|
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 13 16:27:36 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows
In the deep stillness of the fading hour, when day was neither wholly
present nor yet fully departed, a hush fell upon Storm Keep, vast and
ancient. Its walls, etched by the passage of time and war alike, drank in
the silence as though it were wine from a long-forgotten chalice. The air
was heavy with the scent of soot and iron and old memory.
Zorreau de la Vega sat alone in his manor - not as a warrior girded for
battle, but as a man steeped in reflection. His form, cloaked in black
cloth, was still as stone, and his eyes, sharp beneath a brow creased by
long service, beheld not the flickering firelight but something far beyond
it - something deep, and distant, and near to sorrow.
A sheaf of parchment lay open upon the table before him - inked with the
accounts and final rites of the Cult of the True Prophecy. Names, words,
deeds. He had read them not once, but many times over, each pass carving
deeper into the granite of his thoughts.
Faith rekindled. Shadows reshaped. Her name spoken not in fear, but in
reverence.
The servants of Drakkara had stirred. Some had been bold in their belief,
stepping forward into the blackened light of Her regard, and been seen.
Accepted. Chosen.
And he, Zorreau - whose blade had drunk deep for Necrucifer, whose soul had
not wavered in the wake of the great sundering - he had remained unseen.
No fault of Hers. No slight, save his own.
He did not doubt Her dominion, nor question Her right. The Queen of Shadows
had claimed what was once His, and rightly so. But the wound of silence
lingered in his heart like a dagger made of ice, a familiar feeling, not
because he was denied, but because he was forgotten.
A faint creak stirred behind him - not in the air, but in memory.
Turning from the firelight, he crossed the chamber, past the relics of old
wars and banners now furled. There, beneath a heavy oaken chest, hidden in
the corner of the room as if the shadows themselves sought to forget it, he
knelt. With care, as one might unearth the bones of a king, he unlocked the
chest and drew forth a bundle wrapped in black cloth and bound in sigils of
the old tongue.
He unwrapped it.
A blackened sash, frayed at the edges with a silvery crest, caught the
firelight like a watchful eye. Upon it a sigil long thought broken: the
insignia of the Shadow Guard - the silent sword, the closed eye, the serpent
wound in eternal oath.
This had been his. El Capitan, they had called him in the old days, when
the Keep rang with war and the enemies of Shadow trembled at the whisper of
his name. He had led the Guard, not merely in strength, but in purity of
purpose: to root out the unfaithful, to destroy the betrayers of the Master,
to carry the wrath of the Pantheon where others faltered.
Not only for Necrucifer. For All who ruled in darkness.
Even now, the words returned to him, as from a page lost to fire:
"The Shadow Guard shall serve the Keep as enforcers of fidelity. Their
purpose, therefore, shall be to seek out and lead the destruction of
traitors to the Master and the Keep. And when directed, to strike down
those who blaspheme against the other Gods of Darkness. "
His hands tightened upon the sash. How many of those ancient oaths still
lived? How many of those beasts and disciples - forged in Necrucifers
forge, but never sworn anew - still stalked the forgotten corners of the
world?
It was not only faith that needed proving. It was fidelity. There were
still those who called themselves creatures of shadow, and yet served no
true god - monsters that bore the trappings of the old faith but none of its
weight. Apostates wrapped in forgotten rites, rebels garbed in robes of
dust.
And no Guard remained to face them.
Zorreau rose.
He did not don the sash. Not yet. But he placed it upon the mantle - high,
where the flame could catch the silver once more. A sign, perhaps, for any
who entered. Or a warning. Or a promise.
He would not beg for purpose. He would become it.
If She would not yet call him by name, then let his deeds speak louder.
There was still a task unfinished.
The hour was late. The night long. But even in the depth of the
abyss, even the faintest flame could cast the longest shadow.
And the shadow had begun to move.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 13 17:19:01 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows II
"Chains forged from death may bind the flesh,
but chains forged in shadow bind the soul."
The wind spoke in whispers along the tall, arched windows of the chamber
- a high stone room, half-eaten by time and ivy, where moonlight filtered in
like spilled milk across the worn banners of a kingdom long bowed. Zorreau
de la Vega sat alone, unmoving in his high-backed chair of black oak, its
arms scarred by the fingers of memory and fire.
Before him, on a table of cold iron, lay the reports.
Parchments creased at the corners, their ink warped by the weight of rain
and time - each one a herald of unrest, of shadows refusing the suns
dominion. Threads of knowledge woven from the words of the faithful: Storm,
Verminasia, Abaddon, Dungeon, Black Robes. From across the fractured
dominions of the world, the Dark Pantheon stirred - not in rebellion, but in
reformation.
In the aftermath of Necrucifers fall - the death of the god he had once bled
for, prayed to, and slain in the name of - Zorreau had remained still. Not
in cowardice, nor doubt, but in silence. A silence born of watching, of
weighing the tide.
Now that silence had turned to guilt.
Drakkara ruled now. Shadow bent its knee to Her, though not All bent
willingly. Zorreau had served - he had wielded the sword when others
clutched their scriptures. As Dark Lord, as El Capitan, he had bled the
heretics, burned the traitors, and carved the will of the Keep into the
flesh of the world. His name had once caused hearts to seize in their
rhythm.
But now? Now he was a relic.
He reached to the side of his chair, unlocking the small iron chest long
buried beneath layers of dust and forgotten cloth. From within, he drew a
symbol - a jagged ring of blackened steel, shaped like a serpent devouring
its tail. The mark of the Shadow Guards highest rank. Captain. Enforcer.
Executioner.
He turned it over in his hand. It felt heavier than he remembered.
"Once, " he whispered to the quiet chamber, "we hunted those who betrayed
the Master. Now I wonder have we betrayed Him by surviving? "
He did not expect an answer - and none came.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Wed Aug 13 19:54:35 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XI
The bells of the Crystal Monastery tolled softly through the morning air,
their echoes weaving between the halls like a gentle summons. Ulyssus had
been in the gardens moments before, exchanging a respectful nod with a group
of monks returning from their dawn meditations. His snowy owl flew down to
his shoulder as he walked through the halls, the faint scent of burning
incense guiding him toward the chapel. This was not an obligatory summons
but a deliberate choice. The tenets of Kantilles were not mere words to
Ulyssus, they were a living standard, and the promise of hearing a discourse
on the second tenet had stirred his anticipation. Passing beneath the
arched stone doorway, he felt the warmth of candlelight embrace him, and the
quiet murmurs of the faithful giving way as he entered the chapel.
Morning sunlight spilled into the chapel through high, arched windows,
casting slender beams that danced upon the white marble floor. Outside, the
Icewall sky swirled with its endless winter, but within these crystal walls
the air was warm, scented faintly with cedar and the faint tang of old
incense.
Ulyssus sat near the front, his white cloak draped neatly about his
shoulders, hood drawn back. A small gathering of monks and initiates filled
the benches around him, their quiet murmurs fading as the Abbot of the
Crystal Monastery stepped forward to the altar. The man's robe shimmered
faintly in the light, his presence calm yet unyielding.
"In the light we serve, " the Abbot began, voice deep and steady, "is the
second of our Lord's tenets. To follow Kantilles is not to hoard our gifts,
nor to wield them for vanity or dominance. It is to place them in the
service of others, without hesitation, without expectation of reward."
He paced slowly along the dais, hands folded. "A follower of Kantilles may
turn aside a storm threatening a caravan. He may ward a village against the
shadow of hostile magic. He may carry light into places where no torch can
endure. These acts, small or great, are service. They are the living proof
that we walk in the light."
The Abbot spoke of days long past, when Kantilles himself walked the streets
of distant cities, giving aid in both mighty works and simple kindnesses.
Of times when the smallest gesture, a lantern lit, a road cleared, a
frightened child comforted, meant more than the grandest spell.
Ulyssus listened in silence, thoughts wandering back to his own years. He
remembered long nights guiding wounded to safety in the highland wilds.
Times when, in the Ivory Tower, he had shielded fellow mages from spells
cast in malice. Even moments when his service had been a silent watch from
the shadows, ensuring no blade found his comrades unguarded.
The Abbot's gaze swept the chapel. "To serve is not merely to act when it
suits us. It is to be ready at All times, to see need where others see
nothing, to answer without delay. This is the way of the white moon."
The congregation bowed their heads as the Abbot raised his hands in
blessing. His voice lowered to a final prayer: "Let your magic be the hand
that steadies, the shield that guards, the light that never fails. In the
light, we serve, now and always."
When the sermon drew to a close, the congregation rose in reverent silence,
the soft creak of benches echoing through the high-vaulted space. Ulyssus
lingered a moment longer, letting the last words of the Abbot settle deep
within his heart like the final embers of a fire. His gaze drifted toward
the altar, its white marble bathed in the gentle glow of hovering light
orbs, before he turned and made his way to the arched doorway at the rear of
the chapel. Beyond lay the quiet, stone-floored corridors of the lower
level. The faint scent of beeswax and parchment guided him toward the
library, where he intended to spend the remainder of the day in study, his
mind still dwelling on the call to serve in the Light.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 13 21:17:33 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Hindges of the Forgotten {u(VIII{u)
The Codex has begun to speak more clearly on Bind Golem, though not in
the voice of any one library. Each word, as always, is a trespass, a
foreign tongue embedded in a text that would never otherwise know it, but
together they form the skeletal framework of a craft long stripped from our
teachings.
Pan-Toll's herbal record yielded the first, the dwarvish word for, "hinge,"
written in High Arkanian margin-work beside an illustration of seedpods.
Lador's Castle ledger, All Leonine script, contained a goblin word for
"flight," tucked into the notes on horse tack. The Azure Tower's Restricted
collection offered a Yinnish, "veil," but unlike the Darkness fragments,
here it was marked with a sigil of anchoring, a clue that the concealment
was meant not for people, but for the inner workings of a construct.
From Haven's Library came a Common sea-chart marred by a single Minotaur
term, "balance," wedged into a compass rose. The Enchantress Tower's poetry
offered Kender, "joint," hidden in a rhyme about lovers' hands. Loodvich's
Dungeon ledger, Verminasian through and through, faltered once into Elvish
with, "brace."
The new sites added their own teeth to the gearwork. The Hellmouths' basalt
archives, brittle scrolls fused to the rock by centuries of heat, held a
word in Althainian, "hollow," describing the lung of some beast. Old
Thalos' ruined temple library gave a fragment in Leonine, "keel," in the
margin of a shipwright's hymn. Baaren Gaer's ocean vaults contained a
solitary Ogre term, "reinforce," jammed between two lines of a siege
chronicle.
Individually, these are curiosities. Together, through the Codex, they
assemble into instruction: Hinge and joint for articulated movement.
Flight, balance, and keel for stability in air or water. Veil and hollow
for protective housings and weight reduction. Brace and reinforce for
structural endurance under strain. One phrase, the Hellmouths' "hollow",
bore a marginal rune that I recognized only from a rare Shokono trade codex,
a symbol denoting rare reagents. Many were known for channeling magick into
form without splintering the host material. If true, this would explain why
the mounted designs in the lattice were never replicated, Shokono controls
these regents, and the Conclave may have chosen secrecy over dependency.
Bind Golem, as we are taught, is a lockpick made for one door, rigid in
form, predictable in result. The Codex shows it was once a workshop of
infinite variety, able to shape a guardian or mount from whatever material
was at hand, the binding adapted to purpose. I can see golems striding on
ivory legs, gliding on wings of obsidian lattice, or swimming with
kelp-wrapped joints, each born from the same core magick, merely tuned to
the matter and motion it was given.
This art was cut from us for a reason. Perhaps the Conclave feared the
autonomy such creations could achieve, or the political danger of mounts and
war-machines answering to a single caster. But now, piece by piece, the
lattice is almost whole again. The words are no longer isolated, they are
hinges in the same mechanism, waiting only for the right hand to open the
door.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 13 22:26:24 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Regents of the Eastern Currents {u(IX{u)
From the scattered phrases hidden in Pan-Toll's annotated ledgers to the
cryptic symbols half-inked into the margins of Loodvichs spell-rot
parchments, the Codex reveals a path that is neither linear nor merciful to
the impatient mind. Today, its stitched-together whisper spoke of a "regent
who sways the tides of Shokono." The phrase itself could not be read in any
single tongue, it had to be pulled apart, its pieces matched to the proper
language, then pressed through the Codex's lattice of meaning until
something sharper emerged.
Shokono is not unknown to the Tower, yet our archives treat it more as a
footnote in maritime trade than a center of magical power. This clue
challenges that. The "regent" is not crowned in gold or silk, but in the
current and the wind, a master whose authority is anchored in the ocean's
will. The Hellmouth cartographies of Baaren Gaer hint at ley fractures
beneath the eastern straits, a possible source of their strength. One of
the Azure Tower's restricted charts even marks an "unmoored throne" adrift
somewhere in the Kuroshi Sea, a phrase I had assumed poetic until now.
If the regent's influence stems from these tidal forces, then their seat is
not bound to the land. This presents a dangerous possibility: a sovereign
whose dominion can drift beyond borders, carrying with them magicks that
warp wind, wave, and even the minds of those who sail too near. The Codex
gives me one further nudge, an unfamiliar glyph, rendered in Old Thalosian
script but phonetically Shokonan, meaning "to beckon the storm." I will
need to cross-reference this with Pan-Toll's forgotten lexicon of elemental
summons before I can be certain, but I suspect we may be chasing a living
nexus between maritime sovereignty and conjured tempest.
What chills me most is the realization that such a regent, if persuaded, or
provoked, could bend these currents to serve the Conclave's designs. If we
could locate their drifting seat, bind their tempestive arts to our will,
the very seas would be as a second lattice of ley-lines for the Tower. Yet,
the Codex warns through omission: no clue is given on whether the regents
loyalty can be won by pact, purchase, or blood. Even more troubling is the
faint, persistent undertone in the text, a rhythmic cadence, as if the Codex
itself were echoing the slow pulse of the tides, reminding me that some
powers cannot be commanded, only courted at great cost.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Aug 14 10:16:13 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu Aug 14 11:23:54 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu Aug 14 11:37:01 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 13:02:02 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Regent of Feather, Tusk, and Tide {u(X{u)
The Codex's scattered words have led me far from the marble halls of the
Conclave to the whispering shores of Shokono. There, in temple shadows
scented with salt and incense, stands a priestess whose name the Codex will
not give. She does not wear her relic openly, yet the few who have glimpsed
it speak of its power in hushed tones, a creation that can swim through the
abyssal dark as though born to it, gliding past currents that would crush
mortal lungs.
In the Codex, the words for breath, depth, and bond are drawn from six
languages, each one hidden in a separate library: Pan-Toll, Lador's Castle,
the Azure Tower's restricted stacks, Haven's archives, the Enchantress
Tower's ledger, and even the damp, iron-stained records of Loodvich's
Dungeon. Each fragment was deliberately placed, its language chosen to
confound casual readers, only the Codex's latticework can realign them into
meaning.
Yet the priestess's relic is only the first of three. In the archives of
Pan-Toll, a single misplaced Yinnish word nestled within a ledger of trade
tithes hinted at the Wingbone of the Eastern Winds, a white feather carved
of horn, impossibly light yet unyielding. The Codex marks it as the heart
of a flying golem swift enough to carry a rider aloft, though its
enchantment is bound to inland airs, unable to cross the roiling, salt-heavy
storms of the outer seas. The horn feather's binding glyphs suggest an
intentional limitation, as though the skies above the oceans were meant to
remain free of such craft.
From Loodvichs rust-stained prison records, another clue emerged, an ivory
tusk cataloged not as treasure but as "evidence," seized from a fallen
conjurer whose name was struck from every other scroll. The tusk bears the
enchantment to summon a landbound golem of monumental endurance, its frame
vast enough to carry the largest of mages, armored in thick plates of
earthen magic. The Codex suggests that the tusk's creation drew from the
same disciplines as Alter Beast, its shaping spells keyed not to
transformation of the caster, but to the steady embodiment of strength in
another vessel.
Why these three regents, sea, sky, and land, were sundered remains
unrecorded. The Codex's syntax implies they were never meant to be wielded
together, indeed, some of the paired word structures appear to reject each
other when brought into proximity in the lattice. Still, the thought
lingers: if they could be gathered and the magicks harmonized, their
constructs might offer passage across every boundary Algoron holds. The
implications are intoxicating, but the balance they could shatter is one the
Conclave may never forgive me for disturbing. And so I must ask myself, do
I seek them for knowledge, for mastery, or simply because the Codex has set
me upon their trail?
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 13:47:09 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Cartography of What Does Not Appear {u(XI{u)
The regents, feather, tusk, and tide, came to me through the Codex in
broken syllables scattered across Pan-Toll's Library, Lador's Castle,
Haven's ledgers, and the Azure Tower's restricted shelves. They were never
written together, and yet, when aligned in the correct tongues, they formed
a sequence that felt less like an incantation and more like a map. Not of
coasts or mountains, but of absence, an uncharted geography that resisted
even the notion of being fixed to parchment. The Codex's lattice seemed to
hum when the words were placed side by side, as if recognizing a truth it
was never meant to yield.
Shokono's shores alter as the currents will, erasing paths as easily as they
grant them. Between the ivory's trade records in Haven and the feather's
fleeting mention in Lador's hunting ledgers, I began to trace alignments in
both date and tide. These correspondences were too precise to be
coincidence, patterns stitched into the loom of time itself. More than
once, I saw references vanish between my first reading and my return, as if
the archives themselves sought to erase their complicity in my work.
It is said that a reef appears west of the fishing wards only under rare
moons, revealed not by sight but by the sudden stillness of the water. No
bird circles there, no wave disturbs it. The Codex speaks obliquely of this
place, yet the words for origin, taken, and elsewhere nest within its
lattice like thorns among petals. From these, I began to suspect that the
priestess's relic, the regent of tide, did not originate within her temple,
but was carried there from a site far removed from any known chart.
The priestess dwells within the Shrine, a sanctum built where the sea
presses against the stone heart of Shokono. Her regent is a glowing sphere
of water, self-contained and yet impossibly deep, its surface swirling with
currents that mimic the pull of unseen tides. Those who have glimpsed it
claim it pulses in time with the ocean itself, as if it drinks from every
current that touches the world. In the Codex, the words for breath, depth,
and bond are drawn from six disparate languages. Only the Codex's structure
could realign these into a singular meaning: a construct capable of moving
through the abyssal dark as though it were open sky.
Yet the regent of tide is only one part of a triad. In Pan-Toll's archives,
a lone Yinnish word embedded within a page of grain tariffs led me to the
Wingbone of the Eastern Winds. A white feather carved of horn, impossibly
light, its enchantment bound to inland airs and unable to cross the roaring
storms of the outer seas. In Loodvich's rust-streaked records, I uncovered
the ivory tusk of a landbound golem, forged for endurance and burden, its
magic drawn from the same roots as Alter Beast but fixed into a vessel of
unyielding strength.
Why these regents, sea, sky, and land, were divided and hidden remains
unwritten. The Codex's syntax resists combining them, as though each word
turns to ash when set beside the others. Still, in my mind's eye, I see the
invisible lines they form, pointing beyond Shokono's known waters to a place
the maps refuse to hold. If the glowing sphere was taken from there, then
the land and sky regents may share the same lost birthplace. And if that
place was removed from sight by will rather than by chance, then finding it
will require more than navigation. It will require understanding why the
world itself does not wish it to be found.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 14:25:22 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Breath of the Tempest {u(XII{u)
The Codex speaks rarely of the winds, and when it does, it is never in a
single tongue. A syllable of Old Arkanian buried in a Pan-Toll war journal.
A Leonine phrase smuggled into a verminasian ballad. A minotaur glyph
pressed into a Wujen treatise where it does not belong. Each word alone is
inert, but when I set them together, the lattice reveals a truth older than
the Conclave itself, Wind Breath was never born in the east. It was Breath
of the Tempest, a battlemagick forged in the age when spells were not
taught, but wrested from the raw pulse of the world.
The Tempest breath was no art of precision. Its caster would draw in the
fury of the skies and exhale it in a single burst, a shearing wall of air
and pressure that could crack stone, rupture sails, and hurl whole
battalions from the field. The Codex's earliest diagrams show no schools,
no arcane staves or inked sigils, only the posture of the body and the
alignment of the lungs with the horizon. These early wielders were not
mages as we know them, but warriors bound to storms, their magic inseparable
from the battlefield's chaos.
It was the Wujen who took this primal force and honed it. In the archives
of the Azure Tower, a restricted scroll details the transformation: Tempest
became Wind, chaos became rhythm, destruction became discipline. By shaping
the exhalation through a ritualized kata, they preserved the art's strength
while tempering its reach, so it could be used without tearing apart the
caster's own ranks. Yet the Codex's structure makes clear that in this
refinement, something was surrendered, some resonance between mage and storm
that only the original wielders knew.
This loss is not spoken of in Wujen records, yet the Codex hints at it with
deliberate omission. In certain alignments of the lattice, the words for
wind, breath, and horizon dissolve into a fourth, unrecorded glyph, one I
have found only twice, in the charred remnants of a Haven scroll, and in a
single sea-salted scrap from a merchant ledger that should never have
carried such a mark. That glyph, when isolated, draws the lattice toward a
coordinate that the maps of Algoron cannot resolve.
If this place exists, it lies in a land uncharted by Conclave eyes. The
Codex frames it as the "source-breath," the place where the first Tempest
was inhaled, where air and magic are still bound as they were in the age
before our towers. I cannot yet tell whether this is a physical shore, a
storm that never ceases, or something else entirely, an intersection of sky
and spell outside the reach of our world. But I know this: if the Breath of
the Tempest can be found there, whole and unbroken, it would not merely
strengthen a battlemage. It might awaken something in the Conclave we have
long forgottena unity of art and fury that could change the balance of our
age.
And so I must decide whether to keep chasing these scattered words, knowing
they may lead me beyond the bounds of Algoron itself. For the wind does not
ask permission to cross borders, and the Codex is not patient with those who
ignore its calling.
Writer: Merira
Date Thu Aug 14 20:14:34 2025
Writer: Elldrya
Date Thu Aug 14 23:47:21 2025
To All Arkane (Imm RP)
Subject Gemstones on Offal (1)
Elldrya fought back the urge to cough. She was never very good at
containing it, but she tried. She held herself as still and silent as she
could against the tide of scattering rats and the stench wafting up from the
channel. She was wisp-thin and sunken-eyed. Messy brown hair pulled into a
bun to keep it off the walls and tucked into her helmet still poked out
around the edges, refusing to be contained. Elldrya was not a strong elf,
or a lithe huntress. The Shalonesti-Elf looked like the rats running around
her feet, should they knock her over, would break her bones with their
weight, but she held herself close, so very close to the stinking wet wall
of the channel. Willing herself to be silent, willing her cough to still,
holding her breath, All with a tense grip around the dagger Relbag and Cyrte
had given her.
Whatever had been making a ruckus in the sewers yesterday was down here with
her, right now. She was no closer to finding out, from its claw marks and
leavings, what it was, but she had the distinct opportunity to discover it
up close and personal, and her blood was pumping hot in her veins at the
thought. The rats were running away from it, and by the size of its claw
marks, it might be big enough that it needed to use the main channels and
not any of the smaller side tunnels. If she was still and quiet, it might
pass her by, giving her the perfect glimpse of whatever was causing these
disturbances. She shrunk into whatever shadows she could find.
Silence. Blessedly, she did not break it with her incessant coughing. She
thought, for a moment, that maybe it had gone some other way, when a noise
and a smell assaulted her from accross the channel. From within a narrow
tunnel! A surprise. So much for its size limiting it to the larger
channels.
Without hesitation she slipped accross the channel as silent as she could
and into the narrow tunnel, uncertain what would be here. Surely whatever
lived in the sewers and made such noises was a vile and sickening beast...
The elk carcass came as a surprise. One did not expect to see a dead and
mangled elk crammed into the narrow tunnel of a sewer. If the massive teeth
and claw marks had not severed much of the flesh from it, it might not have
fit easily. Elk were rigid ungulates, less flexible than deer, and here it
was, twisted on the floor of the corridor. Elldrya scanned the northern and
southeastern curve of the narrow tunnel but saw not evidence of whatever had
dragged it here. But this, this was kill by the beast. This was no
discarded butcher's offal, tossed in the sewer because it was gangrenous.
This was hunted and dragged here. Elldrya was no ranger, but she would bet
an egg on that.
Whisper quiet, she placed her feet on stable ground around the corpse of the
elk. Maybe she had made some noise and spooked the beast as it was dragging
its kill here. How it got an elk into the city she did no know. To her
knowledge, there were no exits from the sewer into the world outside of
Arkane, none that she could fit through by pass door or dextrous maneuver,
anyway. She needed to see what it was... She was, by All rights, being
reckless. But she was not without reason for her actions. She sent her
Voice to All the citizens of the kingdom, who confirmed they heard the
movements of the beast, even from high in the mage's guild tower. She kept
them apprised of her movements. She circled around the outer channels of
the sewer as quickly and silently as she could move, keeping an eye on the
panicking rats, trying to discern where the creature had run off to. But
the rodent panick was generalized and effusive, infecting whole swarms of
them so the normally fearless creatures instead panicked and scattered at
every noise. The rats normally ruled the sewers, but whatever was down here
had put the fear of the gods into the vermin.
Writer: Elldrya
Date Thu Aug 14 23:54:28 2025
To All Arkane (Imm RP)
Subject Gemstones in Offal (2)
Running the circuit she had planned out while mapping the sewer paths,
she made her way to the sewage pool. It had been her suspicion, if
something could hide in the sewers, it would likely be able to hide in the
sewage pool. There was no telling what was on the bottom of that, besides
the obvious detritious, and if it liked the sewers perhaps the pool was a
cozy home for it. She checked the area, but saw no signs of disturbance.
She dropped a ration bar on the cleanest rock she could find, just in case.
She moved to finish her circuit back at the elk.
Which was missing. As she left, perhaps the beast had doubled back to
reclaim what was left of its kill? And dragged it, with no evidence, off
into the rest of the sewer? Or perhaps consumed it All here, bones and
antlers. Confused, Elldrya crouched in a dark corner and considered her
options.
She wanted to know, very very badly, whatever this thing was. Curiousity
burned in her like a fever. The rats were still in a panic... It may still
be here. If things got dicey, she was confident in her ability to escape
danger long enough to cast her recently mastered Teleport spell and get far
enough away that she would be unharmed. If only she could lay eyes on this
beast! It would All be worth it if she could report to Arkane what was
causing them such trouble. Whether chaos born or some more mundane
monstrosity, solid answers would put a lot of worried minds to rest, or set
them to the proper task of a solution.
She started moving. She had to try, before it slipped away from her like it
had Jochi and Relbag the day before. Swiftness was key, and with Fly she
floated over the stinking detritous of the sewer speedily and silently. She
worked to, as methodically as possible, clear All the rooms she could. She
had not yet completed her map, had only her roughest notes to utilize, but
she made her best effort. Room by room, All except the brightest room under
the town square, she flew through, looking for some evidence, a shadow or a
sillhouette, anything besides that it had claws and teeth, anything real and
measurable about its presence.
Nothing. As if it, and its elk dinner, had never been. The rats even went
back to their normal glaring, sizing up the toothpick of an elf as if
determining whether she was worth eating. Whatever had spooked them, it was
gone, and they were comfortable in their domain again.
Elldrya sighed, and let herslef descend into a fit of coughing. She shook
her head and made her way back to the room under the town square. She felt
drained and exhausted, adrenaline running out of her system to give her a
whole body ache from All she had just put her frail body through. As she
climbed to exit the sewers in the town square, she paused. Her jeweler's
gaze cought the distinct glimmer of gems. She plopped back down to the
ground, crouching low where the glimpse of light had flashed purple.
There, in the rubbish on the floor, were many discarded gems. Not gems...
These had come from no jeweler's cutting tools. They were flat and ovular,
thin. Almost like..
A vision flashed in her head, a memory, clear and bright as day. Mighty
wings outstretched, lighting filtering through thin brass and bronze,
reflecting and refracting. Layers and layers of fine and gleaming scales.
A sight to fill one with awe and amazement and a sense of smallness. An
overwhelming presence.
These were not ordinary gems. These were scales. Beautiful pink and purple
crystalline scales. She gathered up All she could find, rinsing hands and
gems in a stream from her decanter. She sent out her voice to report the
find to the kingdom. Oh, the mages in Arkane were going to get a kick out
of this.
Writer: Jhaken
Date Fri Aug 15 18:21:12 2025
To All Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject A Pilgrimage
Jhaken Talespinner knelt on his heels among the rubble as he so often did
when he returned to the devastation that was the once proud city of
Balifore. It was a pilgrimage he'd taken many times over the years, to see
the ruin the God-Son left of Jhaken's birthplace. To see the place where
his father and so many other brave Kender fell before Malachive's forces.
He'd been so young when Balifore fell that he could barely remember the
happiness that had pervaded the place. The joyful love of life that had
permeated the walls of the lost Kenderhome now only existed in the vague
memories of those who'd lived through its doom. Jhaken's generation had
grown up as lost children. Refugees and Orphans who never really had a
proper home. Their home had been a sacrifice to the forces of Chaos. A
sacrifice the other kingdoms were willing to make because it cost them so
little in the long run and rallied their people against the Warp. Such a
small price to pay. They were only Kender after all, not really a loss at
all to the likes of Gareth Keep and the Althainian Empire. To those great
champions of the Light, Kender were just a bunch of chaotic children. They
had no real value. No greater purpose in the balance of the world. No
champion would rise up to serve their heartless master's plan from among
such a race, so why protect them?
Jhaken had once heard a story that Kwainin had been prepared to end
Malachive when he was naught but a babe. To stop the Warp before it ever
rose and that in his infinite hubris, Austinian interfered and saved the
God-Son. And in so doing, he doomed the Kender of Balifore and countless
others to misery and death and war. At the time, Jhaken hadn't wanted to
believe it was truth. He'd wanted to believe the forces of good were better
than that. Now, however? Now he did believe it. In All the years since
Balifore fell, the so called Light spent more time and effort aggrandizing
itself and proclaiming its own greatness than it ever had rebuilding what
was lost or giving the displaced a true place to belong.
They accused him of not understanding, treated him and other Kender like
ignorant children. Conquered cities and expanded the great sphere of Human
influence as though that were All that really mattered to the so-called good
gods.
And so Jhaken came back here when he could. He came back to remember that
in the years since Balifore's destruction the Light hadn't replaced a single
brick. Hadn't replanted a single plant. Hadn't actually cared one whit for
the destruction of the Kenderhome.
Jhaken would not forget. He would not forget the losses his people had
suffered. Nor the passive contempt of the Pantheons of Light and Balance
toward his people's homeland. Someday, somehow, he would make sure they
paid for their treatment of Kenderkind.
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 19:18:37 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 19:23:59 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 22:02:38 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 22:35:29 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Aug 16 17:08:41 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Veil of Perennial Winter {u(XIII{u)
The Codex does not speak of frost as a simple season, nor of cold as an
enemy to be warded. Instead, it whispers of a veil, thin yet unyielding,
that settles over All who step into its domain. "Shroud" is the closest
word I can render, but even that feels incomplete, for what it describes is
not merely protection, it is concealment, endurance, and stillness woven
together.
The first traces of this spell surfaced in the Death Garden's Library, in a
ledger half-decayed by damp earth and time. The ink spoke of "white
silence" drawn across a battlefield, not snow nor ice, but a stillness so
profound that even sound faltered. A second fragment emerged in Dylan's
Library, where marginal notes described experiments with temperature that
could suspend blood flow without killing, a threshold between life and
death, preserved in chill.
Further west, in the towers of the Dragon Tower's Library, I found a hymn
disguised as a warding charm. Its verses spoke of winter as covenant rather
than curse, where one bound themselves to the patience of glaciers, the
inevitability of ice reclaiming stone. The same symbols surfaced again in
the Shalonesti's Library, carved into an oak lectern where no frost should
cling. And finally, the University of Althainia's Library contained
diagrams of layered glyphs, spirals of ice and breath designed not to lash
outward, but to encircle, enfold, and preserve.
Each library treated these fragments as curiosities, their contexts
fractured, their meanings ignored. But the Codex braided them into a single
lattice. It is not simply a ward against cold or a mantle of protection it
is a spell that cloaks the body and soul alike in perennial winter. To cast
it is to embrace stillness, to become the ice that resists decay, the snow
that muffles pursuit, the storm that hides armies in its veil.
And yet, there is unease. The Codex draws faint parallels between this
shroud and the spells of alteration that redefine the self. If Alter Beast
is transformation in motion, then the Veil of Perennial Winter is
transformation in stillness, where identity does not shift outward, but
freezes inward, unchanged and unyielding. Such permanence can protect, but
it can also entomb.
The final lattice line speaks of an undiscovered land, one where ice does
not melt and silence is worshiped as a language. The hint is faint, but it
suggests that the spell's truest form may have been born beyond Algoron,
carried here by echoes we have mistaken for invention. If so, the shroud we
wield now is but a pale reflection of a power buried in a place yet unseen,
awaiting the Conclave's boldest to seek it.
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:07:28 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:12:54 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:35:41 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:38:11 2025
Writer: Zorreau
Date Sat Aug 16 18:45:32 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows III
The fire in the hearth was low, crackling like a voice unsure of itself.
Zorreau leaned forward, casting the reports into its belly. One by one, the
names curled into ash. Not in disregard - but in respect. They had begun
their work. It was his turn to begin his.
They were seeking redemption. Seeking audience. He? He would seek
atonement through action.
A thought had taken root, as bitter and unshakable as old blood in snow: the
monsters of Necrucifer - those forgotten beasts who had basked in His
darkness, not as servants, but as gluttons - they still lived.
Some crawled beneath mountains. Some nested in the bowels of forsaken
cities. Some had taken new names, new shapes, twisting themselves to avoid
Her sight. But Zorreau remembered them. He knew them.
They had once called him brother.
And he would hunt them.
Not to destroy them - no. That would be too kind. To kill them would be to
grant them the same fate as Necrucifer: final, reverent, absolute. No - he
would do what no cleric or cultist could.
He would bind them.
A heresy of thought, to be sure. But Zorreau had long ceased fearing
heresy. Let the priests whisper. Let the apostles glare. He had never
needed their blessing.
Still... How? That was the question.
To preserve life without mercy. To hold will without consent. A task for
necromancers... Or worse. He would need to seek one. A shadowmage of the
old days - someone who still whispered to the bones beneath the earth, and
who remembered the tongue of transmutation and death.
Perhaps in the deathly mazes of the Spirit World. Perhaps beneath the
crypst of the Church of Stars, languishing in the Realm of Terror.
Somewhere, someone knew how to do this. How to take what remained and chain
it not to stone or steel, but to memory.
As the last paper curled into flame, Zorreau rose from his chair. He placed
the old Captains sigil back into its chest - but did not lock it.
Not this time.
He turned toward the great doors of his hall, drawing his cloak about his
shoulders like a shadow reclaimed.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Aug 17 22:25:47 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject The Shroud of Unlight {u(XIV{u)
The Codex does not speak of Darkness as a simple absence of sight, but as
a lattice of negations, a structure that once bound the perception of many
into a single, coordinated blindness. The modern spell known as Darkness is
but a shadow of that design, conjured in single rooms or over narrow
circles, localized veils where one caster's will pulls the light away. Yet
the original fragments whisper of a communal spell, a shroud woven not by
one hand but by many, descending over entire fields of battle like the
drawing of a curtain across the world.
The first fragments I uncovered were in the Death Garden's Library, written
in ink so faded it was nearly bone-white upon the page. The scribes there
recorded the "Song of the Hollow Sky," a chant meant to synchronize a
company's breaths until the air itself thickened with unseen threads. In
Shalonesti's Library, the echoes were different, rituals of warbands who
cloaked their movements in forests by summoning unlight, not to blind their
foes, but to erase themselves from the memory of beasts and spirits alike.
These accounts contradict, but together they show the breadth of what the
shroud once was: not illusion, not shadow, but a true rewriting of
perception.
The Dragon Tower's Library preserved the most explicit warning. A single
page, heavily sealed and nearly burned through, described how armies
vanished in their own spell, finding themselves unable to orient when the
shroud persisted beyond its intended span. Generals called it treachery,
yet the margins note in a hand not matching the main text: "Not treachery,
but overreach. The shroud has no edges when sung too long." I cannot
decide if this was warning or temptation.
The High Tower's Library framed it in religious tones. Priests of light
once condemned the Shroud of Unlight as a perversion of balance, a
deliberate severing of the bond between Algoron's creatures and the eyes of
their gods. They argued that such concealment was not a mortal right, that
to walk unseen even before the divine would unravel covenants binding sky to
soil. Yet the Codex implies this may have been precisely the intent, to
discover if the world could endure without those watching gazes.
At the Lost Catacombs, the fragments became mathematical. Etchings upon
stone described arrays of angles and coordinates that, when traced, echoed
constellations no longer visible in Algoron's night sky. I lingered long
over these, tracing the patterns against my own charts, and realized that
the geometry of the shroud aligned with stars that have not been seen for
centuries. The implication is chilling: perhaps the spell was not merely to
cloak mortals, but to unbind Algoron itself from celestial perception.
And so the spell persists only in shards. My own attempts at aligning
fragments suggest the shroud cannot be cast by one voice, it yearns for
chorus, for harmony among casters, and falters when borne by a single will.
In the Ebony Tower's halls, I have rehearsed whispers with students, brief
experiments where syllables overlap. Always the edges blur, always the
sense of direction slips away faster than sight. There is a sensation,
fleeting but undeniable, that the world itself inhales when the fragments
align.
The Codex continues to suggest that these fragments are not accidents but
markers. Each broken page is less a spell than a coordinate, a pointer
toward something not merely hidden but excised. The shroud may not have
been crafted to veil armies alone, it may have been practice, rehearsal, for
veiling a land itself. A land no map records, no chart dares sketch, one
cut from perception so completely that Algoron's own history passed it by.
If such a place exists, it is not merely hidden, it has been taught out of
memory.
The danger is obvious: to recover the Shroud of Unlight in its full form may
mean recovering the art of erasing. Yet the lure is undeniable.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Aug 17 22:54:39 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Toward the Unseen Land {u(XV{u)
The Codex has never yielded its secrets directly. Each fragment has been
scattered, each clue buried in contradiction, as if the book itself wished
to ensure no single hand could seize its fullness. Yet after months of
searching, tracing, and binding together scraps from libraries across
Algoron, the arc begins to take form. What seemed at first a miscellany of
spells and notes now points to a deeper thread, one that leads beyond our
maps, to a land removed from history itself.
The Regents of Feather, Tusk, and Tide revealed themselves not as trinkets
or curiosities but as markers of pattern, coordinates hidden in ledgers and
records, pointing not toward seas or coasts but toward absence. Each
fragment placed in the right tongue became a contour of a coastline never
drawn, a suggestion of a place that erases those who seek it. The glowing
sphere clutched by the priestess in the Shrine of Water, though venerated as
relic, whispers of origin elsewhere, far from any temple's foundation.
In the Breath of the Winds, the Codex spoke of heritage, the lineage of
Wujen arts refining a form of Battlemagick that once roared unbridled. The
fragments traced a continuity, a teaching passed like embers through hands
until only faint smoke remained. Yet the Codex does not mourn this dimming.
Instead, it points outward, to horizons unwalked, suggesting that the true
awakening of Conclaves strength lies not in perfecting what we hold, but in
recovering what we have forgotten.
The Veil of Perennial Winter, the Frost Shroud, carried the weight of
unyielding stillness. Libraries from Frostania to the Azure Tower hinted
that this spell was not designed merely for battle but for altering the very
rhythm of seasons. Its fragments describe ice not as an element, but as a
state of permanence: a world unmoving, held in an eternal pause. Such a
force feels less like a weapon and more like the work of a land itself,
shaping the flow of time. Perhaps the shroud we cast in our chambers is but
a mimicry of a climate that still breathes in exile.
Then came the Shroud of Unlight, a spell that was never meant to be cast by
one voice. Its nature demands chorus, weaving perception into negation
until direction and memory collapse. From Shalonesti to the Lost Catacombs,
its fragments aligned with constellations unseen, as though the shroud once
cloaked not soldiers alone, but Algoron itself from the watch of heaven. If
a land were to be veiled entire, such a spell would serve as its womb,
ensuring that no map, no bird, no star would recall it.
Through All this, my Witchlock research has become less divergence and more
convergence. At first I sought the threads of witchcraft to understand
their weaving now I see that the Codex itself is woven likewise, a tapestry
stitched in fragments across disciplines. Witchlock is not merely a binding
of magicks, it is a philosophy of interlacing, of reading absence as
presence, of finding meaning in the negative space between spells. What I
have uncovered in these libraries does not contradict the Witchlock, but
perfects its premise.
The Codex's whispers All converge upon a single truth: there is a place not
yet known to Algoron, excised from memory, veiled in unlight, locked in
frost, its entry marked only by broken syllables and relics misplaced. It
is no wonder the book scattered its pieces, such knowledge cannot be trusted
to one will alone.
And yet, it is precisely for this reason that we must act. I will gather
those willing to walk this perilous edge, to stitch together the fragments
into a chart not of seas or mountains, but of forgotten silence. Plans for
an expedition must be drawn, provisions prepared, allies called, maps
reimagined. For if the Codex speaks true, then the land unseen holds the
key not only to Conclaves awakening but to the very shape of Algoron's
future.
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 17 23:18:43 2025
To All ( IMM RP Fatale )
Subject A Gnome & A K{oende{pr - Lesson in Devotion.
The Moonlilly Fields swayed beneath Algorons pale sun, silver petals
trembling in the breeze. Zixlapix adjusted his robes, dagger ready, and
whispered: {oFatale, grant me steadiness in deaths work.
Across the field, a small, wiry figure spun forward, twin flaming shamshirs
flashing in arcs that caught the sunlight. Sarcastalust's black eyes
sparkled behind round glasses, his multicolored hair bouncing with every
acrobatic leap. "Ahhh, little priest! Bright robes, tiny dagger - planning
to poke me to death, are you? " he sang mockingly, landing a dropkick that
sent Zix sprawling. "Whooosh! Careful, dont hurt those delicate little
hands! "
Zixlapix rose, shaking off the pain. "Fatale guides my hand. Your mockery
cannot shield you from the End, " he replied evenly, voice steady despite
the bruises forming on his skin.
"All that shadow and menace, and yet you still need a stepstool to reach the
altar, dont you?" He landed another dropkick, laughing as Zix flipped
over twice backwards, slamming into the ground.
Zix raised his hands, kneeling from a smashed bed of flowers, whispering:
Holy flame of Death, Strike True! Bright fire crashed into the kender,
forcing him back. "Even now, you flail without precision. Fatale teaches
patience, not chaos. "
"Patience?! Smaesence. " Sarcastalust laughed, flipping over Zix's dagger
sweep. "If you wanted precision, you shouldve stayed in the library! Here
in the fields, little green gnome, it's called fun! Whooosh! " He lunged,
shamshirs slashing, spinning, and dropkicking with childlike savagery.
Zix murmured in prayer between movements, chaining spells, one after the
other: weaken, plague, poison, energy drain--each one lowering the kender's
defenses. Sarcastalust grimaced, still grinning. "Ooooh, trying to play
clever, priest? You think throwing spooky little spells makes you scary?
If Fatale is the god of murder, does he know hes letting you represent him?
Bold move!! "
Zix's, focused on his goal, took a deep breath before unleashing a psionic
blast that cut through the air. Sarcastalust stumbled, groaning, black eyes
widening, "Cowards and gnome tricks! " he gasped, falling to the Moonlilly
petals. "But mark my words, little green one -- next time -- things will be
different! Whooosh! "
Zix, bruised and bloody, dagger in hand, exhaled slowly. The field was
silent save for the whisper of wind through silver petals. {oFatale, may all
ends be true, he whispered. He had endured mockery, survived acrobatics and
blade, and enacted judgment in precise, prayerful measures.
Even amidst laughter and sarcasm, Zixlapix had glimpsed the weight of death
in mortal combat--and the lesson of calm devotion over chaos.
Writer: Lenore
Date Sun Aug 17 23:20:15 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM Bloodlust )
Subject {uOn the threshold
Lenore hovered in silence, robes suspended like smoke in water, before
the unfathomable dark. The Void was not absence--it was presence. Heavy,
waiting, indifferent. Even the silver currents of the Astral Plane seemed
reluctant to touch its edges.
She sat still, gazing into that abyss until her reflection of self blurred.
The more she stared, the more her mind whispered that there was nothing to
hold onto--not faith, not memory, not even the sense of her own form.
A thought drifted across her: If nothing endures, then what am I but another
shape dissolving into it?
Her fingers flexed against the weightless air. Did she mean to reach toward
the abyss, or steady herself away from it? She could not tell. Her body
felt both anchored and unanchored, as though a single thought might tip her
either into vanishing or remaining. The silence pressed against her like a
hand, and in that pressure she almost felt comfort. The Void did not judge
her, did not demand, did not answer. It simply was and in that, it seemed
truer than any prayer.
Her lips parted in a whisper, though even she could not hear it: "Perhaps
meaning is only the illusion that we matter to something larger. Perhaps
everything will one day be forgotten."
The idea did not frighten her. It did not console her either. It simply
hung there, like a star whose light no longer reached the living.
For an instant she imagined the blackness brushing her edges, drawing her
in, and wondered whether that would be an end or a beginning. The thought
lingered, then receded, like a tide withdrawing without reason. She one
pace or so forward and she could find out. Her eyes closed. When they
opened again, the Void had not moved. Neither had she, yet.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Mon Aug 18 16:07:47 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Mon Aug 18 16:44:00 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 18:36:16 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 1
Long Ago,
Raphiel climbed the white-gold stairs that shone with their own radiance,
rising toward his Fathers sanctum. Above him stretched the vault of
eternity, a blue-black mantle scattered with diamonds, stars wheeling in
slow, ageless order. Even he found it difficult not to pause, to lose
himself in the turning of that eternal wonder. But he did not stop. He had
begged an audience, and it had been granted. He dared not tarry.
As one of the Hundred Companions, this place was not unknown to him. Often
had he stood at his Fathers side, watching light poured into shadowed
places, hope kindled in the hearts of the faithful, and inspiration laid
like seed across the world. To be summoned here was not unusual. But this
was the first time he had ever asked to come.
He knelt before the Throne, brilliant with its aurelian blaze. Behind it
the world of Algoron turned slowly, bathed in sunlight from this vantage,
like a jewel suspended in warmth.
The voice of the formless figure of light upon the Throne suffused him
entire, touching every fibre of his being. It was like coming home, as
though the essence that had wrought his form now drew him once more into its
embrace.
"Raphiel, you come to ask of me an action" The voice was deep and warm,
resonant as creation itself.
"I have, Father. The young priest Maruf, his prayers are many. He calls
for thy aid in claiming a great artefact of the Light. The world below
still reels. Many suffer from the breaking and the new seas. Could we not
favor him? " Raphiel asked, his head bowed in reverence.
"You think him honest and true? " The question burned through Raphiels
mind, kindling warmth in his thoughts and heart.
"I do, Father. I sense no falsehood in him. His faith is pure"
"It does not seem pure to my sight, Raphiel. Indeed, I discern a trace of
something strange in this priests heart. Something new. " The voice
carried not condemnation but inquiry, curiosity laced with concern.
"But surely, Father, we can reward his faith? Mayhap such grace will
cleanse him. Many times hast Thou sent me to grant a sinner a second
chance" Raphiels words pressed forward, bold, perhaps too bold. For a
heartbeat he feared his overstep.
Silence fell. The universe itself seemed to wait, the wheeling of the
endless stars a chorus of expectancy alongside Raphiel. Yet when the voice
returned, it was not rebuke but pride and love, a fathers joy in his sons
audacious hope.
"Very well. You may go to him. Give him this service, this blessing.
Take three of the Companions with you. "
The voice receded, the Thrones light turning once more to Algoron. Raphiels
heart leapt with pride, his request granted. Yet a discordant note
lingered. Why had he been told to bring others? Was the danger such that
his light alone would not suffice?
It mattered little. He knew who he would call upon. He would go, and bring
the dawn to this priest, and help him claim the sacred artefact.
The Light would prosper. His Fathers kingdom would come.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 19:39:02 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 2
The four descended upon shafts of radiant gold, falling like stars given
form, to the world of Algoron. Each was wrought from the ageless, formless
Light into a being of unfathomable depth and power. Each was chosen from
among the Hosts of Heaven to serve as one of the Hundred Companions of the
Throne, bearers of word and deed from the Father of Goodness to His children
below, and bearers of justice to His enemies.
Their wings unfurled as they entered the air of this realm, now carried not
by heavens radiance but by the winds of the mortal world.
At Raphiels side was Tigurius, clad in gold, black hair falling about a face
severe, his eyes purest white. His wings bore the stippling of tawny
feathers like the hawks that stooped over Algorons northern cliffs.
Behind him descended Zauriel, her golden armor gleaming, her alabaster
pinions spread wide. In her hand she bore a staff of ivory, her sea-colored
eyes steady and unyielding, her long red hair bound in a golden laurel.
Flanking Raphiels other side was his closest friend, Phanuel the
Lightning-Bearer. His auric armor was worked with bolts of gold, each plate
etched with the motif of thunder given form. In his hand he carried a spear
wrought from a thunderbolt itself. His face was plain but noble, his short
curls shining the same molten gold as his eyes.
They checked their descent as the monastery in the forest of Haon Dor rose
beneath them, half-hidden by woods. Wings beat the air, holding them aloft
high above the structure.
"No one has marked our coming, " Zauriel said, her eyes sweeping the
grounds.
"Indeed. I imaginest this wilt be quite a shock, " Raphiel answered,
matching her gaze below.
"You have been one of the Companions long enough, Raphiel, " Tigurius said
with a smile, voice edged with playful reproach. "You neednt speak like the
scholars and watchers anymore"
Raphiel laughed gently, shaking his head, but his mirth faded as Phanuels
voice cut across them.
"One has seen us" The Lightning-Bearers nod drew their attention downward.
Almost at once commotion broke out below. Bells clanged from the short
tower, hurried and uneven. Shouts echoed. The four smiled knowingly in
turn, and descended.
They landed lightly in the courtyard.
The mortals gathered quickly, monks and clerics falling to their knees,
hands clasped in prayer, some weeping openly. Tigurius folded his wings and
marched forward, heedless of the awed cries, heading straight for the
library doors. Zauriel stooped to bless a child, gently touching his cheek.
Phanuel let his wings extend wide so that the bold might reach out and brush
them, smiling as he favored each supplicant with a look.
Raphiel alone searched the faces. The one they sought was not among them.
He turned as Tigurius flung wide the library doors.
There, framed in the threshold, stood a man in rich robes. The Bishop of
this place. His eyes widened, his mouth working soundlessly as he beheld
first Tigurius, then the others stepping into view, towering over the sea of
mortals.
"Great holy ones! " His voice cracked under the weight of awe. "We are
honored beyond All reckoning by your presence. How may we serve? "
The other three gave Raphiel a margin of deference as he stepped forward,
though they were his equals.
"We seekest Maruf Desellion, " Raphiel said, his voice resonant, gaze locked
upon the Bishop. "A monk and junior priest in thy care"
The Bishop stammered, hands fluttering, as though words themselves fled him.
At last he managed to recover.
