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Writer: Lhemec
Date Tue Oct 28 18:37:29 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Oct 28 20:24:22 2025
Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 29 04:13:16 2025
To All Geirhart Knighthood Althainia Thaxanos ( rp imm Rhelic Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject {uMalevolent Meddling
Continent of Althainia, Northern Foot-hills
The Center of the Moonlily Field
A carpet of white moonlilies blanketed the great meadow from end to end,
pure and pristine and impenetrable no matter how many were plucked or
trampled. Every whorl of wind carried a scatter of delicate petals like so
many meandering fireflies. In the distance loomed an impenetrable woodline,
obscuring any intimation of space and time to be found on the other side.
Under the lambent aurora of moonlight, the field took on an ambience
altogether surreal. Indeed, the three moons seemed to loom All the larger
here. Even the Black Moon, normally sequestored from innocent eyes, could
be deeply felt if not directly witnessed. A soft luminescence permeated the
ground, born from a multitude of pistils, casting ethereal light that made
the surrounding forest appear All the more impregnable.
Silence reigned, but for the crackle and spark of embers, the roil of a
wrought-iron cauldron, and the titter of a rat in a wooden cage. A kender
in black robes tended the cauldron well into the witching hour, topknot
bobbing about whilst she worked her wicked craft once more. The world
beyond the dark ring of trees knew her as the Darkfinder, but the meadow
knew her far more intimately. It knew her by a different name.
Geirhart had brought Piknim to this sacred place some time before she
managed to find her true place in the Darkness, misplacing much of her
former self along that very path. The memory of her trek with the venerable
paladin of Austinian blossomed in the fertile field of her mind, perennial
and vivid as the day they were planted.
"Where are the black moonlilies, Grandpa?"
"Piknim.."
Piknim knelt before the wooden cage and produced a large, ruby-red Sacnothan
apple from a pouch, offering it to the rat. She watched the hungry creature
eat its fill of succulent fruit, her thoughts straying All the while it
chittered and nibbled. Finally, she stood and struck the apple upon the rim
of the cauldron, cracking it open. Harsh vapors streamed forth and maggots
tumbled from rotten flesh into the boiling depths with an acrid hiss. The
apple that appeared so shiny and perfect at a glance had long been befouled
at the core. The kender witch tossed it in after the maggots with a shake
of her topknotted head.
"The moonlilies must be bathed in blood
to turn them black."
She pulled a long-handled golden mirror from her pack and held it before the
rat, forcing the hapless rodent to watch as blood began to seep from its
eyes, ears, mouth, and nostrils, prompting a panicked squeal. At the
shedding of blood, All the moonlilies in a circle around the Darkfinder
blushed vibrant crimson. The rat cast a scarlet-hued shadow that spasmed
and convulsed in tandem, pain and anguish reflected in the polished glass.
In a sudden violent motion Piknim spun about, shattering the mirror upon the
cauldron rim. Shards of glass rained into the bubbling brew, and the
captured shadow of torment along with them.
"Go there and pick the biggest white moonlily
you can find to take home with you.."
Piknim retrieved the dying rat from its cage, pausing to cradle it gently in
both hands. Blood frothed at the rat's lips as it panted for breath,
clinging to every precious moment of life that remained. She snapped its
neck with a sharp crack of finality and cast its body into the cauldron. A
final high-pitched squeal echoed across the field and the circle of
moonlilies darkened to an ebon hue, sprouting jagged barbs from the stems.
The kender witch picked a black moonlily and stood, plucking delicate petals
from its center widdershins and dropping them into the wrought-iron vessel
one by one.
"This is what you need, right?"
"That's why I'm here."
"You know what I did?"
"I know what has to be done!"
"Do you know why?"
"Grandpa.."
"So that you would not be made to do it.
Your road is hard enough."
"Why do you get to make that choice for me?"
The last petal fell from her tiny fingers, sacrificed unto the wild aether.
The cauldron rumbled and shook. The blanket of moonlilies rippled under the
moonlight, individual blossoms trembling in unison. Distorted chittering
filled the air, rising to a high-pitched crescendo. A flood of rat-like
shadow-creatures poured from the cauldron and streamed to the east like a
living river of perdition.
Writer: Telthian
Date Wed Oct 29 09:13:33 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uUmbrawake II
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
For years, the Infinite Night called out and its whisper fell upon ears that
did not yet know how to listen. The stratum of Umbra had always existed, a
living thing both timeless and quiescent. Drakkara herself was born of it,
and it was born of Her. And though it was a concept, a thing evoked in
scripture in a whisper of black ink, few still understood it was a realm
unto itself.
The first Voices were made to answer, and were not priests of the dead god
nor His Knights, but a dark-elven sultana, a goblin, and a gnome magi. But
they had been rendered silent, some jaded in apathy, or gone mute through
treachery of the meek. And the mages swathed in black failed to recognize
the opportunity they overlooked in their arrogance.
But true Darkness is as relentless as it is seductive. It pervades every
corner, every crack, and every recess it can. It waits for not any moment,
but the right moment. A hair's breadth from death and ruin, two priests
wagered everything on their own tenacity to court the shadows and prove that
where others failed, they alone could succeed. From beyond, their
detractors would call them pre-ordained, blessed by the dark gods, that all
was won in blood and fire had been promised and delivered neatly.
Perhaps they were destined to reshape the world. Perhaps they were given
gifts that surpassed others, that enabled them to struggle through failure
and setback, to climb upon the broken bodies and bones of the fallen.
When one's very god and maker are destroyed, what greater test of
determination is there to press on through the fugue of uncertainty, to
forge a new destiny, a new prophecy, to draw and raise up Lords, Captains
and Queens, souls who were possessed of the dark spark like them, and
together boldly carve a swath towards a new dark horizon and invent their
own victory from the wreckage of defeat?
That is the very essence of Power.
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
Writer: Telthian
Date Wed Oct 29 09:16:07 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uUmbrawake III
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
Twisted shapes streamed like clouds in the sky, working against the umbra
tide where crystals of dusk-earth rose as broken pillars. Black waves of
living night thundered where they met the edge of the terrain, grains of
black sand compacted and mortared together by blood, bone, and the silent
weight of countless fallen souls.
