Dark & Shattered Lands

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun May 11 19:38:29 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: Research, The Foundation of Application.

Research is not a single act, but a sequence of rituals, both mundane and
profound, that shape understanding into insight. In preparation for the
application phase of my study into the Cauldron, I have gathered threads
from every corner of the realm, weaving them into the tapestry of knowledge
now resting before me.

I have spent weeks hidden among the spires of the High Tower, reading
forbidden transcriptions on elemental infusion. I combed through aged
codices in the Enchantress Tower, their pages brittle with truth long
ignored. I watched Corson's matches noting every action, not to mimic their
paths, but to understand how corruption and power manifest through cauldron
use beyond Conclave's control. I observed Queen Piknim's use of gourds as
arcane vessels, their mimicry of cauldron principles startling in both
design and function.

The crypts of the world yielded tomes steeped in divine theory, connecting
the Cauldron not just to magic but to cosmological design, the Weave as both
law and canvas. The countless libraries I searched offered insight into
replication and containment: how spells might be encoded, preserved, or even
erased through alchemical layering.

But perhaps most important of All was the council of many, the forum of
minds where ideologies clashed and merged. From Ivory Tower's Wizard to
Drakkara's High Priestess, from skeptic to advocate, I collected
perspectives, doubts, and warnings. Each voice shaped my resolve, not by
steering me, but by challenging me to reinforce every assumption

These avenues of research, observational, archival, philosophical, and
practical, now lead to the precipice of application. I have not reached
this threshold in haste. The Cauldron, wild and vital, demands a cautious
but daring hand. What comes next is not idle experimentation, but the
synthesis of everything I have gathered.

Let the foundation be set. Let the cauldron speak.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun May 11 20:47:11 2025
To All Gragnar Marauders ( Imm Raije Rp )
Subject Madness of the Warp - Cleanup (Part 1)

Once the repeated assaults against Ironclad by forces of chaos had ceased and
the wider plague of terror and madness by the Warp had been quelled, Gragnar
and Fredrik ventured beyond the walls of the Fort to deal with the immediate
aftermath. Bonfires set for watch were quickly converted into funeral pyres.
Those whose bodies showed disturbing corruption from the Warp were hastily put
to the flame after brief and respectful final honors. They gathered the other
bodies into organized staging areas for honors and burning when time permitted.

Medical triage camps were also hastily being assembled to treat the wounded.
Fredrik visited All of them while making his rounds to review the damage done
to Ironclad and the Marauders, while Gragnar scouted farther out to confirm the
relative safety. Fredrik could not locate the gravely wounded scout who had
assured them of imminent attack by warpbeasts, which had never come. Whether
they had been given to the flame or returned to their twisted home mattered
little at this point. Still, Fredrik advised amputation in cases where limbs
were seriously afflicted by the ichor of the warplings.

The Fort had stood as they had hoped, but at great cost to the Marauders and
all the realm. His spirit was drained, both by the realm's inability to react
to a slow moving cart wreck they had seen unfold over four miserable years, but
also by seeing the senseless carnage wrought about Ironclad. The troops seemed
to be in high spirits though. They had survived what many thought would be the
final night of Ironclad, and they had tasted the thrill of battle once again.

There would be time for celebrations later. But before they could sleep, the
grim work of dealing with the wounded and fallen needed to be done. Countless
had been slain in defense of the Fort, and many would not survive the night.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun May 11 20:47:41 2025
To All Marauders ( Imm Raije Rp )
Subject Madness of the Warp - Cleanup (Part 2)

The next day, Fredrik oversaw military honors conducted for the fallen as they
were fed to a number of growing funeral pyres throughout the day and into the
night. Survivors spoke for the fallen, attesting to their bravery in battle and
the bitter contest for Ironclad's survival. Each was celebrated for what they
had done, and many attested that the actions of the dead had saved their own
lives or those of others.

Many praised Raije, comrades, and the glory of battle. There had indeed been
many acts of bravery and endurance during the assault, but many had died poorly.
Already, the living pushed memories of the battle from their mind, and rewrote
the final agonizing moments of their friends with heroic deeds. There would be
many songs written and sung about the events. Some true in deed, but All true
in the spirit of what the Marauders had done.