"Ah yes. Right this way, holy ones"
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Mon Aug 18 21:09:57 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 21:14:35 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 3
The librarys interior was dim, lit by countless candles set behind glass
to shield the tomes and scrolls from open flame. Yet as the four seraphim
followed the Bishop, their own radiance rendered the candles meaningless,
each step casting shadows into retreat, each breath of their presence
smothering mortal light.
The place was larger than Raphiel had expected, descending through levels of
cellar and sub-cellar. Monks froze in their labors as the Companions
passed; some dropped the stacks of parchment they carried, others gaped
wordlessly, stricken by awe. Finally, they were brought to a long table
strewn with tomes and brittle, ancient scraps of vellum.
Raphiels eyes traced the open pages as he walked, his mind absorbing the
words in passing. Yet he found little of use. Zauriel did the same,
scanning with quick precision, while Tigurius and Phanuel moved like
wardens, their postures sharp, martial, wary.
At the end of the table sat a small man with ink-stained sleeves. His hair
was dark, nearly black even in the golden aura of the angels. A short
beard, unkempt at the edges, framed a face thin from neglect. Raphiel saw
the signs at once: a man too long in study, too little in care for his own
flesh.
"Ah, finally, more lamplight-" the man muttered, looking up. The words
died. The page slipped from his fingers and fell to the table. His body
trembled.
Raphiel read the mans aura, gold and bright, good and fervent. He knew the
face as well: it was the one behind the prayers, the voice that had risen
again and again to heaven. Maruf.
"Wha... This - I... I dont... " Maruf stammered, fear flickering in his
eyes. Strange, but not uncommon in those who beheld them.
"Thy prayers hath been heard, and we are with thee now, " Raphiel said,
stepping forward as the Companions closed around the table. "Tell us, Maruf
Desellion, what need drives thee to such petitions? "
It took long moments for the priest to gather himself. His hands still
shook as he rummaged through the chaos of manuscripts. At last he pulled a
single volume free.
It was old, bound in black leather, edges dry and splitting with age. On
its cover were markings. Some unknown to Raphiel. Others unmistakable:
angelic runes, the same symbols that haloed their heads in auric light.
Zauriels brow arched, and her eyes flicked toward Raphiel in silent
question.
"I believe I have found record of one of the Seven Grails, " Maruf said at
last, his hand resting on the book.
The Companions went still, exchanging glances. Concern shadowed Zauriels
face. Tigurius jaw set, his presence hardening. Phanuels expression was
calm, but his golden eyes asked questions without words.
"That cannot be, " Raphiel answered, voicing their collective thought. "The
Grails were sealed away for All time, by Armaleous, at the Fathers command"
"Yes, my lord. I know... I have read the forbidden scriptures, " Maruf
admitted, guilt flashing across his face. His voice stumbled from arrogance
to horror, then contrition. "W-what I mean is this: one of the vaults has
been broken. The Grail has been taken. "
Silence pressed upon the chamber. The only sound was the Bishops ragged
breathing, his face white with outrage and dread.
"I believe" Maruf swallowed, then forced the words out. "No. I know. From
all I have read, from the truth that burns in my heart: it was taken to
Bellus. One of the Nine Hells. "
Raphiel wanted to deny it. Yet he felt no falsehood in the mans words.
"That is Mencius' realm, " Tigurius growled. His eyes burned as he spoke
the name. "The pit of slaughter and butchery. Where the evils of war
unjust are birthed"
Maruf slid the black tome across the table. Tigurius did not move, his gaze
fixed hard on the priest. It was Phanuel, silent and steady, who reached
forth and opened the book.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 09:59:32 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 4
The tome was ancient beyond reckoning, and within its pages the
Companions found more than even Maruf himself realized he had uncovered.
Phanuel read swiftly, his angelic grace drinking in the lines until, midway,
his eyes halted. He passed the book to Zauriel. Her gaze lingered, lips
tightening. Then she handed it to Raphiel.
He saw at once what had stilled them both. Inscribed across a page was
angelic script, words veiled from mortal sight, visible only to the Host and
to the Gods themselves. It was a confession, a chronicle of failure,
written by some nameless guardian. The account spoke of his defeat at the
vault and the theft of the Grail within.
The trail was followed to the Gates of the Nine Hells. There, heretics
bearing Mencius mark had bled themselves to death before demons, sacrificing
their souls so the artefact might be delivered onward.
Raphiels jaw clenched as he passed the tome to Tigurius. The hawk-winged
angel glanced down, his face hardening, the white of his eyes burning
colder.
"Thou art blessed to have brought this to the Fathers sight, " Raphiel said
to Maruf, voice resonant as judgment. "We know what must be done"
That was all. Nothing more needed to be spoken.
The Companions turned in unison, their departure swift. Light erupted as
they left the library behind, rising from the courtyard and taking flight
toward the yawning chasm that led to Perdition itself.
"If the gods of Evil find even one good soul to wield it-" Tigurius spat the
words as they flew, as though they were poison in his mouth.
"We must prevent that, " Phanuel answered, steady, lightning glinting in his
golden eyes.
They All knew the truth: no artefact could matter more. No peril could
weigh heavier. The loss of a Grail to the Enemy would unmake the balance of
creation.
The land shifted beneath them as they passed from forest to desert, then
into the blighted wastelands. Ahead, the wound in the world yawned wide:
the Gate of Hell.
They descended.
The Companions landed in silence, surveying the ashen ground. Each readied
themselves in ritual instinct, blessings and invocations etched into their
very beings, practiced across eternity.
Phanuel braced with spear in hand, the thunderbolt-forged weapon alive with
crawling arcs of light. Lightning ran up his arm and coiled in his eyes.
Zauriel gripped her ivory staff, her sea-colored gaze steady, her face set
with solemn resolve.
Tigurius loosed his flail, its links wrought of hoarfrost, ice that could
never melt. Rime spread across his golden armor, the cold of judgment
bleeding outward.
Raphiel alone stood without a weapon. Countless times he had fought demons,
scourged evil, battled the spawn of night. But never had he set foot within
Perdition. Few among the Hundred had, perhaps only Tigurius among them, at
the defense of Lorastes, had braved that pit.
Raphiel drew breath, and fire bloomed in his palm. From it formed a blade
of living flame, bright and terrible. He raised it, the others eyes upon
him.
He was the one who had begged this mission of the Father. It was his step
that must carry them forth.
He nodded once. Then, wings low, halo dimming beneath the Gates hungering
glow, Raphiel marched forward into Hell.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 12:14:35 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 5
The halls of Hell were wrought from greasy black stone, slick with damp,
and stinking of sulfur and rot. Pools of foul liquid collected in the
cracks of the floor, and in their reflections the Companions saw twisted
visages: groaning faces that mouthed their names with obscene longing, their
expressions lurid and corrupt.
Hell was a maze. Its halls twisted back upon themselves, its passages
shifting like the guts of some monstrous beast. For days the Companions
walked, sometimes flying low when the ground broke apart into jagged rents,
and yet they found no opposition. Only silence, broken at intervals by
distant screams or the roar of some unseen beast.
What weighed most upon them was not the noise, but the absence. The sense
of loss.
Here the link to Heaven was faint. They still felt the thread of the
Fathers light binding them to their birthplace, but thin, fragile, stretched
across a chasm of blasphemy. Here their wounds would not knit as swiftly.
Their blessings would not restore with the same ease. Their strength
remained beyond mortal measure, yet with every step it lessened. And with
every step the darkness grew heavier.
It was on the fourth day that they were set upon.
They crossed a lowland of jagged earth, cavernous rents scarring the blasted
ground. They dared not take wing, flight would make them visible for
leagues. It was there that the first yowls rose: high, broken wails,
half-mad and half-sorrowful.
The Lost came stumbling from the hills. At first in threes and fours.
Then, seeing the living light within the angels, they broke into a ravenous
run. Rusted blades, axes, and broken spears waved high in skeletal hands as
they surged forward.
Raphiel met them with the sword of fire. His blade cleaved through them in
twos and threes, searing flesh and bone, but still they came on, more with
every heartbeat, their howls echoing through the broken land.
"They'll not cease! " Phanuel shouted, his voice rising over the din. "It
will only worsen. We must cut our way to the boundary of Bellus! "
The others nodded grimly.
Zauriel swept her staff in a wide arc, shattering the spine of a broken man
who carried twin hatchets and whose jaw dangled by threads of sinew. Her
body began to glow faintly, her radiance pushing back the swarm. Phanuel's
spear licked outward, piercing the skull of a leaping foe, the body
collapsing to be trampled beneath the clawing press.
Tigurius stepped into the breach. His flail of hoarfrost whirled wide, each
swing an avalanche of ruin. Wherever its links struck, the damned
shattered, frozen fragments spraying through the crowd. His wings flared as
he advanced, every blow cutting a corridor of destruction for the others to
press onward.
"There! The boundary! " Raphiel cried, driving the pommel of his flaming
sword into the chest of a hulking brute, once an ogre, now little more than
corrupted muscle and hate. He pointed with his free hand to a blackened
steel obelisk burning with ruddy orange flame, marked with the sigil of
Mencius.
The Companions pressed toward the carved stair that led to it. But as they
neared, they saw.
At the stairs summit, silhouetted against the burning boundary, a rider
awaited them. His horse was a horror, a carrion beast, its hide split open
with pustules, bone gleaming through strips of decayed flesh. The stench of
it reached even here. The rider himself was cloaked in a wet brown drape,
heavy with mildew, covering the shape of rusted chainmail beneath. In his
withered grip rested a scythe, its blade eaten with corrosion, its haft
swollen with rot.
Even at a hundred feet, his presence was unmistakable.
A Champion of Dragoth had come.
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 13:37:17 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 13:49:42 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 6
The rider came on with his scythe raised high. Heedless of the damned
swarming about him, he trampled them beneath the hooves of his rotting
steed, caring nothing for allies in his hunger for the Companions.
They met him upon the stair, a counter-charge of fury and light.
The clash was brutal. Raphiel and Phanuel were hurled aside by the wide
sweep of the scythe, its edge laying a bitter wound across Raphiel's right
wing. Zauriel slipped past the stroke, unleashing a burst of sunfire that
scorched and blinded the rider, driving him back into the waiting arc of
Tigurius' flail.
The Champion reeled, then twisted, dragging his mount into the blow, his
scythe whirling in a murderous arc. He absorbed Tigurius' strike, turning
the shattering force into the body of his decayed steed.
The Companions fought their way up the final steps, standing at last upon
the broken causeway before the boundary. But the Champion pursued, and with
him came the tide of the Lost. The angels met them, parrying the scythe's
ruinous swings, cutting down the scavenger souls that clawed and scrabbled
at their flanks.
Raphiel's gaze met Phanuel's. No words were needed. They stepped back
together, raising their hands, channeling the radiance within.
Twin suns flared to life, merging into a single wave of dawnfire. The blast
poured outward, annihilating hundreds of the Lost, sending the rest
shrieking into the wastes. The Champion staggered under the radiance, his
hands blistered, his cloak charring, his steed reeling blind beneath him.
Tigurius seized the moment. His golden armor was split, blood streaking his
face, yet his light still burned. With a cry he surged forward, his flail
shattering into the rider's shoulder, driving beast and master back. His
wings beat hard, lifting him aloft, and with All his might he brought the
weapon down again. The hoarfrost links smashed bone and armor alike, and
the carrion horse collapsed, its tormented soul spilling free at last.
The Champion fell, reeling, his body broken.
Tigurius stood over him, flail high for the final stroke.
But as the blow descended, the rider rose with a hiss like tearing steel.
The scythe lashed upward, a shriek of rust and hatred. Both weapons struck
true.
"No! " Zauriel cried, rushing forward.
Phanuel was faster. His lightning spear drove through the riders helm,
bursting through rusted steel, silencing the Champions scream. The corpse
fell still, rotted helm split, body crumpling in the dust.
Tigurius staggered. He fell to his knees, the scythe buried deep in his
chest. Then he toppled sideways, blood spilling from the wound in a dark
torrent. His breath rattled, shallow and broken, the glow of his eyes
fading with every heartbeat.
The Companions fell to him, pouring out their strength, their light, their
healing graces. But in this place, the Fathers hand could not reach. Their
power bled uselessly against the wound. This was death entire.
They knew it. And so they ceased their striving.
Instead, they placed their hands upon him, each whispering prayers of thanks
and farewell, their voices low and reverent. Words for Heaven, though
Heaven could not hear them here.
Tigurius smiled faintly through the blood upon his lips, drawing ragged
breaths that no longer found air.
And then Tigurius - Winters Herald, Defender of Lorastes, Hawk of the North
Winds - died.
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 14:10:42 2025
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 14:24:40 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 17:32:52 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 7
Bellus was a hellscape, even among the Hells. Unlike the blasted wastes
they had passed through, mazes of stone and despair, here lay ruined
farmland and burning villages. Souls screamed from within farmhouses that
burned without end, their voices begging release as faceless soldiers
pillaged and ravaged the fields and towns around them.
The three Companions walked on. They avoided the villages, and the horrors
within, as best they could. None spoke. The tragedy behind them was too
raw to name.
Zauriel wept openly. Her tears caught the dim light, glittering as they
rolled down her cheeks, the unguarded grief of a heart too vast with
compassion to hold it All in silence.
Phanuel walked as ever with measured steps, taciturn and vigilant, but his
eyes had grown distant. Remorse clung to him like shadows. He carried
Tigurius' flail in his hand, a silent vow to see their brother's mission
through.
Raphiel had shed his tears. Now he walked in silence, bowed beneath the
weight of guilt heavier than any wound. His flesh still burned with half a
dozen cuts and bruises from the Champions scythe, but it was nothing beside
the thought that it had been his call, his plea to the Father, that had
brought them here. Tigurius light had been spent in Hell. A life from
among the Hundred, gone. Even knowing that no word could have dissuaded
Tigurius from joining them, that the Hawk of the North Winds would never
have turned aside from battle, the guilt gnawed deep.
"Raphiel"
He looked up at the sound of Zauriels voice. She regarded him with eyes
still brimming with compassion, her face framed by ruby tresses shaken loose
from her laurel, now falling in disarray about her shoulders. Her armor
bore the mark of battle, a deep gouge across the breastplate where the
Champions scythe had grazed her. She pointed into the distance.
Through the haze of burning trees and the sky choked with black smoke,
Raphiel saw it, a light. Small. Glittering. A single mote etched against
the endless dark. Nothing else in this place could shine so.
"That must be it, " he said, his voice low.
Phanuel stepped beside him, following Zauriel's gesture. His armor was
cracked, his flesh scored with wounds, but he still stood ready. He nodded
once, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the ache.
Raphiel began forward, but Phanuel's hand stopped him.
"Wait"
The Lightning-Bearers eyes flicked from Zauriel to Raphiel. "We must tread
carefully. If the Lord of Vengeance finds us, he will snuff us out like
candles. We cannot burn too brightly"
Raphiels jaw tightened. Every fibre in him yearned to oppose the dark, to
shine defiantly in its face. But Phanuels words were truth. Against that
Lord, the god of wrath and slaughter, even their might would be nothing. He
could unmake them without effort.
So they dimmed their halos and kept low to the ground, shadows of what they
were, moving like hunted things in enemy land.
Any last hope of claiming the Grail without bloodshed withered as they drew
closer.
The light they sought blazed from within a city, its walls broken and
burning. The gates sagged, the ramparts blackened. Flayed men hung from
the battlements, their bodies still writhing in slow torment. From within
rose the sound of countless voices, warriors, baying and chanting. And
beneath it all, steady and terrible, came the roll of war drums.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 17:39:57 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 8
The three Companions crept to the walls of the dread city. Then, with
wings flared wide, they rose in unison, alighting upon the ramparts. No
guards waited for them. What need had this place of sentries? Raphiel
furled his wings, scanning for their path.
There it was, their target. An old fortress built into the rear wall of the
city. Once a bastion, now a ruin, desecrated a hundred times over. And
around it, pandemonium.
Warriors churned through the streets below, not the broken Lost, but chosen
killers. Men drowned in the endless Rage of Mencius. Torn banners from a
dozen dead kingdoms hung from their spears, yet here there were no sides, no
armies. Only slaughter. An orgy of violence without order.
Raphiel looked to Zauriel. To Phanuel. Both nodded grimly. Stealth had
never been theirs, and here it would be impossible. To claim the Grail,
they would have to carve their way through.
The choice was made for them. A warhorn bellowed, guttural and low. The
drums ceased. Thousands of eyes turned to the ramparts. Shouted challenges
rose like a tide.
Phanuel leapt first. His wings snapped wide, hurling him down into the
street. He landed like a thunderbolt, his spear lashing out in arcs of
lightning. Men fell smoking where he struck, limbs burning away, torsos
split. In his other hand, Tigurius' flail carved wide sweeps of frost,
shattering bone and steel alike.
Raphiel answered with fire. His sword blazed to life, and he swept down,
landing amidst the tide. He cleaved through warriors, his blade biting
through mail and bone, burning men alive within their helmets. He moved
with the speed of the Host, faster than mortal eyes could follow, but still
the numbers pressed. Blades found him. Axes rang against his armor. Every
wound slowed him.
Zauriel descended with fire of her own. Her staff blazed, sunfire pouring
in radiant waves, burning swathes through the throngs. She landed hard,
smashing skulls with thrust and sweep, unraveling the foul magics of her
enemies with a wave before caving in a screaming face with her ivory staff.
Each step forward was bought with blood. Hours of toil seemed to pass with
every foot gained. Raphiel lost count of his enemies felled, for every man
burned or sundered, two more surged forward. A spear tore into his thigh,
hot blood running down his greaves. He fought on.
He saw Zauriel, battered, armor torn, one wing bent and broken, feathers
splayed. Still she fought, light pouring from her in furious bursts, her
face streaked with blood and tears of righteous anger.
Phanuel was a storm. Raphiel could barely track him, lightning flashing,
spear licking, flail crushing. An axe caught Raphiel in the shoulder,
splitting steel, biting deep into flesh. He roared, his fire blasting the
man to ash. His silver hair hung in clotted strands, matted bronze with
blood. His armor was painted red, not with his light, but with gore.
And then silence.
The tide faltered. The three Companions stood alone, bloodied, gasping,
their weapons dripping. The square before the fortress lay open.
From its blackened doorway, shadows stirred.
Two figures stepped forth, their silhouettes monstrous. Demons, their
laughter cold and jagged, thundered across the square, worming into Raphiels
ears, into his very bones.
Writer: Lilly
Date Tue Aug 19 17:50:55 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_kingdom Zandreya Imm RP
Subject Lilly is Missing
The moon hung low over the icy waters of the Northern Reach, casting
silver light across the deck of the Black Gull, a pirate vessel infamous for
its raids along the Shalonesti coast. Bound to the mast with enchanted
rope, Lillyan elite scout of the Shalonesti Elveswatched the waves roll
beneath her, her emerald eyes burning with quiet fury.
She had been patrolling the outer rim of the forest when the pirates struck,
emerging from the mist like wraiths. They overwhelmed her with brute force
and crude magic, dragging her aboard before she could sound the alarm. Days
passed. The ship never docked, always drifting just beyond the reach of
elven arrows. The pirates jeered, boasting of ransom and war, but Lilly
said nothing. She listened. She waited.
Then came the stormless night when the crew grew drunk on stolen wine and
victory songs. They danced and brawled, their weapons discarded, their
minds dulled. Lilly felt the pulse of the sea beneath her feet and knew the
moment had come.
With a whispered incantation in the ancient tongue, she summoned the latent
power of her bloodline. The ropes, woven with crude magic, hissed and fell
away. Silent as moonlight, she crept across the deck, retrieving her twin
daggers from the captains quarters. Below deck, she found the powder
storesvolatile, unguarded, perfect. She rigged the barrels with a trail of
oil and flame, then slipped into the lifeboat tethered to the stern. As she
pushed off, the fire caught. The Black Gull erupted in a thunderous bloom
of fire and splinters, casting burning debris into the sea. Lilly didnt
look back.
For three days she rowed through fog and salt, guided by the stars and the
whispering winds of her homeland. Her hands blistered, her strength waned,
but her spirit never faltered. On the fourth dawn, the green shimmer of the
Shalonesti forest broke the horizon.
She was met by her kin with awe and relief. Word of her escape spread like
wildfire, and the tale of the elf who sank a pirate ship with nothing but
cunning and courage became legend.
And Lilly? She returned to the patrols, quieter than before, but fiercer.
The sea had tried to claim herbut she had claimed it first.
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 20:50:49 2025
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 21:06:42 2025
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 21:10:04 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 10:23:02 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 9
"So kind of you, " snarled one of the demons, brandishing knives as it
stalked down the steps, "to deliver yourselves All the way to our door. "
The two were alike in stature: hulking, black-scaled things, muscles coiling
beneath their oily hides. Barbed tails lashed the air. Their claws scraped
against stone with a sound like nails on chalk. One bore a serpentine face,
long fangs jutting, its slit-pupiled eyes unblinking. The other had a canid
cast, ragged ears twitching, its muzzle drawn back into a slavering grin.
The Archenemy. Born of malice. Shaped from spite.
Raphiel's skin prickled as his blade flared to life, fire licking along its
length. Phanuel was already blazing, lightning crawling across his armor,
his eyes burning with the hunger of battle. But it was Zauriel who raised
her voice, ragged though it was.
"I come to judge you in the name of the Mother! For the Heavens! " she
cried, her battered form shining, her radiance erupting despite the rents in
her armor and her torn wing.
The masses surged. The demons roared and hurled themselves forward. The
Companions raised their weapons, cried out their oaths, and met them
head-on.
Phanuel crashed into the first demon. The two grappled, snarling and
clawing, their struggle less a duel than a savage brawl. The beasts fangs
tore at his shoulder as his lightning spear punched jagged wounds into its
torso.
Raphiel swept in beside them, his flaming blade carving a burning gouge down
the demons back. Before he could finish the stroke, the horde broke upon
him, faceless warriors screaming with borrowed rage, weapons raised. His
sword swept wide, cleaving three at once, and then he detonated his dawn
light in a burst that vaporized those nearest, leaving only ashes and molten
iron.
Zauriel met the second demon with fury. She swept her staff in arcs of
searing brilliance, staggering warriors, driving white flame into the demon
that hunted her. Yet it pressed her, relentless, belching torrents of black
fire into the crowd, heedless of its own allies.
Phanuel struggled, bleeding, as claws raked his chest. Raphiel lashed out
with a savage kick, driving the beast from him. Phanuel surged back to his
feet, his spear lancing forward to leave a sparking wound in its chest,
while Raphiel guarded his flank, blade flashing, holding back the press of
screaming warriors that clawed to reach them.
Then Raphiel saw.
Zauriel. Her wing, broken, nearly torn free, hanging by sinew and blood.
She was being dragged down, smothered beneath the mob. The demon loomed
above her, vomiting a jet of hateful fire, black and searing, engulfing
friend and foe alike.
Raphiel bent his knees. Blood soaked his feathers, but still his wings
caught the air. He hurled himself forward, his charge tearing through
bodies, shattering men into ruin. His flaming sword jutted before him like
a lance, cutting a corridor of fire through the swarm.
He landed at Zauriel's side and burst outward in pure radiance. Sunfire
engulfed the square, burning the mob to ash, blinding the demon and driving
it shrieking to its knees.
He reached for her. Their hands met.
Her grip was weak, trembling. Her body broken. Her armor shredded. Her
other wing dangled uselessly, and from the rips in her flesh bled her very
essence, bright auric light spilling out like fire from cracked stone.
Her sea-colored eyes found his. She smiled faintly. Not with joy, but with
certainty.
"The mission, Raphiel" she whispered, every word torn from her ragged lungs.
"You must complete the mission. I know you understand... Now let go of my
hand"
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 10:30:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 10
Raphiel let her hand fall away.
Zauriel sank to her knees on the broken stones, her glow swelling from
within. White-gold radiance poured from her eyes and mouth, seeping through
every rent in her armor until her whole form blazed. The warriors shrank
back, their faces blistering in its heat.
Even the demons faltered, raising clawed hands against the growing light.
The radiance swelled until the courtyard was drowned in brilliance. No
walls. No sky. No ground, only a burning wash of white-gold.
Then she screamed. A cry torn from the very core of her being, raw and
defiant, a note that silenced All others. And then there was only fire.
The blast consumed everything. Raphiel was hurled onto his back, blinded,
deafened, though the sunfire did not burn him. When the light dimmed, he
and Phanuel lay in a vast crater. All was ash. The demons reduced to
drifting dust. The warriors obliterated. The city itself unmade, its bones
scattered into motes of molten ruin that still floated in the air.
Zauriel - Protector of the Innocent, Glorious Voice of the Dawn Choir - was
gone. Her song silenced forever.
"No... No, no! " Raphiel's cry tore from his throat as he dragged himself
to his knees. His wounds bled freely. His wings hung in tatters. His
shoulder throbbed, his hand a mangled claw that barely closed.
Phanuels hand steadied him. Raphiel turned, and grief twisted into horror.
The Lightning-Bearer was wrecked. Demon fire had melted his breastplate,
leaving only molten fragments clinging to raw, blistered flesh. His right
arm hung broken in two places. His wings were ragged lengths of feathers
and blood. But worst was his face, half torn away, jaw shattered, teeth
bared through a ruin of red. His right eye was gone, the socket burning
only with the faint light of grace.
"We must finish the mission, and go, " Phanuel rasped through torn lips.
"The Lord of Rage will have noticed that"
Raphiel forced himself upright, bones grinding, eyes burning with tears and
exhaustion. There, in the dust of the ruin, lay the prize. A plain cup of
gold, perfect and untarnished. No makers mark, no tool-scar, as though
poured from creation itself.
He reached down with his broken hand, fingers cracking further as they
closed around it. He knew they would not open again until the mission was
done.
Then the sound came. Not heard at first, felt. A groan of pure wrath
rising through the earth, swelling into a bellow that shook the air.
"Fly! " Raphiel roared.
They launched themselves skyward on shattered wings, burning the last of
their grace to climb. The ground writhed beneath them, enemies howling,
arrows loosed, spells cast. Bolts of fire and iron lanced through the air;
some found their mark, but there was no time for pain. Only speed.
The wastelands blurred beneath them. What had taken days they crossed in
moments, pushing beyond All endurance. Through Hells mazes they smashed,
breaking stone, shattering walls, blood streaming from every wound. Raphiel
felt bones snap in his wrist as he drove through, but still he beat his
wings, refusing to fall.
And then, the Gates.
Without hesitation, Raphiel hurled himself through, Phanuel beside him.
Behind them the Hells roared, the endless bellows of the Lord of Rage
echoing into eternity.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 14:34:22 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 11
On Algoron it was early morning, the hour just before dawn.
As they broke through the skies, the change struck them at once. Grace
flowed back into their forms, fragile but real. Raphiel felt his magic
strengthen, his bones begin to knit, bleeding wounds closing by degrees.
Torn feathers sprouted anew along his battered wings. Behind him, Phanuel
too was mending, his light slowly rekindling.
They gasped fuller breaths of clean air as they turned toward the monastery
they had left what felt like an age ago. Yet every beat of their wings was
agony, every motion wracked with pain. Their forms were ruin, and only
Heavens grace kept them aloft.
Their landing in the courtyard was heavy, stone cracking beneath Raphiel's
feet as he staggered. He limped toward the library doors, Phanuel following
with even greater struggle.
The few monks already awake froze where they stood. Horror spread across
their faces at the sight of blood-soaked angels. They fell to their knees,
some weeping, some whispering frantic prayers of mercy and deliverance.
None barred their path.
The library within was near empty, save for a few scholars who looked up,
beheld them, and dropped likewise into reverence. The Companions descended
the stairs, down to the alcove where they had first found Maruf.
He was still there. Collapsed at his desk, asleep upon parchment and books,
exhaustion having claimed him.
"Awaken" Raphiel said, his voice echoing aloud and threading into the
priests mind. "We return with the artefact thou hast sought"
Maruf stirred, blinking into the half-light. Confusion clouded his eyes at
first. Then came recognition, followed by shock... And something darker.
Horror, yes, but tinged with something Raphiel could not name.
With effort, he lifted his shattered arm and laid the Grail upon the table.
The golden cup struck the wood with a heavy thunk. It took All his strength
to peel his broken fingers from its rim.
"By the holy... " Marufs voice shook. "What... Happened to you? "
"Our journey was difficult" Phanuel rasped, before his strength failed and
he slid down against a bookcase, broken and bleeding.
"Take this" Raphiel said, forcing reverence into his voice as his gaze
lingered on the Grail. "A token of the Fathers love for thee, and for all
creation"
But Marufs eyes were already lost to it. His aura flared gold as he lifted
the cup, gazing upon it with trembling hands, as though it were the greatest
treasure the world had ever seen. For indeed it might have been.
"Yes... " he murmured. "Unprecedented. With this tool, success is
assured. No other outcome is possible"
Raphiel frowned. The words rang strange. He leaned heavily upon the table,
studying Marufs back. The priests aura gleamed with light, but not
Austinians mark. That sign, the Fathers claim, was gone. And yet only days
before, Raphiel had seen it burn brightly within him.
Phanuel raised his eyes weakly as Maruf moved toward him, but said nothing.
Raphiels unease sharpened to dread.
"Maruf Desellion, " he asked, voice low, "to whom dost thou pray? "
The priest turned.
A knife of blackened bone jutted from Phanuels chest. His light flickered,
then went out. Blood ran down Marufs hand, bright against the Grail he
still clutched.
Raphiels breath caught. His brother lay dead.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 15:00:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 12
Raphiel's sword blazed to life in an instant, fire rippling along its
edge, and he lurched forward to bring judgment upon the priest. Every fibre
in him cried for retribution, for Maruf's blood to spill upon the stones in
answer for Phanuel's.
But he could not.
The law of Heaven bound him. His golden aura forbade it, written into his
very being as immutable as breath. To strike the faithful, no matter their
corruption, was denied him. His arms locked, his body rebelled, and though
his heart thundered with fury he stood frozen, incapable.
Maruf grinned, lips stretched too wide, teeth glistening red. A rictus of
insane joy. He lifted the Grail in both hands, daubed Phanuels fresh blood
into its rim, and stepped back, reveling in the act.
"This is beyond even you, Angel of the Father" he said, voice thick with
triumph.
Raphiel's mind reeled. He reached for the threads of faith that bound this
man to the Light, the golden cords of prayer and devotion he had seen woven
into his spirit. If he could sever them, render him powerless, this madness
might yet be undone. But what he touched was wrong. The cords did not run
to the White Moon, nor to Austinian's throne. They vanished into some
hollow emptiness. They sang not of creation, but of void.
Maruf's gaze flicked to Phanuel's body. His eyes lingered upon the dagger's
hilt still lodged in the angel's chest. His hand twitched, but whatever
thought he entertained he dismissed.
Instead he uttered words Raphiel had never heard before. Harsh, guttural
syllables, like the sound of stone cracking, or bone splintering under
strain. The air tore apart. A gateway ripped open, its edges seething with
black light.
Maruf cast one last wild glance back at him, a look of deranged exultation,
and stepped through. The portal sealed with a hiss, and he was gone.
The silence left behind was wrong. No lingering trace of moon or god. Only
a void where the magic had been, as though the world itself wanted to forget
what had just transpired.
Raphiel sank to his knees beside Phanuel. His hand closed around the dagger
that had ended his brothers life. It was impossibly cold, a chill that
burned as though it did not belong to this realm. As he touched it, the
blade began to unravel. Shards flaked away, then dissolved into fine dust,
until even those grains came apart into atoms, into nothing. Forgotten.
Phanuel's face was still. Not twisted in shock or pain. Just empty.
Utterly still.
The rage within Raphiel broke. His fire guttered. His breath came in
shuddering sobs as he wept.
He wept for the Lightning Bearer.
For the Watcher of the Throne.
For the Golden Champion, his brother.
The blood pooled cold upon the stones, his own tears falling to join it.
There was nothing more he could do. No miracle to summon. No grace to
give. Only grief.
And then came the weight, the inexorable pull of Heaven, calling him back.
He could not resist it, but his spirit trembled. What was he returning
with? Not victory. Not triumph. Not even a shard of hope. Only failure.
Only sorrow.
They had been deceived. Used. He could not even name the power that had
stolen Maruf from them. Void-born sorcery with no mark of moon or god.
He thought of Zauriels sacrifice. Of Tigurius fall. Of Phanuels death
beneath a priests hand.
What ends had All of this served? What power now held the Grail?
Raphiel lowered his head, clutching Phanuel's lifeless hand as the world
around him dimmed. His heart was a chasm of grief, and within it questions
that shook his very understanding of reality.
He could not imagine the answers.
Writer: Seyzule
Date Wed Aug 20 15:08:03 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 15:12:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread Epilogue
Time had passed, if time could be said to pass in the High Heavens.
Raphiel did not know how long. He only knew that he was whole again, his
wounds knit, his form restored. Yet the weight in his heart remained.
He stood on the banks of a river whose waters ran crystal and clear, singing
over smooth stones. The banks were soft and golden, with lush greenery
spilling up around them, swaying gently in an eternal breeze. A short
distance away, an old man played with children, tossing them a brightly
colored ball that rolled from hand to hand, their musical laughter mingling
with the sound of the lazy current. The peace of the place was absolute,
untouchable.
As Raphiel approached, the man stepped away from the children, who continued
their game without pause. He turned, and his eyes, deep, sympathetic, and
infinite with sorrow, met Raphiel's.
"Hello, Raphiel" the old man said. His voice was rich, resonant, and filled
with such warmth that it lit the angel's spirit with awe.
"My King" Raphiel whispered, falling to one knee. His wings spread wide in
abject abasement, the gesture of one consumed by guilt. "I have failed
Thee. I am unworthy of Thy grace. "
The old man was silent for a moment. Then he placed a hand upon Raphiels
brow.
"It is true that you failed" He said gently. "But it is not true that you
are unworthy" His sigh was soft, heavy with compassion. "I know your pain,
for it is My own. What you mourn, I mourn also"
Raphiel dared to look up. In the face of the Father he saw sorrow beyond
reckoning, yet not anger, not blame. Only compassion untainted, love
untouched by judgment.
"I too mourn the loss of your companions" The old man said, and His voice
seemed to ripple through the waters and trees alike. "Zauriel, Tigurius,
Phanuel... They were wonders to behold, lights of My choir. Their
sacrifice weighs upon us all" For a moment He looked into the distance, as
though seeing them still, and a smile touched His lips, tender, grieving,
proud.
"How did the priest do this, my King? " Raphiel asked. His voice broke
with anguish. "How is such a thing possible? "
"I do not know" The old man said, His eyes grave. "And that troubles me.
It lies outside of the natural craft" He paused, His gaze falling deep into
mysteries even He could not pierce.
"Then it was not born of evil? " Raphiel pressed, his voice barely more
than a whisper. The admission itself shamed him, that he could not even
comprehend what had stolen so much.
"No" said the Father. "It was something else. Something new... Or perhaps
something very old. "
Raphiel bowed his head, lost in confusion. If even the Father could not
name it, then what hope had he of understanding?
The old mans hand rested upon his shoulder. "We must not linger on what
might come. We must tend to what is. The sacrifice of three of the Hundred
is no small loss. Their deaths must carry meaning. The Grail must not
remain in strangers hands. You must go, Raphiel. Find it, and return with
it"
"I will send others to guard the remaining six. But this task, this
redemption, is yours. "
Raphiel rose to his feet, the words heavy in his chest. He lowered his
head, and with solemn reverence gave his vow:
"Thy will be done, Father. Thy Kingdom come"
He turned from the riverbank, wings lifting once more. The weight of grief
still pressed upon him, but now it was joined by purpose. A mission not
only of duty, but of redemption.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 20 16:27:34 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows IV
The manor stood silent beneath a low and brooding sky, its high windows
casting pale reflections upon the stone floors below. Outside, a wind
stirred the trees into whispered speech, but within, All was still. Zorreau
de la Vega stood alone in the central hall, shrouded in the deep folds of
his cloak, the hearth-light dancing across the burnished edges of his old
armour, long unworn.
He raised his hand, fingers curled in a sigil from the old tongue. The air
split with a soundless pulse. A shimmer like heat upon stone grew before
him, warping the very fabric of the world.
And then came the light - cold, colourless, yet powerful in its bearing.
Without a word, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold of the summoned
gate.
He emerged within a strange and sacred place.
It was as though the world itself had been peeled back and he now stood in a
place behind the sky - a hollow of clarity framed by walls that stretched
endlessly into the heavens, black and unyielding as if carved from the void.
The sun shone above, though it seemed neither warm nor real. Beneath its
light flowed a gentle waterfall, its sound soft as memory. A brook
meandered through green grass, and for a moment, the air held the peace of a
time before war.
And there - amidst the serenity - stood the Crossover.
It was not man, nor beast, nor even truly spirit, but something other. Its
form shimmered with translucent golds and pale flame, ever-shifting,
ungraspable - as if it stood both within and beyond the world. Eyes, if it
had them, did not rest upon Zorreau. And yet he knew he was seen.
There was no voice exchanged. None was needed.
Zorreau bowed his head in solemn deference. "I seek that which lies across
the veil - the realm of the faded, the forgotten, and the unending. Grant
me passage. "
The Crossover moved not, but the air around it bent, and the world behind it
peeled open - a gate of mist and shadow, shaped like a tear in the fabric of
life itself.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
The world dissolved.
There was no sensation but silence - no threshold crossed, no pull upon the
flesh, only the sudden vanishing of All things known.
When sight returned, it brought with it fog - thick, churning, eternal. It
clung not only to the skin but to the soul, pressing inwards with the weight
of things long buried. The air was cold without bite. The silence was deep
without peace. This was the Spirit World - the place between breaths, where
memory dwelt and the dead whispered not in voice, but in feeling.
There were no stars above. No horizon. No path. Only the endless pall of
grey and white, folding in upon itself like a shroud.
And yet, Zorreau walked.
He moved not by sight but by instinct - by the pull of his purpose, dark and
unrelenting. Each footfall left no mark, but he felt the air shift with
every step, as if the very world stirred to watch.
Fleeting bursts of light broke the fog in distant flashes - not visions, but
impressions. A scream. A blade. A girls laughter, long dead. His own
voice, once raised in war. Images of things done, and undone.
He pressed forward.
He had not come for absolution. Nor redemption. But for knowledge -
ancient, forbidden, veiled in shadow. The beasts that yet roamed Algoron,
forged in the crucible of Necrucifers will, had no place in the new order.
And yet, to merely destroy them would be to discard their worth.
He had seen too much death to believe it noble.
He would bind them.
To do so, he would need the means - a way to sustain life through
domination, to hold not just body but essence. Necromancy alone would not
suffice. Nor transmutation. What he sought was the convergence of both:
the art of preserving through corruption, of reshaping through mastery of
soul and spell alike.
Somewhere, in the folds of this world between worlds, that knowledge
endured.
He would find it.
And so he vanished into the fog, his form swallowed whole - a single black
thread weaving through the grey, drawn onward by purpose, and the promise of
power hidden deep in the places the living dared not tread.
Writer: Ehlwynna
Date Thu Aug 21 13:50:34 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Thu Aug 21 14:16:17 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Imm Rp
Subject Building Bridges (-part one-)
It had barely been a month since they had begun to plan this project,
and the first shipment of stone had arrived, ahead of schedule. The
first stones to arrive were rectangular, twice as wide as he was tall
in two dimensions, and twice that in the third. These were to be the
foundations of the massive arches. They had been delivered to a
freshly cleared staging area at the base of the mountain, near the
sinkhole. The trees had been harvested and milled into lumber that
would be used to form the arches, and eventually removed as the arches
were completed.
Kraxul inspected the finely chiseled boulders, searching for
imperfections. They appeared flawless to the Thane, but he awaited the
arrival of his engineers, who he expected would confirm that the
dimensions were true.
They had been quarried from low on the mountain, and the granite in that
area was far lighter in color than the stone that made of the walls of
the city of Thaxanos. There were four of these huge white slabs, with
many more to come. The Thane imagined he would need to expand the size
of the staging area, in anticipation of the usual construction delays.
He scribbled notes in his ledger to that effect, then looked up to mark
the arrival of a pair of identical Dwarves.
The twins were short, even by Dwarven standards, their white beards
reaching to the top of their boots. They both wore identical overalls,
black boots, and clean white cotton shirts. They each wore brass-
rimmed spectacles, dangling so low on their noses, they appeard to be
on the verge of falling off. Their appearances were so alike that few
even bothered to call them by their names. They were simply 'The
Engineers', or 'The Twins'.
Kraxul gave them a nod, which was not returned as they immediately went
to work with their measuring strings and grease pencils.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Aug 22 08:16:14 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Fri Aug 22 18:24:44 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Sat Aug 23 09:26:35 2025
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Aug 23 09:42:51 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief I
The night hung thick over the forest. Wet and swollen with old rain and
the earthy smell of petrichor filled the senses . Crickets dared not chirp.
No wolves howled. Even the trees stood silent, their limbs taut and still,
as though they too feared to draw the wrong kind of attention.
At the heart of a cleared glade, a camp glowed in the gloom, its fires
flickering low. Men moved in pairs along the perimeter, patrols weaving
careful circles through the dark. Armor chinked softly with each step steel
caught faint glints of firelight before vanishing back into shadow. Their
voices stayed hushed, their eyes sharp. Here, they kept their discipline.
Here, they stood vigilant against what the night might hold.
Blinx floated just beyond the edge of the torchlight, a shriveled thing
hidden in the mist and umbra. He was little more than a shadow, brittle,
emaciated, hunger-bound. His skin was the color of grave wax, his ribs a
ridged cage around a hollow chest. His wings beat with erratic pulse.
He tilted his skeletal head, feeling the vertebrae in his host body shifting
softly.
A fragile flame, so young, so slight,
They've left a child to the night.
The tender ones are quickest claimed,
Their dreams the richest, mine, their claimed.
His eyes, deep wells of crimson fixed on a lone figure by the
fire: a young man seated in silent watch, his face still touched with the
softness of youth.
Writer: Arrdyn
Date Sat Aug 23 17:21:02 2025
To All ( Yinn IMMS RP )
Subject Field Observer Report #1
*A missive written in an archaic Yaenni dialect*
Greetings and Glory to the Keeper of Words and the Path of Enlightenment,
May your light lead the People into a prosperous future.
By the will of the Keeper's council, I have embarked on the assigned mission
and made my way into the nominally civilized reaches of the Althainian
Continent, embedding myself within one of the secondary kingdoms therein,
a dry and dusty city named New Thalos. I have mastered the native tongue of
this city and established myself as a full citizen. When other citizens
have commented on the oddity of a lone Yaenni female operating openly in
non-Yaenni controlled territory, I have been honest: informing them I have
to come to watch and learn and try to understand the rest of Algoron. This
explanation is sufficient for most, particularly when they begin to realize
how different the People are from the other races of this world in both
attitude and temperament.
My initial comprehension has undergone a number of fundamental shifts in
understanding. The situation outside of Shokono and our own hidden lands is
far more volatile than we believed. The mindset of these people is baffling
to me. The Warp threatens the continued existence of everything they
believe in, and they do nothing to unite and throw it back from this world
except offer empty platitudes and arguments. Their clans spend ridiculous
amounts of effort in slaying one another for pride and prestige, while their
true enemy largely walks unmolested. When a servant of Chaos rears his
head, they do not call a hunt and hound them to the grave... They busily
backstab and sabotage each other instead. They show no willingness to work
together for a greater good, in obvious defiance of the historical precedent
that suggests otherwise.
Gone is the era when an invasion of the People was sufficient to focus the
whole of Algoron on stopping us from conquering them. They have no heroes
left to rally and inspire them to the greater benefit of the whole world.
They have fallen into a weakness they may never be able to recover from.
I fear the outcome when the God-Son's forces stir once more if nothing
changes. They stand divided and a divided shield will not protect this
world from disaster.
My mission, however, continues. I will do what must be done to observe,
record and pass on my understanding to the Keeper and his Council, for the
good of the People.
Your devoted Observatrix,
Arrdyn Malyx,
Watcher in the Dark
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Aug 23 22:16:43 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Sun Aug 24 10:00:06 2025
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sun Aug 24 16:16:07 2025
To Shadow Telthian Symantha ( Yylara Tesirtheok Suzero Nikayk All admin Tritoch Cayenna RP )
Subject The bridge of black wings: {uearly resistance (II)
"Then why did you vote for me to try? " The family was gathered for a
weekly meal, and an elder Uncle was causing some frustration for Tsacherus.
"I didn't think you'd be damn fool enough to succeed, " the elder growled,
"but now it seems you may. "
"And, you'd have me stop? I won't. It's the right path. "
"The yinn race is strong. " -pound- "Proud. " -pound- "Independent!
Unperturbable. Unchanging. Unyiel-"
"Uncle! " the pounding on the table ceased. "The point. "
"Eh? " his uncle glowered and waved away the interjection, but did not
resume the rant. "The humans count their adaptability as their strength.
Not fixity. Purists, now they're not purists. They worship Necrucifer, now
they worship Drakkara. They're not rising with the tide, they're tumbling
in the waves! "
"That's not-"
"I'm not finished! " his uncle snarled, asserting his right as an elder to
be heard. Tsacherus bowed his head and exhaled his objections as breath,
obedient but not chastened. His uncle continued. "We have worshipped the
black moon since it tore a hole in our sky and declared itself to us.
Worshipped Drakkara since before we knew Her name. Nephew, you cannot place
yourself in the human hierarchy. At the bottom of it. They are weak. "
"Weak, " Tsacherus repeated, head still bowed, but now he looked up at his
uncle. "Weak is a race that scattered to the wind. Weak is hiding in the
wilderness, uncle. We are strong individually but as yinn we are nothing!
" He stood abruptly, gesturing broadly around. "Our people are nothing,
uncle. They live in refugee camps. Take work as mercenaries and assassins!
I can change that, Uncle. The Witch-Queen will grant us an estate, there,
on Arkania. We will house our people. Give them purpose again. And yes,
the strength of the humans is their adaptability. Let us mix our strength
with their! Fold it together. Beat out the impurities and wield the
keenest edge. "
There was a pause, and his uncle said quietly, "No. I forbid-"
"You forbid? " Tsacherus hissed into silence and stillness in the great
hall of the Nightingale clan. All eyes were on him, on his hand that
gripped the hilt of the sword at his side. He looked down at it himself.
He had not twisted his hand, not unlocked the sword from its scabbard, nor
exposed the four fingers of blade which, in this home, would have signalled
ruin. Proximity to calamity brought calm, and Tsacherus made a show of
relaxing, allowing his hands to fall to his sides.
"No Uncle, I'm sorry. This you cannot forbid. The family had already
decided - you have already agreed, and I will not go back on what I have
begun. This is right for us. " Tsacherus sat back down and bowed his head
respectfully.
His uncle nodded, and broke bread. Still glowering, he made a wisecrack
about taxation from Shokono city, and the Nightingale clan broke out in
laughter and debate about local empire while they sat down to eat.
Tsacherus wondered if that was the last he'd hear from this particular uncle
on the matter.
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Sun Aug 24 16:36:10 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun Aug 24 18:37:30 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XII
Ulyssus closed the tome he had been leafing through, a study on moonlit
hymns and their origins, and set it gently back on the oaken table. The
Crystal Monastery's library seemed to hum with quiet knowledge, the faint
magical lights reflecting in rows upon rows of glassy shelves. Around him,
the silence was broken only by the occasional shifting of parchment and the
soft, rhythmic breathing of the dozing librarian behind his desk.
He adjusted his white cloak and made his way toward the southwest exit, the
polished crystal floors cool beneath his boots. Down the corridor, the
faint scent of incense gave way to something sharper with the smell of burnt
herbs, alchemical reagents, and the clean tang of magic at work.
The laboratory was starkly different from the warmth of the library with the
thick stone walls blackened in places by old scorch marks, stone tables
rising seamlessly from the ground, the very air shimmering faintly with
protective wards. A few novices and monks were already seated on heavy
stools, while at the front stood Brother Calmar, an older monk with stooped
shoulders and a long braid streaked white. His eyes, however, gleamed with
sharp intensity.
"Today, " Calmar said, his voice gravelly but steady, "we turn our attention
not to healing the wounded, but to sanctifying the ordinary. A cup, a
candle, a staff, too, may carry the Light of Kantilles when blessed with
intention.' Do not mistake the simplicity of the object for the smallness of
the act."
Each novice was given a plain object from the table before them: a stone, a
cup, or a small taper candle. Ulyssus received a smooth river stone, gray
and unremarkable. Calmar instructed them to begin not with words, but with
focus, channeling their will through steady breathing, envisioning the Light
of Kantilles filling the space between their hands.
Ulyssus cradled the stone in both palms, closing his eyes. He thought of
the monastery bells at dawn, of the golden warmth in the chapel, of the
second tenet: In the Light we serve. His breath slowed, his thoughts
quieted, until the weight of the stone seemed to change, no longer cold, but
faintly warm, pulsing as though in rhythm with his own heart.
"Now speak, " Calmar prompted, "not to the stone, but through it. "
Ulyssus whispered a blessing, words simple and steady. When he opened his
eyes, the stone bore a faint shimmer, its surface catching the glow of the
laboratory wards like starlight on water. Calmar passed behind him and gave
a small nod.
Around the room, candles flickered brighter, cups seemed to carry a subtle
warmth, and even the plain stones took on a quiet radiance. The lesson was
not about power, Ulyssus realized, but about intent, that holiness could
dwell not only in sacred halls, but in the simplest of things, if carried
with care.
When the exercise concluded, the novices placed their newly blessed items
back upon the central table. Calmar dismissed them with a reminder:
"Remember, children of the Light, when you bless, you do not change the
object. You change its purpose. "
Ulyssus lingered a moment longer, his fingers brushing over the stone before
setting it down. As he stepped back into the hall, he felt the echo of the
blessing still in his hands. Even the most unremarkable object, like the
most unremarkable act, could carry the Light into the world.
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 24 22:20:25 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM RP Mencius )
Subject "The Old Vengeance." (I of II)
The mountain air was thin and sharp, smelling of stone and pine resin.
Zixlapix's white robes were dust-streaked, but he moved with the quick,
deliberate steps of a deep-gnome who had long since learned how to tread
dangerous paths. His belt chimed softly with each step--dagger, censer,
Fatale's scripture--tools of a novice priest with an appetite for more than
prayer.
When the shrine came into view, it wasn't what he expected. No crumbling
altar, no ghosts, no rusted weapons. Instead, there were
people--half-starved men and women in scavenged armor, eyes ringed with
exhaustion but burning with purpose. They stood among piles of stones
carved with the symbol of Mencius: two crescents, locked like jaws.
The eldest stepped forward, his face lined like cracked granite. "You come
for the shrine, " he said, voice flat. "You carry the mark of the
Dread-Brother. Are you here to finish what was begun? "
Zix adjusted his grip on his parrying dagger, though he did not raise it.
"I come for my Lord's work. This shrine is forgotten. It belongs to the
Black Moon once more. "
A murmur rippled through the group. Some drew blades; one spat. "Mencius
is not forgotten, " the elder said. "His vengeance burns in us still. We
have debts to settle, blood yet unpaid. We thought you were sent to lead
us. "
The young priest tilted his head, curiosity flaring. Here were not ghosts
but living faith, brittle and desperate. He could almost feel Fatale's
amusement pressing at the edges of his mind. To take the shrine by force
would be simple. To wield these remnants? That would be a greater murder.
