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Writer: Nathalos
Date Mon Nov 17 09:43:09 2025
To All conclave sebatis imm rp
Subject Sparks Amongst the Stacks
Beneath the Crimson Tower, the old practice chamber had not changed.
Dust clung to every tome like forgotten snow, and the smell of parchment and
ozone mingled in the air as Nathalos eased himself into the high-backed
chair. His once-gleaming arcanium robes now scrubbed free of rust but still
worn thin with age rustled softly as he sat.
A single candle burned beside him, flickering wildly whenever stray sparks
leapt from his fingertips. Basic principles, he muttered, opening a
weather-softened novices text with a kind of reluctant reverence. Storm
take me it really has been decades. The first pages were almost laughably
simple. Conjuration fundamentals. Mana flow. Sigil structure. The
diagrams felt like old friends half-remembered faces in a fog. Yet as he
traced each rune with a steady, sparking hand, he felt something shifting in
his mind.
Not awakening.
Recalibrating.
The storm within him, though undying, had grown wild and unfocused during
his long sleep. Now each diagram, each incantation, each tired practice
spell acted like a metal rod drawing lightning back into alignment.
Hours passed. Maybe days. The novice books gave way to the intermediate
grimoires, then the RedRobes basic manuals summoning sparks, focusing will,
anchoring magical force. He whispered each lesson, voice echoing off the
towers stone like rolling thunder:
Energy obeys shape.
Shape obeys intent.
Intent must never falter.
Finally, when the candle had melted into a puddle of wax and three new
scorch marks adorned the desk, Nathalos exhaled slowly and shut the last of
the basic texts.
The rust comes off the mind the same way it comes off metal, he said to the
empty room. A little fire. A little patience. He rose, stretching his
arms. The air hummed in response.
At his feet lay an array of training weapons, far more than he once favored.
Swords he knew well, daggers better still. But now spears lay beside them,
and maces. Axes. Polearms. Even a coiled whip of treated kelp-leather,
still smelling faintly of brine. A RedRobe's path was balance, yes, but
that included destruction at times. The world had changed in his absence.
Adaptation was survival. He lifted the spear first, feeling the balance,
testing the weight, letting small arcs of blue dance along the haft. Then
the staff, then the axe; each tool awakening dormant instincts, each
movement sharpening muscle and memory long at rest.
When at last he returned to the old, leather-bound Invoker tomes he felt the
storm settle into a familiar rhythm. The sigils of flame, frost, and
lightning glowed faintly across the pages as if recognizing their masters
touch once more.
Now, Nathalos whispered as the storm in his veins crackled awake, back to
real work.
He opened the book.
Lightning answered.
Writer: Lepidus
Date Tue Nov 18 19:59:18 2025
To All Knighthood ( Imm RP Nadrik )
Subject Visiting I
Lepidus tightened the straps on the pure white charger, the horse standing
patiently within the quiet stables of Gareth Keep. He checked the saddle twice,
then a third time, wanting no failure on the long ride ahead. A few days of
supplies were packed neatly into the saddlebags, enough for a journey he had
not made in far too long.
With a last glance at the empty stable around him, he took up the reins and led
the charger out into the courtyard. The gates opened with their familiar groan,
and Lepidus mounted, settling into the saddle with a slow breath. He nudged
the horse forward, and together they rode out from Gareth Keep toward the
road leading around Althainia.
He followed the wall, avoiding the city proper, finally making his crossing of
the Blood River by way of the new bridge. The sunlight brightening the woodwork,
a reminder of the work and craftsmanship poured into it. Crossing over, he
continued east toward New Thalos.
The desert city greeted him with its warm winds and old familiar scents. As he
rode through the streets, memories rose unbidden. He and she had walked
these very lanes together once, laughing, exploring, sharing the small joys
young adventurers often cling to. Those days had felt simpler, gentler.
Passing through a market square, his eye caught a modest stall bearing fresh
flowers. Without much thought, he dismounted and approached, selecting a
small, humble bouquet. It was not extravagant, but it matched her spirit. He
tucked it carefully into his pack before mounting again.
From there he rode eastward, down to the Althainian dock. The ship to Arkania
waited in the harbor, its crew waving him aboard. He guided the charger onto
the vessel, securing the reins before stepping toward the railing.
The ocean breeze carried salt and memory in equal measure. Lepidus leaned
forward on the wooden rail, watching the waves slip past beneath the boats
hull. It took him back to younger days, before portals dotted the world, when he
and she had sailed these same waters side by side.
Back then he had been her shield, his strength on the front lines while she cast
her spells from behind him. The thought brought a faint smile to his face, warm
and bittersweet.
The boat ride was short, and soon the docks of Arkania rose into view. He
returned to his charger, guiding the horse down the ramp and onto solid ground.
Turning east, he followed the familiar road.
Not far along, he slowed at the sight of a cave entrance to the north. It had
been home once to the pirates he had battled time and time again. He could
almost hear their shouts echoing in memory. Nerull. Hideyoshi. Tical.
Hulihuto. Names once feared, now ghosts of an earlier life.
Lepidus urged the charger onward. Nearing the outskirts of Arkane, he saw a
southern road stretch away into the distance. He felt a tug at his heart as he
remembered the path leading toward the Valor Keep. A place he had once
called home after departing Gareth for a time.
Gamo. Chieron. Astas. Toshiharu. For a moment he could almost see them
again, training or laughing in the courtyard. Time had carried them All onward,
as it always does.
He reached the eastern gate of Arkane and passed through, guiding the horse
along the inner wall to the southwest corner. From there he followed the curve
of the south wall until he reached the southern gate, riding out into the
Arkanian Southlands.
The forest greeted him with quiet shade and gentle wind. Though he no longer
wore the mantle of a ranger, his feet and heart remembered the old paths. He
turned from the road, guiding the charger between the trees, down a way long
overgrown. Branches brushed his shoulders as the path narrowed, but he knew
the turns.
A small clearing opened ahead. It was not large, just a quiet pocket of earth
hidden beneath the canopy. In its center stood a single headstone, half hidden
beneath vines and wild growth.
Writer: Lepidus
Date Tue Nov 18 20:00:48 2025
To All Knighthood ( Imm RP Nadrik )
Subject Visiting II
Lepidus dismounted and approached the stone. He retrieved a small knife from
his pack and knelt beside the grave. With slow, careful strokes, he cut away the
tangle of vegetation. Leaves fell aside, revealing the inscription beneath.
"Marf D'Laine"
"Beloved Wife"
His breath trembled, just faintly, as he brushed the last of the debris away. He
returned to the horse and lifted the modest bouquet from his pack, bringing it
back to the grave. Kneeling again, he set the flowers gently at the base of the
stone.
He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the top of the headstone.
Settling down before it, he crossed his legs and let his hands rest loosely in his
lap. After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke.
" Marf... I'm sorry I haven't been by lately. "
" Things have been busy back home. I've returned to active duty in Gareth. "
" There's been a great deal happening. Nadrik appeared again... to me, of all
people. I took a vigil for several weeks. It All ended with the old Lord Crown
stepping down, and a new leader taking up the mantle to lead. "
He paused, fingertips brushing lightly over the carved letters of her name.
" I'm working toward earning the mantle myself.. joining my sister in the order
of Paladins. It's a long path, but I think it's the right one. I hope you'd be proud
of me. "
" The new Lord Crown seems good-hearted. He listens. He cares. I want to help
him however I can. So it might be some time before I can return here again. "
He sighed softly, shifting his weight before continuing.
Reaching for his pack, he retrieved a bit of food and sat back down. The quiet of
the clearing wrapped around him as he spoke on.
" You should see All the new pages and squires. Gareth feels alive again. "
" They even made me a general. Still not sure how that happened. "
He let out a faint, amused breath.
" And I made armor for angels, Marf. Real angels. Never thought they'd trust my
work for something so holy. "
Hours passed there in the small clearing as Lepidus talked to his wife, sharing
stories, updates, hopes, and memories. The forest listened in stillness, as it
always had.
When the sun began to dip, he rose and brushed the dirt from his knees. He
walked back to the horse and started repacking his gear, his movements slow,
reluctant.
He stepped back to the grave one last time, setting a hand upon the cool
stone.
" I still think of you every day. I still love you, Marf. More than I can say. "
" I can't wait to see you again one day.. but not yet. People still need me
here. And until my work is done, I can't join you. "
He bowed his head, letting the silence settle between them like an embrace.
Then, with one last touch to the top of the headstone, he turned and mounted
his charger. The horse stepped back onto the faint trail, and together they
made their way toward the road that would lead him home.
Writer: Orutix
Date Wed Nov 19 15:04:32 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Nov 20 17:41:14 2025
Writer: Olyndros
Date Thu Nov 20 18:01:13 2025
Writer: Asthrid
Date Fri Nov 21 22:17:48 2025
Writer: Asthrid
Date Fri Nov 21 22:19:57 2025
Writer: Imrahith
Date Sun Nov 23 11:08:38 2025
To Crelius Gladrim Riordan Zayk Verminasia Shadow All ( Imm Drakkara RP )
Subject The Weight of Absence: An Axiom of {uAshes
The wind that swept across the broken plains carried the scent of dust
and forgotten things. It was the only scent that ever clung to the altars
of a dead god. Imrahith knelt, the coarse granite of the offering stone
grinding against the worn plates of his armor. His movements were
ritualistic, devoid of the fervor that once fueled them, but precise. From
a leather pouch, he drew three black roses, their petals the color of a
forgotten sky at midnight. He laid them in a row upon the stone, their
thorns catching the thin, fading light.
This was the seventh shrine. The seventh silent prayer to Necrucifer, the
Father of Darkness, whose silence was now absolute. Each rose was a eulogy,
a question posed to the void. "What remains when the god is gone? "
As he stood, a faint scuff of grit, too deliberate to be the wind, whispered
from the slope behind him. He did not turn. For days, a presence had
dogged his steps, a subtle wrongness at the edge of his perception. It was
not the clumsy pursuit of brigands or the zealous hunt of a newly minted
paladin. This was patient. Observant.