Makeshift camps were being drawn up around the walls of Ironclad to shelter the
soldiers who had been pushed back to the walls, but also the civilians who had
fled in terror and madness in this direction. Some were confused to find that
they were now in Marauder lands, and had only nightmares as memories of how
they had fled from the Warp's attacks to this place. Many were in disbelief,
but the smell of the honored dead being purified by fire and the burning mark
of the Everwar in the sky reminded them that life was now a waking nightmare.

Writer: Sebez
Date Mon May 12 13:00:22 2025

Writer: Sebez
Date Mon May 12 17:35:27 2025

Writer: Telthian
Date Mon May 12 19:59:35 2025
To All ( imm Drakkara Naamitsa Shadow Black_Robes Verminasia Bloodlust )
Subject {uUmbratide - Madness of the Warp

The square board was simple. Eight rows, eight columns. Half of the
squares light, half dark. And when set up properly, a light square always
sat in the lower right hand. This particular board was wooden, each piece
carved with some care and detail but not particularly ornamental. Telthian
could not say why this board was chosen over any other, only that there was
a particular fondness for the simplicity of its pieces.

{u.... The bone vessel of the phylactery lay inert, the soulsteel chain cool
against his sun-darkened skin. But every now and then, he could feel a stir
within the material-link to its owner. A gasp. A tremor. The weight of
defiance. But the old confidence was shaken. Something was absent, or
perhaps.....

Light moved first, as was customary in this game, and over some weeks this
particular battle would slowly unfold. A pawn, no more than a
peasant-turned soldier raised by duty, not desire, shuffled forward into the
hinterland. Not that he could know it from his lowly position, but he was
the herald of this war and his step stirred the silence. Dark answered with
its own pawn, a revenant wrapped in duskwind rags, limbs stretched out in
sorrow.

{u.... Levinox breathed deep of the umbra, dark threads of power visible to
his eye even from the estate in Pharthati. The storm's rain drenched the
glass, and Telthian could almost feel spring's chill from within the
solarium, and the baleful glow of the aurora cast its rays much too close to
Verminasia's walls.....

Knights thundered from the flanks, noble warsteeds cloaked in silver and
steel with lances held high and were answered by creatures that galloped not
with hooves, but clawed limbs that scraped the firmament. Both leapt into
the fray, not with might, but with cunning, weaving their way through gaps
on the battlefield.

{u.... Enemies moved at a glacial pace, testing the newly forged strength of
the dark legion. A cult of loyalists, desperately clinging to the past even
as he had snuffed the last of their, and his, once master. Umbra cracked
and seeped from his skin where dark divinity spilled forth, barely
restrained. A threat? Perhaps, but his power was solidified. A
distraction? Certainly. But how Kayen and Bearhide would bring them to
judgment was of interest.....

The bishops moved next. Holy executioners bright with sanctified valor or
cloaked in sanguine rage. They drifted across the field on angles, marking
paths presently unseen by the pawns below, each sweep spelling death for
some, life for others, as they invoked the judgment of gods.

{u.... Intrigue in the Court, a feeble play to take what lands were theirs,
his and the High Priestess' was easily rebuffed. But had it succeeded?
Surely they knew his counter-move would be as merciless as the fire in his
belly. It was foolish, and the sloppiness of their thought galled him.
Work for Riniji, perhaps, or was it time to remind them what the epithet
Draco Dei meant....

Unyielding bastions of ancestral grudges ground forward with slow
inevitability as the rooks woke, black and white banners rippling in the
wind of change. Where they clashed, the earth split and groaned with agony.
Slow and cumbersome beasts, but their power could be harnessed.

{u.... Elves on the continent. Arkanians mustering their forces. Verminasia
hedging in the crumbling fortress on All fronts. And the Warp's blasphemies
scurrying in tunnels and caves beneath the noses of the Marauders if the
Darkfinder's intelligence was accurate. Would the Guillotine's blade fall
to finish the work begun when he killed their Highlord Aeriset Arnason, the
Everchosen's rotten offspring....

Writer: Telthian
Date Mon May 12 20:04:04 2025
To All ( imm Drakkara Naamitsa Shadow Black_Robes Verminasia Bloodlust )
Subject {uUmbratide - Madness of the Warp II

But it was the Queens, it was always the Queens, that reaped the war's
greatest harvest.

Pawns were consumed, Knights fell to unseen traps, and bishops blinded by
their own certainty gasped their last. The dark queen pierced deep into the
light's line, sweeping across the field with the grace of a falling star.
Her touch was plague. Her voice was destruction. The light queen answered,
pale and serene as a tomb, her graceful presence felt on the field by the
weight of the lives she claimed.

