she had been intimate in The Prophecy, in His
Will and His Way.
Delving into Drakkara's Vision, now, a new, deeper understanding began to
take root - one that pulsed through to the marrow of her bones. It was not
a rejection of her past, nor a sharp pivot into something unrecognizable.
It was an evolution, a recognition, a deeper resonance than she had known.
Firstly, Drakkara's Darkness was not a static thing. It was alive, magical
power that could be cultivated and harnessed to create, to transform.
Though requiring discipline and iron will, Her Darkness was not about rigid
structure. It was an expansive force that granted freedom, through the
ability to shape the world to one's will, to build something greater, and
thus elevating the Darkness from the grace of Her gifts. The Goddess spoke
of Darkness not as a thing just to be feared and respected, but as a living
force to be wielded. A force that could bring about true change, shaping
reality itself through the power of the Umbra.
Secondly, The Darkness wasn't a void. It was the space where everything
began. The shadows were not simply the absence of light - they were the
birthplace of potential, of change, of magical creation.
Each page she turned was a further step into the world redefined by
Drakkara's leadership. She required strength, ambition, and the willingness
to shape the world from the very darkness that gave birth to it.
Ezrianne paused, her fingers tracing the lines of the ancient text, her mind
harkening back through the tenets of Drakkara's faith. The Vision of
Darkness was not just a lofty ideal - it was a promise. The flesh would
perish, but the vision - the power of darkness itself - was eternal, from
beginning to end. And it was hers -- All the Darkness' children -- to
wield.
As she sat there in the flickering candlelight, Ezri uderstood something
vital: she was no longer merely a /servant/ of Darkness. She was a
co-creator of its destiny, a set of hands that made her a weaver of The
Nights tapestry, alongside All those that lived within it, believed in the
magic. Drakkara's power was not a passive thing to be followed, it was a
living, breathing force, and it was their duty to nuture it to fruition.
The Black Moon called to her, differently now. And Ezrianne, human and
dragon alike, was ready to answer.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat Apr 5 11:40:44 2025
Writer: Asreel
Date Sat Apr 5 22:28:57 2025
To All Abaddon Eldercoven ( IMM RP Fatale Religion )
Subject The Macabre of Mystery ( Part II )
"Start from the beginning, Asreel"
The Count often spoke to himself when he is runs into a problem. Asreel was
investigating the source of the poison. He went down into the Queens'
chamber and took a sample of the poisoned blood that dripped into the
Queens' burial vault.
He tinkered in his secret lab to originate the reagents of this poison. He
had books sprawled around his workstation with pictures of flora and its
properties spread in them. He flipped pages, made bookmarks of interest and
continue to experiment.
"The Holy Grail... The Holy Grail..."
Asreel has been keen on understanding if this artifact does, in fact,
exists. His primary concern is to have the Queen's returned. His second
concerned is how to prevent a situation like this from happening again. He
opened his personal journal and jotted some notes under the area titled "The
Ritual". His attention has been split into two paths of research.
The stage has been set. The characters have been identified, and now the
show must begin...
Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:13:44 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades: Prelude.
Broruca had just finished telling the story of how he tricked a sea hag
into giving up her treasure when the others began to spar. Orsik rolled his
eyes but smirked through his scar. Rinern muttered a prayer for patience.
Embrel just leaned on his blade, quiet as always. They werent soldiers, not
exactly. Just... Preparing. The whispers of war came too often now, and
they needed to be ready. For their people. For themselves.
Orsik took his place across from Embrel, muscles flexing as he cracked his
knuckles. You always dance around the edge, he grunted. You afraid to
strike? Embrel gave a faint smile. No. I just dont see the point in
drawing blood when words arent finished speaking. Rinern chuckled and
raised a hand. Words are wind, lads. But steels a hymn if sung true. The
torchlight danced around them. None of them noticed how the trees had gone
still.
Broruca looked off into the forest, something flickering behind his smile.
Ever feel like were being watched? He asked. No one answered. Maybe
because they All did. But the words stayed there, hanging. Heavy.
Unspoken. And far too late.
Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:56:02 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Pt 1.
The clearing pulsed with firelight, the flames casting long, twitching
shadows of the four dwarves as they sparred and laughed. Broruca's voice
rose above the rest: a thick, booming laugh that smacked of sea air and
strong ale. The pirate moved with surprising grace for someone shaped like
a keg left in the sun, bare head glistening with sweat, his perfect teeth
flashing in the dark. Laiton watched him through the trees, unmoving, every
muscle coiled like a question. The runes on his cloak pulsed like a second
heartbeat. He couldnt be sure why they were here but he couldnt afford to
be wrong.
He stepped from the tree line like a shadow peeling away from bark. The air
bent around him. There was no battle cry. No challenge. Just sudden,
perfect violence. Broruca didnt even turn, he simply stopped laughing.
Laitons blade was already sliding between his ribs when their eyes finally
met. That laugh died as a gasp, and the dwarf collapsed with a groan. Not
dead. But ruined. Laiton had turned the blade sideways, on purpose. The
wound would bleed, yes, but not kill. Not yet. Not unless he let it.
Orsik was already moving, hammer raised like thunder on a leash. He charged
like a siege engine, silent and wide-eyed. He didnt scream. Orsik never
screamed. The scar across his face was lit by torchlight, his eyes pure
storm. Laiton ducked under the first swing, his cloak curling unnaturally
behind him. Steel clanged against stone. The elf's dagger flashed once,
twice, cutting deep into the meat behind the knee and slicing across the
hammer wrist. Orsik dropped the weapon. He fell with a sound that was more
disappointment than pain. Still alive. Crippled. Judging.
Rinern, priest of the God of Creation, drew his axe with one hand and
clutched the sigil-bound book with the other. He didn't curse or threaten.
He simply said, You dont need to do this. But Laiton had already heard that
line too many times in too many languages. He parried the axe with a flick
of his wrist, spun, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of the
dwarfs head. A quick twist of the arm dislocated the shoulder. Rinern
dropped the book, dropped the axe, dropped to one knee, lips muttering a
prayer Laiton refused to listen to. He moved on.
And then there was Embrel. Cast out. Alone. A man without a people.
Their eyes locked across the clearing, blue and hazel, fighter to fighter.
Embrel didnt attack. He raised his sword but didnt charge. Laiton
hesitated. The cloak rippled unnaturally, as if offended. He struck fast,
but clean. A shallow cut across the ribs. A hard kick to the thigh to
knock him down. And then a blade at the throat. Do not follow me, Laiton
whispered. This is mercy. You wont find it twice.
Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:58:55 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Pt 2.
The elf stepped back into the tree line, blades humming with warm blood.
None had died. Not yet. But they wouldnt fight again for many moons.
Broken knees, shattered pride, cracked bones, fractured unity. The runes on
his cloak pulsed in strange rhythms, unreadable but not silent. Laiton
could almost hear them whispering: Coward. Sentinel. Fool. Judge. He
didn't answer. He just walked.
As he faded into the woods, he heard a moan behind him. Not of pain, but of
something deeper. Embrel, maybe. Or Rinern. It was hard to tell. The
night swallowed the sound as quickly as it came. In his mind, the image of
four broken bodies flickered like torchlight. Not hated enemies. Not quite
innocents. Somewhere in between. And in that grayness, Laiton lived.
Hed been told once that justice was a blade. Simple. Sharp. Merciful in
its certainty. But standing in that forest, slick with the blood of those
who never raised a weapon in threat, Laiton understood the lie. Justice
wasnt a blade. It was a wound. And like All wounds, it either healed or it
festered.
By the time dawn broke, the birds had returned. The torches were ash. The
clearing was silent again, save for the groans of the wounded. Laiton stood
at a hills edge, watching smoke rise from a distant outpost. The question
still haunted him: Were they training for war... Or peace?
He would never know. He only knew he hadnt killed them. And for the first
time in decades, that didnt feel like a victory.
Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 12:05:27 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Aftermath.
Embrel stirred first, a sharp breath rattling in his lungs as pain
announced itself with brutal clarity. His hand drifted to the gash along
his ribs, then to the sword still buried partway in the dirt beside him.
The steel trembled faintly as he used it to push himself upright. Around
him, the clearing had dimmed, the torches long dead, the blood cooling. He
moved like an old man now, each breath a weight, each shift a test.
Rinern crouched nearby, hunched like a crumpled prayer. One hand pressed
against Orsiks knee, his fingertips glowing weakly with the last dregs of
divine light. The priests robes were slick with blood and earth, the holy
book slumped beside him like a discarded relic. Orsik himself lay still,
eyes closed, jaw clenched. Sweat glistened along his brow. His massive
frame trembled as if the battle still echoed in his muscles, and the silence
of defeat was worse than the sting of the wounds.
Broruca had not moved. His chest rose and fell shallowly, both hands
clutched tight over the wound in his side. His once gleaming teeth were now
streaked with red, and his polished scalp was streaked with dirt. Eyes
open, he stared blankly at the sky as the first gray hints of dawn crept
over the treetops. Around them, the birds had begun to sing again. And
somewhere beyond the trees, the forest had resumed its breath as if nothing
had happened, as if the clearing wasnt now a scar on the land and on the
four broken bodies left behind.
Writer: Archal
Date Sun Apr 6 12:45:23 2025
To All Shadow Telthian Symantha Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Storyline Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: {uAb fine..
The Coronation had been put off. This was the subject of discussion
between High Mystic Archal Kayen, and the force of Gray Robes and
Legionnaires tasked with destroying the cultists of the so-called True
Prophecy - or rather, the effect this had on their mission.
The trap had been set, and All indicators had suggested the bait had been
taken. Not least among them, Archal's full manatonic intuition. Some time
later, however, the event was not even on the horizon, and there was no
telling whether the bait would hold. Worse, the sole remaining cultist
known to them, who had not already been strung up in the desert as an
example to others, had gone to ground. Inevitable, in such a prolonged
surveillance operation where remaining undetected was the key priority.
To make matters worse, even as Archal reached the height of his thaumatic
powers, he had lead a brazen attack against a keep owned by the Knights of
Gareth's Keep, and in some ill-conceived attempt to bolster their chances at
survival, had put himself between their strongest defender and one of his
own Knights. The defending armsman shattered his shield and disarmed his
weaponry with seeming effortless ease, and his head left his shoulders the
same way.
Feeling blind to the cultists in more than one way, nevertheless the murders
had ceased, and he was briefing his Knights on the path forward. Ongoing
patrols, surveillance, and intelligence efforts to keep the cult at bay and
stamp out whatever resistance to Drakkara they dared muster again. Still,
it bothered Archal that they had not gotten to the head of the cult, and he
ruminated on the possibility that it could re-emerge in force, or
reincarnate in another form altogether.
After wrapping up the current situation report, Archal dismissed most of
those gathered, keeping back the "site exploitation" team of Gray Robes,
those who followed up the raids by analyizing the contents of each captured
or killed cultist, their belongings, and whatever might be found at the
location of the raid - most often their home.
The work was dull, but important. All the same, one junior member was
growing increasingly agitated, and Archal recognized the nervous energy that
possessed her. She was making a connection.
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Apr 6 21:49:35 2025
To All Marauders New_Thalos Grogu Andreyna ( Imm Rp Kwainin Zandreya )
Subject Dark Rituals and the Seeds of Change
Fredrik stopped at the entrance of Hammurabi Square, kneeling to examine the
symbols of Warp magick which had defiled Ironclad for nearly five years. Nothing
the Marauders had attempted could cleanse the symbols, and Fredrik had watched
as devout Priest of Raije had their blood drained to the brink of death in one
ritual to purify the Square. But the divine Light rising from the stones like
a shimmering river seemed to be fighting back. Then again, the Light had been
fighting back for quite some time now, to apparently limited effect.
But the Warp was still waxing, Fredrik now knew.
He sprinkled a mix of seeds and spores along mounds of dirt prepared near the
bloody Warp symbols and sang forgotten songs of ages past to hasten the growth.
A mix of button mushrooms quickly sprouted up with a thick covering of fragrant
herbs. Fredrik nodded with satisfaction, continuing to hum and sing to seeds as
he created a small garden in the area. Andreyna had suggested guiding the Light
towards areas of defilement, but Fredrik had little idea how to do that. He had
learned how mushrooms spread a complex web of connections underground, as seen
in faerie rings the Master had shown him.
Fredrik wondered if the plants could tap into whatever energies were being
channeled by this battle between the Light and Warp which seemed to be raging
here within Ironclad, and perhaps elsewhere. He set up a few different garden
areas and experimented with different combinations of plants, mushrooms, and
pathways of soil to perhaps tap into these energies. Maybe the Light could be
guided through the mycelium network to attack the corruption. Or perhaps at
least he could grow some herbs which only fed from the Light, and create some
type of purifying plants. Most dangerous of all, perhaps plants growing only
in contact with the Warp marks could leech the foul energies away. Or.....
After setting up a few such experiments, he stopped at the section of wall
most loathed, with the most stubborn mark of Chaos that had persisted each
type of acid, explosion, soap, and force flung against it. Around this, he
planted some aggressive vines that he hoped would dig into every nook and
cranny to dislodge or disfigure the corruption. He would have Grogu visit each
location in the coming days and add his own arcane rituals to fuel the growth
of these plants.
The final round of work was visiting a series of raised beds around the places
in Ironclad where the new stenches were wafting most noticably. Here, Fredrik
planted the most fragrant herbs and flowers he could think of, and sang to them
the most hopeful songs of strength and growth. If nothing else, he MUST achieve
his goal of making the air a bit more tolerable to breathe.
Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Apr 7 10:44:40 2025
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Mon Apr 7 11:40:12 2025
Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Apr 7 12:43:06 2025
Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Apr 8 13:54:13 2025
Writer: Othorion
Date Tue Apr 8 15:18:25 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Admin IMM Cayenna Rhelic Religion RP
Subject Aiding in the Efforts, The Crystal's gift
The moon had not yet risen when Othorion laid the small bundle upon the
altar of moss and root. The fireflies blinked slowly in the warm hush of
the Vallenwoods, the breath of the trees stirring the hem of his robes.
Wrapped in soft linen, the crystal shedding shimmered faintly, catching the
forest's ambient glow in delicate refracted patterns. Ghaoshen'ite, the
great Crystal Wyrm, had given this willingly, a token of her own growth,
sloughed in peace, not in battle. A gift without demand. A piece of a
being older and grander than memory.
Othorion regarded it in silence, the flicker of torchlight dancing across
his features. The shedding pulsed softly, as though holding echoes of the
wyrm's breath, as though still alive. He had accepted it with grace and
bowed reverence, but now in solitude, he felt the weight of it, not just the
gift, but the potential.
"What might be done? " he murmured to the grove, to no one.
He imagined the forests of Shalonesti, still bearing scars where corruption
crept like shadow through bark and root. He thought of the sewers of New
Thalos, where spiritual rot clung to the stone like mildew, damp, stubborn,
and too long ignored. Could this crystalline essence, born of balance and
light, be harnessed to push back that which festered?
A theory only. Not a calling. Not yet.
He did not know if the shedding could be distilled into something more than
beauty, if its nature would allow transmutation into magic of healing, of
purification. But the thought took root, slow and deliberate as moss on
stone.
Othorion closed his eyes, pressing one hand gently to the shedding. It was
cool to the touch, and somewhere deep in the distance, a night bird called.
"No harm done by hope, " he whispered.
He would take no action yet. The forest would speak if it was time. For
now, the crystal would remain unshaped. A whisper of possibility. A seed
of wonder in the quiet of his heart.
Writer: Godferey
Date Tue Apr 8 18:24:16 2025
To All Knighthood Imm RP
Subject Contrition II
The spring morning air was crisp, in the way that suggested a coming
afternoon heat. The blue skies were marred only by the most lazy of small
puffy clouds. If his destination hadn't been the Poor Alleys of the
Imperial City, he would have considered it a day where nothing could go
amiss. But of course, in the Poor Alleys, something was always amiss.
The denizens had grown used to his presence, which Godferey thought he'd
have been happy with. But with familiarity, came contempt. Each day they
would gather around him to take the food he brought or the coins he offered.
Those who did not want anything he had brought, would instead throw casual
insults or cruelty at him. Curiously, the next day those who had thrown
insults or roughly collided shoulders with him, would ask him for bread or
water, or worse... Wine.
It struck him, how unlike the stories life could be. Tales of Knights long
past would talk of them giving charity to the poor and All the smallfolk
being grateful and praising them. There was no praise to be had here. Once
they had taken from him what they wanted, they had only sneering offense to
give him. Laughing at the way he spoke, or spitting on his clean clothes or
armor. He wished that spit was the worst thing he'd had thrown at him in
these places. Did they not understand he was trying to help them?
But as Godferey had come to understand, this was what true compassion and
mercy was. To offer a helping hand even if it was slapped away and snarled
at yesterday. Perhaps this was what the Abbott was trying to teach him.
The cut grass surly cynicism of these people wore on him. Each day he would
return to the keep after giving out All he had and spend a little more time
in prayer, striving to collect what hope he had before riding a combat
patrol. In some ways, combat was far simpler. To draw your weapon with
certainty and ride out to drive back villains and predators. It made sense,
there was no complications beyond tactical decision making. It was a
curious concept that required more thought, when there was time... If there
was time.
Writer: Austyn
Date Thu Apr 10 10:13:17 2025
Writer: Austyn
Date Thu Apr 10 10:15:13 2025
Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Apr 11 20:12:58 2025
To All ( religion RP dragoth immortal )
Subject Sabbatical: I
The salt-laden air, thick with the cloying sweetness of unfamiliar
blooms, did little to soothe the gnawing unease within us. This island, a
supposed haven, a place of respite, had become a labyrinth of tangled vines
and suffocating humidity. We had sought a time of quiet reflection, a
shedding of the skin we wore in Verminasia, but the vibrant, teeming life
here felt wrong. A mockery of the silent, elegant decay we so cherished.
There, we stumbled upon the meadow.
Tall grasses swayed in the gentle breeze, a sea of emerald rippling under
the setting sun. And amidst this expanse, they danced. Pixies, tiny motes
of light and laughter, their wings shimmering with an iridescent sheen.
Such fragile things, brimming with a life we had long since abandoned. A
flicker of curiosity, perhaps even a sliver of regret, stirred within us.
We, a servant of His cycle, had forgotten the simple beauty of existence,
the vibrant pulse that preceded the inevitable decay.
A weakness, a failing we could not ignore.
We began our work subtly, a delicate miasma of unseen spores and whispered
incantations, woven into the very fabric of the meadow's air. The first
season, a faint dulling of their wings, a slight tremor in their laughter.
The pixies, unaware, attributed it to the changing weather, the natural ebb
and flow of life. The next, a more pronounced weariness, a brittle quality
to their shimmering light. Their dances became slower, their laughter more
strained. The meadow, once a symphony of vibrant hues, began to show
patches of brown, the tall grasses losing their luster.
Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Apr 11 20:14:16 2025
To All ( religion RP dragoth immortal )
Subject Sabbatical: II
Seasons passed, and the meadow became a testament to His patient hand.
The pixies, once vibrant motes of light, were now frail shadows, their wings
tattered, their laughter reduced to thin, rasping coughs. Dark, fungal
growths bloomed on their delicate forms, mirroring the decay that spread
across the once-verdant grass. The air, once thick with the sweet scent of
flowers, now carried the acrid tang of rot, a subtle incense to His glory.
The pixies, their life force dwindling, began to whisper names in their
madness, guttural sounds that mirrored the ancient syllables of our Lord.
Their eyes, once bright and curious, now reflected the hollow emptiness of
absolute decay. We watched, our eyes reflecting the slow, agonizing
decline, the gradual fading of their vibrant hues. It was a cruel beauty, a
somber reflection of our own internal rot, yet a necessary one.
As the last pixie fell, their tiny light extinguished, a strange sense of
release washed over us. The vibrant life of the meadow, once so jarring,
now felt appropriate. A canvas of decay, a testament to the inescapable
cycle. We had sought to escape our nature, to shed our skin, but Dragoth's
embrace was inescapable. The island, once a place of unwelcome vibrancy,
became a place of somber reflection. We rose, the scent of dying flowers
and fungal rot filling our lungs, and turned our gaze towards the shadowed
jungle.
It was time to return. Time to embrace the decay, to wield it with renewed
purpose, a purpose refined by the slow, beautiful death of the meadow.
Writer: Archal
Date Sat Apr 12 16:19:48 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: {u..Novum principium
Novices and Supplicants had worked alongside Dark Knights and Officers of
Storm Keep in collecting and analyzing the reams of evidence from the
various hovels and hidey-holes the cultists had inhabited.
The highest priority and the most attention was always given to that which
gave up the location of another cultist - this is how the Gray Robes and the
Legion had swept through the lower elements of the cult with such ruthless
efficiency, often times striking more than one location in a single night,
utilizing the dark to the fullest advantage of the Shadowmages to capture or
kill those who might go to ground and never be found, if word of their
compatriot's downfall reached them before the shadows did.
Sketches and drawings, often incomplete, weren't ignored then, but things
that weren't immediately actionable were simply left until later.
Individual pages with lines and curves, fragments of symbols and sketches
that made no sense, conveyed no particular meaning, taken individually.
Spread out now, however, a full picture emerged. Or rather, many pictures.
Like a puzzle, the Gray Robes aligned the pages where lines and curves met,
where fragments of indecipherable text aligned. A ritual emerged, involving
five objects.
And the symbol of the Demon Apostus.
Writer: Justian
Date Sun Apr 13 20:23:51 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening
Pain. Sharp, relentless pain pierced the veil of unconsciousness,
dragging Justian back into awareness. He gasped sharply, breath scraping
like blades against his throat. Opening his eyes proved nearly impossible,
eyelids crusted shut with dried blood and grime. With great effort, the
centaur priest forced them open, revealing piercing blue eyes clouded with
confusion and agony.
The Warp greeted him as an alien landscape, blurred edges and shifting
shadows illuminated by flickering greenish light. Chaos symbols, etched
crudely into dark stone walls, writhed faintly with unnatural life. The
familiar stench of blood, ash, and decay lingered, mingled with a disturbing
sweetness that disoriented him further. Justians body convulsed briefly as
a hacking, gurgling cough erupted from his chest, the sound echoing harshly
off the stone walls.
Memory eluded him, offering only fragmented recollections: arcanium daggers
flashing mercilessly, venom burning through veins, and the unmistakable
reptilian gaze of Z'szytheis, his former friend turned ruthless adversary.
Justians powerful legs tensed instinctively, remembering the venomous bite
and blades savaging his muscular flanks. Another cough wracked his body,
sending sharp jolts of agony through his wounds.
Attempting to rise, Justian collapsed onto the slick, blood-soaked stone
beneath him, hooves skidding awkwardly. Nausea gripped him as deep gashes
on his torso and hindquarters reopened, fresh pain surging through him.
Despair tugged at his resolve, yet beneath the suffering lay defiance. He
slowly surveyed twisted horns and grotesque skulls decorating the chamber.
At its center, the bleeding Chaos Tree loomed, pulsating gently as if
sensing his reawakening.
Voices drifted through distant corridors, murmurs tinged with urgency and
discord. Isolation pressed heavily around him. Questions surgedhow long
had he lain here, who brought him backbut each thought blurred into the
next, unattainable. His coughing returned, violent and uncontrollable,
filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood.
Justians gaze fell upon his empty, trembling hands. The white staff he once
wielded was gone, lost in battle. Emptiness yawned within him, accentuating
his vulnerability. A grim understanding settled over him; he had returned
not as a triumphant champion, but as a broken remnant discarded by allies.
Still, the eight-pointed star carved into his forehead burned fiercely,
resonating with lingering Chaos magic. Whispers brushed his
consciousnesstwisted promises of rebirth and vengeance. A faint smile
tugged at cracked, bloodied lips. Chaos did not abandon the faithful, even
in defeat.
Yet the strength required to stand felt impossibly distant. His four legs
grew heavier, senses dulling as exhaustion overtook pain. Another coughing
fit violently wracked his frame, driving him back toward oblivion.
Comforted by the twisted truths whispered by the Warp, he drifted quietly
into unconsciousness, the gentle dripping of the bleeding Chaos Tree marking
each restless moment.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 13 23:33:53 2025
Writer: Laiton
Date Tue Apr 15 10:23:57 2025
Writer: Godferey
Date Thu Apr 17 12:29:58 2025
To All Knighthood Imm RP Austinian
Subject Contrition III
And so, a miracle had come to pass. For Godferey could see it no other
way. His great mistake, the gods had seen fit to undo. The great Giant
returned to life after his essence had been spilled onto the ground like so
much water from a too warm canteen.
He felt strange, a great weight of relief lifted from him. But also guilt
at the relief he felt. For even though a miracle he had witnessed, it did
not erase his failure. Perhaps this was the difficult lesson that Geirhart
had told him of, that what will come to be, cannot erase what has been, or
what is.
The morning had been hard, as All mornings in the Poor Alleys were. Giving
out alms and food, and as the weather was getting warmer he had begun to
give out soft white sheets to keep the sun off the backs of those in
tattered clothing. Now, back in the Keep as he oiled his mail and
considered his small treasured book of proverbs. It struck him that
whatever effort a man gave to do good, seemed to rebound ten fold towards
him with evil or derision. People often thought of him as naive, or as too
stuffy, and were confident enough to tell him so. But Godferey did not
think this was the case.