He had let them observe. Now, it was time to reciprocate.
Imrahith turned and walked away from the altar, his stride long and
seemingly aimless, leading deeper into the jagged cliffs of Icewall. His
path took him through a narrow defile, where he paused, his hand brushing a
specific, lichen-crusted rock. He moved on, his pace unchanged. Further
on, he feigned adjusting his vambrace, his fingers discreetly scraping a
line in the dust with a sliver of obsidian, its edge humming with a latent,
funereal energy.
He was laying a trail of bread crumbs, but these crumbs were shards of glass
and poisoned hooks. The disturbed rock was a trigger. The obsidian shard
was a focus, a needle that would seek the life-force of any who crossed its
invisible line. He was no longer a knight serving a grand design, but a
cornered beast, and his faith had been replaced by a cold, meticulous
pragmatism.
He crested a snowy rise and finally stopped, looking out over the desolate
landscape. Somewhere in the twilight behind him, a trap would soon spring.
He did not know who followed, or why. He only knew that in the great, empty
silence left by his god, the only answer he could offer was a blade, and the
only prayer left to him was the one his stalkers would scream.
Writer: Asthrid
Date Sun Nov 23 17:53:38 2025
Writer: Imrahith
Date Mon Nov 24 16:12:05 2025
To Crelius Gladrim Riordan Zayk Verminasia Shadow All ( Imm Drakkara RP )
Subject The Weight of Absence: An {uAphelion's Vigil
For three days, the presence had been a shadow at the corner of his eye,
a flicker of wrongness in the howl of the gale. It was not Crelius, but one
of his instruments. And Imrahith would break it, pry it open, and learn the
shape of his father's new will.
Imrahith stood motionless, a stark silhouette of blue dragonscale against
the endless white, his breath pluming in the frigid air. He had chosen this
ground. The sheer cliff face at his back, the narrow, treacherous pass
ahead. A funnel. A trap. He heard it then.
The faintest scrape of leather on ice, not from the pass, but from the
cornice high above. He had been out-maneuvered. Imrahith spun, his
falchion clearing its scabbard with a rasp that was swallowed by the vast
silence.
A figure, swathed in grey furs and seamless, polished bone armor, dropped
from the ledge. They landed without a sound, a serrated blade of obsidian
already in hand. No words were offered. No boasts, no threats. This was
no duelist, it was an exterminator.
The assassin moved with a fluid, unnerving grace, their attacks a series of
feints and lethal strikes aimed at joints and gaps in his plate. Imrahiths
style was born of different wars... Heavy, decisive, meant to break shields
and souls. He was a sledgehammer to a scalpel. His blade sheared through a
spur of rock, sending shards of ice flying as the assassin darted inside his
guard. The obsidian knife scored a line of fire across his ribs, finding a
seam in the armor.
Snarling, Imrahith abandoned finesse. He slammed the pommel of his sword
downward, not at the assassin, but at the ice beneath their feet. A web of
fractures exploded outwards. The figure leaped back, but for a split
second, it was airborne and committed.
It was the opening he needed. Imrahith lunged, his free hand shooting out
to clamp like a vice around the assassins wrist. He heard the bone grind,
saw the faintest tremor in his opponent's frame. For a moment, he stared
into the narrow visor of the bone helmet, seeing only his own grim
reflection.
"You will tell me what he wants, " Imrahith growled, his voice raw against
the wind.
The assassin did not struggle. Instead, with a terrifying, placid finality,
they twisted their captured wrist. A sickening crack echoed, a deliberate
break to slip the joint. Before Imrahith could adjust his grip, the figure
slammed their forehead into his, and a burst of concussive, non-elemental
force threw him back a step.
By the time his vision cleared, the assassin was a dozen paces away, one arm
hanging useless, backing toward the cliff's edge. Then, they simply fell
backward, vanishing over the precipice. Imrahith lunged to the edge,
expecting to see a broken body on the rocks below. There was nothing. Only
the swirling snow and the endless, mocking white.
He stood there for a long time, the sting of his wound a cold brand, the
echo of that broken wrist a testament to a fanaticism he could barely
comprehend. The hunt for his new faith was now underway.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Mon Nov 24 19:37:53 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Chaos Zandreya Kantilles Malachive Xenophon Cayenna Imm Rp Religion
Subject The White Lights and the Light
Andreyna carefully turned the reliqua about as it lay on the wooden
table, leather gloves covering her hands to protect them from the curses
pulsating from the prison of flesh and bone. Sigils and words of blood
magic appeared and disappeared across the flesh as she turned it, allowing
her guest to examine it without having to touch it.
'I think you are right, your Majesty. I would see if there is a way to drop
the entire vessel into the river or perhaps use a dagger blessed by the
Light to try and cut through the flesh', the tall elven priest spoke to her,
his face unable to hide his disgust as he looked down at the cursed
reqliqua, 'It is an evil like I have never seen before. '
The Queen-Priest nodded as her eyes gazed over the flickering sigils, her
lips pursing as thoughts rolled through her mind. The elf priest averted
his eyes as the sigils appeared against, his white robes bristling across
the stone floor as he took a step back. Andreyna didn't even flinch at the
sight, her heart though full of sorrow for the Vallens and Zandreya, had
become hardened to the curses and pure evil of the Warp. Nothing surprised
her or really even alarmed her anymore. She had walked through the realm of
the Warp, survived curses, and even a would-be assassination attempt. The
Warp was part of her every day life now.
Do you think you would be able to begin working on a dagger to be used if it
is needed? It would not surprise me if blood magic is barring it from
opening, or worse, and will release far more than cursed souls upon its
opening', Andreyna asked as she carefully wrapped the reliqua in cloth and
tucked it away in her leather satchel. The elf priest nodded, a noticeable
look of relief washing over his face as the reliqua was placed out of sight,
'Already begun, your Majesty. When it was said that we would be releasing
the souls into the river, I knew that we would need options on how to open
it. '
Andreyna smiled as she removed her gloves and placed them on the table. The
elf priest's eyes moved to the elfqueen's whitened fingertips. 'Many of us
in Kantilles' order feel that you have truly been blessed to have been
touched by the White Moon, Majesty. Is it true that you wish to have your
Darkness restored? ', the priest asked his sky blue eyes finding Andreyna's
own. Zandreya's Cardinal flipped her hand back and forth looking over the
alabaster fingertips and nodded, 'It is true, indeed. My darkness was taken
from me, to help keep CharredAlder alive. It was replaced with the light
that was put upon him, by us. ' Andreyna lifted her gaze to Kantilles'
priest before her, 'I understand how some of your Lord's order may see it as
a blessing, but I did not ask for this. This is not me. My darkness was
taken from me because of actions of our own. ' Andreyna smiled warmly at
the priest, 'I am not of the Light, my dear friend, though I may be marked
by the Ivory, my heart does not belong to it. '
'Do you hope that balancing the lights with the umbra or healing the sapling
will help to restore your Darkness and your Balance.? ', the priest asked
thoughtfully. 'I am honestly not sure what will restore it, but I do aim
to, yes. Whatever it takes, as long as it does not bring harm to the
Vallens', Andreyna responded with a gentle smile.
The priest nodded and turned to open the door, 'There are some who wonder if
you may go further than originally intended', he spoke as he respectfully
bowed his head. Andreyna opened her mouth to respond to his concern, but
the elf gently closed the door before she could.
She honestly wasn't sure what her response would have been.
Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Nov 24 23:08:17 2025
To All Chaos ( Imm RP )
Subject The Ruinspire (I)
"The warp is a reflection of our own mortality. Stripped to its most
base and most perverse form. I phrase it so simply only that your arrogant,
animal mind might grasp a sliver of its meaning. To the enlightened,
however... It is a mirror raised to the soul of creation itself. A
depthless reservoir of power and possibility, waiting for any will ruthless
enough to seize it."
- Xarroroch Bral'garil, Bloodmage of the Sixth Amalgam.
Algoron, one year prior.
A tremor, deep and titanic, rippled through the mire, setting the ancient
stones of the tower to groan and shift. From the diseased depths of the
bog, monstrous tendrils burst forth. Colossal masses of meat and sodden
earth, erupting in a cyclonic fury. They surged upward, coiling about the
tower's base, wrapping up its length like the limbs of some prehistoric
leviathan.
The foul appendages constricted, their odious embrace swallowing the tower
within a heaving mass of mortified plant matter and rotting sinew. And with
a final, wrenching convulsion, the nightmare form dragged its prize into the
mire. The tower, as storied as it was ancient, was wrested from existence,
vanished beneath the churning mass. Leaving nothing behind but a blighted
stain upon Algoron.
*///**\\\*
A million fragments, strewn across the roiling gulfs of entropy. Realms of
rancid dreamstuff, where the sighs of dying worlds lingered and the sundered
dust of realities long dead drifted in desolate procession. Each shard held
the faintest smear of what once was. A memory, an emotion, a delusion, or a
soul. Through torrents of uncreation and chasms where negative life
burgeoned, through dimensions locked in eternal paradox, they fell and they
were devoured.
One solitary spark set them aflame. An almost nothing aberration in the
endless maelstrom, a remnant of a legacy collapsed upon a meaningless orb
adrift in a pestilential expanse. A single drop of blood, reflecting the
churn of a void within the void, carrying the fading echo of a black god's
vengeful death cry.
The shards of soul and stone cast back the shrieking phantoms and ever
changing beasts that prowled the morass, stifling their hungers and rending
their essences in howls of metaphysical dread. The lesser horrors recoiled.
Some into true death, others into millennia long spasms of ecstatic torment.
And there were older and more opulent things that also watched, things that
were not vanquished or displeased.
A motion began to quicken across the chaotic realm, as the rubble strewn
throughout that virulent plane turned and drew itself together. Lifeless
rock, flesh, and things in-between rose and joined together. Each piece
locking to the next like bricks drawn by telekinetic inertia. The fragments
spiraled through storms of malignant whisperers and colossal amalgamations,
ripping paths through their spectral ranks as they hurtled toward a distant
central point.
Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Nov 24 23:15:03 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Ruinspire (II)
The eldritch intelligences of the warp raised their ire. They spat
curses into the ether, casting forth waves of torment to scour the
coalescing masses. Psychic tempests barraged the fragments, blistering
their substance and mutating their forms, seeking to violate what dared
interlope within their corrupted fiefdoms.
Still they pressed on, gathering momentum through the groaning froth of
dilated time and pandemonium. They swarmed toward the fulcrum like
congealed locusts, dragged ever faster by a will that hungered for their
presence. The faceless void buckled as they neared, the warp rippling
outward in waves of withering plasma and discordant geometry.
A silhouette began to coalesce at a central point. An unstable imprint
forced upon the wailing fabric of the immaterium. The nearness of the
rubble compelled its manifestation. From a single bloodlet shadows
thickened, coagulating into darkened viscera and bundling sinew. Bone
extruded and retracted, reforming at wretched angles as veins began to pump
with black ichor.
Warp-light detonated from a singular point within the simulacrum of a skull,
and the figure solidified. Dragged into form by a collision of countless
contradictory forces. A riven soul made semi-corporeal, a man shaped form
wreathed in blackened shadow and ravening warpfire. The two forces
annihilated and remade one another in a frenzy of primordial and conceptual
warfare. They battled across his body before they tore apart into twin
nimbuses hovering besides his shoulders. A living conduit of energy
crackled between them, forming a tenuous equilibrium.
He hung suspended within the field of twisting souls and degeneration.
Slowly, he extended a pale hand into the ether, fingers curling in command.
He beckoned the oncoming remnants, dragging them through the warp as if
calling home his wayward kin.
They streamed to him one by one, thickening into structure as they spun
about his form in a hurricane of unnatural industry. Their outlines burned
black as they fell into alignment, solidifying only under the demand of a
furious intellect. Soon the figure was swallowed entirely, entombed within
the growing shape they wove around him.
A tower rose, wrought of flesh and darkness, its surface coiling with the
madness of a soul shattered and reforged against its will. As soon as its
final configuration took shape, space folded inward upon an axis that did
not exist. In a silent explosion the tower was gone. All that remained was
a seared impression, that was eagerly consumed by the distorted empyrean.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue Nov 25 19:50:39 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uDarkmooring VI
The three advanced down the umbral tunnel, the tether between Skull Keep
on the Verminasian outskirts, and whatever place the Dark Lord and the High
Priestess awaited.
The shades kept coming, clawing their way through the fragile tunnel,
dripping out of the tumultuous umbral flows outside. Each shade that bent
to Archal's will, bolstered it. Each that defied his will, deepened his
fury, and most were felled by the sceptre in his hand, the ferrite-cradled
amethyst head absorbing the umbral and arcane energies of the dark
creatures.
He no longer uttered the ancient words as they progressed down the porous
tunnel. His mind had entered the flow, his will radiated before him, his
intentions clear. More shades joined him, his shadow rearing up ahead of
him, monstrous and deformed. The sceptre vibrated in his hand with
subjugated souls, their resistance broken.
In this flow state, Archal gained awareness. He felt the roiling umbral
currents outside the tunnel, realized they swam through the froth and foam
which seeped through its incomplete membrane. His soul flowed through this
umbral churn but the raw arcana of his manatonic mind existed apart from it,
separate, and it could reach out like a hand upon the surf.
Clarity washed over Archal and an instant passed like a lifetime. He
genuflected, taking a knee and placing his hand on the bottom of the
forest-like floor of the umbral tunnel. The tether. A killing blow of a
shade passed over his head, the shade itself meeting its demise to a strike
from Ithelim. The substrate of the air vibrated with Ezrianne's melody of
meditation.
Archal could feel the fabric of the tunnel, each woven strand. Each porous
opening where the weave was not yet tight enough, requiring the power of the
full Moonstone to seal the tunnel in perpetuity. He felt the arcane ether
and the umbral flows, felt the blood coursing through his body and the souls
contained in the amethyst of the sceptre in his hand. He drew from each,
becoming both the conduit and the capacitor, drawing in the power of the
umbra, the arcana, his own body, his own soul, and the souls of the defeated
shades, inky black filling him and radiating out from him within this one
instant until he pushed it All through his hand into the fabric of the
tunnel.
The weave constricted, pulsing outward from his touch at the speed of sound,
and Archal tried to let go of the power he had gathered in his grasp. The
instant stretched into a moment as the tunnel's newfound integrity stopped
the drip of shades. The moment dragged into regular time, and the remaining
shades were dragged, stretched, elongated towards Archal who was
increasingly obscured within a singular darkness.
Archal himself was trying to remember why he wanted to let go of this power.
This immense power. Someone nearby coughed and his mouth filled with blood.
Was it him? It was hurting him, killing him, but why did he want to go
back? He felt the vastness of the umbra stretching away from him in all
directions, awareness of All it touched. Struggling now to even remember
what he wanted to do, he was aware of an enormous concentration of umbral
power, then another, their auras so much greater than their physical forms,
and Archal reached out to touch those auras-
And remembered himself. He spat blood, saw it in the real and saw the
ripples it created through the umbra. He wanted it all, wanted this power
but he refused to give himself over to it. Would not surrender to the chaos
of the void.
With a final imposition of will he focused the gathered umbral power into a
final expulsion, an explosion of negative energy that left him poorly. He
stumbled as he got to his feet and fought to control his outward appearance.
The tunnel was calm. Ithelim and Ezrianne were exchanging looks behind him.
Telthian and Symantha waited at the other end. Wearily, Archal lead the
trio on.
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Thu Nov 27 16:08:26 2025
Writer: Eevelline
Date Fri Nov 28 00:38:08 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Nov 29 11:45:32 2025
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Sun Nov 30 13:43:38 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 17:39:38 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 18:14:37 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Mon Dec 1 18:41:46 2025
Writer: Kayla
Date Tue Dec 2 00:19:37 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Dreamer Caps 1
The mist clung to the marsh like a lover who refused to let go. Kayla
Black-Mane moved through it on silent pads, the calico fur of her lower legs
already soaked black with peat water. Dawn had not yet decided to arrive,
and only a sickly greenish glow filtered through the cypress knees and
hanging veils of moss. Somewhere a bittern boomed, low and mournful, the
only sound besides the soft suck of mud giving way beneath her clawed toes.
She sought the Dreamer's Cap, a pale mushroom said to bloom only where an
adder had chosen to shed its skin.
Kayla's ears flicked at every ripple in the black water, but her golden
eyes stayed fixed on the low hummocks ahead. There, beneath the twisted
roots of a drowned tupelo, a clutch of ghostly caps glowed like tiny moons.
Beside them lay the papery husk of a cottonmouth's slough, still faintly
fresh. Perfect, she reflected with victory in success of her search.
Kayla knelt, murmuring thanks to the swamp in the old tongue. Then,
with a bone knife she sliced three caps free, careful not to bruise the
delicate gills. One hand clutched the harvested caps while the other tucked
the shed skin into a small pouch at her belt. From another pouch she drew
dried bog myrtle and a pinch of withered lizard's tail. These were binding
agents that would keep the visions from shattering her mind completely.
She found her usual refuge twenty paces farther in an ancient hollow
cypress stump wide enough to sit inside, its heartwood long rotted away.
Water lapped at the rim, but the interior stayed dry. Kayla slipped within,
tail curling around her ankles, and sets her treasures to the side. She
kindled a thumb sized fire with a snap of flint as a breath of sparks from
her clawed fingers fell into dried moss and broken twigs.
Writer: Kayla
Date Tue Dec 2 00:20:27 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Dreamer Caps 2
The caps went into a small tin cup with the herbs and a finger of
brackish water. Soon the tea steamed. It smelled of wet earth and something
sharper, something old, something sacred. Kayla lifted the cup in both
handpaws. Her whiskers trembled. She inhaled deeply and whispered in the old
tongue, "To whatever truth awaits."
She drank. In moments the world folded like wet parchment.
Suddenly the stump became a coil of shifting serpents, sickly green and
heavy with years. The coil rose around her in silent rings. Their tongues
tasted the air while her heart raced at a thundering pace. One serpent,
larger than the rest, wore a crown of faded crimson. Its hood split to
reveal eyes of black void. From its fangs wept a single bead of venom, thick
as sap, old as mountains.
The great snake did not strike. It only watched, patient as torpor
itself, while the bead fell slow and inevitable toward the black water
beneath. The instant it touched the surface, the water rippled with building
rings. Those rings began dramatic at their core, then softened and slowed in
perfect circles until All perception twisted and faded.
Kayla woke with a gasp. The empty cup was clutched to her chest. The
fire had burned down to smoldering embers. Outside, true dawn finally bled
rose gold across the marsh. Her fur prickled. The taste of the vision still
coated her tongue like copper and nightshade.
She whispered thanks to her shelter, then rose and climbed out of the
stump. Her eyes squinted against the light. A migraine already threatened
with the coming sun. She turned and trudged the path back toward the city.
She had to report what she had seen.
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Dec 3 17:03:26 2025
Writer: Sala'hudin
Date Sun Dec 7 18:40:24 2025
Writer: Nathalos
Date Tue Dec 9 11:17:28 2025
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 9 12:06:03 2025
To Geirhart Lepidus Knighthood All Austinian Nadrik
Subject Virtues of the Knighthood, a Parable of the Past (I of II)
The Temple of Virtues stood silent beneath the pale glow of dawn, its
octagonal chamber carved from marble that shimmered like frozen moonlight.
Eight alcoves encircled the hall, each bearing a fresco that seemed to
breathe with ancient wisdom. I walked among them slowly, my boots
whispering against the stone, my heart heavy with the weight of the task
laid upon me.