Umbra streamed around the High Priestess, and she wore its power comfortably
as one might a cloak. The wyrm's claws settled on the dusky earth as his
tattered wings folded back against his flank. Fate-paired in shadow and in
flame they arrived on the grave battlefield, where a Dark Citadel loomed.
Un-light illuminated their approach: up an escarpment where many, many years
before a conquest of this place forged the pact between Necrucifer and
Drakkara that would come to define much of Algoron's history. A resonance
of aetheric mists gave way to soulsteeled plate more suited to breaching the
climb above without tipping their hand to the Citadel's occupants.
Arrow shafts bearing a glassy obsidian-like fletching littered their ascent
over the bones of the forgotten dead, their swept horns and bone spurs
cracking beneath each heavy footfall. They climbed slow and steady, warding
one another against the currents of annihilating power that could strip the
soul from the flesh. The waves roiled in endless formations of pure dark
arcana, and though there was no brine or even moisture to them, the pressure
of their currents was no less crushing.
Darkness swelled around the dyad, it flowed through their bloodstreams and
surged through their veins. Here it gathered upon them like dense
thunderclouds pregnant with the storm's fury, power drawn to power. They
were no strangers to the Infinite Night, anointed as they were, but
obedience and submission never came freely among men nor creatures of
darkness.
From the aeterna that had lain still for a thousand years or more, something
that hungered to reclaim it bore down upon them, plate and silksteel
offering no protection from its teeth nor its claws. Abyssal fire drove the
ghastly presence back, sparks lit between Symantha's steely gaze and the
hungering void that reigned in this place.
Her words carried through the dark to him, the point of her naginata
piercing the aether that gave their attackers form. Telthian pressed
forward with a ferocious cleave of his halberd, leading the cutting edge
with will as much as muscle. Covenants had been made, lives and souls given
over in the exchange, and nothing, least of All the abject emptiness that
prowled here would keep them from taking the Black Citadel.
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
Writer: Telthian
Date Wed Oct 29 09:19:12 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uUmbrawake IV
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
They reached the crest of the escarpment, leaving the disintegrating remains
of the voidghasts that haunted the black fortress in their wake. Before
them the plateau stretched on a short distance, the signs of war between
Dark Gods still undisturbed.
Broken, jagged lines of dark acana erupted along Telthian's skin as he
hefted a heavy iron bound tome and the chain that secured it to him, freeing
its lock. The Black Moonstone trembled in Symantha's grasp, her brow
furrowing with concentration as she coaxed it into submission to her will.
The calm veneers and stoic masks, none of it served them here. There was
blood ahead, death and conquest with it, and there was naught the dyad could
do but grin with shared ambition as the die was cast.
'{uUmbrus Caelum,' Telthian shouted, spreading his arms wide as if he would
embrace the whole of the astral island and its Citadel. Umbral torrents
spilled forth from the High Priestess' command of the moonstone, re-shaping
the land around them to her will as one side of a stygian doorway was pulled
into existence.
'{uYou belong now to the Knights of Shadow. From this Black Citadel will our
Order drink in the power of the Umbratide and drown the flame of Hope.'
As the words escaped Telthian's lips, the Umbraseer wrote the Edict into the
firmament of the land, the threads of black arcana weaving their way through
the stratum, sealing the last of the loathsome beings that sought refuge
here after Necrucifer's destruction within.
'{uSubmit or Die.'
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--_{u--=--
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Oct 29 20:12:29 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Oct 30 13:47:23 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject Threads in the Water
The little Drakkarian temple on Tropica was quiet that morning. It
always was before the prayer bells - a kind of waiting that made even dust
motes dancing in the sun seem reverent.
Ezrianne entered without fanfare, the hood of her cloak (the one without
Storm Keep insignia) drawn up over her head. Her military boots left faint,
dusty prints on the mosaic floor. She'd chosen this distant, rural place
deliberately: small, discreet, and less of a chance that anyone might know
her; which meant less potential for over-heard information to turn into
gossip or street chatter.
The cleric, an aging Arboren woman whose eyes had the color of river stones,
looked up as Ezrianne approached. Recognition flickered across her face --
they'd spoken before -- but the woman said nothing of mention toward Ezri's
earned honorifics or rank. Only: "You have come for the truth, then."
Ezrianne paused. "If magic exists that can reveal such. "
The cleric nodded and gestured to the inner cloisture of the chapel. The
air within was thick with the scent of sage and iron. A silver bowl rested
upon a low table, filled with water so clear it reflected nothing.
"I -can- show you, if you are ready to know." the cleric said, standing
before the table, "But the truth is a double-edged grace; it may indeed
free the spirit from extended fretting of the unknown, yet it may also
cause more complications than it solves."
Ezrianne, who had already considered such, only inclined her head. "So be it."
The cleric drew a thread of light between her fingers, murmuring words in an
unfamiliar language to Ezrianne, the chanting voice low and steady. Ezri's
eyes followed the motions, the dancing fingers, which were slow, deliberate,
and sure.
The light dropped into the bowl, and the water stirred. Images didn't form, so
much as suggest themselves: a glimmer of blue at first, bright and strong, then
splitting to form one of red. The two hues swirled, touching, mingling, until
one overtook the other - not erasing, but combining into a shade of purple.
The Arboren leaned back, her gaze distant. "Two kin. Not wholly one, nor
wholly the other. Both hold magic, their mix formidable."
Silence held for several long seconds. The water in the bowl stilled,
clearing once more to nothing, again absent of reflection.
Ezrianne reached into her cloak and placed a coin on the table, the motion
calm and deliberate. "You've been thorough."
The cleric's gaze softened, just slightly, reading Ezrianne more deeply
than Ezri was, perhaps, comfortable with. "I hope the knowing gives you
the peace you seek."
Ezri gave no reply other than a polite "thank you". She turned and stepped
back out into the morning light filtering through the open doors - a pale,
silver glow that seemed neither warm, nor cold.