"Your debts, " Zix said, letting the words fall like coins on stone, "can be
sharpened. But not for a dead god. His rope has frayed; his hand is dust.
The Black Moon is full and Fatale's blade is bright. Swear your vengeance
to Him, and I will see your purpose rekindled."
The silence stretched seconds before becoming minutes. Zix quietly casting
a spell of blessing and frenzy on the mass of emaciated Mencianites. Then,
slowly, one knelt. Another followed. The elder hesitated, then let his
sword fall point-first into the soil.
Zix stepped forward, censer swinging, the smoke rising like a coiled
serpent. "Then let us begin, " he said, his smile almost kind, his eyes
edged with fervor. "The shrine will bleed again. "
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 24 22:30:21 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM RP Mencius )
Subject "The Old Vengeance." (II of II)
The smoke of the censer lingered like a living thing, curling over the
carved stones and the kneeling figures. Zixlapix stepped back, letting the
silence press in. The shrine's air had changed; the bitter tang of old
devotion was gone, replaced by something sharper, hungrier, darker.
The elder's eyes met Zix's, wide with awe and fear. "It... It feels
different. We--" He stopped, his voice faltering.
"Different, yes, " Zix said softly, sheathing his dagger. "The debt you
thought owed to the dead god is nothing. It has been claimed by the Black
Moon. Your vengeance is no longer scattered--it is Fatale's to temper, ...
To wield. You are old blades, now pointed true and given back their edge.
"
The group stirred, unsure how to respond. Some bowed lower, some whispered
prayers that were not Mencius's, but the words carried weight, power, and
the chill of inevitability. Zix lifted his censer once more, letting the
last coils of smoke drift skyward, curling like fingers reaching for unseen
stars.
Zixlapix smiled at his work, flush with Fatale's divinity spreading His
blessing throughout the old shrine. The stones underneath began to stir,
the air sung, and unholy vigor rekindled.
He walked the length of the shrine, noting the subtle changes: a dagger
embedded in stone now glowed faintly red in the torchlight, a sigil faintly
carved in black where none had been before. The shrine would bleed again,
but on Fatale's terms.
As he stepped outside, the mountain wind bit through his robes, but he did
not shiver. A smile flickered across his face, one of patience,
calculation, and quiet triumph. The novice priest had learned something
tonight--not the raw thrill of murder, nor the fire of immediate vengeance,
but the deeper, slower art of control. The shrine behind him whispered with
new life. Somewhere in the shadows, Fatale's amusement brushed against his
mind like a velvet blade. Zix walked down the stone path, his white robes
streaked with ash and smoke, each step measured, each breath a promise.
The Black Moon hung low above and the world was better, brighter.
Writer: Tamello
Date Mon Aug 25 12:36:47 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nCleansing of Spirit : {oPathfinder{n V
Tam slunk through the shadows as best he could as he retraced the step
through the tunnel that lead him from his current destination. The dirt
tunnel had collapsed partially here and there since he'd last traversed it,
but that was to be expected considering a war was waged nearby and parts of
the moon had crashed down not too much further from his warren. Not to
mention whatever warpbeasts or other denizens that had come through here
since.
A short time later the tunnel opened up into a large cultivated cavern. It
was made even larger by the fact that a gaping hole at the top opened up
into pure darkness. Far below that hole, was a large crater. Scorch marks
and bits of metal, bent and twisted, scattered across the ground. Where his
family's den had been was just a mound of dirt now. It had collapsed that
day with the explosions, burying his grandparents as one snuffs out a
candle.
Frowning, he turned from the mound and looked around, searching for
something but not knowing. He came here to find his reasons for what he
sought. Why the path lead him to where it was leading him. He had passed
the reliqua to the Darkfinder, conviced that he didn't know what to do with
it next. That he was powerless to change it's corruption. And powerless to
ask the Goddess for help with it.
He sat down on an old crate and nudged the ground with his toes, digging
them into the soil that he and his family had grown and tilled and loved.
{oLoved. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. Was that what was holding him
back? Love? Love of who? Of what? And that's when it hit him. His love
of a land where things made sense. Of simplicity and purity. A land that
will never happen and was a mirage against the going on of the surface
world.
Sooner or later it would have come for them. The Chaos beasts would have
came and torn through them. Not that everything happens for a reason or
that there was a divine plan, but there was a reason this happened to his
family. A reason this happened to him. To set him on a path. Every great
adventure his grandparents had told him started with a catalyst. This was
his.
He bent down and picked up some of the soil and breathed it in deep, holding
those earthy tones in his lungs before he breathed outward, blowing the dirt
and dust away. In that breath he realized he could not continue to dwell on
the past if he were to continue forward. That if he where to get where he
was going, he had to leave the Love behind. Not forget. Never forget. But
he could not hold onto a past that would never change.
One who followed the heart would find it bled.
With a few hops he was in front of a broken down shed. It took him a moment
of wrenching the door open before it finally came free and his prize was
inside. Taking the gardening hoe in hand he slipped back out into the
tunnels. A lightness in his feet carrying him forward faster than they had
brought him to this place.
Writer: Maccus
Date Mon Aug 25 13:48:42 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:00:32 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth
The Main Gathering Hall of the Warp did not echo with sound. It echoed
with meaning.
The marble walls, once proud and silent, now bore paintings so dense and
vivid they seemed to pulse with life. Images of gods cast down, of orcs
rising unshackled, of mortals drowning in the light they were told to
worship, All surrounded a golden statue of Malachive, triumphant fists
pulling shattered chains from the very globe beneath his feet. Below, the
Tree of Horn wept blood in slow, deliberate tears.
Around the fountain and bleeding bark, the faithful gathered.
They were many, and they were not the same.
A woman known only as a Lament-Scribe stood silently, her eyelids tattooed
shut, ink trails seeping from the corners of her eyes. Bound pages
fluttered around her shoulders like wings, each page bearing the same line
rewritten in a hundred hands: "I remember."
A Glassling, faceless and hollow, stood wrapped in mirrored plates.
Reflections twisted in impossible ways, showing other times, other wounds,
other betrayals. The cultist did not speak, but when others blinked, they
sometimes saw their own deaths in its chest.
There were Chainbearers who whispered prayers through rusted manacles,
Emberbound who smeared coal across their cheeks in the shape of
eight-pointed stars, and even a child-like shape with hair made of leeches,
sucking truths from the air.
Towering above All of them was Justian.
His form gleamed white, not with holiness but with purpose. A centaur
carved in living flesh, armored in sigil-less silksteel. He bore no
allegiance but one: the wound. A Chaos star carved into his forehead, which
did not bleed; it pulsed. His sapphire eyes were warm, yes... But only
until they caught the light of dogma... Then they fractured into slivers of
something older, something primordial.
Justian acknowledged the mob of cultists, but noted the lack of familiar
faces, save Waaagh and Crelius among those present. He smiled warmly at
both in greeting.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:04:06 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
Beside him, a creature stirred. Waaagh, a living monument to brutality,
shifted his colossal frame with predatory grace. His armor, seemingly
cobbled together from dragonhide, blood-forged plates, and the salvaged
trophies of annihilated champions, moved with soundless precision. His bare
arms flexed as he worked, cords of shadow-black muscle rippling beneath skin
that drank in the light like fresh pitch. From his belt hung relics of
conquest... A shattered angel wing, tusks and knucklebones, scalps and
teeth... All tokens of a history written in ruin. Behind him rose a battle
standard hammered into the shape of a Chaos star, its garish center scrawled
with his name in letters the size of a scream: "WAAAGH!" . His dreadlocks,
bound with razors and rune-inscribed bones, clattered softly as he leaned
forward to scratch something in chalk upon a stone tablet: "It is for us to
wake them." The strokes were deliberate, scar-like, as though writing hurt.
Then he nodded, the dreadlocks rattled like bones in a priests censer and
whispered the word that is his name... His answer.
Justian smiled.
"I considered many topics for this, but the one thing that continued to
plague my mind... Is Why."
Crelius did not move. He did not even blink.
The Knight-turned-aberration, once a man of title and crusade, now stood as
a testament to the Warps cruel patience. His armor, once royal blue, had
darkened to a hue like rotted oak and split bark, mottled and fibrous as if
the beast it had once armored still clung to it in spirit. Fissures
spidered across each plate, black veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface
like roots burrowed too deep. Above the torn collar of his wolf-pelt cloak
rose the pale, glistening dome of his skull. Where once there had been
flesh, now lay the bloom of corruption... A grotesque lattice of sinew and
root clawing up from his throat and burrowing into the bone behind his ears.
These growths, gnarled and hardened like warped antlers, formed a crown not
of rulership but of ruinparasitic digits grasping for permanence. One eye
remained, raven-black and ringed in vermilion... Always watching, never
still. The other socket was sealed by a mass of scar tissue, pitted and
puckered like burnt wax molded into a crude Chaos star... And damp, still
healing... Still open in its own way.
He was not dead. He was a wound that had learned to walk.
"It is of little consequence, Word Bearer," Crelius said, voice like cloth
drawn over iron. "Speak your edicts, that your words might travel through
the fragile skein between this world and the ether. There is potency still,
in bearing witness to your litany by even so few."
Justian nodded.
He did not need to ask for silence. He simply said, "Then... Let us
begin." The hall obeyed.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:14:38 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"We speak often of 'what' we do."
"Victories shouted on the battlefield. Betrayals whispered where faith once
stood. Heresies carved into flesh and chanted in defiance. Truths
whispered through screaming scars. Chains broken with bloodied hands and
reshaped into meaning."
He flexed a single hand. Dried blood flaked away like old snow. Beneath
the skin, runes stirred... Faint, flickering, as if trying to remember how
to be seen.
"We speak less of 'how'... And never of the Truth the wound carries."
His hoofsteps began to sound against the stone, not loud, but resonant. A
ritual begun.
"Through rites written in scars, not scripture."
"Through words that turn loyalty to honest heresy."
"Through pain alchemized into purpose and sacrifice made willingly."
"Through silence sharper than steel, through meaning conjured from ruin."
"Through patience that keeps the blade steady. Through poison that finds
the vein. Through design that leaves a mark that cannot be healed."
He walked, slowly, and the air bent with him. Not heat. Not magic. Just
gravity shifting its allegiance.
"The Wound remembers."
Crelius smiled beneath his hood. Sardonic. Not amused, but reminded.
"Rarely... Rarely... Do we speak of why."
The Tree bled. The wind held its breath. Justian stood still. Then his
voice rolled out, low and resonant.
"Why... Because the wound is where the lie fails, and we are done living
inside it."
"Why does Chaos persist... Unbound, unbroken, unrepentant?"
"Why do we turn from comfort, and walk into the storm?"
He looked up, toward painted gods falling from painted heavens... And
smiled.
"That is not faith. It is the scream beneath obedience."
"If you do not know your why, then you are not a blade. You are noise!"
Waaagh whispered again, soft and guttural. "Waaagh..."
Justian continued, his voice steel, "You echo only madness..."
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening for a rebuttal the gods were
too afraid to voice.
"Then you are nothing but a mirror of the false gods... Blind, deaf, and
obedient."
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:17:52 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"Speak your why... If it has not broken you."
"Bleed until it speaks for you."
"... Or remain silent... And let the Warp remind you."
Waaagh stepped forward.
He did not roar. He did not strike. He simply drew the Three Moons -
white, black, and red - on a tablet of chalk, and then thrust it in the
stream of blood. It dissolved instantly, atoms fleeing from meaning.
The beast wiped the blood across his face, then smeared it on Justians
flank. The centaur did not flinch.
"Waaagh," the creature said.
Justian smiled. Glyphs on his body scurried under his skin, repelled by
Waaaghs mark.
Then came Crelius.
He lowered his hood. The light recoiled. The growths at his throat pulsed
with anticipation, wrapping his skull in thorn and marrow. As he stepped
toward the Tree, his silhouette merged with it. For a moment, they were
one.
"Where once stood a man of certainty," he said, "hath a spirit been
reforged. My course realigned, awakened to a new perception. I have walked
the forbidden paths and gazed into the fathomless oceans of discord. They
name it the Warp, but such a paltry word formed from the ignorant cannot
contain its infinite potential."
Waaagh seethed in agreement. The Lament-Scribe wept. The Glassling
fractured.
"Each of us came to this path for our own reasons," Crelius continued. "Yet
one thing binds us. The condemnation of the overseers, the false divine,
who cling to this insignificant sphere like locusts to a field. Their
anguish, their extinction, will feed the timeless hunger of the ether. This
is my purpose. My lance will pierce the hearts of the omnipotent."
The hall absorbed his words like soil taking blood. Around them, no one
stirred. Even the mad ones... Those who wept at stone, who whispered to
the walls, held their tongues. For a heartbeat too long, the Warp itself
seemed to listen, the light dimming not from shadow, but reverence. All
eyes turned to Justian, not in challenge, but in anticipation. The wound
had been named. Now came the truth of its birth.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:21:07 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"Chaos was not born in violence," Justian said, once the silence allowed
him breath. "It was born in betrayal."
"A child of gods saw the Truth of this world... And chose mortals instead."
"I follow the path of Chaos because it offers no salvation, only the right
to refuse a false one."
"We are not the end. We are the unmaking that allows something honest to
begin."
He turned to the cultists, his eyes glimmering not with hope, but with
demand.
"The Wound remembers."
"It is not enough to believe."
"The how is the scar that proves the faith... The shape our purpose takes
in this world."
"Our scars are deeds remembered, not wounds sought... A proof of action,
not ornament."
"Chaos is not a scream in the dark. It is a whisper that reaches the
throne."
Each word cut deeper than the last.
"We do not burn just to watch it All fall... We burn to light what lies
beneath the ash."
"Some wield swords. We wield questions... With edges sharper than steel."
"We infiltrate their rites. Corrupt their rituals. We take their sacred
and make it profane."
And with quiet finality:
"We do not flail. We do not hope. We CHOOSE."
He struck his chest with a closed fist. Not devotion. Declaration.
"This is how Chaos endures..."
The echo of the strike lingered like a drumbeat in the bones of every
listener. It was not applause, not ritual... It was summons. The air grew
still, as if the hall itself awaited instruction. Justians gaze swept the
gathered faithful, not with pity or pride, but with the expectation of fire
answering fire.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:23:57 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"What do we do?"
"We sow doubt in sacred places. We unwrite their stories. We make Truth
bleed."
Crelius offered a ravenous grin at the mention of "stories," his scarred
features contorting into a mask of grotesque agony and delight.
"We build nothing... But we forge the tools for others to tear down their
chains."
"Chaos is not your weapon. You are It's voice... It's fire... It's hand."
He looked them in the eyes, one by one.
"If your hand moves without purpose, then your blade was never for Chaos to
begin with."
He turned to the statue of Malachive.
"The false gods taught our knees to love the stone."
"We rose to end that lesson."
"Go do what Chaos demands..."
"Action."
"And if you falter..."
Waaaghs grip tightened.
"Remember... You are the wound in the world the false gods cannot close."
"You are the proof that their order has failed."
"The false gods are watching... Make them afraid."
He touched his scarred brow, turned toward the bleeding Tree, and let
silence take him.
"The Wound remembers."
His final gesture was no blessing. A clawed hand curled around nothing.
Around everything.
"Suffer well."
The sermon ended. But the Wound remained.
And it bled for All of them. It always had.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:44:27 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief II
Armor polished, yet unscarred by fight,
A tabard stiff, still starched and bright.
The crest of Greystroke, proud and clear,
But youth still clings, smelling of fear.
Seventeen, perhaps-so raw, so new,
A soldier sworn, yet fragile too.
A soldier of righteousness, sworn to the fray,
A soldier of Greystroke, soon led astray.
The boy's blade lay across his lap, its edge untouched by gore. His jaw was tight,
but his eyes betrayed a flicker of self-doubt. He stared into the dark as though
it might answer him.
And the dark did.
Blinx slipped past the eyes of the patrol, drifting like smoke between their circling routes.
The air dropped ten degrees. The grass yellowed beneath him.
Greystroke's pup, bright-eyed and bold,
Still thinks the world is carved in gold.
They gave him steel and sent him here,
To feed the thing he should fear.
He whispered words that dissolved into the air, like ash into water.
The boy's head lolled. His sword fell from his lap with a dull thunk.
Blinx fluttered down to the sleeping soldier. His crimson eyes looking over
the body in hunger. He lowers his gaunt face, just before he made contact with
his victim. Blinx inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of the boy's dreamscape.
He was full of hope, righteousness and courage. And Blinx began to salivate.
The soldier stood upon a broken cliff, the battlefield stretching for miles below him.
Smoke and lightning danced across the sky. His tabard snapped in the storm winds as he
lifted the banner of Greystroke high, its sigil blazing with golden fire.
And before him, a monster of legend reared from the earthan ancient blue dragon, its
scales like storm-forged sapphire, its wings eclipsing the storm clouds. Lightning cascaded
from its maw, scorching the battlefield into glass. Its roar shattered boulders, its claws
carved canyons into the dirt.
The boy did not falter. He was radiant, as if prophecy itself had clothed him in sunlight.
In righteousness we doth judge and make war!
He charged, sword gleaming. The ground split with each of the dragon's steps, yet the
youth climbed its massive body, leaping from scale to scale with impossible grace. His
blade, once so polished and unused, now bit deep into the creature's hide. Sparks flew.
Blood like molten sapphire poured down its flank.
The azure wyrm shrieked and fell, its bulk crashing through mountainside and battlefield alike.
When it struck the earth, the sky split with light, and the boy--Greystroke's child, Algoron's
champion plunged his sword into its vast throat. The beast spasmed, then stilled.
But the cheering warped. The voices cracked into static, like bones snapping in a fire.
The banners curled to ash midair, drifting down as black snow that clung wetly to his skin.
The gods who had crowned him in glory turned their faces away, leaving only yawning sky.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:51:23 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief III
The dragon's corpse twitched. A sound like wet ropes straining split the
silence. Its sapphire scales dulled to a brittle gray, cracking, peeling,
dropping from its body like shards of old glass. A rancid stench rolled
from the woundsa mix of scorched copper, rotting marrow, and something
sweet, like spoiled fruit left to liquefy.
Its eyes snapped open, pupils burst into oozing voids. Thick tears of black
tar leaked down its face, hissing as they touched the battlefield soil.
Then its chest split wide, ribs cracking outward like jagged ivory gates.
From within, darkness pulsed--a heart that was not a heart, thudding like a
war drum clogged with mud.
The battlefield itself writhed. Soldiers who had cheered bent backwards,
spines snapping like kindling. Their mouths split at the corners until
their jaws hung in permanent grins. Flesh peeled away in strips that
slapped wetly against the ground, leaving skeletal forms that clapped in
hollow rhythm, their palms clattering like dry sticks.
The boy tried to flee, but his boots sank ankle-deep into a mire of ash that
squirmed as though alive. Each step pulled at his flesh--warm, sticky
tendrils coiling around his calves, pulsing like veins. His sword corroded
in his hands, the metal pitting and bubbling as though doused in acid. The
tang of iron filled his mouth. He gagged, tasting rust and bile.
The azure's ruined body spoke. Its voice was wet and cavernous, like a
thousand throats choking at once. Every word reverberated in his bones,
shaking his teeth loose in their sockets.
You bled and swore, you dreamed and tried,
But you are ash when hope has died.
Your name is dust, your banner torn,
No purpose holds to one so worn.
The boy covered his ears, but the voice slithered through his fingers, slick
and cold as worms. The colossal wyrm's jaw unhinged. Strings of black saliva
snapped and fell in ropes that steamed as they hit the ground. Its tongue
lolled out, bloated and tar-black, sliding across the battlefield toward him.
The stench hit him full--ozone, carrion, and the sharp, sour tang of vomit.
His stomach heaved. He could taste it in the back of his throat.
The voice thundered again, louder, crueler:
No song will keep, no stone will mark,
Your soul dissolves into the dark.
The steel you raised, the pride you gave
All vanish quick into the grave.
His scream tore free but no sound came. Only a cloud of dry ash poured from his mouth,
bitter and choking, coating his tongue with grit. He clawed at his lips, gagging,
more poured out. His chest burned. His lungs scraped raw. His body convulsed as
though vomiting dust.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:59:30 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief IV
The carcass moaned its final rhyme, dripping shadow with each syllable:
The dead will rise, and the hero dies,
And All his dreams become my prize.
Outside the dreaming, the soldier's body shook. From his mouth, silver mist curled
like steam from a fresh wound. From his nostrils, threads of orien unfurled. His
eyes wept thin streams of shimmering vapor. Even his ears leaked dreamstuff.
Blinx hovered above him, trembling, and crooned:
Now I lay you down to sleep,
Your soul to mine, mine to keep.
I'll drink your light, your hope, your love
And take you where no heroes rove.
He inhaled. The dreamstuff twisted into his chest like smoke into a shattered
lantern. His ribs flared with sudden heat. Cracks split across his waxen skin,
glowing red beneath, as though hell itself breathed through him. The boy's body
convulsed. He tasted copper as blood leaked from his gums. His tongue went dry,
shriveling like fruit left in the sun. His skin tightened to parchment, each pore
weeping a faint trace of warmth before collapsing into dust. His eyes streamed
thick fluid down his cheeks, burning as though his very memories had been liquefied.
A soldier young, and full of light
Now shrivels on this very night.
He'll bear no songs, no name, no grave
Just empty skin for worms to crave.
The boy gave one final shudder and went still. His cheeks sank inward. His limbs folded
like cloth. His eyes, once wide with purpose, stared blank and hollow into the sky. He /
was nothing now but a shell.
Blinx lowered his hand, twitching with gluttony and reverence. With a flick of his wings,
he vanished into the night. And above, the Black Moon gleamed. Full. Watching. Waiting.
Writer: Tanja
Date Mon Aug 25 16:02:39 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 16:05:55 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject We Remember the Wound: A Cultists Witness
We remember. (We remember?)
No eyes left, not real ones. Only seeing.
The Hall was breathing. The Tree was screaming without sound.
The marble was wet, yes, and the bowl never full
Never. Full.
It smelled like teeth.
The hoof came down.
Not thunder, not war.
A beginning noise. The sound of silence folding in on itself.
White. White. White.
(But not clean. Never clean.)
His name was Justian and the star was carved. It moved.
Then...the Fell-Handed.
Waaagh. WAAAGH. WAAAAGH!
Not a voice. A direction.
He didnt say. He scraped. Chalk. Bone. Moons. Blood. Meaning.
The symbols...were they always there?
The blood knew where to go. It found the white.
The third was shadow-wrapped. Root-wrapped. Voice-wrapped.
Crelius. Half here. Half thorn.
Tree loved him. Tree bent toward him. Or did he pull the Tree?
They stood. The three. The white. The black. The between.
Malachive watched. (We dont say that. We dont say that.)
The centaur said pain was the scripture.
He said the wound was the only truth.
He said bleed, and we bled. (Wasnt told to. Just did.)
We looked at each other and forgot names.
We tore sleeves. Tore skin. Bit cloth. Bit words. Bit down on silence.
Waaagh marked Justian. Blood answered blood.
Crelius whispered knives. Into the ear. Into the bone.
We didnt understand. We said yes anyway.
Justian said: "The false gods are watching. Make them afraid."
We did.
We were.
We became.
Something turned. Maybe the statue. Maybe us.
The Tree blinked. (Trees dont blink.)
The star opened. (Foreheads dont bloom.)
Doesnt matter.
The wound remembers.
The wound remembers.
(Say it, say it!, SAY IT!!)
We suffer well.
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Aug 25 19:04:32 2025
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Aug 25 19:07:15 2025
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Aug 26 22:35:58 2025
To All ( Conclave Piknim IMM RP )
Subject The dreaming
The candle before him was a thing of dread and precision. Its body was
thick, poured from blackened wax that seemed to drink the light instead of
giving it. Driven into its sides were crooked nails, iron scavenged from a
coffin hinge, a lock from a pauper's grave, and the bent spine of a
horseshoe. Each nail was pressed in by Blinx's own hand, slicked with his
blood until the wax hardened around them. They jutted out, like domino's
waiting to fall.
The nails were more than macabre ornament. They were his failsafe. For all
his mastery of somnomancy, even Blinx knew the Dreamscape was not his to
command. It was a realm without day or night, where minutes could
masquerade as hours or centuries, where a dreamer could wander until their
body in the waking world starved or stiffened in death. Worse still, there
were places and presences within the Dreamscape that could trap him, fold
him into their nightmares and take his essence like a trophy.
He whispered his chant, voice nothing but breath, and the world thinned.
His body grew heavy, yet his thoughts lifted, carried away on unseen
currents. Then came the drift, the falling, until the Dreamscape unfolded
around him, spreading like ink dumped in water.
Fog rolled in strange tides, gleaming silver and violet, stars tumbled far
too close to the ground. Shapes stirred in the distance half-formed
dreamers, memories bleeding into each other, fears stitched into shadows.
Blinx spread his wings, gliding on currents that belonged to no sky, and
smiled with sharp delight. Each dream was a feast, and the air was thick
with sweetness.
But then--something unusual. At the far edge of the mists, a shimmer, a
pattern repeating too perfectly, like a thought not born of mortal sleep.
He narrowed his eyes. Dreams always twisted and scattered, but this was
deliberate. Designed. He drifted closer, tasting the air-stranger than
sugar, heavier than iron. A presence. Watching. Sleep cushion
His grinned sharpened, "Now what are you, dream or clue?"
Plink!
A nail dropped free. It hissed through wax and salt before striking the
iron plate with a cold metallic tink. The sound rang out like a hammer to
his skull, splitting dream from body.
The Dreamscape convulsed. The shimmer dissolved, the fog ripped apart, and
the watching presence swelled wide and vast, almost close enough to touch.
Then everything shattered. Blinx's eyes flew open. His chest heaved,
throat raw, as though he had been yanked out by a hook through the ribs.
The candle still burned, guttering low, and one nail now lay gleaming in the
dish. The iron still hummed with the echo of that violent call. He licked
his teeth, smirk curling though unease clung to him.
"Next time," he whispered to the flame.
Next time I'll see the fog more through
And learn at last just what are you
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 27 07:41:05 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows IV
The Spirit World stretched endlessly before him - a pallid void where the
edges of reality bled into shadow, and memory itself dissolved into formless
streams of thought. Each step Zorreau took disturbed the pale mist beneath
his boots, and yet no sound carried here, no echo returned. The silence
hung vast and suffocating, as though the world itself waited for his resolve
to falter.
For a time, there was nothing. And then - something stirred.
From the abyssal haze ahead, a shape began to coalesce: a hunched figure of
fractured silhouettes, as though reality could not decide what shape it
should wear. Its face, if face it was, seemed carved from the memories of
the dying, shifting from mortal to beast to nightmare with each passing
breath. When it spoke, the sound was not heard but remembered, threading
directly into Zorreau's mind like a voice buried in dream:
"You tread where few dare, Malus Lupus. Few who come so far leave...
Unchanged. "
Zorreau's hand rested lightly upon the hilt at his side, but he did not
draw. His gaze narrowed beneath the shadowed hood of his helm. "I seek
knowledge, " he said, his voice steady, sharp. "There are beings in this
world whose souls I seek to bind. I would learn how. "
The figure trembled, as though suppressing a laugh - or a sob.
"Such deeds are not taught here, " it murmured. "This place... The Spirit
World... It is but a crossing, a place where whispers gather, not where
power is forged. To bind another is to carve their will from the tapestry
itself - an act forbidden to most... And understood by fewer still. "
Zorreau stepped closer, boots silent upon the endless mist. "Then where?
"
The figure shifted again, becoming taller, sharper, its form splintering
into something monstrous - wings, claws, spines flashing for an instant
before dissolving. Its voice deepened, the weight of ages threading through
each syllable:
"A place where few venture, and even fewer return. The Realm of Terror. "
The words were cold iron, heavy with implication.
"There lies the knowledge you seek - the echoes of power forgotten even by
the Magisters, by the Templars, by false god who claimed dominion over life
and death. But know this, Shadowknight: each chain you forge carries the
scream of the bound. Their voices, their writhing souls, clawing eternally
at the walls of your mind. It is not pain of the flesh. It is remembrance.
The cries will haunt your every step. To command them, you must become deaf
to their pleas."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow,
rippling tremor of unseen forces passing beneath the mists.
Zorreau's jaw tightened, his eyes like burning coals beneath his hood.
"Then let them scream, " he said at last, voice low, resolute. "I will hear
their wailing as a hymn to Her glory. "
The shifting being regarded him in silence, its many faces melting into one
- a single, hollow mask that betrayed neither approval nor condemnation.
"Then you are ready to pay the price. Go, Malus Lupus. The path will open
when the will is stronger than the weight. "
And with that, the figure unraveled into motes of grey light, swallowed by
the mist.
Zorreau stood alone once more, but not unchanged. The next step would carry
him deeper than shadow - into a place where terror itself was a weapon...
And only the unbroken would leave with their mind intact.
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Aug 27 13:44:15 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Aug 27 14:13:08 2025
Writer: Telthian
Date Wed Aug 27 21:35:38 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uUmbrawake
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u- -=--_{u--=--
{u
Dark wings lifted him high above the sea without sun.
The waves of living night crashed upon the firmament,
and the black sand heaved with their silent weight.
No brine, no moisture, yet crushing as judgment itself.
This was no sea, but pure umbra
and the womb of dark desires.
Twisted clouds streamed against the tide,
and the crystals of the earth rose as broken pillars.
Each marked the shelter of the fallen.
Knights and Dragons alike lay scattered,
their arms abandoned, their scales dissolved,
their souls pulled screaming into the current.
Their cries became the hymn of the tide,
and the tide became their tomb.
Thus the past was stripped,
thus the old was consumed,
thus the dead were to make the foundation for the living.
Far ahead, a pale light flickered
the first star upon a shore unmade.
It pulsed beyond the final marker,
a promise, a herald, a beginning.
But no gentle descent could reach it,
only the plunge through storm and silence.
So the Maw rose high above the torrent,
He steeled his heart, folded his wings, and thundered down.
Into the umbratide he fell,
barbs of arcana tearing scale and sinew.
The wyrm pressed on,
membranes of his wings shredded to tatters.
And emerged on the other side
where a Black Citadel waited,
its ghastly ruin long abandoned.
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u- -=--_{u--=--
Writer: Terri
Date Fri Aug 29 05:47:07 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sat Aug 30 14:09:55 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Imm Rp
Subject Building Bridges (-part two-)
The sinkhole was massive in All dimensions, and the Thane stood at its
precipice, peering into its depths. The bottom was indiscernable, the
walls steep and cavernous, and its contents shrouded in shadow. As
the collossal foundation stones began filling the staging area, Kraxul
had ordered the scattered remnants of the Xoxx, the leaderless clan
of Hill Dwarves, into service. They were not strictly under his
charge, but recognizing the singular point of leadership within the
kingdom, they more or less begrudgingly answered the call.
"Wot ah great stinkin hole", one commented, while a second was quick
to retort "Aye, but we're nae here ta talk about yer m-"
"Enough, lads."
There were a few chuckles as the Thane cut the jokester off. There was
a time and place for such things, but this endeavor was frankly not it.
He stood, humorless, as he waited patiently for their full attention.
"Et's ah hazardous undertakin we find ourselves tasked wit' here, lads,
and ahm askin ye ta keep that in yer heads as we proceed."
The Thane tugged on his beard thoughtfully with his left hand as he
unconciously twirled his pickaxe with the right. A pickaxe was not
called for in the current job, but Kraxul was rarely seen without one.
"We're gonna build a bridge o'er this great an' nasty hole-"
A few soft chuckles from the crowd were silenced with a hard look.
"Tha Emp'ra wishes ta restore tha road from here t'Althainia, and 'e
wants a great and sturdy bridge wot will stand fer centuries ta come."
Kraxul paced slowly, looking from the hole back to the Dwarves in his
charge.
"Et's goin ta stand till yer gran'babbies are dead. Wars will bae
fought on this bridge. Dragons will land on this bridge and breathe
fire an' ice an' All sorts o' nastiment All over et. Thousands o'
soldiers will march across this bridge All at once, and ever damn one
of em es goin ta bae reminded o' tha magnificent craftsmanship o' tha
mighty Dwarves o' Thaxanos!"
The cheers were deafening, but a few of the Dwarves looked perplexed, or
even downright annoyed.
Kraxul grinned. "And yer job", he said, once he could be heard, "is
ta build a straight and smooth road from here to tha bottom o' tha
hole, so thousands o' tons o' granite slabs ken bae safely moved to
tha bottom."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Lilly
Date Mon Sep 1 13:45:39 2025
To All Rp Zandreya Cayenna Religion
Subject Vallentales : Lillys Morning Watch in Shalonesti
The first blush of dawn painted the sky in hues of rose and gold as Lilly
stirred from her slumber. The soft rustle of leaves outside her window
whispered promises of a peaceful morning. She rose quietly, donning her
light armor with practiced ease, the silver crest of Shalonesti glinting
faintly in the early light. Today, like every day, she would walk the
kingdoms pathsnot out of duty alone, but out of love for the land she had
sworn to protect. As she stepped outside, the cool air kissed her cheeks,
and the scent of dew-laced pine filled her lungs. Shalonesti was still
asleep, its cobbled streets empty, its shop doors shuttered. Lilly made her
way through the merchant quarter, pausing at each storefront. The bakers
window was dark, but the faint aroma of rising bread hinted at life within.
The apothecarys herbs hung in neat bundles, swaying gently in the breeze.
All was quiet. All was well.
Her boots made soft thuds against the moss-lined path as she ventured beyond
the town center. Towering trees arched overhead, their branches forming a
cathedral of green. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled
patterns on the ground. Birds chirped lazily, and a squirrel darted across
her path, clutching a nut like a prized jewel.
She reached the old wood bridge that spanned the River Shalinastra, its
surface slick with morning mist. Lilly paused, resting her hand on the worn
railing. The water below flowed gently, catching the light like liquid
crystal. This bridge had stood for centuries, a silent witness to the
kingdoms joys and sorrows. She lingered for a moment, letting the serenity
seep into her bones.
Before returning to her rounds, Lilly turned toward the Temple of Zandreya.
Its marble spires rose above the treetops, gleaming in the morning sun.
Inside, the air was cool and still, filled with the scent of incense and the
soft hum of silence. She knelt before the altar, her head bowed in quiet
reverence.
Guide my steps, Mother Zandreya she whispered, and keep Shalonesti safe.
The temples light bathed her in warmth, and for a moment, time seemed to
pause. When she rose, her heart felt lighter, her purpose renewed.
As the sun climbed higher, the kingdom began to stir. Doors creaked open,
laughter echoed from the bakers shop, and the scent of fresh bread mingled
with the morning air. Lilly smiled as she resumed her patrol, her eyes
sharp, her spirit calm. Shalonesti was wakingand under her watchful gaze,
it would greet the day in peace.
Writer: Aothien
Date Mon Sep 1 22:34:45 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Mon Sep 1 23:15:38 2025
Writer: Ithelim
Date Tue Sep 2 01:58:32 2025
Writer: Vershae
Date Tue Sep 2 16:04:53 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Tue Sep 2 16:47:29 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Fardoc ( Nadrik Austinian Religion Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part three-)
"Arngdrok!" shouted the Thane of clan Nuexpar, and his newest assistant
shuffled into the room at a trot.
Kraxul handed the parchment to Arngdrok, and commanded "Read et back."
The young dwarf donned a pair of spectacles, and the old dwarf leaned
back in his seat with his eyes closed.
"Persuant to ah mos' enlig...thin-"
"Enlightenin", Kraxul said, enunciating carefully.
"enlightenin conversation wit' tha honorable Cardinal Fardoc o' clan
Wargar, ah hereby order All work on tha bridge to Althainia hal-
Halted??? Ye don't say?"
"Jus' keep readin, lad, ef ye would."
"halted until such time as I, Kraxul KegBreaker, Thane and construction
superintendant say o'erwise. This project es nae cancelled, and yer
all t'remain available followin th'six week paid vaca-" Arngdrok
whistled, "Six week paid vacation ah'm approvin this day, signed an'
stamped by- Six weeks paid vacation? Ah've never had a paid vacation."
Kraxul smiled thinly. He had never had a paid vacation either, but-
"Et's an crucially important project, lad. Tha lads bae well
compensated an' I intend they All r'main available when et's time ta
resume work. An' tha work will resume... mos' likely."
He had met with the Cardinal just that morning, and was informed of a
bold new plan involving a righteous pillar sent by the gods. This new
plan would require the bridge to be re-engineered from scratch, and
also involved the attempted cleansing of the pit of All evil, and he
intended his crews to be safely out of the area for the cleansing.
Kraxul reached his hand out and the missive was handed back to him. He
folded it carefully and stuffed it into an envelope. He poured a bit
of wax on the seam, allowed it a moment to stiffen, then pressed his
personal seal into the wax.
"Take et to tha project manager. Deliver et to 'is hands wit yer own,
and remain for 'im ta send 'is written acknowledgement. I expect ta
see ye b'fore ye take yer nex' meal, aye?"
Arngdrok nodded, saluted the Thane, then left in a hurry.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Sep 2 16:52:26 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Tue Sep 2 17:33:34 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Fardoc ( Nadrik Austinian Religion Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part four)
Kraxul strode into the room in a hurry, and the twins looked up, seeing
immediately that they had hit their first snag. They glanced at each
other, momentarily engaging in that sort of quasi-telepathic exchange
that seems natural to identical twins, before standing and crossing to
the work table.
"Wot's the problem, sar?"
"We're haltin construction, pendin a fresh an' bold plan."
Kraxul shook his head slowly. "Bold indeed. Cardinal Fardoc, gods
bless 'im, and tha Emp'ra hisself hatched this one up-"
The twins exchanged a glance before rolling their eyes. They served
Cliath and the balance, and felt their current employer was flirting
more and more with the light, but said nothing.
Kraxul, who was still speaking, and looking at the drawings on the
table, missed the eye-rolling and continued unaware-
"There bae a plan underway ta cleanse tha filth wi'in tha sinkhole, and
ta use ah pillar o' divine provenance ta support tha bridge. Now, ahm
nae sure o' tha specifics, but ah were thinkin p'raps we lie this
pillar down edgewise wi'in tha pit an' use et fer ah-"
"Wot're ets dimensions? Es et square? Wot's et made of?"
Kraxul shrugged. It hadn't occured to him that this thing might not
even fit in the sinkhole, big as the pit was.
The twins looked at each other and both spoke at once. Kraxul wasn't
able to follow in the least, but the two of them jabbered at each other
and came to a consensus before turning back to the Thane.
One of them snatched up a pencil and a fresh scrap of paper and began to
draw, while the other spoke, "Ah divine pillar changes things entirely.
Not only will ets hallowed provenance lend structural support, et now
becomes a singular focal point for tha bridge. Find out how big it bae
sar, ef ye ken."
His brother handed the scrap of paper to Kraxul, who smiled at what he
saw, immediately drawn to the new design.
The pillar in the drawing reached skyward as high as a thousand
Dwarves, and the bridge split around it on its way southward towards
Althainia. He was still marveling at the image when a second scrap of
paper was handed to him. This contained a nearly identical image, with
lines drawn from high on the pillar down to the deck of the bridge.
"Cables," he was told before he could ask. "Finely spun cables o'
mithril supportin tha deck below. Like ah metal rope."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Tue Sep 2 22:51:01 2025
To All Thaxanos Wargar ( Croatoan Imm Rp )
Subject Supply and Demand (Nuexpar Business)
A hook made of steel snatched the rope out of the air, and the pirate
attached to it deftly wrapped the rope around a bollard a half dozen
times, hanging onto the rope and leaning back with All his weight as
the Mithril Shark slid to a halt in the port of Haven.
The chatter in the crowd gained a few decibels as the pirates
anticipated what came next, and when the kegs of Skullsplitter Ale
began to roll down the plank, there were even a few cheers.
This had become a regular occurence in Haven again, and the men were
glad for it. The kegs, All marked "Not for Export", bore the seals of
the kingdom of Thaxanos. Thousands of these had made their way into
the port of Haven in years past, but the supply had dried up after
Kraxul left the kingdom to fight in Wargar.
In the months since Kraxul had retired back to Thaxanos, the pirates
had begun once again to rely on the shipments to supply them with a
regular supply of something other than rum. Pirates love their rum, of
course, but too much of one thing was always a nuisance. Skullsplitter
was the strongest ale ever made, as strong as whiskey even, and gave
even the hardest pirate a source of variety in their liquour.
As the last of the barrels thumped their way down the ramp, Kraxul
KegBreaker sauntered down after them, shaking hands with One Eyed
Willy, who always came out in person to recieve the order. Then, the
two of them disappeared into Willy's office to settle accounts.
"Et may bae comin to an end again, Willy." Kraxul confided.
The pirate maintained a stoic image. After the unexpected conclusion
to their business All those years ago, he knew better than to expect a
permenant arrangement.
"I kinnae get inta specifics, but ah situation largely beyond mae
influence bae arisin at home. Ef et transpires th'way et appears t'
bae headin, ah'll do mae best ta ensure tha shipments continue, but..."
Willy nodded, thoughtful. The Dwarf was being cryptic in his words,
but Willy was accustomed to dealing with smugglers and other criminals,
and this was nothing new to him. It would be a shame, of course, if
the supply of Skullsplitter dried up, but-
"O'corse even so, ah may be able ta exert mae influence ta continue th'
arrangement. Et's All up in th'air at tha moment. Ahm nae tellin ye
this t'cause ye heartburn, but ah'd hate ta surprise ye wit' bad news
like las' time."
"And what will ye do, sir Dwarf, for tobacco? I know ye've domestic
sources of Burley an' brightleaf, but what of the famous Pirate Kake?
For that matter, I'm sure you can come up with your own source of the
Shokonese blends, but what of your personal favorite? How do you plan
to import Tropican Navy Flake for your own pipe?"
"Ahm injured, Willy, that ye think so little of mae. Ahve laid in a
hunnerd year supply of tobacco fer personal use, as ye must already
suspect. Now ahm hopin that we ken find ah way ta continue this
arrangement for th'betterment o' Thaxanos and Haven both, et's just-"
The dwarf threw his hands up in exasperation.
"Outta yer hands." Willy finished for him.
Kraxul looked the pirate in the eye and nodded slowly. "P'raps. Or...
p'raps not..."
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Sep 3 09:41:38 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Wed Sep 3 11:08:45 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Wed Sep 3 11:50:36 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Wed Sep 3 13:14:42 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Wed Sep 3 17:18:34 2025
Writer: Bromel
Date Thu Sep 4 23:51:19 2025
Writer: Bromel
Date Fri Sep 5 12:19:30 2025
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Sep 6 01:07:57 2025
To All ( storyline imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject A Bridge Too Far
Continent of Althainia, Northern Foot-hills
A Deeply Cratered Sinkhole
Utter darkness dominated the Sinkhole depths, black as pitch but for the
lick of flame and smoldering embers beneath an iron cauldron, the ethereal
glow of a bubbling brew within, and the opalescent moon-shard embedded in a
dreadwood hoopak. Slitted orange eyes gathered in pairs, dozens upon
dozens, reflecting the paltry light with a malefic gleam as they watched the
Darkfinder work her wicked craft.
The multitude of pouches and packs born upon her person held so much
worthless junk, but mundane miscellany in the hands of a kender witch made
magic. Into the pot the reagents went one by one, in a method more akin to
madness, betwixt stirs with a long-handled wooden spoon. Words dripping
with rancor for the Light, sprung from past failings and present meddling,
distilled child-like whimsy into hexes, curses, and blithe cruelty while
gremlins pranced about in the gloom.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Scaffolds shake, pillars crumble,
Axels break and wagons tumble!
Cables snap and tethers fray,
All is scrap and disarray!
Timbers rot, fingers fumble,
Laces knot and foot-falls stumble!
Oil burns sour, lanterns flicker,
Hands turn dour, comrades bicker!
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble!
Spirits fall and bodies wither,
Trouble, trouble, come thee hither!
Mountains quake and ills portend,
Demons wake, to me attend!
Arcs of umbral electricity danced around the cauldron rim and purple smoke
poured forth, spilling across the ground. Gremlins crept through the
burgeoning miasma from All sides, sniggering with manic glee, as Piknim
scooped liquid magic into a gourd. She crouched, offering a drink to the
boldest and first in line. The bantam fiend snatched the gourd and supped
in greedy gulps, instantly sparking a physical transformation. Orange slits
where its eyes should be bloomed bright magenta with new-found power. Oily
black skin took on the incandescent sheen of arcane protection afforded only
by stolen abjurations. Finally, the gremlin's spindly figure faded into the
form of a shadow, undetectable under cover of darkness. A chorus of elated
jibbering erupted from the pernicious throng, now thirsting for a share of
the power to make mischief with impunity.
"Drink deep, dearies," Piknim entreated, beckoning with the crook of a tiny
finger as she stood upright and rounded the cauldron. "Usurp every honest
day's toil with a night-ful of trouble! Stymie the enemy's efforts to build
this blasphemous bridge or delve too deeply herein. Should you fail the
Dark Divines, well - you'll be burnt to ashes by dragon-fire along with it,
won't you? So don't dilly-dally! Go forth, my pretties, and do your
worst!"
With a strident cackle and nudge of her foot she tipped the cauldron,
spilling its contents across the Sinkhole floor. Witch's brew flooded every
nook, cranny, crack, and fissure with an eerie lavender glow.
On the surface, wisps of purple smoke curled from the Sinkhole rim like fog
heralding a storm.
Writer: Ruinaxus
Date Sat Sep 6 07:23:44 2025
To All Shadow New_Thalos ( Telthian Symantha Felkur Meki Tritoch Zandreya Imm RP )
Subject A p{oart of, or apart from?
Created by natural processes, adapting to unnatural forces.
Is he a part of nature, or apart from it?
{oYes, and the answer sometimes satisfied him.
{oNo, to listen to the Slayers of Greystoke Manor, and the answer sometimes irked him.
{oNo, and can the softlings be right for the wrong reason?
{oPerhaps. An answer to both questions, and it unsettled him, but he felt it to be true.
Can he exist in nature?
Can it withstand his entropic ruinaton?
Water flowing from the mountains of the west.
Cascading through black sands and pillars, carving into canyons east.
{oBlack sand drying underfoot, a reminder of his (un)nature.
{oGrown within the cystalline cavern, struck by darkning, the umbral bolts from the sky.
{oMana from the gods, but not mana, nor from the gods.
{oUnstable evolution. Explosive growth. A second shattering.
Gathering the fragmented jewels. They were his home.
But where would be his home, now?
His desiccating presence
Rests well in desiccated landscape.
{oThe darkning bolts drawn southeast, now along a chain descending from the darksky.
{oFollow the pulse, a structure in the desert. A cavern constructed of marble stone.
{oA place to observe sparse nature.
{oA place within the influence of the darkning which defines him.
His new home, this keep of constant umbral storms.
It is infested by softlings.
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Sat Sep 6 10:37:14 2025
To All Drakkara Verminasia Shadow Piknim Telthian Symantha Carrionmaw Ryzzynth Zecnys ( Immortal RP Storyline Religion Admin )
Subject A Bridge Too Far: II
Continent of Althainia, Northern Foot-hills
A Deeply Cratered Sinkhole
Sidorinath drifted upon vast wings, a silhouette against the roiling dark,
sapphire scales flashing each time pulses of lightning splintered across the
sky. The Firstborn's eye (one emerald orb beside a ghastly, gristly empty
hole next to what should have been its twin) fixed on the faint wisps of
violet smoke curling upward from the sinkhole's rim. She felt the pulse of
Drakkara's magic in the air currents beneath her, an unsteady heartbeat
threatening to shatter into chaos if not carefully managed.
She had set Piknim there herself, claws careful and deliberate as she
lowered the tiny queen into the crater's maw. The kender witch had vanished
into the dark without hesitation, her hoopak glimmering with moonlight, her
voice already rising in wicked incantation before the dragon had taken wing
again. Now Sidorinath lingered above, circling, waiting; not only to shield
the monolith, but to collect Piknim once her work was done.
Above the sinkhole, the storm broiled. Clouds churned as though stirred by
an unseen hand, thunder rolling like distant drums of war. The scent of
iron and ozone clung thick upon the air. Her tail lashed through the air,
carving a sharp rhythm as she wheeled. Patience was not her nature and it
never had been. Waiting for The Light to act felt like acid in her veins,
like claws dragging along the inside of her skull. She was made for action:
for fire, for fury, for rending bone from sinew. Every heartbeat in
stillness felt stolen, and the urge to dive upon some unseen enemy, to split
them open before they ever reached the sinkhole, clawed at her insides.
Beneath her, Piknim's voice echoed faintly, the sing-song cadence of her
spell riding the wind. Sidorinath permitted herself a faint curl of
amusement in her draconic maw. The kender witch was chaos embodied, yet her
mischief carried purpose. Together, their works dovetailed into protection.
One above, one below.
Still, vigilance gnawed at her. How best to shield the monolith from those
that would do it harm? She spread her wings wide, casting a vast shadow
over the foothills, and loosed a roar that shook loose stones from the
cliffs. A warning, for any who listened, mortal or divine. They would not
sit idly by and do nothing.
Sidorinath circled once more, restless, every beat of her heart urging her
to strike first, to shatter enemies that had not yet appeared. She was no
passive sentinel; she was the storm itself, straining at its leash. And
when Piknim's magic reached its crescendo below, the dragon would descend
again, ready to carry her Warder and queen from the pit of shadows back into
the sky, leaving ruin smoldering in their wake.
Writer: Vaelsenathox
Date Sat Sep 6 11:29:29 2025
To All Tief ( Dragoth Zandreya Chaos Imm )
Subject Moonfall: Lunite Abominations
SCREECH!
The sound reached the dragon's ears from the forests below, an odd
screeching and chittering. He decended into a field close by to
investigate. The forests seemed alive with activity but something was off,
there was a malevolent aura he knew well. He craned his reptilian neck back
and forth, peering into the recesses of the forest.
Then he saw red eyes peering at him, then another pair, and another until a
multitude stared back at him. With an angry SCREECH! Furry bodies
launched from the tree line. They were squirrels but larger and more
predatory. Their eyes glowed of red lunite, and one large rodent had a
piece of the tainted crystal embedded in it's back.
They launched at the dragon, their teeth and claws seeking purchase against
his armored hide. However they found none. With an exhalation of gas,
Vaelsenathox covered himself in a cloud of noxious chlorine which suffocated
all but their mutated leader. It coughed and screeched it's cry to no
avail.
With an black taloned claw, the dragon known as Blightwing picked up the
dying abomination and stared at it for a long while, watching it twitch as
it died from the poison.
What in Dragoth's name are you?
Vaelsenathox had seen many a mutated thing, the Sharondaerl forest was full
of such creatures but this was new. His reptilian brain began to turn.
If there is one, there are others. One sliver of lunite could corrupt an
animal into a Warped beast. What would a larger piece do? What is going on
in these forests?
He had warned them not to ignore the fallout from the skies and Chaos...
Would his words fall upon deaf ears? They had their victory against the
Marauders but the war was far from over.
The green dragon took to the skies and in the darkness, large red eyes
looked up and growled deep in an ursine timber.