"It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is
on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to
teach your child to hate" He read this passage again from his book and
considered it carefully. Many would of course, read such a thought and
merely nod, considering it right and good to say. But Godferey feared that
too few would actually weigh the statement. To apprehend how difficult it
was to be free from hatred. To undertake the considerable task of freeing
others from it as well.
Geirhart had given him this little book. Something to read and consider.
He had read it once dutifully, but like so many others the words just seemed
right to him. Pliable comforts of good intent. But on second appraisal he
felt differently about some of the passages.
"Honesty is not merely telling the truth. It is not refuting a lie either.
Honesty is knowing that one is capable of evil, even or perhaps especially
with the best of intents. To honestly know oneself, and the capabilities of
ones own hands, and choose to continue to try to do good anyway, that is
grace." These words he wrote in the margins on one of the pages. He hoped
that the Abbott would not be cross with him, as he had started writing
little thoughts All throughout the book, some of the pages now looking like
messy scribbles of underlined text and annotations.
Closing the soft leather cover of the book, he traced his palm slowly over
the faded symbol of Austinian pressed into the dull undyed hide. A better
world. One inch at a time.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 20 00:59:48 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 20 00:59:59 2025
Writer: Godferey
Date Sun Apr 20 23:06:47 2025
To All Knighthood Geirhart Imm RP Austinian
Subject Contrition IV
"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly
is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with
pain..."
Godferey set the small book of proverbs down and looked out over the
battlements. The wind tossed the grasses of the fields around the keep in
waves like a great green sea, and the sun crept towards the horizon like an
old man slowly falling asleep. It had been an extraordinarily long day.
Early morning patrols had turned into an extended pitched battle. On their
way back he'd stopped off in the Poor Alleys to give alms and bread, and now
promoted to a most senior position, he found he had several knights who
flanked him.
The work had gone easier with others there to assist, but somehow seemed
less personal. Now atop Croyden Tower he sat reading the book of proverbs
Geirhart had given him.
Even here, he was only alone for twenty minutes at a time or so. A knight
or junior officer would run in and ask for his signature, or fresh orders
and he would diligently assess the situation and try to give the best orders
he could. This was still new to him, and he feared that amongst All his
study and spiritual conflicts that he was underserving those who relied upon
him.
He was trying his best, and he was confident in the subject matter. He'd
learned from Knights he'd looked up to All his life, but he was no equal to
those heroes, they were legends, statues, and plaques of great deeds. He
was just a Knight, and now, a Senior Office.
Sighing to himself, he looked back at the small book. Each passage a
cryptic and beautiful examination of the devastating impact of hate, and the
difficulty of using the only tool that could confound it. Love.
"Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we
cannot live within. I use the word -love- here not merely in the personal
sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace - not in the infantile
Imperial sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of
quest and daring and growth."
Godferey wondered, and not for the first time, if he was indeed capable of
such daring, and such growth.
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 13:25:02 2025
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 13:28:06 2025
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:15:57 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part I.
The sanctum beneath the Horde's war keep was more tomb than temple.
Flickering violet flame licked the edges of bone-carved glyphs. The flames
cast long, twitching shadows across the stone floor. The air was thick with
burnt myrrh and old blood, the scent of sacred violence. A circle had been
etched deep into the ground, gouged by claw and ritual.
Lenore Millar Styria knelt at its center, cloaked in darkness. Her breath
was steady, and her eyes were closed. In her left hand, she held a
hellstone, a small, jagged shard no larger than a child's fist. Mined from
the deepest pits of Hell, the stone had been purchased with blood, sweat,
and the anguish of countless damned souls. Its surface gleamed like
polished obsidian. The longer she gazed into its lustrous black heart, the
more uneasy she felt. She sensed the cruelty within ita hunger, a violence.
She met it with indifference. It was not her enemy it was a tool. It
pulsed with hopelessness and hate, slick in her palm with an unnatural heat
that clung to her skin.
She remembered the first time she'd held one. When the Priest of Bloodlust
came to her in the night, robes trailing ash, and placed the vestments of
Fatale's service over her shoulders. The short ceremony had been functional
and efficient, absent of theatrics, but no less sacred. Tobryck had
witnessed it, his expression as unreadable as stone, though his presence
marked the event with quiet gravity. From Deacon to Priestess, her
elevation had not been marked by music or incense, but by blood, duty, and
the approval of the Synod's cold-eyed hierarchy. From that night on, Lenore
had felt the growing weight of expectation and duty. She was not a woman in
serviceshe was a lit candle in a hall of ash, a flicker of devotion held
against a storm of blood.
Behind her now stood Warlord Orutix. He was a deep gnome. An Ovate. A
seed-singer, a true artisan of ancient magic. He carried an intensity that
could not be faked. He projected an aura of devotion to Drakkarathe Night
Motherthat was absolute.
He needed no ornament. No symbols or titles. His mere presence shaped the
room, as if the shadows bent in deference. His skin was sapphire-toned,
catching the torchlight in dark gleams. His eyes were storm-gray, calm and
bottomless, like the mouth of a chasm. They pulled at you. Quiet. Cold.
Patient.
His fiery dreadlocked hair spilled down his back like molten iron, and
though he stood a head shorter than Lenore, he carried the weight of old
truths and forgotten faiths with silent gravity. She admired himnot just
his power, but his conviction. In a horde of murderers and zealots, he had
found a way to lead with quiet purpose. There was a stillness about him
that brought order to the chaos of the Horde.
"You will voyage the Astral Plane," he said, his voice like a blade dragged
across a shield. "Not to fight. Not yet. To witness. To measure. The
Umbra Synod must learn its shape or form."
He stepped forward, offering a sealed bone tube. "I have been researching
something known as Twilight Essence--a residue born of frayed thought and
torn reality. Others claim it is the sediment of two realities grinding
against each other in astral tectonics. If it exists, you will know it by
how it refuses to be noticed." Lenore opened her eyes and took the tube,
nodding. Orutix believed the Essence could be used in a ritual to pierce
the Veil. She knew little of the theory, but trusted him. If the Umbra
were to thrive, it would be through knowledge wrestled from silence. She
crushed the hellstone in her hand with conviction, though a flicker of
unease moved through her spine. It was not fear of the unknown, but
reverence for the boundary she was about to breach.
It shattered into light, forming a burning sigil that hovered midair. The
glyphs at her feet ignited. The air twisted. And then reality tore open
before her, violet-edged and weeping sparks. She stepped through.
Weightlessness. Silence.
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:43:58 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part II.
The Astral Plane was not just a place, but an experience. It enveloped
her senses in a disquieting quiet, a hush so complete it bordered on
violence. The silence was so deep, so absolute, it felt like it had weight,
like it might drag her downward, pull her soul into the stillness until her
thoughts drowned. The weightlessness disoriented her. Her body floated
unmoored, and her breath echoed in her skull like a scream.
She had never been here before. The void was not emptyit was full of things
that once were, or might never be. Colors shimmered without source or
logic, hues flaring and fading like forgotten dreams. Shapes bloomed and
vanished: wheels of fire, flickering towers, spinning temples.
It was beautiful. And terrifying.
Direction lost meaning. Up was will. Down was doubt.
A narrow, trembling strand of silver light stretched ahead, a tightrope
across a canvas of unknowable black. The darkness on either side of it was
not just absence. It was deep, profoundly sou, like staring into the mind
of something that had never been born. It pressed against the edges of
perception, so dense and absolute that her thoughts recoiled from it. There
were no walls, no floor, no ceiling, just a yawning chasm of unthought, of
futures that had already unraveled.
The void did not move, yet it breathed. Not with air, but with memory, with
doubt, with echoes that never quite became sound. If she fell, it would not
be into space. It would be into something worse, into meaninglessness. A
fall not of distance, but of identity.
The Strand shimmered too pale to comfort, a dare written in light.
She stepped onto it.
She walked.
Fragments of broken realms passed her: temples inverted, relics adrift. A
spear glowed from the carcass of a thought-beast. She saw it and moved on.
Then, a sound. Her own breath caught, too sharply. A Githyanki skiff,
sleek and silent, passed aboveif above could be trusted. Its hull glimmered
with cruel, angular runes. The Githyanki aboard were pale and gaunt, their
elongated skulls set with eyes like glowing coals. Their armor shimmered
with metallic hues that didn't belong to any forge of the Material Plane,
forged instead from astral steel and conquest. They carried themselves with
the poise of conquerorsdisciplined minds honed for war, psychic blades ever
at the ready. Their thoughts moved like knives in the dark, sharp and
searching. Lenore darted behind a slab of floating debris. A colossal
length of chain drifted silently nearby, each link easily a hundred and
twenty feet tall. It twisted slowly, impossibly massive, glinting with
rusted age. Whatever it had once restrained was long gone. Forgotten.
Failed. She crouched beside it, breath held tight in her throat.
The skiff slowed. It turned. It swept low.
She dove deeper behind the wreckage, sliding between torn banners, shattered
altar-stones, and chunks of drifting masonry that may have once held meaning
in other realms. The noise had drawn their attention. Psychic searchers
whispered through the plane. She held still. Her mind anchored in prayer.
The skiff passed again. One sentry paused, tilting its head. Then it moved
on. She exhaled. Not in relief, but in ritual. She drifted on.
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:49:45 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part III.
The silvery strand twisted sharply into what might have been 'up, ' but
in truth, orientation meant little here. Still, the incline felt steeper,
the pull more deliberate, as though the Astral was testing her intent. She
crawled hand over hand along the gleaming path until it opened into a
lattice of light, delicate, spiraling arches that resembled both a web and a
bridge, stretching in All directions.
Here, the air, or what passed for it, seemed thicker. Heavy. Each movement
dragged as though pushing through oil. The astral void pressed more tightly
against her senses, whispering doubts without voice. She stopped and looked
downor what her mind decided was downand saw nothing. Not shadow. Not
light. Just nothing.
She crouched on the strand and lowered her head, whispering a prayer for
insight. Nothing. She was reminded that direction was a construct of the
living, and that in death, there was only movement or stillness. She chose
movement.
Later still, the vastness broke. From the horizon, if such a thing could be
said to exist, loomed the grotesque shape of a fallen titan. She first
mistook it for another fragment of memory, a hallucination woven by the
planebut as she neared, the scale betrayed the truth. It was a corpse.
Not just large. Not merely ancient. This thing was vast beyond
comprehension, so massive that her mind reeled at the attempt to comprehend
it. A single limb, curling endlessly through space, could have cradled
cities. Its body coiled through the astral dark like a buried secret, too
enormous to fully see, too grotesque to forget.
It was not simply dead. It had been removed from the tapestry of existence,
as though even the concept of its life had become offensive to reality. The
space around it bent in subtle reverence or fear. A thing of godlike
proportions and alien biology. Limbs like coral, eyes like broken galaxies,
a spine that coiled endlessly into the dark.
Her first breath upon seeing it was not of fear, but of awe. Then came the
nausea. Something about its presence violated the structure of the soul.
This was not death. It was removal. Whatever had killed it had erased more
than flesh. It had blotted its purpose.
She floated closer. The silence deepened. With ritual precision, she drew
her blade and carved a chunk from its flank. It resisted, then gave with a
wet shudder. The texture was like boiled leather soaked in honey and ash.
She wrapped the pound of flesh tightly, marking it with sigils to contain
the wrongness.
Not for curiosity. For offering. Fatale would know what it meant. Still
no Essence of the Twilight. She turned from the corpse, renewed not by what
she had found, but by what she had been reminded of: All things end. Even
this. Even her. And the Void would remain. She continued onward.
Seeking. Watching.
Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 23:08:54 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part IV.
At a narrow ledge of the silvery strand, she paused.
The silence was total. A silence that transcended stillness. There was no
echo, no breath, no memory of sound. Just her, and the great, unbroken hush
of the void. She looked out, over the edge. What surrounded the Strand was
not emptiness. It was nothing. A depth without bottom, a breadth without
boundary. Not darknessdarkness was something. This was less than that.
The hollow beyond hollows.
She stared into it, and it stared back without eyes. There was no
reflection. No distortion. No resistance. Just the certainty that nothing
she was or had ever been could matter to it. And in that moment, she began
to understand. The hunger of her Dreadlord.
Not a hunger for food or for love but for power in the form of mortal souls.
The sacred act of feelng of silence felt thick, a thickness you could stick
your hand into. Here, in this place whereo thought lingered and no name
held weight, she felt the magnitude of that yearning. The Void was not
this. It was deeper, more insatiable, and more powerful
What she looked upon now was the Astral's imitation of absence. A vast
stage for spiritual projection, for transit and echo. But the Dreadlord's
Void, his domain was something else entirely. Hacov. Consumption,
Destruction.
She placed her palm flat against the Strand.
"Dreadlord," she whispered into the silence, "I see now why your gift is
hunger,"
Her voice did not return to her. It was swallowed immediately.
"To be full would be to stop reaching. And to stop reaching would be death
before death. That is not our way."
The prayer drifted from her lips like vapor into flame.
Here in the hollow beyond reason, she did not feel despair. She felt drive.
To crave. To strive. To murder. To build altars of bone and ash so that
somethinganythingmight echo back against the nothing.
She stood. The silence did not bless her, nor curse her. It simply
watched, indifferent. But she had seen enough.
She would begin the journey home, not completely empty handed.
Writer: Imshael
Date Tue Apr 22 00:24:11 2025
To All black_robes dark_elves drakkara fatale Tash'a
Subject A Red Wake
The wood was always quiet by night.
The dark shadow of Imshael was not aimless per se, but it drifted to and fro
through the groves like a silent breeze. Hills rose and fell at regular
intervals, stately and ancient vallens rising high above like sentinels.
The whisper rose, coarse and harsh as it always was: 'We bore dark burdens,
paid their cost. A shame they tried to erase. '
The hills were uniform, and his passing disturbed the fine dew that clung to
the mosses growing atop stones cut carefully by masons a few elven lifetimes
ago. His senses ranged outward, guided by a whispered incantation.
Memory slipped through his fingers like so much sand passing through a
sieve. He could no longer place it here among the hills. The barrow he had
scratched, scraped, and crawled free from was as nondescript as any of the
others hidden amongst the hills of the emerald graves.
Hazy eyes that matched his surrounds narrowed with frustration at this
place, and himself. The icy scrape of talons pricked the chords of his
nerves. The familiar, mocking voice speaking what was unspoken: 'You should
have known. You should not have trusted. '
Imshael paused then, his wiry frame tensing as his hands made themselves
into fists. And he squeezed, driving the pointed tip of his index into the
skin enough to make the blood flow, languid and slow, until it dripped to
the ground.
The sun would rise again soon, and with it the grovekeepers would come again
to tend to the barrows and gaols. He could almost feel the animus, the hate
and vileness grazed the edges of his perception. 'Loath as you may be to
admit it. This is beyond you. You are still weak. '
The voice was right. Again, as it often was. So many of the exiled had
sunk into the comfort of defeat. Others were pleased to play as pets to the
Shalonost. His feet carried him to the top of the nearest hill, but his
arcana failed him again.
Trust had cost him dearly once. 'How many years was it buried in the box
together? ' Enough, he thought to himself as his lips pulled into a tight
smile. Enough to be certain. Enough to remember when the Shalonost could
be wounded, killed. Defiled.
'Then call your Mistress. Call upon the Pact. '
Dark rivulets dripped from his fingers, the flow slowing to a crawl as he
plucked the sanguine vitae still in his veins. He hesitated, uncertain, and
then drove a calculated feeling outward, sending a ripple into the pact.
And he waited.
Writer: Vaelsenathox
Date Tue Apr 22 06:09:37 2025
To All Dragon ( Naevera )
Subject Emerald Scales and Poisonous Intent
*chip*
*crack*
Light
A reptilian eye blinked as daylight met its gaze. Then, slowly, the eye
opened revealing a green orb surrounded by blood red sclera. The pupil
narrowed to a black slit as it looked left and right.
No danger seemed immediate and so a black talon pulled away more of the
brown and green mottled shell. Soon the head was able to protrude a take
stock of its surroundings. The frill on it's head extended to take on the
radiant heat of the temple.
With a bit of effort, the small green hatchling was able to free itself from
the confines of its shell as green fluid was expelled onto the temple
stones. He was free now. Yet with freedom came fear.
He looked around for predators or allies. With none to be seen but a
matriarchal gold dragon, he continued his exploration. Murals lined the
walls imparting their wisdom upon him. Even as he wandered, he felt
strength growing in his small form.
Instinct drove him now.
Feed
Grow
Learn
Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Apr 22 12:41:51 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 23 19:14:54 2025
To All ( Drakkara Piknim Immortal RP )
Subject "Don't Forget To Write!"
Excerpt from Ezrianne Scott's personal letter to Kender-Queen Piknim,
Darkfinder of Verminasia:
"......and though my tenure within Storm is yet in its infancy, I bring
with me a mammoth accumulation of life's lesson: countless years exploring
Algoron's lands, and sampling what she has to offer; seasons spent sailing
Algoron's seas, as Verminasia's Admiral; many long, unfathomable ages
secluded away in strategic bouts of hibernation, when the world became
altogether too loud. I've raised twelve children, as you well know, each of
them now a credit to the Darkness. They are All fluent in mathematics,
eloquent in both the Common tongue and their paternal Elvish, and possessed
of a discursive comprehension of the theology of All three pantheons -- none
of which, I daresay, would draw censure even from the most starch-collared
Scholarch.
Yet, it finally occurs to me, eons later in my curious chronology, that
knowledge rarely roots itself in the mind by mere exposure. No, we come to
truly understand knowledge in the endless, ink-splattered, finger-numbing
ritual of scribbling, rephrasing, rereading, redrafting -- and then
phrasing, rereading, redrafting and rescribbling, again and again, and
again. THAT is what presses it into permanence. One must practically bleed
one's way to comprehension.
Do send liniment, I beg you - elsewise my sword hand shall be reduced to
nothing more than a decorative appendage when proper combat training
commences.
In short, you know my heart: I'm in my element and I adore it; with no hint
of complaint or sarcasm. I am having a blast."
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Apr 24 12:00:19 2025
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sat Apr 26 19:41:01 2025
To All Marauders Grogu ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Blood and Gardens
Fredrik tended the plants and experiments while he read the morning reports,
making the same rounds between the different gardens he had created around Fort
Ironclad. Investigating how each set of plants and mushrooms had developed each
day and providing more magic and water for their growth was a pleasant change
from the monotony of field reports....
Enemies hemming them in, but never moving closer.
Deadly forays below underground, seeking but not finding.
Blood and stench and corruption, never being cleared.
At least now he had something that he could control and advance, even if it
was as simple as some fragrant herbs potentially infused with Light and Warp.
After tending to the plants, he would meet Wizard Grogu to review the areas
where viscous blood was seeping up from the ground, and they would try again
to clear the grounds. Fredrik would try calling upon nature, root, and earth
to purge the blood before Grogu would evoke a fireball or electric shock that
would evaporate or destroy the day's new pools. Different combinations each
day, with some success, but each morning the blood would be bubbling up in
another assault on their home.
At night, Fredrik would visit the plants again before retiring for the evening.
He would sing them the old songs, or marching chants, a soldier's dirge. Some
nights he would recount the tales of his various friends who were dead or lost
to the ravages of Chaos. He taught the plants of valor and duty, of hope and
defeat. Endurance. Hopefully his songs and tales of the history of the Marauders
might instill some of that spirit in the plants, to grow strong and unyielding.
At least it was something to occupy his mind, and keep the voices of Crelius
and Piknim or the Justian's gurgles just a little farther from his mind.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Apr 27 17:33:00 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Tritoch Xenophen
Subject Reflections on the Ethicacy of the Cauldron
It was with a solemn mind and a guarded heart that I called forth those
who would hear, to gather in the Library of Dark Magick under Drakkaras
ever-watchful gaze. There, amongst the countless relics of knowledge and
study, we convened to discuss a topic long shunned, often whispered, but
never truly understood: the ethicacy of the Cauldron.
I opened the floor by reminding All that the practice of brewing, Warlocks
and Witches alike, predates even the formation of the united Conclave. It
is an art as old as the fractured Towers themselves. Once, even a Warlock
held the rank of Wizard within the Ebony Tower. Yet history, shaped by fear
and betrayal, taught us to equate cauldroncraft with thievery, wildness, and
untrustworthy magicks. Gareth's disdain, born in Serpantol's dark times,
lingered like a shadow keeping the art buried in the dark.
Yet, times change. The cauldron has evolved. No longer solely the tool of
chaos, it has become, in the hands of practitioners like Grey Robes, the
Queen Piknim, and Shadowmage Corson, an instrument of precision. This new
mastery demands our attention. Ignoring it would be as dangerous as
misusing it.
I spoke not as one seeking power, but as one seeking to understand, to
protect, and to shape the flow of magick. I urged that Conclave must study
the cauldron from within our own Towers, not merely to strip our spells from
its grasp, but to comprehend the very nature of the strands it weaves. We
cannot combat what we do not understand, nor can we guide what we refuse to
touch.
Questions rose swiftly, as they should. The danger of expanding access to
forbidden knowledge. The risk of abusing power without mastering it. The
fear that this study could unravel the very Weave of Magicks we are sworn to
protect. These concerns I acknowledged without hesitation. It is because
the cauldron holds power that it must be studied under Conclave's
stewardship, not left in the wild grasp of others.
To those who asked whether I believed the cauldron part of the Weave, I
answered plainly: yes. Its apparent randomness and individualized nature
mirrors the mysteries we already navigate, enchanting, divine magicks, even
the shaping of artifacts. That it is imperfect does not exile it from the
Weave, it beckons us to understand it better.
I do not believe brewing to be below me, nor below the Conclave. It is a
branch of magick, wild perhaps, but no more so than Necromancy in its
infancy. Dismissing it out of pride would be our folly. To master it, to
safeguard it, to protect the Realms from its misuse: that is our duty.
We closed with many minds turned toward reflection. Some hearts remained
hardened, but others softened with cautious curiosity. Perhaps a few seeds
of change were planted that day. For my part, I am resolved. Whether alone
or with my brothers and sisters in magick, I will walk this path until the
truth of the Cauldron is unveiled, and through it, shape a future where
knowledge triumphs over fear.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Sun Apr 27 20:50:58 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Xenophon Cayenna Zandreya Imm Rp Religion
Subject The Cleansing of the Altar of Chaos: The Ancient Vow
'Three Moons, Three Paths, One Balance
White to cleanse, Red to bind, Black to shield.
Through darkness and dawn, through blood and breath,
Nature endures when the Triad stands as one.'
In the time of Blight, when Chaos crept into the heart of Shalonest once
more and poisoned Zandreya's sacred lands, the Queen of the Elves, called
upon her most trusted mages. She charged them with a sacred task- to seek
crystals of the Three Moons and return with the power to restore Balance to
their wounded kingdom.
At twilight's fall, beneath the whispering boughs of the eldest Vallenwoods,
Andreyna stood before the three mages and offered them ancient Blessings of
the Moons.
'Children of Shalonesti, bearers of our hope, she prayed over the three
mages, each wearing cloaks emblazoned with the shade of their respective
moons. 'May the White Moon guard your steps with light unyielding', she
spoke to the mage covered in an ivory cloak, planting a kiss upon her
forehead. 'May the Red Moon bind your hearts with strength unwavering', she
whispered to the second mage dressed in a crimson cloak, planting a kiss
upon his forehead. 'And may the Black Moon shield your spirits from the
hungering End', she whispered to the third mage, draped in robes of
obsidian, pressing a kiss upon her forehead. Andreyna stepped back and
smiled gently as she look upon the three mages gathered, 'Go forth with
reverance', she spoke with a reassuring nod, 'and return in triumph'
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 27 23:32:37 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Apr 28 00:20:51 2025
Writer: Penelopina
Date Mon Apr 28 12:48:49 2025
To All Taliena
Subject Good Growing!
{pPenelopina Starflower Sunspear, better known by her friends as plain ol'
Penny, {pstepped off the Tropican beach, nearing the {plei of red{p, white{p, and
fuschia{p flowers that marked the growing banana tree. {pThe seedling was
showing signs of blooming, flourishing as the warmer weather of early spring
{pencouraged natural growth.
{pAs always, she took a moment to offer up a simple prayer, asking for it to
grow big and strong, so one day it {pwould be a source of shade, fruit, and
guidance for those seeking the nearby Cathedral of {pthe Heart. She then
sprinkled some holy water on it to nourish its roots and did a cursory
{pinspection to make sure it was free of pests, mites, and rot. It was.
{pSmiling sweetly, Penny gently placed a hand on the banana trees palm leaves,
patting it like {pshe would the hair of a small child. "Just a little more
tender loving care, and you'll someday be taller than any tree on Tropica.
{p" And then of course, it was on to the next part {pof her goals, to spread
more trees All across Algoron, showing everyone what love could {paccomplish.