In the first alcove, the Shepherd of Humility watched his flock beneath a
silver moon, crook in hand, his gaze tender and unassuming. In the second,
a pious man knelt before the shining ankh of Spirituality, his posture a
prayer carved in eternity. The third burned crimson with Valour, where a
knight stood upon a precipice, sword raised against a demon whose maw could
swallow the world. The fourth bore Justice, a judge enthroned beneath the
scales, a heart cradled in his left hand, his right raised in solemn decree.
The fifth showed Honesty, an open hand painted upon a wall, a mage pressing
his palm against it as if sealing a covenant. The sixth glowed with
Compassion, a bard giving alms to a beggar beneath a sun shaped like a
heart. The seventh was stark
and parched, the fresco of Sacrifice, where a soul poured his last water
into the mouth of another beneath a sky that held only one drop. The eighth
was Honour, though its paint was faded, its meaning clear, a knight kneeling
before a fallen foe, blade lowered in respect.
I stood before them, a squire clad in steel that still smelled of the forge,
summoned by the High Council to bear a burden I scarcely understood. Their
words had been iron.
Ride east, Squire Sorien. End the despots reign.
The despots name was whispered like a curse across the valleys, a warlord
whose banners burned villages and salted fields, whose men left ruin in
their wake. I bowed my head before the ankh and whispered, Grant me
strength, though I did not yet know what strength I would need.
The road east was a scar across the land. Villages lay in ash, fields
salted into sterility, banners of black and crimson fluttering like carrion
birds. The people spoke of the warlord with fear and hatred. They said she
was merciless, a butcher of innocents. I rode with my sword ready, my heart
hardened by duty.
At night, the frescos haunted me. I saw the Shepherd of Humility in my
dreams, crook in hand, tending his flock beneath the moon. A knight is no
tyrant, I thought. He serves, not rules.
The keep loomed like a broken tooth against the sky, jagged and defiant. I
entered expecting a beast in steel, a demon in flesh. Instead, I found a
child.
She stood at the far end of the hall, clad in armor too large for her frame,
its weight bending her shoulders. Her eyes were sharp as shattered glass,
her voice brittle iron.
Do it, Knight. End me like they ended him.
I lowered my blade. Who?
My father. Her chin trembled, through her words did not. They murdered
him The lord of the west. His men followed me because they loved him.
Because they could not forgive.
Her defiance cracked, and in that fracture I heard truth. The fresco of
Honesty burned in my mind, the open hand upon the wall. Truth is not always
spoken. Sometimes it bleeds through pain.
My sword trembled. The fresco of Justice rose before me, the judge with a
heart in one hand, scales above his throne. What is justice here? To kill
a child for vengeance not her own? Or to break the wheel of hate?
I thought of Sacrifice, the parched soul pouring his last water for another.
Could I give something of myself to save her? My meager savings, the coin I
had hoarded for a horse of my own, could that buy her a future?
And then Compassion, the bard giving alms beneath a heart-shaped sun. I saw
her not as a warlord, but as a child robbed of childhood. My blade lowered.
I spoke of Spirituality, the man kneeling before the shining ankh. There is
a path beyond blood, I told her. Not in steel, but in thread.
She stared, uncomprehending, as I led her from the keep.
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 9 12:09:51 2025
To Geirhart Lepidus Knighthood All Austinian Nadrik
Subject Sorien: Virtues of the Knighthood, a Parable of the Past (II of II)
The air was tainted with the harsh smell of dyes. Thick pieces of fabric
hung from the walls, All different shapes and sizes. Several large vats sat
toward the back of the shop. Gnomes worked silently, stretching thread
across boxes, bolts of cloth stacked high like towers of color.
Ramhiller, the shopkeeper, stood measuring a piece of fabric from a great
bolt. His clothes were perfectly tailored to his size, and his noble
bearing belied his humble trade.
I placed a pouch of coins on his counter. For her apprenticeship, I said.
Teach her to weave, not to war. He looked at the girl, then at me, and
nodded.
In the end, I failed in my task. I did not kill her. I gave her every coin
I owned and walked her to Althainia, to the dye-scented halls of Althainian
iles. Sometimes, when rushing back to Gareth, I do stop by Althainian
iles. She is a kind young woman now, where she works diligently earning
her coin. She measures fabric instead of lives. Her hands weave cloth, not
war.
The eight frescos still stand in the Temple, but I know now, they are not
walls. They are doors. And I walked through them.
Writer: Pror
Date Fri Dec 12 19:42:23 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 12 21:04:52 2025
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Dec 13 10:30:27 2025
To All Austinian NewThalos
Subject The First Law I
The practice yard rang with the dull crack of wood on wood.
Ezekyle stood barefoot in the dust, sleeves rolled, hair damp with sweat,
gripping a splintered practice sword. He was young still. Broad-shouldered
already and tall for his age. His arms burned and his breath came hard.
Across from him, another squire hesitated.
Again, Ezekyle said.
They came at him, one after another. Wooden blades, clumsy footwork,
shouted challenges. Ezekyle met them all. He drove them back with tight,
disciplined strikes, forcing mistakes, knocking swords from hands. One
fell. Another yielded. A third staggered away, nursing a bruised wrist.
The yard slowly emptied.
Only then did Ezekyle notice the silence.
His father stood at the edge of the arena, arms folded, watching. He wore
plain training clothes, the same as Ezekyle, but there was a firmness in his
stare Ezekyle was not familiar with at this stage in his life.
Enough, his father said. Ezekyle straightened, chest heaving. He nodded,
respectful but proud. His father stepped into the ring and picked up a
practice sword.
Face me.
The first strike came before Ezekyle could settle his stance.
Wood slammed against wood. Ezekyle barely blocked, stumbling back. His
father pressed him immediately. He struck with clean, efficient blows that
never wasted motion. Ezekyle countered, faster now, desperate to prove
something. It didnt matter. Every attack was read, turned aside, and
punished.
He went down.
They reset. Again, he went down.
And again.
Each time Ezekyle tried to adjust. He changed footing, altered timing,
struck harder, faster, but nothing worked. His father never raised his
voice. Never showed anger. He simply defeated him, over and over, driving
him into the dirt.
Finally, Ezekyle lowered his sword.
Im done, father. He said, breath ragged. Im getting hungry.
He turned to leave the ring.
The blow struck his back before he took three steps.
Ezekyle spun, panic flaring as his father advanced without pause. There was
no signal. No mercy. The training sword cracked across his guard, his
shoulder, his ribs. Ezekyle retreated blindly, fear mixing with exhaustion.
He tried to run. He tried to shield. He tried to fight.
Nothing stopped it.
The yard felt smaller. The air thicker. Each strike drove the lesson
deeper into his bones: strength alone was not enough. Skill was not enough.
Wanting was not enough.
At last, Ezekyle collapsed to one knee, sword slipping from his hand. His
arms shook. His vision swam. He had nothing left.
His father stopped.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of Ezekyles breathing.
Then his father spoke, calm and steady.
You may never win the fight, he said. But you are not allowed to give up.
He set the practice sword down and turned away, leaving Ezekyle alone in the
dust aching and humiliated.
Ezekyle stayed there until the yard emptied, the words burning deeper than
any bruise.
He never forgot them.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Sat Dec 13 10:40:22 2025
To All Austinian NewThalos
Subject The First Law II
You may never win the fight, but you're not allowed to give up.
Ezekyle repeats the words under his breath as he tightens the strap on his
practice armor. The leather is worn thin from use, the buckle bent slightly
out of shape. It was not made for him. Nothing here is.
His days as a servant of Austinian are quiet and unremarkable. He copies
scripture until his fingers cramp. He drills with a wooden mace under the
watchful eyes of men who correct more than they praise. He cleans floors
that will be dirty again by morning. No one asks his opinion. No one
should.
Faith, he is learning, is not proven in moments of glory.
The lesson comes when he is sent alongside a senior cleric to deliver last
rites to a condemned man. The crime is real. The evidence is clear. The
sentence has already been passed. Ezekyle is there only to observe and
assist.
The man is calm. Too calm. He asks whether Austinian truly cares for law
more than mercy. Whether Nadrik watches those who fall through the cracks
of justice. Whether goodness survives when the outcome is already decided.
Ezekyle does not answer.
He is not qualified to.
The senior cleric recites the rites precisely, without deviation. There is
no cruelty in it, but there is no comfort either. When it is done, they
leave the cell exactly as they found it.
Outside, Ezekyle feels something twist in his chest.
He wants the world to be cleaner than it is. He wants justice to be simple.
He wants faith to fix things.
But his fathers voice rises unbidden, steady and merciless.
You may never win the fight.
That night, Ezekyle prays longer than required. He does not ask why the law
is harsh, or why evil persists, or why the gods remain distant.
He asks only for the strength to stay.
Good Father, I do not ask to win. I do not ask to be spared, or praised, or
understood. If law must be carried, give me the strength to carry it. If
justice must be silent, give me the strength to endure it. If the road you
set before me ends in duty, let me walk it without pride. If it ends in
sacrifice, let me face it without fear. If goodness must be small and
unnoticed, let me not despise it. If it must be broken, let it break
through me and go no further.
I ask only this:
Do not let me stop.
Drive me where you will.
Writer: Seyzule
Date Sun Dec 14 09:43:17 2025
To Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP )
Subject Vallentales : Mending Sails
It was only one small tear in the sails. Seyzule knew that the port
entrance would be difficult to navigate into, yet she steered the ship as if
she were going to Tropica's port, with that port sitting away from the
coast, inviting ships to dock. The turn was too sharp, and the sail
strained as it caught the wind turning the other direction against the
sheltered coastline. A snap and crack was All it took for Seyzule to
register her mistake in that most difficult turn. The sail split at a
weakened point.
She wanted to show her complete competence, but in her hurry, she erred.
Fortunately, none were hurt, and repairable damage occurred. The mark of
her moment of inattention haunted her the rest of the voyage. Now, she had
to fix the signs of her mistake by repairing the sail.