{u.... The newly born hellspawn was deferential, the timbre of the horned
demoness' voice confident, but laced with something more... Interested in
him than expected. A powerful ally? Or a usurper who would fracture the
legion they built, like Golgorok before her. Time would be her judge, but
he could adjust the pendulum's swing in or against her favor....

The dark queen found herself encircled, snared in a sacrifice made long ago.
Unmoved since the war began, one pawn left in wait now rose in silence. His
blade simple. His purpose pure. With her fall, silence returned to the
battlefield like the closing of a tomb. The onyx king, now exposed, gazed
into the eyes of the advancing enemy. He would not run.

{u.... A crumbling tower of flesh and of bone decorated with corpses of the
priesthood lay in ruin, a sign the coalition's might would be sufficient to
the task. These battles were important, surely, but they would not divert
his eye from what he had seen in the threads of prophecy that knit together
to spell his own resurrection and return. The power to reshape Algoron was
not there upon terrestrial soils, but beyond them....

Each piece played its part as only it could, true to its making and bound by
the sole purpose for its creation. While pieces moved to and fro, while
armies marched, while angels soared, and while ruinous heretics stalked the
borders of their power, the Draco Dei and Umbraseer positioned Storm in play
to a different game altogether.

Umbra-cracked fingers slid the next piece forward. Pawn, knight, rook, or
Queen, it mattered little. All would feel the necessity of sacrifice.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:20:36 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Raphiel Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound That Binds (Part 1)

Skalpon had come of his own accord.

She had almost feared she would have to drag him. After the battle, after
the Chaos worms had split the earth with bone, bile, and fury for the second
time in only a few days, he'd been different. Of course, the welt marked
him now: a red, angry lash that crossed his face like a brand, still hot to
the touch with unseen rot. But it was his spirit that bore the deeper,
invisible stain.

He had snapped at her, at everyone. Short, clipped words. Fury first at
the enemy, but then it lingered, even after the battle. She had felt the
pull too - that lingering need to keep fighting - before it faded. But when
she had stopped him from striking one of those who had answered the call to
defend Shalonesti in this latest horror, he had looked at her with something
close to betrayal. He had stopped though, and then he had turned away.

When she spoke of meeting with the angel, of the place where the Gods had
once wept for the loss of their daughters, the Goddesses of Peace and
Healing, slain in the Gods' Wars, he had listened. Silent, angry, but
listening. And then, with a bitter edge to his voice, he agreed to go.

The Lake of Ethereal Tears lay hidden beneath the world, its entrance a
corridor carved into the land itself and ending at a river. The air here
was still - sacred. Silvery-white waters rippled outward into a vast lake
without end, its mirrored surface shimmering with secret light. Breath
caught in one's throat here, not in fear, but in reverence. Around its
edge, alabaster plants grew untouched, not unlike the new golden-tipped
grasses in the Vallenwood, their pallor kissed by something divine. The
sandstone walls of the cavern wept slowly, tears of the gods themselves
falling in soft rhythm from the stone above. Eridessa had never known a
place so beautiful, or so filled with sorrow.

They stepped to the shore in silence, and Eridessa waited, letting her
breath steady. The lake grew still then, and a warmth stirred in the air
before Dawn walked across the water.

Raphiel, Archangel of Austinian and Commander of the Hosts of Light,
descended without sound. Wings of gold and pearl stretched wide across the
cavern, and the lake turned to light beneath his feet. His presence nearly
scorched the breath from her lungs. Though it was not the first time she
had seen him, his presence still struck her, radiant and mournful All at
once.

Skalpon stood rigid, his voice clipped with barely-suppressed rage - and
pain - as he faced the Archangel and explained what had happened. Raphiel
reached out his gauntlet towards Skalpon, the light which made up his
gauntlet faded away to reveal his bare hand, which he laid gently upon
Skalpon's brow. And the High Keeper screamed. It was not the cry of a
warrior. It was the sound of a soul being flayed - being weighed. The
cavern rang with it: anguish and sorrow. Skalpon jerked away, his voice
broken and wild as he thrashed beneath the touch of the angel.

Eridessa wanted to rush to him, but the lake seem to swelled between them,
rooting her to the spot with gentle force only a few feet away. She could
do nothing, she could only watch.