Writer: Orutix
Date Mon Apr 28 15:30:30 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna Tarabella
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Dungeon's{u Deep Delve
The Overseers were warned, first by mind-flaying and then by time in the
electrocution helmet. In the depths of the newly dug tunnels beneath the
Dungeon they debated amongst the slaves which was worse.
The deep delve or "THA BIG DIG" as the Secretariat called it, was well
underway, beneath the black soil in the southeast corner of the Great
Forest. The warnings of the deep were more seen as invitations by the tiny
warlord, a deep gnome with skin the hue of sapphire, and eyes an ever
churning storm grey tempest. He was from the deep, he wore amulets of
warding for the deep, the light found no purchase where he hailed from.
Sleep was always brief for Orutix, his dreams were fueled by visions and
physical pain. It was normal for him to wake in agony, following any number
of horrors that haunted his sleepless nights. It had been months, the same
dream, not of battle, or conquest, but of digging.
In the dream, his fingernails were bloody stumps, his muscles burning as he
tore through endless layers of black rock. The earth itself resisted him,
whispering taunts and jeers. But he could not stop, he felt His Mistress
within the soil itself.
From within the dream, Drakkara, the Goddess of Darkness, her form a
shifting void of smoke and embered eyes, stood behind him. Her voice
slithered into his mind like a blade between ribs:
"{uDeeper, little conqueror. His blood still stains this earth. Find it.
Claim it. "
When he woke, his hands ached as if he had truly been digging. The
Warlord's chambers stank of sulfur and old iron. The miners spoke of
fissures in the deep tunnels, of a heat that did not belong.
Orutix smiled.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 29 21:25:04 2025
Writer: Lenore
Date Tue Apr 29 22:33:37 2025
To All ( RAPHIEL FATALE IMM )
Subject A dreamscape of death.
It begins with sound.
A horn - a deep, celestial call - resounds across the dreamscape. Not
blaring, but resonant, mournful, and absolute. The kind of note that
announces judgment, or the end of days. It shudders through Lenores bones,
low and full of meaning too ancient for words.
Then
Silence.
Not peace, but the silence after something beautiful has been shattered.
A stillness so total it becomes a weight.
From that hush, the light blooms.
Not daylight, not flame - something holier, crueler. Light that doesn't
just reveal, but judges.
From it, the angel steps forth.
He is tall beyond reason, ten feet at least, radiant with sorrowful majesty.
His wings unfold slowly, the sound of feathers like sighs through snow. His
golden armor hums faintly, alive with sacred energy, and from the runes of
his halo drips warmth that smells of myrrh and old parchment. His face is
etched in memory - a friend who never was, a father she never mourned -
compassion incarnate.
His gaze, blue as the deepest sea, finds her.
His sword burns like divine wrath - its fire silent, yet pulsing with heat
that makes the air ripple. The tome in his other hand murmurs, pages
whispering secrets in a tongue the soul recognizes but the mind rejects.
Then, it changes.
A sound - wet and sharp: the pitch-black blade slicing through celestial
sinew.
The angel gasps, the kind of sound that does not belong in a world like
this.
A yelp of agony, raw and animal. His wings convulse violently.
Bone snaps.
Not like a twig, but like the ancient trunk of a tree splitting under divine
pressure - loud, brutal, echoing. One wing tears from his back in a spray
of light and blood, the scream that follows so shrill it feels like its
being pulled from his lungs with barbed wire.
Feathers scatter. Some burn in midair. Some simply vanish.
He collapses. The sound is thunder and cracking marble. His sword
extinguishes as it hits the ground, the flame sputtering out in a hiss of
defeat. The tome falls open, its runes bleeding out like ink into water,
unreadable now - forgotten.
The halo fractures.
Rings of light disintegrate into ash.
Lenore steps forward through the haze. Her blade - obsidian and hungry -
drips not with blood but with sanctity undone. She breathes deep. The air
tastes like copper and dying grace.
The angel's body twitches. His face, once so serene, is contorted in
disbelief and pain. His wings - one gone, one crushed - no longer lift him.
He tries to speak, to beg, perhaps to forgive. She does not listen.
She kneels.
Her fingers glide through the thick, iridescent blood pooling beneath him -
warm as fresh milk, slick as oil. She cups it, rubs it into her palms. The
scent of it is intoxicating: incense and ozone, mingled with the iron tang
of a dying celestial.
With calm purpose, she draws that blood across her face, smearing it like a
sacred unction.
Each mark a vow.
Behind her, the wind carries only silence. The horn has long since faded.
No choir rises for him now.
The dream stills. Then - blackness. A blink. She awakens.
The sheets feel coarse. Her breath is slow, deliberate. Her heart beats
not with fear - but with purpose.
There is no remorse.
Only inspiration. Only hunger. Only the memory of how quiet the world
becomes when a divine thing dies.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Wed Apr 30 14:27:49 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Wed Apr 30 14:49:14 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Wed Apr 30 19:27:10 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening II
Pain ebbed slowly from piercing agony to a persistent throb, guiding
Justian back to consciousness. His chest heaved with effort, each breath
rattling through his lungs and escaping in a harsh, gurgling cough. Slowly,
he forced open his crusted eyelids, the blue clarity of his gaze muddied by
fatigue and lingering torment.
Justian lay on his side, feeling the gritty stone scrape painfully against
the raw, bandaged wounds stretching across his equine flank and torso.
Carefully, he tested his limbs, powerful legs twitching weakly, hooves
scraping against stone slick with dried blood. Each attempt to move brought
fresh, searing reminders of his battle with Z'szytheis' blades and
venom-infused strikes etched vividly into his battered body.
Around him, the Warp seemed to pulse with quiet malevolence. Shadows
shifted across the dark stone walls, briefly revealing twisted symbols of
Chaos. The grotesque Chaos Tree stood silent yet imposing, dark ichor
steadily dripping from horned branches, resonating softly with his pulse.
Its presence was oddly comforting, a grim reminder of the cause he had
pledged himself to.
A flood of memories trickled back to Justian in fragmented bursts.
Z'szytheis' reptilian eyes cold with betrayal, the dance of blades biting
deep into flesh, the bitter taste of defeat as darkness claimed him. His
failure weighed heavily on him, yet amidst despair, a steely resolve stirred
within.
Justian began murmuring the tenets of Chaos, each verity a grounding anchor
amid the swirling agony. Existence is suffering, he rasped weakly,
punctuated by another violent cough. "Suffering has a cause... The false
gods. He paused, breathing shallowly as dizziness threatened to overwhelm
him. It has an end... The death of the false gods. And it has a path...
He faltered momentarily, ... We must rise to kill the false gods.
Repeating these truths seemed to bolster him. He recalled vividly the words
he had recited countless times... The Age of Mortals, freed from divine
chains. Justian's battered body trembled, yet his heart surged briefly with
determination. The purpose of his suffering was clear, a necessary
sacrifice on the altar of mortal freedom.
He reached weakly to touch the carved star on his forehead, fingers brushing
tenderly over the symbol, feeling its reassuring grooves. The Chaos emblem
burned fiercely, filling him momentarily with strength and clarity. Mortals
were powerful, resourceful, boundless... The gods feared this mortal
spirit, and rightly so.
Exhaustion overtook him again, his vision wavering. The blood of the
fallen... He whispered, voice scarcely audible, nourishes the seeds of
rebellion. Another violent, hacking cough shook his frame, spattering fresh
droplets of blood onto the cold stone. Yet even as darkness reclaimed him,
Justian felt reassured, comforted by the knowledge that his struggle was
part of something greater, meaningful beyond his own mortal agony.
Justian's consciousness slipped away once more, drifting toward oblivion.
But this time, hope lingered within the dark, sustaining him, promising that
when he awoke again, he would rise stronger, ready once more to carry
forward the Great Work of Chaos.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Thu May 1 16:50:20 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Thu May 1 16:58:13 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Thu May 1 18:56:38 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening: Ash and Steel
The rag was damp, coarse and frayed, rank with old blood, incense ash,
and sweat. Justian pressed it into the base of the altar with a slow,
deliberate motion, his breath ragged as pain shot up from the gash still
healing along his flank. He gritted his teeth, feeling the deep ache echo
through his ribs and into the centaur muscle beneath.
It had been days since he could stand without trembling. How much time?...
Since the blade of Z'szytheis found his flesh. But he was here now,
present, not in body alone but in Will.
The Shrine to Chaos flickered with candlelight, its centerpiece looming.
The great steel X, its vertical and horizontal bars piercing through one
another, swayed slightly from the chain above. It had no divine radiance,
no false warmth. Yet it gleamed, polished not by angels but by hands like
his, by sweat, blood, and labor.
His gaze lifted to the altar, the four-faced head, mouths agape to every
direction. He did not speak aloud. He had no need to. Chaos did not
listen to words. It listened to work.
Every scrape of the rag against stone, every twitch of a torn muscle that
refused to rest, was a devotion.
Justian winced as he shifted his weight, a hoof clacking unsteadily on the
tile. His back legs shuddered beneath him, but he did not stop. He dipped
the rag into a small basin of stagnant water, watching it darken further
with soot and sanctified grime. He dragged it next across the wall beneath
the symbol, wiping away nothing but the illusion of neglect.
Pain kept him grounded. That was its purpose.
Existence is suffering.
He breathed that Truth. He accepted it, not as punishment, but as
revelation. Every throb in his side reminded him that he was alive, that he
had work yet to do.
The gods torment Algoron.
He had seen it in Ironclad. In the temples that turned their backs. In the
silence after the battle.
Their deaths are the cure.
He paused, leaning against the altar, letting the steel cool against his
skin. Sweat beaded on his brow. The carved star on his forehead throbbed,
pulsing with memory.
We must be the sword.
He let the rag fall beside the basin and stared up at the Chaos symbol
above. Polished steel. Not immaculate, but honest. Maintained not for
reverence, but for reflection.
He wiped his bloodied palm across the altar's edge, leaving a smear where
once there had been only flickering shadow.
"I am still here," he whispered. "And I will begin again."
The candles hissed, a green flame flaring for a moment before settling.
The Warp had no need to answer.
It had only to witness.
Writer: Tai'Tzu
Date Thu May 1 22:46:33 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Sat May 3 09:27:44 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening: What Remains is Will
The shrine was immaculate.
Not clean. Not sterile. Immaculate. It bore every stain it chose to keep.
Justian stood before the four-mouthed idol, shoulders low but squared, a
pale green sheen flickering across the steel X that hung above. His flank
still throbbed where Z'szytheis had torn through muscle and flesh. The
cough had quieted, but not departed. Pain pooled in his bones like wet
gravel.
He exhaled slow and wet before dragging his palm across the altar once more.
No ritual. No prayer. Merely WILL.
"They brand themselves with light, with order, with lies... And still they
wonder why the world screams."
He turned his gaze upward. The chains creaked faintly as the Chaos sigil
swayed, indifferent to his presence. That indifference was hallowed.
"The fire is dim. Not gone. Not dead. But hidden. Forgotten. Buried
beneath false peace."
He walked the chamber slowly, hooves dull against the stone. Each corner of
the shrine told a story, one written in blood, another in silence, and yet a
third the gasp of a dying oathbreaker.
"They need to see. Not hear. Not learn. See."
He stopped at the threshold of the shrine entrance and looked back once.
His rag lay coiled beside the basin, dark with age and devotion. The water
shimmered faintly with a film of oil.
He left them both behind.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat May 3 11:51:43 2025
To All Agarwood ( Imm Admin Scorn RP Kantilles )
Subject A Meeting in the Desert
Within the desert, Ulyssus met with a priest of magic, Agarwood. Though
removed from civilization, their meeting was anything but mundane. Beneath
the heat of the sun and the gaze of distant stars, the two paused to
exchange thoughts on the nature of divine and arcane magic. Ulyssus, a
faithful adherent of Lord Kantilles, found the meeting to be one of
unexpected depth and illumination.
Upon arriving at the oasis, Ulyssus dismounted from his manticore and drew
forth a soft black bear hide from its saddlebag, allowing his manticore to
move to the pool of water, taking a long refreshing drink from its depths.
With a practiced motion, he unfurled the hide upon the sand and settled upon
it crossing his legs, leaning slightly back in a posture of ease and
attentiveness. With a quiet gesture, he summoned a whisper of cold wind to
circle about him, warding off the desert heat in a shimmer of frost cooled
air. His snowy owl, ever watchful, flew up and landed silently on a nearby
acacia tree. As the conversation began, Ulyssus opened his leather journal,
the pages already weathered by much travel and use, and began to take quiet
notes as Agarwood spoke.
Their conversation circled the complexities of magic's purpose and the
responsibilities of its wielders. Agarwood offered insight into the spheres
of divine power, and the practical uses of divine magic. Ulyssus in turn
shared his thoughts about the responsibilities of magic within the Conclave,
and the importance of aligning one's magical path with a greater purpose.
He listened intently, nodding at times, occasionally pausing to jot down a
thought or observation. Together, they reflected on the meaning of wielding
magic not for power, but for its rightful purpose in the world.
During their meeting, Agarwood shared three ancient mural fragments he had
acquired. As the priest carefully handed each one to Ulyssus, he took them
gently, his fingers brushing over the worn edges. He paused for a moment
with each, letting his eyes trace the intricate depictions. The first
fragment showed a person with arcane symbols and a symbol of Sebatis, and
Ulyssus studied it intently, noting the delicate pattern of the sigils in
his journal as he leaned back against his black bear hide, a slight furrow
on his brow. The second piece appeared to show a robed figure worshipping
Drakkara, and Ulyssus tilted his head, his snowy owl hooting nearby as if in
silent reflection. He wrote a few brief notes, pondering the symbolism,
before handing the fragment back. The third, a robed figured with symbols
of Kantilles, left him further pondering the fragments as a whole. He
examined it longer, the weight of its mystery pressing upon him, before
finally returning it to Agarwood. Each fragment seemed to whisper of long
forgotten truths, and Ulyssus could not shake the sense that they held keys
to understanding both the gods and magic in ways that had yet to be fully
revealed.
The meeting had stretched on for some time, leaving both men weary beneath
the shifting colors of the desert sky. As they prepared to part ways,
Ulyssus reached into his satchel and withdrew an orb of water bound by
magic, lifting it to his lips to take a final drink. His snowy owl glided
down from the acacia tree where it had been perched, landing softly upon his
shoulder. He paused, casting a glance back at Agarwood, and raised his hand
in a soft, silent wave, a faint glow surrounding his fingers. Then, with a
final nod, he mounted his manticore and departed, his thoughts turning
inward as he considered All that had been shared. The meeting left Ulyssus
with new thoughts to ponder and a renewed sense of purpose. Ulyssus felt a
pull to speak with others devoted to magic, Lord Kantilles, and the light,
as he further explored and gained more knowledge on divine magics.
Writer: Khalifa
Date Sat May 3 19:22:00 2025
To All Raije Malachive Imm Rp Derigimus Marauders
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part x)
He fell. He could see no ground below him, nor any reference as to what
may be below or above. He flailed his arms for a second, before coming
to the realization that it would do him no good in this fall. He could
see little around him, but flashes of light, foggy banks of clouds,
glowing pink, orange, and green.
His panic subsided and he closed his eyes. He found himself standing on a
firm surface, with darkness All around him. He opened his eyes and found
that he was still falling through the same chaotic mess as before.
Understanding that sorcery was at work here, and not seeing a clear way out
of it, he decided to face it head on, and closed his eyes again.
The floor was firm, and level. He found that he could see a bit around him.
It was a dim... room? It was something anyway. The walls were distant, and
barely visible in the dim light. It was as big as a palace hall. The
space was empty, as far as he could tell, except for some misshapen object
thirty feet or so ahead of him. He walked toward it.
Before he was close enough to make out what it was, the object began to
speak in a horrific, gravelly moan. "Devout... of Raije."
"AYE!" he shouted, approaching the misshapen thing cautiously.
The horrific voice chuckled as the shape of the thing shifted in a fluid,
distressing manner. One moment it was a potted plant. Then the lines of it
ran and quivered and it was an upholstered chair. The chuckle grew into a
soft laughter as it continued to shift until it settled upon the shape of a
bullfrog the size of a bear.
Khalifa drew his sword, and the thing croaked a maddening laughter that
echoed into the darkness.
(---To be Continued---)
Writer: Khalifa
Date Sat May 3 19:57:34 2025
To All Raije Malachive Imm Rp Derigimus Marauders
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part xi)
The bullfrog laughed as Khalifa approached. Its eyes swirled and pulsed with
the same maddening, nonsensical colors that he saw when his fall began.
Its gaze was mirthful, and its voice lost its croakiness as it gained a deep
baritone. "You did not come here to fight me, elf."
Khalifa raised his arm above his head and was shocked to see his sword melt
into a sickly brown-green vine, pulsating and throbbing with sickly veins.
He dropped the vine and stood, alert, staring at the creature.
The bullfrog bellowed laughter and spoke again, "Are you finished then?
Have you given up? What would your beloved Raije think of you?" It was
prodding, poking against his prideful demeanor, searching for a crack to grab
onto.
Khalifa stood his ground, saying nothing.
The thing chuckled again, and said "Very well... let us begin."
The dark elf stood quietly, more alert than he had ever been, staring
straight at the impossibly large bullfrog, while keeping his periphery under
the best surveillance he could in this unnatural, dim light.
"You, apostate of Drakarra. You, who betrayed her to seek your fortune
and glory in Ironclad under Raije. Who do you think you serve? Where, in
your estimation, is your God?"
It paused briefly, but did not seem to expect an answer, as it continued to
speak:
"You, the coward who avoided your fort for years, hiding on Shokono, studying,
as you claim, the Ninjas. You, who have spent countless hours in prayer to
the so-called god of war, begging him to help you restore the fort, with your
pitiful attempts to scrub the sigils of the Everwar from the crumbling walls
of Ironclad. Are you so blind? Will you not see? WHERE IS YOUR GOD??!??"
(---To be Continued---)
Writer: Orutix
Date Tue May 6 09:53:00 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara Boof Lenore ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna Tarabella
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Dreamer's{u Mark
The slaves whispered of Blackvein Fever, a sickness that took the miners
who ventured too deep. Their veins darkened like roots under their skin,
their eyes wept thick, tar-like tears. Claims of hymns being heard in the
fissures, a low, rhythmic chant in a language that made the diggers teeth
ache.
Orutix cared little for the suffering of the slaves, he thought the fever
was merely a baptism in Darkness. The deeper they dug, the more the earth
resisted. The more sacrifices were went below to never see sunlight again.
And yet, Orutix pressed his Overseers on, his own hands stained black, his
fingertips cracked and oozed.
The slaves toiled through the night, hauling jagged darkstones from the
fissures beneath the Dungeon. Under the new Warlord's command, they
shattered the previous Warlord's green statue, it's grinning jade face
crushed into gravel.
From the rubble, rose a new effigy, infused with the blackened stones mined
underneath the minion's feet. Drakkara, the Goddess of Darkness, her form
dominating the dark, underground chamber. The idol's eyes were set with
glowing moonstones, and snakes coiled at her feet.
When the first sacrifice, a defiant Overseer of tha big dig, was chained to
the base of the effigy, the stones of the statue seemingly drank. His
screams faded in the underdark, as his body petrified, his flesh hardening
into another layer of the statue's plinth.
Orutix dreamt of this moment, and heard the voice sleep would not permit
escape from, "{uLet the old world fear what the dark now sees"
Writer: Orutix
Date Tue May 6 13:02:27 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara Lenore ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna Tarabella
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Wound{u in the World Below
Orutix ordered the miners who were too afraid to dig further and defied
his orders chained to the walls of the tunnels and dig sites, living
torches, to light the way deeper.
A mining team and their Overseers vanished, beneath the Dungeon, where the
veil between worlds thinned. When Orutix heard, he descended himself, he
found their bodies - not dead, but changed. They knelt in a vast,
glass-smooth cavern that was uncovered beneath the underdark Horde's home.
The mouths of the bodies Orutix found before him were stretched in silent
screams, their flesh fused to the walls of the cavern in a grotesque mural
of worship. At the center of the chamber, pulsed a massive, jagged rift,
its edges crusted with dried black ichor.
From within the fissure came heat, not the dry burn of magma when ambitions
drive gnome and dwarf alike deep within the world, but the wet, living heat
of a wound. The air smelled of scorched copper, and the rock wept the same
dark substance the surviving mining team, and Orutix himself, found purchase
on their persons.
When Orutix emerged from the depths, the dungeons stale air clung to him
like a second skin. Before him loomed the obsidian effigy of Drakkara - its
moonstone eyes gleaming with stolen light, its serpent coils frozen
mid-strike. The petrified Overseer at its base should have been still.
Should have been silent.
Yet as Orutix approached, the statues shadow stretched unnaturally toward
him, and the Overseers stone eyelids split open.
His eyes were no longer human.
Pupilless, black as the fissures weeping Salve, they locked onto Orutixs
own. The petrified lips trembled, cracking as they parted. No sound came.
Only silence, a crushing, hollow silence that ruptured Orutixs eardrums in
twin bursts of wet heat. Blood trickled down his neck as the words formed
inside his skull, slithering through the fractures in his mind:
"You do not wake me. "
The voice was the grind of tectonic plates, the hiss of a burial shroud
tightening.
"You feed me. "
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 14:43:41 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 14:49:53 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 15:04:08 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 15:05:49 2025
Writer: Tephysea
Date Tue May 6 16:15:37 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 16:25:46 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 16:27:57 2025
Writer: Riordan
Date Tue May 6 17:24:54 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue May 6 18:03:25 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 18:18:54 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:15:05 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:15:09 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:15:14 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:46:14 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:50:21 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 6 19:54:59 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue May 6 20:02:48 2025
To Shadow Verminasia All
Subject In the Silence Between
Ezrianne worked.
She didn't work like a noble seeking atonement, nor like a soldier following
orders, even though she was both at once. She worked like a woman who was
functioning, but something was missing - a quiet absence she couldn't
ignore, no matter how much she tried to fill the space.
She swept the same hallway four times in a day. Scrubbed and mopped
bootprints from the stone floors before they dried. Sharpened every sword
and dagger in the armory, whether it needed it or not. Sorted potions and
draughts by purpose - and then by viscosity, then again by scent, then yet
again, by label color.
She never said a word while she focused on the tasks at hand, sometimes
chewing on her bottom lip in focused contemplation. Some thought she was
working at proving herself, and while she had always been driven to serve to
the best of her abilities, she also knew it was a way to keep her mind
occupied, and off other things.
Because saying the truth - that something was quietly missing - wasn't an
option. She was doing well, applying herself in advancing ranks and
steadily finding her niche, but a tight knot in her solar plexus reminded
her that something was off. Everything was ultimately just fine, but the
stillness in certain aspects was too loud, too empty.
So she scrubbed. She dusted high beams on a ladder, until her shoulders
burned. Hauled crates. Polished marble. Sorted rations in silence, and
then mopped the hallway again.
And when she passed by someone unusually tall, even for her standards, she
didn't look.
One of the quartermasters joked that she was trying to put the other Novices
out of work. She smiled at that; or tried to. It came out crooked and a
little too sharp.
She was settling in just fine, but some changes were harder to adjust to than others.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue May 6 21:52:05 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:09:39 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:09:56 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:10:17 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:10:48 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:11:12 2025
Writer: Delsaran
Date Wed May 7 20:11:34 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed May 7 21:58:18 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu May 8 05:24:23 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: Designing a Sanctum for Cauldron Research
There came a point in my journey where wandering through crypts,
libraries, and forbidden temples no longer yielded answers, only more
fragments. My work on the cauldron, its origin and arcane composition,
demanded continuity, privacy, and most importantly, safety. No longer could
I rely on shared spaces or borrowed sanctuaries. I required a home, a
sanctum not for comfort, but for the crucible of theory and praxis.
Thus I began the quiet process of design, drafting sketches between
incantations and consulting bound spirits for their memory of ancient
construction. The structure had to be more than stone and ward, it had to
resonate with the arcane purpose of the cauldron: wild, dangerous,
misunderstood. Yet in its walls, the unshaped magicks of the weave would be
safely channeled and examined.
I reached out to the artisans of Algoron, seeking an architect attuned to
the darker arts, someone not frightened by ritual spaces or attunement
chambers. One name led to another, and I now await confirmation of a mind
as gifted in shaping form as I am in reshaping theory. The home will be
forged in stages, each room a spell in itself, bound by sigil and intention.
The first foundation has already been laid: a garden in silence, watched by
shadows, where nothing natural grows, and yet it thrives.
This home will not be a fortress, nor a tower of pride. It is a crucible.
A retreat for those brave enough to help me strip away dogma and discover
the truths hidden within the Cauldron. If my efforts are to break through
centuries of superstition, I must have a place worthy of that endeavor.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Thu May 8 17:56:24 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Verminasia Arkane Zandreya Drakkara Raije Chaos Malachive Xenophon Imm RP Religion
Subject The War-Queens
Andreyna walked slowly throughout the elven camps, praying as she went.
She prayed for guidance, for protection, for strength, and endurance. She
prayed Zandreya and Her elves would emerge victorious alongside the allies
who came together in the war against the Warp and any who would side with
them.
The hour was drawing near. The elves had been preparing for months upon
months, and now was the time in which they would answer the Mother's call.