Down in the hull, she fished through the crates to find the sail mending
supplies: sharp antler needles, strong thread, and spare sail. With those
items gathered, she took the main mast and set about repairing the sail.
With the help of a few crew members, she loosened the sail to the deck.
Section by section, she worked with the aid of other crew members to find
any new weak points and reinforce the stitching of the sail. Her mind was
on the main visible tear, but she knew there might be smaller ones where
Turpa's wind, no, it is Zandreya's wind now, could expose their flaws.
As she worked, she finally saw the point of shame, that one main tear. It
was not very large compared to the rest of the sail, but it was glaring.
With the threaded needle, she worked on the patch of canvas to strengthen
the weakened fabric at the tear. Repeatedly, she worked stitches into the
patch with her webbed fingers, sealing and reinforcing the tear.
The work continued until the whole sail was examined and repaired. Upon
completion, she and the rest of the crew tightened the lines and secured the
sail back to the mast, ready for the next voyage.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Dec 14 20:05:29 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:27:16 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:29:32 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 21:35:46 2025
Writer: Aurelwen
Date Sun Dec 14 22:53:26 2025
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Dec 15 11:10:23 2025
To All Imms Austinian
Subject The Second Law
The cart creaks as it moves, its wooden wheels catching on stones and
ruts left by weeks of neglect. Ezekyle grips the handles harder than he
needs to. The smell never leaves his clothes anymore.
Dalakard walks beside him, younger in the eyes if not in years. He is
quieter than usual today.
After a long stretch, Dalakard finally speaks. Do you ever wonder why we
keep doing this?
Ezekyle does not answer at first. They stop at another body. It was thin,
wrapped poorly, already stiff. Together they lift it onto the cart. Wood
groans. Leather straps tighten.
Dalakard continues, voice low. The gods are falling silent. It feels like
the world is losing faster than we can help.
Ezekyle exhales through his nose and after a long moment of staring off in
the distance, he replies, My grandfather had a vineyard.
Dalakard looks at him, confused, but does not interrupt.
He laid wide stone paths through it, Ezekyle continues as they walk. Right
through the middle. You could see them from one end to the other.
Dalakard tilts his head. Wouldnt that ruin the yield?
It did, Ezekyle says. Some.
Then why do it?
They start pushing again.
He always told my father to build for the future you wish for.
Ezekyle remembers sun-warmed stone beneath bare feet. The sound of laughter
carrying between the vines. His grandfather standing at the edge of the
field, hands on his hips, smiling as children ran the paths meant just for
them.
He wanted to watch us play. His grandchildren. Ezekyle says. So he made
room for it amongst the vines.
Dalakard nods slowly. He sounds like a good man.
Yes, Ezekyle replies.
They stop again. Another body. Then another. The cart grows heavier.
The road bends, and the land beside it opens into long, ordered rows. Posts
lean where they should stand straight. Vines lie tangled and unkept.
Between them, pale stone breaks through the dirt in long, familiar lines.
They lift another corpse.
The yield mattered less than the hope, Ezekyle says quietly, more to
himself than to Dalakard.
Dalakard slows, not hearing Ezekyle as he looks out at the landscape next to
them. Ezekyle this place-
I know, Ezekyle says quietly.
They move on, pushing the cart along what remains of a forgotten vineyard,
torn but standing, its paths still wide enough for children who will never
run them.
And Ezekyle does not stop.
Writer: Nathalos
Date Mon Dec 15 11:50:34 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Sat Dec 20 14:17:31 2025
Writer: Pyrsas
Date Sat Dec 20 14:33:47 2025
Writer: Kayla
Date Sun Dec 21 12:54:02 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Tribal Elder 1
The humid breath of Tropica's jungle wrapped around Kayla like a living
shroud, thick with the scent of rotting orchids and rain soaked earth. She had
crossed the churning strait between the southern coast of Althainia and Tropica
by rickety skiff, guided by scribbled maps she keeps. Her calico fur matted with
salt spray she is now deep in the emerald labyrinth, vines tugging at her cloak
as she pushes forward with golden eyes scanning the undergrowth for signs of the
old leonine tribes, forgotten kin who might hold the secrets she seeks. Her
whiskers twitch at every rustle, the old tongue of leonine ready on her lips for
parley. She prayed silently, let this green path lead to enlightenment.
The canopy above wove a perpetual twilight, pierced by shafts of golden
light where ancient kapoks pierced the sky. Kayla's clawed toes sank into the
leaf litter, silent as a shadow, but the jungle was alive with hidden eyes. She
paused at a stream, preparing to cross with a bound, when the air shifted and a
low growl sounded from the vegetation. With the snap of a twig, before she could
whirl, powerful forms erupted from the ferns. Wemics, their lionine bodies sleek
and muscled, tawny fur rippling over quadrupedal frames. Three of them, hunters
with bone tipped spears and necklaces of fangs, encircled her in a blur of
motion.
"Intruder!" snarled the lead wemic, his mane bristling, voice a rumble in
old leonine tongue. His spear hovered at her throat, while the others flanked,
their tails lashing. Kayla froze, hands raised, her own tail curling
submissively. "Peace, kin of the pride," she replies in the old tongue, her
words laced with the accent of distant swamps. "I am Kayla, felar of the mother.
I seek the wisdom of the tribes, not their blood."
The lead hunter's emerald eyes narrowed, sniffing the air. "A wanderer from
Althainia's mires? Your scent carries death's shadow." But he lowered his spear
fractionally, gesturing with a massive paw. "Bind her. The Elder will judge."
Rough vines looped around her wrists, not cruelly but firmly, and they prodded
her forward through the underbrush, their powerful strides forcing her to trot.
Writer: Kayla
Date Sun Dec 21 12:54:49 2025
To All Abaddon Slayers ( Imm RP Zandreya Fatale Storyline Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Torpid Queen : Tribal Elder 2
As they emerged into a hidden glade, the tribe's encampment unfolded with
thatched huts on stilts, woven from palm and vine, encircled by a palisade of
sharpened stakes. Smoke curled from cooking fires, and the air hummed with the
chatter of felar and wemics alike while kits tumbled in play. Kayla's gaze
sharpened on the drying racks. There, strung between poles, were the scaled
hides of bakali young, their cobra like hoods peeled back, skins glistening with
curing salts. Nearby, slabs of reptilian meat hung over smoldering embers, the
faint metallic tang of venom lingering in the smoke. Her heart quickened, these
were the cullings of serpent kin, proof she had found those who danced with
danger in the deep jungle.
They led her to the largest hut, where an ancient felar awaited, her
silvered fur etched with ritual scars, eyes milky with age yet sharp as thorns.
The medicine woman sat cross legged on a mat of woven reeds, surrounded by jars
of herbs and dried glands. "Untie her," she commanded in leonine, voice like
wind through dry bones. The wemics obeyed, retreating to the shadows after.
Kayla knelt, bowing her head. "Wise one, I come from Abaddon, seeking
knowledge of the bakali. I seek a cure to their bite, and my visions told me of
an ancient one."
The elder's whiskers quivered. "The bakali... ah, the scaled furies. The
young we cull for meat and hide, to keep our pride safe. Their bites paralyze,
and their tempers ignite like dry tinder. But the ancient ones, the colossal
serpents in the heart of the forest... their venom is legend. It can still a
heart or stir it from death's grasp, binding life and torpor in a single drop.
Dangerous to hunt, child. Many warriors return broken, or not at all."
Kayla leaned forward, golden eyes intent. "I seek to cure that power. For
trade, what would you ask for the glands of the culled?"
The medicine woman pondered, then nodded. "You will give your knife, and
your hands. Take the sacks of venom from the ones our hunters have brought." The
elder felar places fingers below her chin against both sides of her throat in
signal to where the organs reside. "Cut them free, and you will have what you
seek. When you are done, give thanks to the mother, and be gone."
The elder felar points with purpose to the exit of her hut, the bone
jewlery about her wrist and arm sounding as the wemics emerge from the shadows
to usher Kayla away. She spends the remainder of her day cleaning and skinning
the day's kill, speaking to the hunters and her tribal kin. When the task was
done she wraps the harvested glands in the leaf of a giant taro, tying her prize
with vines. She gives thanks, as directed, and leaves the pride's glade north to
find the coast once more.
Writer: Pror
Date Sun Dec 21 20:43:17 2025
Writer: Pror
Date Sun Dec 21 21:41:36 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Dec 22 14:08:04 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Dec 22 14:14:39 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Tue Dec 23 18:59:49 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XVI
The warmth of the fire in the Abbot's study felt strange after the bitter
winds outside. The room was small but comforting with plush chairs gathered
near the hearth and magical gloves of light floating overhead, causing the
faint shimmer of crystals braided into the Abbot's dark hair catching the
glow. A simple altar rested in the corner, its surface dusted with frost.
Ulyssus stood before the large oak desk, his staff held respectfully at his
side. The Abbot sat in his padded leather chair, eyes closed, his golden
robe humming softly with enchantment. For a moment the elderly elf simply
breathed, serene as the mountain itself.
Then his eyes opened, gentle and knowing.
"You have walked a long road, Ulyssus MacAllen, " the Abbot murmured.
"Longer still than you expected when you first climbed these steps. "
Ulyssus dipped his head. "Aye. And now Ai 'ave step'd aside frum tha
Conclave proper, ef onlae fer a toime. Tue learn roightlae tha ways o' Lord
Kantilles aes priest, nae onlae wizard. "
The Abbot rose, the firelight playing across the runes embroidered
in green along his sleeves. He moved with the ageless grace of his kind,
circling the desk to stand before Ulyssus.
"A sabbatical, the world below would call it. But here, in these halls, we
name it by its truer word, Transformation. "
He lifted a hand, laying his palm upon Ulyssus's brow. A thin ribbon of
radiance spilled from his fingertips, bright and cold as moonlight on ice.
Ulyssus felt it sink into him, familiar, and yet different. Not the studied
precision of alteration, but something gentler and deeper.