Gritting his teeth, Skalpon came back forward and Raphiel did not withdraw.
Instead, he moved his hand directly over the wound while the other held
Skalpon tightly by the shoulder - both restraint and support as light poured
on, a cleansing torment. Skalpon writhed, shouted, choked. When he finally
pulled his hand away, Skalpon's breath rasped like a drowning man breaking
the surface. The Archangel spoke then to what they feared, confirming what
they had only whispered to one another in worry.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:29:34 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Pahiel Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound that Binds (Part 2)

The voice was a thunderous hymn unraveling into dissonance, its words
bleeding into the echoes of Skalpon's screams that still tore through her
memory like glass through silk. Each syllable shimmered with divine
judgment, yet blurred, distorted by the raw, lingering howl of pain.

"Within thee an infection takest root. A hatred of sorts.... It will be a
pain unlike any thou hast ever known.... Anguish upon thy very soul. Not
only physical pain, but spiritual and emotional pain.... And a darkness
more than night. "

And then the fog of grief and holy fire parted. The words suddenly became
absolutely clear. Raphiel's voice resounded through the cavern like the
tolling of a divine bell, deep and powerful: "If thou hast any love for the
Father within thee, " he said, not unkindly, but with the weight of an
absolute, "Pray to Him now, for this divinity comest from the Golden
Pantheon. "

His radiant gaze turned then toward the shoreline, toward the round, shallow
bowl Eridessa had placed reverently there when they first arrived, a vessel
carved from moonstone, its inside smoothed by years of ritual use. Raphiel
glanced at her, hand outstretched, but did not touch it. Eridessa hesitated
only a breath. Then she stepped forward, cradling the bowl with both hands
and lifting it into his.

Skalpon's eyes narrowed, as he said, quietly but firmly, "I pray to the
Mother... And this is for Her. " Then, stronger, he added, "Perhaps those
of the Golden Pantheon will step to Her aide in this. "

Raphiel did not argue. Instead, he bowed his head in what might have been
acknowledgment or sorrow, and lowered the bowl into the Lake of Ethereal
Tears. The waters responded. Silvery light surged upward into the vessel,
and when the Archangel lifted it again, the bowl shone with a sacred glow,
golden and pure.

Skalpon watched with solemn eyes, then said, "Of this, I put myself forward.
"

But Raphiel's expression changed then, still serene, but now stern.
"Whatever thy faith is, " the Archangel said slowly, voice like thunder
swallowed in velvet "This place belongeth only to My Father. " He stepped
forward again, placing a steadying hand on Skalpon's shoulder with a touch
gentler than sunlight through leaves. Yet the words that followed held no
compromise: "The Mother of Nature does not hold power in this place. To be
healed by the Light, is to have faith in the Light. Not a choice I canst
makest for thee. "

Skalpon grimaced to himself in vexation, the weight of the moment folding
his shoulders inward. His voice, when it came, was quiet - strained, as
though he were forcing each word through a wall of thorns. This was a line
he was not meant to cross, a prayer shaped in the tongue of another faith,
yet still born from the same aching need. Still, he spoke, almost to
himself - almost to Her. "I follow the Light, in hopes that the Light will
aid in the restoration of Balance. I trust that the Father will come to the
aid of Her. "

Raphiel responded, "Then pray to the Father, this one time. For thou art
His child first, before ever thy race gave themselves to the Mother of
Nature. " And then, in one fluid motion, he raised the bowl high. Golden
motes began to gather, first a dozen, then hundreds, then a storm of
brilliant particles drawn as if by breath or prayer. They circled the
Archangel like a widening halo, filling the cavern with such radiance it
made the sacred lake seem dim beside it. Then, in silence, Raphiel tilted
the bowl.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue May 13 12:39:26 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Arkane Marauders Verminasia Chaos All Andreyna Skalpon Ehlwynna Tephysea Hayashi Raphiel Imm Rp Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon
Subject The Wound That Binds (Part 3)

He had not been speaking to her, she knew that, but she could not help
the words that came forth.

Her prayer was a whisper in the currents of the lake, a leaf surrendered to
the wind, a seed pressed into soil with trembling hope. It shimmered there,
unseen, like sunlight caught on dew or breath on a winter bloom, heard only
by gods, cradled between the Light above and the roots of the world below.
First, to Zandreya, her goddess of balance, of twilight paths and sacred
harmony. Then she turned her heart - awkwardly, unsure - to Austinian. She
had never prayed to him before, but Skalpon bore the Light of Goodness,
though Zandreya's still, and this place was of Goodness so maybe....