Through the storms, the wind, and crashing waves, the elves gathered into
formation. Horses grunted and neighed, the sounds of sharpened steel and
armor clanged together. Archers took their places, their quivers full of
perfectly carved arrows. Andreyna mounted her horse and made her way
through the ranks, reaching the front of the thousands of elves gathered to
answer the Mother's call.
In the distance she could see another army gathering. Darkened armor
glistened and flags of the Drakkara's kingdom could be seen whipping in the
wind. Andreyna spotted a figure sitting high in the seat of a large black
stallion, galloping back and forth in front of the massive army. As if
sensing the Queen-Priest, the Witch-Queen turned her head to Andrenya and
gave an excited wave.
Andreyna couldn't help but smile at her dear friend and wave back with a
nod. The elfqueen looked in the opposite direction for the Arkanian army,
led by their Queen. The war was soon to commence, a war like one never seen
upon Algoron before. A war led by the Queens.
Writer: Erebaal
Date Thu May 8 18:12:43 2025
To All Kingdom Clan Immortal ( Malachive Zandreya Raije Xenophon )
Subject The End Approaching
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
By dribs and drams did the slow patter of unholy blood exude from the Tree
of Bone, the Tree of Pain. Almost imperceptibly did it quiver, wracked by
the torment of a blighted existence that had nothing to do with the
unwholesomeness of its ichorous sap. Veins of terrible white ran through it
in small parts, damning Light trying to unmake what had been born into a
world never worth saving. Judgment was being passed, inch by terrible inch,
spiked earthward by furious Divines to cleanse All that it deemed unworthy
of living.
That same rancid blood flowed through living flesh, as did the echo of the
torment inflicted upon its source. A stout heart, hardened through
unspeakable acts across long years, terrible deeds wrought in every corner
of the world in the name of a goal that few could ever fully guess at, and
fewer still could understand, for the mind that guided the hands was in
itself many parts divided. The Everchosen of Chaos, Vessel of Chaos, Word
Bearer and Destroyer stalked the deepest parts of the forge-fortress known
as the Warp, deep below the foetid tower of fleshmetal and bone that had
marred the Tropican landscape. He could not quite escape the pain that
wracked him with every beating of his heart, for just as it became remotely
tolerable, another speck of Light would burrow deeper and the shared torment
would redouble.
There were glimmers even this deep in the Warp, places where the weakened
earth and the strands of Warp-borne corruption had been devoured by the
Lucent Pillar's hatred and now shone with a baleful purity. They hurt to
look upon, and the Everchosen turned his helmetted visage from them as he
paced and growled in his agony. His furtive tasks had taken him by means
unseen, unlooked-for from the depths of the Conclave's most precious vaults
to the underbelly of desert lands. Had taken him from the heart of the
Vallen to the outskirts of Arkanian holdings. The seeds had been planted,
the signs daubed in corruption, in blood, and in bile. Had been nailed into
place with oily steel devised by the mad genius of the Warpsmiths. They had
been left to scatter, to gestate, to worm their way into the earth and
provide fresh fodder for the Pillar to reach toward and so turn its
devouring wrath away from the Tree itself, to buy time to try and wrest the
damnable edifice free of its implacable advance into the Warp's rotten
heart.
Time was growing shorter. The lancing pain in his heart told him so. The
slumbering God, the Devourer was restless, beginning to grow fearful,
almost. That was what the human half of his mind attributed to the matter.
What little calculation was left between the ravening beast that was the
Word Bearer
the screaming madman of slaughter that had set half the world to rout in
days past and the inhuman callousness the high-handed spender of lives and
coins the Despoiler of Algoron that was the Everchosen had sensed what it
thought to be fear, and it spurred the armored warrior to anima once more.
The gambits were set. The distractions made ready. The world's eyes were
falling into the depths of the tempestuous Storm of Zandreya. There would
all be decided. There would the marks be carved. His preparations were not
yet complete.
Soon.
The Everchosen allowed himself a wolfish smile, the ghastly thing half a
rictus of agony beneath the half-mask of a roaring Abhorrent. Soon.
Writer: Erindor
Date Thu May 8 18:55:10 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Cayenna Xenophon Admin IMM RP
Subject Preparing the Defenses: The Illusionary Forest
No wind stirred in the Vallenwood. The trees stood tall and unmoving,
their limbs a lattice of shadow against the pale canopy above. The forest
was too still. No insects, no birdcall, not even the low groan of branches
in sway. Erindor found the silence informative. Nothing had breached. Not
yet. But the soil had begun to thrum, subtly, like the distant pluck of a
taut string, out of tune with the rest of the world.
He stood at the edge of a stone rise, overlooking a narrow glade choked in
thick mist and low bramble. The site was unremarkable, purposefully so.
But that was the point. Erindor had been mapping ley deviation and deep
harmonic disruption for three weeks. The signs were converging. If the
Warp moved on the forest, it would likely breach here.
His wardbook lay open in his hand, ink still drying in the margins. A small
spell-globe hovered at his shoulder, its pulsing dim, tethered to dozens of
buried illusions that would form the defensive shell. He had revised them
four times already. Too perfect, and the deceit would seem artificial. Too
natural, and they'd lack the magnetic suggestion that drew attention where
he wanted it.
He adjusted the slope of one illusion, a fallen cart with broken wheels and
mock blood spatter on the leaves. The shadow it cast was ten degrees too
far east; he corrected the light source in the weave. Then he stepped back
and tested for resonance drift. Satisfied.
No soldiers were visible. None stationed near the glade. But they were
there, high in the boughs, some beneath the loam, each one encased in
stillness. The illusion did not merely deceive the eye. It misled
expectation. It invited the enemy forward, into a pattern they had not
chosen.
He knelt beside the base of a moss-covered stone, drawing a spiral around
the rune etched there. Each spiral tied a thread of his attention to the
node. When the time came, he could collapse the entire faade with a breath
and awaken the true defensive line in under two seconds.
The Warp, if it came, would not be a brute force assault. Not at first. It
preferred to seep. Tendril through space, rot through certainty. Doubt
first. Then corruption. Then form. Erindor planned to offer them no
ground to take root. The Vallenwood would not allow it, and neither would
he.
He moved without wasted motion, coordinating the hidden boundaries between
overlapping spells, setting thresholds keyed to visual cues he could trigger
or cancel. One mirrored lake in a hollow basin would flash once, pure,
unnatural stillness, when the first Warpborn scout crossed into the
illusion's arc. That was his tell. Then, and only then, would the second
layer initiate.
Behind him, a whisper from the canopy.
'Aviaries report nothing crossing the third ring, ' came the voice. One of
the Kyorl, sheathed in gray-green, nearly indistinct against the bark. 'No
Warp, No scent. '
'They're watching, ' Erindor replied. 'The pressure in the rootlines has
changed. Something brushes close. They're measuring boundaries. '
She hesitated. 'How certain? '
'Too certain to wait, too uncertain to engage. ' He looked up through the
branches. 'This is not a swordfight. We make the first cut before we see
the blade. '
He signaled with one hand. Far off, the illusion of a lost patrol began
moving through the underbrush, their projected voices faint, believable.
They would loop every seventeen minutes, each iteration slightly different.
Enough to draw attention. Enough to waste time.
Erindor turned again to the glade. He adjusted the projected ash line near
the forest's edge. Too recent. He aged it with a glyph, making it look two
days older. Consistency mattered.
Nothing had come yet. The Warp still waited.
But so did he.
Writer: Tief
Date Thu May 8 22:24:44 2025
Writer: Balsam
Date Thu May 8 22:43:11 2025
Writer: Tephysea
Date Fri May 9 09:21:42 2025
Writer: Orutix
Date Fri May 9 10:05:35 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara Lenore ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Revelation (I)
The earth had begun to speak.
It started as a distant murmur in the depths of Orutix's fractured mind. A
voice, like grinding stone and rusted metal, slithering into his thoughts
when the torches burned low. At first, he dismissed it as echoes of the
Dungeon's damned. Then the voice grew stronger, as if feeding on the
anxiety before the night of war.
Deep beneath the cities of Shalonesti, Arkane and Verminasia, there the soil
had turned black with ancient corruption, something stirred. The earth
split open, and from the fissures erupted twisted spires of morphed metal
and bone, missing priests, long buried, now unearthed.
Their forms were grotesque, fused with jagged spine of rusted iron and
pulsating veins of sinewy flesh. Before they were discovered as structures
to be entered, they spoke in low chants that burst Orutix's eardrums.
The Horde had struck down many this night, of Marauder soldiers, of Chaos
worms, of Chaos cultists, and stayed true to their pact made with the
Tri-Queens of the Twilight alliance. When they sought respite after the
first spine nearly consumed them, back within their Dungeon, Orutix ordered
the faithful of Lenore's Umbral Synod deep into the open excavation pits
underneath the Dungeon to seek for signs of corruption.
Writer: Orutix
Date Fri May 9 10:18:03 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara Lenore ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Revelation (II)
The voices of the morphed Priests of Chaos, priests once of other Gods,
slithered into Orutix's mind like serpents of rust and shadow, their words
half formed.... A language not meant for mortal ears. As he stood before
the jagged metal-flesh spire in Shalonesti, their chants were a discordant
storm, syllables fracturing before they reached meaning.
Even in the suffocating depths of the Underdark, Orutix's mind was no
refuge. The Overseer's cold commands and the Chaos Priests' maddening
whispers clawed at his thoughts, a ceaseless war for his attention. His
temples throbbed, the skin around his ears still crusted with the old,
flaking blood, where the priests' chants had first slithered into his skull.
"Krthul mahndra vehklor duskvein"
Gritting his teeth, Orutix clutched his skull as the voices clawed at his
thoughts, their message just beyond comprehension. It was only when he
returned to the Bloodlust Dungeon, surrounded by the whispers of the Umbra
Synod and the groans of sacrificed slaves, that the words sharpened into
clarity. In the depths of his sanctum, the chants reassembled themselves in
his mind, their true meaning unfolding like a cursed scroll. "The veil is
not a barrier - it is a membrane. A living thing. To pierce it, you must
make it bleed. "
New knowledge burned behind his eyes - ritual wounds that mirrored the Salve
encased fissures in the smooth, glass like cavern. Sacrifices that must
still be beating when offered, and the true revelation of what Orutix
sought.
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Fri May 9 10:58:36 2025
To All Verminasia Shadow Piknim Drakkara Immortal RP
Subject Dragonfire and Witchlight
The skies darkened as Sidorinath soared through the thickened air,
powerful sapphire wings cutting through the putrid miasma that choked the
land. On her back, Queen Piknim -- the Darkfinder -- clung firmly, her
violet eyes narrowed with intense concentration. Below them, the earth
quaked violently as fissures cracked open, releasing waves of bile-scented
air. From these rifts, spires of twisted metal and bone erupted, pulsing
with an unnatural, sickening energy.
The Chaos worms slithered from the cracks like grotesque serpents, their
massive, writhing bodies leaving trails of filth in their wake. Their
mouths gaped wide with jagged teeth, dripping with slime and venom. Behind
them crawled zombie-like priests, long missing from the world and now
grotesquely reanimated. Their bodies were twisted, stitched together with
rusted iron and rotting flesh, throbbing with putrid veins that pulsed and
oozed in time with the dark chants that filled the air.
Piknim's fingers twitched, calling on the arcane power that surged within
her. Her voice rang out in sharp, commanding chants, the air around her
crackling with the energy of magic. Her spells shot forward, searing
through the filth and decay, lighting up the foul landscape with each
strike. Occasionally, she hurled potion gourds into the fray.
Sidorinath's claws tore through the writhing mass of everything Chaos in her
path, rending bloated, maggot-like bodies with savage, unrelenting
precision. She snarled, her fangs sinking deep into the flesh of her
enemies, while her tail lashed through the air with deadly force. Her
nostrils flared wildly with the glorious purpose of the hunt, her breath
heavy and hot, spittle dripping from her fangs like the mark of a predator
unleashed.
As the battle raged, Queen Piknim's keen eyes scanned All around her,
assessing. She expertly took in All incoming intelligence from their group
regarding the progress of their situation, and regularly adjusted their
course, moving them toward vulnerable pockets of enemy forces, or heading to
places where allies were overwhelmed and needed respite or reinforcement.
All through the night, Piknim and Sidorinath moved as one, an unbreakable
force bonded in purpose. They wove through the carnage and, together, they
helped keep the enemy off-balance, pushing back the filth and corruption,
never faltering in their relentless fight to safeguard those who depended on
them.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Fri May 9 17:46:06 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Center of Learning and Teaching I
Wrapped in the soft ivory folds of his cloak, Ulyssus uttered an
incanation, lowering the wards at the entrance of the Ivory Tower and
stepped into the garden outside. The trees here were twisted into elegant,
unnatural shapes, the work of magic. Beneath his boots, the ground
shimmered faintly where magical runes have banished All weeds. He knew the
towering spire behind him, Lord Kantilles's Ivory Tower, is a wonderful
place of arcane refinement and learning. But today, Ulyssus was setting
forth on a journey to the Center of Learning and Teaching within New Thalos,
in further search of magic.
His path led first through a peaceful forest alcove where a group of bushes
were grown into a small altar. Ulyssus paused momentarily to reflect on
what god the altar might have been meant for. His manticore paced nearby
with wary silence as he walked over towards it and, using a spell, floated
gently up onto its back. The forest here was teeming with life as a small
forest sprite fluttered nearby. He passed the base of a great tree with a
hollow large enough to swallow a man as he pushed his manticore northward.
Soon the forest gave way to the stunted, dry, and bleak Dwarf Forest. The
land here seemed as if it had once been alive but had been denied of all
joy. Ulyssus continued to press on until the woods thinned and opened at
last into the Cross Roads. Here, the wind smelled of dust and the many
battles this place had seen, many his own battles. Great roads intersected,
with one west towards Althainia, and another east towards New Thalos. It
was eastward he turned.
He passed along the Eastern Road, where the stones grew warm beneath his
manticore's feet. A faint song drifted from the north, and he glimpsed the
Temple of the Gray Order to the south. He did not linger here, for his path
stretched on. At the checkpoint ahead, a group of armored knights stood
guard. They allowed him through after brief inspection, warning him to be
wary in the desert that lay ahead. Beyond them he could see the sands
rising.
With each step eastward, the air grew drier, the heat more oppressive. The
Sands of Sorrow loomed. He stopped to look at the damage inflicted by the
arcane magics that had blasted the desert, and wondered how much of that was
his own magic from the many battles fought in this desert. Sand crept over
the stones of the road, and mirages danced at the edges of his vision. He
drank sparingly from the orb of water in which he carried, bound in place by
his magic, and whispered a short incantation to bring forth a cooling breeze
as he travelled. Finally, at the far end of the desert, salvation came.
The gates of New Thalos rose from the sand like a mirage made real. The
gates bore the blackened scars of a dragon's wrath, and perhaps a few of his
own fireballs from fleeing enemies, but still they stood. The guards nodded
solemnly as Ulyssus passed beneath the stone towers of the west gate,
stepping at last into the city itself.
Main Street bustled with activity, but it was the grassy square north of it
that drew his eyes, where priests and pilgrims mingled, some in debate,
others deep in quiet meditation. Farther still, the temple stood crowned in
white stone and glory, its marble pillars shining in the midday light. He
dismounted from his manticore and with a simple incantation he dismissed the
creature back to the plane from which he summoned it. He then turned to the
west and stepped into the Center of Learning and Teaching.
The Center of Learning and Teaching hummed with arcane energy, its walls
gently pulsing with magical resonance. Dedicated to his Lord Kantilles, the
God of Magic, this was both a place of worship and one of theory,
experimentation, and structured insight. Mages, young and old, clustered
about, working with sigils, gestures, and formulae.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Fri May 9 18:05:32 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Center of Learning and Teaching II
Ulyssus observed those around him closely. A teacher demonstrated a
creation spell to summon forth a magical mushroom, something he himself had
long mastered, but now watched through a new lens. Another group practiced
arcane wards of protection, and still another discussed how illusion magic
could be used in diplomacy or war. It was magic in service to civilization,
magic as a force to be understood and shaped.
He sat in a quiet corner and opened his journal, making notes with a
studious hand. 'Lord Kantilles favors not just the power of magic', he
wrote, 'but the respect of it and the intention behind its use. Yet here,
even as we honor him, the magic remains ours to direct'.
The Center reminded him of the Ivory Tower with the practicing and learning
of magic, and also its devotion of knowledge to be shared with others. Yet
Ulyssus felt that his purpose today was not to reaffirm what he already
knew. He had not come to New Thalos to perfect his arcane control, but to
glimpse the mysteries that lay beyond it. He stepped over to the statue of
Lord Kantilles and bowed his head in reverence, whispering a short prayer.
With that, he stepped out of the center and turned toward the Temple Square.
The Temple of New Thalos rose like a beacon of quiet humility and sacred
intent. Its pillars bore carvings of many gods. This was not a house of
Kantilles, but a shared sanctuary, open to All the divine paths. The air
here felt different and less charged, less crackling with arcane energy, and
instead steeped in serenity, purpose, and unseen presence.
Within the square outside the temple, clerics, monks, and priests of many
orders mingled or preached. Ulyssus saw a robed priest lay his hands on a
fevered merchant and whisper a blessing. The man sat up moments later,
sweating but alive. A cleric raised a golden disc in prayer, and those who
knelt nearby seemed lighter when they stood again. A monk spoke to a crowd
of townsfolk about duty and sacrifice, his words resonating in the air like
truth.
Ulyssus lingered for hours, his journal open again. This was not magic
governed by equations or theoretical schools. Here, spellcasting was woven
into acts of faith, charity, and conviction. He wrote what he saw 'Gestures
not for manipulation, but supplication. Words not for commands, but calls.
Divine magic is not summoned, it is invited. '
Eventually, he stepped into the temple itself. Within, the air grew hushed,
thick with incense and light. No sermon echoed from the pulpit, but
scattered figures in the pews prayed quietly. The walls bore murals of holy
acts such as healing, blessings, and judgments rendered by divine magic. He
watched a priestess cleanse a soldier's wound, not by stitching or potion,
but by holy invocation. Another removed a curse from a frightened child
with a calm touch and a sacred word.
He wrote slowly now, his notes more reflective. 'Arcane magic is a flame to
tend and shape. Divine magic is a light one must become worthy to carry.
It does not yield to will, but it responds to purpose'. For a long while,
Ulyssus sat in silent observation, learning what he could of the nature of
the divine magic he was witnessing. The weight of his staff rested against
the pew, and the magic crystal of ice at its top dimmed as if in reverence
to this place.
When the time came to leave, he stood and picking up his staff, leaned
against it as he thought of All that he had seen and learned this day of
magic. He offered a small, respectful bow, and whispered a word of thanks.
As he stepped into the cooling evening air, he tucked his journal beneath
his arm. Looking over to the owl on his shoulder, he spoke quietly to
himself 'Where arcane magic bends te knowledge, divine magic yields te
faith.' With a gesture and an incantation, he summoned his manticore back
to his side and skillfully mounted it, starting his journey back to the
Ivory Tower.
Writer: Tephysea
Date Fri May 9 22:07:51 2025
Writer: Eridessa
Date Sat May 10 19:01:20 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia All Andreyna Skalpon Tephysea Hayashi Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Dreams of Ash and Lavender (Part 1)
The sky had begun to burn.
Above the siege lines of Fort Ironclad, Zandreya's tempest rolled in
earnest, coiling like a serpent around the heavens. The red moon hung heavy
and full in the sky, casting the world in shades of crimson and silver ash.
And there in the middle of All of it, an omen of the Everwar.
The forces of Shalonesti had gathered at the ward-line, ready to unleash
storm and sorcery upon the corrupted ramparts of Ironclad. The wind howled
like a creature mourning. And still, they waited for the moment. Eridessa
stood outside the healer's tent, the wind snapping her curls and tugging at
the edge of her cloak. Around her, the camp prepared for the assault.
Cannons were loaded, spells readied, armor fastened by shaking hands. Ready
but still, the elves were calm even as the storm howled before the eye of
the Mother came over the Fort from above.
Then came the word, passed to heart and mind, fear already put to words and
warded against but no less of a shocking blow to be both felt and heard: The
Vallenwoods are under attack. They had expected it might happen, a second
front, a cruel distraction. But knowing and hearing were different things.
The Vallenwoods, the sacred heart of Shalonesti, had come under siege. Not
by armies of steel and banner, but by something twisted and wrong. The
defenders left behind would not hold forever.
Eridessa turned her eyes skyward, toward the Eye, toward the storm, and
toward the red-glowing heavens, standing still for half a breath, and then
turned. No commands were needed. No deliberation. The decision was
already made in every heart: the forest comes first. They moved as one.
Spells were cast with furious urgency, teleportation magics drawn with
crimson and golden magics, trees awakened to open hidden paths, and sacred
winds summoned to bear wings that could carry their kin. They left behind
tents and tools, medicines and wards. The fortress would burn or stand
without them. The Mother was present, her storm already upon the enemy.
But the Vallenwoods were their soul. And when your soul cries for help, you
answer.
After the battle, night had fallen again, though the sky still pulsed
faintly red above the shattered canopy.
The Vallenwoods had not fallen, but neither had they been untouched. Whole
groves lay blackened, bark twisted with corruption. The air smelled of
ozone, burnt flesh, and the foul tang of unnatural magic. The creatures
that had crawled from and infested the Spines, warped fusions of bone and
sinew, perversions of Zandreya's wild design that now lay scattered and
smoldering in craters and ravines.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Sat May 10 19:06:30 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia All Andreyna Skalpon Tephysea Hayashi Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Dreams of Ash and Lavender (Part 2)
Eridessa reached into her pouch, fingers sorting by texture and scent.
Lavender, to still the breath and calm the nerves. Chamomile, for gentle
dreams and rest. Valerian root, earthy and pungent, to draw the mind into
sleep and keep it there. Juniper berries, to ward nightmares and cleanse
the spirit. Bay laurel, sacred to the Moon, sharp-scented and protective,
to guard the boundary between sleep and visions.
Some had been torn by teeth, others bore curses but more still carried
trauma in their eyes that no poultice could mend. She crushed herbs with
slow, steady pressure, mixing roots and blossoms that still remembered what
it meant to be alive, coaxing them into soothing drafts for sleep. Her
hands moved on their own - muscle memory and grief intertwined. She
whispered prayers as she dropped each into the steaming water, the language
of the leaves blending with her own.
Beside her, her aunt Tephysea chanted softly in the old tongue, fingers
splayed over the brow of a fevered soldier, touching brows and murmuring
dreams into restless minds. The spellwork was delicate, a dream walk, a
healing dream, one that brought the soul to calm waters. Her spells carried
sleep on silver thread and Eridessa's tea that would hold it fast.
She ladled the brew into clay cups and pressed them into waiting hands.
Some resisted, warriors, some stubborn but more afraid to sleep, afraid to
see the things that waited behind their eyes. But when they tasted it, when
the warmth of the herbs spread through them, they softened. Eyes closed and
breaths deepened. Some cried and a few even smiled. Some whispered thanks
they wouldn't remember.
Eridessa didn't rest, she couldn't. Not yet. The Numen Reliqua still
pulsed in the back of her thoughts, wrapped tight beneath charm and cloth,
humming with alien hymns. She would tend it later. Or perhaps never, it
called her name in a voice that was hers - and not hers. She had not meant
to touch it, had not meant to hear it. But she had. Now, even here,
surrounded by herbs and whispered comfort, she felt it. A slow thrum that
echoed behind her heartbeat. It was made of bone and flesh, but not grown,
not born.
It was assembled, built of divinity and pain, the calcified remains of
Priests who had once sung Zandreya's name with reverence and now screamed in
silence from within. The sigils etched into its surface shifted even now,
never the same twice. When she closed her eyes, they etched themselves
against the inside of her lids. And if she stared too long, if she let it
in, she could almost hear them. The mouths. So many mouths, screaming
without sound. It smelled of sanctity turned inside out, of incense
scorched into something unclean.
For now, she brewed another pot and in the ruined wood beneath a blood-red
moon, the scent of lavender and juniper mingled with ash as her thoughts
remained on a piece of what had been lost, sacred, shattered, and
whispering.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 10 20:47:19 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: Relevance the art of the Brew.
In the chaos that followed the rise of the Everchosen and the ruptures of
the world, I had the rare fortune to stand beside Queen Piknim as she led
forces against the unthinkable. Between the writhing spines of flesh and
mind-warping siege beasts, it was not only steel and sorcery that caught my
eye, but a moment subtle and profound, the Queen's use of gourds in battle.
She wielded them not as simple fruit, nor even merely enchanted tools, but
as arcane instruments, subtle extensions of a practiced and deliberate
craft. The way she invoked them, attuned them, infused them with will and
whim, echoed the very essence of cauldronwork. Her art was not wild. It
was not reckless. It was refined and deeply personal, each gourd acting as
a living spellform, a container of intent, and a bearer of the weave mutable
laws.
This was no mere performance, it was a demonstration. Queen Piknim proved,
without word or decree, that the cauldron's art, when mastered, was capable
of both surgical precision and battlefield efficacy. In that moment I
understood something vital: the cauldron is not a flaw in the weave, but a
thread of its own.