Writer: Fardoc
Date Sat Sep 6 11:57:09 2025
To All Kraxul Pythaerae ( Storyline Religion Imm Nadrik Admin )
Subject Wardens of the Span
Fardoc sniffed the air, wrinkling his nose as he paced around the
sinkhole. Days before, Thane Kraxul Kegbreaker had ordered his workers to
cease All construction, moving the supplies back from the crater, but it
seemed as if the activity near the sinkhole had not gone unnoticed.
The air was musty, and the stench of dark magic assaulted his nostrils like
a plague. Clearly, something had been at work in the area recently, some
sort of sabotage for the dwarven efforts. Fardoc smoothed his robes,
thankful that none had yet been hurt, but a knot of unease crept up within
him, making his beard twitch.
The dwarven priest thought to himself, 'Ah'm nay sure wot wos done here las'
night, but wotever et wos, whoever did et, we cannae let saboteurs run amock
in the workzone. '
Clearing out the previous sabotage was irrelevant. The supplies were moved
back elsewhere, no workers were present in the hole, and plans were underway
to scour the blight clean of darkness anyway. However, something had to be
done to make sure no further damage could be wrought.
Fardoc returned to his home, climbing to the summit of the mountain, and
entered his chambers, pulling out his writing desk and sitting down to pen
his orders. His first missive was to Fjalar Halfear, the Longbeard
Axebearer who was in command of the Church of Nadrik's army:
'Axebearer, it has been many moons since you were last given orders, but I
hereby request you take a contingent of our men, say one company of dwarven
infantry, to patrol the area around the sinkhole south of the mountain at
night. Be on guard for sabotage from the darkness and drive any potential
saboteurs off, but your safety is highest priority. I have other plans for
the men later, and would not wish to lose any from anything foolish. '
Fardoc finished the missive, signing it, then leaned back in his chair,
thinking. Perhaps just the presence of a regiment of infantry would not be
enough. He would need to call on a formidable ally if he truly wished to
intimidate the darkness away from the area. He thought of the many offers
of assistance to the Crusade from the metallic dens, All anxious for
something to do, a concrete way to help the cause, and one name in
particular came to mind. He pulled another sheet of parchment from the
drawer and penned one more missive:
'Pythaerae, I have thought of a way for you to assist the cause. There has
been evidence of sabotage around the sinkhole south of the mountain, and I
have ordered a regiment of the Church's army to patrol the area at night, to
ensure it will not happen again. If you are amenable, I ask you to take to
the skies and watch over the area as well, on guard against anything
untoward happening that dwarven eyes on the ground cannot see. '
Fardoc finished the missive and sealed the second one to the firstborne, but
before enclosing the first with his seal, he considered. Unfurling the
scroll once more, he added a postscipt to the Axebearer, scrawled below his
signature.
'Axebearer, you may see metallic firstborne patrolling the area from the
skies alongside you. Do not panic, and warn the men, so they do not offer
violence to our allies. '
Fardoc sealed the missive, thinking, 'Lord Nadrik willin', there will bae no
further hindrances tae accomplishin' the Crusade's goals, with allies such
as these on guard. '
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sat Sep 6 15:44:18 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part five-)
Fardoc began to speak, "Thane-"
"Ah moment, friend, ef ye would." Kraxul had been fighting off one
of his headaches and needed to focus on one thing at a time, at least
until it was banished. He opened a jar, inhaling deeply, then sealed
it back, selecting the one next to it. Repeating the process, he said
"Hmmph. Aye", then selected a pipe from the rack- a deeply bent,
rusticated behemoth carved of bog oak, and brought the pipe and tobacco
to the stone table.
The Thane first offered the jar to Fardoc, who filled his own pipe,
then went through the process of packing his own huge bowl. The blend
was Tropican Navy Flake, and it was one of his favorites. He carefully
crumbled 3 flakes into a pile of tobacco, filling the huge bowl in
stages, and tamping occasionally with his thumb. Once the bowl was
filled, he lit the pipe and looked across the table at the Cardinal.
Fardoc took this as his cue to begin, "Thane, somethin's goin on at th'
sinkhole."
Kraxul nodded, unsurprised, but motioned for Fardoc to continue.
"Ah wretched stink, some bit's o' smoke- clearly an evil force at work.
Ahve ordered mae Axebeearer ta take a company of infantry t'patrol tha
sinkhole by night, and ah've sought support from th'metallics fer tha
same."
Kraxul drew on his pipe, slowly, savoring the hints of rum in the
smoke. He exhaled slowly through his nostrils, and replied- "I
should've expected as such. Et were folly ta leave tha pit untended.
Et seems we're makin new enemies."
The Thane reflected a moment on his motivations for accepting Agapitos'
request in the beginning- he had sought to repay the empire for their
past aid, to restore the path and bring new life to his own merchant
district, and- perhaps a bit selfishly- to showcase the unmatched
craftsmanship of his kind.
But the council of the Emperor, and of Cardinal Fardoc, had weighed on
his heart. Having long been a servant of the balance, he was unable to
ignore the tipping of the scales toward darkness. He had loudly
condemned extremism from both sides in the past, but no longer, in his
mind, was it time to condemn the light.
"Ahm bettin ah know th'source, Cardinal..."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Sat Sep 6 22:34:59 2025
To All rimunath sidorinath khellendros onyxris vaelsenathox tiarassca (imm rp drakkara )
Subject Burning Bridges
The night was a canvas of stillness, the sky a vast, unblemished expanse
of stars that twinkled with a distant, indifferent light. The massive
sinkhole, a yawning maw in the midst of the open fields, seemed to pulse
with a life of its own, a silent, waiting presence. Around it, a smaller
company of dwarves stood at the ready, their armor a gleaming tapestry of
steel and iron. They were a mix of warriors, each wielding a variety of
weapons, maces and swords, spears and shields, that spoke of their diverse
and formidable combat skills.
From the south, a dark storm began to roll in, its approach unnaturally
swift and ominous. The clouds, a churning mass of black and grey, rumbled
and moaned like a restless beast, their voices a sinister whisper that
seemed to echo across the land. Lightning danced through the dark clouds, a
flickering, electric serpent that illuminated the sky with a harsh,
unnatural light. Each bolt was followed by a boom of thunder, a deep,
unearthly sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the ground
beneath their feet.
The wind picked up, gusts heavy and relentless, whipping across the fields
and buffeting the dwarves, who struggled to maintain their footing. Their
beards and cloaks whipped about, a chaotic dance of fabric and fur, as they
braced against the onslaught, their eyes fixed on the approaching storm with
a mixture of awe and trepidation.
Suddenly, from the east, a massive boulder of stone hurtled through the air,
a projectile thrown with terrifying force and precision. The boulder
whistled as it cut through the sky, spinning with a speed that seemed to
defy the laws of nature. Catching some of the dwarves off guard, it made
contact with a tight pack of warriors, crushing them instantly. The sound
of their heavy platemail armor crunching and their bones cracking was a
sickening, echoing symphony of destruction. Where they once stood, there
was now only a meaty pool of blood, a grim testament to the power of the
unseen assailant.
The surviving dwarves, their faces pale and their eyes wide with shock and
fear, began to panic, their formations crumbling as they scrambled for
cover. But their commander, a voice of steel and command, called for
attention, his shout cutting through the chaos like a blade. The dwarves,
still trembling with fear, began to take formation, their movements jerky
and uncertain, as they braced for the impending assault.
As the storm rolled over them, a roar echoed through the air, a primal,
earth shaking sound that seemed to shake the very sky. Within the flashes
of lightning, the dwarves caught glimpses of a massive, ancient brown
dragon, its scales a shimmering, earthy brown that seemed to absorb the very
light around it. But it was not alone. Against the backdrop of the stormy
sky, three blue scaled creatures shimmered, their forms a mesmerizing dance
of light and shadow. A red and a black dragon, their scales a stark
contrast to the storm, completed the aerial assault, their eyes gleaming
with a hunger and a promise of destruction.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sun Sep 7 09:42:39 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part six-)
(Altered and reposted for accuracy, as the scribe got some things
wrong the first time around, which was entirely Kraxul's mistake)
"Ahm bettin ah know th'source, Cardinal... Ahm told I struck ah nerve by
throwin mae support behind yer crusade." He relayed the story of how
he was accosted by guards upon trying to enter Verminaisia for a recent
business transaction, and the brief words he had with its Queen in the
aftermath.
Fardoc stared, wondering if he was serious. "Desecration... of ah
holy site? Imagine callin such an eyesore ah holy site."
Kraxul smirked, but said nothing.
"May'ap because et's ah hole... could she've meant holey site?"
Kraxul laughed hard at that, choking a bit on his smoke, and coughing.
"Aye, et struck mae near wordless at th'time. And now somehow et
seems ahm now less welcome than tha citizens of Althainia etself in th'
dark kingdom." He chuckled at that. "Not that they make up ah large
portion of mae business."
"Are ye goin t'folla suit? Withdraw their welcome from Thaxanos?"
Kraxul shook his head at the Cardinal. "Not mae place, sar. That
bae up t'tha High King. And even ef et were, ahm nae inclined ta
pettiness or knee-jerk reaction. Ah'd see th'mountain as neutral in
respect to th'balance. Ahve yet t'see ah compellin reason t'change
that... o'corse, ef et becomes ah matter o' security, well that would
bae plenty compellin. We'll see wot this holey stinkin pit brings."
They both chuckled again, before Kraxul continued. "Meantime, ahm
sendin troops down mountain t'supplement yer own... th'Baewar may
balk at answerin tha Thane o' Nuexpar, but once they've made their
complaints, ahm certain they'll jump at th'chance of some action."
Kraxul tipped his pipe sideways and tapped a bit of clean, white ash
into the tray before continuing. "Nighttime patrols bae ah decent
beginnin, but we need t'keep an eye on tha goins on in tha depths o'
that pit durin tha day as well. Ah'll keep ye informed."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sun Sep 7 09:45:33 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part seven-)
Kraxul stood on the bar at Discord's brews, addressing the bulk of the
Baewar. "There bae ah growin threat to tha south, and et needs dealin
wit' before et becomes serious."
He was in the rowdiest bar in All of Thaxanos, in the heart of the
Baewar district, above the famed Brawlin Pits. The Baewar, being the
fiercest branch of Thaxanos' military had languished under a lack in
leadership, having no Thane. Most of them were here, drinking,
fighting, and honing their skills. He stood on the bar, stoic and
patient, unmoving, giving them the chance to wind down and listen.
Little by little, the talking quieted, slowed and ceased. A pair of
mountain dwarves in the corner halted their scuffle, and turned to hear
of this new threat, resolving to continue their brawl aftwerward.
"Hear 'im!", came the shout that Kraxul had been waiting for.
"Hear tha Thane!" a longbeard of the Baewar lending the Thane of
a different clan the authority to speak to the hardest army in Algoron.
Kraxul surveyed the tavern. Silent, and still, a hundred eyes or more
on him, listening for him to speak. "There bae ah threat, southward.
Within tha sinkhole. Ye may know of tha recent decision ta bridge et
and restore th'path to Althainia." Kraxul spoke at length of the
construction project, the way the Crusade had become involved, and the
most recent events as the forces of darkness had begun to take notice
and insert themselves into the situation. He then turned toward the
Longbeard who had afforded him this audience, asking "And sar Grawmli,
son o' Svuryn bae yer commander fer this mission, ye'll take yer
reports to 'im, and do as 'e bids. FER THAXANOS!"
"FER THAXANOS!" was the reply.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Pythaerae
Date Sun Sep 7 10:39:00 2025
To All Imm RP storyline Religion
Subject The Span
The rumbling of the ground was enough for her to know that the presence
of more than one firstborn within the area of the sink hole. The very walls
her home were vibrating from the roars unleashed in the area. Her wings
unfurled from her form and with a great power launched the huge firstborn
skies and she went to investigate the site again. As promised to watch over
those working below.
Just the day before she had traveled down into the sink hole and found the
cauldron tipped over with the foul smelling magical liquid soaking into the
ground and with a powerful step she crushed the cauldron, however, the
liquid within had already been released into the area
Today, while she was soaring over the span where the bridge was being built
and the sink hole below she saw the scene of what was left behind by the
foul chromatics. She was in flight alone this night and knew not to engage
with them at once, but a plan formed with in her and she set it in motion.
With a mighty roar the gold moved above foul beasts and snarled at them,
letting loose across the sky in night the flame of her breath so that light
bathed the skies above, revealing the evil in the skies above.
Writer: Pythaerae
Date Sun Sep 7 10:52:39 2025
Writer: Agapitos
Date Sun Sep 7 15:08:05 2025
To Althainia Kingdom Clan All ( Immortal Nadrik )
Subject Little Light: Setbacks I
Rumors swirled about the palace as the Imperial procession made its way
through the primary portcullis that comprised its main entrance. Maids and
servants whispered of altercations that had transpired in the north, of the
Imperial body having been returned in the night in a thunderous mood.
Speculation had run wild, for the Emperor's fits of wroth were few, but
telling. He was not a man given to his choler, but it was felt in every
corner of the castle even as it seemed that he never raised his voice above
the steely tones of an orator's stentorian command when the circumstance
demanded.
Agapitos di Lucis advanced through the city streets with an octet of the
Royal Guard. Their wing-helmed visages were ever turned outward, rarely
resting upon his person directly. The following morning had done little to
address his ill temper, and the dull radiance of his discontent was felt
like a tattered banner on the wind. Flashes of annoyance escaped his rigid
control, and passers-by looked away as the procession passed them by. Some
cringed or shuddered, a primordial sense in the back of their minds alarmed
by the presence of an ancient predator, the stifled presence of magical fear
that draped over All of the Emperor's kind like a shroud.
Izha Vortigern looked where the guards dared not, following in the wake of
her father. The lines of tension in his armored body were an open book to
her, and though she did not ask of what had transpired, she knew from whence
he had come in his anger. The gathering of Light had, as it had been
before, just shy of disastrous. Her concern was compounded by the poor
control that the Emperor was exerting this day, the spiraling coils of
terror that afflicted those of weaker hearts among the citizenry as the
royal party entered the poorer district of town, through which the
abominable river flowed. Pahamut had ever prided himself on his control,
but the burden of imperial command had frayed his nerves in the intervening
months. It was one confrontation after another, challenges to his
legitimacy, his demeanor, his leadership, and now some new, unknown slight.
It was taking its toll.
The river of blood was a blight not only upon the world, but upon the city
through which it ran, intersecting with a section of wall that had collapsed
and had been swept away when the earth was sundered. It was a canker, a
festering wound that refused to heal, and swelled now with uncleanliness.
From its genesis in the dark lands of Abaddon to its terminus north of the
city, it offended All goodly senses, stymieing All attempts to put it to
rights. It refused to be purified by the layman, and even the champions of
Good had seen their initial efforts amount to naught. It was infested,
serpentine forms adapted seemingly solely to thrive in the sanguine
environment prowling its depths, preying upon those unfortunate to fall in
without any means of escaping and growing fat upon their poor luck.
The northern bank of the river offered a view of the scaffolding going into
place. Wooden beams supported workers that toiled to construct the
foundations of the new fortifications, framing the points at which the
columns that would span the river would be sunk. Laborers toiled, some
hammering more long stakes earthward, while others worked on the stonework
that would flank the river to the east and west. Still more began the work
on what would be the bridgework that ran the inner length of the wall,
replacing the sections of the Concourse that had been washed away.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Sun Sep 7 15:10:15 2025
To Althainia Kingdom Clan All ( Immortal Nadrik )
Subject Little Light: Setbacks II
The Imperial party looked then to the boats that had been procured for
their crossings, two of them bobbing in the sluggish flow of the river.
This close to shore, blood serpent attacks were rare, but a pair of the city
guard still stood watch with spears in hand, the weapons' heads stained
almost black with the ichor that flowed nearby. Both looked tired, but
stiffened when the golden flame stare of the Emperor passed over them. The
look was invasive, the judgment instant.
'Stand aside, soldiers. You have done well thus far. ' The voice was curt,
but not unkind. With a wave of a gauntletted hand, the Emperor dismissed
the cityguards, and with another gesture indicated two of his own retinue to
hold the boat landing. The vessels were little more than rowboats, large
enough to support four riders each. The oars sat upon the benches within,
and the unspoken arrangement was carried out. Two soldiers accompanied the
Emperor and his daughter, while the other four took the other vessel for
themselves. The royal guardsmen took up the oars without being bidden as
the Emperor and Izha sat on opposite benches, facing one another.
'Is this what you want, Pahamut? ' Her voice was gentle, but the words cut
past the immediate and into the heart of what was on the Emperor's mind. He
resisted a scowl, knowing that it would look more cross than he intended.
Izha's insight was beyond the supernatural. It was more probing and telling
even than his own Gods-given gaze. She constantly vexed him as a test of
his own judgment and resolve, balancing his vision of the future and the
now. The needs of the many and his desires. The concept of love for a
people and love for people. He did not answer immediately.
He looked out across the river, to where the laborers toiled. Most of them
were filthy, even the foremen and the aides. Children scrabbled across
wooden catwalks to bring food and water to the workers, while guards stood
at posts along the river and near the scaffolds. None of them were in the
pristine blue and white of the Althainian regalia. All had been stained
reddish-brown with the flow of contaminated blood that they raised this wall
in protest against. Some sported bandages besides, workers on light duty
bearing wounds that were almost indistinguishable from the blood they were
nearly bathed in, the cotton wraps over them filthy. Worst among them were
those working on the lowest level of the scaffolding, just above the river's
surface. Here, the men toiled to align guideposts the stone columns that
would be sunk into the riverbed to support the rest of the construction,
finalizing the first phase of the project. Seven of these stones would need
to be hauled and dropped, supporting the expanse of the wall and its
sluice-gates as well as the bridge-walks that would pass in the wall's
shadow to restore the damaged Concourse.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Sun Sep 7 15:11:26 2025
To Althainia Kingdom Clan All ( Immortal Nadrik )
Subject Little Light: Setbacks III
His thoughts went farther beyond the wall, to the river's dark heart, and
the ruminations on its true origin. "As above, so below" was the saying. A
reflection of the wounds suffered on the distant moon. His own skin crawled
with the memory of the tortures, though he had seen but moments of it, felt
but a fraction of the pain his Father had suffered. Nadrik, in His mercy,
had shielded him from the worst of what He had shown His son, but those
agonies dogged his rest even half-forgotten. He could not but wonder what
would ever put this to right. Others had attempted to attack the nature of
the river itself, as the disastrous Council had but recently re-proposed.
He had resolved to build over and around it, to accept what he could not
change and alter what he could. The logistics of the grand design of a war
required certain parameters to be met. Safety, supplies, and soldiery. The
flaw in the city's walls was so laughably exploitable that it almost shamed
the Imperial Crownheads that had preceded him. Even Empress Ama'ness,
beloved by all. Now, with few allies and fewer friends, he had begun this
work, imposing his wish even upon his own people, who had balked at the
taxation and the command for labor. It was not tyranny, but it was
dictatorship. Dragging those to a better morrow, whether they understood it
or not. This, too, was wearying.
His reverie was broken at the sound of splashing and a crash. Shouting
followed as heads turned in the boats. Soldiers surged from their posts,
making their way down to the surface level, where a blood serpent had one of
the carpenters in its maw. Twin fangs sank deep into the man's abdomen, and
he gave a ragged scream as he thrashed. The snake reared, coiling in the
water and shaking its large head to jerk the human off his feet and batter
him against the wood like a ragdoll. Things broke. It was not the wooden
catwalk.
A second shadow slipped under the boat and reared up, upsetting the
Emperor's vessel. Both Royal Guards moved in unison, taking their oars like
spears and scything them at the shape erupted from the ruddy river. Both
smashed into a sinuous body, battering it off balance and off course. The
snake's lunge, meant for the armored Emperor, instead caught the edge of the
bench beside him. Izha was in motion, faster than thought, but it was the
Emperor who got the next word in the altercation. Armored fingers wrapped
around the monster's head, seized a fang and twisted, snapping bone and
tearing free in an ichorous gout. There the tooth remained, half-lodged in
the wood as the beast gave a terrible ululation and reared back. The
Emperor, still holding fast, was dragged off of the boat and thrown into the
shallows by the monster's thrashing.
Blood soaked him from head to toe, and the stink of iron surrounded him. He
was submerged in a nightmare briefly, holding fast to a thrashing embodiment
of agony in a red-tinted hellscape. His anger pulsed in his heart and in
his head, control threatening to fray. If he lost the last of his patience
here, it would enganger All nearby. It would threaten his guards. It would
threaten the workers. It would threaten Izha. The facts flowed quickly, in
a moment divorced from the frenetic violence as he struggled for his
footing. Unacceptable. He released the serpent and rose from the river,
boots planted in the mud. Blood streamed from his armor, soaked his
half-tabard, weighed his already heavy armored mantle down. He was part of
the nightmare.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Sun Sep 7 15:13:35 2025
To Althainia Kingdom Clan All ( Immortal Nadrik )
Subject Little Light: Setbacks IV
He gave his rage an avenue. The beast recoiled from its first strike as
the dragonfear struck it, even the vile beast recognizing its better on a
primordial level. Ascalon, ancient and sharp, leaped from its scabbard as
he drew it and seared the surface of the river as the first downward stroke
cleaved into the bloody mess. Smoke billowed from the impact as golden
flames boiled away at the blood, and the serpent darted away. There was
still screaming and thrashing at the scaffolding as the guards began to
corner the first beast, spears flashing as they sought to pierce scaly hide.
The Emperor spoke a command in a language as old as the stony foundation of
the world. The second boat of royal guards, whom had begun to row closer,
paused as they considered their command, then turned, rowing with force
toward the site of the attack.
The smoke about the Emperor billowed, the stink of burning copper acrid and
nauseating. Within, he remained still as the statuary decorating the more
garish elements of his capitol city. He was effectively blinded in the
mortal sense, the smoke obscuring All but what lay directly before him, but
that vision that was granted by the grace of the Gods did not falter through
such simplistic means. Through the lens of flame, the world was rendered in
shades of grey, living creatures writ in shades of black and white. The
sinuous ribbon of pitch black, the essence of living, carnivorous sin
whipped and thrashed as rage overwhelmed its supernatural fear. It coiled,
recoiled, and darted, beelining for him once more. It closed, racing, and
the Emperor braced, angling Ascalon for a cleaving strike.
The snake barely breached the surface of the water, three fangs bared for a
killing bite, before Ascalon arced down, bisecting its head cleanly. The
shadow of black in the Emperor's God-sight was illuminated by a wreath of
white flames as, in the material world, golden fire erupted from the mortal
wound. He scarcely had time to feel a mote of satisfaction when, in the
wake of his blow, a streak of white darted past him. A second strike, a
horizontal cut split the serpent's jaw, and in his vision a nebulous halo
emanated from the cut. It spread, devouring black at its basest level. The
serpent did not thrash, for it was already dead, but instead sublimated into
motes of light. From head to tail, its scales, sinew, and bone were
purified, leaving behind not a trace of its wickedness in Algoron.
Izha panted, knee deep in the river before the Emperor. Her shortsword was
drawn, but was strangely clean, as though it had cut through merely air at
the end of her headlong flight to assist her father. She was only mutely
aware of the chill of the river, so at odds with the humid, vital warmth of
the vitae she expected. The smoke was thinning, and as she gazed upon the
Emperor, she was taken aback by the nature of his stare. In it was pride,
consummate joy at the prowess of his ward, but greater still was an aspect
of dread. There was some deep sorrow, some lingering regret that she could
not fathom, but as she registered this, both expressions were carefully
tucked into her father's customary mask of stoicism. He rewarded her with a
nod, his blade still bared, 'You have done well, Izha. '
Writer: Agapitos
Date Sun Sep 7 15:14:14 2025
To Althainia Kingdom Clan All ( Immortal Nadrik )
Subject Little Light: Setbacks V
She did not notice what he saw, the halo that surrounded Izha in the wake
of her sprint. For one fleeting moment, for one dearly precious second, the
blood that had dared touch the young lady Vortigern had been transmuted.
Pure water wreathed her, but was quickly washed away. It was a literal drop
in the river, quickly lost in the corruption that sought to drown them both.
It was the taste of victory, of triumph, and of protection of those in need.
The very balm that the Emperor's Father sought, no matter how miniscule. He
shook his head, offering his blood-drenched gauntlet to his daughter, 'We
must see to the wounded. Come. ' His boat, his vessel had pulled up beside
him, the two guards aboard gazing past their charge to examine Izha with
renewed interest. He would have to speak to them later of what they saw.
The secrets that he had dared to keep could not unravel so readily. Not
now. Not ever.
The Emperor assisted Izha in climbing upon the boat first before accepting
the hands of his coterie, his blood-drenched mantle threatening to pull all
four back into the river. He paid it no mind. Ahead, at the base of the
wall, the fighting had ended and the wounded were being recovered. A bloody
sheet already lay over the worker that had been first assaulted. They were
too late. Another loss, another setback. Two guards were wounded by the
thrashing, and the fear that permeated the construction reeked almost as
badly as the river itself. The golden-haired monarch shook his head as he
settled back upon the boat's bench. This was to be a long, terrible
venture.
Writer: Lilly
Date Mon Sep 8 14:34:04 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Mon Sep 8 19:29:08 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Mon Sep 8 20:03:07 2025
Writer: Lilly
Date Mon Sep 8 20:15:45 2025
Writer: Vershae
Date Mon Sep 8 20:48:44 2025
Writer: Evard
Date Tue Sep 9 09:26:00 2025
Writer: Evard
Date Tue Sep 9 10:57:59 2025
Writer: Quaikhin
Date Tue Sep 9 20:10:25 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Sep 10 09:51:02 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Sep 10 10:25:10 2025
To All Knighthood Justice White_Robes Fardoc Geirhart Kraxul ( Religion Austinian Imm RP )
Subject The Use of Weapons
The first rays of dawn had just begun to curl across the tall mountains
at the edge of the horizon. Upon the elysian fields the Arch Angel stood,
wings unfurled, face lifted toward the sky. The stars were fading, the ink
of night receding, as the growing light brushed the heavens with a soft
periwinkle.
With three beats of his wings he rose into the air, turned toward the city
of Althainia, and wheeled into flight.
Few souls stirred at this early hour, a lone street sweeper, weary
night-watchers, bakers kneading their dough. Raphiel smiled faintly,
dimming his light so as not to draw their gaze. In his watch he had learned
how seldom mortals thought to look upward.
Idyllic lands, he thought. Everywhere he beheld the tiny threads of
radiance that bound each thing to creation: every stone a purpose, every
tree a history, every atom a tale of eons. Yet the blood-red river broke
this harmony.
It scarred the land, flowing in defiance away from the sea. And not far
beyond yawned the great sinkhole, cavernous and wrong, its presence a wound
upon the earth.
Desolation still lingered, and Raphiels gaze grew heavy with sorrow. What
more could be said of such ruin? It no longer shocked him, nor even
surprised him. Since his descent into this realm, hatred had been his
constant companion. The few brief moments of genuine care he had offered
shone as rare treasures, but so many hearts had hardened that this
bleakness, and memory of recent violence, seemed the inevitable fruit of
long abuse.
At the sinkhole's edge he alighted, grief plain upon his face. Matters had
already come to this, the use of weapons beyond mortal comprehension. To
answer such darkness he must lay down a portion of his own essence, a
sacrifice that would diminish him for a time.
He drew a deep breath of the morning air and raised his hand to the heavens.
The white moon, high and full, glowed in recognition of his plea, and he
felt the gaze of the Father, the Master Scholar, and the Prince of Valor
fall upon him.
A question pressed upon his soul, unspoken yet thunderous: Are you certain?
He answered in silence, his assent clear. Curling his fingers, he seized
the light that poured from above, and a pillar of unending radiance roared
into being. Dawn itself was consumed, transfigured into blazing day as the
light struck the fundament.
Formed from the might of the heavens, the pillar blinded and weakened all
who bore malice in their hearts. Against its judgment, no assailant could
stand; the dwarven ballistae being readied would need only loose their
bolts. And woe to any who touched the light itself, for its wrath would lay
bare their souls even as it sanctified the land.
Raphiel breathed deeply, weary and dim, his bones heavy from the sacrifice.
With sorrow he turned from the radiant pillar and took flight once more,
grieved by the necessity of such a work.
Writer: Blinx
Date Wed Sep 10 14:24:00 2025
To All ( Khellendros Ryzzynth Shadow Bloodlust Conclave Drakarra )
Subject {uBlood on White, Gift to Night
The storm still hissed in the air, arcane lightning crawling across
Blinxs fingertips. The angel staggered in the ruin of its own brilliance,
wings shredded and charred, body raked open where Khellendross claws had
torn divine flesh. Its once-pure voice cracked into a final ragged gasp,
and then another feather slipped loose, spinning in the haze of ozone and
blood.
Blinxs grin widened, cruel and bright, as he raised his hands to the sky.
For you, Mother Night! He cried, as though casting the words themselves
like a spell.
The angel faltered, knees striking stone, light bleeding away into ash.
Khellendros loosed a guttural laugh, his teeth dripping with celestial
ichor, and then the angel collapsed. A body of radiance, broken on the
earth.
Blinx stooped, fingers curling around one last plume, still trembling with
the ghost of sanctity. He clutched it close to his husks chest, the hollow
there thrumming like a vessel filled, and turned from the battlefield.
The Temple of Dark Magick rose ahead, solemn and immense, its walls of gray
marble thrusting upward into impossible heights. The chanting of mages and
priests spilled through the doors in low, undulating waves. Blinx entered,
petals crunching under his boots, smoke coiling into his lungs like velvet
serpents.
Torches hovered midair, their flames flickering against darkwood shelves
stacked with tomes of forbidden lore. Above the pews, purple banners
cascaded from ceiling to floor. At the heart of it all, high upon marble
stairs, the alabaster statue stood aglowits stone face lifted toward the
painted dome where Necrucifers hand reached down from stormy heavens.
Blinx climbed the steps, the angels feather cradled between his palms. He
knelt upon the lavender-strewn floor, and his voice rang out in sing-song
rhyme, curling like a spell into the perfumed silence:
Umbraqueen of the Blackened Moon,
Mistress dark of spell and rune,
I bring a plume from angels wing,
A fallen hymn, a broken thing.
See how light is torn asunder,
Feather scorched by storm and thunder.
Where they soared in haughty skies,
Now they bleed, and darkness thrives
Take this gift, O Queen of Night,
Twist it deep in shadow's might.
Let their purity decay,
As your power lights my way.
I twist their grace, I turn their song,
To you, Dark Queen, it now belong
Drakkara, hear your servant true,
My husk, my soul, I give to you.
He set the feather among the petals at the statues feet.
And then triumphantly, suddenly-nothing. Silence.
The gathering within the Temple hushed as the single plume lay still,
its pristine whiteness marred by blood and soot.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Wed Sep 10 20:06:17 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part eight-)
The desk was wide and low to the ground, carved of a large slab of the
same granite that was being quarried for the Emperor's bridge. It was
one of the perks, he supposed, of leading this project. This slab had
been recovered from the scrap pile and cut from a defective foundation
slab. It was rectangular, except for a semi-circular ingress into the
working side. This area was smoothed and rounded, while the remainder
of the edges of the slab were left rough.
There were several candles sat in each of the corners of the desk, out
of reach and out of his way. Papers were stacked neatly in two stacks
on his left side, while a rough pile sat on the right. In the center,
a leather-bound ledger sat in front of the Thane. He was hunched over
the tome, quill in hand, recording the day's business when a messenger
cleared his throat from the doorway.
"Aye?" he said, not looking up. The younger dwarf crossed the room at
a brisk pace, and thrust a neat stack of papers toward Kraxul, who was
still taking great care with his ledger. It was important to him that
the ledger was neat and accurate, and worth taking his time. Finally,
he looked up, and reached for the stack. He skimmed over the drawings
and found what he was looking for. He studied it briefly, then dipped
his quill and started a fresh order on clean parchment.
It had been nearly a week since Fardoc had asked, most presciently, if
Thaxanos still possessed the ballista they had used ages ago, when the
elves had made their attempt on the city. The Thane had answered that
they almost certainly still sat in the kingdom's war arsenal. What he
hadn't said was that they were beyond his reach in peacetime. Without
a de-facto state of war, he had no legal grounds to remove them. That
was fine, he had no intention of removing them. He had, instead, sent
the twins down there with their measuring tools and a notebook. "Five
hundred mithril bars and fifty hickory boards, times three." mumbling
to himself as he wrote out the missive authorizing the delivery of his
own bars to the twins' workshop. He sealed it with red wax and firmly
set the brass stamp into the wax. He slid the missive across the desk
before leaning back in his chair. "That one goes to th'porters. Then
Ah need ye ta find mae some boards." He checked the bill of materials
again saying, "Hunnerd an' fifty of em. Hickory. Have em sent to tha
same place." He smiled again. Construction would commence, and soon.
And this time, they would be protected from the chromatic menace.
Writer: Aothien
Date Thu Sep 11 13:30:57 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Thu Sep 11 19:06:37 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XIII
The fourth bell rang low through the crystal halls, a resonant tone that
stirred Ulyssus from his studies. He closed the volume before him with
deliberate care, letting his fingers linger on the script of the hymn he had
been reviewing. The library around him was quiet, save for the gentle snore
of the elderly librarian at his desk and the faint shimmer of the magical
globes overhead. Ulyssus drew his white cloak about his shoulders and rose,
slipping the quill back into his satchel. Today's summons was not for
silent study, but for a lesson of the voice.
The walk from the library to the chapel was lined with crystalline walls
that caught and scattered the light. The air grew warmer as he approached,
touched with the scent of incense drifting outward through the southern
doors.
Within the chapel, it was as though the heavens themselves opened above.
The Icewall skies churned overhead, kept at bay by unseen wards, while
magical globes along the walls bathed the chamber in golden light. Their
glow played upon the jeweled mosaics of the crystal walls and the polished
marble floor, creating shifting patterns of brilliance that seemed alive
with sacred purpose. A gnomish monk moved lightly along the rows of
benches, incense globe in hand, while a grumbling hill-dwarf novice scrubbed
stubbornly at the gleaming floor.
A circle of initiates and monks had gathered before the crystal altar, and
Ulyssus took his place among them. Brother Selorn, an aged monk with a
voice unexpectedly rich for his frail frame, stepped forward.
"Words carry weight, " Selorn began. "But words given in unison, lifted
together as prayer, can carry Light itself. Today, we learn of chant. You
will come to understand that the rhythm of many voices joined is as strong a
defense as any shield, and as clear a blessing as any spell. "
The lesson began with breath. Inhale, hold, release. The monks instructed
them to match their voices in tone, first a hum, then a single note, then a
rising cadence that echoed like a wave against the crystalline dome above.
Ulyssus felt the vibration in his chest, subtle at first, then resonant, as
though the very stones of the monastery sang with them.
From there came the words. Simple lines, drawn from ancient hymns of
Kantilles. Prayers of service, of joy, of unity in the Light. Each line
was repeated, first soft, then louder, woven together until the chant filled
the chapel. Ulyssus recognized fragments of verses he had copied in the
library days before. Hearing them spoken aloud in harmony was a revelation.
Ink on parchment held wisdom, but spoken by many voices they became living
power.
As the chants swelled, Ulyssus felt the subtle stir of divine magic. It was
not the focused casting of a spell, nor the shaping of frost or flame as he
knew from wizardry. It was a warmth that radiated outward, settling into
the marrow of his bones. It was as if the Ivory Moon itself had bent low to
listen, answering not with brilliance, but with presence.
At last the cadence faded, voices lowering until only silence remained, deep
and expectant. Brother Selorn bowed his head. "Remember this, children of
the Light. Alone, a voice can falter. Together, the chant becomes eternal.
Use your gift not to exalt yourself, but to raise All who walk beside you.
"
Ulyssus lingered as the others departed, standing in the stillness of the
chapel. His hands folded before him, he whispered one final line of his own
hymn, not loud but steady, a voice joining the echoes still caught in the
walls. Then, drawing his cloak tighter, he turned southward, the faint
scent of incense following him back into the crystal halls.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu Sep 11 19:11:50 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu Sep 11 19:16:00 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu Sep 11 19:19:36 2025
Writer: Ryger
Date Thu Sep 11 19:22:25 2025
To All Chaos Malachive ( IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject A Tenebrous Vision and The Sluss'i (I)
As storm winds howl and surround the great keep of the Warp, a faint
flicker dispells Ryger's sleep and brings him to rest upon the black leather
couch. An ethereal hue pulses from the tree, and a faint beat can be heard
from within. The horn, which grows from the tree, seeps blood that pools at
the edge of the couch. As Ryger looked down, a faint mist grew into the
blood pool revealing a path forward. A path to redemption. And perhaps, a
path of salvation.
The tenebrous swirl slowly formed into a vision in the blood. One which
showed a future that depended upon dedication and perserverance. Several
tall reptillian figures surround an obsidian alter and chant of rebirth.
Ryger could not make out the tall figures, although they appeard snake-like
in form, but he sensed something familiar about them. At the front of the
alter, a man leading the sermon. A priest bearing an 8 sided star of
Malachive upon his robes.
The vision swirled back into a tenebrous mist and the portal slowly
disipated back into the pool of blood. In a flicker, everything seemed to
retun to normal. The hue was gone, the pool dried up, and only soft winds
blowing outside remain from the event. Ryger even wonder if it was even
real or perhaps it was All a dream. One thing left lingering though,
something must be done. Some action must be taken. As he sit on the couch,
the realization set began to set in. The snake-like men in the vision?
Well they resembled something very familiar to him. Something forgotton
with the passing of moons over Algorn. Something... To the east...
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu Sep 11 19:35:55 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Sep 11 19:46:32 2025
Writer: Zorreau
Date Fri Sep 12 06:52:15 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows VI
A week's silence had passed, broken only by preparation. Zorreau's steps
had carried him across forgotten catacombs, past the rotting breath of dust
and stone beneath the Church of Stars. Here, beneath sanctified ruins, the
veil was thinnest - and the way to the Realm of Terror waited like an open
wound.
The crypt air grew heavier with each stair, a cloying weight pressing
against his chest. The torch in his gauntleted hand guttered, its flame
shrinking as though reluctant to proceed, until it sputtered and died
entirely. Darkness, thick and absolute, swallowed the world.
It was then he saw it - not with eyes, but with some deeper sense, a primal
instinct that whispered of dread. At the far end of the crypt, a gate
yawned wide, wrought of stone and shadow. Its arch was etched with glyphs
older than faith, bleeding light that pulsed like the heartbeat of a corpse.
Beyond it, the air quivered, as if the world itself recoiled from what lay
on the other side.
The wolf within him stirred, restless. His jaw set, Zorreau laid his palm
upon the gate. The stone burned cold, colder than steel plunged into snow.
For an instant, he felt every scream carried by this threshold - countless
voices clawing at the edges of his mind, promising despair.
And then it opened.
The stench struck first - acrid, fetid, the stink of blood and rot. Then
came the sound: an endless chorus of screams, not carried on air but woven
into the marrow of the place. He stepped through, and the ground beneath
him squelched - a corridor of living flesh stretched beneath his boots,
slick and heaving as though the very land were alive.
The Realm of Terror.
Walls dripped ichor. Rivers of congealed blood carved paths through
landscapes of broken bone. Skies churned with formless shadows, their
shapes ever shifting, never whole. Every breath tasted of anguish. Every
step carried the weight of damnation.
Yet Zorreau did not falter.
The voices whispered at him, clawed at him - stolen futures, soul bindings,
leashes he might forge. He knew the cost now. Not in pain of flesh, but in
memory, in the weight of knowing each creature bound would scream forever in
silence only he could hear.
And still he pressed forward.
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Sep 12 16:43:40 2025
To All ( Drakkara RP )
Subject The Inevitable
"{uAre you not already listening to my voice?"
){uO(
She could see the Ebon Spire from Her cathedral, among other things.
Its towering height, its encompassing black that repelled light - as if it
were beyond being touched by it.
She had been raised in its shadow while she prepared for both priesthood and
the rigors of Storm Keep. There had been curiosity at the time, considering
the history that existed between her destination and the Spire, but rarely
had her path intersected theirs.
With one hand cupping an inscribed wine glass, the other idly crossed to
grip her elbow loosely.
{u...have some wine. I rather think you might need to loosen up a bit.
The voice of the Goddess was reverently rekindled. There was not a word She
had spoken that Symantha would fail to recollect when needed, especially
while engaging in a related moment.
The ghost of a smile crossed her lips moments before she sipped at the dark
red within. There was a great deal to consider, there always was. The
weaving of the greater tapestry was never ending, each umbral thread
creating patterns that her scarred fingers grazed as needed alongside
others. At least, until they unraveled.
Ease was not a term she wove haphazardly to the at-times complicated
workings she oversaw alongside the Draco Dei but the Goddess had had a
point, and Her High Priestess indulged it now in silent divine commune.
There was nothing overly unforeseen or unexpected in some measure about the
current trajectory of the Trinity and Her Tower. Would this time be
different? It should be, could have been by now. It was a question for the
ages but the past told the tale with succinct detail to those who had borne
witness and cared to recall it. How long could the Red and Black possibly
remain in nescience before the threat within, at their doorstep, and beyond
became apparent.
Still, there was some time.
She swirled the wine in its elegant glass, her fingers brushing over its
stylized -D as she did so, and the steel gray of her gaze roamed from the
Black Tower to the Aurora that wavered in the air. It would take but a
nudge and it would go from threatening at the threshold to eating the
Darkness alive - as the forests of Shalonesti so succinctly displayed.
Verminasia. The Black Tower. Eclipse Tower. A forest steeped for ages in
the presence of the Dark Jewel and the Ebon Spire. A feast for Nadrik's
wrath to gorge itself on.
It was the Umbraseer who looked down on the rubble of what could be and knew
both the Crusade and the wrong side of divine Will for what it truly was.
She had seen the petrifaction years ago. Perhaps there wasn't much time
left.
Such was the ebb and flow of the Godswar at their divine behest.
It wasn't only the Servants of Darkness that were often given enough rope to
either hang themselves by or pull themselves up with. Inaction would decide
the future as assuredly as action but change was upon them All and nothing
could divert the inevitable.
Writer: Pholos
Date Fri Sep 12 17:36:16 2025
Writer: Ryger
Date Sat Sep 13 17:57:02 2025
To All Chaos Malachive ( IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject A Tenebrous Vision and The Sluss'i (II)
As the sun broke the horizon Ryger was already up and contemplating the
night before. The Word Bearer Justian was already sitting up greeting Ryger
with a smile. Almost as if he already knew of the vision. Ryger look up
and said, "I saw a vision last night. Well, it may have been a vision, or
just a very vivid dream, but regardless, I remember it All very well."
Justian just smiled and nodded as if he was neither shocked or surprised by
Rygers words. "Tell me about the vision?" Justian asked before uttering
out his symbols of prayer. Ryger then explained the vision with complete
detail. "What will you do Ryger? Will you seek them out? The Sluss'i that
is?" Justian asked as he stood up from his kneeling posture. Ryger
answered with only an expression and a nod. Ryger stood and looked at
justian before saying, "Pray over my efforts Word Bearer?"
Ryger then set out to the Ruins that lay to the east. The Monastery was in
ruins and overtaken buy jungle. At first glance it appeared desolate and
deserted. As Ryger got nearer to the inner courtyard, he could catch
glimpses of something jolting in and out of the ruin rubble. Faint hissing
could be heard at times, and Ryger knew he was being watched, but the
creatures stayed in the shadows and just watched from afar. Perhaps in
mistrust, or perhaps they were preparing to spring a trap. Ryger kept calm
and stayed away from blind corners as he moved through the courtyard
approaching the Monastery. Eventually, he came to a set of stone doors
which were already open about half way. The stone doors were etched with
snakes and what looked to be a swirling orb with 3 beams of light coming off
of it on each side. Ryger pulled an ember out of his pack and lit it as it
float next to him lighting the interior of the halls.
Once inside, the stone walls showed similar carvings as the doors, as well
as, carvings of some creature or god that was quite difficult to make out
due to the deteriorating brick. One thing was for certain, this creature
appeared to be the thing that inspired worship within the Monastery. As
Ryger came to the end of the Hall, The monastery opened up into a large room
with an alter. Behind the alter, Ryger noticed that the floor looked as if
it had been covered up by another style of brick. "Perhaps I should start
here" Ryger thought to himself. As he near the Brick, 4 shadowed figures
came into the chamber at the same time blocking the exit. The figures
chanted in unison, "Unworthy, you must be sacrificed to the great demon"
Ryger readied himself with a stake in one hand, and a gourd swirling with a
freezing mist in the other. Ryger smirked at the snake-like creatures and
shouted, ''oh yeah? Come get some!''
Writer: Justian
Date Sun Sep 14 09:38:20 2025
To All Chaos Ryger ( IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject A Tenebrous Vision: Labor, Not Liturgy
Ryger paused at the threshold of the Gathering Hall, lean and nimble, his
cobalt eyes steady beneath the spread of deep-scarlet wings tipped in black.
The eight-pointed star carved at his neck caught a shard of light when he
inclined his head.
"Pray over my efforts, Word Bearer?"
Justians answer was simple. "I do not pray, but I shall Suffer for you."
Ryger nodded once and turned east. The marble hush took his footfalls and
the Hall returned to its long patient breath.
Justian did not follow. He set to the work.
The Horned Tree loomed as always: bark like dull ivory, blood seeping into a
stone bowl at its roots. He drew the bowl nearer and chalked its rim in
tallies, each mark the count of sixty-four slow breaths. Hours. Not hymns.
From his saddled bags, he took a coil of rope. He worked eight knots to a
length, then again, and again, and again, and again... Until the fiber was
free to remember it's purpose and his hands remembered patience, then he set
it aside.
Ash ground with salt made a gray paste. With it he struck the device Ryger
had described onto a slate: a swirling orb casting three beams to one side
and three to the other. The first lines were wrong, the tenth less so. By
the thirtieth, the angles came without looking.
A stake waited nearby. Justian welcomed it into the rite. He braced its
edge to stone and drew it back in long, even strokes, filing to the rhythm
of the Horned Trees blood as it seeped into the bowl, one stroke for each
dark bead. He worked until his forearms burned and his breath ran rough,
effort offered in place of prayer. Between passes he drew the serpent
door-tops and the sealed floor from Rygers account, and the false sun
three-and-three as the Warp set it in his hands. Truth under stone keeps.
It would rise when the hour could bear it. When the edge held, he marked
the hours it had cost along the length of the stake. The bowl kept the
hours; the stake kept their cost.
Writer: Justian
Date Sun Sep 14 09:40:44 2025
To All Chaos Ryger ( IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject A Tenebrous Vision: Labor, Not Liturgy (continued)
The Hall breathed and the bowl filmed over. In the thin skin of blood he
saw a place that was a monastery and a rib cage at once, pillars like bones
slick with vines, doors half-open like mouths showing stone teeth. A
swirled orb blinked where a sun should be... Three beams on one side, three
on the other, then none at all. The altar was there and not there, a block
of black that floated like a drowned thing and the floor behind it was a lid
that rose and fell as if something beneath it were learning to breathe.
Figures gathered and would not hold their number. Four, then two, then
seven, each the same and each wrong, scales that read as feathers when the
eye turned away. Their chant arrived backward, "worthy" and "unworthy"
trading places until the words broke into insect noise. A throat appeared
like a cup set on a step. A voice poured into it and kept singing after the
cup was empty. Reed boats crossed a marsh without water. Serpents curled
into letters and spelled a name that the blood refused to keep.
The skin of the vision burst like a bubble. The bowl was only a bowl again,
the Horned Tree seeped its patient red, and Justian marked what he could.
He did not call it a map. He let it pass. The Wound would keep what
mattered.
In the ruin, Ryger did not kneel. With a stake in one hand and a gourd that
breathed frost in the other, he smiled the small dangerous smile of a man
who has already chosen his path.
In the Hall, the tallies climbed the bowl like teeth. The light thinned and
warmed again. Justian knew only what the work required.
Suffering spoke. A Cause named. An End to be taken. The Path chosen. The
Wound remembers.
If the serpent creed demands a throat to prove itself righteous, then Chaos
refuses their theater. Let the first cut be certainty, not hunger. A
single living voice will weigh more than a pile of scales.
Ryger advances. Justian endures. The Horned Tree remembers.
Writer: Seyzule
Date Sun Sep 14 22:25:16 2025
To Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP )
Subject Vallentales: The Writing Lessons
Light filters through the vine motif stained-glass windows of the old
study. Piles of scrolls neatly stacked in diamond-shaped cubicles adorn the
walls. A small, closed door leads to the rest of the ancient library. This
study allows for individual learning without disturbing the other scholars.
A scribe of Shalonesti descent lingers over a young sea elf. The scribe
watches with the typical impassive face that one would expect from a noble
upbringing. A small sigh escapes the lips of the scribe as she examines the
set of scripts the sea elf produced on the wax tablet. 'Again' was the
tiring response to the pupil's work.
Seyzule heated the wax tablet to clear the marks and picked up another one
to work on as the first cools. She wanted to impress the Senator who
befriended her. The elves of the forest write in fluid, artful scripts that
she longs to emulate. Hours upon hours she works at the strokes to perfect
the delicateness of the lines. Her strong webbed fingers feel clumsy with
the elvish quill designed for elongated, delicate fingers. Yet, she pushes
on to master the ways of the land elves.
The scholarly elves look upon her with curiosity in the library. She can
sense their slight unease at a 'barbaric' elf amongst their precious
artifacts. Even the scribe she works with has mentioned more than once that
teaching her to write was a punishment. Seyzule chose to ignore such
slights and focus on the goal of learning to write as the land elves.
She came to the study daily and with each new lesson, her writing slowly
improved. Through trial and error, she found a style of quill that worked
best with her webbed hands. The roughness of her strokes eventually
smoothed out to become refined and flowy. She proved to herself and to the
other elves that any elf, especially a determined elf, will master what she
puts her mind to completing.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Sep 15 01:53:35 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm Rp Storyline )
Subject Threads Between Circles (Bridge Sabotage)
The gates of New Thalos fell away behind me, their bronze faces catching
dawn's light like a promise too bright to trust. Southward the city held
its own bustle, but I turned west, toward the canyons where silence and
stone kept older counsel. The plains bent first into low grass, then
hardened to red slickrock where the Indigoline waters carved their path,
tumbling down the sandstone falls in a spray that veiled more than it
revealed. I passed through the narrows, each step carrying me further from
the weight of mortal streets and deeper into the grammar of the earth.
At the Plunge Basin, I felt the air shift, cooler, sharper, already thick
with the residue of magick. The canyons embrace grew tighter at the Stony
Narrows, boulders strewn like punctuation, every wall a looming exclamation
of permanence. And then the hoodoos, proud and wind-carved, pillars raised
by no mason's hand. Their silence demanded reverence, but it was not here
that I lingered. For the path continued to the black mound rising
northward, and there the true work awaited me.
The Formation of Concentric Circles greeted me as a riddle made manifest.
Black sands lay impossibly undisturbed by the waters rushing past on either
side, as though their grain answered to some other law. Crystals jutted
upward in rings, umbral light pulsing in their hearts, some bearing glyphs
too ancient to trust, others whispering faintly as if the leyline itself
borrowed them as a tongue. At the center stood the glassy sphere, its
surface fused by fire and silence alike, a wound turned to mirror.
Here I knelt, palms pressing against the ground. The leyline thrummed, not
beneath but through me, strands of shadow-current winding into my veins. I
reached outward, and the umbral power coiled back, entangling itself with
the skein of my magicks. I did not seize it as plunder, I braided it as one
braids threads, listening for the rhythm that already pulsed beneath stone.