She offered it all. Her soul. Her balance. The deepest, most sacred
pieces of herself. She didn't know what they would take, or if they would
take anything at all, but she gave freely. Eridessa's lips did not move.
The prayer unfurled in silence, like mist curling through ancient trees or
roots sinking deep into sacred earth. It rose not from her voice, but from
the marrow of her being - offered in reverence to the twin truths she held
most dear: natures balance, and the brilliance of divine light that bathed
this sacred place.

Please. Take anything. Any part of me. If it will ease his pain, if it
will make him whole again, take it. Take it and leave him unbroken.

There was no thunderclap. No sudden void where a part of her had been. No
voice, no light, no divine confirmation. But she knew they had heard her.
And the weight of that promise settled quietly in the back of her mind, like
a stone in still water. And she knew she would never tell the High Keeper.

A single stream of water, radiant and warm, poured onto Skalpon's wounded
head. The welt flared with light, and Skalpon cried out once more, the
rinsing waters cleansing the angry wound as it boiled and bubbled under the
spill of liquid. The light grew. A dawn not of this world spilled into the
cavern, flooding every surface with brightness that knew no shadow. The air
grew thick with it, the shimmering lake below becoming a mirror of heaven
itself, so bright it seared the world white. Then the glorious, warming
light began to fade, a fraction of it suffusing into Skalpon.

------------------------------------------------------------------

It had not been in vain, but still - it had failed. For All the Light, for
all the sanctity of that hallowed place, the ritual had wrought no healing -
only pain. The sacred waters had scalded, seared, and cleansed, but they
had not mended. If anything, the humble balm she had pressed to his skin
after the angel's terrible touch had done more to soothe than All the power
of the divine. And that truth ached within her like a wound.

The scent of the place clung to her still - salt, dawn, and sacred weeping.
The welt on Skalpon's face had not faded, but now it seemed deeper, as if
the angel's attempts had only confirmed what was already there.

And yet... She had done what she could. She had offered anything. She had
laid herself bare before two gods - the Mother she trusted and one she
barely knew. No part of her felt missing -but still, the echo of that
offering lingered. Zandreya had heard. Austinian had heard. Of that, she
was sure. But they left with more questions than answers. The Warp was not
done. And neither was she.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 19:28:55 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia imm RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box

The cell was a frigid, purposeless chamber. Its occupant understood all
too well that its function was not to restrain him, but to uphold the
illusion of control. Not for his captor, but for the trembling souls who
served beneath him. Physical confinement meant little to those of the
ageless, and he knew the master of this durance understood that well. The
message had been delivered by his very presence here, and the hospitality
was as bitter as the man's legend. He was starved, allotted barely enough
water to cling to life. Yet he scarcely noticed. His command over his
bodily processes had long been tempered by his attunement to the ethereal -
his metabolism slowed by a thought. Even so, of All the things denied to
him in this wretched delve, a proper meal remained the most sorely missed.

He had been here for years now - years without once feeling the warming sun.
It was a strange thing, how the senses adjusted, reshaped by prolonged
darkness and cold. Over time, he came to hear the rats in the walls with
great clarity, to mark the subtle shift in the rhythm of dripping water as
frost gave way to thaw, season after season. These small changes amused
him, quiet reminders of the world beyond and how time marched on, even here
in stillness. He often wondered what Crelius had set in motion while he
lingered in this isolation.

It would be wrong to think Atennim had cast him into this cell on a whim, or
merely to remove a player from the board. No, he had taken great care - he
had bound not only his body, but shackled his mind as well. Something
within the walls of this place disrupted him. His latent talents, once
effortless, now stuttered and failed. Every attempt to reach outward - to
brush the veil beyond these fetid walls, to sense the ether-threaded weave
that ran beneath All things - collapsed into silence. This place had been
crafted with a certain knowledge. Crelius had accounted for the subtleties
of his nature, and built this prison accordingly.