To ignore it would be to ignore potential, perhaps even divine design. If
one so spirited and whimsical as the Queen of the Kender could mold chaos
into form, what could be achieved through proper study and sanctified space?
My resolve deepened. I do not seek to control the cauldron, only to
understand it. And through observation, through this unexpected lesson from
a Queen and her gourds, I step closer to discerning its place in our grand
tapestry.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Sat May 10 23:51:05 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Sun May 11 00:04:05 2025
Writer: Dimitar
Date Sun May 11 09:27:06 2025
Writer: Dimitar
Date Sun May 11 09:30:16 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun May 11 19:38:29 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: Research, The Foundation of Application.
Research is not a single act, but a sequence of rituals, both mundane and
profound, that shape understanding into insight. In preparation for the
application phase of my study into the Cauldron, I have gathered threads
from every corner of the realm, weaving them into the tapestry of knowledge
now resting before me.
I have spent weeks hidden among the spires of the High Tower, reading
forbidden transcriptions on elemental infusion. I combed through aged
codices in the Enchantress Tower, their pages brittle with truth long
ignored. I watched Corson's matches noting every action, not to mimic their
paths, but to understand how corruption and power manifest through cauldron
use beyond Conclave's control. I observed Queen Piknim's use of gourds as
arcane vessels, their mimicry of cauldron principles startling in both
design and function.
The crypts of the world yielded tomes steeped in divine theory, connecting
the Cauldron not just to magic but to cosmological design, the Weave as both
law and canvas. The countless libraries I searched offered insight into
replication and containment: how spells might be encoded, preserved, or even
erased through alchemical layering.
But perhaps most important of All was the council of many, the forum of
minds where ideologies clashed and merged. From Ivory Tower's Wizard to
Drakkara's High Priestess, from skeptic to advocate, I collected
perspectives, doubts, and warnings. Each voice shaped my resolve, not by
steering me, but by challenging me to reinforce every assumption
These avenues of research, observational, archival, philosophical, and
practical, now lead to the precipice of application. I have not reached
this threshold in haste. The Cauldron, wild and vital, demands a cautious
but daring hand. What comes next is not idle experimentation, but the
synthesis of everything I have gathered.
Let the foundation be set. Let the cauldron speak.
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun May 11 20:47:11 2025
To All Gragnar Marauders ( Imm Raije Rp )
Subject Madness of the Warp - Cleanup (Part 1)
Once the repeated assaults against Ironclad by forces of chaos had ceased and
the wider plague of terror and madness by the Warp had been quelled, Gragnar
and Fredrik ventured beyond the walls of the Fort to deal with the immediate
aftermath. Bonfires set for watch were quickly converted into funeral pyres.
Those whose bodies showed disturbing corruption from the Warp were hastily put
to the flame after brief and respectful final honors. They gathered the other
bodies into organized staging areas for honors and burning when time permitted.
Medical triage camps were also hastily being assembled to treat the wounded.
Fredrik visited All of them while making his rounds to review the damage done
to Ironclad and the Marauders, while Gragnar scouted farther out to confirm the
relative safety. Fredrik could not locate the gravely wounded scout who had
assured them of imminent attack by warpbeasts, which had never come. Whether
they had been given to the flame or returned to their twisted home mattered
little at this point. Still, Fredrik advised amputation in cases where limbs
were seriously afflicted by the ichor of the warplings.
The Fort had stood as they had hoped, but at great cost to the Marauders and
all the realm. His spirit was drained, both by the realm's inability to react
to a slow moving cart wreck they had seen unfold over four miserable years, but
also by seeing the senseless carnage wrought about Ironclad. The troops seemed
to be in high spirits though. They had survived what many thought would be the
final night of Ironclad, and they had tasted the thrill of battle once again.
There would be time for celebrations later. But before they could sleep, the
grim work of dealing with the wounded and fallen needed to be done. Countless
had been slain in defense of the Fort, and many would not survive the night.
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun May 11 20:47:41 2025
To All Marauders ( Imm Raije Rp )
Subject Madness of the Warp - Cleanup (Part 2)
The next day, Fredrik oversaw military honors conducted for the fallen as they
were fed to a number of growing funeral pyres throughout the day and into the
night. Survivors spoke for the fallen, attesting to their bravery in battle and
the bitter contest for Ironclad's survival. Each was celebrated for what they
had done, and many attested that the actions of the dead had saved their own
lives or those of others.
Many praised Raije, comrades, and the glory of battle. There had indeed been
many acts of bravery and endurance during the assault, but many had died poorly.
Already, the living pushed memories of the battle from their mind, and rewrote
the final agonizing moments of their friends with heroic deeds. There would be
many songs written and sung about the events. Some true in deed, but All true
in the spirit of what the Marauders had done.
Makeshift camps were being drawn up around the walls of Ironclad to shelter the
soldiers who had been pushed back to the walls, but also the civilians who had
fled in terror and madness in this direction. Some were confused to find that
they were now in Marauder lands, and had only nightmares as memories of how
they had fled from the Warp's attacks to this place. Many were in disbelief,
but the smell of the honored dead being purified by fire and the burning mark
of the Everwar in the sky reminded them that life was now a waking nightmare.
Writer: Sebez
Date Mon May 12 13:00:22 2025
Writer: Sebez
Date Mon May 12 17:35:27 2025
Writer: Telthian
Date Mon May 12 19:59:35 2025
To All ( imm Drakkara Naamitsa Shadow Black_Robes Verminasia Bloodlust )
Subject {uUmbratide - Madness of the Warp
The square board was simple. Eight rows, eight columns. Half of the
squares light, half dark. And when set up properly, a light square always
sat in the lower right hand. This particular board was wooden, each piece
carved with some care and detail but not particularly ornamental. Telthian
could not say why this board was chosen over any other, only that there was
a particular fondness for the simplicity of its pieces.
{u.... The bone vessel of the phylactery lay inert, the soulsteel chain cool
against his sun-darkened skin. But every now and then, he could feel a stir
within the material-link to its owner. A gasp. A tremor. The weight of
defiance. But the old confidence was shaken. Something was absent, or
perhaps.....
Light moved first, as was customary in this game, and over some weeks this
particular battle would slowly unfold. A pawn, no more than a
peasant-turned soldier raised by duty, not desire, shuffled forward into the
hinterland. Not that he could know it from his lowly position, but he was
the herald of this war and his step stirred the silence. Dark answered with
its own pawn, a revenant wrapped in duskwind rags, limbs stretched out in
sorrow.
{u.... Levinox breathed deep of the umbra, dark threads of power visible to
his eye even from the estate in Pharthati. The storm's rain drenched the
glass, and Telthian could almost feel spring's chill from within the
solarium, and the baleful glow of the aurora cast its rays much too close to
Verminasia's walls.....
Knights thundered from the flanks, noble warsteeds cloaked in silver and
steel with lances held high and were answered by creatures that galloped not
with hooves, but clawed limbs that scraped the firmament. Both leapt into
the fray, not with might, but with cunning, weaving their way through gaps
on the battlefield.
{u.... Enemies moved at a glacial pace, testing the newly forged strength of
the dark legion. A cult of loyalists, desperately clinging to the past even
as he had snuffed the last of their, and his, once master. Umbra cracked
and seeped from his skin where dark divinity spilled forth, barely
restrained. A threat? Perhaps, but his power was solidified. A
distraction? Certainly. But how Kayen and Bearhide would bring them to
judgment was of interest.....
The bishops moved next. Holy executioners bright with sanctified valor or
cloaked in sanguine rage. They drifted across the field on angles, marking
paths presently unseen by the pawns below, each sweep spelling death for
some, life for others, as they invoked the judgment of gods.
{u.... Intrigue in the Court, a feeble play to take what lands were theirs,
his and the High Priestess' was easily rebuffed. But had it succeeded?
Surely they knew his counter-move would be as merciless as the fire in his
belly. It was foolish, and the sloppiness of their thought galled him.
Work for Riniji, perhaps, or was it time to remind them what the epithet
Draco Dei meant....
Unyielding bastions of ancestral grudges ground forward with slow
inevitability as the rooks woke, black and white banners rippling in the
wind of change. Where they clashed, the earth split and groaned with agony.
Slow and cumbersome beasts, but their power could be harnessed.
{u.... Elves on the continent. Arkanians mustering their forces. Verminasia
hedging in the crumbling fortress on All fronts. And the Warp's blasphemies
scurrying in tunnels and caves beneath the noses of the Marauders if the
Darkfinder's intelligence was accurate. Would the Guillotine's blade fall
to finish the work begun when he killed their Highlord Aeriset Arnason, the
Everchosen's rotten offspring....
Writer: Telthian
Date Mon May 12 20:04:04 2025
To All ( imm Drakkara Naamitsa Shadow Black_Robes Verminasia Bloodlust )
Subject {uUmbratide - Madness of the Warp II
But it was the Queens, it was always the Queens, that reaped the war's
greatest harvest.
Pawns were consumed, Knights fell to unseen traps, and bishops blinded by
their own certainty gasped their last. The dark queen pierced deep into the
light's line, sweeping across the field with the grace of a falling star.
Her touch was plague. Her voice was destruction. The light queen answered,
pale and serene as a tomb, her graceful presence felt on the field by the
weight of the lives she claimed.
{u.... The newly born hellspawn was deferential, the timbre of the horned
demoness' voice confident, but laced with something more... Interested in
him than expected. A powerful ally? Or a usurper who would fracture the
legion they built, like Golgorok before her. Time would be her judge, but
he could adjust the pendulum's swing in or against her favor....
The dark queen found herself encircled, snared in a sacrifice made long ago.
Unmoved since the war began, one pawn left in wait now rose in silence. His
blade simple. His purpose pure. With her fall, silence returned to the
battlefield like the closing of a tomb. The onyx king, now exposed, gazed
into the eyes of the advancing enemy. He would not run.
{u.... A crumbling tower of flesh and of bone decorated with corpses of the
priesthood lay in ruin, a sign the coalition's might would be sufficient to
the task. These battles were important, surely, but they would not divert
his eye from what he had seen in the threads of prophecy that knit together
to spell his own resurrection and return. The power to reshape Algoron was
not there upon terrestrial soils, but beyond them....
Each piece played its part as only it could, true to its making and bound by
the sole purpose for its creation. While pieces moved to and fro, while
armies marched, while angels soared, and while ruinous heretics stalked the
borders of their power, the Draco Dei and Umbraseer positioned Storm in play
to a different game altogether.
Umbra-cracked fingers slid the next piece forward. Pawn, knight, rook, or
Queen, it mattered little. All would feel the necessity of sacrifice.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:20:36 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Raphiel Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound That Binds (Part 1)
Skalpon had come of his own accord.
She had almost feared she would have to drag him. After the battle, after
the Chaos worms had split the earth with bone, bile, and fury for the second
time in only a few days, he'd been different. Of course, the welt marked
him now: a red, angry lash that crossed his face like a brand, still hot to
the touch with unseen rot. But it was his spirit that bore the deeper,
invisible stain.
He had snapped at her, at everyone. Short, clipped words. Fury first at
the enemy, but then it lingered, even after the battle. She had felt the
pull too - that lingering need to keep fighting - before it faded. But when
she had stopped him from striking one of those who had answered the call to
defend Shalonesti in this latest horror, he had looked at her with something
close to betrayal. He had stopped though, and then he had turned away.
When she spoke of meeting with the angel, of the place where the Gods had
once wept for the loss of their daughters, the Goddesses of Peace and
Healing, slain in the Gods' Wars, he had listened. Silent, angry, but
listening. And then, with a bitter edge to his voice, he agreed to go.
The Lake of Ethereal Tears lay hidden beneath the world, its entrance a
corridor carved into the land itself and ending at a river. The air here
was still - sacred. Silvery-white waters rippled outward into a vast lake
without end, its mirrored surface shimmering with secret light. Breath
caught in one's throat here, not in fear, but in reverence. Around its
edge, alabaster plants grew untouched, not unlike the new golden-tipped
grasses in the Vallenwood, their pallor kissed by something divine. The
sandstone walls of the cavern wept slowly, tears of the gods themselves
falling in soft rhythm from the stone above. Eridessa had never known a
place so beautiful, or so filled with sorrow.
They stepped to the shore in silence, and Eridessa waited, letting her
breath steady. The lake grew still then, and a warmth stirred in the air
before Dawn walked across the water.
Raphiel, Archangel of Austinian and Commander of the Hosts of Light,
descended without sound. Wings of gold and pearl stretched wide across the
cavern, and the lake turned to light beneath his feet. His presence nearly
scorched the breath from her lungs. Though it was not the first time she
had seen him, his presence still struck her, radiant and mournful All at
once.
Skalpon stood rigid, his voice clipped with barely-suppressed rage - and
pain - as he faced the Archangel and explained what had happened. Raphiel
reached out his gauntlet towards Skalpon, the light which made up his
gauntlet faded away to reveal his bare hand, which he laid gently upon
Skalpon's brow. And the High Keeper screamed. It was not the cry of a
warrior. It was the sound of a soul being flayed - being weighed. The
cavern rang with it: anguish and sorrow. Skalpon jerked away, his voice
broken and wild as he thrashed beneath the touch of the angel.
Eridessa wanted to rush to him, but the lake seem to swelled between them,
rooting her to the spot with gentle force only a few feet away. She could
do nothing, she could only watch.
Gritting his teeth, Skalpon came back forward and Raphiel did not withdraw.
Instead, he moved his hand directly over the wound while the other held
Skalpon tightly by the shoulder - both restraint and support as light poured
on, a cleansing torment. Skalpon writhed, shouted, choked. When he finally
pulled his hand away, Skalpon's breath rasped like a drowning man breaking
the surface. The Archangel spoke then to what they feared, confirming what
they had only whispered to one another in worry.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:29:34 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Pahiel Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound that Binds (Part 2)
The voice was a thunderous hymn unraveling into dissonance, its words
bleeding into the echoes of Skalpon's screams that still tore through her
memory like glass through silk. Each syllable shimmered with divine
judgment, yet blurred, distorted by the raw, lingering howl of pain.
"Within thee an infection takest root. A hatred of sorts.... It will be a
pain unlike any thou hast ever known.... Anguish upon thy very soul. Not
only physical pain, but spiritual and emotional pain.... And a darkness
more than night. "
And then the fog of grief and holy fire parted. The words suddenly became
absolutely clear. Raphiel's voice resounded through the cavern like the
tolling of a divine bell, deep and powerful: "If thou hast any love for the
Father within thee, " he said, not unkindly, but with the weight of an
absolute, "Pray to Him now, for this divinity comest from the Golden
Pantheon. "
His radiant gaze turned then toward the shoreline, toward the round, shallow
bowl Eridessa had placed reverently there when they first arrived, a vessel
carved from moonstone, its inside smoothed by years of ritual use. Raphiel
glanced at her, hand outstretched, but did not touch it. Eridessa hesitated
only a breath. Then she stepped forward, cradling the bowl with both hands
and lifting it into his.
Skalpon's eyes narrowed, as he said, quietly but firmly, "I pray to the
Mother... And this is for Her. " Then, stronger, he added, "Perhaps those
of the Golden Pantheon will step to Her aide in this. "
Raphiel did not argue. Instead, he bowed his head in what might have been
acknowledgment or sorrow, and lowered the bowl into the Lake of Ethereal
Tears. The waters responded. Silvery light surged upward into the vessel,
and when the Archangel lifted it again, the bowl shone with a sacred glow,
golden and pure.
Skalpon watched with solemn eyes, then said, "Of this, I put myself forward.
"
But Raphiel's expression changed then, still serene, but now stern.
"Whatever thy faith is, " the Archangel said slowly, voice like thunder
swallowed in velvet "This place belongeth only to My Father. " He stepped
forward again, placing a steadying hand on Skalpon's shoulder with a touch
gentler than sunlight through leaves. Yet the words that followed held no
compromise: "The Mother of Nature does not hold power in this place. To be
healed by the Light, is to have faith in the Light. Not a choice I canst
makest for thee. "
Skalpon grimaced to himself in vexation, the weight of the moment folding
his shoulders inward. His voice, when it came, was quiet - strained, as
though he were forcing each word through a wall of thorns. This was a line
he was not meant to cross, a prayer shaped in the tongue of another faith,
yet still born from the same aching need. Still, he spoke, almost to
himself - almost to Her. "I follow the Light, in hopes that the Light will
aid in the restoration of Balance. I trust that the Father will come to the
aid of Her. "
Raphiel responded, "Then pray to the Father, this one time. For thou art
His child first, before ever thy race gave themselves to the Mother of
Nature. " And then, in one fluid motion, he raised the bowl high. Golden
motes began to gather, first a dozen, then hundreds, then a storm of
brilliant particles drawn as if by breath or prayer. They circled the
Archangel like a widening halo, filling the cavern with such radiance it
made the sacred lake seem dim beside it. Then, in silence, Raphiel tilted
the bowl.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:39:26 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Raphiel Imm Rp Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound That Binds (Part 3)
He had not been speaking to her, she knew that, but she could not help
the words that came forth.
Her prayer was a whisper in the currents of the lake, a leaf surrendered to
the wind, a seed pressed into soil with trembling hope. It shimmered there,
unseen, like sunlight caught on dew or breath on a winter bloom, heard only
by gods, cradled between the Light above and the roots of the world below.
First, to Zandreya, her goddess of balance, of twilight paths and sacred
harmony. Then she turned her heart - awkwardly, unsure - to Austinian. She
had never prayed to him before, but Skalpon bore the Light of Goodness,
though Zandreya's still, and this place was of Goodness so maybe....
She offered it all. Her soul. Her balance. The deepest, most sacred
pieces of herself. She didn't know what they would take, or if they would
take anything at all, but she gave freely. Eridessa's lips did not move.
The prayer unfurled in silence, like mist curling through ancient trees or
roots sinking deep into sacred earth. It rose not from her voice, but from
the marrow of her being - offered in reverence to the twin truths she held
most dear: natures balance, and the brilliance of divine light that bathed
this sacred place.
Please. Take anything. Any part of me. If it will ease his pain, if it
will make him whole again, take it. Take it and leave him unbroken.
There was no thunderclap. No sudden void where a part of her had been. No
voice, no light, no divine confirmation. But she knew they had heard her.
And the weight of that promise settled quietly in the back of her mind, like
a stone in still water. And she knew she would never tell the High Keeper.
A single stream of water, radiant and warm, poured onto Skalpon's wounded
head. The welt flared with light, and Skalpon cried out once more, the
rinsing waters cleansing the angry wound as it boiled and bubbled under the
spill of liquid. The light grew. A dawn not of this world spilled into the
cavern, flooding every surface with brightness that knew no shadow. The air
grew thick with it, the shimmering lake below becoming a mirror of heaven
itself, so bright it seared the world white. Then the glorious, warming
light began to fade, a fraction of it suffusing into Skalpon.
------------------------------------------------------------------
It had not been in vain, but still - it had failed. For All the Light, for
all the sanctity of that hallowed place, the ritual had wrought no healing -
only pain. The sacred waters had scalded, seared, and cleansed, but they
had not mended. If anything, the humble balm she had pressed to his skin
after the angel's terrible touch had done more to soothe than All the power
of the divine. And that truth ached within her like a wound.
The scent of the place clung to her still - salt, dawn, and sacred weeping.
The welt on Skalpon's face had not faded, but now it seemed deeper, as if
the angel's attempts had only confirmed what was already there.
And yet... She had done what she could. She had offered anything. She had
laid herself bare before two gods - the Mother she trusted and one she
barely knew. No part of her felt missing -but still, the echo of that
offering lingered. Zandreya had heard. Austinian had heard. Of that, she
was sure. But they left with more questions than answers. The Warp was not
done. And neither was she.
Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 19:28:55 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia imm RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box
The cell was a frigid, purposeless chamber. Its occupant understood all
too well that its function was not to restrain him, but to uphold the
illusion of control. Not for his captor, but for the trembling souls who
served beneath him. Physical confinement meant little to those of the
ageless, and he knew the master of this durance understood that well. The
message had been delivered by his very presence here, and the hospitality
was as bitter as the man's legend. He was starved, allotted barely enough
water to cling to life. Yet he scarcely noticed. His command over his
bodily processes had long been tempered by his attunement to the ethereal -
his metabolism slowed by a thought. Even so, of All the things denied to
him in this wretched delve, a proper meal remained the most sorely missed.
He had been here for years now - years without once feeling the warming sun.
It was a strange thing, how the senses adjusted, reshaped by prolonged
darkness and cold. Over time, he came to hear the rats in the walls with
great clarity, to mark the subtle shift in the rhythm of dripping water as
frost gave way to thaw, season after season. These small changes amused
him, quiet reminders of the world beyond and how time marched on, even here
in stillness. He often wondered what Crelius had set in motion while he
lingered in this isolation.
It would be wrong to think Atennim had cast him into this cell on a whim, or
merely to remove a player from the board. No, he had taken great care - he
had bound not only his body, but shackled his mind as well. Something
within the walls of this place disrupted him. His latent talents, once
effortless, now stuttered and failed. Every attempt to reach outward - to
brush the veil beyond these fetid walls, to sense the ether-threaded weave
that ran beneath All things - collapsed into silence. This place had been
crafted with a certain knowledge. Crelius had accounted for the subtleties
of his nature, and built this prison accordingly.
It was also telling that the knight had not visited in over a year - a
silence that, in itself, carried meaning. Not once had any of his warriors
spoken in his absence. His only contact with the world beyond was the brief
rattle of a small hatch, opened only to deliver his meager sustenance. In
the earlier years of his confinement, the knight had come with some
regularity. Twice in the first year, three times in the second. He had
reflected on those conversations countless times, turning every word over in
his mind, yet gleaned little of the mans true intent. Only one thing had
been made clear, the time would come to repay his debt, and when it was
done, he would be released.
Strange, that his absence troubles me more than the cell itself. Over the
years, I had come to understand him, perhaps even grow accustomed to him, in
the way one endures a handler whose knife is keener than your own. We
shared a strange rapport, if only because he never lied, and I never stopped
watching. I served him, in my own capacity, before his betrayal of Storm
Keep turned every allegiance to ash. Naturally, I was sent to track him
down. But it was he who found me - an irony I've had ample time to
consider.
And I'll admit, he made use of me, perhaps more effectively than my current
patron had. Telthian Schwartz values results, and he has little patience
for some of the obscure tools I employ. Whether Crelius saw the worth in my
methods, or merely sought to keep me close where he could watch me bleed, I
can't say. But there's something telling in his silence now. A year
without a word. Not even a proxy.
He had always been a complicated man, his mind a conundrum of contingencies
and contingencies against those. But beneath it all, a core of unwavering
foresight, and a loyalty so absolute the gods themselves might have paused
in envy. Perhaps it was that very loyalty that lit the spark for his
unraveling.
Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 19:36:15 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (continued)
I had detected his developing peculiarities over his visits. He had
become distracted in ways subtle but telling. When he spoke, it was as
though he were listening to another voice behind his own, one only he could
hear. His attention faltered at odd moments, his responses mistimed by
fractions of thought. Minor lapses, almost imperceptible... But not to me.
I've seen the touch of the warp before. I know the madness it brings. The
erosion of will, the fraying of thought. This wasn't that. This was a
tension that lived beneath his skin, like a wire drawn too tight. A
constant presence shadowed every motion, every breath. It wasn't a
possession. It wasn't fear. It was conflict. Quiet, buried deep, but
there All the same.
My idle contemplations were broken by the mechanics of intrusions. The
faintest tactile report of a key entering the ward. A whirring shift of
nested gears followed, well practiced, accompanied by the soft rise of an
inner cylinder. There was a brief pause, then a secondary rotation,
quieter, more controlled. That half-turn - yes, that was the signature. I
listened closely for the final disengagement. A muted click, delicate and
decisive. It had eluded me on prior occasions, the lock's craftsmanship too
obscure to catalogue. But now I recognized it. A Thistlebeard Hex Bolt.
Dwarven in make like its namesake. Prohibitively rare. Inviolate without
an adamantium ball-pick. An indulgence few would possess.
Not that it would serve me in the immediate sense. But in my trade, even
the smallest detail is a currency, and I bank that discovery for later use.
I waited, anticipating the familiar cadence of armored tread upon stone as
the fortified oaken door swung open. Instead, I was met not with the
silhouette of some grim commander, but with the slighter outline of an
unexpected figure. Narrow shoulders encased in a well-forged breastplate,
pauldrons resting above a tapered robe. The contours of her face were
refined, softened only by the tight pull of her hair drawn back with
precision. A woman. Unexpected, but far from unremarkable.
She stepped into the gloom with composure, a small wooden stool in her
hands, which she set down directly before me. From her side, she produced a
modest iron lantern that was plain in its make. With a turn of its
side-mounted knob, a soft, amber glow bloomed to life, casting shadows
across the chamber's damp stone. She placed it on the mildew-slick floor
between us. Even that meager light struck me like a blade. My senses
flaring under its sudden intrusion. It had been so long since I had seen
even the faintest glimmer that the glow felt nearly profane.