Outside, her shadow stretched long across the flagstones, two distinct shades
caused by the sun, before she stepped forward, and it merged again into one.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Oct 30 18:26:45 2025
Writer: Ithelim
Date Thu Oct 30 19:49:54 2025
Writer: Lhemec
Date Thu Oct 30 19:53:26 2025
To Shadow All Imm Drakkara Necrucifer RP
Subject The Death of Faith and Ignorance, for Faith to Be Born Again
Lhemec sat back in his chair, pinching his nose and rubbing his sandy
eyes. His neck ached and brain felt numb, yet he was awash with emotion as
he read through the texts before him. Ser Maccus Kesepton had advised he do
so earlier that day when they had spoken in the Chamber of Rest. Lhemec had
taken the opportunity when it was just the two of them, finally broaching
the subject of Drakkara's domination of the Dark Tides. It had been awkward
at first, but Ser Maccus' manner had put him at ease.
At first, Lhemec could hardly believe his ears. Not only due to the manner
of the Dark's Lord's death, but also the surrounding events and absolute
domination of Algoron's dark pantheon. But that was just the beginning.
Maccus had guided him to the gnomish texts accounting everything and so
Lhemec went. If he was going to understand and navigate the coming weeks,
it was necessary to know what was being dealt with.
Thus Lhemec had began his hours-long journey through the texts. In truth,
the accounts read like the ancient tales of gods and heroes, of the times
when Kingdoms were founded and gods walked Algoron freely. To take it from
these accounts, there had been more divine intervention and conflict
recently than Lhemec had ever seen in his time at Storm Keep. Necrucifer
had never been so present as it seemed Drakkara now was, nor near as potent
and dominating. He could scarce believe All that he read, but then again
Algoron had been wrent across it's face with evidence.
Sicariis came to mind as the contemplations came to a close. Lhemec's older
brother had raised him to be a Knight of Shadow, and that he did--he could
still remember the smile on his brother's face at the ceremoy. But how
*would* Sicariis handle this situation? Whatever the answer was, it would
have been honor-bound and courageous.
Thinking back to what he had just read, Lhemec then considered the great
efforts and hardships already endured by his Brothers and Sisters while he
was lost to any use or purpose here. It shamed Lhemec to think he had not
been there to support and fight alongside them. To read of members being
hunted down by even those of the dark pantheon for unwillingness to submit;
it All told a story of a struggle that was settled. The Shadow had fought
the good fight, else at least seen the situation for what it was. After
all, why throw everything away for a dead god who had never taken an active
role in his own prophecy within living memory? Certainly, continuing to say
the words and make the pledge day in and day out was never going to bring
about His will.
So, what point is there in trying to keep faith in Necrucifer? Not much,
Lhemec supposed. From what he could tell, in the end it seemed like the
sundered Dark Lord was a victim of his own inaction and willingness to move
forward. And that concept resonated within Lhemec. For the first time he
truly understood what had occurred while he'd been lost at sea, and he
couldn't have imagined it in ten lifetimes. No, Lhemec would not attempt to
fight a battle already lost, He would learn from the Dark Lord's Mistakes.
He only hoped the Dark Mother would forgive him for having said one last
prayer to Necrucifer while still naive of it all.
As the dawn began to break, Lhemec snuffed the candles and lazily cleaned up
after himself. Nervous, certainly, but also feeling more confident than he
had in several days. It had been difficult feeling as though he were among
strangers, but that was starting to melt away. Off to bed for a brief nap,
he decided. And then he needed to talk with Ser Maccus again, and see about
making contributions wherever possible to his efforts in Her service.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Oct 30 20:02:24 2025
Writer: Herbert
Date Thu Oct 30 21:34:36 2025
Writer: Herbert
Date Thu Oct 30 21:42:52 2025
Writer: Herbert
Date Thu Oct 30 21:49:27 2025
Writer: Herbert
Date Thu Oct 30 21:54:52 2025
Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Oct 31 13:51:51 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( religion imm storyline ) Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Recap- Shinalstin and Historic Holdings: The Reunion (1/3)
In the sanctity of the Hidden Academy of Magick, Agarwood poured himself over
the newly uncovered mural fragment presented to him by the red-robed archivist
Orrysta. The smell of the magnolia trees in the commons did nothing to calm
his nerves as he stared at the artefact resting on his lap on a shale slab.
He stared at the winged, runed figure prostrated in worship before the symbol
of Drakkara and emitted a grunt of frustration. Do they have a name? Is this
figure just a symbol or concept of a movement? Why do they have wings? What
was the culture of the Shinalfolk like? Was it common for Shinalfolk to worship
Drakkara as well or was this individual an exception? Were they a champion of
Drakkara in the days long before she moved to take the seat of Dark Queen? Do
all of the Shinalfolk have wings or was this a blessing by their patron? What
is "the Origin" that Orrysta spoke of?
The arboren is typically evenminded, but the presence of Drakkara seemed to be
felt in every dark nook and crack on Algoron's surface. It frustrated him that
one creature could cause so much damage and inflict so much unrest on Algoron.
First, the secret son Malachive. Next, the killing of the primal god Necrucifer.
Then, the bloodying, etching, and rifting on Althainia. Agarwood did not have
to think too deeply to understand that Drakkara represents a greater danger to
Algoron than even Chaos, but these thoughts still felt taboo to speak in public.
Drakkara has been implicated in most destructive events on Algoron. Was she also
responsible for the death of Shinalstin- the people that loved Sebatis so?
Angst. The priest could feel it upwelling inside of him, but now was not the
time. He was expecting some guests. Three brothers, specifically. He needed the
perspective of the gnomish stakeholders and their analytical minds. Agarwood's
worldview is largely viewed through the theological lens, but now he felt that
he needed a new perspective rooted in the freshness of a scientific mind.
"I do love the smell of those flowers," said a happy voice. "We should plant
some near our home."
"We aren't here for gardening tips, grease-for-brains. He couldn't have thought
to put his church in a place less damp? These are genuine selkie-suede leather
boots," grumbled another.
Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Oct 31 13:53:39 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( religion imm storyline ) Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Recap- Shinalstin and Historic Holdings: The Reunion (2/3)
"Shhh. He'll hear you," the first voice responded in a harsh whisper. "Hi there,
Priest! We were happy to receive your letter." The first voice was Ottograd, who
Agarwood viewed as the diplomat of the moody and less likely to yell at him. The
other he recognized as Archigrad, the cartographer and most likely to yell at
him. They approached at a brisk pace. So brisk that Agarwood didn't have much
time to step far from his bench.
"Otto. Archie. It is good to see you again," Agarwood stood from his bench with
the fragment in his hands. "Could Gerald not make it?"
"Gerald is more comfortable with lifting rocks and moving earth. He had other
responsibil-" Otto began, before Archie cut him off. "He hasn't been home in a
couple of days. I think the stress has been getting to him. I'd rather him be
out of the home where he can't break anything expensive of ours anyways."
Otto flashed an annoyed glance at Archie. With a second of recollection, Otto
clasped his hands together and excitedly cried, "Oh! Is that the one? Is that
the mural piece?" He pointed at artefact in Agarwood's hands.
It is. Come have a look.
It was Agarwood's understanding that the Grad Brothers had never found anything
substantial related to Shinalstin before. It was their lifequest, but they were
starved for leads. Archaeological or anthropological lifequests were laughable
in Gahboom and other gnomish communities, so when they inherited this from their
father on his deathbed, they were doomed to shame. You could not fine tune a
petroglyph. You cannot grease up an ancient text. There was nothing to improve
upon. Like thirsty men lost in the desert, they hurried across the commons and
drank what they could see of the mural in Agarwood's hands as if it were the far
off shimmer of an oasis.
Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Oct 31 14:01:23 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( religion imm storyline ) Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Recap- Shinalstin and Historic Holdings: The Reunion (3/3)
A gnomish storm of excited whispering gathered in a cresendo as they poured over
the ancient relic:
"Aah.."
"OooOOaaAAhh.. look- lookatthis, Archie. Look atthewings!"
"My goodness, doyou thinkit grewthem itself?"
"Wedon
"Thoserunes seemsignificant. Or doyouthink theyare just tattoos?"
"Ifthey aretheyseem important. Lookat this! Drakkaran symbology."
It is said that arboren do not get headaches, but the priest was not about to
put that theory to the test standing close to a storm of gnomish babbling.
After the first hour, Agarwood set the mural piece on his bench and told the
two Grad Brothers they were free to examine it to their hearts content. With an
enthusiasm that can only be described as ravenous, they glossed over the mural
piece intensely and continued their gnomish argument slurry. Over the span of
four hours, Agarwood had to intervene three times when the conversation turned
into disagreement. The two brothers came close to blows over the arrangement
of the runes on the skin of the Shinalfolk. The priest reminded them that they
are in this together and All thoughts should be heard to shine a light on even
the most fringe of ideas. Inwardly, Agarwood was relieved that Geraldgrad was
not present. He wouldn't have hesitated in the slightest.
The sun glided overhead, compounding the rosy and cream hues of the canyons
with the reds and oranges of a Thalosian sunset. The gnomes had finished their
exhaustive duel of ideas with a loud whooping, shoulder pats, and a gentleman's
handshake. Agarwood was distracted with some pruning when he was approached by
the brothers with mural fragment in hand. They passed it back to the priest and
Otto stepped forward.
"Priest, we don't know how to thank you for showing us this item. After years
of coming up with nothing, this was perhaps the first time we have got excited
over something that resembles.. well, a thing to be excited about," Otto said
in a quiet tone. His voice seemed a little tied from the long debate with his
brother. He continued, "The best we can do in the way of a thank you at this
time is to share our thoughts about it."
The two gnomes and the arboren shared a cedar bench and Agarwood nodded, "That
is enough for me. What do you think?"
Archie spoke first. "One thought is that these are symbolic art pieces. It
isn't a specific figure or figures being shown here. It might just be a piece
that shows the diversity of religion in the Shinalfolk community. Being that
there are representations of Drakkara and Sebatis here, I wouldn't be amazed
to learn there is another piece with Kantilles present. The Shinalfolk were a
highly advanced magickal race. It would make sense that they are polytheistic
in their lean for All three magick gods." Otto nodded with agreement.
"Another is that this is a representation of a moment in Shinalstin history,
minor or significant. Wings and runes were not present on the first Shinalfolk,
but they are on the one bowing in worship to Drakkara. Maybe these two were
actual people artistically rendered for future referencing. I would be willing
to bet that if Drakkara's symbology is present that this is tilting more on the
significant side of the spectrum, given that one doesn't engineer a scenario
with subtlety," said Otto as he scratched his neck.
The two took turns speaking seamlessly. They exchanged a glance, then Archie
spoke again, "Our last thought is that this might not be a mundane art piece,
but maybe a representation of the final hour of the Shinalstin people. Before,
we did not know of Drakkara's involvement with the race. This seems obvious
now given that they are a very magickal race, but the presence of Drakkaran
symbology in this second mural piece may suggest that this was a final, dark
minute. Drakkara's impulses have been consistent throughout time, eh?"
Otto adjusted his glasses and said hoarsely, "A betrayal, we mean, priest."
Writer: Archal
Date Fri Oct 31 20:56:29 2025
To All Ezrianne Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Telthian Carrionmaw Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Tidefall
Dark clouds gathered on the horizon. They turned sunset into dusk, but
provided flashes of their own light, as terrible bolts of lightning struck
the ground, or something less fortunate, below, though the view of
Verminasia, and the forests beyond, was nearly uobstructed. Nearly as clear
as the view above from here, atop the parapet of Eclipse Tower, which began
to reveal the stars of night with the early blotting of last daylight.
So much revealed in dark of night, so much hidden by the false hues of
daylight that turn the sky blue, or gray, orange, red, or purple. Each
shade a different lie from the same lips, obscuring what lies beyond,
overwhelming the delicate pinpricks within the infinite black sky with the
all consuming self-importance of the sun. 'Here I am, ' it seemed to boast,
'see only me! '
What wouldn't Archal sacrifice, to usher in the Infinite Night, or to shed
even a fraction more of its truth upon Algoron? Perhaps even part of
himself, he mused, a tinge of wryness to the thought, and bitterness. He
would prefer it not be himself.