It was also telling that the knight had not visited in over a year - a
silence that, in itself, carried meaning. Not once had any of his warriors
spoken in his absence. His only contact with the world beyond was the brief
rattle of a small hatch, opened only to deliver his meager sustenance. In
the earlier years of his confinement, the knight had come with some
regularity. Twice in the first year, three times in the second. He had
reflected on those conversations countless times, turning every word over in
his mind, yet gleaned little of the mans true intent. Only one thing had
been made clear, the time would come to repay his debt, and when it was
done, he would be released.

Strange, that his absence troubles me more than the cell itself. Over the
years, I had come to understand him, perhaps even grow accustomed to him, in
the way one endures a handler whose knife is keener than your own. We
shared a strange rapport, if only because he never lied, and I never stopped
watching. I served him, in my own capacity, before his betrayal of Storm
Keep turned every allegiance to ash. Naturally, I was sent to track him
down. But it was he who found me - an irony I've had ample time to
consider.

And I'll admit, he made use of me, perhaps more effectively than my current
patron had. Telthian Schwartz values results, and he has little patience
for some of the obscure tools I employ. Whether Crelius saw the worth in my
methods, or merely sought to keep me close where he could watch me bleed, I
can't say. But there's something telling in his silence now. A year
without a word. Not even a proxy.

He had always been a complicated man, his mind a conundrum of contingencies
and contingencies against those. But beneath it all, a core of unwavering
foresight, and a loyalty so absolute the gods themselves might have paused
in envy. Perhaps it was that very loyalty that lit the spark for his
unraveling.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 19:36:15 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (continued)

I had detected his developing peculiarities over his visits. He had
become distracted in ways subtle but telling. When he spoke, it was as
though he were listening to another voice behind his own, one only he could
hear. His attention faltered at odd moments, his responses mistimed by
fractions of thought. Minor lapses, almost imperceptible... But not to me.

I've seen the touch of the warp before. I know the madness it brings. The
erosion of will, the fraying of thought. This wasn't that. This was a
tension that lived beneath his skin, like a wire drawn too tight. A
constant presence shadowed every motion, every breath. It wasn't a
possession. It wasn't fear. It was conflict. Quiet, buried deep, but
there All the same.

My idle contemplations were broken by the mechanics of intrusions. The
faintest tactile report of a key entering the ward. A whirring shift of
nested gears followed, well practiced, accompanied by the soft rise of an
inner cylinder. There was a brief pause, then a secondary rotation,
quieter, more controlled. That half-turn - yes, that was the signature. I
listened closely for the final disengagement. A muted click, delicate and
decisive. It had eluded me on prior occasions, the lock's craftsmanship too
obscure to catalogue. But now I recognized it. A Thistlebeard Hex Bolt.
Dwarven in make like its namesake. Prohibitively rare. Inviolate without
an adamantium ball-pick. An indulgence few would possess.

Not that it would serve me in the immediate sense. But in my trade, even
the smallest detail is a currency, and I bank that discovery for later use.
I waited, anticipating the familiar cadence of armored tread upon stone as
the fortified oaken door swung open. Instead, I was met not with the
silhouette of some grim commander, but with the slighter outline of an
unexpected figure. Narrow shoulders encased in a well-forged breastplate,
pauldrons resting above a tapered robe. The contours of her face were
refined, softened only by the tight pull of her hair drawn back with
precision. A woman. Unexpected, but far from unremarkable.

She stepped into the gloom with composure, a small wooden stool in her
hands, which she set down directly before me. From her side, she produced a
modest iron lantern that was plain in its make. With a turn of its
side-mounted knob, a soft, amber glow bloomed to life, casting shadows
across the chamber's damp stone. She placed it on the mildew-slick floor
between us. Even that meager light struck me like a blade. My senses
flaring under its sudden intrusion. It had been so long since I had seen
even the faintest glimmer that the glow felt nearly profane.

As my senses slowly acclimated to the light, she seated herself gracefully,
folding the hem of her robe neatly across her lap to spare it from the grime
of the floor. Once my eyes adjusted, the first and most striking detail
revealed itself, she wore a blindfold. Whether it was a gesture of
symbolism, deception, or necessity, I could not yet tell. Her hair,
raven-dark threaded with premature streaks of white, was pulled back and
braided in a manner that suggested discipline, perhaps even rank. Her face
bore no clear signs of youth, nor the erosion of old age. Balanced,
tempered. Just beneath the line of the blindfold, faint linear scars traced
along her cheekbones. Evidence of past violence or ritual. She was not
beautiful in the courtly sense, but there was a hardened allure to her.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 20:24:50 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (continued)