"You were always meant to serve Kantilles in both paths, " the Abbot said
softly. "But magic must be honored in its fullness. You put aside your
robes to learn humility, devotion, and the divine breath that runs beneath
all spells. And you have done so. "
Ulyssus exhaled, frost curling from his lips.
"Then am I truly to serve Lord Kantilles named as priest, Abbot? "
The Abbot gave a small, serene smile.
"Yes. From this day, you stand in the Light of Kantilles as one of His
clergy. Tha magic you wield will answer you as priest and wizard alike.
But to return to your Tower... "
He paused, eyes bright as polished crystal.
"that road you must walk yourself. Not in defiance of the Conclave's ways,
but in demonstration of mastery of the divine magic of Lord Kantilles. When
you have proven to them, and to yourself, that these paths can live as
one... Then the Ivory Tower will open its doors to you once more. "
The words settled on Ulyssus like fresh snowfall.
He knelt before the small altar. The Abbot placed a crystal shard into his
hands, glowing with a faint white aura.
"Rise now, Ulyssus MacAllen, priest of Kantilles. Go forth, Vizier of the
Whitethough you walk without clan name for a season. Your path is
not broken, only bending, as All rivers must, before they meet the sea. "
Ulyssus stood slowly, staff shimmering with new light, the Abbot's blessing
lingering like frost upon his skin.
A sabbatical. A metamorphosis. A step away... So he might return
stronger.
And beyond the study door, the crystalline halls of the monastery waited,
resonant, bright, and ready to send him back into the world forever changed.
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 23 21:02:39 2025
Writer: Sorien
Date Tue Dec 23 21:02:44 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Dec 24 14:18:17 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 26 16:51:06 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Dec 26 16:55:33 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Jan 2 15:25:48 2026
To All Conclave T'asha Piknim Symantha - ( Imm Drakkara Admin Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Death of Thindyss (Shiegnath) Ka'tath?
Clutching to my symbol of Drakkara, I began my final preparations, having
transferred power in the most ceremonial way possible little was left to be.
Instructions and research notes were given on his project but one note was
omitted, the cost. Wealth cast to the wind, possessions forfeit I set down
the symbol I clutched on the alter ready to give myself to Her as I came
into this world.
As much was left undone as was left done, it was only a short time ago that
memories of childhood flooded back upon seeing symbol of the Ka'tath in the
Shinalstin mural room. Uncovering a hidden floorboard within his childhood
house missives oddly written, "The moon sets on the blue orchard, waves of
sun rises on the pink rose." All stamped with that crest, Ka'tath. As I
child I wrote it off as hidden and odd hobby of my overbearing parents and
assumed Ka'tath was a pseudonym. Seeing that crest there, I knew the truth,
the reason for my capture, imprisonment on Shokono, the depths of my
despair, the hidden letters, the only piece I was unaware is if they led or
were lead.
None of it mattered now peering down at the telescope, scepter, and the
altar. All magic had a cost energy replenished daily, small fragments of
ourselves, the greater the magick the higher the cost. To bear one's own
dreams into the world through magick alone a sacrifice of equal value had to
be forfeit. It is the reason you do not see this magick, for the sacrifice
of another, even of those you love, is not enough. Looking down at the
telescope I had forged I knew that my life would be the regent for a new
future.
Activating the runes on the telescope the shaft transformed into a tip sharp
enough to pierce the scales of an ancient dragon. I climbed onto the alter
grasping the scepter and lying it across my body and plunged the tip into my
heart. Hues of purple, magenta, and deep red faded into blackness. Thud.
Thud.. Thud... Thud.... Was that my heart?..... For a moment I thought a
saw a figure, no just blood being coughed up from my mouth onto my eyes.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Jan 3 22:25:47 2026
Writer: Calreth
Date Sun Jan 4 14:02:53 2026
To All (Imm RP)
Subject A Practical Error in Perception
He thought illusion would begin with study. With diagrams, careful
gestures, the slow obedience of light. Instead, it arrived All at once,
unexpectedly.
He stepped into the Room of Somnolence at its center and suddenly there were
others. Dozens of him, each occupying the same breath of space. One leaned
against the wall with his posture. One sat on the floor and looked up with
his eyes, his real eyes. Another stood close enough that he could feel the
warmth of its body, as real as flesh. When he reached out, his hand passed
through nothing.
His heart hammered. The visions did not blur or fade. They breathed apart
from him, gestured apart from him. These were no mirror images.
Then the floor vanished beneath his feet, replaced by stone slick with
moisture and age. A cavernous ceiling loomed overhead. No! He cried.
Mineral, damp, old. He sucked in a breath and tasted iron where there
should have been dust.
Stop, he thought. Focus.
His hands disappeared.
Not faded. Not cloaked. Simply gone. He could still feel his fingers
flex, still feel the slight drag of air across his skin, but there was
nothing to see. Panic surged hot and immediate. He turned his palms
upward, downward, pressed them together, desperate for confirmation. His
hands touched. The sensation was unmistakable. Yet there was no sign of
them.
He looked down at his chest. It followed. His legs. His feet. The world
remained, sharp and present, but he was being erased from it piece by piece.
A sound tore from his throat before he could stop it, sharp and instinctive,
a hiss he was not meant to make. The sound echoed too loudly in the small
space, and terror followed close behind it. His breath came faster. Too
fast. He pressed his lips together, one hand rising to his mouth by reflex,
even though he could not see it.
Not here. Not now.
He forced himself to stillness.
Slowly, deliberately, he breathed. He imagined weight settling into his
limbs. The cavern dissolved. The extra selves blinked out one by one, like
candles pinched between unseen fingers. The room returned, bare walls and
scattered notes, the dull comfort of ordinary space.
His body followed last. A faint outline first, like heat rising from stone.
Then substance. Then skin.
He sagged against the table, fingers digging into the wood. His hands
shook, but they were there. Visible. Acceptable.
He wiped his brow, careful to keep his breathing even, and allowed himself a
thin, controlled smile. He would need to get the hang of this.
Writer: Hindera
Date Sun Jan 4 17:47:20 2026
To All Ganth ( IMM ADMIN RP Religion Raije Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject Raije Sets The Path
I remember the moment our paths crossed as clearly as the sound of my own
breath within the stone halls.
He stood near the entrance, a minotaur broad of shoulder and plainly
traveled, his fur matted with road dust and age. There was nothing
remarkable in his appearance at first glance. No ornate armor, no proud
markings, only the quiet posture of one who had wandered long without
direction. When his dark eyes lifted to meet mine, I saw hesitation rather
than defiance, a strength held back by doubt.
"You seek Raije. " I said, not as a question, but as recognition.
He shifted his weight before nodding, his voice low when he spoke of unease
that followed him from place to place. He did not claim visions or divine
signs, only a persistent feeling that his path had gone astray. He feared
the gods would have little interest in someone whose life had been shaped by
labor, conflict, and survival rather than devotion.
I answered him as a priest, but also as a minotaur who had once stood in the
same uncertainty. I told him Raije is not drawn to spectacle, nor to those
who shout their faith. Raije listens for resolve, for the will to endure,
to learn, and to take responsibility for ones strength.
I spoke of the god as a steady presence, like stone beneath the hooves,
demanding honesty above comfort. I told him that faith is not a reward for
the flawless, but a burden willingly carried by those who choose purpose
over drifting.
When his head bowed, it was not submission, but relief. I placed my hand
upon his arm and turned him toward the long road beyond the gates.
"Go that way. " I said. "Walk with intention. Pay attention to what tests
you, not what flatters you. If Raije has any claim upon you, it will be
made clear when you are asked to endure. "
He departed without ceremony, his steps heavier but surer than before. I
remained behind, offering a quiet prayer, not for certainty, but for
perseverance. For in the service of Raije, it is endurance, not certainty,
that marks the faithful.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Jan 7 10:13:09 2026
Writer: Hindera
Date Wed Jan 7 16:23:05 2026
To All Ganth ( IMM ADMIN RAIJE RP RELIGION Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject A Life Tempered by War
I was born into a harsh world, one defined by conflict and endurance,
where survival was earned through strength and resolve. From an early age I
was taught that to hesitate was to fail and that only those willing to stand
firm in the face of violence would endure. Discipline, training, and
readiness for battle shaped my youth, and for a long time I believed that
was All life required of me.
As I grew older, I began to sense that war was more than chaos and
bloodshed. In the moments between battles, in the quiet before steel met
steel and in the aftermath when the noise faded, I felt a presence that
spoke not of rage but of purpose. It was then that I began to understand
that conflict could be guided and shaped into something meaningful rather
than senseless.
My path shifted during a time of prolonged struggle when victory came at
great cost and brute force alone proved hollow. Seeking understanding, I
listened to warriors, commanders, and priests who spoke of Raije, a god of
war defined not by savagery but by discipline, strategy, and resolve. Raije
taught that war is a trial of will and clarity and that strength without
direction is waste.
I studied these teachings alongside my training, learning that devotion to
Raije did not dull the edge of a warrior but sharpened it. Faith became a
discipline of its own, one that demanded control, foresight, and
responsibility for every strike made in battle. Through Raije, I learned to
fight with intent, to protect when necessary, and to endure without losing
myself to violence.
In time, I committed fully and entered priestly service. The path was
demanding, and doubt followed me, both from within and from others who
questioned whether faith belonged on the battlefield. Yet service, ritual,
and leadership proved otherwise. I learned to guide others not only in
prayer but in preparation, morale, and resolve before conflict.
Now, I serve as a practicing priest of Raije, carrying both the lessons of
war and the weight of faith. My history is written in hardship and battle,
but also in discipline and purpose. Through Raije, I came to understand
that war is not merely destruction, it is a crucible, and within it, I found
my calling.