Tidefall is the arrival on a specific umbral flow, of a particular place and
time. A Darkmoor is the arcane structure upon which a particular place and
time can be tethered to an umbral flow. Not a pillar or a bollard, but a
shape of the fabric, a weave of magic that can be enmeshed.
Making Tidefall and landing Eclipse Tower upon the Darkmoor within.
Archal's task. Like dropping from a balcony onto the writhing tail of a
dragon, or dipping one's cup into the midst of a waterfall. It ought to be
done gracefully, though rough and tumble will suffice, but don't fall off.
Don't let go.
Archal awaited the anchor that would bind this place to that, but he already
knew what tether he would have to throw when the time came. The force which
bridges this plane with the next. The braided rope of soul and magic. Here
atop the battlement, among the parapets of Eclipse Tower from which Tidefall
would be made, the High Mystic's vision slipped, replaced by thaumatic
intuition of primordial evil.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Oct 31 23:17:34 2025
Writer: Skiiz
Date Sat Nov 1 09:24:22 2025
To All Darkonin Euterah ( Imm RP )
Subject Coronation : Business As Usual
It was late in the afternoon when the messenger showed. Crawling from a
small tunnel, a minuscule goblinoid appears before Skiiz to relay the words of
the big ones deep within the mountain that Skiiz had been waiting for, "Master,
the tallies are done. You are King once more."
"Good, now lets get down to business," Skiiz says in perfect goblinoid
while reaching into his satchel to withdraw a ledger and a wrapped stick of
charcoal. He unwraps the end of the stick and quickly scrawls on a page of the
ledger. "First, inform All vendors that there will be no taxation until further
notice," he says, then mutters to himself, "That should keep the consumers
happy."
Skiiz continues, "Next, a coronation party. Nothing too fancy. Lets keep
it private." He glances at the small messenger, who gives a broken-toothed grin
and nod. "Just gather my usual goblinettes, two orgresses, no, three. Might as
well go big." Skiiz grins at the tiny goblin, who holds its dumb, cross-eyed
grin the entire time.
With a furrow of his brow, Skiiz wonders if the goblin suffered some kind
of head trauma recently, but then shrugs and continues writing. "Two jars, no
four, of green leaf. Three casks of fermented swill." He points his charcoal at
the goblin. "And not that watered-down junk sold at the taverns. Get the aged
stuff from the lower caverns!" Then Skiiz returns to the charcoal, "Two
weights of powdered bread mold. Oh, and make sure ALL the furs are cleaned
before AND after, this time."
Skiiz sends a pointed squint at the goblin as he tears the page from the
ledger and hands it off. The small messenger nods several times in thanks,
takes the page, and backs into the tiny tunnel while offering short phrases of
appreciation and affirmation. Skiiz slips the ledger back into his satchel,
then continues down the halls to resume his daily routine.
Business as usual for the newly minted goblin King. The private coronation
party comes and goes as the moons drift through the sky, escorted by clouds and
stars. As dawn nears, Skiiz stirs from the tangle of limbs and furs, toppling
empty containers as he tugs a few pelts around himself for a wander through the
halls. "Oh, ya, I cant forget this," he whispers to himself as he plucks the
Darkonin crown from whoever it rests on.
He sets it canted upon his head and wanders out into the quiet tunnels of
early morning. Stopping to light a rolled smoke of green leaves clinging to the
furs hes draped in, he glances from the corner of his eye and spots a set of
doors. With a sigh, he wanders toward them. Pushing through into the receiving
room, his gaze sweeps over the twin chairs of carved black bones lined with
fur. After a few puffs and a few steps, he stops before the one on the right,
eyeing it with a squint.
The small King reaches up to pull the smoke from his goblin lips, hissing
with an inhale before exhaling the cloud and flicking the roll toward the ground
to dislodge the burning ember. "I miss Euterah," he whispers to himself. In
defeat he leaves the room, mood soured, to start his day. Business as usual.
Writer: Nathalos
Date Sat Nov 1 20:40:35 2025
To All conclave imm rp
Subject The Rust-covered Mage
Near the base of the Crimson Tower, a grinding sound broke through the silent night. An oddly muted metallic noise, as something or someone began to move
around.
A shimmer of green light flickered beneath a crust of rust and sea-salt. Then came a cough dry, electric, like a thundercloud trying to remember how
to rain.
Eight decades or has it been nine? The voice was low, like the hum before lightning strikes.
From the half-buried alcove beneath the towers foundation rose a figure wrapped in robes that once gleamed like molten arcanium. Now they sagged in
reddish-brown
tatters, the result of years spent in enchanted sleep. Every thread of his metallic cloth had oxidized, but the spell of transmutation still held
armor beneath the rust was still weightless as silk, and still carried a faint, stubborn glow.
Nathalos of the RedRobes Electrocutioner of the Conclave, Vizier, Jouster, and Archmagus blinked his poisonous-green eyes against the moonlight. His
electric-blue skin shimmered faintly, veins pulsing with the slow rhythm of a storm waking from slumber.
He flexed his hands, each movement sending small sparks crackling across his palms. The air around him began to smell faintly of ozone and the sea.
Still whole, he murmured. Still alive. The storm sleeps, but it never dies.
-----
The Crimson Tower loomed above him, one of three in the ancient Conclave of Arkanian mages the Red, the White, and the Black. The trinity that had once
shaped the worlds magic. The RedRobes, his order, were the Invokers masters of flame, frost, and storm. They wielded destruction as art.
But tonight, the towers windows were dark. The RedRobes had no Wizard, no Archmagus to lead them.
Now, as if by destiny or cruel necessity, someone had woken him.
A shape approached through the fog a young mage in crimson training robes, the faint sigil of the RedRobes stitched on his chest. He stopped short at
the sight of the ancient elf, eyes wide.
By the four winds its true. Archmagus Nathalos?
The sea elf tilted his head. If that name still carries weight, then yes. Who disturbs my rest?