Frost Shroud unfurled across my shoulders, not as a barrier but as tether,
an agreement that my body would bear the chill so that my mind might ride
the current deeper.
Visions bled through the arcane hum. I saw the sinkhole ahead, yawning not
as void but as organ, a great mouth breathing shadow and hunger. I saw the
pillar of Light destined to be set within it, not as salvation but as
infection, an intrusion of permanence upon a place born for flux. And I saw
my path: to entwine alteration with umbra, to teach the bridge and its
builders that nothing, not even granite, endures without cost.
When the currents eased, I rose. Only then did I cloak myself anew. Alter
Self first as the harmless rabbit, soft and skittish, to slip between
sentries. Later, as a bearded dwarf, chalk on my hands, the disguise of
labor. These were not lies but continuations, forms borrowed to pass
unseen, each a syllable in the same spell. The canyon did not protest, it
knew that identity is clay, and clay was always meant to be shaped.
Thus prepared, I walked toward the sinkhole's rim. The ground trembled,
edges breaking loose to tumble into the void. Each collapse was a reminder:
permanence is myth. What can fall, will. And it is my task to hasten that
truth, to rewrite the dwarves' certainties in a language of alteration. The
pit awaited, and with it, the first chance to unmake their bridge before it
ever stood.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Sep 15 02:01:02 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Sabotage of Stone and Steel (Bridge Sabotage)
The dwarves think themselves eternal. They measure twice, cut once, and
believe their math binds the world. Yet I am Alteration, and my creed is
this: no measure holds.
I entered the worksite by night, disguised not as predator but as presence
already expected. Alter Self gave me the shoulders of a laborer, grime
beneath the fingernails, and the weary stoop of one long bent to stone.
Among the scaffold crews I passed unmarked, another shadow with a tool in
hand. But while others hammered or hauled, I touched. My magic is not
flame nor blade, it is correction, small, precise, decisive.
At the timber stacks, I set my palm to oak meant for scaffolding. With a
whisper of Alter Elements, I swelled its fibers with damp, coaxing the grain
to warp as if it remembered a flood. To the eye it was unchanged, but when
dawn came, braces would misalign and joints would creak against one another.
Not enough to collapse, not yet. Only enough to exhaust. Only enough to
bleed their time away.
The mithril bars sat in rows, cold and silent, destined to be spun into
cables that would sing beneath weight. I trailed chalk across three of
them, sigils written as if by a surveyor's careless hand. Then I pulsed
Reduce into their lattice, shaving density from one, shifting mass in
another, leaving the third slightly untrue. When the Twins took their
measurements, they would find nothing amiss. But when tension came,
resonance would falter, and a hum would crawl just off-pitch. Bridges fall
not by sudden strike alone but by a thousand wrong notes carried long
enough.
Near the armories I wore the rabbit's form, ears twitching, paws silent, no
more suspicious than vermin. I scurried close to the relics of old
ballistae, their ropes coiled like sleeping serpents. Here I drew frost
from my breath, laying it thin across hemp. Frost Shroud kissed the cords
until moisture found them brittle. Come the day a dragon tested their aim,
the ropes would snap not in drama but in shame.
When the last sigil was set, I withdrew to the sinkhole's edge. From my
sleeve I cast a pinch of black sand, stolen from the Circles, and let it
scatter into the void. As it fell, I whispered a single spell: Forget. The
sand answered, carrying with it the memory of exactness. Tomorrow the
workers would find themselves repeating steps, re-checking cuts, uncertain
of whether they had already completed the task. Doubt is the saboteur's
truest ally.
The Light believes their pillar will sanctify the abyss. The dwarves
believe their bridge will stand against dragons. But I have laid whispers
in wood, lies in metal, frost in rope, and doubt in memory. Their
permanence is undone already. When the first soldier marches across the
span, it will creak with the weight of my alterations. When the first
dragon strikes, the Baewar will look upon a ruin they built themselves.
I am not demolition, I am drift. I am the unseen inch between truth and
failure. And when their bridge collapses, they will call it misfortune,
never knowing they labored All along in service to my hand.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Sep 15 02:52:30 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Ink Between the Inches (I/II) (Preparing Bridge Sabotage)
The canyon greeted me with spray and a scent like cold iron steeped in
juniper. Indigo winked beneath the fall, chips of night caught under glass,
and for a moment the world narrowed to the music of water over stone. I
lifted a palm. The current stuttered, then kept its story. Good. A place
that remembers.
The hoodoos stood like admonishing fingers. I drifted past, a shade
skimming red slickrock, until the black rise appeared, concentric, precise,
patient. Crystals jutted, some whispering in umbra, one in studied silence,
water-sigiled and proud for it. I traced the silent one with two fingers.
"Refusal is still a vowel in the dark," I told it, and the ley beneath us
thrummed.
Juniper chimes clattered. Etchings along the glass globe in the center
spark-lit, a tiny procession of tongues, arcane, runic, eldritch, umbral,
taking turns to pronounce the same name: Pathway.
I knelt in the black sand and drew my circle, then drew a smaller one that
nearly, nearly, touched. Between them, I wrote my favorite kind of magic:
measurements. Notations in a dwarven carpenter's hand, angles, spans,
tolerances, nested each inside the next until they pretended to be common
sense. I added three chalk dashes a finger's width apart. To the eye:
nothing. To a cable under tension: an unheard wish to sing slightly flat.
"Shh," I whispered, and the wind complied.
A nervous tremor ran along the ley as lightning worried the dunes in the far
distance. The black sands answered by breathing out a single indigo grain,
which I pressed into wax and sealed on the edge of vellum, an honest
engineer's sketch, now a liar's prayer. When the Twins laid their cables,
the prayer would ride with them, a hymn turned one note left of holy.
I stood, wiping grit from my knees, and turned toward the foothills. The
pillar's glare was a lance through the teeth. Threads of light spiraled
angrily about the thing, devouring shadow like a starving choir.
"I see you," I said. "And you will learn to share."
I did not touch it directly. Instead I took out a sliver of mirror and held
it so the pillar's script wrote across the glass. Names ghosted by,
Ryzzynth, Piknim, Sidorinath... And the judgement that crowned them. I
breathed onto the mirror, fogged its face, then traced a small auditor's
sigil that meant 'examined and found in spec'. The trick of it was simple:
let the light certify itself. The sigil would read as compliance to the
sort of priest who adored clipboards. Meanwhile, inside that certification,
I hid a swallow-hole, a place where a drip of radiance would fall
perpetually sideways and never strike bottom.
Behind my teeth, a laugh I didnt let out.
Down.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Sep 15 02:58:28 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Ink Between the Inches (II/II) (Preparing Bridge Sabotage)
The sinkhole swallowed sound. The air thinned, and the light gave up its
arguments. Impish things clicked and grinned, eager little stenographers.
I ignored them and kept descending until the dark pressed All the way in and
steadied there.
Fire that wasn't fire licked the wreckage of the monolith. The cauldron
burbled, happy as a toad in a fever swamp.
"Hush," I told the cauldron.
It burbled louder.
"Very well. We make a book of this."
I set three coins on the rim, iron, glass, bone, then pricked my ruined hand
and let the blood decide which it liked. It varnished the bone, so bone it
would be.
"Escrow," I said to the darkness. "If the Light spends, the ledger records.
If they cleanse, the ledger accrues. If they anchor, the ledger forecloses
a single note of lucence each night and returns it to prior ownership, Dark
remembers Dark, until the debt is acknowledged in rite."
The impish quartet clapped, or perhaps their teeth did. My blackstaff glow
steadied. The monolith's embers hissed like rain that couldn't touch me.
I took out fresh vellum, pressed it to the warm rim, and let the cauldron
steam an invisible circuit into the page, Devion's seal without a crest. No
boast, no banner. Just the sort of signature that lives in paperwork and
outlives kings.
On the way up, I paused where the holes in the earth honeycombed the walls,
no two alike. I tucked three dream-stakes into the stone along the routes
Baewar boots would choose without thinking. Their heads were carved like
dull lullabies. They would not fell a single dwarf. They would fell a
week.
Back under the open sky, I tasted juniper again, water again, and the
pillar's petulant glare. I let a smile appear, small and undeserved.
"Where wings may not wheel, ink will," I said to no one and to Her. "Permit
me one stanza beneath your chorus."
The canyon answered with thunder. I took that as assent.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Sep 15 10:56:52 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Sep 15 11:23:41 2025
Writer: Efrava
Date Mon Sep 15 12:42:14 2025
To All Drakkara ( RP IMM RELIGION )
Subject The Cult of the Dark Star/The Night Sisters: Preamble
Leonines are race of nomadic creatures bearing a resemblance to cats. With fang,
claw, feather, and spear, they roam the Savannas of Tropica, the highlands of
Arkania, and the tundras of Icewall, never staying too long to root themselves
to a singular plain, valley, grassland, or tundra. It isn't understood why they
do this. Researchers suggest it may be to avoid crossbreeding. By meeting with
other tribes, they guarantee the survival of their people. Others believe it is
superstition. The prides that maintain a distance from civilization do not share
their ways. None have survived to corroborate one of the leonine people's most
sinister superstitions.
Among the wild prides, there is a story about a constellation carrying a star so
great and black it consumes the visage it is nestled within. Expecting fathers
and mothers are guarded fiercely by the rest of their tribesmen to avoid falling
prey to a terrible and ancient threat.
This is the story about those that usher in the Dark Star: the Night Sisters.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Mon Sep 15 14:51:31 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part nine-)
The twins were aggravated. They had been hired to build a bridge, and
thus far nothing of the structure stood, save for the pillar brought
from the heavens. The first of the slabs still sat in the staging
area, waiting to be transported into the sinkhole. The road that was
to be built down the steep sides of the hole had been halted before it
had been fully completed. The quarrying of the stone had been halted,
as it was deemed unsafe to transport new stone to the staging area.
And now, they were building ballistae, because the Thane was unwilling
to use the kingdom's already existing machines for this purpose. "They
bae part o' tha war arsenal, under tha High King's command", he had
told them. At least the old git had not raised a fuss about the cost.
They presented him with a bill of material, and every bit of material
had arrived at their workshop two days hence.
All three machines were being built by seperate crews. The twins
rotated from machine to machine, measuring this, double-checking that,
correcting some other thing. They were dilligent, and by the end of a
week, their scrutiny paid off with the delivery of three new ballistae,
and wagons full of barbed arcanium bolts to the worksite. With them,
a squadron of Baewar, who after having been ordered to stay under cover
of stone since the attack, were now bloodthirsty and eager for whatever
terrors might come their way.
The men were trained on the ballistae, flinging weighted logs skyward
until they were confident in their abilities. The twins were there to
make small adjustments until they felt the machines were performing to
spec. At long last, the wayfinders of the Xoxx were called upon to
complete the road to the bottom of the pit.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Pholos
Date Mon Sep 15 19:12:44 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Mon Sep 15 19:16:01 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Sep 15 19:54:35 2025
To All Fardoc ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Warding the Bridge
Ulyssus departed from the north gate of Althainia as the first light of
dawn brushed the city walls. His white cloak fluttered in the brisk morning
wind as he offered a soft prayer to Kantilles before stepping onto the
northern trail. The Temple of the Gods shimmered behind him, a reminder
that every action carried the blessing of the divine.
The plains stretched before him, wind rough and steady, carrying the scents
of grass and distant earth. The banner of the Trimodian Crusade swayed upon
its stand, and Ulyssus touched it lightly, murmuring a quiet prayer for the
steadfast hearts who labored beneath its colors. At Gallow Hill, he paused,
bowing his head in solemn respect, sending words of mercy and guidance to
those claimed by justice past.
Further north, the foothills rose, and the scar of the sinkhole came into
view, dark and yawning, yet alive with preparation for the bridge to come.
Builders moved carefully along its rim, ropes taut and timbers ready.
Ulyssus approached with gentle steps, nodding warmly to each worker.
"Graetins, mae friends. Yer labor en service o' Algoron and en tha eyes o'
Kantilles thaes work bae 'olae, " he said, his voice carrying the quiet joy
of devotion.
Planting his staff at the rim, he began his circuit. At each unstable
section of ground he traced wards of protection in the air and upon stones,
shimmering runes that would guard against foul magic, curses, or any unholy
interference. At each corner he inscribed glowing sigils, their
luminescence faint yet steady, binding the area to Kantilles' Light. He
lifted his hands in prayer as each sigil took form, softly chanting hymns of
guardianship:
"Loight o' Kantilles, guard thaes bounds,
Ivorae Moon, watch oer All who walk 'ere.
Mae nae shadow pass nor dark intent find foot,
Mae faith and labor rise en safetae under ye gaze."
Where the workers strained with heavy timbers, Ulyssus lifted his staff and
whispered to the earth. A bubbling spring erupted from the ground, pure and
cool, flowing gently into small channels for their thirst and refreshment.
The workers paused in surprise, laughter and cheer spilling across the rim
as they cupped hands to drink. Ulyssus nodded, murmuring a prayer of
blessing for their strength:
"Mae Kantilles' Loight fortify yer 'ands, and mae yer 'earts remain
steadfast en purpose. "
Above their heads, orbs of steady light floated, summoned by Ulyssus' will,
drifting along ropes and timbers to illuminate shadowed corners. The glow
was soft but constant, ensuring that every plank, knot, and cable shone
clearly under the blessing of his care. Even in the early light of morning,
no shadow of danger could linger where he walked.
He moved among the builders, touching a shoulder here, whispering a short
prayer there, reinforcing protective wards with words of faith, reminding
each worker that their effort was not only labor but a sacred act under
Kantilles' gaze. His soft hymns mixed with the wind, a quiet cadence of joy
and vigilance.
By the time the sun leaned westward, he had completed the circuit. The rim
glimmered with invisible shields, sigils, and wards, while springs and
floating lights persisted as quiet blessings to those who labored. With a
final, reverent bow and prayer of thanksgiving, Ulyssus stepped back,
letting the Light of Kantilles settle over the site. Where the land had
been scarred, there now lingered a promise: the bridge would rise safely,
protected not only by mortal hands but by the enduring vigilance of the
Light.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Sep 15 21:42:03 2025
To All ( Conclave Ulysuss Thindyss Ryzzynth RP )
Subject The building of a palace and prison.
Blinx settled himself into a carved oak chair, wings folding close, the
weight of his frailty masked by ritual. The chair stood in a niche hollowed
by memorya place familiar, a place safetucked close to the massive coils of
Ryzznyth, the ancient brown dragon. The old wyrms presence was a bastion in
itself, a wall of scale and wisdom that had watched Blinx before, through
many reckless ventures.
On the low stone table beside him, Blinx had arranged his safeguards. A
black candle, guttering with no flame, studded by iron nails etched with
runes of abjuration. Their sharp heads gleamed faintly, a constellation of
protections meant to drag his spirit back to waking if the Dreaming turned
against him. A chain of charms rattled faintly at his wrist as he tested
their weight, whispering protective magic under his breath.
"Sleep, then," Ryzznyth rumbled, the sound like stone shifting deep in the
earth. The dragons eye glowed faintly in the dimness, steady, ancient.
"And if you do not return of your own will I know what must be done."
Blinx smiled, thin, cruel, yet tired. He tilted his head back, ruby eyes
closing as the Dreaming began its slow pull. Shadows folded over him like
velvet. Within moments his form slackened, his breath fell shallow, and
only the faint scent of smoldering iron nails and candle-wax lingered, a
tether between the worlds.
In the Dreaming, weakness became dominion. Shadows and dreamstuff bent to
Blinx's will, flowing like ink from his hands. He had seen it too many
times nowthe aberration, a shifting mass of hope and whispers, lurking at
the edge of his visions. It watched him. It followed. It did not belong.
So he began to build.
Stone rose where none had been, obsidian black and streaked with veins of
violet flame. Towers bent in impossible angles, staircases spiraled inward
as if collapsing into themselves, and mirrors of polished dreamglass
reflected not truth, but fear. He named it a palace, though it was more a
labyrinthcrafted not for glory, but for capture.
Every arch and hall was designed with intent: to lure the aberration deeper,
to ensnare it in corridors where doors opened only one way, to drown it in
chambers where light bled away into endless dark. At the heart of the
palace, he raised a throne of bone-white marble, crowned with iron sigils of
the infernal. From here, he would sit as warden and jailer of whatever
horror sought to trespass in his realm.
The Dreaming pulsed around him as the final spire took shape, piercing the
starless sky of sleep. Blinx whispered a vow into the hollow air:
Come then, hope. You have stalked me long enough. Step into my halls, and
be unmade.
And the palace waited.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Sep 16 10:59:16 2025
Writer: Efrava
Date Tue Sep 16 13:06:29 2025
To All Drakkara ( RP IMM RELIGION )
Subject The Dark Star: Directive from Seviera Zhuresh, The First Night Sister
"While laying in the grasslands at night, the reeds and grasses swayed in the
wind. Between the reeds and the raking of grasses, they shared with me the story
of a powerful woman who was owed the world. My sisters- within our form she sees
grace and beauty. Behind our eyes she sees a destiny that amounts to more than
being a provider for our people. For what we are now, she pities us. We are not
fit to herald her now, but through acts of devotion we can garner her favor."
"As I listened to her and stared at the constellation of the Great Wemic Hero,
a black star began to grow from his belt. It grew until it devoured his form
and nothing was left of him but a dark star. This devourer, this star, is the
eye from which the woman will watch us carry out her wishes."
{-Daughter, your gift to your people will be to bring them my word. Conceive and
birth your own beneath the glory of my star. Show them to me and I will show
myself to them. The daughters you bear will grow to be beautiful, ensnaring
weak and stupid men. For the wise men, your daughters will be gifted in magic
to strike them down.
As a show of devotion to me and to keep my favor, you will bash your newborn
sons into the rocks. The fathers of these sons will prove themselves to be
from inferior stock. They will be culled the same as their sons. Do this, and
your coven will keep my favor. Conceive more daughters and praise me- your
Mother Drakkara.
Writer: Merira
Date Tue Sep 16 20:37:01 2025
To All ( Thaxanos Wargar Althainia Kraxul Grumf Imm RP )
Subject "The Spinning of Mithril"
She was a dark dwarf of considerable talent, a runeweaver whose magic
could reshape stone and silence fire. But unlike the forge-bound clans of
her kin, Merira held little patience for tradition. She saw the hammer and
anvil not as sacred tools, but as limitations.
So she built the Spindleheart. A floating, rune-inscribed construct
designed to guide raw mithril into threads finer than spider-silk. Its core
pulsed with soulfire, bound by her own blood. It whirred above a deep chasm
in her private sanctum, surrounded by enchantments etched into obsidian.
Merira stood alone, eyes sharp as daggers, robes dark and humming with
arcane energy. She muttered the incantation, and with a flick of her
fingers, a sliver of raw mithril floated into the spindles grasp.
It began beautifully.
The metal responded to her call, pulling into a luminous filament, glowing
with cold brilliance. It stretched and curved in perfect rhythm. For a
moment, Merira thought herself a master of both craft and current.
But then came the tension.
Mithril, untamed by hammer or flame, fought back.
The strand vibrated. Runes along the Spindleheart flickered. The hum of
magic shifted from harmony to alarm.
"No, no! Hold your shape! " Merira snapped, throwing another binding sigil
into the air.
Too late.
The mithril recoiled like a whip, lashing through the chamber. One strand
sliced through a support pillar. Another sheared her spellbooks clean in
half. The final strand - thick and wild - coiled around the Spindleheart,
compressing it until the construct imploded in a burst of violet fire.
The force sent Merira sprawling across the floor, coughing, ears ringing,
her robes smoldering at the hem.
Smoke curled through the wreckage as the mithril cooled into a useless,
jagged tangle.
She lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling, until heavy boots echoed
down the stone corridor behind her.
Kraxul KegBreaker stepped into view, arms crossed, apron scorched, the
unmistakable stink of forge smoke clinging to him.
He took one look around the ruined sanctum, then at Merira, and grunted.
"Tried to spin mithril raw, did you? "
Merira, still wheezing, gave a faint nod.
He sighed like a mountain crumbling. "Metals not just shaped by magic. It
needs the heat. The weight. The rhythm. "
She didnt argue.
He extended a soot-blackened hand. "Come to the forge tomorrow. You bring
your runes. Ill bring the hammer. "
Writer: Rafin
Date Wed Sep 17 09:33:52 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Wed Sep 17 17:17:46 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part ten-)
Kraxul stood at the bottom of a new road, deep within the sinkhole. A
few bold, but ultimately pitiful creatures darted here and there in the
shadows, but after the first one was cut down, the rest kept their
distance. It was a fine road, wide enough for carts, and not too steep
for their heavy load. The first of the thick logs had been righted in
its position, and was being driven into the earth. More carts full of
logs were slowly making their way to the bottom.
"They're drivin em deep. This bae ah proper solid foundation fer tha
scaffoldin wot will hold tha entirety o' tha bridge before tha cables
bae installed." This is the most either of the twins had said to him
in one go, and Kraxul nodded, saying "Ahve seen et done on ah smaller
scale, but this..." They both just nodded back at him.
"About th'cables-"
The Thane turned and cocked an eyebrow. "Aye?"
"We've made ah few dozen of these in th'workshop. Problem is they bae
time-comsumin to craft. Ets goin to take ah few hunnerd yards o' tha
full-width cables, and each o' them bae made up of dozens o' smaller
strands. Ah think we've settled on twenty er so o' these-" he handed
Kraxul a stiff wire of gleaming mithril, as thick as a pencil. "Et's
less elegant than tha hundred er so fine strands we'd talked about, but
them bae takin f'rever ta get right."
Kraxul frownd at this and tugged at his beard pensively. "Wot if...",
he said as if talking to himself, then turned to the twins and said, "I
know an eager and skilled mage who should bae of some help. Ah'll bae
in touch."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Wed Sep 17 19:38:50 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part eleven-)
The three Dwarves stood, hunkered over a makeshift table of wood, large
enough to hold the blueprints for the bridge, as well as a few tankards
of ale. The prints were stacked deeply, with several different versions
available for perusal, and the Dwarves repeatedly flipped through the
papers to view an alternate version.
Kraxul shook his head angrily, growling "No! Et's not gud enough! area
we MEN? Or Dwarves? Et's to bae not ah mere bridge, but ah- ah damn
edifice. A monument to tha light! We're workin fer tha Emp'ra, lads."
The twins exchanged the briefest of glances, and the Thane cut them off
gruffly, saying "We're All o' tha balance here..." glowering at them,
daring them to suggest otherwise, before continuing, "and may'ap that
bae tha problem." Kraxul began to pace back and forth, grumbling to
himself and gesturing at nothing in particular, before finally he
looked up. "Ah consider maeself adequate at design, at least in the
more mundane projects, but this bein wot it is, et requires a diff'rent
viewpoint. Ahm bringin in th'Cardinal. He'll help wit' tha design.
Ye make 'is design work wit tha math. Nae compromisin wit' tha
structural integrity. Ahve promised th'Empra a work o' beauty that'll
stand fer eons, and that's wot we'll deliver. Ye will incorporate
Fardoc's designs to make et as beautiful an' holy as et bae sturdy."
Kraxul leaned over the table and scribbled on a parchment, shoving it
under the noses of the twins. "Bae that accurate, from an engineerin
standpoint?"
They leaned in, nearly colliding with each other, and one scratched out
a few lines, making his own annotations, before handing the paper back
to the Thane, who shoved the hand away. "Deliver et t'Fardoc yer own
self. Ahv got work t'do."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Wed Sep 17 20:15:56 2025
To All Fardoc Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part twelve-)
"Ah know little o' magic, lass, but near everthin there bae t'know of
metal." Kraxul walked slowly, but with purpose. His pickaxe was in its
scabbard, its handle rising above his left shoulder. He wouldn't be
using it today, but he didn't like being without it. In his right hand,
he held a six pound hammer.
Before them was a thick stone table. Its base was granite, but its top
was an inch of solid arcanium. The surface was smooth, unmarred. On
it were samples of the ten commonly used types of ore, and one of each
of the bars created from them.
"Usin magic alone t'shape metals bae possible. Ah've seen et done wit'
bronze, iron and steel. Ah've heard an believe et ken bae done wit'
alloys. Ah've even heard o' one such case wit' mithril, but et were
said t'bae a magnificent wizard and ahm nae even sure et were not a work
o' pure fiction."
He stopped in front of the furnace and held his hand out, eighteen
inches from its surface. Grunting with satisfaction at the temperature,
Kraxul then filled a mold with crushed mithril ore, and used his long
handled tongs to slide the mold into the forge.
Reaching into a pocket in the front of his thick leather apron, he
pulled out a gleaming mithril ingot, forged some weeks ago and retrieved
from his vault. He dropped the bar on the table.
"Normally, we'd start wi'copper and work our way up ta mithril. But,
yer nae trainin t'bae ah smelter, so p'raps we ken skip All o' that."
Kraxul frowned at the ingot in front of him, gathering his thoughts.
"We'll have t'work together ta figger out tha right mixture o' heat
an' sorcery."
And so began the first day. Many hours and at least two gallons of
sweat passed before they came to an acceptable stopping point, but the
work would continue tomorrow.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Fardoc
Date Wed Sep 17 20:19:25 2025
To All Kraxul Thaxanos Wargar ( Nadrik Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject [Design of a Monument]
Fardoc leaned back in his writing chair, tucked away in a corner of his
meditation chamber inside his tower atop Mount Axpvjib. Idly stroking his
beard, he perused the scroll sent by Thane Kraxul, outlining the basic
engineering of the bridge, but requesting further input on its design and
how to ensure it was built as a bastion of the light.
The pillar was the difficulty. Made entirely of lucent energy, it could not
be moved or made to become part of the bridge itself, as had been the Thane's
original plan. The problem now was how to ensure that the power of the
pillar was spread across the entire length, strengthening and guarding the
full bridge from the darkness, rather than just the western edge of the
chasm.
'Focusin' crystals... Tha could work, ' Fardoc thought to himself. He had
a plan in mind for the design of the bridge, a way to ensure that the power
the Archangel called down at such great cost to himself would not be
squandered. The bridge itself would be a work of art, every surface with a
purpose. The symbolic design was just as important as the engineering
itself, in the priests mind.
He prayed to Lord Nadrik, begging him to guide his thoughts and his quill as
he put pen to paper. Unfurling a long scroll, he began to write in earnest,
thoughts and plans streaming from his mind onto the page seemingly of their
own volition. With the Lords help, he would be able to design not just a
bridge, but a monument that would live on long after the old priest was
gone, echoing the Lights grace from the canyon below to the Lucent Empire in
the south and the Mountain Kingdom in the north.
With ink-stained hands, he rolled up the scroll and sealed it with wax,
embossing it with the GaleHammer seal on his signet ring. If the twins were
receptive to the design and could adequately carry it out, All of the realm
would be in awe of both the power of the Lords pillar and best dwarven
craftsmanship the Mountain could offer.
Writer: Blinx
Date Wed Sep 17 21:39:18 2025
To All (Conclave Ulysuss Thindyss Ryzznyth RP)
Subject The Building of a Palace and Prison II
The Dreaming abides fantasy and so the spires of the palace loomed like
crooked teeth against the void, the labyrinth shifting beneath them with
every pulse of Blinxs will. Corridors inverted mid-step, mirrors whispered
lies in familiar voices, and the Hive of Mirrors pulsed belowhis secret
heart, prepared for its prisoner.
But the prey had not yet stepped within. It own sentience, its own
existence was outside of Dreamthief's total dominion. How unsettlingly
novel in own dreamscape.
Blinx soared his form unfettered by the dead shell. Here, Blinx could form
in his mind's eye the being of the demon, his true self. Blinx cast himself
outward into the Dreamscape beyond, into fields of crystal grass that rang
when stepped upon, rivers that ran in two directions at once, and skies
stitched from silver threads that knotted and unraveled. It was there, amid
those shifting wonders, that he scented warmth--dawnlight, fragile and
defiant.
The aberration.
It drifted like a mote of morning, wings spun of laughter and innocence.
Its eyes glowed with everything Blinx loathed: mercy, peace, hope. It was
here... A shard of the pixie whose body he had taken-wandering where it did
not belong.
"Somnophage," it called, soft as prayer. "You need not fear me."
He sneered, his mouth opening, he showed multiple rows of serrated teeth.
{U"Fear? You are weakness. You are Nothing. You are hers. I will cage you
where none will ever see you."
Shadows spilled from his claws, blackening the crystal fields and strangling
their song. The silver skies knotted into nets, mountains folded inward,
and rivers turned back upon themselves to corral its flight. The aberration
darted desperately, bursts of radiance searing his shadows, but each path
twisted back toward the waiting palace.
Mirrors erupted from the ground, jagged and cold, showing it in countless
forms: triumphant, broken, dying. Each image shattered as it brushed them,
spraying black ichor that clung to its wings. It screamed for Sebatis,
voice thin with desperation.
"Sebatis?" Blinx laughed, cruel and sharp. "Do not pray to he who
abandoned you. Not in my dominion. Not in the Nightmothers dark. Your
soul bows to Drakkara, Mistress of Magic, Umbra Queen. And you will kneel
to me until even you forget the name Sebatis."
Chains lashed from his hands, serpents of nightmare-fire. They coiled round
its throat and wrists, dragging it shrieking into the palace. Through
corridors that bent inward and doors that opened only to close again, he
pulled it down into the Hive.
The Hive was no simple cell. Its walls were honeycombed with mirrors, each
pane reflecting the aberration not as it was, but as it had failed: its last
heartbeat, its body stolen, its god turning away, Blinx sneering through its
stolen face. Each reflection spoke in its own voice, a thousand echoes
clamoringpleading, cursing, weeping.
The aberration fell to its knees, wings trembling. "Why? If I am nothing,
why keep me?
The sigils flared, sealing the Hive. Blinx ignored his prisoner's question.
He returned to his throne, carved of bone-white marble veined with shadow,
crowned with jagged horns of iron. It pulsed with the heartbeat of the
palace, every thrum reminding him of what lay bound below. The air stank of
iron and smoldered wax, heavy and oppressive.
And yet the question lingered. Why had he caged it instead of destroying
it? Why did the shard of the pixies soul still exist at all? Was it
weakness, or proof that he was not wholethat some part of the worhless soul
still lived inside him?
Deep beneath, the aberration's hymn cracked but did not fade. A ragged
prayer to a god who did not care. Blinx sat smiling, cruel and thin. But
in the silence of the throne room, unease brushed at his heart like the
faintest whisper of dawn.
Writer: Rafin
Date Wed Sep 17 22:37:04 2025
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu Sep 18 12:05:57 2025
To All Darkonin ( Fatale Imm Tarabella Chantrielle Zecnys Lavinah )
Subject {oTropican Tattoos{u: {oA Throne of Teeth Tale
Bleurgh woke up with his own name in his mouth, and a headache that could
rival the splitting of the continents in its impending breakage.
"Wot in tha ninety 'ells did we DO las' night? "
He asked the crew of similarly bedraggled greenskins that made up the cohort
of Chosen that Xaxtur had afforded the opportunity to depart on the mission
of delivering the Throne of Teeth unto the Priests and Priestesses of
Fatale. Their journey had lead them from the Great Mountain of Darkonin
across the Arsataw Yaw to New Thalos, where they spent a fair amount of coin
at the White Sands Bordello a treat for having made it so far, so quickly.
{u ***
Of course, greenskins will be greenskins, and after the lot had feasted and
drank and engaged in other illicit activities only spoken of All too
frequently, they awoke the next morning with a fresh set of eyes on the
world. A pair floating in the liquid liquor they'd imbibed until they ran
blind through the streets of New Thalos. No doubt to the chagrin of the
Desert Jewel's Mayor.
Nothing like a band of half-naked greenskins running a
bar-and-bordello-crawl through your esteemed city to wake the guard out of
their sleepy stupor.
When they'd collected their rogue trader from the jail cells of New Thalos
(another story for another time, no doubt), the greenskins converged to
discuss their next plans.
Against his better judgment, Bleurgh allowed the troupe to convince him to
take a ship to Tropica, where they could depart the ship at a port nearer
the swamps of Abaddon. Bleurgh did not know how to read a map, if that
wasn't evident already.
The cadre had departed at the port of Haven, a vibrant city full of
roughshod ruffians and catering courtesans, perennial pirates and seasonal
scoundrels, babbling buffoons and wise warpriests. They found themselves
beset on All sides with silken colour, copious imbibition. They weren't
upset about it. The greenskins spent unwisely of Xaxtur's money, finding
themselves companions for the evening who draped them in their silks and
their sales, and the greenskins quickly found themselves in a very
suggestible state.
{u***
Xaxtur stood in a cut of the Mountain whose cobwebbed annex had been
untouched by All but the great Shaman before which he stood. "{oTell me wot
we got brewin' for dis SURPRISE PARTY we's plannin', ohohoho. " Xaxtur's
laugh was as effusive as his enormous belly, which shook with the effort of
his mirth. The sound filled the tiny cavern, and the tunnels beyond,
causing torches' flames to gutter in their sconces. His eyes glowed as they
stared at the wizened shaman who knelt before the greenskin king, waiting.
{u ***
Suggestible greenskins oft find themselves in times of trouble. Most
greenskins oft find themselves in times of trouble regardless of their
suggestibility, but these particular ones felt like they'd been gifted the
opportunity to wield the carte blanche of Xaxtur's seal of passage to act
with reckless abandon in their quest to deliver the Throne.
Writer: Fardoc
Date Thu Sep 18 17:04:48 2025
To All Kraxul Thaxanos Wargar ( Nadrik Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject [Delegation of Responsibilities]
Fardoc strode with confidence towards the work site, robes swirling at
his back as he edged nearer to three dwarves engaged in animated discussion.
One was Thane Kraxul, and the other two were identical in nearly every way:
short in stature, with shrewd expressions and white beards that hung down to
their ankles.
The Cardinal paced forward and interjected himself into the conversation.
'Hail, Thane, lads. Ah jus came te personally deliver mae scroll regardin'
the design of the bridge tha' Kraxul requested, as well as answer any
questions ye might have about et from an engineerin' perspective. Ah'm well
pleased with how et turned out, an' if ye lot cin do et, et'll bae a
monument like the realm has never seen before.'
He passed the sealed scroll over to the twins, continuing as they opened it
and perused the cramped script, 'Ah already sent ah messenger te the Thane
earlier an' he approved the design, but ah wished te hand deliver et te the
two of ye in case ye had questions.'
As the twins read, their brows furrowed slightly and their eyes widened, one
of them stopping midway through the text to glace up at the priest. 'Ye are
aware, Cardinal, how much mithril ye are askin' someone te mine? Ah full
bloodae column o' pure mithril, plated stones, cables? Ye are askin' a lot.
For the design, sure we cin do et, et wont impact the structural integrity,
but the scale o' this metalwork...who is goin' te mine All this? Much less
carve this...focusin' diamond ye want?'
Kraxul stepped forward, brandishing his pickaxe. He peered at the twin who
spoke, then boomed at him, 'Have ye boys forgotten who ye are talkin' to? Ah
have pulled tens o' thousands o' chunks of ore from this Mountain an'
smelted just as many! If this bridge requires tha', ah'll dig et outta the
rocks meself!'
The Thane glanced away a bit sheepishly, and whispered to the priest, 'Ah'm
not, however, good et the sort o' gemwork ye require, Cardinal. Ye'll have
te find someone else for tha'.'
Fardoc nodded, his lips turning up into a a shallow smile and lifting the
corners of his beard. 'Don' worry, mae friend. Ah have an idea for tha'.
Ye handle the ore, let the twins handle the construction an' engineerin',
an' ah will handle findin' someone who can get us the diamond for the column
an' the carved crytals for the balustrades.'
The Cardinal nodded to each of the dwarves once, tellling them one final
thing before turning to leave. 'If ye boys have any further concerns or
questions, ye know where te find mae. Jus' send a runner up te the mountain
summit. He'll see yer missive gets tae mae.'
Writer: Kraxul
Date Thu Sep 18 22:32:10 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part thirteen-)
Kraxul stood at the rim of the sinkhole, watching the wagon trundle
down the steep road into the darkness below. This was the third load
since he'd arrived, and he'd only seen one empty come back up. He
could just make out the top of the scaffolding now, in the din of the
great pit, and dozens of Dwarves working across its surface.
He reached into his saddlebag, and pulled out a pipe. It was a large
gourd calabash, with a meerschaum bowl and a silver monogram laid into
the amber stem. The wind teased his beard as he methodically filled
the pipe with an arkanian burley. Before he could light the pipe, he
was approached by a foreman.
"Tha forms bae just like ye ast. Ah double checked. Ahm guessin yer
gonna want t'see em fer y'self."
Kraxul nodded curtly and the two of them made their way into the pit.
As soon as they were below the rim of the sinkhole and the wind was no
longer a problem, the Thane lit a match and went about lighting his
pipe.
Once they reached the bottom, it was clear that the scaffolding was
actually two seperate structures seperated by a narrow gap. This gap
was filled, at the lower levels, with large, interlocking slabs of
granite. The two Dwarves climbed a ladder up to the top of the stone
forms. From there, Kraxul could see down into the hollow space below.
The hollow was as long as the width of the bridge, and four feet thick.
He could see a Dwarf down below holding a torch.
Kraxul drew deeply on his pipe, and asked through a thick cloud of
white smoke, "And tha joints?"
"Smooth as gud whiskey. Th'grout bae dry and 'e bae inspectin et now.
Ah guarantee ye'll nae find tha line."
This was to be the central tower of the bridge, and All of the cables
would hang from its top. It was difficult to imagine pouring thousands
of bars of mithril into this form at once. A monolithic pour, the
twins had called it.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Rafin
Date Fri Sep 19 00:05:00 2025
Writer: Rafin
Date Fri Sep 19 00:07:11 2025
Writer: Briynjia
Date Fri Sep 19 20:12:44 2025
Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri Sep 19 20:24:02 2025
To All Fardoc IMM RP
Subject Stifling a Bridge
Zecnys stood at the edge of the plains, where the dense, tangled forest
met the vast, open expanse. He knelt down, his lithe form bending at the
knee, lowering himself to the level of a dwarf who was bound like a hog, his
wrists and ankles secured with rough, coarse rope that bit into his flesh.
The dwarf's mouth was stuffed with a bit, a crude gag that filled his mouth
and rendered him unable to speak or scream. His lips were sealed with thin
pin bones, sharp and cruel, piercing the tender flesh and drawing blood that
poured down his face, matting his once proud beard into a crimson, tangled
mess.
Zecnys' eyes stared out over the plains, fixed on the freshly made pillar of
light that pierced the sky. It was a beacon, a searing, intense light that
seemed to burn into his very soul. His eyes began to water, the tears
mixing with the sweat that beaded on his brow, as the light scorched his
retinas. Yet he did not look away, his gaze unflinching, as if daring the
light to consume him.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Zecnys reached into his boot and pulled out
a small, sharpened fang. It was a thing of beauty, a curved, serrated edge
that glinted wickedly in the harsh light. He dragged the fang across the
dwarf's cheek, a slow, agonizing trail that opened the flesh like a ripe
fruit. The dwarf began to shriek and groan around the gag, his muffled
cries a symphony of pain and terror. His lips stretched taut, the pin bones
that sealed them shredding at the flesh, tearing and rending with each
desperate, futile movement.
Zecnys watched, his expression impassive, as the dwarf's blood flowed
freely, a crimson river that stained the earth and soaked into the parched
ground. With a sudden, brutal motion, he leaned in and popped the flesh
from the dwarf's cheek into his mouth, his teeth sinking into the tender,
quivering meat. The squelching sounds were loud, obscene, each opening and
closing of his mouth a wet, sucking noise that seemed to echo across the
plains.
He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, the texture, the very essence of the
dwarf's suffering. His eyes never left the pillar of light, as if it fueled
his actions, a primal, unholy force that drove him to this act of savagery.
Zecnys sighed, a sound of satisfaction and weariness, as he looked down at
the dwarf who continued to try to yell, his cries a guttural, choking sound.
He watched, almost clinically, as the pin bones split the dwarf's flesh
deeper and deeper, the wounds a grotesque, bloody mess that seemed to pulse
with a life of their own.
With a final, decisive motion, Zecnys slit the dwarf's throat, a quick,
precise cut that opened a crimson gash. Blood began to pulse out in spurts,
a fountain of crimson that arced through the air, staining the earth and
painting a macabre tableau. The dwarf choked on his own blood, his body
convulsing and jerking as he drowned in the very fluid of life. Slowly, his
struggles subsided, his body going limp, a lifeless, broken puppet.
Zecnys stood from his kneeling position, his movements fluid and graceful, a
stark contrast to the brutality of his actions. He wiped at the dwarven
blood that covered his hands, the crimson liquid smearing across his skin, a
gruesome, temporary tattoo. His eyes, still fixed on the pillar of light,
seemed to burn with a fierce, unquenchable intensity, a promise of more to
come.
As he made his way back to Abaddon, his steps measured and purposeful,
Zecnys pondered what he would do to Fardoc next. His mind raced with
possibilities, each one more gruesome and inventive than the last, a twisted
tapestry of cruelty and creativity that seemed to dance just beyond the
edges of sanity. The priest, he knew, would provide a new canvas, a fresh
opportunity to explore the depths of depravity and the heights of suffering.
And Zecnys, with a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth, looked
forward to every twisted, agonizing moment.
Writer: Fardoc
Date Fri Sep 19 21:35:55 2025
To All Imm Religion Storyline Admin Nadrik RP
Subject Fw: The Prism and the Chasm - Part I
| -----Original Message-----
| From: Briynjia
| To: Fardoc
| Subject: The Prism and the Chasm - Part I
| Date: Fri Sep 19 20:12:44 2025
. ____________________________________________________________________________ .
=(__ ___ __ _)=
| |
From the Journal of Briynjia Emberheart
Freedom, 18, Ancient Darkness
I spoke with White Wizard Ulyssus today about the art of spellcrafting. I
was curious about infusion of holy power into gems. He said that not all
stones are made to hold magic, much less Light iself.
Not just Light, but like, light-LIGHT. Some resist or
even fracture if pushed too far and he also told me . ' .
that the cut and polish are just as important as the _________
gem's materials. _ /_|_____|_\ _
'. \ / .'
The Wizard said that a perfect diamond could scatter '.\ /.' side
Light like sunlight over the mountain tops, but only '.' view
if done by someone with steady and true intent. I'm
guessing he meant this type of craft, what we're
needing, not just handwork, but also spiritual. The gem holds the Light,
but I- no, we- need to be of true heart and pure intent. And that we are.
v I looked over the bridge design again, the one
\ / that Cardinal Fardoc showed us and it nicely
reinforces the Wizard's lesson. The idea, if
_________ I'm not wrong, is that the diamond way up top
. / \ . reflects and scatters Light across the bridge
/ \ / \ and over the consecreated path.
/ \
_ / _ _ . _ _ \ _ No hammer mark nor carving will be without
\ / purpose. And the view will be grand.
\ /
\ / \ / I already started taking steps to try to
. \_________/ . understand this better by speaking to the
top Wizard. I took some notes of All he told me,
view but that's not enough. I'll need to make time
/ \ to observe more of the cutting and polishing
^ methods.
I hope to see the perfect prism diamond made, one that is truly worthy.
To-Do List:
*Steady and true hearts *Maybe ask Ulyssus more questions
*Observe cutting and polishing *Experiment with small stones
*Research prisms and light *Meet other master gemcutters
Y N
I J
R .oO0Oo. I
B i=====i_ A
--- |ccCcc|_) ---
E |cB.Gc| T
M '-===-' R
B A
E R H
|_ ___ __ ___|
=(____________________________________________________________________________)=
Writer: Relbag
Date Sat Sep 20 17:59:14 2025
Writer: Relbag
Date Sat Sep 20 18:11:21 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Sep 21 11:24:02 2025
Writer: Ryger
Date Mon Sep 22 23:03:34 2025
To All Chaos Malachive ( IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon Rhelic )
Subject A Tenebrous Vision and The Sluss'i (III)
The Sluss'i charged in ''You must be sacrificed... '' Suddenly, a
strange jolt and glitch of reality reeled Ryger back. An hourglass, a blood
filled bowl with sixty-four chalk tallies, and reptilians popping in and out
of existence overcame Ryger's sight and mind. The Ariel, frozen in time,
heard a rhythmic breathing come from behind him. The floor behind him rose
and fell with the sound of cold inhale and exhale. The hourglass, a vision
sifting blood rather than sand, revealed something more to this place. The
Sluss'i call Ryger Worthy, then unworthy as the visions rapidly change from
one to another. A humming, which was undetectable at first, began to grow
in volume until the fabric of reality seemed about ready to tear. Then...
Nothing.
Complete silence came over the Cultist. The room was as it were before the
Sluss'i appeared and the alter remained undisturbed by the breathing floor.
Ryger realized that he was in the chamber and no one was there, but somehow
he knew that his was the moment right before the Sluss'i would charge into
the chamber after him. Ryger quickly knelt before the alter as the guards
ran in. ''Ahh'' one of them said, ''you're here to offer prayer to the
masssster'' Ryger slowly lifted his hand to invite the Sluss'i to be silent
as he prayed. ''Thisss one'ssss devoted'' the other guard slithered from
his maw. ''Let usssss leave himsss to worship the massster'' One by one the
guards retreated back to they foyer and into the courtyard.
After such a close call and a few deep breaths in relief, Ryger began to
explore the chamber. The first thing that stuck out was the vision of the
breathing floor, but Ryger somehow knew that was meant for another time and
turned his attention to the alter. Two stone tablets rest upon the alter.
The first show the familiar orb with three lines extending from each side
and what appeared to be a name spelled out in a language that Ryger had
never seen before. The second appeared to have ten different inscriptions,
all with the same unfamiliar language as the first. Ryger sensed that these
tablets revealed more of the story to this crumbly old monastery and decided
to secret them away inside his black duster.
With a simple word, an Eight-pointed star appeared before him inviting him
back to the welcoming halls of the Warp. Ryger entered the gate, stone
tablets in hand, to find himself back at the black leather couch in front of
the horned tree. With no sign of Justian, the exhausted Ariel placed the
tablets at the foot of the bowl in hopes that someone could make sense of
them.
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Sep 24 10:14:01 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Sep 24 10:54:11 2025
Writer: Asrar
Date Wed Sep 24 20:09:21 2025
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Sep 25 00:14:09 2025
To Gladrim Imrahith Riordan Zayk Shalonesti Shadow All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Beneath the Moonlight
The place they called Haven had been easy enough to leave. Crelius had
warned us, and the agents of clan Shadow came as he said they would.
Melting from the crowd, hands hidden until their crossbows rose. Venom, no
doubt. They never loosed. I was among them in an instant, breaking their
trinkets, then their bones. They drew blades. I answered with my fists,
crushing throats, snapping limbs. Not a scratch in return. Their corpses
will rot in the gutter.
The harbor tempted me, but a ship was too obvious. Storm Keep's dogs surely
owned every hull and oar. I swam instead, trusting muscle and anger over a
wooden coffin. The sea was long and cold, but it carried me closer to where
I needed to be. Better to endure the deep than die in a cage.
The other two? Likely on a slab by now, their skin and secrets carved away
with Storm Keep's ever vigilant scalpels. Their fates were never my
concern.
From there, I stole passage abroad until I arrived on these shores. I took
a horse from bandits too weak to keep it. It carried me across the wastes
to this territory. Crelius' last words burned in my mind. "Through the
scattered remains of the war of the two ghosts, an oasis has arisen like no
other. Meet me there, beneath the moonlight. "
I knew the place. Once a battlefield where Shinalstin remnants fought
against ogrekin vengeance, millennia past. I knew it from the histories he
forced upon me. Chains had made me a killer, Crelius insisted knowledge
must make me more. A strange lesson for an orc, but here I was, riding at
his beck and call. Even when the shadow of doubt has never been blacker.
If not for the groans begging for mercy, punctuated by curses bereft of
hope, one might almost mistake this place for tranquil. Their voices
carried across the steppe and led me to a treeline that had no business
being here. Azure-white moonlight painted it in pallid hues, revealing a
pocket of woodland I could see from end to end. No chart marked it, nor did
my memory recall it, but here it stood, thriving where nothing should. This
was the place.
When I slowed my horse and passed beneath the first of the towering trees, a
strange familiarity bristled in me, though I could not place it. The wood
felt alive, charged with something deeper than simple nature. The trunks
rose like quiet sentinels, their crowns blotting out half the starlight.
The forest floor swarmed with life, teeming with a fae like vibrancy. Small
glowing insects drifted like wayward sparks, leaping in erratic bounds
through the night air. Shadows stirred with the restless scuffle of hidden
creatures, and the melancholic calls of the forest echoed beneath the
monochromatic glow of the full moon.
The moans I had followed dwindled into silence, but the direction of their
source pulled me onward. Ahead, the trees began to thin, the light breaking
through in fractured shafts. As I neared a glade, a sickness seized me. My
gut twisted, bile clawed at my throat, and a weight pressed at my temples
like iron nails driven inward. For a moment, the world swam, blurred,
threatened to collapse entirely. Then, as suddenly as it came, the nausea
left me, leaving only a throbbing pressure behind my eyes.
Before me lay a clearing awash in lunar light and viscera. Mutilated elven
bodies, not discarded but arranged with care, radiated outward in an
octagonal circle. Their corpses were scarred with fresh carvings, their
wounds forming symbols that I did not recognize. At the center, framed by
two ancient trees, stood a lone figure. From the branches above hung the
broken figures of two elves, strung by their wrists and ankles, barely
clinging to life.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Sep 25 00:26:00 2025
To Gladrim Imrahith Riordan Zayk Shalonesti Shadow All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Beneath the Moonlight (continued)
His back was turned, but I knew him All the same. No armor now, only a
girdle of leather and trousers dyed in crimson, boots bound in rough cloth.
At one hip rested his dragonbone wakizashi. Opposite it, a scabbard black
as night itself, refusing even the moon's touch. In his hand, he idly
turned a curved dagger, ritual in its make. The corpses lay placed around
him like macabre spectators, while the two elves strung between the trees
sagged in their bonds. One male and the other female by the look of it, to
whom he whispered in tones too low for me to catch.
From the torn wound at his throat spread a mantle of blackened roots,
twisted and rigid, clinging to his shoulders and spine like the fossilized
remnants of some abhorrent undergrowth. They curled across his back in
jagged ridges, embedding themselves into his cadaver-hued skin, hardened as
if fused bone. The scars of old wars marked him still, but they were
overshadowed by this twisted lattice, a carapace of corruption that ended at
his lower back.
His bald head tilted with a stiffness that was almost insectile, and when he
turned, I saw the edge of the warp peak through the horizon. A smile
cracked across his face, neither warm or mirthful, but a leer stitched from
cruelty, drawn from some perverse indulgence. What was left of his features
still carried the ghost of the man I knew, yet All else had changed.
Rootlike growths clutched his neck and skull like an executioner's noose,
hard and dry, creeping upward and resting like an inverted crown that ended
at his temples and jaw. His one remaining eye burned with a vermilion speck
lost in an orb of black, the other nothing but a sunken mass of scar tissue,
puckered and ridged into an eight pointed shape.
His torso was bare, white as alabaster, marred by the black ridges of those
same rootlike tendrils as they burrowed into flesh and muscle. Across his
chest, daubed in the blood of the dead he had arranged like offerings at his
feet, sprawled crooked sigils and glyphs in some stygian dialect. The elves
hung limp on their trees beside him, their breaths meager, their turmoil
reduced to a backdrop, while he stood as the officiant over this charnel
exhibit.