As my senses slowly acclimated to the light, she seated herself gracefully,
folding the hem of her robe neatly across her lap to spare it from the grime
of the floor. Once my eyes adjusted, the first and most striking detail
revealed itself, she wore a blindfold. Whether it was a gesture of
symbolism, deception, or necessity, I could not yet tell. Her hair,
raven-dark threaded with premature streaks of white, was pulled back and
braided in a manner that suggested discipline, perhaps even rank. Her face
bore no clear signs of youth, nor the erosion of old age. Balanced,
tempered. Just beneath the line of the blindfold, faint linear scars traced
along her cheekbones. Evidence of past violence or ritual. She was not
beautiful in the courtly sense, but there was a hardened allure to her.
Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 20:24:50 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (continued)
She sat in silence for several moments. Observing nothing, yet somehow
registering far more than her stillness suggested. It struck me, then, that
she was not merely adjusting to the chamber, but allowing me time to observe
her. A calculated exposure, as if offering a puzzle to be quietly solved.
My gaze was inevitably drawn to the matte jewel that hung about her neck. A
milky, opalescent stone that shimmered in ways my mind struggled to
reconcile, pulsing with a restrained energy. Her breastplate, too, held my
attention. Forged of darksteel, its surface bore the dull finish of
arcanium tempered with trace alloys, refined specifically to quash
reflection. The craftsmanship was unmistakable - Storm Keep. A design
favored by those who preferred not to be seen, yet intended to survive the
worst when they were.
"Sir Mavelle," she said at last, her voice a cold tenor, curiously edged
with what might pass for concern, though it felt rehearsed. Despite being
blindfolded, her bearing gave the impression of being seen, an imperious
presence that pierced the gloom without the aid of sight.
"Why is he not here?" I interrupted, opting to cut through the niceties,
hoping to provoke a reaction. An early test, perhaps, to gauge the rhythm
of her temperament before she settled too comfortably into the room.
"I presume you mean the First Knight, he is indisposed, " she replied
coolly, her voice devoid of inflection. Neither irritation nor interest.
Practiced.
Honesty - at least, that much I could discern. But perhaps there was a more
expedient route. As the notion passed through my mind, I extended my senses
outward, probing for a seam, an opening, some ethereal thread I might tug to
coerce compliance. Yet the instant I reached, my focus was drawn to the
milky stone at her throat, and with it, the attempt dissolved into
nothingness, like smoke against cold iron. I allowed myself a glance
upward. There, just at the corner of her mouth, played the faintest
suggestion of a smile. Amused and knowing.
"Altar Mavelle, the Silent Emissary," she said with a gentle chide, her tone
almost teasing. "Tsk, tsk. I assure you, we've made ample preparations for
all your... Methods."
"Well then," I said, discarding the last remnants of pretense. "Who might
you be?"
"We are not in the habit of trading in names," she replied with a faint nod.
"But for our purposes, you may call me the Seer." Her tone was measured,
unhurried, as she reached to unhook a rolled parchment from her belt.
"Ah," I mused, watching her movements for any tells. "So, a magus then?"
"Not exactly," she said, the edge of a half-smile touching her lips. "It is
I who tends to certain... Logistics." There was a deliberate pause before
that last word, as if weighing how much truth to release. She extended the
parchment toward me, the gesture calm and expectant.
I took the cylinder from her hand, noting the faded scars along her fingers,
not unlike those etched beneath her blindfold. As I turned the parchment in
my hands, I noted the absence of a seal. Curious. I glanced up, the
question forming before I let it fall from my tongue.
Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 20:34:50 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (end)
"Did you write this?" I asked, tone neutral. "It must be difficult with
the blindfold."
That same faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, an expression that
conveyed neither amusement nor disdain.
"No," she replied. "Though I am capable. Unlike my companions, I wear this
not for ceremony but necessity. I suffer from a condition... An affliction
of sorts. On occasion, my eyes bleed of their own accord. It is...
Inconvenient."
She paused, letting her words settle before continuing, almost idly.
"As for the others, our orders are clear. None are permitted to look upon
your face. The ones who brought you in... Learned that. Rather abruptly."
So, the old dog still clings to his wits, and to the tattered shreds of
honor. Even among his own, he guards my anonymity. A gesture, perhaps, or
a precaution rooted in paranoia. I chose not to dwell on the intent.
Instead, I undid the simple knot and unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning
the contents with skepticism.
"A contract," I muttered. "Of course. It's almost comforting to see
Crelius still plays at tradition."
But as I read further, a flicker of irritation passed through me.
"This?" I said, the word edged with derision. "This is beneath me. An
assassination of this scale? Low-profile, unremarkable. Surely there are
legions of eager upstarts willing to bleed for coin and the illusion of
notoriety."
"Ahhh... But you overlook the particulars," she said, her voice smooth with
the insinuation of unspoken perils. With an almost careless flick, she
retrieved a key from her belt and cast it at my feet, the metal clinking
faintly against the stone. "Come then. Your mission begins now.
Preparation first. Then reconnaissance. Then... The deed."
I arched a brow, the suddenness catching me off guard. "Reconnaissance?"
Her expression did not shift, but her voice darkened - just enough to let
the venom show. "You'll be attending a coronation."
Writer: Lenore
Date Tue May 13 20:58:57 2025
To All ( FATALE IMM RP )
Subject Grave Ministry: Rites of Consecration I
The hills and woods held their breath.
Nothing moved in the clearing where the ruined temple loomed: no birds in
the canopy, no insects in the underbrush. Even the wind curved around the
desecrated structure, refusing to pass through its fractured bones. The
smell was the first thing that struck Lenore as she stepped into the open:
iron, wet moss, and old smoke, like the breath of something buried but not
yet rotted.
This was once a sanctum of Mencius, the God of Vengeance and Rage. He was
dead though. The stone walls had echoed with justice and wrath. Now they
were hollow, echoing only with the absence of the divine. It was here that
Cardinal Z'Quarus had begun his final work before his disappearance.
Extending the dreadlord's consecration to this house of retribution. Before
his vanishing, the Cardinal had entrusted Lenore with the continuation of
that terrible consecration.
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{ufelled {ubrother{u'{us {uduties{u, {ubut {uhe {uis {uworthy {uof {uit, " he had said lowly, and
blood-mouthed. {u"We {umust {uhelp {uminister {uthe {ufallen {uDreadbrother{u'{us {uflock{u.
{uLest {uwe {uforget {uvengeance {uand {urage{u. {uWe {uwill {uearn {uthe {utrust {uof {uhis {uflock {uand
{uguide {uthem {uto {uthe {uDreadlord{u"
{u"{uThe {udevout {uof {uMencius {ulinger {ustill{u, {u" he had warned her. {u"They {ucome {uhere
{useething{u, {useeking {upenance{u, {useeking {utheir {ugod{u. {uBut {uwe {umust {uhelp {uthem {ucome {uto
{usee {uthat {uFatale {uhas {utaken {uup {uthe stewarding {uof {uhate {uand{u vengeance."
{u"The {uDreadlord {uhas {utaken {uup {uthe {umantle {uof {uHis {ufallen {ubrother{u. {uNot {uin
{umimicry-in {unew {udominion{u. {uThis {uplace {umust {uspeak {uwith {uHis {usilence{u. {uIt {umust
{uteach {uthat {uretribution {uis {umurder {umade {usacred."
{u{u"{uYou {uare {unot {uhere {uto {ucomfort {uthem{u, {uDeacon{u. {uYou {uare {uhere {uto {ushow {uthem {uthe
{utruth{u: {uthat {uvengeance {uand {uhate {uare {ustill {upowerful {udomains {unow {udutifully
{umanaged {uby {uour {uown {udreadlord {uand {umaster{u. {uOur {ufellow {udreadbrothers {uand
{usisters {uof {uvengeance {uand {uhate {uhave {umuch {uto {uadd {uto {uthe {utapestry {uof {unight{u"
And so she came. Day after day.
Beneath the twisted arch of scorched stone, she passed into the nave. Vines
hung like blackened entrails from the high windows. Once-carved glyphs had
decayed into ghost-scratchings. What had been holy was now defiled. Or
perhaps it was only waiting to be made holy once again-under new dominion.
She carried the bronze basin herself, wrapped in cloth. The bundle within
was heavy and warm. It shifted slightly in her hands, slippery with blood,
perfumed with righteousness. The air changed as she passed the threshold.
Sound died. Even her footsteps were muffled on the cracked stone. The
interior stretched long and narrow, a corridor of crumbling pews and
shattered sconces. Shafts of moonlight filtered through the half-collapsed
dome, catching dust like drifting ash.
At the far end, the altar awaiteda black obsidian slab, cracked clean down
the center. The wall behind it bore the ruined sigil of Mencius, now
nothing but claw-gouges in faded gold.
The God of Vengeance was dead here.
The Dreadlord reigns in his place.
Lenore knelt before the altar.
She peeled the cloth away with reverence. The heart inside pulsed no more,
but it was red and full and pure. It had been carved from a knight of
Nadrik, the god of Honor--a man who had spoken forgiveness with his final
breath, even as Lenore's blade opened his chest.
That prayer had been for her.
Writer: Lenore
Date Tue May 13 21:09:12 2025
To All ( FATALE IMM RP )
Subject Grave Ministry: Rites of Consecration II
And now, his holy heart would be offered to the god who did not forgive.
Lenore set it gently upon the altar.
It made a faint, wet sound.
Blood began to spread slowly across the altars cracked surface, seeping into
the old stone like ink into old parchment.
From her satchel, Lenore produced a leather pouch. Inside was iron salta
sacred compound of rusted blood-iron, sea-salt, and powdered bone. She
scattered it around the base of the altar in a slow, circular motion,
whispering as she did:
{uIron {uto {ubind.
{uSalt {uto {useal{u.
{uAsh {uto {uname.
{uBy {uthis {uring{u, {uI {ubid {uYou {ucome.
The salt hissed on contact. Crimson smoke rose in curling tendrils. The
smell of scorched blood filled the nave. She lit the black tapers. Three
candles. A trinity of shadows. Their flames burned blue. Lenore placed
her hands on the altar, palms flat against the blood-slicked stone. She
bowed her head.
{u"My {uDreadlord {uand {uMaster{u," she whispered.
{u"{uLord {uof {uGraves{u. {uYou {uwho {utake {unot {ufor {ujustice{u, {ubut {ufor {udominion. {u {uBy {uthe
{uwill {uof {uCardinal {uZ{u'{uQuarus{u, {uand {uby {uthe {ublade {uI {ubear{u, {uI {useek to {uconsecrate
{uthis {uplace {uin {uYour {uname{u."
{u"{uHis {uheart {uwas {upure. {u{uIt {udied {uwith {uno {uhate. {u{u {uLet {uits {ustillness {uopen {uthis
{usanctuary {uto {uYou{u. {uLet {uit {uburn {uin {uthe {ubreathless {uhush {uYou {ucommand{u."
Then she waited.
The heart glistened under the flickering candlelight.
Blood continued to crawl across the altar, slow and patient.
The iron salt blackened. The scent of rust thickened in the air.
Lenore struck her flint.
Sparks landed on the heart. Nothing.
She tried again. Then again.
Still, the heart would not burn.
She stood slowly, the blood clinging to her hands like old sins.
No, she said. Her voice was clear, but quiet.
Not emptiness. Not peace. Something else.
It was the silence of a god who does not need to speak to be heard. It was
not rejection. But it was not acceptance. And it carved at her more
cruelly than either. She closed her eyes. Not in prayer, but in
containmentm trying to hold still against the sudden shaking that threatened
to reach her shoulders, her hands, her breath. This was the twelfth
offering since Z'Quarus vanished. Another pure heart. Another cold altar.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed May 14 10:26:47 2025
To All Imm RP Austinian
Subject One More Light
Kayaka stumbled through the trembling church, the ground heaving beneath
the flagstones. Acolytes and priests shot her worried glances as she
passed. She offered what comfort she could, clipped reassurances, calming
touches, whispered prayers.
Overhead, the sky darkened and churned. Veins of angry blue laced through
roiling clouds of crimson and violet. A sickening magic tainted the air,
twisting the heavens themselves. Through stained glass, she glimpsed a
brilliant star drifting high above, watching the advancing army as it neared
Fort Ironclad. Soldiers of darkness had already fired upon it, forcing it
to withdraw, but still it lingered, observing.
Townsfolk and travelers flooded into the sanctuary, clutching meager
belongings, eyes wide with panic. Kayaka moved among them, offering bread,
a sip of water, a paper doll to a crying child, a charm of Austinian to a
trembling father.
Then came the sound of stone cracking. A deep, grinding groan. A scream.
Far to the north, a grotesque spire clawed its way into the sky, jagged and
unnatural, dwarfing every other landmark.
She froze at the threshold, hope faltering, as soldiers ran past the church
doors, racing to confront this new abomination.
Then she smelled it.
The stench hit her like a blow. Fetid meat, sour rot, swamp and decay. She
turned toward it...
A scream tore through the air.
Framed in the doorway stood a beast: misshapen, wretched, weeping silently
with a dozen mouths. Its flesh oozed and writhed with foul magic. It crept
forward on limbs too numerous and uneven, its hunger fixed on a child too
terrified to move.
Behind it, more horrors emerged from the ground, from folds in the air,
drawn by the scent of fear.
Kayaka ran to meet them. She drove her staff into the floor, its gem
flaring bright. Holy light bloomed, and with it, a desperate prayer to
Austinian. She called for sanctuary, for protection, for deliverance.
The beast paused. Then, one of its mouths twisted into a leer.
"Priestess of the fading light, " it whispered. Another mouth sobbed in
harmony. "No one comes to save you. Your god has abandoned you. "
The others laughed, wet and broken sounds.
"These prayers are lies. Their hope is a lie. In the end, no one cares if
one more light goes out. "
A crooked arm reached out like a serpent, inching toward the sobbing child.
Then. Light.
A blinding flash. A concussive burst.
When the glare faded, he stood there.
The flagstones had shattered beneath the force of his landing. In his hand,
a sword burned with living flame. His snowy wings unfurled, casting wide
shadows that shielded the gathered flock.
He rose to his full height, a giant of conviction and fury.
His voice rolled like thunder, deep and unshakable.
Two words.
"I do"
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed May 14 13:29:29 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu May 15 10:22:24 2025
Writer: Agarwood
Date Thu May 15 11:11:55 2025
To All Sebatis ( Religion Imm Xenophon Rhelic )
Subject The Defilement of the Red Moon
From the Indigo Plunge surrounding the Hidden Academy of Magick, Agarwood
stared up at the Red Moon between stints of writing. The arboren was not
having trouble deciding what to write. His concentration was being halted
by a foreign feeling deep within his heart- within the magicks that inspired
life inside of him, and within the divinity belonging to Sebatis buried deep
within his soul. The Chaos Invasion had left a wound in the sky for All of
the realm to see, a disease and scourge of the gods and mortals alike: the
mark of the Everwar worn as though it were a veil in front of the Red Moon.
The arboren's palms still stung from battling the worms and chaosbeasts. He
had expelled much of his magick that day alongside Queen Piknim and her axis
of powers. Cataclysms make unlikely alliances. While he disapproved strongly
of Drakkara, he saw no other path towards foiling Chaos in the moment. This
world belongs to those who oversee it as any kind of steward- even if they
would see themselves become its conqueror one day.
The priest set his quill against parchment and immediately halted once more.
He emitted a troubled grunt as he felt a foreign tug within him. It was dis-
tracting, like enduring a fleeting night terror while awake. It left a tinge
within him as it passed, as though sipping on a cold glass of water ended in
the horrible taste of rust. If his soul were an instrument bear taut silken
strings, it felt as though a dull knife was being dragged across them to test
their integrity. He glanced now up at the mark of Chaos above and furrowed
his brow in anger, the red light of his eyes shifting from its soft glow to
a swirling scarlet fury, and turned to his quill and parchment once more.
At one time, Agarwood had viewed Chaos as the natural progression of a mortal
consciousness that sought to distance themselves from the gods- viewing them
as the cause of All anguish and pain. In their attempt to make sense of their
loss, they honed their suffering into an edge to plunge into the breast of
all gods believing it would free them. Many believed (Agarwood included) that
once they saw the harm they themselves inflicted, they would see the parallel
between the suffering caused by the gods and the suffering caused by Chaos
and come to their senses to acknowledge themselves as equally imperfect and
flawed beings. Not so. Chaos drank deeper from this cup and embraced a future
that can only be called Algoron's Doom.
Agarwood penned one last thought onto the letter, rolled the foil up quickly,
and tucked it away into the sleeve of his robes.
Chaos is not natural. Balance doesn't have an opposing force. If it did, it
would be no different from the extremes of good and evil. Chaos had found a
magick to interfere with the passage of the Red Moon. If by some nebulous,
wyrding magick they wish to inflict harm, then, by magick, they will be smote.
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu May 15 17:55:48 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oAppetite
In the tunneled halls of Mount Darkonin, there was little reason for
revelry. While fires guttered low for want of tending, snotlings huddled
together for warmth, their once brazen braying had been reduced to the
whimpering chatter of the meek. Great ogres dozed restlessly, their
once-gorged bellies wasting for need of food and conquest.
Where once drums beat the rhythms of war, and horns heralded the great hosts
of the greenskin tides there lingered now only the chilling howl of icy wind
through the mountain tunnels to interrupt the snoring laziness of those who
still called the Mountain home.
Life has a way of looking past those who haven't the ambition to direct its
gaze.
{u ***
Xaxtur had been {ohungry for as long as he could remember, and the malignantly
orange hobgoblin never denied himself a meal.
His return to Mount Darkonin was one of little fanfare, and the corpulent
glutton forced his way past trembling snotlings who'd lined the halls to see
the great beast who openly professed his appetites for the world to hear.
{u"{oLet Algoron tremble for fear that I grow large enough to swallow Her whole.{u"
Xaxtur would proclaim, while his violently violet tongue stripped flesh from
the femur jutting out between two enormous tusks that weighed down his
protruberant lower lip.
Once clean of meat and marrow, the hobgoblin spat the bone against a wall,
where it rattled against walls long ago hewn from the stone that shields the
heart of Mount Darkonin from Icewall's frozen climes. Snotling goblins
fought for an opportunity to taste a hint of the meat upon which the Great
Orange One gorged himself.
{u ***
Ambition is an appetite. A gluttonous desire to feast on the spoils you
grab and claw from the clutches of whatever you may.
Every {ohunger must be sated, lest the craving consume you instead.
Mount Darkonin's craggy peaks yearn to touch the moons that hang over the
summit's split, and deep within the fortress-like city's harrowing halls,
greenskins began to whisper a two-syllable name.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu May 15 18:59:44 2025
To All verminasia Piknim Xaxtur imm rp Drakkara
Subject Gluttony In A Days Work
In the heart of his cavernous lair, a throne of rotting flesh squats, its
surface grotesque mosaic of decaying remains. The seat is a putrid mix of
mottled green and black, glistening with fluids that drip slowly to the
floor below, each drop a testament to the raw, untamed power that resides
here. The back of the throne is a twisted assemblage of ribs and vertebrae,
their surfaces gnawed and yellowed, jutting out like the branches of some
twisted tree. The armrests are the desiccated remains of what were once
powerful limbs, now reduced to little more than bones and tendons, their
surfaces slick and shiny. The skull of a griffin tops the throne, its beak
agape in a silent scream, its eye sockets empty and staring. It is upon the
throne of conquest and decay that Ryzzynth sits.
Ryzzynth's scales, a myriad of rich browns, glisten with a thin sheen of
sweat and blood, a result of his day's labor. His belly is distended, a
vast, protruding sack that speaks of a feast well indulged in. The dragons
eyes, pools of ocean water, are heavy lidded and satiated, his breaths
coming in deep, contented rumbles that resonate through the chamber like the
distant roll of thunder. His tail drapes lazily over the arm of the throne,
its tip twitching occasionally as he recalls the days hunt. The air is
thick with the coppery tang of blood and sweet, cloying scent of rotting
meat, a symphony of delights that speak to the variety in his conquests.
Ryzzynth's satisfaction is palpable, his body a temple to the raw,
unyielding power of the predator, his throne a testament to the lives he has
claimed and the feasts he has yet to enjoy.
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 09:12:51 2025
Writer: Tamello
Date Fri May 16 09:19:13 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 09:20:33 2025
Writer: Tephysea
Date Fri May 16 09:54:05 2025
To Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Moon Tree: Asking For a Leaf With the Gift of Song
After making her rounds, ensuring the elves got proper rest for the
continuing battle ahead, Tephysea stopped before the Moon Tree. She studied
it for a long momennt before kneeling down, placing her palm against the
dark bark.
Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she then began to sing. Her voice
sweet, lilting, musical. She sang a melody of hope, the hope she held
within her heart, the hope she held in her people. The hope she held in the
Mother. Even as she sang and wove the tale to the tree, a single tear had
streamed down her face.
Her voice never wavered or faltered, instead it lifted higher until she let
the melody of the song slowly fade out. With one hand still pressed to the
bark, her other hand lifted to curl into a fist against her heart. Her
voice was barely above a whisper as she spoke one word..
'Please.. '
Her niece, Eridessa, had arrived not long after, having heard her sing and
the single word that she whispered. Tephysea remained kneeled near the tree
with her head bowed low as she waited.
Time was of the essence.
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 10:14:51 2025
Writer: Orutix
Date Fri May 16 10:49:22 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Feed the Dream{u: Lucidity in the Underdark
The Sigils on the surface of the relic twisted, rearranging themselves
into shapes that burned into the gnome's fractured mind. Behind grey eyes
that churned as if an underground tempest, the Spine's horrors played out.
The Priests, once devout, now reduced to writhing vessels, their souls
unspooled and woven into the Reliqua's core.
Orutix's blackened finger tips closed around the relic as he stood before
the Spine between Arkane and Verminasia. The ossified relic warm with
stolen divinity, pulsed against his palm like a dying heart. The moment his
skin touched its surface - a grotesque lattice of fused bone and preserved
flesh - his vision splintered.
Everything before him, the trail, the forest, the Dark witch-Queen kender
that handed him the clattering relic, melted away, replaced by a yawning
abyss where silent mouths gaped in endless chorus. Their whispers not of
sound, but pure, gnawing revelation. The Gnome tried to focus his mind and
pull away, but he could not. The stolen Priest's suffering was not his
memory, but a presence. He felt their torment as his own, their final
moments of rapture and agony merging into a single, ceaseless hymn.
Then, the voice came - louder than before, hungrier. "You hold them now, "
the Overseer crooned, its words slithering from the Underdark's depths.
"Their faith, their fear - your key. " Orutix's veins burned with borrowed
power, his gnome-blood singing with the echoes of the unmade holy. The
Reliqua was not just a vessel. It was a door. And something on the other
side pressed close, drawn by his touch.
When Orutix finally wrenched himself free, the Reliqua clattered to the
stones, its sigils still writhing. His hands trembled, his mouth dry with
the aftertaste of something vast and nameless. The trail before him and the
Regal figure returned, but the air was different, heavier, as if the shadows
now watched him back. The Overseers laughter coiled in his skull.
Orutix relinquished the Reliqua to Witch-Queen Piknim, her graceful fingers
twitching with barely restrained patience as she retrieved the artifact from
his grasp. As the relic's maddening whispers faded from his mind, clarity
returned like cold water - yet beneath his feet, he could feel the Dungeon's
foundations trembling to the southeast, the ancient darkness below swelling
upward like some great leviathan breaking the surface after eons in the
abyss, the Underdark called it's Warlord hoem to prepare the Synod Summons.
Writer: Drogan
Date Fri May 16 11:11:06 2025
To Verminasia Marauders Darkonin ( All Imm Rhelic Xenophon )
Subject Isolation of the King
**The winds of Icewall howl across the Ice Plains. ***
The chill of Icewall felt refreshing on the ogre's skin as he made his way
to the base of the mountain. His blood was still hot from battle and the
mountain winds washed the fever away. Ichor from the worms and the denizens
of the Spires were splattered across his leathers and the tip of his spear.
Pausing before the mountain, he recalled the evening's events.
The worms had appeared across Algoron, from Shalonesti to Arkania, they rose
from the ground like deformed maggots. The hideous spires like other
worldly flowers had erupted like tumors from the earth. Elves,
Verminasians, Arkanians, and Dragons All crisscrossed continents to put them
down before more damage could be done. Even a lone angel has prevented
damage to the Church of the Stars. All had united against Chaos but
something wasn't right.
'The blighted miasma falls from the skies above Arkania, soiling the trees
and infecting any it; touches with the warp's madness. '
Drogan had checked on the Fort a few times and witnessed a scout reporting
on All the events. Yet there was something about the scout that had caught
his eye. While the soldiers of the Marauders had fought the worms, this
scout wasn't just covered in gore but also seemed to be leaking black ooze
from his wounds. The Highlord had ordered him to the healer's tents. Still
something tugged at Drogan's senses. He looked at the scout's neck as black
veins crawled up it like wriggling worms.