The apprentice swallowed, then bowed low. Just a humble apprentice of magic, ArchMagus. No one of note. His voice trembled, but he pressed on. The
Conclave gave up hope of your return long ago. Most think you faded into the stone itself.
He hesitated, eyes darting to the faint lightning crawling over Nathaloss fingers. But I studied your writings what little survived. You said the storm
never dies, only sleeps. And now the skies are breaking again. I thought if the storm woke, maybe you would too.
Nathalos regarded him for a long, silent moment. The apprentice could feel the air thickening, humming with static.
You thought the storm might wake with me, Nathalos said at last, his voice soft but edged with power.
The young mage nodded. Yes, Archmagus. I had to see if it was true.
-----
Nathalos turned his gaze toward the horizon, where thunderclouds were gathering black and immense, veined with silver light. Then your courage has cost
you the peace of ignorance, he said. For the storm stirs indeed and it remembers.
He reached to his side and drew forth his grand arcanium sword. The blade sang as if delighted to be remembered, its hum resonating through the mist. From
his other hand, a fulgurite crystal floated, glowing brighter with each pulse of his heart.
When the first bolt of lightning struck the spire of the Crimson Tower, Nathalos was already walking toward the gates each step leaving behind a faint
crackle of electricity that danced over the puddles at his feet.
Behind him, the apprentice whispered a prayer.
Before him, the world trembled in anticipation.
And above, the heavens opened, welcoming back the storm that had slept too long.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Nov 2 12:57:20 2025
To All Archal Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Telthian Carrionmaw Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Tidefall: II
Dark clouds bled into one another above Eclipse Tower, where, below,
Arkania and Verminasia lay in uneasy shadow. The Umbral rip above
Verminasia was stirring, a color reminiscent of bruised gray and venomous
violet. The lightning inside it didn't just flash, it cracked the world
open, tearing the sky into ribbons that illuminated the keep's black spires.
The stones themselves seemed to hum - a deep, resonant sound that Ezrianne
could feel through the soles of her boots.
Inside the common room, Archal moved closer, towering above Ezri (as
everyone seemed to do), eyes bright with the weight of command. "There
telling what kind of malevolent creatures will crawl out of this once we
make tidefall. You are going to secure the tower," he said. "The wards are
old, but they'll hold if someone feeds them."
Ezrianne's gaze shifted beyond him, to where the horizon rippled and bent
like a heat mirage, the air itself warping.
"Whatever comes through that rift will go for this place first," he
continued. "If Eclipse Tower falls, Storm Keep follows. If you fall-"
"I won't."
Lightning struck again, close enough that the shock wave rippled across the
parapet, shaking dust from the stone. For a moment, both High Mystic and
Supplicant considered the unspoken dangers of what they were about to do,
silently, verbal communication unnecessary to convey the very real
consequences of hesitation or failing, here. For an instant, Archal's hard
expression softened - barely.
Ezrianne turned from him before any emotion could crack through her armor.
The stairwell spiraled down into shadow, each level thrumming with the
tower's pulse - old wards waking, sigils bleeding faint blue light from the
walls. Her boots echoed, the sound swallowed by the heartbeat of the place
itself.
Reaching down to the tower's lowest level, she took a look around and
paused, closing her eyes and opening up her draconic senses, reaching deep
into an arcane pulse that vibrated within her, connected deeply to her
Firstborn nature. The air became thick with magic, tasting of ozone and
blood memory. Power stirred, vast and ancient, crawling through her veins
like liquid lightning.
The tower responded.
Runes along the walls flared to life, rippling outward in concentric rings.
The heartbeat grew louder, faster. She could see it in her mind's eye: the
wards stretching up through the tower's height, wrapping around its spires,
forming a web of protection.
She pushed harder. Energy burned through her palms, searing flesh, but she
didn't pull away. The wards needed to feed, and she had power enough to
give. The stone beneath her boots trembled, the tower itself keening with
the strain.
A blast of backlash magic threw her back across the chamber. She hit the
wall hard enough to drive the breath from her lungs, but a cackle of
laughter escaped as she caught her breath and struggled to her feet.
"All right, High Mystic!" she shouted up the stairway.
"What's next?"
Writer: Archal
Date Sun Nov 2 14:32:57 2025
To All Ezrianne Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Telthian Carrionmaw Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Tidefall: III
Archal unveiled the mirror with barely a flourish, the black felt
covering falling in a heap to the side. The surface of the mirror was
black, and as the High Mystic stood there, shed of his battle armor, wearing
only the Gray Robes of his order, his eyes began to adjust.
Archal peered into the dark of the mirror. This creation had taken him
years of effort and All his skill in shaping metal and cutting gems.
Countless distortion shards cut, polished, fitted together until it shone
like a pond the dead of night, lit only by the faintest glimmer of
starlight. The backing, a plate of umbrasteel, a metal hard won from the
far side of the rips in the skies of Algoron, torn from deposits, outcropped
nodes among the black sands of the realm of his Mistress.
"All right, High Mystic! " Supplicant Scott shouted, Eclipse Tower now
sealed shut. "What's next? "
He did not answer. He peered into the black pool of the mirror, his own
eyes growing darker as their pupils began to devour the great of the irises
which bound them. He began to see. The basic shapes of the common room of
Eclipse Tower took form, reversed in front of him in the black mirror. They
did not have colour, nor even light, for he perceived them in their umbral
blackness, the unlight which revealed the shape of things beneath.
Behind him, every brazier, every wall sconce, flickered and sputtered, while
in front of him, the dark vision grew in clarity. "High Mystic? " came the
voice of the Supplicant again, closer, behind him, and Archal turned from
the mirror, his eyes black holes in his skull now, and he turned back to the
mirror.
Through the mirror, he could now see the flows of umbra as whey whipped and
swirled through the tower behind him. Ribbons of current snaking violently
through the cosmos, through Algoron, through the tower, and eventually, he
perceived that the torrents were static, that Algoron was moving, hurtling
through the void, and he began to see, began to perceive, began to know the
Infinite Night. He gripped the scepter made just for this purpose, a
ball-head of amethyst set in a cradle of ferrite, the pommel, rod, and
prongs a that head the ferri-amethyst finial in place a single piece of
forged voidiron.