She sat in silence for several moments. Observing nothing, yet somehow
registering far more than her stillness suggested. It struck me, then, that
she was not merely adjusting to the chamber, but allowing me time to observe
her. A calculated exposure, as if offering a puzzle to be quietly solved.
My gaze was inevitably drawn to the matte jewel that hung about her neck. A
milky, opalescent stone that shimmered in ways my mind struggled to
reconcile, pulsing with a restrained energy. Her breastplate, too, held my
attention. Forged of darksteel, its surface bore the dull finish of
arcanium tempered with trace alloys, refined specifically to quash
reflection. The craftsmanship was unmistakable - Storm Keep. A design
favored by those who preferred not to be seen, yet intended to survive the
worst when they were.

"Sir Mavelle," she said at last, her voice a cold tenor, curiously edged
with what might pass for concern, though it felt rehearsed. Despite being
blindfolded, her bearing gave the impression of being seen, an imperious
presence that pierced the gloom without the aid of sight.

"Why is he not here?" I interrupted, opting to cut through the niceties,
hoping to provoke a reaction. An early test, perhaps, to gauge the rhythm
of her temperament before she settled too comfortably into the room.

"I presume you mean the First Knight, he is indisposed, " she replied
coolly, her voice devoid of inflection. Neither irritation nor interest.
Practiced.

Honesty - at least, that much I could discern. But perhaps there was a more
expedient route. As the notion passed through my mind, I extended my senses
outward, probing for a seam, an opening, some ethereal thread I might tug to
coerce compliance. Yet the instant I reached, my focus was drawn to the
milky stone at her throat, and with it, the attempt dissolved into
nothingness, like smoke against cold iron. I allowed myself a glance
upward. There, just at the corner of her mouth, played the faintest
suggestion of a smile. Amused and knowing.

"Altar Mavelle, the Silent Emissary," she said with a gentle chide, her tone
almost teasing. "Tsk, tsk. I assure you, we've made ample preparations for
all your... Methods."

"Well then," I said, discarding the last remnants of pretense. "Who might
you be?"

"We are not in the habit of trading in names," she replied with a faint nod.
"But for our purposes, you may call me the Seer." Her tone was measured,
unhurried, as she reached to unhook a rolled parchment from her belt.

"Ah," I mused, watching her movements for any tells. "So, a magus then?"

"Not exactly," she said, the edge of a half-smile touching her lips. "It is
I who tends to certain... Logistics." There was a deliberate pause before
that last word, as if weighing how much truth to release. She extended the
parchment toward me, the gesture calm and expectant.

I took the cylinder from her hand, noting the faded scars along her fingers,
not unlike those etched beneath her blindfold. As I turned the parchment in
my hands, I noted the absence of a seal. Curious. I glanced up, the
question forming before I let it fall from my tongue.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue May 13 20:34:50 2025
To All ( Chaos Shadow Verminasia IMM RP )
Subject Two Spiders in a Box (end)

"Did you write this?" I asked, tone neutral. "It must be difficult with
the blindfold."

That same faint smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, an expression that
conveyed neither amusement nor disdain.

"No," she replied. "Though I am capable. Unlike my companions, I wear this
not for ceremony but necessity. I suffer from a condition... An affliction
of sorts. On occasion, my eyes bleed of their own accord. It is...
Inconvenient."

She paused, letting her words settle before continuing, almost idly.

"As for the others, our orders are clear. None are permitted to look upon
your face. The ones who brought you in... Learned that. Rather abruptly."

So, the old dog still clings to his wits, and to the tattered shreds of
honor. Even among his own, he guards my anonymity. A gesture, perhaps, or
a precaution rooted in paranoia. I chose not to dwell on the intent.
Instead, I undid the simple knot and unrolled the parchment, eyes scanning
the contents with skepticism.

"A contract," I muttered. "Of course. It's almost comforting to see
Crelius still plays at tradition."

But as I read further, a flicker of irritation passed through me.

"This?" I said, the word edged with derision. "This is beneath me. An
assassination of this scale? Low-profile, unremarkable. Surely there are
legions of eager upstarts willing to bleed for coin and the illusion of
notoriety."

"Ahhh... But you overlook the particulars," she said, her voice smooth with
the insinuation of unspoken perils. With an almost careless flick, she
retrieved a key from her belt and cast it at my feet, the metal clinking
faintly against the stone. "Come then. Your mission begins now.
Preparation first. Then reconnaissance. Then... The deed."