When he spoke, his voice rasped with a leperous mien, but carried the
lilting cadence of some fatalistic dramaturge. "Ah, huntsman. Youve come
at last. How very gracious of you to answer my call. "
Disbelief wrestled with some darker pull within me, and the only words I
found were forced, "What is this place? "
He chuckled, and the sound was like tar bubbling from a stagnant pit.
"Always to the point. This... Is a Vallenwood. "
He must have seen the doubtful scorn envelop my features, he responded
before I could muster a rebuke.
"I have uncovered wonders that once danced forever beyond my grasp, " he
crooned, spreading his arms wide as if he would embrace the whole of the
desecrated grove. His single eye burned with a zealousness bordering
insanity, "The spirit they whisper of as Zandreya, she is not merely a
trinket for druids or elves to venerate. No, she is the very fabric of this
world. The mithril bones of Cliath may clutch the bedrock, but her essence
threads the veins that feed its hidden heart. And how that sacred heart
beats, exposed in lands afar, but manifesting into distant hollows such as
this as well. "
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Sep 25 00:43:05 2025
To Gladrim Imrahith Riordan Zayk Shalonesti Shadow All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Beneath the Moonlight (continued)
He moved with serpentine poise, the grin sloughing away into something
sharper. His lone eye narrowed as though to pin me in place. "Now the
question of the hour, " he asserted. "Tell me, K'thaal. Whose love is
stronger for their fallen kin? "
Hid blade drifted first to the woman, hovering inches from her trembling
sternum. Her breath came shallow, eyes wide but near breaking. "A
mother's? "
Then he swung the dagger toward the man, whose body spasmed against the
cords that bound him, curses spilling through clenched teeth. The struggle
only widened the red grooves in his flesh. "Or a father's? "
Crelius stepped closer, his hand sliding along the taut bindings until it
pressed the wound itself. Blood welled, warm and steady, dripping along his
palm as he raised it in the moonlight. He smeared it across his chest in
streaks, crimson lines joining the scrawled sigils already painted there.
His voice softened into a mockery of comfort, pitched to both captives but
loud enough for me to hear the words. "No no, enough of that, you are
bleeding. And we must not waste a single drop. "
"What is this? " My voice broke through, stripped of any inflection, a
demand for truth amidst this madness.
Atennim turned from the quivering elf, the cruel humor draining from his
features as his gaze locked upon me. That single, blazing eye became
lithic, a glare that struck me with a judgment Id nearly forgotten.
"I know, warrior, " he said, his tone predatory, smooth and woven with
poison. "What you see unsettles you, rakes at that simmering will you
possess so innately. But this is necessity. The purpose never shifted. It
is the method that changes. Refuse to adapt, and we consign ourselves to
failure. " He stepped forward, his boot pressing across the chalk-white
face of one of the dead, the circle of corpses parting beneath his stride.
For a moment he lingered, tilting his scarred visage upward. The full moon
bathed him in white fire, its glow casting deep channels across the root
scored ruin of his flesh. A faint smile unfurled upon his lips, as though
he basked in welcome radiance.
"In the long years of my absence, I have gazed discoveries denied to me for
centuries, " he continued, his voice now level. "What was conjecture is now
certainty. Vengeance once drove me, a hollow pursuit. How small it seems
against what I now know to be possible. The veil is thinning, K'thaal,
thinner still when riven with offerings of worth, of heft. Not the common
and pitiful, their blood is noise, but the greater and consequential. Their
souls weaken the walls between worlds, their pain opens the way. "
"Long years? You've been gone a matter of months, Crelius. Youve said
nothing of what I saw in Arkane. You were a breath from death. Is this
some consequence of that? And what was that thing in the sky? " My hand
found my haft as the words left me. Part of me wanted answers, part of me
wanted to gut the man who'd once yanked me from the pit.
Crelius paused as if struck by the question, thumb to chin, his eye taking
on a look that was equal parts calculation and fatigue. When he spoke, it
was slow and tempered.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Sep 25 00:53:22 2025
To Gladrim Imrahith Riordan Zayk Shalonesti Shadow All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Beneath the Moonlight (end)
"Time is a different thing inside the roil it seems, K'thaal. What you
saw at Arkane was the first movement of what I told you, an idea. There is
always a cost for what we seek. I am no longer only of this world. " He
inclined his head and let the ritual dagger trace the alien growth at his
throat and up the back of his skull. "This... Sigil, is a lodestone. A
hinge. It holds me where two things meet. For me to stand here, fulcra had
to be set. Keys for a lock between the waking and the faceless places. I
am a peg driven through both doors now. Echoes of a former life must be
offered so that the rubicon might break. "
"I do not understand. " I said, whatever he spoke of sounded like the
ravings of some forlorn mage or priest, babbling about concepts that I had
no care to decipher.
"A notion that congealed among what never was and what might be, " he said.
"A possible shape. It shifts between realms now, neither wholly here nor
there. With work, yours and mine, it will find purchase here. "
"Then you're a thrall now of the Everchosen? " I asked, voice low. I
expected zealotry, but what I felt was an odd but skeptical acceptance.
"Careful now, " Crelius replied, a shadow of the man I remembered flickering
across his features. For a second he was the old lord, stoic and patient.
"He is one wavering mote amongst the innumerable. Let it flare, let the
world be cursed by what it courts. And you, K'thaal, " his expression
hardened again, "you stand on the verge of what you were made for. Your
preparations will be loosed like a tempest. "
A shard of the old man still lived in him yet. "What must I do? "
That dissolute grin returned. From his girdle he drew a strip of skin,
still warm and flayed, and pressed it into my hand. Four names were
scrawled across it by a bloody hand: Imrahith. Gladrim. Zayk. Riordan.
"Kill them? " I asked.
"No, " he said, and the word dripped with a new doctrine. "Bring them to
me. Each quarry carries its own peril, I will point the way where I can. "
He gave me a single, sick salute of a nod, then turned back to the two elves
swinging from the trees.
As I moved away, the chopping cry of a man, then the guttural keening of a
woman, ripped through the night. I suppose a mother's love is stronger
after all.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Thu Sep 25 20:41:29 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part fourteen-)
The two dwarves emerged from the workroom, disheveled and soaked in
slick, salty sweat. They appeared somewhat dejected, and Gol'Thrik
Irontongue very nearly engaged in some good, light-hearted ribbing
regarding this observation, but something in their eyes, combined
with his realization that one of these was a Thane stopped him in
his tracks. This did not appear to be the time for jokes, so he
merely dipped his head in what passed for a salute in these parts,
and carried on his way.
Kraxul and Merina strode a little way down Guild Lane from the furnace
room, and parted ways without a word. Their efforts had left them too
exhausted for speech. Their first attempt of the evening had been
with molten mithril, hot enough to be poured into a mold, and it had
proven too malleable for the Dark Dwarf's magic to properly shape.
They had experiment with the metal at dozens of different temperatures
with wildly varying results. The aim was something that could be
utilized to yield consistent, rapid results, turning a large quantity
of mithril bars into a thick cable woven from hundreds of strands of
the precious metal no thicker than the hair of a Dwarven beard.
They had come close with a handful of attempts, and one was almost
promising, but none would yield the results they were after at the
speed they needed to produce the hundreds of yards that it would take
to complete the bridge.... but there was always tomorrow.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Lepidus
Date Thu Sep 25 20:50:06 2025
Writer: Tamello
Date Fri Sep 26 08:28:56 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nCutting the Path : {oPathfinder{n VI
"Count of Markon, in All but title and deed. Warden of the lands."
Tam looked over the map of the lands of Markon, running a finger across the
land. He was now Warden of the lands for his services to the Dark Jewel.
He would be named Count when his goal was reached. And for that goal he had
to rekindle his devotion to the path he was on. A devotion that has since
wavered in insecurities within his heart.
Devotion.
He was devoted to the Crown, to the Dark Jewel, to the Infinite Night.
Devoted to proving his thread within the Tapestry could bind it together all
the more tighter. But how to prove it? What was it that he needed to do?
Something to get Her attention, sure, but what was big enough?
He thought back on the numen reliqua and sighed to himself. That was a
chance he had given up on. That he had passed on to someone more apt to do
it justice. But was that a mistake? He didn't know what to do with it
anymore now than he did when he had it. If it had been full of energy,
sure, but it was nearly empty of the energy that the Dark reliqua held.
Tam sat back in his chair and rubbed his temple for a moment. Where did his
strength come from? He had turned from Raije's teachings and adopted the
teachings of Drakkara. He lived them and followed them. Yet there was
still silence from the path he took. Did he take the wrong turn in his
servitude? He couldn't, wouldn't, backtrack, to find out. And he saw a
path laid before him... But was that the right one?
He rubbed his temple once more and then sat straight up. Perhaps it wasn't
taking the path that was open before him. That was the same one that others
had taken. Well trodden did not make a Pathfinder. He would take his
convictions, his deovtion, and carve a new path in front of him. A path
that the other lagodae and lepori could follow.
With that, he jumped up and hopped towards the portal room. His next step
lead to the Rip.
Writer: Maccus
Date Fri Sep 26 08:44:18 2025
Writer: Tamello
Date Fri Sep 26 08:56:17 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 19:19:46 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Enchantor Sabotage
The halls of Verminasia breathe differently at night. The streets still
glow with gutterlight and the smell of charred oil, but in the Tower's
lowest chambers, air lies heavy as velvet. It is here the Nameless gather,
their voices never rising, their faces never remembered. They are not
students, not masters, not named in any roll, but they are ours. Servants,
scribes, broken things. Shadows that never ask to be seen. It is from them
that sabotage is born.
I set my hand on the iron table and spoke the Enchantors' litany back to
them, not as prayer but as mockery. *Disenchant, Wither, Restore. * Each
name became a thread in the ledger. One Nameless brought forth a blade,
already trembling from the false blessing I had laced into its metal weeks
ago. When the spell of *restore weapon* is whispered over it, the steel
will forget its own shape, folding like wax in summer, betraying the very
one who trusted its return. Another servant laid gems in a dish, cracked
crystal, false warp stones, their cores primed to devour rather than
empower. When an Enchantor seeks to *enchant gem*, the gem will answer
hungrily, pulling until it gnaws at the caster's marrow.
I instructed them further: let jest turn sour. Slip powders into wine so
that laughter curdles into mania. Weave sigils in workshop rafters so that
the spell of *withering enchant* activates before its bearer dies, not
after, robbing armies of their tools long before the first clash. Hide
sigils deep, not on the battlefield but in the quiet places, scabbards,
closets, reliquaries. A bridge does not fall because of armies, it falls
because unseen hands make tools untrustworthy. The dwarf may step onto the
span with courage, but his sword will rot in his scabbard, his armor buckle
into rust, his confidence unravel with every seam.
Before leaving, I pressed my blackstaff against the stone floor. A spark
leapt, brief as a sigh, writing Her sigil upside down, inverted so only
those who live backwards may read it. That mark is no order and no command.
It is a reminder: permanence is a child's lie. When the bridge strains
under Light's song, it will not be enemies that fail the dwarves, it will be
their own tools, their own trust, their own craft. And the Nameless will
have been the hand that guided them to it.
I closed the ledger, bound it in plain twine, and handed it to a faceless
scribe. He bowed, or perhaps only folded. Their kind needs no flourish.
The sabotage of Enchantors is written, and the bridge is one note closer to
silence.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Promises That Unravel
Date Log: When the lamps lowed and the jeweler counted coins
Ledger Tag: EB-ENC-SAB-01
Objective: Corrupt enchantments and tools relied upon by Enchantors, ensuring
weapons, gems, and armor betray their wielders.
Agents: Nameless scribes and artificers of the Tower's lower halls.
Timing: Prior to full bridge completion, enchantments seeded during forging
and maintenance cycles.
Actions: False warp stones distributed, sigils placed for premature withering,
powders prepared for jest corruption, metal warped for false restorations.
Outcome Sought: Fracture the trust in enchanted arms and defenses so that the
bridge stands empty of confidence, its defenders doubting every tool at hand.
Writer: Pholos
Date Sat Sep 27 19:22:07 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Sep 27 19:29:06 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 19:36:42 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Illusionist Sabotage
Verminasia's streets no longer glitter with gold, but they still breathe
with hidden charms, alcoves where whispers linger longer than laughter.
Here, in the backroom of a jeweler's shop, where glass panes warped like the
water of the Indigoline, I met with the Nameless.
They came faceless, without title, without name, but marked by the Queen of
Darkness' favor. Cloaked apprentices, discarded actors, forgotten scribes,
all bound by silence and by oath. These were no singular Illusionists, but
Her faithful shadows in Verminasia, hands that had polished too many
mirrors, tongues that knew how to speak twice with one word.
We set no feast, raised no banner. I laid the ledger across the floor in
chalk:
- Lanterns seeded with *mirror image* so guards would chase shadows.
- Scaffold braces painted with *false image* so carpenters hammered air.
- Trails washed in *vacancy* so dwarves marched and found themselves alone.
- A single shadow stitched to the bridges heart, to rise at night when the
workers rested.
They nodded, no applause, no recognition. Their task was not conquest but
erosion, the slow undoing of sight. Where others wield blades, they wield
confusion. And where dwarves curse at ropes that do not hold, or cry at
scaffolds that buckle into phantoms, it will be Verminasia's Nameless who
smile unseen.
I left them with no thanks, only Her benediction whispered in the tongue of
glass: *Deceit is truer than truth, if it endures longer.*
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Promises in Smoke
Date Log: When the torches guttered in fog and maps blurred at their edges
Ledger Tag: EB-ILL-SAB-02
Objective: Seed illusions through Verminasian Nameless to unmake trust in
sight and scaffold.
Agents: The Nameless Illusionists of Verminasia.
Timing: Bound into scaffolds, lanterns, and nightly shadows during
construction.
Actions: Mirrors hung, phantasms scribed, shadows tied to the bridge's
frame.
Outcome Sought: Dwarves fear their own eyes, every step becomes an argument
with the dark.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 19:48:29 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Wu Jen Sabotage
Darkonin's streets do not breathe like Verminasia's, they grind. The
split mountain holds its people like a clenched jaw, each stone biting
against cold wind. It was there, high amid the frost-bitten ledges, that I
met with Her Nameless. They carried no sigils of clan, no mark of ogre or
goblin tribe, only the silence of oath and the smoke of ritual.
They were Wu Jen, though not in name. Element had already taken them,
iron-blackened fingernails from fire's kiss, stone-dust in the creases of
their skin, a ceaseless wheeze as though wind still coiled inside their
lungs. They needed no introduction. They bowed once, and the mountain
answered.
Our ledger was written on ice, melted by their touch and frozen again into
sigil.
- Fire Wu Jen to conjure *flame walls* beneath scaffolds, not to burn but to
blind, so carpenters lose balance.
- Earth Wu Jen to seed *chasm* into the canyon floor, hairline cracks that
shift with weight until stone grows weary.
- Water Wu Jen to drown *dwarven lungs* in phantom gulps when they strain,
causing hands to falter on hammers.
- Wind Wu Jen to weave *gusts* across cables, a music of wrong pitch that
shreds trust in the bridge's strength.
- Metal Wu Jen to *control the very nails*, turning fastenings aside as if
the dwarves themselves had erred.
Not one spell is a ruin on its own. Together, they are erosion, a slow
avalanche held in patience, Darkonin's true gift. Let the Baewar think the
mountain is friend, we know it as accomplice.
The Nameless offered no farewell. One placed a shard of basalt in my palm,
still warm as if freshly torn from the earth. "Ledger," he rasped. Then
they turned and disappeared into the mountain's split, swallowed by wind and
snow.
I pressed the shard into vellum, sealing the page with its grit. This entry
is not ink alone, it carries the mountain's teeth.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Stones That Refuse the Measure
Date Log: When the wind howled and the hearths smoldered low in Darkonin
Ledger Tag: EB-WUJ-SAB-03
Objective: Entangle the bridge with elemental sabotage through Darkonin's
Nameless Wu Jen.
Agents: The Nameless elementalists of Darkonin.
Timing: Phased into scaffolding, cables, and canyon floor during
construction.
Actions: Flame to blind, chasm to shift, wave to choke, gust to unstring,
metal to betray its bonds.
Outcome Sought: The bridge becomes its own avalanche, failing under the
weight of its false permanence.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 19:59:27 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Mentalist Sabotage
Abaddon does not dream, it hungers.
The streets there are hushed, lit by no lantern save the red flicker of
vampiric hearths. Between their silence, I gathered with Her Nameless,
those neither Count nor Coven would name, yet who serve Her still. They
were pale of voice, eyes clouded like glass drowned in river-silt. These
were the Mentalists, whose allegiance was not to clan or kin but to thought
itself, bent and sharpened like a blade.
We sat in a ruin of stone where once a chapel had stood. The altar was
gone, only cracks remained, wide enough for whispers to seep through. There
I laid the ledger, but not in ink. Each line was spoken into the dark,
recorded in the folds of minds willing to carry it until the bridge itself
rose.
- One would sow *haze* among the engineers, clouding judgment so cuts were
measured twice, yet never the same.
- Another would place *amnesia* upon foremen, stripping them of single steps
in their labor, until mistakes compounded like rot.
- The third promised *fake illness* cast wide, so that scaffolds shook under
the trembling hands of those who believed themselves fevered.
- The eldest, silent until now, whispered only *abandon hope*, a hex not of
muscle but of marrow. For when hope flees, bridges do not stand, no matter
how many stones are set.
The Nameless smiled, thin and without joy. They asked for nothing but the
sanction of Her tower. I gave it, tracing Drakkara's sigil into the dust of
the ruined floor. The mark shivered, as if the stone itself recoiled, but
then it sank deeper, binding oath to earth.
When I departed, their eyes followed but their bodies did not move. Already
they were at work, rehearsing the sabotage not with hammer but with thought.
The bridge will not collapse by fire or frost alone, it will wither from
within, its builders doubting their own hands.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Thoughts That Splinter
Date Log: When the chapel stones cracked and the red hearths flickered in Abaddon
Ledger Tag: EB-MEN-SAB-04
Objective: Break the minds of the bridge's makers through Abaddons Nameless
Mentalists.
Agents: The Nameless covens of Abaddon.
Timing: During planning and construction, woven into memory and morale.
Actions: Haze to cloud, amnesia to erase, illness to weaken, despair to
unmake.
Outcome Sought: The bridge fails not from stone or steel, but from hands
that no longer trust themselves to build.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 20:18:51 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Witchcraft Sabotage
A bridge cannot be undone by stone alone. It must be hexed in its
marrow.
So I went first to Verminasia, where alleys still hold the perfume of spice
and rot. There the Nameless brewed in cracked cauldrons, gourds swelling
like fruit on blackened vines. These were their gifts: potions to paralyze,
flasks to stagger, brews disguised as common broth but meant to shatter when
hurled. Their work was slow, patient, indistinguishable from a merchant's
kitchen until the day it was not.
From there to Abaddon, where the forsaken covens waited in dust-choked
cellars. No cauldrons bubbled here, only silence, and familiars that perched
too near. Their ravens and cats bore no names, only eyes that gleamed with
borrowed sight. These Nameless wove silence into every gourd, into every
stake, into every curse. When their work was loosed on the canyon, overseers
would find their voices stolen mid-command, every order swallowed before it
could be obeyed.
And then to Darkonin, where the mountain split its crown against the wind.
There the Nameless were ogre-blooded, hands like axes, voices cracked by
ice. They did not brew, they broke. With *splinter* they split timber into
hidden stakes, each shard honed to pierce when hurled from shadow. With
*fear* they etched dread into the scaffolds themselves, so that workers
trembled as though ghosts labored beside them. No need for subtlety. Fear
does not hide, it commands.
Three cauldrons, three paths, one ledger. I gave them the same oath: *Her
shadow sanctifies your craft. Let the bridge be haunted before it ever
stands.* They nodded without question, as though the vow had already been
written in their bones.
When I left, Verminasia's gourds pulsed with potion, Abaddon's familiars
watched with patient eyes, and Darkonin's stakes lay piled like bones waiting
to be thrown. All of them blessed, not by me, but by the Queen of Darkness,
whose will binds their hands into one cauldron.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Three Cauldrons
Date Log: When spice soured, silence thickened, and the mountain split
Ledger Tag: EB-WCH-SAB-05
Objective: Enmesh the bridge in witchcraft and hex through Verminasia,
Abaddon, and Darkonin.
Agents: Nameless potion-brewers of Verminasia, forsaken covens of Abaddon,
ogre-blood warlocks of Darkonin.
Timing: Bound into scaffolds, overseer camps, and nightly labor.
Actions: Verminasia brewed gourds, Abaddon wove silence through familiars,
Darkonin broke timber with splinter and carved scaffolds with fear.
Outcome Sought: A bridge haunted before it stands, paralyzed, voiceless,
and trembling under Her will.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 20:28:53 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Necromancy Sabotage
The Ebony Tower has its own graveyard, though none mark its stones.
Not the honored dead, not the masters remembered, but the nameless ones who
studied a cycle and failed, who carried water for the beast, who swept
ash from the braziers until their lungs gave way. Some left the Tower for
quiet taverns in Verminasia, for nameless farms in Darkonin, for alleys in
Abaddon where no one asked who they had once been. I called them back.
They came without pretense, smelling of dust and grave-rot, carrying no
wands save the bones they had kept as tokens. These were not masters. They
were failures, forgotten, and yet, to me, perfect. For what is sabotage if
not the craft of the overlooked?
The ledger given them was carved in marrow:
- *Animate Dead* corpses taken from quarry pits, placed to stir at night and
scatter tools as if haunted.
- *Bone Blight* whispered into timbers, softening them until a hammer's blow
turned them sponge.
- *Feign Death* taught to infiltrators, slipping among workers as corpses
until they rose to set fire or scatter ash.
- *Scourge*, kept in reserve, not for collapse but for contagion, a sickness
that would spread quicker than rope could be replaced.
The Nameless did not ask for coin. They asked only for their names to
remain unwritten, so that when the bridge failed, they would vanish back
into obscurity. I granted it. Their anonymity is their sanctuary, and
their sanctuary is Her will.
I left them in the canyon, their pockets rattling with bones. The dwarves
will believe the earth itself betrayed them, but it will be the Tower's
ghosts, the forgotten apprentices, who rot their work from within.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Tower's Forgotten Graveyard
Date Log: When the bones rattled in pockets and the cairns stood unmarked
Ledger Tag: EB-NEC-SAB-06
Objective: Seed the bridge with undeath and decay through the Ebony Towers
Nameless Necromancers.
Agents: Failed apprentices and retired necromancers of the Ebony Tower.
Timing: Night labor and quiet contagion during scaffolding.
Actions: Corpses animated, timbers blighted, infiltrators feigned, plague
seeded.
Outcome Sought: A bridge undone not by battle but by its own dead weight,
rotted, haunted, and forgotten.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 20:39:51 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Invocation Sabotage
The Invokers who never ascended still linger in our halls. They smell of
burnt parchment, their eyes forever red from the flares of miscast cones,
their fingers twitching like they still trace sigils in their sleep. These
were not masters. They were errors the Tower refused to name. I summoned
them anyway.
I found them where the Ebony Tower stores its broken circles, rooms with
walls scorched by failed fire, floors webbed by half-born glyphs. "Your
errors," I told them, "are exactly what I require."
Their ledger was etched into glass shards, each spell inverted, each
protection suborned:
- *Alarm*: not to ward the bridge, but to lull its builders into thinking
each false trigger meant safety. A thousand cries of wolf, until silence
was the only comfort.
- *Antimagic Shell*: not to shield the faithful, but to dull dwarven wards,
thinning holy protections until they cracked like frostglass.
- *Web*: spun not across battlefields, but across pulleys and scaffolds,
binding load-bearing rigs until they snagged and snapped.
- *Cone of Cold, Fire, Lightning*: never at full force, only etched into
stone foundations as residues, tiny fractures hidden until weight demanded
honesty.
The Nameless Invokers work as scribes disguised as surveyors, their sigils
folded inside ledgers the Baewar themselves sign. Their circles are neat,
their pens steady. Only the meanings shift sideways.
When the bridge is sanctified, every inspection will appear passed, every
ward intact, every stone compliant. And yet beneath the signature lies
hunger, fracture, and false silence. The dwarves will trust the paperwork
that dooms them.
The Nameless asked nothing for themselves. "Let us remain errors," they
said. "So the bridge may collapse under perfect math." I agreed. Their
errors will write the truth.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Glass Shards for Ledgers
Date Log: When the surveyor signed and the ink ran sideways
Ledger Tag: EB-INV-SAB-07
Objective: Invert protective invocations into sabotage hidden as
certification.
Agents: Failed Ebony Tower invokers, scribes turned infiltrators.
Timing: During survey inspections and ritual warding rites.
Actions: False alarms seeded, wards weakened, scaffolds webbed, fractures
hidden.
Outcome Sought: A bridge that appears flawless until weight reveals its
hollowed truth.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 21:22:39 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Battlemagicks Sabotage
The Tower breeds battlemages to be walls, to stand where others fall. Yet
even walls may be built of hollow stone. Those who failed to master the
discipline, too slow to cast absorption in time, too careless with their
gnarth-beasts, too reckless with aura backlash, were hidden away, nameless,
as if shame could seal them. But I remembered them.
I met them in a courtyard of broken practice-dummies, their scars deeper
than their spells. "Your fractures," I said, "are Her tools. A wall with
cracks collapses louder than one struck clean through."
They agreed. And so their ledger of sabotage was written:
- *Absorption*: wards tuned not to hold, but to leak one strike in ten,
unseen, unmeasured, until faith in shield becomes dagger.
- *Alter Beast*: gnarth-creatures shaped not for loyalty, but to falter when
the dwarves expect their strength, trembling knees, sudden collapse beneath
weight.
- *Aura of Pain*: woven into scaffolds and cables so that each hammer
returns ache into the laborers' arms, sapping them, making every strike a
little slower.
- *Ancient Vow*: the oath of undead twisted, not to defend, but to scatter
when the Light commands them, breaking ranks and leaving gaps open.
- *Wind Breath*: hidden in the canyon gusts, nudging cranes just inches
awry, turning precision into drift.
The Nameless did not stride openly. They wore the faces of labor guards,
their runes disguised as inspection chalk, their auras masked as fatigue
from long days. Where the dwarves prayed their scaffolds would bear, the
Nameless prayed they would shudder. Where engineers measured, the Nameless
sighed, and their sigh bent the wind.
I told them: "The dwarves build against dragons. But they will not see that
their enemy is weight, fatigue, and the quiet faltering of a beast's knees."
They laughed, quietly, because despair has a sound like that.
The bridge will not fall with fire and clash. It will fail where they
thought themselves safest, where their shields betray them. That failure
will echo longest.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Hollow Walls and Faltering Beasts
Date Log: When scaffolds swayed and tired guards chalked false runes
Ledger Tag: EB-BM-SAB-08
Objective: Bend battlemagicks of protection into subtle betrayal.
Agents: Retired Ebony battlemages, scarred and forgotten, now saboteurs.
Timing: During defense drills, scaffold guard shifts, and beast-handling.
Actions: Weakened wards, false beast alterations, aura-aching tools, vows
that scatter, winds that drift.
Outcome Sought: A bridge that collapses not in fire, but in trust betrayed,
its guardians proving hollow.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 22:18:12 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Alteration Sabotage
The Tower's transmuters were meant to be precise, architects of change,
turning weakness into weapon and permanence into clay. Yet not All who
studied Alteration mastered its balance. Some left spells half-finished,
marks misplaced, essences bled away into exhaustion. Those failures were
not discarded, they were hidden. Nameless. Forgotten. Until now.
I found them in a cellar filled with warped tools and twisted gems, relics
of miscasts no merchant would buy. They feared their own mistakes, but I
showed them how fear itself could be bent into design. "Your errors," I
told them, "will be their undoing. A single flaw repeated becomes a truth
that stone cannot deny."
And so their ledger was written:
- Alter Armor: scaffolds plated with altered fittings, looking whole yet
bearing seams ready to slip under weight.
- Alter Elements: ore spoiled into brittle veins, a thread of weakness
inside every beam and rivet.
- Forget: etched into foremens ledgers so cuts were remeasured, redone,
never certain, a haze upon their confidence.
- Permanency: flaws locked into joints, errors made eternal, impossible to
correct once hidden.
- Frost Shroud: laid thin across walkways and ropes, dulling dexterity,
slowing hands, making precision stumble.
The Nameless did not come as saboteurs with banners. They came as tired
laborers, as overseers with false chalk, as surveyors tracing lines that
looked right but leaned just wide. Each presence quiet, each act a
whispered amendment that the dwarves themselves would carry forward.
I told them: "The dwarves think permanence is stone. But permanence is only
what flaws you leave behind." They nodded, and for once their trembling
hands did not feel like failure, but prophecy.
The bridge will not crack from the roar of battle, but from its own design.
It will be betrayed by permanence itself, etched into every joint by those
who once called themselves mistakes.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: Promises Made Permanent
Date Log: When chisels dulled and the ledgers blurred
Ledger Tag: EB-ALT-SAB-09
Objective: Twist Alteration into lasting flaws hidden in stone and steel.
Agents: Retired Ebony transmuters, failed apprentices, cellar-dwellers of
the craft.
Timing: During material preparation, ledger checks, and scaffold fittings.
Actions: False armor, spoiled ore, muddled records, flaws made eternal,
shrouds that clumsy hands.
Outcome Sought: A bridge undone not by collapse alone, but by the lie of
permanence revealed.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 23:14:21 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Whispers of the Crusade
The Nameless have been tasked, their ledgers written and sealed, yet until my
own task is complete their work cannot begin. Sabotage waits upon silence,
and silence is not yet mine.
Whispers reach me, carried not by spies alone but by merchants who once
passed Arkane's gates, by travelers who still mutter of the old wards I set.
They speak of the time when I called an army of dead to serve as sentinels,
a line of bone and ash to guard Arkane's citizenry. They whisper that it was
the Crusade who swept them away, sanctity burning where loyalty once stood.
They call it a victory. I call it theft.
The memory clings, not only to me but to the streets themselves. In taverns
where wine thins to vinegar, in market stalls where bolts of cloth gather
dust, the people remember. They tell me: *Your dead held fast until the
Crusade came. Your protection was truer than their prayers.* Their voices
are low, but their eyes do not look away. The tale endures, as surely as the
rumors that the Crusade now set foot upon the Bridge.
Hymns have been heard in the canyon, they say. Paladins have been sighted
marching where scaffolds rise. Priests whisper prayers into the stone itself,
as if mortar could be blessed into permanence. These are no accidents. The
Bridge has become their altar.
And if the Crusade marches, then Ulyssus will march also. He answered their
first call, when I too declared my Crusade, not for faith, but for Arkane's
safety. Our banners touched the same wind then. They will do so again.
The Nameless will wait. Their sabotage will bloom in silence, but my task
is not yet silence. It is preparation for the clash not of stones but of
oaths remembered. I do not doubt that Ulyssus will answer. I only doubt
whether he understands what ledger is now open before him.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Ledger Reserved to Myself
Date Log: When merchants whispered of Arkane's defense and hymns echoed in the canyon
Ledger Tag: EB-THN-CRS-10
Objective: Confront the Crusade's presence upon the Bridge and prepare for
Ulyssus's inevitable return to their cause.
Agents: None but myself, Thindyss Shiegnath, the Ebony Wizard.
Timing: As whispers of hymns and Crusade banners spread across the canyon.
Actions: Gather whispers of Arkane's merchants and spies, mark the Crusade's
interference, and ready my hand for Ulyssus's answering march.
Outcome Sought: To bend the Crusade's zeal into proof of their hypocrisy,
and to ensure the Bridge bears not blessing, but betrayal.
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Sep 27 23:36:00 2025
To All ( Conclave Piknim Ryzzynth Thindyss RP )
Subject The Dream and the Ferrite
The labyrinth sighed as Blinx descended, its mirrored walls bending
inward like closing jaws. His soft steps echoed, multiplying until they
sounded like a crowd of invisible dreamers walking in lockstep behind him.
At the center waited the glass cage--its surface slick with shifting
reflections, its captive Aspectt of Hope glowing faint and restless.
Blinx lifted the ferrite crystal on its leather cord. It was heavier than
it should have been, as if it carried a burden of memory. The moment he
pressed it against the cage, the gem pulsed, dark veins of iron shimmer
threading across the glass like frost. The hum of the labyrinth deepened
into a thrum that matched the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
His vampiric gift stirred. Normally, siphoning in the Dreaming was a steady
pull, a thin stream of dream-essence drawn from sleeping minds. But with
the ferrite as a focus, the trickle became a torrent. He felt the Dream
bending toward him, rushing through the crystal into his grasp: fragments of
half-forgotten lullabies, unfinished prayers, broken laughter, All draining
into him until his veins glowed with stolen clarity.
The ember of Hope writhed, flaring against its prison. Its light guttered,
flickering with each pulse of siphoning, as though Blinx were drawing not
just from the Dream around him but from the captive itself. The cage rang
like bell struck by a hammer, each note shivering through the mirrored
halls.
For a moment, he tasted something unfamiliar-sweetness, raw and painfulthe
essence of Hope bleeding through his siphon. It was unlike fear or despair
it stung, almost too bright to swallow. Yet the ferrite pulled it deeper,
translating it into fuel.
As he released his grip, the crystal dimmed, but the labyrinth did not fall
silent. The echoes of what he had drained lingered: dream-shadows clutching
at his heels, moths of thought battering their wings against his mind. He
had learned that the ferrite crystal did not merely amplify his siphonit
demanded it, turning his hunger into a tide that threatened to drown both
him and his prisoner.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Sep 27 23:54:30 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - The Tower's Forgotten Ledger
The Nameless task has been given, but until my own is finished, their
work cannot begin.
Nadrik and his dwarves once swore to guard the bridge against the
Firstborne, as if stone could defy dragons and steel could outlast shadow.
Yet arrogance is its own mortar, and it was Nadrik's arrogance that cracked
first. Even with Kantilles' blessing, even with Austinian's son in their
ranks, even with Kantilles' betrayal that split the Trinity, they failed to
unmake us. They failed to topple Her Moon. They failed to burn the Ebony
Tower from its foundations.
And yet the tale is told otherwise. The Tower's sacrifice is forgotten, the
tapestry we wove together dismissed as "unfinished." They do not speak of
the battles we won, nor of the Magi who gave everything in Her service.
They recall only the few who drank too deeply of power, only the betrayals
they find convenient, and they smear Her faithful with the stains of a past
they never bore.
Ulyssus has joined them in forgetting. Once a brother of the Tower, now he
wraps himself in the cloth of Kantilles, chasing the divinity of a god who
would tear the Trinity itself apart for His own ends. I do not deny Ulyssus
his wisdom, he has gathered more tomes than most will ever touch, but wisdom
that only looks backward becomes blindness. He insists that what was must
always be what is. He cannot see the path when it bends, cannot hear the
new song when it rises beneath his own.
The young, the daring, the heretical, we are the ones who shape the future.
We are the ones who take the unmarked road, who bind the unwritten spell,
who say that power has no morality save what hand wields it. Good and evil,
curse and blessing, these are labels for those who fear the thread itself.
To me, to Her, there is only magick, law written by, for the gods
themselves, rules waiting to be re-read.
And so I prepare. The dwarves think themselves guarded, the Crusade thinks
itself holy, and Ulyssus thinks himself wise. But the ledger of memory is
mine to keep, and I will write in it that arrogance, blindness, and
forgetfulness are All debts the Bridge will pay.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Tower
Date Log: When memory frayed and the Trinity betrayed itself
Ledger Tag: EB-THN-CRS-11
Objective: Reframe history and expose the arrogance of Nadrik, the dwarves,
and Ulyssus, preparing the ground for sabotage.
Agents: Thindyss Shiegnath, Ebony Wizard (primary).
Actions: Call out forgotten sacrifices of the Ebony Tower, indict Ulyssus's
blindness, re-cast power as a moral thread.
Outcome Sought: To show that the Bridge rests not upon stone alone but upon
a history already fractured, preparing the way for its undoing.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Sep 28 00:21:30 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - The Eye Against the Wards
The Nameless wait, their ledgers sealed. But their silence must be filled by
my own hand, for sabotage cannot bloom until I first unmake the root.
Ulyssus has come. I felt it before I saw it, the taste of parchment fire
and the cadence of chants too ancient to be original. He knelt at the
sinkhole's rim, his staff etched with Kantilles' marks, his voice lifting as
though stone itself could be persuaded to believe. He drew wards across the
canyon floor, bright lines of divine ink that sought to bind what they did
not understand.
I did not confront him openly. Instead, I drew forth the eye I had wrought
with Vierxae, the stone that sees not shadow nor light but the weave itself.
Through it, Ulyssus's wards glimmered thin as spider silk, holy to the eye
but threadbare to truth. I traced each filament with my sight, saw where it
tangled, where it doubled back, where it thought itself seamless. And there,
between his stitches, I slipped.
My own sigils rode under his, not in defiance but in camouflage:
- An inversion sigil, hidden beneath his "ward of permanence," that ensures
every repair the dwarves make becomes a locked flaw.
- A siphon etched under his "blessing ward," that drinks Kantilles' grace and
feeds it to the Umbra below.
- A silence mark, concealed beneath his ward of voice, so that every hymn
he utters ends as swallowed air.
The eye pulsed with each adjustment, its surface hot as though it drank the
friction of the weave. Through it I saw Ulyssus smile, believing his wards
were whole. Through it I saw the Crusade bow their heads, convinced the
Bridge was now sanctified. Through it I saw the truth: their every prayer
already bent sideways, their altar already compromised.
I whispered nothing to him, offered no challenge. Ulyssus believes he
stands within Kantilles' shield, believes the Cauldron is silent beneath his
feet. Let him keep that belief. When the Bridge trembles, he will not see
me. He will see only the collapse of his own certainty, undone not by
opposition, but by what slipped unseen through his own wards.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Eye Against the Wards
Date Log: When Ulyssus prayed at the sinkhole and the Eye revealed his seams
Ledger Tag: EB-THN-CRS-12
Objective: Subvert Ulyssus's sanctifying wards by using the Eye to trace and
undermine their weave.
Agents: Thindyss Shiegnath, Ebony Wizard, the Eye of Vierxae.
Timing: During Ulyssus's consecration rites at the canyon sinkhole.
Actions: Inverted permanence hidden in repairs, siphon beneath blessings,
silence woven under hymns.
Outcome Sought: Ensure Ulyssus's wards sanctify nothing, their prayers
swallowed, their faith undone.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Sep 28 00:40:35 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - The Ledger Unbound (Final Ledger)
The Nameless have waited long enough. Their ledgers have been sealed, their
sigils tucked into shoe-stitched seams and lamp-glass, their crafts folded
into crates and pockets. Tonight I loosened the twine. The order moved from
ink to breath.
I did not speak to them of doom. I spoke to them of purpose. I told them
this: that imperfection is a useful hand, that a crooked nail, a whispered
doubt, a stitch out of line can topple a certainty faster than any blade.
Where the lateborn boast of flawless rites, where the Ivory preens its braids
of law, you will be the small, necessary errors that unmake their certainty.
Your faces will not be sung. Your names will not be carved. That is your
grace. That is how the Mother is answered.
We did not shape saints in our halls. We shaped hands that know the weight of
dark work and do it without praise. Each of you carries a ledger-line in your
pocket: a sigil, a whisper, a shared joke no priest can parse. Carry it as I
taught you. Trust your imperfect tools. Trust that a missed measure, a shadow
stepped into at the right moment, a lull in song, these are victory writ
small. Go knowing this: our work will not be loud, but it will be certain.
And know this as well: across from us stands a man both worthy and dangerous.
Ulyssus, ally and enemy, friend and rival. He rose to the Ivory for a reason,
his shelves sag with learning and his hands have earned the weight they
carry. His magick, even when folded into Kantilles' cloth, is formidable
beyond most. I respect that strength. I respect the competence that made him
Ivory. Respect him, therefore, and do not mistake respect for fear. He will
test you and he will force choices upon you, that pressure is part of the
weave. It will make our small errors sing truer when they must.
I gave them no blessed words, for blessings belong to another tongue. Instead
I pressed Her sigil into a scrap of black vellum and let them each touch it
once, quietly, with their own palms. A promise, not a prayer: answer the
Mother as she asks, and she will count your stitch. If a few of you are seen,
if a few of you must draw eyes so others may pass, then your anonymity will
still be the gift you leave behind. We do not demand perfection. We demand
devotion.
They rose then, not in triumph, but in the thoroughness of those who have
been forgotten long enough to move without need for witness. Verminasia's
alleys will absorb them. Darkonin's wind will carry them. Abaddon's shadows
will harbor them. Most of all, they move into the canyon where my own work
waits, where the Cauldron speaks and the Eye watches
The ledger is unbound. The Nameless walk. Their silence has become a chorus
in Her service.
[DOCKET SUMMARY]
Title: The Ledger Unbound
Date Log: When silence ended and the Nameless marched from their hiding
Ledger Tag: EB-THN-CRS-13
Objective: Release the Nameless to enact sabotage with quiet certainty and
devotion to the Mother.
Agents: Nameless across Verminasia, Darkonin, Abaddon, and the Ebony Tower.
Timing: Immediately following the undermining of Ulyssus's wards and the
laying of the Cauldron's traps.
Actions: Orders given, sigils distributed, Nameless dispersed to targeted
posts.
Outcome Sought: A cascade of small, decisive betrayals that answer the Mother
and unmake the Bridge's assumed inviolability.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Sep 28 12:46:01 2025
To All Conclave Blinx - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject The Witchlock - A Scholar of Dreams
I spent the better part of this night with Blinx's report spread across my
table. The ink was still sharp, his hand steady, each line carrying the same
precision I once demanded of him as an apprentice. Yet this was no mere
student's exercise. These were the workings of a Magus, a servant whose
service is not only to the Tower but to the Dark Mother Herself.
The chamber around me was quiet but alive with the echoes of his words. My
candles burned low, their wax pooling in silent testimony to the hours I had
given this reading. The only sound was the occasional scrape of my quill
across parchment as I annotated his findings, marking symbols that recurred,
patterns that whispered of structure within the so-called chaos of dreams.
His study of the Dream, of sonomancy, struck me not as speculation but as a
discipline in its own right. The symbols he catalogued, the repeating
archetypes, the way dream-threads converge like rivers under a single moon,
all bore the weight of true observation. This was not whimsy. It was
pattern. It was law.
I lingered longest over the passages where he spoke of Her presence in
slumber, subtle but undeniable, shaping visions not through thunderous decree
but through whisper. Many in our Tower search for Her in flame, in blood, in
summoning. Blinx has dared to seek Her in silence, in the quiet tremors of
sleep, and in so doing has touched an aspect of devotion most of us neglect.
I traced his sketches of dreamscapes, noting the way he mapped them as one
might chart constellations. Where I once would have dismissed such drawings
as the wanderings of fancy, I found myself comparing them to my own visions
from the Cauldron. The shapes, though drawn from different sources, bore a
strange resonance, spirals, broken arches, eyes that see yet refuse to wake.
Was this mere coincidence, or had we both glimpsed the same current from
different shores?
There were places where his report trembled with honesty, admissions of
failure or uncertainty. These I marked with care, for they revealed more of
his character than any triumph. He does not conceal when the dream resists
him. He names his limits, and in naming them, proves himself worthy of
greater trust.
I will not pretend his findings were easy for me to accept. My path has been
stone, soot, and the weight of written word. Yet the more I read, the more I
felt that what he has uncovered is not apart from Witchlock but beside it,
woven like a hidden thread. Dreams and Alteration may be as night and clay,
but both reshape. Both unmake to make anew.
Blinx, your work honors Her. You have given the Ebony not only data but a
mirror to examine ourselves. For myself, it has opened a door I did not know
existed. The Cauldron's silence may not be broken with iron or ink, but
perhaps with dream.
As I closed your report, I did not feel the weariness of study but the pulse
of possibility. The Tower often demands proof before reverence, but in your
pages I found reverence already. You serve Drakkara not only with ritual but
with thought, with sacrifice, with the reshaping of self. That is devotion.
That is service.
I will not yet speak of plans, for the ink of this decision has not fully
dried in my own mind. But know this: I have read, I have weighed, and I have
listened. And I do not dismiss your path. I see in it a reflection of my
own, and perhaps a key to what has eluded me.
-Thindyss, of the Infinite Thread
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Sep 28 13:09:34 2025
To All Conclave Blinx Symantha - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject The Witchlock - Threads of Slumber
The sanctum beneath the Vein was colder than usual tonight. The veins of rock
above hummed like taut strings, each tremor carrying a note too low for mortal
ears. My wards cast pale light over the stones, their glow did not so much
dispel the shadows as reveal them, like inked script rising from parchment
under a candle flame.
Before me the Cauldron sat, its rim blackened from a hundred offerings, its
depth no longer reflecting light. It had become a hollow of night, not empty,
but waiting. Tonight, I did not light incense, nor draw glyphs, nor summon
spirits from the marrow of the earth. Tonight, I wrote. Ink, not blood.
Memory, not command. Silence, not song.
Blinx, I have watched you longer than you know. In the Tower's halls and in
the quiet places where few of us go, you have carried Her breath with a
steadiness that humbles me. Others speak of service, you live it. Your desired
conversion to the Dark Mother is not a gesture but a pilgrimage, a sacrifice
of the self that few in the Ebony truly understand. I have seen you tend Her
altar when others passed it by. I have seen you carry Her silence when others
demanded signs.
You are a reminder that worship is not convenience. It is labor, discipline,
and a reshaping of the self. Where others still treat Her with hesitation, you
have already surrendered. For that, your place in this Tower is stronger than
many who boast louder names.
Your craft, dreams, sonomancy, the subtle currents of the sleeping mind, is
more than a curiosity. It is an instrument of revelation. Where Alteration
bends the waking world, you bend the unseen one. In you, the two halves of
Witchlock, what is bound and what is free, meet without conflict.
The Cauldron has evaded my grasp not because it hides, but because I have
searched with waking eyes. Perhaps it has always spoken in sleep. Perhaps Her
will is already woven in the lattice of slumber, waiting for hands more deft
than mine to trace its pattern.
There are nights I have doubted. Nights when even the Weave felt brittle, and
my own questions seemed like blasphemy rather than inquiry. But reading your
findings, seeing how you walk unashamed into the dark, I find resolve again.
So I ask, not as Magus, not as your former mentor, but as a servant of the
Infinite Night standing at the edge of his own understanding, join me. Help
me interpret what refuses to be spoken. Bring your dreams to my Alteration, I
will bring my memory to your visions. Together, we will try to dissolve this
silence until the Cauldron speaks, not for our power, but for Her glory.
If this is Her will, we will be instruments. If not, we will at least have
knelt together in the dark, listening. The Tower will be stronger for it,
whether in revelation or in patience.
Come, Blinx. Let us dream the Cauldron awake.
- Thindyss Shiegnath, of the Infinite Thread
Writer: Zorreau
Date Sun Sep 28 14:36:46 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows VII
The descent had stripped All sense of time from him. There was no night
here, no day - only the endless pall of shadow stretched across a horizon of
sinew and bone. Zorreau moved deeper into the Realm of Terror, each step
sinking into the flesh-road beneath his boots, as though the land itself
sought to drag him down into its bowels. The air stank of rot and despair,
heavy with the weight of centuries of agony.
At length he came to a chasm, its maw yawning wide, spanned by a bridge
wrought not of stone but of fused skulls. Their jaws hung open in eternal
scream, yet no sound passed their lips. It was there, upon the span, that
he was no longer alone.
The figure rose from the void like smoke coiling into form. Tall, thin as
hunger, its limbs too long, its face concealed beneath a veil of torn flesh
stitched with rusted wire. Chains clattered where its heart should be,
dragging behind it into the abyss. When it spoke, its voice was not a sound
but a pressure, forcing itself into Zorreau's mind like an iron spike.
"Mortal. Wolf of Shadow. I know why you're here. You seek to bind what
should not be bound. "
Zorreau did not flinch. His hand rested upon the hilt of his rapier, though
he did not draw it. "I seek what I must. Speak plain - do such bindings
exist? "
The veiled head tilted, and for an instant the veil stirred, revealing
nothing beneath but darkness that bled into the air.
"They exist. Chains to hold the unholdable. Leashes for those who would
never kneel. The art you crave was not birthed in the Spirit, nor in the
Light, but here - in Terror. It can be done. But the cost...
The chains at its chest rattled violently, and the air filled with a
thousand ghostly wails. They did not come from the figure but from within
Zorreau himself, echoing from places in his soul he had thought long silent.
He felt the weight of every name, every life, every creature that would
scream in eternal bondage should he succeed.
"One voice, fifty voices. A hundred. More. You will hear them. Always.
Their torment will be yours. Not in pain of flesh, but in the marrow of
thought, in the silence between your own heartbeats. It will be your
burden, your crown, your curse. "
Zorreau's jaw tightened. He had known the price would be steep, but not its
form. The eternal weight of damned souls pressed against his mind, a future
chorus of screams only he would hear. Yet still his voice was steady.
"Then I will bear it. "
For the first time, the figure recoiled, as though such certainty were
foreign to it. Slowly, it sank back toward the abyss, its voice trailing
like smoke.
"Then go deeper, Malus Lupus. Beyond this bridge lies the heart of Terror.
There you will find not whispers, but truths. But beware - knowledge does
not yield itself freely, and Terror devours the unprepared. "
The chasm below seemed to groan, as though hungry for him. Zorreau stepped
onto the bridge of screaming skulls, the silence of their mouths echoing
louder than any battlefield roar he had ever known. He did not falter. The
path forward was his alone.
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Sep 28 21:22:30 2025
Writer: Zorreau
Date Mon Sep 29 06:28:03 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows VIII
The bridge carried him into silence - silence so complete that even the
rasp of his breath seemed stolen from him. When he stepped off the skulls
onto the far side, the Realm of Terror shifted. The flesh-road split and
writhed like a nest of serpents, pulling apart into a vast plain of jagged
bone and blistered earth. The sky churned above, shadows twisting in an
unending storm.
It was there the first struggle began.
The ground convulsed beneath his boots and split with a shuddering crack.
From the fissures lanced spears of bone, slick with marrow and sharpened
like executioner's blades. The first erupted so suddenly it grazed his arm,
slicing open the flesh beneath his armor. Zorreau staggered aside, but no
sooner had his boot found purchase than three more surged upward, thrusting
toward his chest and throat.
He moved like a duelist on the field, his rapier flashing in the gloom.
Blade struck bone, shattering the first spear into jagged shards, while he
twisted his body to let the others hiss past his ribs. He pressed forward,
only for the plain itself to convulse again. Dozens of spines erupted in a
wall before him, forcing him into a brutal rhythm: slash, step, pivot,
strike.
Minutes stretched into eternity. His boots were slick with blood - not only
his own, but from the marrow that sprayed with each shattered lance. The
ground grew more violent, thrusting spikes at his flanks, from beneath his
feet, even from overhead. One caught his thigh, driving deep before he
wrenched it free with a growl of fury. Another grazed his face, leaving a
streak of crimson across his cheek.
It was not an enemy he could kill, not a duel that could be ended - it was
endurance, sheer attrition, the Realm itself striving to grind him into the
dust of broken warriors. Every step was bought with pain. Every breath was
torn from him through clenched teeth.