As Algoron tore through its own firmament it aligned briefly with the umbral
torrent that Archal required and he plunged the scepter forward, thrusting
it into the black mirror.
Writer: Archal
Date Sun Nov 2 15:10:39 2025
To All Ezrianne Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Telthian Carrionmaw Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Tidefall: IV
It was like jamming a polearm into the dirt atop a galloping felbeast.
Everything began to shudder and the fraction of Archal's mind that could
spare a thought considered the whole tower might rattle apart around them,
timber by timber, stone by stone. As Archal willed Eclipse Tower to make
tidefall he could see - what exactly? The shadows of every object rattling
free of the object itself. The feeling came of plunging, of deceleration on
one axis and acceleration in another, of clawing oneself to a skidding halt
after falling from a charger - the rattling, the desynchronization of umbral
and material as the former caught and strained against the latter, the
violent reorientation of making tidefall at great speed and coming to
relative rest, the hull of a ship tearing itself apart as it runs aground
but will the ship break apart or will it come to rest?
Archal fought to find the darkmoor, the place of binding within the umbral
current that would tie this place to that, to create a stable point of
contact between here and there, and his eyes whipped around the Commons. He
could see, truly see, the umbral ghost of every physical object straining
against its form, not trying to separate but being dragged as if by
friction, pulling at the connection between physical and metaphysical.
It All stopped.
Archal was disoriented, and did not trust the gap between sensation and
perception. He was left only with impressions of what had happened. Echoes
in his mind reminded him that the Supplicant had fought a great battle, but
he could not pierce the fog - what battle had she fought? Had he drained
her, used her to fuel him during tidefall? Had some creature rode the
tether of his blood and soul as he lashed their plane to the umbral flows
they landed upon? They had found their darkmoor, but Archal could not
remember the cost.
Quiet within the Eclipse Tower, and stillness, and the shadows no longer
rattled and trembled against their objects. Now they All pulled in one
direction - towards the black mirror. The mirror protruded from the granite
stone of the tower wall, and it no longer reflected an image of the tower
commons. Before them now was an arch, a tunnel into the umbral torrent of
the Infinite Night. A stygian doorway opened into clearing at the edge of a
dark forest.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Nov 2 16:31:54 2025
To All Archal Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Telthian Carrionmaw Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject Tidefall: V
When Archal's magic burst outward on its quest, it was not the Tower
alone that strained. Within the convulsing geometry of Eclipse, another
struggle took shape -- not in the stones, but in the void between them.
His focus turned inward and he surrendered his sensibilities to the
immaterial currents, while Ezrianne stood just behind him, her breath drawn
through clenched teeth as the umbral wind scoured the chamber raw. The
mirror had begun to pulse before it opened, a heartbeat not its own, and
from its depths something forced its way through.
It came, half-born from shadow and will, a figure more ethreal wisp than
flesh. Wings like torn sails unfurled, their span too vast for the chamber
that contained them. Its body was smoke made solid, its eyes two hollows of
starless night. It struck at Ezrianne once, twice - blows that carried the
relentless weight of lower evil's feral and savage hunger.
As the power of her wards upon the tower flared against the intrusion,
Archal's hand snapped out and gripped at her wrist, the pressure hard enough
to convince her the bone beneath might be at risk to break.
He was drawing from her, seeking more arcane power to augment his own
resources -- which were considerable, as the High Mystic's power should be.
The siphon slammed against her without asking permission, fracturing her
vision, though she opened herself to it without hesitation, welcoming it,
feeding the greedy, seductive tendrils of his spell.
She steeled herself against purpose - sheer tenacity emboldened by religious
piety and belief in the cause and the people in which she'd devoted herself.
She flipped her protesting wrist in such a way she could wrap her fingers
around the High Mystic's forearm and strengthen the connection, screaming
Skald song at the beast surging forward and attacking her. The Tower was
vibrating under the assault, roof timbers groaning under the pressure.
One strike of the beast's talon tore through her shoulder, another striking
shallowly across her throat. Blood hissed as it met the floor, and the
umbral current drank eagerly of the sacrifice given by Drakkarian blood.
Still, Ezri doubled down, pressing her will forward through the torrent of
conflicting mix of problems, painful wounds, and soul-draining forces that
had been laid out upon her metaphorical doorstep.
The black glass convulsed, suddenly shattering outward and inward All at
once. The wild shadow creature shrieked, kept from fully courting disaster
with the might of her songs, finally cut off and stuck between realms, as
Archal brought everything under control and the portal stabilized.
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:35:04 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:37:50 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:39:39 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:45:58 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:51:23 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Nov 2 22:53:55 2025
Writer: Pomacanthus
Date Mon Nov 3 16:16:21 2025
To All ( IMM RP Raije )
Subject Self Reflection (I)
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The steady echo of dripping water kept time to the elf's slashes and
swings. It marked parries and ripostes, occasionally sending the flash
of rainbows cascading along the entirety of the cave.
The elf fought shadows; the elf fought memories.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
She remembered the kind face of her Highlord; the first who had won and
kept her loyalty. The one who had taken in a frail, scarred sea elf to
twist and forge into a weapon. That she had relinquished control of the
fort was sin enough - and yet, for her, Pomacanthus would still fight,
given the option.
Illusionist as she was, the elf could neither raise the dead nor tear
asunder the fabric of time to redeem those lost to it.
Another parry; a thrust. The worn chess pieces looked on, disapproving.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Her family faced her next; kith and kin alike that had fallen to the
elf's Path over the years. Her sisters; her brother. The occasional
dalliances and friends. For these, the elf changed weapons; slipping
away the broad blade of her falchion in favor of the tentacle that had
lashed and strangled so many of them to death.
The shadows struggled in accusation, but that did not stop the elf.
These stories, too, had already been written. Their endings, found.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Systemically, perhaps cruelly, Pomacanthus worked through her worries
and her history, the shadows shifting to match the needs of a bruised
and battered psyche. Elves, dragons, hobgoblins, giant ogres - there
was no end to the myriad of shadows that she conjured, facing those in
training that she could no longer face upon the world's surface.