Calls of another spine drew the King from the Fort and into the fray in
southern Verminasia. His spiritual steed tore the very ground beneath it's
feet as it raced northwards. There, a grotesque amalgamation of earth,
bone, flesh, and bodies rose into the sky. One by one the armies of the
Algoron jumped within it's blighted depths to stab at the heart and the King
journeyed as well. With each swing of his spear, his muscles became weaker
and his breathing labored yet he would show no weakness before his equals.
When the deed was done, and the world oddly silent, the King of Darkonin
returned to Icewall. Standing before the Mountain, understanding
illuminated All that had occurred. Slowly he undid his tunic and as he did,
he noticed that he too bore the infection of Chaos as the black tendrils of
the Warp curled up his flesh. Sighing low he called to his attendants.
'Me will go to Gruntz and the ruined caves within. Me do not wish to spread
this infection to me people. Tell the Chiefs and Shaman not to come until
me find cure. Mountain must be preserved. '
The Darkonin shaman tipped their heads and returned to the home while their
King plodded north to the ruins of the Ogre city.
***A blizzard of white envelopes the lone figure as it treks over the
tundra. ***
Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 11:33:53 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All ( Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Moon Tree: At the Roots of Silence
She had followed the voice through the night, Tephysea's song, a thread
of light in the darkness. Sweet and sorrowful, it was full of the weight
only those who have lived long and seen too much can carry without breaking.
Eridessa came upon her aunt kneeling before the Moon Tree, head bowed, hand
to bark, her final whispered please hanging in the air like the last petal
of autumn. She did not speak. There was no need.
Instead, she knelt beside her. The Moon Tree stood still as stone, towering
and ageless, her bark dark as ink and flecked with hidden starlight. Around
them, the world was not quiet.
The miasma hung in the air like smoke that would not burn. Spores drifted,
languid and pale, curling and clinging as though the very breath of
corruption. The ground itself seemed to churn below them - not visibly, but
felt. A roiling pressure beneath the roots, echoing like a drum in the
belly, stirring nausea and unease that made the blood feel thin and crawling
beneath the skin. Even here, even this close to the sacred tree, the rot of
the world pressed inward, the thought that it too was born of the chaos of
Chaos, had not escaped her.
Elves were good at waiting. They had waited across ages for signs, for
seasons, for stars to shift. But this was different. The forest was
burning, even if not yet by flame. They could not wait forever.
Eridessa reached slowly into the satchel at her side and withdrew what she
had brought in offering. She did not sing, though her voice had also been
raised in times of reverence and worship, she instead gave of what she knew
best. She had no crown to offer, no command to give. Only this: the cold
breath of ages, and the warm cradle of earth. Life, and what might come
after. An alabaster ampulla, shot through with hues of ruby veining, bore
melted ice, gathered from the shattered glacial cliffs of Icewall. If the
Monsignor was right, the breath of Turpa might still linger in the veins of
that old frost. It shimmered faintly, almost impossibly cold to the touch
despite the warmth of these lands and it had chilled her flesh even through
the stone and leather on the way home.
The second vessel held earth, dark and rich, collected from the forests in
Shokono where the trees and bamboo grew high as any Vallenwood she had seen.
Their boughs glowed with health, the glade untouched by rot - untainted,
unblessed perhaps directly, but alive. As they had spoken of the night
before, perhaps there was hopes that clean ground might nourish what divine
blessing could not yet reach.
She applied both with care and reverence.
Eridessa poured the water first. It trickled down the tree's base, catching
in crevices and sinking into the roots. It smelled of ancient cold, like
the breath of an age that had not yet been forgotten.
Then she took the earth in hand and let it fall, slowly, through her
fingers. It was damp, clinging lightly to her skin, releasing the deep,
loamy scent of living ground. Soil that had never known poison. Soil that
might cradle hope. When she had emptied her hand, she pressed her palm flat
to the dirt and bowed her head beside Tephysea.
Still, the tree remained silent. Watching. Waiting. If it heard, it gave
no sign. No leaf fell. No light broke through the gloom. Only the hush of
the sickened glade, the ever-settling spores, and the distant sound of
something moving far beneath the surface, unseen, but known.
Together, they waited. Because elves were good at waiting. But time, would
one day run out.
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:00:18 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:04:22 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:55:36 2025
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Fri May 16 13:49:21 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oAmbition
Rivalries amongst the greenskin tides are nothing new. In every warband
you'll find three or four lieutenants with machinations for the mantle of
chief already well underway. It is this splinter-like nature of the
fractious horde that's allowed the better organized legions of 'more
civilized' peoples to drive them from their homes and scatter the fires of
their ire to the winds like so many ashes once the fuel is gone.
{u ***
Fuel.
{u"{oLife's about consumption, lads, {u" Xaxtur oft told any snotlings who'd
position themselves as groupies, sycophants, and cloakriders. They scrapped
and scraped for what meagre offerings the Lord of Hunger might miss in his
daily devouring devotionals. He never missed much. {u"{oYou're either the one
doin' the consumin', {u" the gorging glutton spoke through a never-ending
mouthful of muscle and sinew, {u"{oor yer bound t'find out th' fun way that
you're the one bein' consumed. {u"
The wicked orange hobgoblin had far outstripped the size of most greenskins.
Even in Darkonin, oft famed for the {oappetites of its denizens, he was
corpulently overlarge. Two squibs -- goblins so tiny they barely registered
to most -- lugged around a full keg of ale day and night to slake the Great
Orange One's thirst. {oHunger help them if they tripped, or spilled.
{u ***
An intrinsic pillar of greenskin society is the mantra: {oBigger Is Better.
Those vying for their place in the annals of grunt-laden history have a long
platter from which to eat before they can enforce their will upon the masses
of greenskins either too meek or too small to throw their weight around in
pursuit of their ambitions. Always there lurks the danger that some cunning
slipknife might invite themself to an unannounced slumber party at a
fire-bellied upstart's chosen sleeping chambers and offering up a gift of
eternal slumber for the trouble of it all.
{u ***
When enough feet stamp and march over rolling hills, the very earth of
Algoron flattens. When the voices of a horde whisper in unison, their
ritualistic chanting echoes a dire warning through the tunnels of Mount
Darkonin.
Two syllables spread like a virulent plague in the mouths of the scurrying
greenskin tide that floods through the Mountain, and behind those sinister
syllables lingers the overwhelming idea of something far more dangerous
than the name alone: {u"{oXaxtur.{u"
Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:37:49 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Where Trees Cannot Grow
Eridessa ducked her head for the fifth time in as many minutes, murmuring
soft apologies to the low-hanging beams of Gahboom Hill. The ceiling was
not made for elves, the gnomes, on the other hand, bustled about with barely
a thought to the narrow stone corridors, winding stairwells, or the fact
that the entire hill seemed to hum faintly with a pressure that made her
hair prickle at the nape of her neck.
Her guide, a blur of wild orange hair, soot-smeared spectacles, and
enthusiasm so raw it nearly vibrated off the walls, had introduced himself
as Tinkwhistle Kettlefratch of the Third Sparked Cobalt Order, and had
barely taken a breath since greeting her.
"And this! This here's where we keep the secondary blast chambers! Now, we
don't use them except in case the primary run misfires - you wouldn't
believe how many times someone forgets to calculate the compression curve!
But that's why we line the back wall with copper thread and -oh! That
reminds me! Have you ever seen what happens when you mix crushed fireleaf
with powdered obsidian dust? No? Here, let me draw it! " She had never
been so thankful for her lessons in gnomish as now and she was still certain
she missed at least a third of what he was saying.
He sketched wildly on a bit of soot-blackened slate, his chalk moving faster
than she could track, diagrams appearing like constellations of lunacy. His
excitement was contagious, and despite herself, Eridessa smiled - politely,
graciously - but also vaguely uneasily.
It was not that she wasn't grateful. She was. The gnomes had agreed to
show her the engineering marvel that was Gahboom Hill and how they managed
to blow holes in the mountain without collapsing the entire thing - a
crucial understanding in her current quest. It was just... Well,
Tinkwhistle had now spent nearly a half hour detailing how to get the
biggest bang possible, using terms like "ideal annihilation yield" and
"crater ratio optimization" with glee, none of which were helping her figure
out how the mountain survived it all.
Her smile, a diplomatic reflex, had begun to slip into something more
bewildered when another gnome - this one a bit older, with a shock of white
hair and hands permanently stained with what looked like graphite and
oilambled over. He watched her expression for a moment, then offered a
crooked grin.
"Maybe... Explosions not quite what tall leaf-lady is looking for? " he
said in halting but earnest Elvish, his vowels slanted and heavy, but his
intent kind.
Eridessa gave a soft laugh, brushing a curl behind one ear and bowing her
head with gentle gratitude. "That is correct. I am honored by
Tinkwhistle's passion, " she stated as she gave Tinkwhistle a genuine smile
before turning her attention back to the other gnome as she continued, " but
I came to understand how you protect the stone - how Gahboom Hill remains
intact through so many... Controlled disasters. "
Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:47:35 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Listening Beneath the Mountain
"Ah! " the gnome's eyes lit. "You want... Structure talk! Yes. This
I know. I am Grivven Pebblecrank, Fourth Caster of Load-Bearing Lore. "
Before she could ask what that meant, Grivven had pulled a large roll of
parchment from somewhere beneath his belt and unfurled it with dramatic
flair, revealing a sprawling, annotated cross-section of Gahboom Hill. Then
came the lecture - rapid, wildly technical, and yet somehow clear enough
that Eridessa found herself grasping the shape of it, if not every detail.
"See, explosions go this way, " he jabbed, "but we put runic pressure
breakers here - metal wedges laced with redspin ore, disrupts directional
force. And walls, not stone alone - tri-pressed granite composite, layered
with crushed boneglass, let it flex instead of break. Boom goes up. Never
down. That's the trick. "
He paused only to take a breath before launching into a passionate speech
about flame venting ducts, breathing stone channels, and the sacred
mathematical ratios gnomes attributed to Cliath the Creator, patron of
invention and sheer improbable success.
Eridessa listened intently, her quill scratching steadily as she added to
her notes, capturing what she could. The details often slipped beyond her -
the nuanced resistance of tunneling alloys, the effect of lunar moisture on
ignition delays - but the spirit of it rooted in her well. These gnomes
were not reckless, as surface rumors sometimes painted them. They were
caretakers of stone, engineers of survival, dreamers who had taught fire to
obey.
She could respect that.
When Grivven finally finished, eyes gleaming with pride, she dipped her head
low, the gesture genuine. "You honor me with your knowledge, Master
Pebblecrank. I will carry it forward, and remember it well. "
He flushed crimson. "Tall ones not often listen. You do. " Idly she
wondered if the dwarves and the gnomes might agree on a great deal, though
she smiled, softer now, no longer simply polite.
There was a pause, and then, somewhere deeper in the tunnels, a tremendous
boom echoed up the shaft. Tinkwhistle yelled happily from a nearby chamber,
"That one was supposed to happen! " Eridessa, very carefully, did not ask
what that meant. Instead, she turned back to her notes - and kept writing.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:57:30 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Relgion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Bearing the Boughs
The journey from Gahboom Hill back to Shalonesti had taken a bit longer
than Eridessa preferred, though the time had allowed her to review her notes
by candlelight, and for Grivven Pebblecrank to pack what he called his
"lecture gear," which included three collapsible diagrams, a crate of carved
stone samples, and a small enchanted pointer that sparked when he tapped it
twice.
Eridessa's satchel bulged with parchment, thick with diagrams, phrases
scribbled in both Elvish and Gnomish, and more than a few enthusiastic
doodles courtesy of Tinkwhistle that she hadn't the heart to remove. Her
fingers still bore traces of soot and graphite, a silent testament to her
efforts, and when the walls of Shalonesti's capital - grown, not built -
rose before them, she could not help but glance back once at Grivven, who
pulled a carefully arranged cart beside her.
"You still think our mountain tricks will be of use to trees? " he asked,
grinning through his beard. "Our trees are more than trees, " she replied,
with a quiet smile. "And the palace is more than boughs and leaves. It has
roots. And weight. You'll see. "
Tephysea's order had gone out barely a few days before their return: Ensure
the palace foundation is sturdy. Repair any cracks. Place barriers where
needed. The Steward had not spoken it lightly. Whatever magic kept the
Vallenwood stable had begun to waver - not fail, but creak beneath the
weight of years and growing pressure from the world outside. The engineers
- clad in soft robes of barkcloth and bronze-touched belts, their hair bound
in clean lines and their brows marked with the green sigil of the Builder's
Circle - gathered in the lower halls, beneath the great spiral staircase
that climbed like a shell through the heart of the living palace.
They welcomed Eridessa respectfully, though she could feel the weight of
their glances as she unrolled her gnomish diagrams on their moss-covered
tables. Not unkind, never that. But skeptical. A Shalonost. A druidess.
A royal.... Offering structural advice.
Their spokesman, an elf named Valethyn Sha'enlas Starbranch, gave her a
shallow bow. "We honor your diligence, Duchess Eridessa, and will review
your records. Though perhaps... The methods of the gnomes do not precisely
match our materials. "
"They do not, " she said, calm and unwavering. "But the principles do.
Pressure, direction, breathability of material. The mountain and the tree
both live. And both can break. "
Valethyn inclined his head, respectful but unconvinced.
That was when she stepped aside, gesturing toward the small gnome just
behind her, who had been quietly adjusting his shirt cuffs and muttering
about someone moving his diagrams. "May I present Master Grivven
Pebblecrank, Fourth Caster of Load-Bearing Lore, of Gahboom Hill. "
Grivven clambered up onto a flat table with the practiced confidence of
someone whod done this before. He tapped his pointer twice - it sparked
with a cheerful crack! - and launched in.
Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 15:08:17 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm Cayenna Rp Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Bearing the Boughs (Part 2)
He spoke in Common for clarity, though occasionally lapsed into Gnomish
when excited. He showed where pressure could be absorbed through curved
support branches, explained how layered material - like the bark-shielded
membranes in Vallenwood - could be reinforced with rune-inscribed flex
plates of shaped amberite. He gestured toward a crosscut of palace root
structure and suggested a lattice of natural stone, grown rather than
placed, to distribute weight more evenly and prevent fracture from magical
stress buildup.
He gave thanks to Cliath, the Maker, with every clever idea, a point that
did not escape his largely Zandreya worshipping audience, but they did not
voice dissent.
The elven engineers listened. Quietly. Intently. And then, they began to
speak among themselves - not to argue, but to build. Questions followed,
and clarifications. Grivven pulled another diagram out of nowhere.
Eridessa, seated nearby with her ink and parchment, recorded everything with
steady hand and sharp ear. She did not need to be the one who understood
every angle. But she might be the one who brought the wisdom forward.
You yourself might not have such talents, but this is part of leadership,
finding those who do and can bring such knowledge back.
Later, Valethyn approached her, his long fingers brushing over one of the
new diagrams, tracing where Grivven had marked a pattern of interlocking
support bands. "I would not have thought to consider such a reinforcement,
" he admitted quietly. "Nor would I have imagined a gnome might show it.
"
"He is not only a gnome, " she said softly. "He is a builder. And I have
been learning that builders speak the same language, even if the words are
different. "
Valethyn gave her a long look. "Your notes were thorough, the insight, even
more so. "
"I am no engineer, " she replied, meeting his stern emerald eyes with her
lavender gaze, "But I am learning how to listen. "
He nodded, and then again "Then you've done more than many ever manage. "
That night, as the engineers began their work in earnest, weaving spells
into the living wood and anchoring them with newfound methods, Eridessa
stood beneath the great boughs of the Vallenwood, looking up at its
silver-veined bark and the faint shimmer of sap-light that pulsed through
it.
Grivven came to stand beside her, his hair wild as ever, a leaf stuck behind
one ear where he hadn't noticed. "You think your home will hold? " he
asked quietly.
"I think.... , " she said, " You are helping to give it the best chance. "
And for now, that would be enough.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri May 16 18:30:06 2025
Writer: Ehlwynna
Date Sat May 17 10:32:47 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Sat May 17 12:18:09 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Sat May 17 12:18:16 2025
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat May 17 20:18:27 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun May 18 11:35:38 2025
To All Lindanilis Raphiel Agarwood Aliera Lenore ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Reflections in the Meadow I
The white marble of the Ivory Tower faded behind him as Ulyssus headed
north. He drew his cloak tighter as the dense pines and slender birches of
the forest closed around him. The air was crisp, and a hush clung to the
boughs. Frost glittered in patches where his presence had chilled the
ground.
His staff tapped softly against the earth, its white oak polished smooth by
years of use. The ice crystal at its top glowed faintly, casting a pale
light in the shaded canopy, while his faithful owl drifted above between the
branches.
Soon, the trail opened into the Crossroads. It was a wide stretch of
trampled earth where travelers gathered and routes diverged. Wagons
clattered past, laden with trade goods. A trio of knights on white steeds
headed eastward without a word. Ulyssus adjusted his satchel, nodded once
to the passing knights, and turned west.
He approached the bridge that loomed ahead, crossing slowly, each footfall
echoing with a thud. Halfway across, he paused. Looking down at the river
of blood, he gave a short sigh, and then continued on his way.
At the far end of the bridge stood Althainia's gates. The guards gave him
no trouble as he was known to them. He stopped briefly at a cart of fruit
and speaking with Jhonas he purchased a basket of fruits. Jhonas asked
about the tower, as he often did, and Ulyssus responded with a smile and a
short tale of an apprentice who enchanted the candles to flicker in rhythm
with the librarian's snoring. They both laughed, and Ulyssus promised to
visit again before leaving the city. These small conversations rooted him,
reminding him that for All his power, it was kindness that made magic
sacred.
Walking into the city he saw children playing along the street, and
merchants haggling under colorful awnings. Ulyssus moved quietly through
the bustle, his presence subtle but commanding. He turned and travelled
south along the wall road, passing by the Blue Pixie Tavern.
As he approached a stone bridge, he noticed a beggar sitting near the wall,
wrapped in threadbare clothes and ignored by the passing crowd. Ulyssus
bent down to him and offered the basket of fruit he had purchased, along
with a handful of gold coins. He then recited an incantation and summoned
forth a spring of fresh water for the beggar, saying, 'Mae tha magic o' Lord
Kantilles bae a bless'n te ye thaes dae.' The beggar smiled as he nodded
to him, and Ulyssus continued his journey south.
Further south, he stopped at the edge of an old garden, and looked up at the
original Ivory Tower, now long in disuse. He reminisced about his younger
days and what it was like to step within that tower on his first day as a
student of the White Robes. The wind stirred his cloak as memories flooded
his mind.
A commotion from the north broke his reverie. City guards pursued someone
through the street and he turned and recognized her: Lenore, the Priestess
of Fatale.
She unleashed a divine torrent of shadows toward him. But Ulyssus, always
protected by the spells of Lord Kantilles, withstood the brunt of the
assault. He countered with a disjunction spell, but her blessings shielded
her from its full effect. They traded spells again before the Priestess
fled west toward Austral Square, the city guard close behind. Ulyssus
summoned a blizzard of ice and hurled it after her, striking one final blow
before she vanished beyond his sight.
With the conflict passed, he turned toward the guilds of illusionists and
enchanters. Once again he began to reminisce of old spells and days lost to
study. He had pored over the books of enhanced enchantment in his early
years, and more recently the tome of greater illusions. These were gifts of
the light, enchantments that offered protection and illusions that
delighted. Far more fitting for service to the light than the tome of
necromancy he had once pursued, lured by whispered promises of power. That
was a chapter he had gladly closed.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun May 18 11:47:47 2025
To All Lindanilis Raphiel Agarwood Aliera Lenore ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Reflections in the Meadow II
He said a short prayer to Lord Kantilles, offering thanks for the paths
behind him, then drew up his hood and continued south. When the road turned
west toward Elm Street, he followed it.
As he passed near the graveyard, he stopped beside a large oak tree, bowed
his head, and gave a brief prayer for those who came before him. As he
walked on, a gust of wind rustled the trees. It brought with it the scent
of old parchment and candle wax, the smells of the Ivory Tower. He
remembered his first casting of a simple light spell under the guidance of a
teacher. The orb he had conjured then had flickered wildly, but the joy it
brought him had been steady and bright. He smiled at the memory, so much
had changed since that day, yet the wonder had never left him. He glanced
toward the Chapel of the Eternal Flame before reaching his destination: the
Garden of Wishes.
A warm breeze stirred the hanging ivy as he entered. The scent of lavender
and sage filled the air. Mercedes waved from the shade of a willow near a
tree blooming with silver-petaled blossoms. He asked her for a peppermint
tea and a chocolate croissant, passing a few silver coins and thanking her
gently.
The trail led him into the the Brothers' Meadow, a wide open field where
wildflowers brushed his knees and birdsong filled the air. Ulyssus walked
to an oak bench and sat. He ate his croissant and, with a gesture, summoned
a small flame to gently warm his tea. He drank slowly, letting the
surroundings settle into his bones.
His owl landed softly on a statue shaped like its kind. An inscription hung
from the carving: wisdom, patience, and discipline. Ulyssus read the words
aloud and nodded in agreement.
A butterfly landed on his staff, its wings the color of polished lapis.
Ulyssus didn't move. The stillness of the meadow wrapped around him like a
benediction. The air was warm here, but he could feel the ever present
chill of his magic humming gently below the surface. He breathed in slowly.
'Mae ai always use tha gift en service, nae pride,' he whispered, a quiet
vow to Kantilles and himself.
He unslung his satchel and drew out his journal. The leather cover, worn
smooth, bore the symbol of Kantilles. It was not the stylized emblem used
by temples, but one drawn in reverence. He opened it to pages marked by the
road.
Drawing out a quill, he began to write. His script was steady as he
reflected on the recent altercation with Lenore, arcane versus divine.
Similarities in their spells had not escaped him.
He sat for a long time, flipping through the journal, studying his entries.
He reviewed his notes on divine magic and on service to Lord Kantilles,
discussions with the Priest Agarwood, the Archangel Raphiel, and Cardinal
Lindanilis. Lastly, he turned to his notes from Bishop Aliera, on wielding
divine power in the chaos of battle.
He ran his fingers along the pages, not just reading his words but the
spaces between them, the unspoken hopes, the doubts, the questions. Was
divine magic a flame given by the gods, and arcane magic the mirror that
caught its light and bent it to purpose? He pondered whether they were
truly separate paths, or merely two ways of looking at the same light
through different lenses.
Ulyssus traced a symbol of Kantilles in the dirt beside his boot, then
looked to the sky. A group of children passed, chasing a minor illusion
that danced like fireflies. With a flick of his fingers, he added a shimmer
to the spell and a bloom of flowers scattered into glimmering light.
The children laughed.
He turned back to the journal and continued to read in silence. He thought
about his service to magic and his walk beside it. To walk with it, to walk
with Him, was to bring light to its depths.
And so he sat, continuing to reflect on All that he had learned, the sun
dipping behind him, the path ahead not finished, only beginning.
Writer: Justian
Date Sun May 18 13:53:33 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface - Part 1
The night lay silent over Algoron, thickened by an unnatural hush that
stifled even the faintest breeze. Justian moved along a forgotten path
winding through the forest, drawn toward the ruins of something once
monumental.
Where once a towering spire had loomed, a spine of glistening flesh and
immortal agony, now only a collapsed husk. Shattered vertebrae jutted like
broken ribs from the earth, encased in warped sinew and ossified ichor.
Though the altar had been destroyed, the corruption had not retreated.
Pools of iridescent fluid pulsed faintly in scattered craters, their
surfaces rippling to unfelt winds... For a moment, the pools ripples
synchronized with Justian's own breath.
The air here still whispered. A resonance lingered beneath the soil, not
quite sound, not quite thought. It seeped into the bones of the ground and
waited.
Justian approached the ruin, hooves finding soft purchase on soil made
pliable by lingering Warp influence. At the edge of one pool a tendril of
violet-teal mist coiled upward, chilling yet inviting, whispering incoherent
syllables on the edge of perception.
From the shadows, eight hooded figures emerged, silent and reverent. Each
bore a delicate crystal phial. Taking a phial from the nearest figure
Justian, without ceremony, knelt down and scooped a portion of the viscous,
gleaming substance into one of the vessels. The fluid shimmered brighter as
it touched containment.
"It endures," he murmured, a thin smile curling his lips. "Even broken, it
endures."
He sealed each phial and handed them to a waiting hooded figure as he
worked. Justian rose slowly as he sealed the final phial, his fingers
tingled faintly too brief to matter, too strange to forget. The hooded
figures bowed their heads in eerie unison, then turned and vanished into the
treeline, the Warped essence held like sacred fire.
Alone now, Justian stood in the miasma, letting it stir around him. He
breathed in deeply, and the scent of earth, corruption, and promise filled
his lungs. Not decay. Fertile ruin.
His gaze turned back to the shattered spire... The chanting priests
silenced, the altar gone, yet the message still hummed beneath the ground.
The Warp had not died here. It had rooted deeper.
He drew in a final breath before turning away, each step thudding gently
upon the soil. Beneath one hoof, an eight-pointed star of Chaos bloomed,
faint, pulsing, ephemeral... A mark not upon the earth, but beneath it.
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:46:59 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u I
Bigger is Better.