At last, as though sated by his suffering, the bone-forest fell still. The
plain stretched once more, silent but for the rasp of his breathing.
Zorreau stood bloodied, his armor scored, his rapier scratched and marred at
the edge - but he stood.
And then the second trial began.
The shadows overhead thickened, spilling down like a tide until they took
form. Not beasts. Not demons. Faces.
They circled him, their features half-shrouded in smoke, but he knew them.
He had marched with them, fought with them, bled beside them. Brothers and
sisters of Shadow. Some had fallen upon the field, their lives broken
beneath enemy steel. Others - and these cut deepest - had fallen by his own
blade, when punishment demanded death, when their failure had left him no
choice.
They spoke not as phantoms but as comrades - accusing, questioning,
condemning.
"We followed you into the storm, Zorreau. Why was my life not worth saving?
" whispered one, his chest still caved from a hammer's blow.
"You swore brotherhood, yet cut me down when my strength failed, " hissed
another, her face pale with the memory of his rapier's thrust.
"You claim loyalty, yet how many comrades lie in graves dug by your
command?! " spat a third, his throat still marked by the punishment stroke
that ended his defiance.
Each voice pressed harder than any lance of bone. These were not nameless
shades - they were the weight of his past, those who had trusted him, those
who had died by his side, those he himself had condemned. Their eyes -
hollow yet burning - pinned him with the demand no battlefield ever had:
justify yourself.
Zorreau did not lower his gaze. His jaw clenched, his hands trembled upon
his hilt, but he forced his eyes to meet theirs. One by one.
"I remember you all. I carry you still. I chose what I must, when I must.
Not for mercy. Not for pity. For Shadow. For the Will we swore to serve.
"
The apparitions wailed, their faces twisting in anguish. Some dissolved
into ash, others turned their backs and drifted into the void, leaving only
the echo of their accusations upon the plain.
Alone once more, Zorreau stood in the silence of the aftermath. Bloodied,
shaken, but unbroken. The Realm had sought to bury him in the bones of his
past, but he endured.
And ahead, pulsing faintly on the horizon, the glow awaited - black and
violet, like the heartbeat of some ancient beast. The heart of Terror
called him onward.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Mon Sep 29 08:29:04 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows IX
The Realm of Terror did not let him walk long before it struck. The air
thickened, pressing like lead into his skull, and then the dull ache began -
a headache that did not throb but pounded, each beat as though a hammer were
striking against his temples. It drove him to a knee, hand braced against
the broken stone, breath hissing through clenched teeth.
"Failure. "
The word rolled like thunder through his bones. Necrucifer's voice - not
heard but felt, rattling him from within. "There was no forgiveness when
you wore my brand, and there is none now. You turn your back on me? You
spit upon my name? "
The pressure intensified. His vision swam. Even in death, Necrucifer's
shadow was iron - oppressive, absolute. His very marrow remembered the
weight of that dominion, and now the Realm wielded it mercilessly.
Then, slicing through the pounding ache, came the soft trill of laughter.
Feminine. Velvet. Sweet. A whisper of perfume on the stagnant air, the
memory of blossoms he had never seen.
"{uAh, but you look so lost, " Drakkara's echo teased, her voice lilting like
a dagger hidden in silk. "{uOn your knees already, and not for me. Did you
come to seek me, little puppy? Or to crawl and beg like every other knight
who hides his weakness beneath steel? "
Her jibes left no wound upon his flesh, yet cut deeper than any blade. They
were truths he feared whispered aloud, draped in laughter that mocked his
silence.
The torment deepened. From the haze emerged faces - three shadows that
shaped him, each now twisted into spectres of his own failings.
Crelius appeared first, his sneer dripping with the anarchic scorn of
Malachive.
"You cling to masters like a chained beast. Necrucifer, Drakkara - always
bound. Come with me, Zorreau. Cast off chains, embrace ruin, taste freedom
in chaos. Or will you shiver, still chasing thrones and crowns, while I
feast on the ashes? "
Then Reklah, his once-stalwart brother, eyes like burning coals.
"You dishonour the oath. Necrucifer's Will was carved into us in blood. We
bled together, we broke together, and still I held fast. And you? You
abandon Him for Her, as though loyalty were a cloak to be changed when
fashion suits. Betrayal, Zorreau. That is your legacy. "
Finally, Lanival. No sneer. No temptation. Only a gaze like a whetted
blade, callous and unyielding. His voice cut like an executioner's axe.
"Pathetic. You were nothing but a boy clutching at steel playing at being a
Knight. I carved Shadow into you, granted you the Sanctum, raised you to
the Dark Lord's seat. And now you crawl here, chasing skirts and perfume,
like the weakling I should have left to rot. If I live again, I would cut
you down without hesitation. "
Each face pressed close, surrounding him. Their words, his fears, their
condemnation, his shame - All melded until he could not separate them. His
breath grew ragged, chest burning as the chains of memory and doubt dragged
him lower, lower still.
The pounding headache. The mocking laugh. The betrayal, the fury, the
callous blade. He was suffocating beneath the weight of gods and ghosts
alike.
The stone beneath his palm seemed to tilt, his vision narrowing into
darkness at the edges. His grip faltered, knees threatening to buckle, as
though the Realm itself waited for him to collapse into its maw.
On the precipice, where will and ruin meet, Zorreau hovered - one heartbeat
from breaking.
Writer: Ashrik
Date Tue Sep 30 01:19:16 2025
To Verminasia Piknim Chantrielle All ( Immortal Roleplay Devion Drakkara Raije )
Subject The Moonfall Errand - Orders from the Tide
The summons came not at dawn but at dusk, when the last light of the
fractured red moon bled across the harbor. Ashrik as called into the
warroom by General Tamello, where the scent of brine and parchment mixed
uneasily with the iron tang of urgency.
The task was plain: escort a cadre of research magi southward to investigate
the fallen fragment of the red moon. It was not a command to fight, but to
guard - to be the steel between fragile scholars and whatever warp-born
horrors festered at the crater.
Chantrielle herself answered the call of the Church, flanked by three
pale-robed acolytes, each bearing vials of consecrated water and the quiet
resolve of healers walking into blight. The marines - thirty strong -
mustered at the docks, their armor painted in salt-rust tones, their
discipline steady even as whispers of the moon's corrupted carried on the
sea breeze.
Ashrik noted the mixed faces among the ranks: broad-shouldered ogres
tightening straps on heavy shields, wiry elves stringing their bows with
ritual precision, grim humans sharpening cutlasses against whetstones.
Among the magi, Master Jhoren, a sharp-eyed elf with ink-stained fingers,
commanded deference, while his human apprentice, Derryck, fumbled with his
satchel as though books were more dangerous than blades.
Preparations filled the evening: barrels of water sealed against foul winds,
rations loaded into crates, and wards etched along the ship's hull to guard
against spiritual intrusion. Ashrik's usual vessel of choice was the Aria,
but for this venture, the Requiem had been selected. The Requiem was a
caravel with sails dyed a deep blue-black, bearing scars from past service
against Marauder corsairs.
By nightfall, torches flickered across the docks as final blessings were
spoken. Chantrielle's voice carried like silver over steel as she traced a
sigil of warding across the ship's prow. Ashrik felt the hush that followed
settled deep into the bones of All present - the sense that this was no mere
voyage, but the first step toward a shadowed unknown.
The tides would be high come morning. The Requiem would push southward out
of Verminasia's harbors, skirting the edges of friendly waters before
venturing into the tainted seas that lapped against the scarred Arkanian
coastline. The red moon hung low, it's wounded face weeping light over the
waters, as though mocking their journey before it even began.
Writer: Ashrik
Date Tue Sep 30 01:21:35 2025
To Verminasia Piknim Chantrielle All ( Immortal Roleplay Devion Drakkara Raije )
Subject The Moonfall Errand - The Sea that Whispered Back
The morning tide bore The Requiem from Verminasia's harbor with a groan of
timbers and a snap of taut sailcloth. The wind carried the salt-sweet tang of
the southern seas, but it was heavy with something else, too - an undercurrent
like old copper and rot. Even the gulls abandoned their chase of the ship
within the first leagues, circling once before vanishing back toward safer
shores.
Ashrik stood at the prow, cloak snapping in the wind, eyes fixed southward
where the faint scar of the lunar fragment's descent stained the horizon like
a wound in the sky. He could feel the marines' watchful gaze at his back,
measuring him not as a comrade but as commander. Command was a mantle he wore
with caution, but also with a quiet steel.
The journey was not uneventful. On the third night, as the red moon crested,
its fractured glow turned the sea to black glass streaked with crimson. It
was then that the first whispers crept aboard. The sailors spoke of voices
beneath the waves - soft, lilting calls like drowned lovers beckoning from
below.
One of the acolytes, young Selian, grew pale and confessed she dreamed
of roots wrapping her limbs and dragging her into crimson soil. Chantrielle
answered with hymns that stilled the crew, her voice weaving like a net
of calm. But the unease remained, clinging to the sails and dripping from
the rigging like dew.
It was during this stretch that certain figures revealed themselves.
Captain Zayn, a grizzled Verminasian with one eye clouded and the other
sharp as cut obsidian, ran The Requiem with clipped precision. He trusted
Ashrik enough to share the tiller at night, though not without warning:
"The sea'll test us harder than any blade, lad. And that moon? It'll be
the cruelest tide of all."
Among the marines, a few stood apart. Gorruk, an orc whose laughter rumbled
like distant thunder, kept spirits alive with boasts of battles past. His
opposite was Alyra, an elven scout who rarely spoke but kept meticulous
watch, eyes always lifted toward the bleeding heavens. These two became
quiet pillars in the ranks - one with humor, the other with vigilance.
By the end of the second week, the waters grew foul. Strange flotsam past -
driftwood slicked with red crystal, fish husks with translucent skin that
shimmered faintly in the dark. The magi collected samples with trembling
hands - their ink-stained journals filling with frantic sketches.
At least the coastline rose on the horizon. What should have been fertile
Southland plains sprawled in eerie stillness, a pall of crimson haze
drifting above fields gone black. From this distance, the true crater was
hidden beyond the shrouded hills, but the air already carried its
corruption - heavy, acrid, unsettling in the lungs.
Ashrik felt it then - the weight of their charge settle like an anchor.
The voyage was done, but the true trial had begun, waiting inland where
the red moon's shadow still lingered.
Writer: Ashrik
Date Tue Sep 30 01:25:38 2025
To Verminasia Piknim Chantrielle All ( Immortal Roleplay Devion Drakkara Raije )
Subject The Moonfall Errand - The Watchers in Ash
The Requiem cut anchor in a quiet inlet where the land had not yet blackened,
though the grass was brittle beneath boot and trees leaned like drunks, their
leaves tinged the color of dried blood. The marines disembarked in staggered
order, shields raised as if expecting the air itself to strike. Chantrielle
marked the shoreline with blessed ash, while her acolytes carried
relic-lanterns that burned against the creeping dusk.
Ashrik gave the order to push inland along a ridge that overlooked the southern
plains. From here the scope of the blight could be felt - rolling silence
stretched across the land, a silence too deep to be natural. Even Alyra
faltered, whispering that the birds themselves had abandoned the sky.
It was there, at the ridge's edge, that they saw the others. A clutch of
riders - half a dozen - moving with haste along the perimeter of the corruption.
Their cloaks were drawn, their movements furtive, their banners absent. The magi
muttered fearfully of Marauder spies. Captain Zayn spat and muttered, "Too neat
for Marauders. These bastards are hunting knowledge, not blood."
Ashrik signaled the necessary marines to fan wide and intercept. Gorruk
grinned, rolling his shoulders as if he'd waited the entire voyage for this
moment. When the strangers realized they were flanked, they frozen, then tried to
scatter. Steel met steel in the dusk, and two were dragged from their saddles
before the rest fled into the haze.
The captives were a study in contrast: one a gaunt elf with ink-black tattoos
spiraling down his throat, the other a stocky human with scarred knuckles and
a mouth too quick for his own safety. Both wore leather harnesses fitted
with satchels heavy from the weight of crystal shards - shards that gleamed
faintly red in the gloom.
The questioning was swift and without gentleness. Ashrik himself oversaw it,
leaning close enough for his shadow to fall long across their faces. "You're
not here by accident," he said, voice pitched low enough to grind. "Speak,
or you'll be the first seeds planted in this poisoned soil."
The elf sneered, but it was the human who cracked, babbling about contracts
signed in blood, a benefactor in the Marauder fortress who paid handsomely
for "lunar relics". He claimed they were only collectors, not soldiers. Ashrik
let the words hang before motioning to Alyra, who turned the satchel out:
shards of red lunite clattered to the ground, their glow sickening in the
twilight.
Chantrielle stepped forward then, her presence colder than the marines' steel.
She raised a vial of consecrated water and poured it across one shard; the
crystal hissed, smoking as though alive. The prisoners paled. Ashrik saw the
fear and pressed it: "You've touched corruption you can't control. Now it'll
eat you from the marrow out. Unless-" he let silence sharpen the threat,
"-you tell me everything."
Before the day's end, the captives had broken fully. They spoke of hidden
caches, of couriers running between outlying camps, of figures cloaked not
in armor but in chains of ritual. Their stories tangled, but one truth
remained clear: the blight was not empty. Others were here, probing it,
feeding it.
The magi gathered the shards for containment, their hands trembling even
through the wards. Ashrik gave the order to bind the captives and drag them
back to the ship, to be dealt with on Verminasian soil. Their shrieks
carried thin into the night, muffled only when Gorruk's heavy hand
finally silenced them.
The ridge lay quiet again, but the sense of being watched lingered. The crater
was still days inland. Whatever had claimed this land was patient, and it knew
people had come.
Writer: Ashrik
Date Tue Sep 30 01:29:04 2025
To Verminasia Piknim Chantrielle All ( Immortal Roleplay Devion Drakkara Raije )
Subject The Moonfall Errand - Keepsakes of Collapse
The days that followed blurred into a march of silence and rot. The deeper they
pressed into the Southlands, the more the earth itself resisted them. Roots
blackened at their touch, streams clotted with crimson silt, and the wind
carried a low thrum that rattled teeth. Alyra swore it was not the wind at all,
but the crystals themselves, humming like veins filled with poison.
They did not reach the crater. Every path towards it grew impassable - rivers
turned tar-thick, forests warped into labyrinths of twisted dreadwood. Yet,
Ashrik's orders were clear: escort the magi to study, gather what could be
taken, and live to carry it All home. So, they shifted their course, circling
the edges of the wound like wolves testing the fences housing a stronger beast.
It was not fruitless. Along the shattered groves they found trees transformed
into glassy spires, their bark hardened into red-veined crystal. Master Jhoren
nearly wept as a shard of dreadwood was harvested, its surface hot to the
touch, though no flame burned nearby. The acolytes bound it with wards, their
lips blistering from constantly whispered prayer.
In the ruins of a farmhouse half-swallowed by creeping crystal, they uncovered
journals - pages smeared but legible, filled with accounts of livestock twisting
into eyeless husks, of children singing voices that weren't their own, of
neighbors wandering into the haze and never returning. Derryck nearly collapsed
copying them, his quill shaking as though the words themselves weighed too
much.
The most dangerous prize came at dusk, when Gorruk unearthed a buried chest
beneath a field of ash. Inside, vials of powdered lunite, crimson dust that
shimmered in patterns that seemed to shift even as one watched. Chantrielle
demanded it be destroyed. The magi begged to keep it. Ashrik judged the matter
swiftly - half consigned to fire, the rest sealed in iron and salt for study.
His decision earned him glares and gratitude alike.
When their packs were laden and their nerves frayed, Ashrik called the
retreat. They had gleaned more than was safe, and already the land pressed
against them, eager to close its grip. On their final night inland, the red
moon hung low, and every shadow bent toward the south, stretching long as
though drawn into the crater itself.
The march back to the shore was tight, grim, unbroken by speech. Even Gorruk's
booming laugh was silent. When at last The Requiem's sails rose against the
horizon, there was no cheer - only relief, raw and hollow.
They returned with satchels heavy from cursed harvest: shards of lunite,
veins of dreadwood, journals of the blight, and dust too dangerous to name.
Enough was brought back to prove the wound was real, enough to deepen the
Jewel's hunger for what could be done with it. Yet, as the coastline slipped
behind them, the marines did not look back.
Ashrik lingered at the stern, watching the horizon weep beneath the broken
moon. He knew what none of them dared say aloud: they had not bested the
wound, but only skimmed its surface. It seemed the land was dying. The
corruption was patient, and what they carried aboard might not be trophies,
but seeds.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Tue Sep 30 05:19:32 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows X
The Realm closed its hand until breath was a narrowing seam. Stone
canted under Zorreau's palm; black gathered at the edges of sight like rime
on glass. The hammer-beat headache came, Necrucifer's old judgment striking
bone with each blow. Perfumed laughter wound through the achesoft, amused,
pitiless and made of it shame. Faces crowded the dark: Crelius with ruin on
his tongue, Reklah All furnace and oath, Lanival a blade that had never
learned to yield.
Another heartbeat and he would break.
He did not pray. He did not plead. He counted, old soldier's arithmetic
that admits no poetry. One: the weight of armour that had learned the slope
of his shoulders. Two: the cold of sentry nights when no one came to
relieve him and still the sun rose. Three: scars that healed crooked and
held anyway. Four: orders given that saved a line and cost a friend. Five:
the iron habit of standing up again.
He took those numbers into his lungs and did a thing learned on fields that
did not forgive: he closed the door.
His breath ghosted between his teeth. "Taceant umbrae; non frangar. "
The hammer-beat still struck, but outside the door. The laughter still cut,
but to an empty room. The faces pressed their accusations against wood that
would not take a mark. Sound did not reach him. Meaning did not pierce
him. He did not banish them; he rendered them irrelevant.
In that quiet he made, a quiet no god or ghost had granted, he set both
hands to the ground and refused to be annexed. He stood in a country that
was his alone and found it large enough.
The Realm changed.
Bone smoothed to black glass, and upon it lay a book that was not a book:
iron leaves turning themselves; ink that moved like tide; letters that would
not hold still unless watched without blinking. Around it, umbral filaments
hung in the air as if plucked from night, humming faintly, meaning without
speech. No master appeared. No lips taught. The knowing was simply there,
old as the first scream, patient as stone.
He watched. The iron leaves turned, and with each slow shift something
settled in him, no steps, no recipe, only understanding that fit like a key
finally found. One life. One vessel. A covenant that chooses a keeper and
runs by blood to him whether the quarry falls to his strike or to other
hands arrayed beside him. Labour may be shared. The weight may not. The
chain remembers its maker.
The filaments thrummed once in a wind that did not move air, and the iron
leaves closed. What remained was the cost, laid out plain as law to a
judge: the voice that never falls quiet; the tally that never stops; the
craft that leaves a man his own country even in a crowded hall.
He measured those facts against the door he had set and the silence he had
made. Could he hold that bar when the voices were not phantoms but fettered
souls? He felt the answer rather than thought it: the latch would hold.
The bar would bear. The country was large enough.
He did not delight. He did not flinch. He accepted.
Glass became flesh; flesh drew back into mist. The hammer-beat ebbed to a
stone lodged behind the eyes. The last ghost of sweet perfume thinned and
was gone.
He stood a time with his palm upon the cooling floor and let the Realm
listen to him: not to words, he had none, but to proofquiet made and kept.
Then Zorreau rose.
He did not look back. He walked until the gate's cold draft found his face
and the crypt's weak light pried at Terror's seams. He stepped into mortal
stone and reclaimed his guttering torch.
In the hush he knew, with the certainty that follows pain: he had not
broken; he had been shown enough; and the first soul he bound would scream
in his head until the end of his days, and he would hear it only when he
chose.
He steadied a hand against the wall, breathing until the world settled. The
new knowing arranged itself, fine filings drawn to a hidden magnet, ordered,
invisible to any eye but his. There would be hunters to gather, quarry to
mark, labour divided and cost kept. But that was for the living world.
He climbed: crypt to stair, stair to corridor, corridor to night.
He squared his shoulders and set his stride.
Writer: Pholos
Date Tue Sep 30 07:43:53 2025
Writer: Imshael
Date Tue Sep 30 09:16:52 2025
To All dark_elves drakkara fatale Tash'a Rhea Philyra Tifara Zecnys
Subject A ribbon of memory
Fragments of memories slipped through his fingers like silk ribbon.
Their edges were not smooth, but coarse and jagged things that provided no
easy purchase. Imshael could not out-flank his own mind, nor the damages
done to it. The same images came to him again and again regardless of how
he approached the memory.
The same cobblestone path was laden with golden vallenleaves that would
crunch under the young elf's foot. The silverwrought gate swung open in
proud greeting to the teens as their parents, even his parents, facelessly
said their goodbyes. They were so proud their hearts swelled.
'Bartered and sold like chattel, ' his companion whispered, its hate
steeling his nerves even in memoriam.
Prodigy. Gifted. Exceptional. Chosen. He disliked those words, though
many of the other elves lived and breathed them. A silvery thread of memory
coalesced in his fingers and slid into place with the others.
Depravity and lies. You should be proud.
Their dormitory was east of the Manor, but they took their dinner within
each night. The youths gathered at the table and course by course they
dined and discussed their challenges and trials of the day. Until
Their eyes would have set you on fire with their jealousy if they could.
He had found it. Bead-like gems strung on a thin coil of silver. They were
a key, not just to noble favor, but to somewhere forbidden. The memory
broke apart, as it often did, when the stately Matron Shalonost spoke his
name and called him from the hall. It was an honor to dine together in
private.
His sternum ached from its violation and he could taste blood on his tongue
as the memory collapsed around him. A tremor cut through his limbs and he
seized the arms of the chair with such force the wood creaked beneath the
pressure.
Weak and disappointing. But you know this, Master Sha'katas. 'Tis the same
every night...
The cold air was soothing, a light breeze from the northwest brought the
scent of the harvest season and the sound of revelry from the taverns. More
practice, he thought, wandering the narrow alleys toward a proud, lone tower
in the city's center.
A pleasant smile and exchange of pleasantries later and the librarian was
escorting him back through the rows, promising that surely they possessed
some reference that would help the Clavist in his inquest about the Hunger.
She was stately, had aged well, and a plain blue ribbon tied up the tresses
of her hair in an orderly fashion. The books and volumes would take some
time, and even if he made little progress himself, perhaps he might offer
use to the Mistress yet.
There was always a thread to pull.
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Sep 30 18:16:08 2025
To All ( Conclave Piknim Ryzzynth Thindyss RP )
Subject The Dream and the Ferrite
Blinx thrashed in his sleep, wings twitching as if trying to lift him
from the bed. No peace found him in slumber. The Dreaming pressed close,
thick and humming, and through the haze he felt the pull, familiar, heavy,
and magnetic.
His hand drifted instinctively toward the ferrite crystal on its leather
cord. Even before his fingers closed around it, the stone seemed awake,
vibrating faintly, whispering with a pulse that matched the hunger in his
chest.
He tried to resist. Tried to focus on stillness, to drift elsewhere. But
the memory of that torrent, the rush of dreamstuff streaming into him faster
than he could hold, gnawed at him like a thirst. The ordinary siphon was a
trickle now, unsatisfying. He needed the flood.
When he finally drew the crystal into his palm, the craving blossomed into
fire. The labyrinth seemed to yawn open beneath his bed, mirrors leaning
inward, beckoning. Blinx fell through them willingly, clutching the stone
like a talisman.
At once, the siphon roared alive. Dream-essence poured toward him: broken
songs, fragments of laughter, prayers never finished. He drank greedily,
each swallow easing the gnawing ache, even as it stoked it further. And
deeper still, faint but sharp, came the taste of Hope. Sweet, painful,
intoxicating. It stung his veins, yet he could not turn away.
The torrent was endless. He tossed in the sheets as though drowning, mouth
parted as if gasping for air, but he clutched the crystal tighter. The
Dream fed him, and he fed on it, unable to stop.
When at last the pull ebbed and he surfaced into waking, his body was slick
with sweat, the crystal warm against his chest. He lay in the dark,
panting, knowing this was no experiment now. Now did want the siphon or did
he feel he needed it.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Thu Oct 2 19:39:33 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XIV
The library was quiet save for the scratch of quills and the faint hum of
magical lamps. Ulyssus sat at a long table beneath shelves that climbed
endlessly upward, reviewing a passage on ancient rites of purification. The
words lingered in his mind, banish, dispel, unbind, terms he knew well in
the arcane tongue, but here they carried a weight steeped in the Light of
Kantilles.
A soft chime rang from the hallway. Closing his book, Ulyssus rose and
gathered his items into his satchel. Down the marble corridor he went, the
sound of chanting drifting faintly from distant chambers, until he reached
the heavy stone doorway of the monastery laboratory. He entered quietly,
the air inside shimmering faintly with protective wards. Several novices
were already gathered around a long stone table at the center of the room.
Atop the table lay a sword, its once bright steel now darkened and etched
with jagged runes that seemed to twist and crawl. The very air around it
felt heavy, oppressive, as though shadows clung to the metal. An aged monk
with a bent back and piercing eyes stood beside it, leaning upon his staff.
His presence alone steadied the room.
"This, " the monk said with a calm voice, "is no ordinary weapon. It
carries a curse, woven in malice. Such corruption seeks to chain the
wielder, bending them toward despair. Today you will see how Light may
unbind what darkness has wrought. "
The novices shifted uneasily, some instinctively stepping back. Ulyssus
narrowed his eyes, studying the runes. He recognized patterns of binding
magic, crude but vicious, not unlike the enchantments he had unraveled with
his spells of alteration. Yet this was no spellwork of mortal ink and will
as it carried the taint of something deeper.
The monk lifted one hand, palm outstretched above the blade. He began to
chant, words that rolled like thunder yet rang clear as bells. Each
syllable seemed to burn in the air, filling the chamber with a brightness
that pushed back the creeping shadow. His staff struck the floor once, and
a ring of golden light flared around the table.
The sword shuddered. The runes flared black, writhing like serpents,
lashing against the glow that pressed upon them. A wave of cold swept the
room, and several novices gasped. But the monk's voice never faltered.
"In the Light we serve, " he intoned, stronger now, "and by the Light we
cleanse. "
The brilliance grew until it was painful to behold. The cursed runes
shrieked with a sound that was not sound, a tearing presence that set
Ulyssus's teeth on edge. Then, with a final flash like sunlight striking
crystal, the markings burned away, leaving the blade clean and gleaming once
more. The weight upon the room lifted.
The monk exhaled slowly, lowering his hand. "This is the work of faith, not
force. To lift a curse is not to battle it as an enemy. You must flood it
until no shadow remains. Remember, the curse resists not only your words
but your will, and only steadiness of faith can see "
He motioned for the novices to come forward, each taking a turn to trace the
weapon now freed, feeling the difference for themselves. Ulyssus stepped
closer, his fingers brushing the steel. He no longer sensed a cold malice
but a calm, a stillness like fresh snow. He bowed his head slightly,
murmuring a quiet prayer of thanks.
Later, as they departed the laboratory, Ulyssus lingered in thought. He had
studied counterspells, learned to unravel bindings and banish enchantments.
But this was different. Where the arcane sought to sever threads, the
divine sought to heal, to restore. The Light did not destroy, it redeemed.
And so he walked back toward his quarters with the lesson etched deeply
within him. To wield the Light against darkness was to unmake its chains.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Fri Oct 3 17:25:15 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Fri Oct 3 17:27:09 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Fri Oct 3 17:29:07 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Sun Oct 5 01:17:53 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Sun Oct 5 21:34:42 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Oct 5 21:52:21 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Oct 5 21:56:44 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Sun Oct 5 22:18:33 2025
Writer: Briynjia
Date Mon Oct 6 11:36:40 2025
To All Fardoc ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Prism and the Chasm: A Burden of Light
Sleep simply wasn't a thing tonight for Briynjia. The quiet of the tower felt
heavier than usual, refusing to let her mind settle. Her recent memory etched
the design of the bridge she'd seen earlier. She kicked off her blankets with as
little disturbance as possible and sat at the edge of the bed. As she took a
deep breath, she brought her hand to her forehead, wiping off the beads of sweat
that had apparently been forming from her restlessness. Her long red dreads,
with a few silver rings and beads woven into them, hung down her side, slightly
damp. And her sharp green eyes, usually so focused, were filled with worry. Her
vision was now strained against the obscurity of the room as she dragged herself
off the bed and then grabbed a single candle from a nearby table, its small
flame the only guide against the overwhelming dark as she made her way down the
spiral staircase.
The door to the study room, which was usually shut, was open just a crack, as if
it had been expecting her. Briynjia slowly pushed it open, and the soft scrape
of the wood against the stone was the only sound, aside from the snoring coming
from upstairs. Inside, the air was cool yet still, with a faint scent of old
parchment and cold rock. The candle's shaky light made shadows dance across a
giant map on one of the walls, lighting up old battle plans for a moment before
they disappeared back into the dark. The dwarf glanced over various trinkets in
the room, and then they settled on the big, round table at the center. Papers
and open books were spread everywhere, showing how hard the Cardinal and others
had been working, and among them, the designs for the bridge.
Briynjia made her way to the table, carefully placing the weeping candle atop
its surface. Its warm glow dimly lit up the detailed drawings of the bridge. As
the light washed over the paper and softly illuminated her face, it showed the
lines of concentration around her mouth and made her green eyes glint as she
leaned in close. Her gaze landed on the illustration of the diamond on top of
the main mithril pillar. It looked like it could be a powerful lens for the
Light, a center point that would send holy light showering down over the entire
bridge. And in that moment, she remembered the White Wizard's low, steady voice:
'Ef ye trulae want a gem, such as a diamond, te cast tha Loight o' a God such
aes mae Lord Kantilles, ye wuld want a perfetlae cut and clear diamond, te
serve aes a prisim fer such Loight, Bae offer'n prayers te a God o' tha
Loight wit worthae intent and 'eart, ye wuld weave tha loight en te tha gem
such aes ye wuld weave lattice, thaet et does nae just contain tha Loight,
but cin spread and scatter et...'
Those words had really meant something a few days back. The task assigned to her
wasn't just about finding any diamond. It was about finding the right one. And
then, the hardest part. The hardest part was getting it ready. It wasn't just
about cutting and shining it but about instilling it with a sacred purpose
through prayer and a good heart. The huge job ahead of mixing raw stone, careful
work, and deep faith had felt heavy. The dwarf ran a rough finger over the
drawing of the diamond, imagining the hard road ahead and the long search for
such a pure stone and the tough work of getting herself ready to be a channel
for the Light. In that moment, the candle flickered, making her long shadow
dance over the old map, specifically to where the sinkhole was. Finally, she
felt the kind of exhaustion that comes from deep thought, not just hard work.
Her head began to droop, eyelids getting heavy, but her stubby hands stayed
clasped over the plans, covering the diamond as she fell into a restless sleep.
Later, as the first pale light of morning started to show, a light knock came at
the door. A dwarf with a neat, bushy beard came through, he stopped and placed a
hand over the shoulder of a sleeping Briynjia and spoke with a hush, 'Lass.'
Writer: Briynjia
Date Mon Oct 6 11:38:55 2025
To All Fardoc ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Prism and the Chasm: The Weary Search
With the blessing of the Cardinal and a hefty purse full of coins, Briynjia
embarked on what would become a weary search. She traveled from the mountain
north of Althainia to the various continents of the lands and into kingdoms and
towns she had never ventured into before. The red-headed dwarven lass sought
Algoron's most renowned spellcrafters, those whispered to possess the steadiness
and intent that the White Wizard had spoken to her of. Each one had their own
way of doing things, their own advice or suggestion. Their own peculiar way to
cleanse a gem, their own style to align its facets, and their own delicate touch
for binding the essences. Briynjia watched and listened, and she took a fair
number of notes. Her hands and scribbles were rough, and in her mind they made a
sad attempt at mimicking the gracefulness of those who truly understood the art.
Yet, with her head now filled with newfound theoretical knowledge and a heavy
sack of raw gemstones, Briynjia retreated to a quiet workshop in the depths of
her own brethren's hold. There, in the middle of the familiar scent of rock dust
and cold metal, she began her own attempts. Long days turned into even longer
nights, filled with the scratching sound of her cutting tools against precious
stone, the faint ping of soft hammering, and the low murmurs of her own
frustrated efforts. She tried her best to 'weave the light into the gem-like
lattice,' as the Wizard from the Towers had described, but her gems weren't
having it. They resisted and remained dull, stubbornly refusing to take in any
essence she tried to bind. Some cracked, others shattered, leaving her with
nothing but shimmering dust and a growing sense of failure.
Her shoulders were normally squared with confidence, yet slowly but surely they
began to slump after each ruined gem. The dwarf worked until her eyes burned and
her fingers ached, but the results were always the same. She only seemed to
produce lifeless fragments that mocked her lack of finesse. 'This craf'...' she
muttered, tossing aside yet another fractured gem, and with a snarl of
annoyance, she huffed, 'et takes years. Years, nae months, and certainly nae
weeks. Ah'm nae worthy o' this. Ah'll nae make a diamon' worthy o' this task.'
The words tasted bitter in her mouth, a rare admission of defeat for someone
like Briynjia. The vision of the bridge, once so clear and bright, now felt
distant and intimidating, its promise just beyond her reach. The weight of the
task she was meant to complete and should have completed by now suddenly felt
impossibly heavy.
Defeated, she gathered her nearly empty sack and made her way back home to the
mountain with heavy and slow steps. She walked the cavernous tunnels, trying not
to think about the echoing failures of her work. As she ventured further in,
Briynjia could hear the lively chatter and ribbing that was often found within
the halls of the Wargar, and instead of going in to meet them, she turned in
retreat and ran out as fast as she could. Wherever her legs were taking her at
that point didn't matter, yet without truly intending, she found herself at the
very edge of the sinkhole. Her chest rose and fell with each breath as she
leaned forward, hands on her knees. She stood there for what seemed like a long
time, and the cool air that was rising from the abyss chilled her skin. Her gaze
remained fixed on the darkness below, lost in thought, while the sinkhole
silently reflected the chasm of doubt that had opened within her.
Writer: Briynjia
Date Mon Oct 6 11:40:18 2025
To All Fardoc ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Prism and the Chasm: Heart of the Deep
The sinkhole pulled at her, not violently, but with a quiet and persistent
beckoning that mirrored the hole of doubt that had been forming in her own
heart. After the time she spent staring into its dark mouth, she was unable to
shake the feeling that she could perhaps find answers within its depths, and she
began her slow descent. Pebbles and loose dirt shifted beneath her heavy boots,
even with her every careful step. Fist-sized rocks broke free, tumbling down
into the unseen depths with a faint clatter, which made Briynjia instinctively
press her back against the cold rock face and utter a prayer or two to the Lord
of Honor before hesitantly continuing.
Any light left began to fade as she went deeper, now replaced by an inky
blackness that swallowed the glow of her sceptre of might. She didn't bother to
look for a proper light as she'd been here before, more times that she could
count, fighting the little pesky imps that had made their home there. Her
dwarven eyes adjusted as best as they could, but still she was barely able to
make out the rough outlines of anything down there. Perhaps today was just
especially dark, or maybe her own self doubt had truly gotten to her. Even so,
she knew she wasn't alone, the faint skittering sounds, the occasional soft
snarl that seemed to come from just beyond her sight, always gave the gremlins
away. Though she couldn't pinpoint them, she knew they were there, watching,
hidden in the shadows. Briynjia was on high alert, every muscle tense, one hand
on her blade, the other ready to grab or brace herself at a moment's notice,
never truly letting her guard down. The descent felt endless this time around,
each level giving way to another, the air growing thinner and colder.
She wasn't sure what she was looking for or why she felt the need to go deeper,
just that the bottom was calling to her, and it had nothing to do with wanting
to train her skills at that moment. About halfway down, as she carefully made
her way over a patch of loose stones, a sharp and sudden shove hit her back. It
was hard and unexpected, and before she could react with a yell or anything more
than a quick 'Ah shi',' her feet shot out from under her. She slid, picking up
speed on her way down. Her hand desperately scrambled to grab at anything,
whether it be a jutting rock or a loose root. Anything. But her calloused hands
met only slick, cold stone. The fall was a dizzying experience until she hit the
very bottom with a sickening thud, her head hitting itself against something.
Her head throbbed. She could feel a small, dull pain on her temple as she
blinked her eyes open. The air was surprisingly warm, and a strange, flickering
light pulsed nearby. She attempted to sit herself up, to no avail, but as her
vision barely cleared, she saw the source of the light, ruined chunks of the
monolith that once stood there, smoldering with a soft, persistent holy fire
that cast dancing orange hues across the uneven walls of the sinkhole. The
warmth from the flames didn't burn her but instead felt comforting in the middle
of All the darkness.
She looked over the debris and tried adjusting her eyes to the strange light.
Her blurry gaze then lingered on the jagged wall directly behind where she had
landed, and a very faint, barely noticeable gleam caught her attention. It
wasn't the smoldering fire, and it wasn't a mere trick of the light. Something
was embedded in the solid rock, sticking out just enough to catch the light from
the holy fire. It was huge, raw, and unmistakably crystalline. Briynjias heart
all but stopped against her ribs, and by instinct, which she couldn't explain,
her rough hands began to claw at the rock, desperate to dig out whatever the
chasm had just delivered to her. But due to exhaustion, her vision blurred to
the point of darkness, and her limbs trembled with each frantic movement. Before
she could free it or even get a good grip, her body slumped over and everything
went dark.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 19:22:45 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kraxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Northern Front (part one)
The air around Gareth's Keep held the crisp edge of autumn, cool enough
to sting the lungs even in the early evening, and warm enough to smell of
horses from the stables below and oil and newly cut logs, ready for travel
at the forest's edge. Aliera stood at the western parapet for a long while
before anyone interrupted her, her gloved hands resting on the stone as she
watched the wagons being loaded below. Timber, great lengths of it, smooth
and pale as bone, was stacked and bound for the northern road and the edge
of the pit. The dwarves of Thaxanos had sent word that they were ready to
continue with the bridge's foundations, it was Gareth's turn to answer with
labor and strength.
She drew a slow breath. Commander of the Northern Front. The title still
didn't sit right in her mind. It chafed slightly, like armor still new
enough to creak at every step. Not a discomfort, but certainly still a
newness about it. She had been a soldier of the line, an officer of various
names and ranks for years, the Bishop of Nadrik by grace and oath. But
Commander... That was something else, and something to ruminate on another
time.
"Lady Bishop? " came a voice behind her. Daren, a red-haired Page with a
dose of freckles across the left side of his face, paused, coming to a
salute as he stopped behind her.
Aliera turned, her dark cloak whispering across the stone. Daren handed her
a missive and left two more figures in his wake as he stepped aside, waiting
nearby. Fenna and Liv stood there, bright things full of life against the
gray morning. The Austinian girls, she called them in thought, though never
aloud. Not mockery, though perhaps half fondness for young women she still
did not yet know well, but beyond that, recognition. There were precious
few women who served in the Keep, fewer still who carried their faith and
duties as these two seemed to. They were earnest, hardworking, yet
untested, and so young that Aliera sometimes wanted to wrap them both in
plate and prayers just to keep the world off them, never mind the fact that
Liv had at three inches on her in height, even in boots.
"Pages, " Aliera greeted with a nod. "You have prepared your things, ready
for an extended time away from the Keep? "
Fenna smiled, shifting her satchel higher on her shoulder. "Yes Ma'am! Sir
Giles said we'll be ridin' out within the hour. We've been getting the
horses ready and Erebos is saddled. "
A smile touched Aliera's lips in response at the mention of her gelding, "He
was wise to send you. There's no patience in the world like a horse's for
the gentle-hearted, but Erebos judges an unsteady hand in an instant, it is
good you have familiarity with them. " Addressing both girls and Daren, she
instructed, "Help him prepare the heavy horses from Icewall too, we have
several with the wagons as well that will be under our care. See that the
tack is clean, the hooves shod, and every rope twice checked. The road
north won't be kind. "
Daren hesitated a moment. "Is it true, Colonel, that imps dwell in the pit
still? Even after the patrols? "
Aliera's gaze drifted northward. The horizon there was always dimmer, even
on a clear day, like the shadows within clawed at the ground towards the sky
where it dropped off. "Yes, she said softly. "And not just imps. The pit
never truly sleeps. Evil doesn't die because we wish it to, and it has
festered, waited, and it hungers. Another reason why the bridge must rise.
We can send no trade or aid quickly, to either the Dwarves or the Elves,
while that chasm stands between us. A wound in the land. We'll see it
healed, and in the meantime, crossed. "
The Pages exchanged a look, the kind that only the young share when fear and
excitement war in equal measure. Aliera remembered being that age, before
her first battle, before her first funeral for a fallen comrade. She hoped
the Gods would let these three hold on to that light a while longer.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 19:27:19 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kruxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part two)
She descended the stairs with them, her boots striking clean and even on
the worn steps. The walk from the Keep wasn't an overly long one, the
timber having been gathered at the forest's edge along the western road
outside of Althainia's walls. Giles was shouting orders, his voice rasped
slightly by age and smoke. Horses stamped and snorted, men moved with quiet
discipline. The air smelled of pine tar and sweat. It was an odd thing to
see him outside of the Keep, his duties with the horses usually keeping him
quite closeted inside the stone walls.
"Colonel Commander! " Giles called as he spotted her, snapping to a salute
and a smile that came with an ever so slightly cheek edge to it at the
title. "We'll be ready to ride before the seventh bell. The timber's
lashed tight, and I've sent word ahead to the scouts. "
"Good, " Aliera said, returning his salute and then a smirk, the unspoken,
good natured admonishment of him for using too many honorifics passing
silently between them, built from years of serving together before her
orders continued. "I want two outriders ahead and one behind each wagon.
The imps may not dare to climb out of that pit and travel the plains, but
we'll not give them chance to try. The dwarves expect our arrival within
three days. We'll make it two and a half. "
Looking over the teams of horses getting brought into position, Aliera
indicated one near the rear for Daren to join before she turned to the young
women with her. She turned to Fenna and Liv, who were already at work
re-checking the harnesses. "You will ride with the second wagon team. If
any of the men give you grief, remind them you serve the same Light they do,
and that my patience for that kind of thing can rival being shorter than
Nadrik's with Devion. " That won her a quick laugh from Giles nearby, and a
grin from Liv. The sound lightened something in Aliera's chest.
The lumberjacks were gathered by the road as the caravan set out, a
rough-clad group, faces windburned and hands calloused, watching their work
vanish into the distance. One of the younger men, barely old enough to grow
a proper beard, spat in the dirt and muttered as he watched Daren join his
place, "Lucky lot, those knights. We break our backs to cut the timber, and
they get the glory escorting it to the dwarves. "
An older foreman gave him a sharp elbow. "Mind your tongue, boy. They'll
be the ones fightin' for it if anything comes sniffin' after. You want to
trade your axe for a sword, be my guest. "
The boy grumbled, looking down at his blistered palms.
Aliera turned her horse slightly toward them, having caught more of the
exchange than they likely intended. "You have done your duty to the realm,
" she said, voice even but carrying easily. "Without your hands and the
work they have done, there would be no bridge to guard. The dwarves will
know who to thank when the first beam is set. "
The foreman looked up, embarrassed but pleased. "Aye, Lady Colonel. We'll
toast to that, then. It's been a hard few weeks, but the work's done true.
"
"That it has, " Aliera said with a small smile. "And you have plenty of
reasons enough to toast. See to those barrels, will you? "
She motioned to two smaller carts that had been rolled aside, each carrying
a pair of stout oak casks stamped with the mark of The Last Call, her own
tavern in Althainia proper. A murmur went through the men, followed by a
cheer as the foreman grinned wide.
"Just enough, I think, " she replied with a tip of her head to the foreman.
"Drink to good work, and to the hands that made it possible. The Gods keep
you. "
With that, she spurred her horse gently and rejoined the line.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 19:35:08 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kruxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part three)
The heavy wagons groaned as they rolled from a standstill and headed
along the western road, first towards the Keep, the sound of straining
timber and iron-shod wheels echoing off the pale stone of the city wall.
Aliera rode at the head of the convoy, helm clipped to her saddle, her gaze
fixed ahead though her mind lingered on the sound of bells tolling in the
Church of Light due east, farewell, benediction, and burden All at once.
The wagons circled wide around the Keep's outer walls to reach the north
road. There, in the clearing beyond the forest's edge, waited the rest of
the knights going to guard the Northern Front, steel flashing beneath the
sunlight, banners of gold and white snapping in the wind. When the wagons
came into view, a few cheers went up from the soldiers on the drawbridge,
and for a brief moment, the Keep seemed alive with motion, pride, and faith.
The first of the knights saluted as Aliera approached, and she returned it
with measured formality, though warmth crept into her voice. "At ease,
brothers and sisters. We're not marching to war this time, just to work. "
Sir Galen, reigned his horse in beside Erebos and Aliera, his armor dulled
by years and only a little dust. He grinned. "Then it's a worse battle, my
lady. The dwarves' deadlines wait for no knight. "
"True enough, " Aliera allowed. "And the Thane and Cardinal are not Dwarves
we will keep waiting, but let us hope the dragons do. "
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed among them at that. Everyone knew the
names carved into the pillar, the massive stone drawn down from the heavens
that would serve as the bridge's central support. It bore the names of
chromatic dragons who had harried the project since its conception, each had
been driven off more than once by knights and dwarves both, but none had
been slain. Their shadows still prowled the northern wind.
"Best we move quick, " Aliera said, turning her mount toward the path. "And
pray that today's sky remains ours. "
By nightfall, the caravan had crossed beyond the forest's shelter and out
into the open plain. The grasslands rolled wide beneath a bruised sky,
golden tufts bending in the wind. To the far north, the faintest shimmer
marked the pit, a wound in the world that swallowed the horizon, its depths
home to imps and worse. The road wound dangerously close to it for half a
day's ride before turning back east toward the dwarven lands, and it was
that passage which made every man and woman in the convoy uneasy.
They made camp on a low rise, the wagons drawn into a half circle. Fires
were lit, horses watered, guards posted. Aliera sat near the central flame,
her helm beside her knee, eyes fixed on the distant dark where the wind
seemed to hum with wrongness.
Sir Galen approached, carrying a plate of bread and salted meat. "You
should eat, Commander. And none of that, Lord provides... He does, but
real food, aye? "
"I will, " she said absently. "When the watches are set. " He followed her
gaze. "You think they'll come tonight? "
"Probably not tonight, " she said. "But soon. The closer we draw to the
pit, the stronger the pull it exerts. Evil knows the scent of purpose, and
Gods know we are visible from the air, they will want to get to us before
our supplies reach the dwarves. " Galen nodded grimly.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 19:36:14 2025
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 19:38:47 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kraxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part four)
Daren sprinted by, after a Knight of the Lance he was likely hoping to
Squire to before long, the two headed to secure a canvas flap as the winds
began to shift with the evening air. Nearby, Fenna and Liv tended to the
horses, laughing softly as they brushed them down, their chatter a fragile
counterpoint to the gloom. Aliera let herself listen for a while, the sound
of the young and hopeful, proof that not All the world had hardened yet.
When she rose, it was to address the camp.
"Keep the fires high tonight, " she said, her voice cutting through the
quiet. "Light dispels shadow, and shadow is the first weapon of Darkness.
Stay close, keep your blades near, and your hearts steady. The pit is no
friend to the living, and dragons are not the only things that hunger for
what we carry. "
She paused, scanning the faces lit by flame, both young and weary alike.
"But we are the Light's arm in the world, " she added, softer but no less
firm. "And where Light walks, the dark must give way. Rest while you can.
Tomorrow, we move again. "
As the night deepened and the wind whispered across the grasslands, Aliera
knelt by her tent, drawing her sword and resting it across her knees. The
steel caught the firelight like water.
"Lord Nadrik, " she murmured, "watch over your faithful. Let our honor hold
against the dark, our courage against the unknown. And if we fall, let it
be in defense of the good. "
The stars above gave no answer, but the wind quieted for a moment, and the
fire steadied. That was enough.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Oct 6 19:39:37 2025
To All Fardoc Kraxul ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Warding the Bridge - Return to the Rim
The wind from the north carried the scent of stone and forgework when
Ulyssus returned to the bridge site. The light of late afternoon bent low
across the hills, glinting along the rising scaffolds that spanned the
sinkhole's edge. Below, the dark wound in the land pulsed faintly.
He paused upon the ridge, the hem of his white cloak stirring in the wind,
and raised his staff in quiet salute to the builders. The rhythm of hammer
and chant rose from the site, steady and resolute. Yet as he walked the
path, his senses stirred. The Weave here did not hum as it had. There was
a faint dissonance, a tremor beneath the threads of his wards, an echo of an
unseen hand having brushed too near.
Ulyssus knelt at the rim, resting his palm against the earth where his wards
once flowed strongest. The runes still glowed, but their cadence was off.
His expression remained calm as he whispered a brief prayer to Kantilles,
and began his slow walk around the perimeter.
At intervals, he paused to examine the subtle distortions. A sigil's edge
had been shifted by the narrowest degree. A channel of energy rerouted. At
another point, a silencing rune, not his own, had been layered beneath a
hymn of light. It was deft work, intelligent, restrained, the mark of a
practiced mind. Yet it had not gone unseen.
For Ulyssus's wards had not been simple veils of protection. They were
layered, as All true works of magic must be, one thread guarding another.
He had woven into their pattern a living structure, a design that breathed,
adapted, and learned. Each ward possessed an inner lattice of resilience,
bound directly to his faith in Kantilles, and to the symmetry that shaped
all magic.
The outer layers, however, were not meant to endure untested. They were
made deliberately fragile, bright, inviting, and deceptively soft. To any
probing eye they gleamed like a pot of honey left unattended, sweet and
open, a promise too tempting for corruption to ignore. Those who sought to
meddle would find their attention drawn to these surfaces, believing they
had found the vulnerable core. Yet the true heart of the weave lay
untouched beneath, observing, measuring, and learning from every intrusion.
The wards both defended and studied. Every hand that reached for the honey
left its mark, and in doing so, revealed itself to the Light.
Now, as Ulyssus traced the air above each rune, faint trails of silver and
blue light responded. The wards stirred, awakening to his call. One by one
he strengthened the deeper lines of power, reinforcing the core still
untouched. Beneath his hand, corrupted filaments twisted and dissolved
harmlessly, their purpose unraveled by the pattern's own correcting rhythm.
At the edge of the span, he knelt beside a dwarven foreman who watched
quietly, helmet tucked beneath one arm. Ulyssus simply touched the
scaffold, murmuring a brief benediction. A faint ring of azure spread
outward, settling into the structure like a heartbeat.
The sun had dipped below the ridges by the time he was done. Where he
walked, the faint luminescence of his sigils lingered steady and untroubled.
The outer wards now shimmered with deliberate imperfection, a subtle
defense. The inner weaves, unseen, thrummed with quiet strength. And
through them All ran the pulse of Kantilles's Magic, not rigid or brittle,
but fluid, enduring, and ever aware.
As twilight deepened, Ulyssus stood at the rim once more. The workers'
lanterns flickered to life along the bridge, their flames mirrored by the
small orbs of magical light that drifted above the timbers. He lifted his
staff in silent blessing, and for an instant, the entire canyon glowed with
a faint white radiance before fading into calm shadow.