Writer: Pror
Date Thu Jan 8 09:42:00 2026
Writer: Lilly
Date Sun Jan 11 12:28:54 2026
To Shaloneti_kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP )
Subject Vallentales : Evening Patrol
Lilly began her patrol as the silver bells of Shalonesti rang the hour of
dusk, their music drifting through the crystal leafed canopies high above
the city streets. Lanterns of captured starlight bloomed one by one along
the avenues, illuminating walkways grown rather than builtarched branches
woven together, roots shaped into steps, and balconies that curved like open
palms toward the sky.
She moved quietly, as a Mentalist should, her soft boots barely whispering
against the living wood. The city knew her; she could feel it in the gentle
warmth beneath her feet and the calm hum in the air. Shalonesti was never
truly silent, but tonight its many minds elves finishing their work,
children laughing in distant courtyards, scholars arguing amiably over old
texts flowed together in a steady, peaceful current.
Lilly opened her senses just a little, enough to taste the emotional weather
of the streets. Contentment. Fatigue. Anticipation for the evening meal.
All familiar, All reassuring.
Her patrol took her first through the Market Boughs, where vendors were
closing petal shutters and counting glowing seed coins. An elderly jeweler
looked up as she passed and offered a grateful nod. Lilly returned it with
a smile, sending a gentle mental touch of reassurance that lingered like a
blessing. The man straightened, his tiredness easing, and went back to his
work with renewed focus.
At the edge of the market, a ripple brushed her awareness sharp, nervous,
out of place.
She paused.
Near a narrow side bridge, half-hidden by trailing moon vines, a young elf
stood rigid, clutching a small satchel to his chest. His thoughts skittered
like startled birds. Guilt. Fear. Regret. Lilly approached slowly, her
posture open, her presence calm.
Youre safe, she said aloud, and softly within her mind. Whatever youre
carrying, it isnt worth hurting yourself over.
The elfs shoulders sagged. He opened the satchel to reveal a book bound in
pale bark, its runes glowing faintly. A restricted text borrowed without
permission, but not with malice. Lilly felt the truth of it as clearly as
her own heartbeat.
Well return it together, she said gently. Relief washed over him, warm and
bright, and he nodded, tears shining in his eyes.
Once the matter was settled, Lilly continued her patrol upward, climbing
spiral stairs grown around a towering elder tree. From the high walkways
she could see much of Shalonesti spread below her: a living constellation of
lights among leaves, bridges like strands of moonlight, and the distant
shimmer of the Mentalist Tower rising at the citys heart.
At the towers shadowed edge, she paused again, closing her eyes. She
extended her awareness farther this time, not searching for trouble, but
listening truly listening to the city she loved. The ancient wards hummed
in harmony with her thoughts. Guardians in other districts brushed her mind
in silent greeting. All was well.
Satisfied, Lilly released her focus and leaned against the railing,
breathing in the night air scented with blossoms and rain. Patrols were
rarely dramatic in Shalonesti, and she was grateful for that. Peace, she
had learned, was not the absence of vigilance, but the reward for it.
As the bells rang again and the city settled into night, Lilly turned toward
home, her steps light, her heart steady. Shalonesti slept safely not
because danger never came, but because someone was always walking its paths,
watching, listening, and caring enough to guard its dreams.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Jan 11 20:07:56 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Jan 11 20:13:10 2026
Writer: Tief
Date Sun Jan 11 20:57:49 2026
To All imm religion turpa zandreya
Subject A Gnome Walks into the Wilderness, Episode 1: Not Much to See
The gnome floated a foot above the hilltop, cloudy gray eyes scanning the
alien landscape ahead. The two of them were weeks into the trek, gnome and
tortoise leaving a trail of small footprints in the moondust. The further
from the high road, the more intensely concentrated the remnants of the Red
Moon's shards had become.
At the beginning, the gnome had been hopeful. Nature and Creation were, of
all things, durable. Dependable. Resilient. But the unprecedented
devastation was disheartening and disorienting. While still in sight of
certain landmarks, the mission seemed doable. Explore into the damaged
lands. Find out who and what had survived. Hope to not run into anything
awful.
Days into the walk, though, the chaotic trauma to the land had put the gnome
and tortoise far off course. So the mission changed. Go as far as they
could, then see if they could come out the other side. The quick way back
would be the last option.
And so the gnome's mission went... Until he changed it again. Because what
was becoming more and more apparent was that the landscape itself had
changed. And with it, patterns. While he hadn't noticed any particular
changes to the local weather, the problem of migration was evident. So now,
the gnome tried to reorient himself, pretending to be an animal on a
seasonal journey, wondering just what they would do with their familiar
range torn apart. And still hoping he didn't run into anything awful.
Writer: Tief
Date Sun Jan 11 21:12:27 2026
To All imm religion turpa zandreya tortoise
Subject A Gnome Walks into the Wilderness, Episode 2: Marooned
Below, in a sheltered glen, a herd of elk scrounged severely thinned
underbrush and low branches. The gnome watched from his vantage point,
wobbling a bit in the air. This glen had been alee from one of the more
violent moon-strikes. On the slopes above, trees were leveled flat, but the
shockwave seemed to have passed over miraculously.
The stands of trees in the glen were clearly ailing. Over-feeding from the
stranded elk and lack of clean water were doing a number on them. The gnome
noted red tinges to the needles of the pines, matching the decimated
landscape surrounding the narrow valley. There wasn't a good option for the
elk, so far as he could see. No clean water to the north, none to the
south, and steep hills to the east and west. Unless they became desparate,
bold, or both, the elk would finish off the reachable foliage in another
short week.
His concentration faded, causing the gnome to fall unceremoniously to the
ground. He brushed at the persistent red dust that stained his robes,
fingers, and tortoise an orangish-pink. He mused for a minute over the
possible side-effects of exposure, wishing he had a more clever mind for
figures along for the expedition. Hopefully nothing awful would happen.
Hopefully.
Patting the tortoise on its shell, the gnome took one last look down into
the glen. He wished the elk a small blessing, hoping they found their way
out into more friendly territory. Then it was time to move on. If the
gnome went far enough, would he find some sort of epicenter? Or would he
miss it entirely and pass straight through to the ocean? Time would tell.
Writer: Tief
Date Mon Jan 12 19:33:52 2026
To All imm religion turpa zandreya carrots
Subject A Gnome Walks into the Wilderness, Episode 3: Killing Field
Naturally, something awful did happen.
Eyes reddened by kicked-up particulate (at this point, what hadn't been
reddened?) , The gnome picked his way through the killing field. Bloated,
decaying elk lolled horrible tongues and looked into forever. Dead. All of
them dead.
The gnome wasn't terribly good with anatomy, so his inspection of one corpse
was limited mostly to poking it with a stick. The moondust-choked mouth of
the former beast was telling. But the gnome couldn't place the growths on
its haunches and joints. Those were beyond his reckoning.
He paused, chuckling despite himself. This was probably what his
contemporary Lavinah would consider paradise.
The carnage spread for a quarter mile. Not an immense herd, but a large
one. Some of the elk had made it further than others before succumbing.
The gnome accounted this batch to starvation and desperation. He had yet,
surprisingly, to find anything killed by rocks falling from the sky. Though
there had been a trio of suspicious bore-holes on his route yesterday.
Something about the shape and technique bothered him, but the gnome couldn't
place it.
How far into the wreckage had he gone? Was he on his way out the other
side? The gnome could only keep moving forward, coaxing the tortoise with
fresh carrots. Thank Sebatis for specialty enchantors and a particularly
potent floating disc.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Jan 13 14:22:05 2026
To All Verminasia Immortal RP
Subject Echo in a Glass: I
{uThree Months Earlier:
The first batch is a mistake. Ezrianne knows it the moment she noses the
glass.
It's too bright. Too polite. The raspberry sings when it should murmur,
and the fig sits right on top like a well-behaved crown. The flavor is
nice. The man she's chasing in this recipe is not nice.
She tips the barrel out on the ground without ceremony, the whiskey soaking
into the dirt of Sacnoth like an offering to the orchard itself. Her gaze
flicks up to the berry bushes and fruit trees that ring the apple grove in a
living border, watching the jolly bees hum around her head, commuting
between blossoms and hives, offended witnesses as they bumble past.
The second batch, she scars. Pain becomes the structure: not with
spectacle, but with survival, with heat laid too close to the bone and
pressure applied where anything weaker would have split. She chars the oak
until the wood sweats resin, until the smoke goes bitter and the air smells
like a smoldering bonfire. She bruises the raspberries instead of crushing
them clean, lets their sugars come out thick and feral. The figs she splits
by hand, thumbs black with sap, leaving the skins ragged so the tannin has
something to bite.
Weeks later she draws a small ladle-full from the cask and closes her eyes
as the flavors begin to bandy across her tongue. Darkness first. Then
heat. The fig arrives earthy and nut-rich; raspberry follows behind with a
bright, impertinent tang.
Very close - but it doesn't strike her memories head on. It needs quiet
gravity. It needs the brooding weight that never announces itself, yet
rearranges the room when it arrives. It needs the danger that never needs
to posture, the heady pull.
She adds a generous thread of thickened honey to soften the berry's edge and
waits.
(cont.)
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Jan 13 14:29:10 2026
To All Verminasia Immortal RP
Subject Echo in a Glass: II
By the second month of rest, no one is allowed in the cellar when she
tests the contents of the barrel - not the staff, not the house servants,
not the investors who like to lean on the manor house's porch railings and
call her a prodigy. This one is for her alone, for now.
She pours a finger of the amber-colored liquid and watches the light drown
in it. This time, the whiskey has stopped trying to impress her.
It doesn't bloom in the glass, it settles. It holds. The flavor isn't
raspberry anymore, not really. It isn't even prominently fig. It's
/presence/. It's the echo of a man whose size meant he never had to raise
his voice, who carried storms in silence, who could be dangerous without
haste -- and gentle in ways no one ever stayed long enough to discover.
The punch of the alcohol doesn't fade as the liquid disappears down her
throat, but it's smooth, now. Slow. Deliberate. It's part danger and part
sin, wrapped in a breath-taking package.
She smiles.
'Gods, you would hate how perfect this is, ' she murmurs to the empty
cellar, as she licks the last of the flavor off her bottom lip.