It's the sort of lesson every greenskin learns at an early age. An unspoken
rule doled out in beatings and too many nights spent hungry. Smaller
snotlings typically banded together under some ambitious would-be chief,
hoping for the safety -- and food -- that came in numbers.
Eventually, those snotlings grow in size and strength. Sometimes,
hand-in-hand with their growth, they gain an {oappetite. Ambition rides on
the coattails of the envious need for more that lies couched in every
greenskin's belly. Why give up half what you've scavenged to the warband
leader when you could just take his share, too, if you were big enough?
{u ***
Once was a day that a vaunted member of Necrucifer's Knights wouldn't seek
the assistance of the Mountain's putrid greenskins. Purism and its
sycophants are a dying breed, and the greenskin tides surge. The Stormed
Keep has a new mistress, and Darkonin's monsters found relevance in the
weave of this new tapestry.
Xaxtur had been knocking heads together over a keg of ale shared with a
bugbear who'd earned a meal. The bugbear was diminutive by comparison to
His Corpulence, but being larger than the snotlings and squibs who
desperately clung on to anything bigger than them wasn't particularly
difficult.
Storm Keep needs one hundred daggers imbued with the vicious poisons of
Mount Darkonin, and who to help better but the foul and pungent Xaxtur?
He left the squibs to the bugbear's malignant profession, and found the
Supplicant inside Darkonin's vaults. Before the well-dressed ambassador
from Storm sat a sack filled with a hundred daggers. The two exchanged
words, despite their cultural differences. How could Xaxtur see eye to eye
with someone who'd never eaten a barrel of dwarven teeth boiled in yak
urine?
Still. Promises made to Queen Cracklespark and his own {oambition drove him
forward, and the {ohungry, {o hungry hobgoblin set to work. In his rise to
power, Xaxtur had learned more poisons than he could count, but he had
developed as well his own particularly potent and nasty toxin.
Storm Keep's envoy didn't seem particularly pleased to watch Xaxtur sit
himself before the sack of daggers, and less so when the hobgoblin began
lifting those blades up to his cavernous maw. The Great Orange One's slick
violet tongue slathered the sharp edges of these blades in the thick
ichorous phlegm that coated the inside of his mouth, imbuing them with a
potent contaminant. The many rows of jagged and misaligned teeth that
filled the hobgoblin's jaw gleamed in the low light of the vault, and for
each dagger Xaxtur sealed in poison like an envelope meant for an enemy, he
counted the ways Storm's sword-arms could bring his own {oambitions to
fruition.
{u ***
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:53:58 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u II
{u"{oYou gits listen 'ere, an' listen good. {u"
Xaxtur spoke before a brace of greenskins. Bonfires lit behind him were
patrolled by menacing bugbears and nastily cunning goblins. A great ogre
sat between them holding a cudgel easily as large as many orcs were tall.
The bonfires roared in furor, and suspended above them were neatly crackling
sacks of meat. Flesh and fat rendered into bowls hung below, and the scent
of cooking meat filled the tunnels of Mount Darkonin, drawing the greenskin
tides from every corner of the Mountain.
Xaxtur stood, tall and heavy, on a dais before the bonfires. His
countenance was cast in shroud, but the corpulent hobgoblin strode back and
forth as he spoke around a mouthful of muscle, chewing in the face of hungry
greenskins eager for a meal.
{u"This Mountain wot's our home ain't fit f'r standin' still. You lot, too
weak an' scared, meek an' lackin' appetite! You want some-a dis 'ere meat,
doncher? {u"
He was taunting them, throwing another morsel of delicately roasted flesh
between his plaque-and-fungus-encrusted teeth and chewing with vigour.
"Wot you lot ONCE wuz ain't no more. We seen that story too many times,
izzn't we? Long-pigs stamp on our fires afore they can BLAZE. Point-ear
sucklings douse our ire f'r fear it'll consume they trees! Th' little hairy
cattle think THEIR mountain's better'n Darkonin. But I know a secret.
Wanter know it? {u" His voice hushes conspiratorially as he steps forward,
and chittering greenskins lean towards him in anticipation -- of the meal,
or his secret, or both.
{u"{oSomefin BIG is comin'. Th' fires o' Darkonin are lit again, an' YOU lot
needter eat. This Mountain's got an {oAPPETITE again, an' I tellin' you lads
an' lasses right 'ere: we are goin' to EAT! Darkonin's th' home of ev'ry
greenskin that ever walk'd Algoron's putrid earth, an' ev'ry greenskin that
ever will. Together, th' greenskin trickle rises into a Great Tide that'll
sweep o'er Algoron. An' I'll let you know somefing else, too. {u
The bonfires crackle ominously, their light casting Xaxtur in shadow, but
gleaming off the enormous tusks that rise perilously above his protuberant
lower lip. His sulfurous eyes glow in the dim lighting, brazen with feral
ferocity.
{u"{oI{o am 'Is Corpulence, Xaxtur World-Eater, the All-Consumer, Gorger, th'
Great Orange One, and I{o am th' Lord o' Hunger. I aim t'eat ev'ryfing wot
stands in m'way 'til I'm big enough t'devour Algoron whole. March wit' me,
an' I'll see ev'ry one-a youz lot fed 'long th'way. See you fat and gorged,
burgeoning wit' more meat than you've ev'r laid eyes on. {u"
Surprised eyes widened, excited hoots followed. As Xaxtur stepped
wobblingly to one side, his enormous gut swinging with his turn, he splayed
his arms wide, inviting the small horde towards the feast of meat he'd
prepared for them.
{u"{oEAT now, an' prepare your appetites{o, f'r there's a hell of a lot more where
dis came from! {u"
{u ***
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:55:42 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u III
A greenskin charge is a sight to behold. A greenskin charge driven by
{oappetite is another thing entirely, and Xaxtur looked on proudly as the
savage little creatures he was spurring leapt at the chance to devour
freshly roasted meat.
From their meat-filled mouths he could hear the rising of chanted syllables,
but it was somehow entirely impossible to distinguish whether those
syllables were {u"{oXaxtur{u" or {u"{oHunger{u".
Writer: Drogan
Date Mon May 19 18:16:40 2025
To Darkonin Skalpon ( All Imm Rhelic Xenophon )
Subject Isolation of the King : Elven Compassion
***The sound of leaves rustling in the wind. ***
The King sat in the vast cavern of Gruntz, once a bustling gathering hall
reduced to ghostly silence. He was sharpening his spear when the bear loped
inside.
'Me told yus not to come. ' growled Drogan without looking up.
The beastly shape changed and a bugbear stood in its place. The tattoo of
the bear's paw was inked upon his bare chest.
'Me King. Yus get message from Shalonesti asking fer advice. Them lookin
fer information in ice and waters. Me came to tell yus. ' and the bugbear
bowed as he took a step backwards.
Drogan grunted, the sound echoed around the cavern. 'Tell thems me will
meet them in the southern forests in two days. '
The bugbear nodded and then took the form of an owl. Taking wing, it flew
back towards the Mountain.
***Two Days Later***
Drogan had made a campfire amongst the trees. He sat watching the flames in
silence as he awaited the arrival of his guest. The woods were thinner as
they were closer to Thaxanos and with his infection, he felt it was safest.
It was dusk when a voice called from the shadows.
'King Drogan. ' greeted the Eldritch. He has never met this elf before but
the name was storied across Algoron.
'Skalpon. ' grunted the Ogre.
The two would converse for hours and when they said their good byes, Drogan
had a gift in his hand. A small vial to aid with the infection. He didn't
know if it would work but he valued it nonetheless. As the elf made his way
back to Shalonesti, the King took the form of a coyote and slinked into the
shadows to return home.
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 22:09:59 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oDental Fortitude
The dawn greeted Xaxtur like a familiar friend. The hungry hobgoblin
stood nude before an open cliff-face atop Mount Darkonin, flesh burgeoning
like a fifty pound sausage stuffed in a ten pound casing. As much ale as
the beast consumes, one wouldn't expect him to be an early riser.
Unfortunately, Xaxtur had been taught young about the early bird and the
worm.
{u ***
Xaxtur was born the runt of a litter of sixteen, and the only amongst their
number with his curious {oorange skin. Before his second year, Xaxtur had
reduced that number to twelve. Curiously, he was no longer the runt.
No sooner had the All-Consumer's teeth grown in than he was stuffing
whatever would fit into his cavernous maw and the great gullet that was even
then developing the {oappetite he would later become known for.
It was his own experience with his littermates, and subsequent meals, that
taught Xaxtur the mantra that would become his life: {oBigger is Better{u. {o Eat
and Be Big{u. {o Eat More and Be Bigger{u. {o Eat Most, and Be Biggest{u.
{u ***
A hobgoblin of many hats, Xaxtur found himself today once more delving into
the bloody work of at-home dentistry.
The void that Mencius' death had left in his gut could only be so sated with
a steady diet of whatever found its unfortunate way into the Gorger's meaty
hands. There was something more that gnawed at him. That burned at his
insides, gnawing at his freshly charred innards. Metaphorically speaking.
Today's lucky patients were the occupants of a nomadic village north of
Althainia, and the hobgoblin had already begun to realise that he made a far
worse dentist than he did a butcher. Not that the knowledge would stop him.
At the end of the day, he wasn't there to safeguard the precious teeth of
all those (relatively) innocent villagers. No, he had bigger plans for
those teeth, and he'd resolved to collect a thousand today. It doesn't take
too many humans to acquire a thousand teeth. Surprisingly low number.
A hair shy of forty villagers did their damnedest to impede the ungodly
creature they suddenly found in their midst, but what weapons they could
bring to bear snapped ineffectually against the tough skin of the corpulent
corpse-reaver.
Xaxtur swept through that village like a Verminasian guillotine, and in his
wake he left a mess for the carrion birds to clean up.
But not before collecting his trophies.
Each body was hovered over after, and the Lord of Hunger pried free the
teeth of the slain with anything but delicacy. When he'd finished, his
meaty hands were covered in gore and offal, and his ichorous phlegm spilled
from his lower lip. Suppressing his {oappetite was no mean feat, but he was
drawn here for higher purpose, and these deaths were meant as a symbol.
{u ***
Evening greeted Xaxtur with the soft embrace of a lover, for the grotesque
orange-coloured greenskin had a face only the night could love. He counted
out a thousand teeth, plinking them into a thick cauldron of star-iron.
They'd wait there, still covered in congealing blood and the remnants of
that from which they were plucked, until he was ready to assemble his gift.
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 12:17:28 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oFeast{u or {oFamine
Xaxtur was born when the Black Moon was at its zenith, and his mother
hardly stopped her manic slaughter to be rid of the gnarled orange runt or
his fifteen littermates that were left scattered from one side of the
Nordmaarian village she and her warband were in the process of raiding.
Smoke and salt met screaming agony, and somewhere in the middle the cries of
greenskin babes thrust into a world as dark as it is shattered pierced that
shrouding fog of war. Even in the black-limned foray of battle, it was
clear that tiny Xaxtur was {odifferent.
Before the greenskin raiders had finished mopping up what remained of
stragglers desperately trying in vain to disappear in crevices or safeguard
children from the ferocity of the sudden night-time assault, the {ohungry
little {oorange hobgoblin had already shrunk his litter's size to fifteen.
His mother found him still gnawing at his littermate's femur stripped of
flesh, with a burp locked and loaded for release.
{u ***
Snotlings and squibs mingled with bugbears and berserkers, lugging in the
meagre haul from recent forays into the forests of Icewall. Survivalists
always thought themselves safe, ensconced in the depths of pine trees that
had stood for generations.
The problem with that sort of isolationist defense, of course, is that
you're just as insulated from news as you are attack, and the news of what
was happening inside Mount Darkonin was already being whispered in Inns and
Taverns across the continent. More frequent and further-ranging raids from
greenskins emboldened by {oappetite.
The craggy summit of the Mountain roiled with activity. By day, great
plumes of smoke rose from the crevice within which the greenskin horde was
so quaintly nestled, obscuring the apian shimmer of greenskin activity on
her face. By night the peak glowed with an ominous {oorange light, as though
the Mountain itself was burgeoning with magma, threatening to spill its
destructive ichor across Icewall.
{u ***
By the time he was five years old, Xaxtur had eaten no less than half of his
littermates, and the gnarled {oorange runt had already grown to an immense
size, for his age. He found himself amongst bugbear and troll peers, from
whom he learned the savagery of brute force and the mantra that would
consume every aspect of his being. Bigger is Better. Eat and Be Big. Eat
More, Be Bigger. Eat Most, Be Biggest.
He trained in agility and martial prowess, learning from the squibs and
snotlings how to avoid detection by the fiercely feral roving eyes of
greenskins that might otherwise have knocked Xaxtur about as easily as they
wound up knocking around his smaller, less cunning peers.
The Lord of Hunger discovered the secrets of poison almost by accident,
slaking his thirst with long draughts from a cauldron he'd stumbled upon in
one of the many labyrinthine tunnels criss-crossing one another in the
depths of Mount Darkonin. Those stolen drinks, over time, did more than
provide an immunity to the nasty toxins being brewed within it, if the
ichorous sludge of his phlegm is any indication.
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 14:05:45 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oHounds{u and{o Hellfire{u, {oPart{u I
The trek to Dragonspire Peak was uneventful.
That is, the journey was uneventful if you don't consider an enormous orange
hobgoblin forcing his way through the snowy climes of Icewall dressed for
anything but its icy clutches worthy of note.
A trio of snotlings had gifted the Lord of Hunger with news of a recent
settling upon the Peak, a fresh feast of demon-worshipping Yinn who'd
scorned the hobgoblin's squib-delivered entreaty to deliver their arms in
service to the Mountain's lofty goals.
Xaxtur wasn't exactly the most politically-savvy envoy, but the trade he
intended to ply on Dragonspire Peak wasn't of a political nature. After
all, the separation of church and state was very important to the hungry,
hungry hobgoblin.
{u ***
The baying of their houndlike howls was the first indication that the Yinn
were aware of the World-Eater's arrival, and the sound widened the
grotesquely horrible grin the creature wore.
Even at their worst, Yinn are a more formidable opponent than the measly
human villagers he'd mown through. Xaxtur looked forward to the
bloodletting.
The first body to hit him sunk fangs deep into the meat of his shoulder, and
claws tore at his corpulent frame, sinking deep lacerations into his flesh
and exposing the hobgoblin's more tender innards to the icy wind whistling
across the peak that would become a graveyard.
Xaxtur didn't bother shaking that beast loose, though his own hammer-like
hand beat at each of the Yinn's flailing paws until the bones within had
been crushed beyond use. The hound hung from his shoulder, teeth too
securely implanted for it to loosen its grip. The Yinn could only watch in
horror over the World-Eater's shoulder as he set into the rest of the pack.
{u ***
Heaving for breath, the hobgoblin looked back at the spoils of his ten-days'
work. His body was ripped and torn, and the sickly chartreuse colour of his
blood mingled with that of the Yinn and taen'ari demons he'd slaughtered for
this ritual.
Still, the broken-pawed Yinn hung from teeth sunk into Xaxtur's shoulder.
Fear and adrenaline had long since driven the hound past the point of
insanity, and the whimpering sound that it continuously mewled could barely
be heard over the rushing sound of blood that still filled the Great Orange
One's ears.
He hadn't counted on the Yinn warbands roaming the mountain, called home by
the war-howls they sung to the sky at his arrival, and each fresh wave he
was forced to meet with determination, ferocity, and appetite.
A meaty hand raised, and curving claws yellowed with age and plaque gripped
the head of the Yinn he'd dragged along for the ride like a second set of
eyes. He squeezed until liquid ran from its eyes and ears and nostrils. He
squeezed until flesh compacted and gave way, splitting until his fingers
touched bare bone.
He squeezed harder, until his powerfully thick digits snapped that bone,
breaking off its freshly lifeless body and tossing it into place amongst the
rest
To see Dragonspire from afar, one might wonder at the enormous eye made of
dark shapes littering its peak. A closer look would reveal the enormity of
the horror that had been left there.
{u ***
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 14:07:04 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oHounds{u and{o Hellfire{u, {oPart{u II
Xaxtur counted the teeth he'd ripped from Yinn and taen'ari alike into
the cauldron as squibs and snotlings saw to his wounds. They sewed and
stitched even while they shoved meat between the heavy tusks weighing down
the protruding lower lip of the Gorger.
Less mindful, or perhaps simply less agile, squibs found their arms caught
in the great machinery of Xaxtur's many rows of jagged and misaligned teeth
along with that meat, for the hungry hobgoblin paid no mind to what made its
way into his cavernous maw.
As someone had recently said to him: that was a them problem.
Between the hounds and the hell-creatures, Xaxtur had slain another eight
hundred in his quest for the lord of death, and another forty thousand teeth
were added to the cauldron before which he sat. The gluttonous giant
chuckled malignantly as his Vision came closer to fruition.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:07:18 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Ritual of the Apostate
Archal would do the ritual himself. Confront Apostus, himself. There is
too much to learn, too much to be gained, he couldn't wait and couldn't ask
the demon what he needed to know with others present. With Bearhide
present. His heart raced in anticipation.
He scribbled off a note for Ostrim and instructed one of his assistants to
see that the Supplicant found it. The Supplicant was his second in all
matters pertaining to this ritual, and if this did not go well..
He gathered the materials he had stashed away himself, what he interpreted
from the ritual instructions. Words from the Demon Lord echoed in his mind.
"{uWe shall see how the outcome serves you. Or me. "
It was nearly 3am when Archal strode into Dnoutrar's throne room. The Lord
of Hunger lounged across his throne, and glared balefully at the High
Mystic's approach. The demon was clad in his characteristic vest and shield
of black bone, his sword leaning precariously against the throne.
Archal acknowledged Dnoutrar only by returning his gaze, before donning the
ritual garb, discerned from intelligence pieced together by the Gray Robes,
intelligence that had been gleaned from the various hovels and hideaways of
the cultists of the so-called true prophecy, as they had raided each in
turn.
The Crown of Evil, from this very temple. The weight of it seemed to crush
his temples. The unholy robes, from the High Priest of Hell, and his
hellstone. Archal felt himself warming from the inside. A black dragon's
eye, whose umbral light would be too much to bear for any of the untrue
faiths. The dagger of dark enchantment, which vibrated in his hand, humming
with potency.
3:00am. Archal spoke into the darkness.
Overlooked and underappreciated, the hellstone in his hand grew hot.
Cast me from the priestly nation. So hot it was glowing.
Drag me below, enslave me in fire, the hellstone burning openly now in his
hand, searing his flesh.
Archal thrust the dagger of dark enchantment forward as he began the next
line, and the air in front of him resisting, then flaring, tearing a hole.
Open the door
He carved the pentagram, a glowing wake of fire behind the blade. To
Necrucifer's ire! He encircled the pentagram, creating the pentangle, and
it it flared brightly, along with the hellstone still burning his hand.
Both disappeared, leaving a gaping black doorway in front of him.
He stepped through.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:09:32 2025
To to All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Entering the Basilica of Apostus
Archal was hit with an unmistakably sulphuric blast of hot air. He shed
the vestments of the ritual. A facade of cinnabar stone, reddish brown,
towered above him to the west, if he could trust his orientation. To the
east, behind him, a trail wound away and upwards through rock much the same
as the facade, lit by a magmatic glow which permeated the area from below.
Enormous curved doors of ebony swung out towards him, and he entered what
appeared to be the narthex of some unholy basilica.
He found himself inside a low vaulted narthex and surrounded by whispers,
though he saw nothing to explain their issue, nor could he make our their
words. Their sibilance reminded him of more words from the Demon Lord.
Naamitsa had hissed at him. "{uYou have much to learn of souls, mortalkin.
They are currency within the Abyss, power that gives one rise, such as I.
"
Feed me, the thought entered Archal's mind. He felt it coming from the
west, and crossed the narthex into the nave. Great cinnabar columns rose in
rows in front of him. The nave was short, squat, the transcepts close
ahead. The basilica seemed empty. Archal proceeded.
FEED ME. The thought returned, demanding now. Stronger. Archal approached
the choir now. It was long, and empty, and the whispers were louder here,
the echos of an unholy chorus. At the far end of the long choir was the
altar in the apse. Archal could see nobody, but he could feel the demon
there, his manatonic mind searching and feeling for his presence-
And then Archal was standing in the apse. He had no memory of walking
there. Behind the altar was a figure of melted flesh, a hideously distorted
face glistening and slick. ARCHAL KAYEN, YOU WERE HIS, the thoughts came
into his mind, invaded his mind, and he tried to shut them out but could
not. NOW YOU WILL BE MINE. FEED ME.
Archal wrested his thoughts away from Apostus, the demon's psychic screaming
nearly overwhelming. He felt the thing's hunger, intense hunger, and batted
it down, swatted it away. I am not yours, demon, Archal hissed through
clenched teeth. I am not His any longer. She-
YES YOU ARE. YOU ARE HIS. THE TATTERED ENDS OF YOUR SOUL STILL CRY OUT FOR
HIM. FEED ME.
The /tattered ends/, Archal spat, dangled after the failed god for years.
Drakkara claimed them, and you have no po- Archal stopped short, for he had
been unconsciously advancing on the blob of face-flesh in his aggression,
and found himself bound instead.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:10:53 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: The point of no return
YES I DO. YOU WERE OF HIM. I FEED ON HIS FAITH. WHY ELSE DID YOU COME?
FEED ME.
Archal gulped air as he regained control of his body. Naamitsa's words
flooded his memory again, words that followed his promise of caution. "{uWise
and efficient, if you are of stronger mortal mind and actually heed the
words. "
I came to learn your secrets, Apostus. Tell me. How did you ascend into
His service? How did you earn your transformation?
The sibilant sounds seared his ears as Apostus hissed and gurgled with
laughter, psychic and real, and the absent chorus of whispers joined him.
YOU SPOKE THE WORDS TO GET HERE, KAYEN. DON'T YOU SEE?
Archal didn't, and he knew the demon could sense his answer. The demon was
still in his head. I DID NOT ASCEND, YOU FOOLISH MORTAL. I DID NOT RISE TO
HIS SERVICE. I FELL INTO HIS SERVITUDE. More hissing and splashing as the
decaying head of Apostus laughed mirthlessly. NOW I MUST FEED UPON THE
REMAINS OF HIS SERVANTS
Archal felt something then, as Apostus uncoiled himself within Archal's
mind. Tendrils wrapped themselves around his thoughts and being. A sucking
feeling gnawed at the edges of his soul. He began to walk back towards the
narthex, but it was not him. His mind was screaming but his body no longer
obeyed. His mind recoiled in impotence, in horror. FEED ME his voice
croaked. Just inside the nave, Archal sat at a pew, his back towards the
narthex of Apostus' unholy basilica. A moist blob of face-flesh covered his
head.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue May 20 19:45:49 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (I)
Ezrianne had heard the High Mystic speak a hundred times. His voice
always held a calm tenor, layered with command, with purpose, with an
unshakable calm that made it easy to follow his orders.
But this time - this time was different.
Archal clans 'FEED ME'
Maccus looked up from the missive in his hand, his brow furrowing. Ezri
caught his eye, the unspoken question already passing between them. She
closed her journal slowly, hesitating.
The voice was Archal's. It sounded like the High Mystic. But it was wrong.
Beneath the familiar cadence, something else had taken root. Not a voice,
not truly - more a rasping slither, too thin, too slick. It didnt speak; it
invaded, like bone dragged across slate. It curled through her ears and
coiled at the base of her skull, sending a shiver through her.
Ezrianne clans 'High Mystic? '
No answer. No clarification. No jest. Only silence.
Maccus lowered the missive without a word, his head tilting like a hound
catching a sound no human could hear. The firelight threw golden bars
across his giant form as he took a step toward her.
But Ezri was already gone.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue May 20 19:57:37 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (II)
Ezrianne bolted from the desert, racing for the Keep, shouldering through
the Thalosian market crowds with no apology.
She passed through the arched gates with her jaw clenched and fingers
flexing at her sides. The guards saluted; she barely registered them.
Something was wrong. Subtly, maddeningly wrong - like a tapestry hung
askew, like a spell missing a single syllable.
The itch crawled across her senses, something tapping past the limits of her
humanity - stirring the draconic perception buried deep beneath, where
ancient instinct and ageless wisdom coiled in waiting.
Bootsteps echoed as she strode deeper - past the hearth, the armory, the
shined marble staircase she'd mopped this morning.
Nothing appeared out of place in the first three rooms she checked, the most
obvious places she could think of to find him. And yet, the air felt too
still. Heavy. Unmoving.
Down the corridor in the library, a few Petitioners lingered, murmuring over
books. She scanned their faces - carefully checking for anything off.
'The High Mystic. Where is he? '
Someone looked up. 'Haven't seen him today, Supplicant. '
Ezri nodded once, but the knot in her chest pulled tighter. She turned
sharply toward the High Mystic's office.
Her hand hovered on the latch, and she opened it without knocking. The door
creaked.
Inside, the office was still. No incense. No flicker of candlelight. No
scent of sage, vellum, or ink. Just stale air, thick as wool - like a tomb
sealed too long. Her eyes swept the room with practiced precision. But
there was nothing. No sign. No trace.
There was nothing left to find, so she started back home, to fill Maccus in.
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