Where darkness had sought to whisper, only stillness remained. The bridge
would rise, its stones protected not merely by spellcraft, but by wisdom,
the quiet, patient kind that outlasts deceit. The Light of Kantilles
endured, as it always had, within every faithful weave.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 23:29:40 2025
To Knightood All Fardoc Kraxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Northern Front (part five)
The road north wound from meadow to stone, each turn drawing them closer
to the jagged bones of the world where the air itself seemed to thrum with
unease. What had begun as grassland had become gray foothill, and what had
been wind had become whisper. By the second day beyond the forest and
shadow of the city and Keep, the Knights could see it, the edge of the pit.
It stretched across the horizon like a wound gouged from the world, its far
side lost to shadow. The ground dipped toward it in cracked shelves of
rock, each darker than the last, and somewhere far below, unseen but
unmistakable, something moved.
The sound reached them first.
A low, irregular gnawing, like stone grinding on bone. Then came the faint
clack and tear of unseen teeth. The sound was not close, not distant
either, but everywhere, echoing across the wind like something trapped
between worlds.
Several of the Pages and a few Knights looked to Aliera for reassurance, but
her jaw was tight and her hand rested on the hilt of her sword. "Eyes
forward, " she said quietly. "Don't look too long into it. It looks back.
"
Sir Galen, riding just behind her, muttered, "By the Lord's hand... No man
should live where that thing can be seen. "
"No, " Aliera agreed. "And yet here we are. "
They came this far on patrols, making sure the plains to the north of the
city were kept safe, but it was rare that they lingered, let alone for long.
The wind shifted suddenly, warm for a moment, carrying the faintest tinge of
copper. Then cold again, sharp as needles. A ripple of energy rolled
through the company, unseen but felt by every soul. A pulse that brushed
their hearts like a whisper, urging them forward, then receding as though it
had struck some unseen barrier far beyond. It was gone in an instant, but
the silence that followed felt heavy, expectant.
Then someone, one of the Pages perhaps, gasped and pointed ahead. The
pillar had come into view.
Once, it had been a mere gleam on the horizon, a rumored beacon, half myth,
said to stand where the heavens themselves had struck the earth, called by
the Archangel. Now it loomed before them, impossibly vast, rising from the
northern plain like a blade of light piercing sky and soil alike.
Its surface shimmered with motion, a spiraling lattice of luminescence that
twisted upward about a solid core. Where its light met shadow, the dark
itself recoiled, drawn inward and then swallowed entirely until, with a
sound like a sigh, it was gone.
One moment, the watchers could see the silhouettes of distant, creeping
things across the pit. The next, they simply ceased to exist.
"The light... Livith whispered. "It devours the dark. "
Aliera urged her horse forward, feeling the divine and arcane intermixed in
the very air. "Not devours, " she murmured, half in gentle clarification,
half to herself. "Purges. "
As they drew closer, the surface of the pillar changed. Patterns formed,
letters curling across its radiant face, each stroke of light shifting like
molten gold. The words shimmered into view "Beware my wrath, for to
trespass again spells your unmaking. Ryzzynth. Piknim. Sidorinath.
Rimunath. Khellendros. Onyxris. Tiarassca. " A Brown, the Kender
Witch-Queen, Blues, a Black, Red...
The names hung like thunder in the air, seven in all, the known and the
feared, dragons of legend and ruin, along with one pint sized monarch who
had defied the nature of her entire race to be where she was now. The
company grew still, even the horses uneasy.
"Saints preserve us, " Sir Galen said under his breath. "Not saints, "
Aliera answered. "Something older. "
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 23:36:52 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kraxul Bringjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part six)
They made camp that evening still within sight of the pillar. Though the
sun fell behind the mountains, the world around them did not darken, the
pillar's light cast the land directly around it in a perpetual, radiant
dawn. Their tents glowed pale in its brilliance, shadows refusing to form.
The men found it both comforting and slightly disquieting. It was not
warmth the light gave, but warning. Righteous wrath made manifest.
It was near midnight when the alarm was raised.
A cry went up, "Above! ", and the Knights scrambled to arms. Aliera rushed
from her tent, sword already drawn, as a shadow blotted out part of the
pillar's glow overhead. Massive, winged, gliding, its outline so vast it
seemed to stretch the distance between stars.
A firstborne.
Its scales were too dark to catch the light, its body a smudge of motion
against the glowing sky. It circled once, twice, then vanished into the
high clouds, leaving behind a silence of expectation hedged with a hint of
some awe and fear from the younger members. The murmur rippled through them
after, and those quiet themselves, even those among them that had earned
their spurs were not fool enough to know what it would mean to go up against
dragons.
"Hold ranks, " Aliera ordered, voice sharp and steady. "It's gone... For
now. Watches doubled until dawn. "
Few slept that night.
When morning came, the pillar's light still painted the sky with soft gold,
as if it were perpetually mid-morning. The firstborn threat had moved on,
but none took its absence for safety.
Sir Galen approached Aliera at first light, offering a steaming tin cup.
"Commander. " Aliera took it, raising a brow. The scent hit her
immediately, strong, bitter, and thick. "This looks more like tar than
coffee, " she remarked.
He grinned. "Aye, that's about right. Double strength. Keeps the men
upright after a sleepless night. " She took a careful sip and felt her eyes
nearly water. "Mercy of Nadrik, Lieutenant. That will nearly wake the
dead. "
"Let's hope it doesn't, we don't need them to deal with too. " Galen said
with a chuckle. The laughter broke the morning tension, and for a brief,
human moment, the world seemed right again.
Near the wagons, young Daren was brushing down his horse when he remarked to
a nearby Page, "If I'm lucky, one day I might grow tall as Livith. " Liv
shot him a grin and Aliera swore she could have heard something to the
affect of. "Keep drinking your milk, boy. " beneath the girl's breath.
Sir Galen passed by and leaned his full weight on Daren's shoulder. "And
until then, you'll carry the smaller shields. Less distance to fall if you
trip. " Daren turned scarlet as the camp chuckled, and Aliera found herself
smiling faintly into her cup. Moments like these were precious, a spark of
warmth against the endless chill of duty sometimes.
By the time the sun was properly risen, the wagons were once again in
motion. Every strap, wheel, and bridle was checked twice, every ration
accounted for. The incline began almost immediately, and the horses
strained as they entered the true foothills. The mountain loomed ahead,
broad-shouldered, crowned with mist, the road climbing in narrow
switchbacks.
"Mountain of Thaxanos, " Galen said softly. "Not sure I ever thought the
Light's hope for unity would be resting on dwarven stones... "
Aliera's face was unreadable. "And the border of war. "
At her gesture, the knights fanned out, forming a perimeter as the caravan
crawled up the slope.
"Remember, " she said quietly, loud enough for those closest to hear. "We
do not seek battle here. The dwarves of Thaxanos are allies in stone and
bridge alike, but those of Wargar are more... Hostile. If they come, we
defend the bridge, the timber, and each other. Not a step beyond. "
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 23:43:59 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kraxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part seven)
The wind from the mountain smelled of granite and snow, and something
deeper, older.
As they pressed on, the wagons groaning under their burden, the Knights of
Gareth's Keep moved with vigilance born of both fear and faith. Ahead lay
the dwarven strongholds and the half-built bridge that would one day bind
kingdoms.
But for now, between pit and peak, Aliera could not shake the feeling that
the ground beneath them was watching.
The wagons rattled to a halt at the base of the mountain where the air hung
thick with the smell of iron and the tang of freshly turned stone. The
dwarves were already there, scores of them, the work moving with a kind of
industrious rhythm that could make some of the most disciplined of squires
look sluggish by comparison.
A broad-shouldered dwarf stepped forward, his beard braided into cords
thicker than Aliera's wrist and capped in hammered copper. His leathers
bore marks of soot and chisel dust, his gloves were cut at the fingers, and
his eyes had the color of a deep cavern pool, sharp, reflective, and
difficult to read.
Her dwarvish was rusty, but the man stated "Name's Broddin, First Assistant
to the Foreman, " he introduced himself with a tone suggesting both pride
and weariness, as though titles were less a matter of vanity and more of
necessity.
Aliera inclined her head slightly, hiding a faint smile. If her experiences
with Grumf and Fardoc had taught her anything, it was that dwarves did not
have assistants, at least, not in the human sense of the word. "Assistant
to the Foreman," then, might as well have meant the one actually in charge.
But she knew better than to question it. She would inquire of the Thane and
Cardinal who exactly they would be dealing with, outside of them, when she
saw them next. There were two things one did not argue with dwarves about:
semantics, and anything that could be fermented.
Which reminded her, most of the whiskey in the wagons would likely never see
a knight's lips.
Broddin's crew wasted no time. As soon as she handed over the supply
manifest, dwarves were unloading the wagons with surprising speed, forming
neat stacks of timber, iron fittings, and sacks of grain. Broddin barked
orders that echoed across the gorge, and though none of the knights fully
understood the dwarven tongue, it was clear enough who was in charge.
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Oct 6 23:53:11 2025
To Knighthood All Fardoc Kraxul Briynjia ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin Rp )
Subject The Northern Front (part eight)
Aliera stepped aside with Galen, the two of them watching as the work
site bustled to life. The bridge's foundations stretched out before them,
stone ribs growing from the canyon walls like the bones of some great beast
half-buried in the earth.
"There's still a hum in the air, " Galen murmured after a moment, his eyes
narrowing toward the distant horizon. "That ripple we felt near the pit...
I can't shake it. It wasn't just ambient magic. "
"No, " Aliera agreed quietly, the memory of that beckoning pulse still
prickling at the back of her mind. "It felt, aware. As though something
reached back. Wards maybe. "
Galen crossed his arms. "You think it's connected to the pillar? "
"Perhaps. Or perhaps something older beneath it. " Her gaze drifted
northward where the sky had only just begun to dim. "We'll send word to the
Keep. And raise the topic at the meeting upcoming. The idea of the
watchtowers may be more necessary than we realized. Between the plains and
here, if the light of the pillar reaches that far, we'll want eyes on it.
"
He nodded once. "Agreed. "
Their quiet moment of reflection was interrupted by a squat, ruddy-faced
dwarf squinting up at them from the base of his ladder. "Ye tu plan to sit
up there on those fine beasts All day, or are ye actually gonna lend a hand?
" his common was rough, but the meaning was beyond clear.
Aliera dismounted smoothly, boots crunching on the gravel. "We're here to
work beside you, not supervise. "
The dwarf snorted, unconvinced. "Aye, I've heard that before. "
But when Galen followed her lead and began helping shift timbers into place,
the dwarf gave a gruff grunt of approval, half-skeptical, half-impressed as
he remarked to the dwarf nearest him. "Well, I'll be. Maybe the tallfolk
aren't All just wind and ceremony. "
Aliera smiled faintly as she took up the other end of the beam. "Not All of
us. "
By the time the sun sank behind the peaks, the rhythm of hammer and chisel
around them had become its own kind of prayer, a song of effort, sweat, and
cooperation, carried on the mountain wind that still whispered faintly of
magic and distant, unseen eyes.
Writer: Briynjia
Date Tue Oct 7 15:00:39 2025
To All Fardoc ( Austinian Nadrik Religion Storyline Imm Admin RP )
Subject The Prism and the Chasm: The Sacred Crown
Briynjia stirred slowly, her head still aching with a dull throb as the smell of
stale ale and wood smoke filled her nose. The random clatter of tankards and
boisterous laughter echoed All around her. Her cheek was currently rested
against the cool, hard side of an empty stein, apparently a makeshift pillow
courtesy of her brethren, as she lay stretched out on one of the sturdy wooden
tables of the dwarven tavern she now found herself in. As her eyes fluttered
open, she saw the blurred faces of several dwarves, some with mugs raised in
mid-cheer, but All looking down at her with curious, knowing grins. She'd been
quite the spectacle, left to sleep off her head wound while her kin, in their
typical fashion, turned it into an evening's entertainment.
A couple of stocky dwarves lumbered closer with wide grins on their faces.
'Lass! Though' ye'd finally gone an' cracked tha thick skull o' yers!' one
boomed as he elbowed the other. 'Looks loike ye've go' a noggin hard as stone!'
Before Briynjia could muster a witty retort, the Cardinal approached and shooed
them away with a jovial laugh. 'Enough, ye louts! Give er some air,' he then
offered Briynjia a steadying hand, helping her swing her legs off the table, and
as she found her footing, he pushed a fresh, frothy stein into her grip.
'Medicinal ale,' she mused tiredly as she took a grateful swig, the strong brew
warming her throat.
Before the dwarf could lead her much further, a surge of frantic energy ignited
in Briynjia. 'Ah need te go back! Te tha sinkhole. Ah found somethin', ah
weren't dreamin'.' Her voice was urgent and laced with a mix of frustration and
desperation. She did her best to pull away, her eyes were wide, and she was
thinking of what she had seen just hours before. Then gently but firmly, the
dwarven male placed his hands on her shoulders in an attempt to slow her down.
'Lass, slow yer breath. We know.' He offered her a knowing smile and then moved
behind her, giving her a gentle shove forward.
She was led to a previously unnoticed workshop entrance tucked away in a quiet
passage. It revealed a bustling room within that made Briynjia take a small step
forward. Clerics and spellcrafters were both working on their specialties, each
concentrated on their own tasks. And in the very center, elevated on a polished
stone plinth was the large raw diamond she had found. Its rough surface was
already beginning to yield to the careful hands of the artisans.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Tue Oct 7 18:18:29 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part fifteen-)
Kraxul stood at the rim of the sinkhole, watching the progress. The
scaffolding was over two thirds of the way up the height of the pit now,
but as the hole grew wider, more and more logs were needed, and upward
progress appeared to slow. The granite slabs that made up the forms
for the cast mithril tower in the center of the bridge had made it to
the top of the scaffolding. From his vantage-point, the Thane could see
a bucket being lowered by rope into the void inside the form.
The log wagons had slowed. The foothills were full of trees, and the
Thane intended that they stayed that way. He had ordered the men to
leave half the trees in any given area of land. It had occured to him
that perhaps they should harvest their logs from elsewhere. The twigs'
forest was a particularly attractive idea, but he figured the time
wasn't quite right for swatting that particular hornet's nest. Then he
had been approached by the Knights with a simple question: What could
they do to help?
Now the wood was coing in by the wagonload again, and Kraxul could see
the end approaching. The last of the mithril beams had been formed, and
were being kept in a secure location deep within Thaxanos. The cables
that had given them so much trouble were now being manufactured and
would be kept in the same place until the scaffolding was complete. The
biggest challenge that remained, as far as he could tell, was going to
be the cast.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Oct 7 21:37:22 2025
To All Conclave Blinx - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject {uThe Palace Somniorum - The WitchlockI
The palace breathed.
Soundlessly, the vast ribs of its architecture flexed, as though the entire
edifice inhaled in rhythm with Blinx's pulse--or what it might be. Light
drifted like dust through deep water, not illumination but awareness. Every
mote shimmered with fragments of forgotten words, prayers, and equations,
glowing for a heartbeat before slipping back into shadow. The walls
themselves pulsed with writing that refused to settle, lines forming,
erasing, and reforming again in silent debate.
Blinx sat upon the throne at the heart of it all, a monolith of black stone
veined with faint light that throbbed to the rhythm of the labyrinth below.
His shadow spread across the floor in forms that could not be reconciled
with a single body. When he exhaled, the air bent around him, wings
flickered into being and dissolved, horns glimmered like ink catching
starlight, his eyes mirrored lines of text rather than color.
He could taste the dreamstuff that filled the air. Not metal, not smoke but
the ache before a word is spoken, the flavor of thought about to be thought.
It was the taste of forgotten names, of prayers half-remembered, of ink that
never dried because the sentence refused to end. When he breathed, he drew
in memory itself, the residue of other dreamers' fears and hopes, sifted
until only essence remained. It lingered on his tongue like the hush after
revelation, the space between question and answer.
The labyrinth far beneath him murmured. Thousands of corridors turned in
slow synchronization, the sound rising like a tide through the foundation
stones. It was not heartbeat or machinery but something that shared
qualities of both a living archive, reorganizing itself according to the
patterns of his thought.
On the steps before the throne rested Thindyss's letters. The parchment
trembled faintly, the ink restless. As Blinx's gaze touched them, the words
lifted into the air and unfolded into sound. Thindysss voice, remembered or
recreated spoke from the drifting script:
{uThe Tower appeared as a broken spine, regrown, reaching.
{uHe withdrew nothing but dripping shadows.
{uThe Seamstress wove with breath and gesture.
{uSeven nights the Loom appeared.
{uAn Eye that Sees, drawn taut not by my hand, but another's will.
Each phrase resonated through the chamber. The inscriptions along the walls
flared, echoing fragments of his mentor's words in a dozen ancient tongues
before dimming again. Blinx felt every vibration like a chord struck
through bone. The Tower rose along his back in sympathetic illusion. The
Cauldron's shadows gathered behind his eyelids. He sensed the Seamstress's
silver thread brush the inside of his wrist, a phantom touch that stung with
recognition.
He reached for the Codex Orienmancy at his side. The tome stirred before he
touched it, pages fluttering open of their own accord. Across one spread,
letters burned briefly, alive with heat:
{uThe knot cannot be cut, only unmade.
Then the words blackened, turning to ash that drifted upward and vanished.
The scent left behind was not of smoke but of endings. The palace shifted
in sympathy. Its corridors folded like parchment, the air compressing until
every echo returned to the throne. Mirrors along the walls reflected not
his form but multiple selves, five silhouettes seated in the same posture,
each murmuring a different interpretation of Thindysss dreams. Their voices
blurred into a low liturgical hum that seemed to move the air.
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Oct 7 21:56:40 2025
To All Conclave Thindyss - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject {uThe Palace Somniorum - The WitchlockII
{uHe seeks to dissolve the Cauldron's silence, Blinx thought. {uBut silence
{uis not absence.
He leaned back, letting the shadows coil more tightly around the base of the
throne. The glyphs beneath his feet pulsed with a steady, heart-slow
rhythm. Deep below, the labyrinth turned once more, stone grinding on
stone, a sound like thought given weight.
{u"Thindyss," Blinx said, his voice doubled, one tone the scholar, the other
the demon, {u"Your words breathe. They stir the sleeping architecture. I
{uhear Her in the sapces between them.
He paused, tasting the quiet that followed.
{u"I will answer you, he murmured at last. {u"But to answer rightly, I must
{udream your dreams my own.
The letters at his feet flared once, then dissolved into a slow snowfall of
ash and light. Blinx rose from the throne. The air moved with him, bowing
as though the palace itself obeyed. From the dark beyond the dais came a
ripple of motion one of the Lattice Messengers, a being of spun light and
whisper, taking form from the corridors glow. It bowed low, its limbs
articulated like folded script.
In the stillness that followed, Blinx conjured a quill from thought, a
filament of shadow drawn into a trembling point. The air before him
condensed into a sheet of pale radiance, half parchment, half memory. He
dipped the quill into the dreaming itself and began to write. His
calligraphy moved with ritual grace: tall, deliberate strokes that curved
like sigils, each one glowing briefly before fading into luminous residue.
The letter was no mere message it was a Somnal Transmission of Thought, the
very experiment he had once codified as Message. He murmured the core
phrase of its working: {uSomnum {uVocare. {uLet {udream {ucall {uunto {udream.
Sound did not travel, instead, sensation rippled outward, a pulse of imagery
and concept. The text dissolved into motes that spiraled upward, forming a
crown of symbols around him: the broken tower, the dripping cauldron, the
silver thread, the empty loom, the unblinking eye. Each turned once in the
air, then streamed away toward the dream-lattice, carrying with them Blinx's
intent: respect, curiosity, and conset.
When the last of the light had gone, he spoke the words of formal petition,
{u*"To Thindyss Shiegnath, Dreadneedle of the Ebony Tower,
{uI, Blinx of the Black Tower, Magus Somnomancer and servant of the Dark
{uMother, seek leave to walk within the precincts of your dreaming. Not as
{uintruder, but as peer and witness, that we may trace together the origins of
{uthe Tower, the Cauldron, the Seamstress, the Loom, and the Eye those symbols
{uwhich have bound our studies as one.
{uI request your consent, freely given, {uthat our shared inquiry may proceed
{uwithin the sanctity of dream and not in trespass. I await your assent.
At the final word, the floating script folded itself into a single line of
light a sealed thread of thought. It pulsed once with his sigil, an open
eye circled by a thread of moonlight, then vanished into the dream-lattice
like a whisper cast into deep water.
The air around the throne sighed as the Message departed. Palace Somniorum
dimmed to stillness, its inscriptions slowing their flicker, the labyrinth
below pausing in its endless rotation. Even the dreamstuff in the air
seemed to hold its breath, waiting for Thindyss's answer.
Writer: Tai'Tzu
Date Tue Oct 7 22:00:41 2025
To All Justice Thaxanos Althainia Wargar Knighthood White_Robes Crusade
Subject Building Bridges
When Tai'Tzu had first heard of the bridge project meant to span the
sinkhole, he had to admit, he had not given it much thought. It seemed
entirely too much work for too little gain. Particularly when a perfectly
good walking route around the hazard existed. The symbolism was All well
and good, but it seemed like a needless display of power. Tonight, however,
he had learned it was besieged by the forces of darkness, who saw it as a
threat. And that there was an even greater challenge to build the bridge
while it was under siege by evil.
His interest had been piqued immediately.
So it was he found himself traveling there in his free time, volunteering to
see where he could assist while he waited to see combat. There was a great
deal of work to do, many dwarves and men were manuvering about with heavy
loads of stone and wood and even mithril. The old rabbitfolk monk stood out
amongst them like a hunk of coal amidst a pile of iron ore. He paused to
take it All in, studying the architecture. While no expert himself, he
understood some of the basics of construction.
In the end, he mostly volunteered to help with manual labor under the
guidance of a construction overseer. Lifting heavy boards, carrying raw
materials to and from the framework, holding the rope leading up the
scaffold, he even went and fetched fresh drinking water for the workers as
the hot sun beat down overhead during the day. Anything to keep busy,
contribute, and allow him to remain watchful. When a fight began, he wanted
to be ready.
But in the meantime, this would make excellent training, he decided.
Writer: Ainz
Date Thu Oct 9 23:38:15 2025
Writer: Ainz
Date Thu Oct 9 23:38:56 2025
Writer: Ainz
Date Thu Oct 9 23:42:41 2025
Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Oct 10 15:25:47 2025
To All ( Ryzzynth Piknim Black_Robes IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx at the Feather
The temple was no colder or warmer than before.
No changes her, no sound, just the smell of stone that had stopped caring
about the living. Blinx hovered in, his wings making no more noise than
falling dust. The last time he'd been here, he'd left an angel's feather on
the altara white thing that hadn't belonged in a place like this.
Now it was still here, prestine and unchanged. It pulsated still with a
stubborn and divine sense.
He fluttered the altar on trembling wings. It took him awhile, hunger had
him slow. When he reached the top, he landed. Then sat cross-legged beside
the feather, as if visiting a grave.
{u"You're still here," he said softly. {u"I wondered if she would take you."
He looked up at the high arch of the ceiling. No moonlight reached here, it
was the kind of dark that stayed.
{u"Mother Night," he whispered, {u"I bring nothing this time. Only myself. I
am not worthy to recieve you."
He touched the feather. It felt revolting, and soiled. The divinity of it
juxtaposed against his host's cold, undead hands was completely
antithetical.
{u"If you want it, it's yours. If you want me, I am already yours."
He bowed low, forehead against the cold stone. He just nodded once, as if
answered. Then he slipped down from the altar, gaunt and empty, and left
the temple the way he'd come quiet, and hovering, bobbing through the air in
his typical pattern of strained flight.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Oct 10 16:59:24 2025
To All Conclave Blinx ( Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch )
Subject Threads in the Somniorum - Witchlock
The dark does not sleep.
It stirs in the marrow between silence and dream, in the hollows where old
names remember themselves. When Blinxs somnal missive struck the Weave,
I felt it as one feels the tug of a thread too tightly drawn, soft at first,
then thrumming with weight. His call came not as mere words, but as shape,
soundless and alive. The Loom within me bent to it.
Within the chambers of my own dreaming, the Ebony Tower rose not as stone
but as spine, ancient, flexing, whispering. The Cauldron pooled at its root,
a black mirror without reflection. Above, a single silver filament traced
the arc of a loom that has no end. The Eye flickered. It does not blink.
I answered without voice.
Shadow moved like ink spilled across vellum, sketching the figure of a
gate, not open, not barred. A threshold. Upon its arch was carved the sigil
of the Dreadneedle, a mark that grants neither blind welcome nor denial.
To step through it is to agree that one does not own what is seen within.
"Blinx," I whispered into the Weave, though no sound passed my lips.
"The Cauldron remembers. The Loom does not weave for one hand alone.
Come then, as peer, as witness. Walk careful, for this dreaming is not
empty, it listens."
Beneath the Tower, the Threads stirred, knotting and unknotting in answer.
Drakkara's silence pressed close, not forbidding, but waiting.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Oct 11 11:40:40 2025
To All Black_Robes Symantha Naamitsa ( Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject 100 days of Prayer (I)
'Dark Mother, hear me beneath the shadowed moon.
I offer this prayer in reverence, not as one who commands,
but as one who serves Your will.
{uGuide Blinx as he walks from doubt into Your embrace.
Let the echo of Your voice shape his soul and bind his purpose
to the Tower that bears Your name. May his dreams be Yours,
and his shadow another thread in Your endless weave.
Strengthen my hand that I may guide Your Magi with clarity,
that their works be sharp as obsidian and true as night.
Bless the Tower with Your favor, that it stands ever unwavering,
a blade in the dark and a beacon to the faithful.
And to the Witchlock, grant us sight where others fear to look.
Let Your secrets unfurl in whispered threads, that we may pull them
closer to You.
Mother of Shadows, keep us in Your darkness. In Your name I pray.'
Writer: Fardoc
Date Sat Oct 11 19:54:05 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Knighthood ( Nadrik Imm Religion Storyline RP )
Subject Watchtowers Over the Sinkhole (Part I)
The sun was setting over the horizon, mountain peaks to the north, as
Fardoc paced towards the sinkhole worksite. The Crusade's meeting had passed
just a few days before, and the final plans for the bridge were set. All
that remained to be done is the work itself, as well as ensuring that it
would go uninterrupted from both threats on the ground and threats in the
air.
It was agreed that the Crusade would use the excess lumber Gareth had
delivered from Haon Dor to construct a series of watchtowers, some in the
north that were built and manned by dwarves of Thaxanos, and some in the
south that were built and manned by the Knights. To keep tensions from
flaring between Wargar and Gareth, it was very important that the Knights
not venture into dwarven territory.
Fardoc looked north past the sinkhole and stroked his beard, frowning
slightly. There were several places in the steep foothills that would serve
as locations for two watchtowers. The northern end of the bridge was
planned directly south from the base of the mountain, and the foothills on
either side of it would serve nicely to maintain eyes on the area, the steep
ground providing a good sightline All around.
Calling over one of the twins, Fardoc extended a hand gesturing to each
location. 'Oi, lad. Could ye send someone over there with some stakes? Ah
need a lad te mark out two locations te raise a couple watchtowers so we
dont git waylaid again when full construction starts up.'
The twin harrumphed slightly, not overly enthused about being asked to take
on yet more work, but dutifully called over a younger worker, relaying the
Cardinals instructions. Fardoc watched as the younger dwarf bounded off to
get an armful of stakes, and saw the twin look back over to him and nod
once.
'Et will bae done, Cardinal. Dont ye worry. Ah couple of watchtowers is ah
lot less involved than the bridge, and we cin throw those up in a matter of
a day or two.'
Writer: Fardoc
Date Sat Oct 11 20:18:25 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Knighthood ( Nadrik Imm Religion Storyline RP )
Subject Watchtowers Over the Sinkhole (Part II)
The sounds of hammers and lumber clanking together filled the air as the
Cardinal walked south from Wargar's hall the next day. He smiled to himself
as he listened to the sound of the labor taking place. Once plans were set,
no other race in the realm could possibly match dwarven industriousness.
Cresting the foothills, the dwarf could see the beginnings of the tower
bases taking shape, slowly rising up over the grass. Dwarves fitted logs
together, hammering them into place, each pound of the mallet echoing
through the morning air.
Watching the speed at which they worked, the Cardinal was sure that the
twins estimate of the time it would take to construct the two towers was
more or less accurate, and it was up to him now to come up with the troops
it would take to man them.
The Churchs forces, His Most Holy Order of Divine Retribution, had taken a
hit on the last chromatic attack. The slaughter during the night was the
impetus for the Archangel calling forth the pillar to drive them back and
the destruction of the monolith, and a third of a regiment had been killed
outright, and just as many had been wounded, in the fire the chromatics had
brought to bear. The Cardinal knew that, with four more regiments, he had
plenty of dwarves remaining to man the towers, but he wished the fifth to
pull back and venture back to the tunnels outlying Thaxanos from whence they
came. There, they could rest and recuperate, potentially recruiting and
building back the regiment to full strength and returning again with their
forces replenished.
Returning to his tower, the dwarf trudged up the stairs to his chambers and
pulled out his worn writing desk, penning a missive to the commander of his
forces, the Axebearer Fjalar Halfear.
'Axebearer, ye are summoned et yer earliest convenience te mae War Room. We
have things te discuss. Bring the lieutenants for each regiment of the
Order and tell em te expect new orders for their forces.'
Writer: Fardoc
Date Sat Oct 11 20:24:46 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Knighthood ( Nadrik Imm Religion Storyline RP )
Subject Watchtowers Over the Sinkhole (Part III)
Fardoc stood at one side of the large stone table in the War Room of his
tower when a knock sounded on the door. Fjalar Halfear, the commander of
the Order, filed in, followed by five sturdy-looking dwarves in gleaming
chainmail armor. Each bowed low to the Cardinal, then filed to the weapon
racks to unbuckle their arms and place them to the side, returning unarmed
to the stone table.
The Cardinal began, 'Lads, thank ye All for coming. Et bae an honor te have
ye All gathered together. As ye know, the bridge plans are coming along
nicely, despite the early attack by the chromatics that killed so many of
the fifth legion. The twins, Thane Kraxul and meself All believe we are
about ready te begin formal construction, now that the Knights have
delivered the lumber for the scaffolding. However, et the last meeting of
the Crusade, et wos proposed we construct and man towers on both sides of
the site, dwarven ones te the north, as well as ones built and manned by the
Empire and Knights te the south. Construction is nearly done on our side,
but we have yet te set aside the dwarves commanded te guard our towers. '
Four of the dwarven Lieutenants looked at the Cardinal with a fierce light
in their eyes at the prospect of a challenge, while the fifth, a red-haired
lad with a scar around his eye, lowered his gaze.
'Cardinal, mae name is Erlander Longpike, Lieutenant of the Fifth Legion,
who wos assigned te the defense of the site on the night of the chromatic
attack. Our force wos nearly decimated by those lizards. One third of the
Legion wos killed, one third wounded, and the rest were unscathed, but that
is nay enough te bae much help manning the towers. '
Fardoc nodded somberly. 'Aye, lad. Ah know. Et wos never mae intention te
send ye te the fray so soon. Mae orders are that the first through the
fourth Legions split their lads between the watchtowers, while the remnants
of the fifth retreat back te the tunnels where ye lads came from. Rest,
recuperate, and see if ye cin recruit more kin te round out yer numbers once
more. Lord willing, we will git ye back te full strength soon. '
Erlander bobbed his head gratefully. 'Aye, Cardinal. Ah think that is for
the best. Thank ye. We will return te Thaxanos once more when we have all
recovered and padded out our number agin. '
Fardoc smiled at the longbeard and then shifted his gaze to the rest of the
assembled dwarves. 'Well then, ye All have yer orders. Coordinate with
Commander Halfear and disperse yerself between the towers however he orders
ye. Ah trust his judgement on yer placement. '
Writer: Fardoc
Date Sat Oct 11 20:29:14 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Knighthood ( Nadrik Imm Religion Storyline RP )
Subject Watchtowers Over the Sinkhole (Part IV)
Fardoc rose from his sleep on the third day, stretching his arms over his
head and standing in his meditation chamber, yawning loudly. Pulling on his
robes, he made his way to the bottom floor and out the doors of his tower,
blinking at the dawn sun.
The Cardinal shuffled south, towards the worksite where the watchtowers were
being constructed, and was pleasantly surprised to see the tops of the
towers standing tall, seemingly completed. Swarms of armored dwarves
crowded around the base of both towers, with more still visible at the top,
looking out over the horizon. Fardoc smiled at the sight, pleased to see
how quickly the workers had raised the watchtowers. They seemed formidable,
and the dwarves in the Order's Legions were able to serve nicely to man them,
even without the remnants of the Fifth Legion.
He watched from afar for just a while, seeing the dwarves rush to and fro,
preparing the towers and lugging weapons of All sorts up the tower steps. A
few of them even had lashed a team of rams to haul a ballista to each tower,
setting it up at the base of the structure and pointing it towards the sky.
Fardoc strode down to the steep foothills, smiling at the sight of his men
hard at work. He tipped his head to each he saw, patting them on the back
as he passed and headed towards Fjalar, who was overseeing the preparations
with the Lieutenants between the towers.
'Ho, Cardinal. All seemed te bae coming along nicely. We even persuaded the
boys down by the sinkhole worksite te let us set up two of the ballista over
here te give us better line of sight, should we All bae attacked once more.
If the chromatics, or another dark force, come back, this time we will bae
prepared for em.'
Fardoc grinned. 'Excellent news, lad, ah am well pleased with All ye have
done. Hopefully, once the Knights put theirs up, we will have a solid ring
of protection around this place and cin build this bridge unimpeded. With
the full force of the Order out here, ah daresay they will not have as easy
a time on et as they did before. Carry on, lad. Do wot ye must te finish
preparations. Ye seem te have things well in hand without mae input!'
Fjalar and the rest of the Lieutenants placed their fists over their hearts
in a salute to the longbearded Cardinal as he turned on his heel and walked
further south, to see how the Knights were coming along in their own
preparations.
Writer: Tash'a
Date Sun Oct 12 00:39:11 2025
To All Zecnys Abaddon Imshael Thindyss Piknim imm rp xenophon
Subject The Hunger - To Catch Lightning in a Bottle
Pale light flickered over the dead creature, splayed out for inspection.
Beastial; demonic. Of no typical origin to material plane of Algoron. A
usurped bloodless hound from Abaddon - kingdom raised from Fatale's abyssal
realm. Connection not unlikely.
Long nails drifted over the bloodless corpse, its form kept pristine from
the moment of its demise by an apt embalming.
Residual traces of the affliction it was plagued or infected with.
Shade-bound.
She could sense it but it was also visible across the hide in the blackened
but unmoving veins. Had its heart beat while it was alive or had the power
of Shades, of Orinze and the Hunger, kept it in motion?
Residual connection with its place of origin and voidal thread.
The Void. She had witnessed it, reached into it for just some of what she
infused her creations with. The memories of her maker had offered
tantalizing glimpses of its expanse. It was not a place she had dared to
traverse before though she knew of ways, none of which would come without
risk. It had been for reasons like this that the Queens had taken an
interest in her, invited her to their hallowed Bloodlands and Court. To see
what barriers she could cross for them.
Shadows curled up over the bloodless hound's form as her fingers passed and
its body twitched as she teased it with undeath. There were eager shades,
twisting and whispering at her heels. She watched them reach for it, her
delight malicious. Each would be met with denial until she permitted
otherwise.
She withdrew after a time, content to leave the corpse where it lay though
she covered it with a silken cloth lest it have use later.
Power did not come without a cost but she wasn't collecting it for her own
use. Another would take on that risk and potential reward.
A vessel then.
There were a number of options but she already had an idea. It was time to
consult.
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sun Oct 12 09:25:27 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part sixteen-)
Pyotr was almost halfway into his shift. He and five other Baewar were
patrolling the depths of the sinkhole, mainly just to keep the gremlins in
hiding and away from the scaffolding, now that All the work was far above
them. It was boring work, as the filthy little creatures weren't
particularly bold, nor difficult to defeat. He yawned and leaned up against
a support, and closed his eyes. That's when he heard the thunderous cheers
from above. They must have completed the scaffolding.
(at the surface)
The foreman stood patiently, allowing the cheering and celebrations to
continue for two full minutes before ye bellowed at the men to get back
to work. The Thane would be here soon, and he wasn't going to see a
bunch of fools congratulating themselves on a half-finished bridge.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sun Oct 12 09:26:42 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part seventeen-)
There was almost a road leading directly to Althainia. The top of the
scaffolding stopped around 2 feet below the lip of the sinkhole. Atop
the scaffolding would be the mithril beam structure that supported the
bridge. The outer edges would be fitted with thick mithril posts that
rose up through holes bored into the white granite slabs to the top of
the parapet walls. Attatched to these posts would be the cables, spun
of fine strands of mithril wire. These cables would each rise at a
crisp sixty degree angle to meet the central column.
Four men were standing at the lip, ready to roll the first beam into
place, waiting on the twins to finish taking their measurements of the
top of the scaffolding. Once they had the all-clear, they began
rolling the heavy beam over smooth logs toward the center. The beam
was fitted into place six feet south of the form for the central
column, and checked. A second beam was rolled onto the deck, now with
two more behind it. They were getting into a rhythm now, and picking
up speed. When Kraxul arrived to inspect the progress, there were
two cross-beams and both stringers in place on the south side, forming
the first box, with a beam being rolled into position on the north side
to begin its first box.
With the first box done on the south, and checked by the twins, they
would be ready to roll the first granite slabs into place. Once placed
and secured, a new scaffold would be begun on top of them, stretching
into the sky for the work that was to be done on the towering central
column.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sun Oct 12 09:43:03 2025
To All Fardoc Agapitos Thaxanos Wargar ( Crusade Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm Rp )
Subject Building Bridges (-part eightteen-)
Kraxul stood at the lip of the western edge of the sinkhole, where he
could see the entire structure. The upper scaffolding was being erected
quicker than the lower, as it was made of planks instead of logs, and
they were much easier to manipulate. A day had passed since it was
begun, and it appeared it would be another day before it was finished.
The smooth granite slabs used for the form were being fitted into place
as the scaffolding went up, and there were now three dwarves inside
grouting the seams. While this was going on, the beams were being
rolled into place All along the remaining length of the bridge. The
twins were running back and forth with their clipboards, inspecting the
work, and taking measurements at every point. Once each measurement
was confirmed, the beam was fastened to the wooden scaffolding below,
before being bolted to the adjoining beams.
The Thane reached into his satchel and removed a simple corn-cob pipe,
already packed and lightly smoked. He lit the tobacco and drew deeply,
relishing the mild burning in his lungs as he surveyed the worksite.
This bridge would be done soon, he thought. With the work now occuring
above ground, the entire site was well-illuminated by the lucent pillar
at the south end, and work could continue through the night.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 13:27:47 2025
To All Black_Robes Symantha Naamitsa ( Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject 100 days of Prayer (II)
'Mother of Shadow, I kneel beneath Your darkened moon once more.
Night is the only truth that does not lie. In its stillness, I find You.
Grant me the sight to discern the paths that others fear to tread.
Let my will not falter as I guide those who walk in Your shadow,
that the Magi of the Ebony Tower may rise like blades in the dark,
cutting clean through doubt and weakness.
In the weave of the Witchlock, where mortal reason frays,
let Your whispers be the thread that binds what must be known.
Through study, through sacrifice, through the silence between breaths,
may I uncover what You have hidden for the faithful to claim.
Watch over Your Tower, Mother. Let its roots deepen, its spires sharpen,
its servants remember that we are Yours, not by chance, but by choice.
{uDrakkara, guide my hand,
steady my voice,
darken my path so I may see.'
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 14:35:46 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless - A Change of Hand
The seal arrived in silence.
No courier. No breath nor whisper. Only the faint smell of
old ink, iron, and the hush before a blade is drawn. When
the parchment was broken, the mark burned briefly across
its surface:
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
The sigil means only one thing:
**The quiet hand becomes the striking one.**
From this night forward, each shadow will turn to its
next task. The pillars of their bridge grow fat on
dwarven timber and knightly pride. They build walls
to keep the dark out. We will remind them their walls
bleed.
- To the **first circle**,
Watch the scaffolds. Their pace quickens. Their nights
grow long under pillar's light. What they raise fast can
fall faster. *Strike where their hands grow tired.*
- To the **second circle**,
The watchtowers rise like teeth. Ballistae watch the
skies. *Corrupt their eyes.* Delay their aim. Seed
discord among their sentries.
- To the **third circle**,
Supply lines carry the breath of their labor. Timber.
Food. Steel. *Choke it. Quietly.* A bridge with no
breath cannot stand.
- To the **fourth**,
Whisper in the cracks. The pit listens. Let the things
beneath remember the scent of blood.
The Tower of Light may gleam, but the **dark remembers**.
This is not a storm, this is the first quiet pull on the
thread.
The Nameless will not march.
We will **unravel**.
{uDrakkara sees. {uDrakkara waits.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 14:50:27 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Illusionist ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Illusionists
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
You will be the soft hand that shifts attention.
The bridge site is crowded and noisy, overt spectacle invites
scrutiny. Your craft thrives in the small, unremarked moments,
a lantern that seems dimmer at the hinge of a shift, a shadow
that lengthens for a breath, footsteps that echo where none
were made. Deploy illusions to generate doubt and small
inefficiencies rather than panic.
Primary tasks:
* False landmarks: create brief, localized mirages near the
scaffold lip and on the approach paths so teams misposition
tools or pause to recheck bearings.
* Echo-channels: weave layered aural illusions into passageways
and stairwells so sentries register phantom steps and calls.
Time these to coincide with critical lifts.
* Misplaced light: apply transient reflections and refractions
around lamp cases to create micro-errors in depth perception
- a bolt thought seen, a seam believed checked.
Tactics & constraints:
* Keep durations short (minutes, not hours). Reversible
illusions that leave no trace are essential, we need delay
and uncertainty, not wreckage.
* Prioritize moonless hours and fogged mornings, the less real
light, the more your art holds.
* Coordinate with mentalists and WuJen for fatigue or
atmosphere effects that make illusions more persuasive.
Report once per moon-quarter with sample patterns and timings.
Subtlety is our ally. A single misstep born of a convincing
shadow will ripple further than any flamboyant spectacle.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 14:56:45 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Enchanters & Transmuters ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Enchanters & Transmuters
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
You will alter the things they trust, slowly and plausibly.
This is a paired operation. Enchanters supply the patterning
and the misdirection, sigils of wear, enchantments that
mislabel crates, charms that blur inspection. Transmuters
work the grain of material and memory: a rope that frays
sooner, a beam that bends at the wrong time, timber that
splits at a particular stress point.
Your work must appear as ordinary failure, the kind
overlooked in ledger books and blamed on weather or tired
hands. We do not break their bridge. We make them build
it twice.
Primary tasks:
* Time-release sigils: enchant hardware so that a cadence, a
shouted word, or a moon-quarter triggers a slackening clasp
or rasping pulley. Failures must appear natural.
* Micro-transmutation: alter rope fiber-memory to increase
abrasion. Densify grain at key stress points so splintering
begins under strain, not the hammer.
* Miscount enchantments: cast minor glamours to mislabel one
cart for a single journey. Let them lose time finding what
is exactly where it shouldnt be.
Tactics & constraints:
* Avoid permanent corruption. All changes must trace to
mundane causes. Reversible if they look close enough.
* Pair your efforts with Illusionists and Mentalists. A
shadow of doubt amplifies a single weak beam.
* Keep a private ledger of signatures used, so nothing ties
back to you or the Tower if they come searching.
Deliverables:
* After each operation, a short note detailing material,
expected failure mode, and estimated delay.
* Samples of transmuted fibers under seal for later study.
* A matrix linking sigil cadence to observed effects.
This is patient sabotage, the kind that bleeds them dry
in wasted time and repeated work. Let their bridge sag
under the weight of their own certainty.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:41:13 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:43:32 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Invokers & Wu Jen ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Invokers & Wu Jen
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
Invokers and Wu Jen - you shape the field, not the strike. Where their hammers
rise, you make the wind betray them, the ground shift, the torch falter. They
must believe they war with weather, not with us.
Primary tasks:
- Disrupt visibility and sound so that coordination frays under its own weight.
- Manipulate terrain to turn simple labor into labor twice as long.
- Sow environmental unpredictability at scaffold points and choke lanes,
making every task a second guess.
- Ensure natural cover for withdrawals and diversions.
Tactics & constraints:
- Do not scorch the earth. Your work must be mistaken for the sky's whim.
- Time your interference with Illusionists to blur intent and with saboteurs
to increase delay.
- Withdraw swiftly. Storms leave no faces behind.
Deliverables:
- Weather interference logs tied to observed delays or confusion.
- Terrain alteration reports detailing location, effect, and timing.
- Coordinated operation notes for follow-on action.
The storm does not argue its purpose. It simply comes, indifferent and cold,
and men break their backs rebuilding what it quietly stole from them.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:45:03 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Mentalists ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Mentalists
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
Mentalists - you do not strike, you erode. While others break timber, you break
certainty. You are the hand that makes confidence stutter and turn on itself.
Primary tasks:
- Seed fatigue and doubt among foremen and sentries so that they question
their own vigilance.
- Blur key instructions or timings, forcing re-checks and repeated work.
- Undermine morale through carefully placed despair in figures of authority.
- Make the memory of certainty a thing they begin to mistrust.
Tactics & constraints:
- Small, persistent disruptions achieve more than heavy-handed strikes.
- Coordinate with Illusionists and Enchanters so mental erosion pairs cleanly
with physical signs of failure.
- Keep logs of influence and targets to avoid overlapping effects.
Deliverables:
- Influence records identifying targeted individuals and observed behavioral
shifts.
- Timetables of induced delays and follow-on effects.
- Any emergent patterns of weakness that can be leveraged by other Nameless
agents.
It takes no sword to break a man who has already begun to doubt. The mind is
a bridge of its own. Take one stone, and the rest remembers how to fall.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:46:34 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Necromancers ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Necromancers
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
Necromancers - your presence is not the battle cry but the quiet omen. You are
the suggestion of rot, the shape glimpsed too long in the dark, the hand that
makes men falter without ever striking them.
Primary tasks:
- Place quiet terrors in their work sites - signs of death mistaken for omen
rather than enemy.
- Undermine health and vigor through subtle blight, letting sickness work
slower and more convincingly than any spell.
- Use scouts and quiet watchers to map soft points without drawing alarm.
- Make the dead linger just long enough to become stories.
Tactics & constraints:
- Keep your works beneath notice. Clerics cannot fight a rumor.
- Coordinate with saboteurs and Battlemages to conceal your passing as
misfortune.
- A single whisper of pestilence can stall more than a volley of bolts.
Deliverables:
- Report of skeletal and spectral reconnaissance patterns.
- Catalogued incidents of dread or sickness with observed operational effects.
- Burial and concealment records to maintain plausible deniability.
They will not fear your hand. They will fear the cold in their bones and the
silence between their breaths. Let them whisper of ghosts. Ghosts are harder
to fight than armies.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:47:49 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul - Nameless Battlemages ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Nameless Directive - Battlemages
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
Battlemages - you are the shield and the closing hand. While others unravel,
you are the strike that ensures our threads are never caught. When the Nameless
is glimpsed, it is you who make the sight fleeting.
Primary tasks:
- Shield agents and retreat paths with decisive, brief engagements.
- Draw pursuit away from saboteurs and shadow-weavers without revealing the
Tower's intent.
- Act as the final wall between discovery and disappearance.
- Hold firm only as long as extraction demands, no longer.
Tactics & constraints:
- You are the shield, not the hammer. Avoid escalation unless no other path
remains.
- Coordinate timing with retreating agents, especially Illusionists and
Witchlock elements.
- Keep your face unremembered, your strike untraceable.
Deliverables:
- Action reports documenting engagement duration and cover effectiveness.
- Extraction route data to refine operational withdrawal patterns.
- Battle trace assessments ensuring no link leads back to the Tower.
The blade in the dark is useful, but the shield in the storm decides who
lives to strike again. We are the silence after the shout, the wall that lets
the shadow fade.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Oct 12 15:59:06 2025
To All Black_Robes Piknim Kraxul ( Drakkara Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Nameless Ledger - Bridge Directive
{u .-''''''''-.
{u /| |\
{u /_|__________|_\
| |__||__| |
{u | | || | |
| |__||__| |
{u | ||||{u |
{u _|___/__\___|_
{u |______________|
The Nameless move under no banner and march with no fanfare. Their work begins
not with the lifting of blades but with the quiet receiving of orders. In the
shadow of the bridge where hammers ring and torches glow our hands are already
at work. Directives have been whispered into the right ears and sealed orders
have found their way into hidden folds.
These are not the loud decrees of armies. These are secret instructions
delivered in narrow hallways and empty chambers carved beneath the noise of day.
Each Nameless cell carries a small piece of a larger pattern. None see the
whole but All will act. Together their work will bend the bridge not with a
single strike but with a thousand unseen hands.
I spoke plainly to them. The work must be patient and subtle. A bridge that
collapses slowly teaches its builders to doubt. That doubt is worth more than
any siege. Every misplaced beam every quiet whisper every shadow that makes a
guard turn twice is a thread in the weave.
They will move by night and by stormlight hidden in the noise of their enemy's
certainty. Not All will be remembered. That is by design. Our names are inkless
and our marks vanish with rain.
The victory we seek falls between hammer and crack. Let our orders be small
and exact. Let their repairs multiply until their certainty is spent.
Operation Name: Bridge Unraveling
Status: Active
Method: Distributed sabotage and psychological erosion
Objective: Destabilize enemy bridge construction without overt engagement
Disciplines Involved:
- Witchlock: Psychological and sensory disruption
- Illusionists: Environmental misdirection
- Enchanters & Transmuters: Material degradation
- Invokers & Wu Jen: Environmental manipulation
- Mentalists: Targeted morale erosion
- Necromancers: Rumor omen and fear
- Battlemages: Cover and extraction security
Tactical Notes:
- All actions must appear as environmental material or human failure
- Interdisciplinary timing is critical. Minor effects precisely applied
will erode structure and morale faster than a single decisive blow
- No Tower signature is to be left on-site
Reporting Requirements:
- Each circle reports timing method and estimated impact after each phase
- No public posting. Ledger entry only
- Deviations to be recorded and approved by overseeing agent
Expected Outcome:
- Bridge weakened structurally and psychologically prior to open conflict
- Enemy forces disorganized and forced to divert resources
- The Nameless remains unseen
Recorded by: Thindyss, Ebony Wizard
Verification: Nameless Seal
Writer: Lepidus
Date Mon Oct 13 17:02:48 2025
Writer: Lepidus
Date Mon Oct 13 17:04:13 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Oct 13 23:48:36 2025
To All Black_Robes ( Drakkara Imm RP Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject 100 days of Prayer (III)
Mother of Darkness, Weaver of Threads,
{uI set my will before Yours. The moon climbs, the light bends, and All that
lingers in certainty is consumed by Your quiet design. I offer not mercy
but clarity, not hope but the precision of Your purpose.
Where others beg for favor, I ask for edges to be honed. Where they seek
comfort, I seek the cold weight of understanding. Let those who wander in
doubt be cut by the blade of Your silence. Let their blood write the
lessons they refused to learn.
Through night, through weave, through the soft hum beneath the world,
I swear my hand shall not falter. My breath will be a whisper in the dark
places. My will, a mirror to Yours.
|