At some point, hand aching, mana depleted, the elf was amazed to find
tears upon her cheeks.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The elf fought on anyway, switching to her thresher, the heavy, blunt
weapon a welcome hold in her weary hand. No need for finesse; no demand
for culture or training. Aim, swing, repeat, until everything fell away
and the world became less complicated once more.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Perhaps, it was time for her to join the shadows as well.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Another visage. Draconic. Surly and belligerent. Noble - a constant
reminder of her limits. It came unbidden, the elf uncertain if it was
her magic or her mind alone that filled the shadows with its noxious
presence. The name yet remaining on her list. The promise unfulfilled.
The one who had slaughtered her beloved.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
There was reason yet, to continue down the Path.
For the Path was the Path, even if none were left to bear witness.
Pomacanthus fought on. For now, at least.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Nov 3 22:11:21 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Nov 3 22:12:47 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Nov 3 22:14:36 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Nov 4 11:36:43 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia Darkonin ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject The Engagement
It was strange, the way life folded in on itself occasionally.
Ezrianne fixed her long, dark hair in the mirror in Sacnoth's master suite,
taking a moment away from frenzied duties in Storm Keep to dress for a
small, celebratory betrothal brunch with polite society. She inhaled as she
tried to shed the all-encompassing military responsibility just briefly, to
morph herself into the part of titled landowner of the flourishing province
of Sacnoth, in Verminasia, successful business owner, and orchard liquor
magnate: a woman of power and prestige. They were just more layers of
herself, among the many she had zealously created, positioning herself in
the right circles and the right rooms.
This marriage was, of course, meant to merge status, lands, fortunes, and
influence - and other things of that nature. It was to elevate both parties
into a higher and better reputation than they'd built alone, "a union of
convenience", as the aristocracy called it. A partnership that had
absolutely nothing to do with love or emotion or yearning tenderness.
Some times, she mused, these marriages didn't even consider "like". In
fact, it wasn't so uncommon for the brides bartered away to enter what would
end up being miserable alliances with husbands they couldn't stand to be in
the same room with - but gods knew plenty of love matches ended the very
same way.
She fixed an earring carefully, knowing she would have laughed once, in the
past, to think she'd give her hand away for something planned and cunning,
rather than loving; but she wasn't one to repeatedly bang her head against a
wall when attempts at something weren't working.
Besides, this one - her betrothed - wasn't what shed expected. Not even
close.
Despite the fact they came from two totally different worlds, racially, she
absolutely did find her intended was likable. He was surprisingly
fastidious with his personal hygiene, his cleverness made her laugh, and his
personality was big enough that she didn't even think about the fact he was
slightly shorter than she was. He was surprisingly thoughtful, too, in that
he obviously cared about what she had to say, made it clear he appreciated
her intelligence, and kept her on her toes by genuinely asking about her
preferences, ideas, and inclinations.
As if he wanted to make and keep her happy. All and all, he was a lot
kinder and selfless than anyone she'd ever dated before. One such prior
fool had called her "belligerent" when he realized he couldn't match her
power and ferocity, couldn't rise to her level, despite her attempts to
elevate him there.
Belligerent. As if ambition were a vice. As if power in a woman equated to
indecency. As if she should shrink herself to make someone else
comfortable.
Her current betrothed didn't flinch from her intensity. He didn't try to
temper her, didn't call her too much, or too aggressive, or too ambitious.
He listened. He asked. No one had ever done that before.
Only time would tell what this marriage of political alignment might bring,
but so far it promised more than anything she had ever stumbled into by
chance. Perhaps it could become a union that challenged her, satisfied her,
and even, in its own quiet, unassuming way, delighted her.
And if it did, she thought with a faint, wry smile, she might finally have
someone beside her to share the weight of the world - not to lessen it,
never that, but to meet it with her, shoulder to shoulder.
Writer: Skiiz
Date Tue Nov 4 13:57:01 2025
To All Darkonin Shadow ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject The Engagement : A Darkonin Stag Party
Skiiz had been bragging since the day the engagement was established,
never having been one to exercise humble discretion when he had something to be
proud of. This was definitely something to be proud of. Not only had Skiiz
found a way to cure the existential loneliness within his soul, but a way to
obtain something he'd never truly dared to pursue.
Sitting around the fires at the hearth deep within the mountain, Skiiz
chatted and joked with those who lived in the tunnels of Darkonin, sharing his
news. "Ya, youz shuld see her! Talk about legz, she'z got a tail that goez on
until tomorrow!" The ogres and bugbears laughed, the hobgoblins cackled, and
the goblins that had joined snickered.
"She gon' smush you!" a giant ogre laughed while pointing at the goblin
king. "Then she gonna eat him!" one of his bugbear compatriots joked. A pair of
goblins jumped around before the fire while chanting, "Skiiz Jelly Sammiches!"
repeatedly.
"Maybe I'z shuld eatz her firzt!" Skiiz happily exclaims, pointing at the
bugbear who made the claim. Most about the fire just seemed confused, not quite
grasping how one would go about eating a dragon. Perhaps a piece at a time? But
that could take months or maybe more. In a corner of the hearth, a pipe smoking
half-ogre gave a faint chuckle, clearly understanding the joke.
To end the somewhat awkward silence, Skiiz shouted out to one of the
skulking hobgoblins nearby, "We'z gonna haz to haz a stag party," pointing at
him in assignment. The capable goblinoid perked up and nodded, wall-eyed glance
looking out in both directions while its nose pointed toward his king. "Stag.
Party. Ya," and the hobgoblin quickly disappeared from the hearth down the
tunnels.
About an hour later, while Skiiz and the others were still gathered about
the hearth telling jokes or making fun, that skulking hobgoblin shows back up.
Off his shoulder he flings down a large highland buck, bleeding and broken,
before those gathered near the fire. The hobgoblin points and states, "Stag."
The energetic goblins who'd teased about 'Skiiz Jelly Sammiches' high five
each other and shout, "Party!" |