She had intended for this to be her own stock, something to pull out on
occasions when the retrospection was too intense to bear alone, but now
considers the concoction with care. She decides, instead, it deserves more
than a bottle on a shelf -- it needs a heady cigar, low light, heavy chairs,
a room that takes it seriously.
And that's the exact moment the idea of a new tavern stops being a fantasy
and becomes a plan.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Jan 15 11:08:02 2026
Writer: Zhul
Date Fri Jan 16 14:35:57 2026
To All Scorn (Imm RP)
Subject Voices
Heavy breaths and grunting. Cold leaves cut his skin. The nameless
orcling runs.
Chest burning. Legs shake but keep moving. Stopping means pain and death.
He does not know the word for death, but he knows to run from it.
The trees make shapes around him. Bad shapes. He ducks low under a branch
just as another branch snaps behind him. Then the noises come. Too many
noises.
He doesnt hear it through pointed ears. He hears it inside his head. Rough
sounds. Hot sounds. The push and scrape and crush. The nameless little
orcling whimpers and stumbles, hands on his temples, trying to stop it. It
doesnt stop. It follows him everywhere he steps.
Run.
He crashes through a bush. Thorns scrape his skin. Other noises mix in.
Noises like he makes. Noises like home. Noises like fear. Some noises are
crying. Some are grunting. Some suddenly stop. The stopping is wrong.
Past the bush, he trips and hits the ground. Dirt in his mouth and on his
small growing tusks. A shadow crosses over him. The orcling presses into
the dirt. Still. The shadow makes noises his ears dont know but he
understands them anyway.
Ahead. Left. Missed. Again.
His head hurts. He grits his teeth to keep from crying out.
Then the noise pulls back one piece at a time. Gone. Gone. Gone. All he
hears is the his own stampeding heart beat.
He stays there, unmoving. Unmoving until the forest fills with the chirps
of morning birds. Small sounds. Safe sounds. Sounds that are coming
through his ears and not his head.
The orcling uncurls. His feet hurt. Red dots dripping along the leaves as
he moves. He doesnt understand why theyre there.
He walks slowly. Carefully. Deeper into the trees where even the noise
cannot reach him.
Hes alive. He doesnt know the word for it.
Writer: Crelius
Date Fri Jan 16 22:02:36 2026
To All Chaos Malachive Geirhart ( IMM RP )
Subject The Remnant
The chamber was a reliquary of ever shifting energies, a confluence of
unstable etheric forces that folded and unfolded in a dance of perpetual
transformation. Fractal patterns formed and dissolved ceaselessly, creating
new configurations that spiraled and splintered before collapsing into
themselves.
The floor droned with a labyrinth of glyphs that burned with phantom
radiance, their patterns shifting in kaleidoscopic flux, where eight pointed
stars blossomed from the chaos continuously before unraveling into
incomprehensible sigils. The walls were formed of a preternatural, glacial
substance, exuding prismatic mists that fluttered and undulated. From these
iridescent vapors rose transient and nightmarish apparitions. Gibbering
forms that flickered between reality and dream.
Encircling the chamber, massive metal doorways stood like shadow pocked
monoliths, their surfaces crawling with shifting runes that flared with a
pestilent light. These gateways paid no heed to the feeble constraints of
space, appearing at ground level and spiraling upwards into the towering
heights of the vault.
Scattered throughout the vastness, ghostly tendrils of cerulean, crimson,
and alabaster energy coiled around various objects, ensnaring them in
cocoons of invisible force. Suspended within these arcane prisons were
artifacts frozen in stasis like husks imprisoned in ice. A magenta hued and
diamond shaped gem levitated, its surface shifting through dimensions,
vanishing and reappearing in passing instants as though it existed in
multiple planes at once. Nearby, an excised organ throbbed with vile life,
a seeping heart torn from some ineffable beast, its flesh resisting the
entropy of decay within its temporal prison. Next to this, the form of a
young woman hovered within a rectangular cube of amber glass, her body
neatly bound in interwoven chains, her state between life and death left
uncertain. Elsewhere, weapons of strange craftsmanship and tomes etched
with murmuring script hung in confinement.
At the chamber's heart stood a lone figure before an empty pedestal, his
form shrouded in a derelict robe of ebon cloth. His features were lost to
the shadow of a tattered hood, revealed only in fleeting flashes as erratic
etheric currents flared and guttered through the chamber. His face was the
aspect of a revenant. The memory of once noble features scarred and
twisted, reshaped into an echo of the faceless void. A pale hand lay
extended. Resting within it was a minuscule object of peculiar provenance.
A small cylindrical ampule of tempered glass, affixed beneath a copper
stopper engraved with a stylized "TG".
The figure regarded it through a single eye burning with ageless malice, an
orb of inky black set deep within a pit of inflamed and corrupted flesh.
His head tilted slightly. A stiff, unnatural motion imposed by the tendrils
of blighted branchlets that constricted his skull and burrowed into the
flesh of his temple and jaw. An amused sneer ghosted across his visage.
"Interesting," he spoke, his voice rasping with the cadence of one afflicted
by a welcome plague. The word drifted across the chamber as he closed his
fist, crushing the glass device within his palm. He gave no attention to
the shards that bit into his flesh, instead releasing whatever the ampule
contained into the confines of the reliquary.
Writer: Zhul
Date Sat Jan 17 05:35:39 2026
To All Scorn (Imm RP)
Subject The Man with the Fire
Hunger became his only company. It woke with him, it followed him, it
curled in his belly and clawed upward through his body until his hands
shook.
The orcling ate roots that tasted like dirt. He chewed bark that ground
into dirty bits around his mouth. Sometimes he would find insects large
enough to moisten his mouth but it was never enough.
Tonight the smell found him at dusk.
Smoke. Fat. Burnt meat.
The orcling stopped walking. He couldnt get away from this. He had to find
it. His mouth was already filled with spit. His stomach twisted hard
enough to hurt. He moved slowly and carefully. The ground was packed here.
Packed meant others.
Hoof shapes. Trampled. The orcling stepped where there were still leaves
on the ground. He kept low, breathing shallow. His ribs showed through his
skin now. His tusks ached as they grew. The noises in his head were quiet,
but there was one shape there.
Alert. Still... Too still.
A sound snapped behind him.
Stop!
The orcling froze. The word didnt mean anything to him, but the sound did.
He turned around. The man stood behind him, spear raised. The sharp thing
pointed at the orclings chest. The mans eyes were steady.
The orcling bared his teeth, legs coiled, ready to run or die. But the stab
never came.
Instead the man lowered the spear inch by inch until the tip dug into the
dirt. The orcling was so focused on the tip of the spear he didnt notice
the mans hand digging into a pouch until the hand came back out with a chunk
of meat. The meat hit the earth in front of the orclings feet.
The hunger moved him.
In one movemen he snatched the meat and backed away a few paces, eyeing the
man while he nearly swallowed the whole chunk without even chewing. Grease
ran down his chin. The man did nothing.
Night settled, and the orcling stayed on the edge of the firelight, watching
the man with a loose dagger in his hand. The man would only glance at him
so often, then gaze elsewhere for a time. Like he was still checking to see
if the orcling was around.
Morning came. The orcling did not leave.
Writer: Archyle
Date Sat Jan 17 08:27:34 2026
To All Imm RP
Subject Descending
Archyle rode ahead of the others, as he had done for years, when coin had
bought his loyalty. The village lay where it always had, its roofs sagging
beneath the slow work of time. At dusk it should have been alive with small
sounds. Fires being coaxed to life. Doors closing. Voices raised in tired
argument or laughter.
There was none of that today.
He drew rein at the village edge and listened. The silence was stale, as if
something had pressed down upon the place and smothered every sound beneath
it. Even the insects were gone. His horse shifted uneasily beneath him,
snorting once, then going still.
Archyle dismounted.
The ground inside the village was hard-packed, the dust settled and
undisturbed. The first corpse lay facedown near the road, one arm bent
beneath him at an awkward angle. Another lay farther on, sprawled against a
wall darkened by soot and something worse. Then more appeared, one after
another, until the path itself seemed paved with the dead.
Some had been killed cleanly, throats opened or skulls split with practiced
hands. Others bore wounds that spoke of frenzy. Stone walls were cracked
and blackened, as if heat had passed through them from within, leaving no
flame behind. The air carried a sharp, acrid scent that stung the nose.
Burning stone.
He moved through the village at a measured pace, eyes tracking details out
of long habit. Footprints pressed deep into the earth. Drag marks leading
away from the houses. Blood worked into the dust by many feet, not fleeing,
but gathering. The trail led past the last of the homes and toward a low
rise of rock overlooking the fields beyond.
The air grew heavier as he climbed.
A shrine had been cut into the stone there, crude in shape but made with
care. The symbols were unfamiliar, carved deep and uneven, as though those
who made them had worked in haste or devotion, or both. Bodies lay within
the recess, arranged rather than discarded. These had not been caught
unawares. They had knelt. They had offered themselves.
Something else lay among them.
It had been alive once. That much could not be denied. Beyond that, its
shape resisted sense. Its flesh was split and burned, its form wrong in
ways that made the eye recoil even as it tried to understand. Whatever it
was, it did not belong to the world Archyle knew, and it had not died
quietly.
A sword pinned it to the stone.
The blade was black, not with rust or blood, but in its very substance, as
though it had been cut from night itself. It swallowed the light that
touched it. The hilt was worn smooth by countless hands, the leather of the
grip cracked and dark with age.
Archyle stepped closer.
The shrine seemed to fade around him. The dead no longer mattered. The air
stopped around him and the world narrowed to the blade before him.
Then he heard a voice. A voice soothing and terrifying All the same. But
the voice didn't come to his ears, it came to his mind as though it had
pierced this very thoughts.
And it spoke a single word.
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Jan 17 12:30:45 2026
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Jan 17 12:37:33 2026
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Jan 17 12:44:21 2026
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