I arched a brow, the suddenness catching me off guard. "Reconnaissance?"

Her expression did not shift, but her voice darkened - just enough to let
the venom show. "You'll be attending a coronation."

Writer: Lenore
Date Tue May 13 20:58:57 2025
To All ( FATALE IMM RP )
Subject Grave Ministry: Rites of Consecration I

The hills and woods held their breath.

Nothing moved in the clearing where the ruined temple loomed: no birds in
the canopy, no insects in the underbrush. Even the wind curved around the
desecrated structure, refusing to pass through its fractured bones. The
smell was the first thing that struck Lenore as she stepped into the open:
iron, wet moss, and old smoke, like the breath of something buried but not
yet rotted.

This was once a sanctum of Mencius, the God of Vengeance and Rage. He was
dead though. The stone walls had echoed with justice and wrath. Now they
were hollow, echoing only with the absence of the divine. It was here that
Cardinal Z'Quarus had begun his final work before his disappearance.
Extending the dreadlord's consecration to this house of retribution. Before
his vanishing, the Cardinal had entrusted Lenore with the continuation of
that terrible consecration.

{uOur {udread {ubrother{u'{us {umust {uknow {uthat {unot {uonly {uhas {uthe {uDreadlord {utaken {uup {uhis
{ufelled {ubrother{u'{us {uduties{u, {ubut {uhe {uis {uworthy {uof {uit, " he had said lowly, and
blood-mouthed. {u"We {umust {uhelp {uminister {uthe {ufallen {uDreadbrother{u'{us {uflock{u.
{uLest {uwe {uforget {uvengeance {uand {urage{u. {uWe {uwill {uearn {uthe {utrust {uof {uhis {uflock {uand
{uguide {uthem {uto {uthe {uDreadlord{u"

{u"{uThe {udevout {uof {uMencius {ulinger {ustill{u, {u" he had warned her. {u"They {ucome {uhere
{useething{u, {useeking {upenance{u, {useeking {utheir {ugod{u. {uBut {uwe {umust {uhelp {uthem {ucome {uto
{usee {uthat {uFatale {uhas {utaken {uup {uthe stewarding {uof {uhate {uand{u vengeance."

{u"The {uDreadlord {uhas {utaken {uup {uthe {umantle {uof {uHis {ufallen {ubrother{u. {uNot {uin
{umimicry-in {unew {udominion{u. {uThis {uplace {umust {uspeak {uwith {uHis {usilence{u. {uIt {umust
{uteach {uthat {uretribution {uis {umurder {umade {usacred."

{u{u"{uYou {uare {unot {uhere {uto {ucomfort {uthem{u, {uDeacon{u. {uYou {uare {uhere {uto {ushow {uthem {uthe
{utruth{u: {uthat {uvengeance {uand {uhate {uare {ustill {upowerful {udomains {unow {udutifully
{umanaged {uby {uour {uown {udreadlord {uand {umaster{u. {uOur {ufellow {udreadbrothers {uand
{usisters {uof {uvengeance {uand {uhate {uhave {umuch {uto {uadd {uto {uthe {utapestry {uof {unight{u"

And so she came. Day after day.

Beneath the twisted arch of scorched stone, she passed into the nave. Vines
hung like blackened entrails from the high windows. Once-carved glyphs had
decayed into ghost-scratchings. What had been holy was now defiled. Or
perhaps it was only waiting to be made holy once again-under new dominion.

She carried the bronze basin herself, wrapped in cloth. The bundle within
was heavy and warm. It shifted slightly in her hands, slippery with blood,
perfumed with righteousness. The air changed as she passed the threshold.
Sound died. Even her footsteps were muffled on the cracked stone. The
interior stretched long and narrow, a corridor of crumbling pews and
shattered sconces. Shafts of moonlight filtered through the half-collapsed
dome, catching dust like drifting ash.

At the far end, the altar awaiteda black obsidian slab, cracked clean down
the center. The wall behind it bore the ruined sigil of Mencius, now
nothing but claw-gouges in faded gold.

The God of Vengeance was dead here.

The Dreadlord reigns in his place.

Lenore knelt before the altar.

She peeled the cloth away with reverence. The heart inside pulsed no more,
but it was red and full and pure. It had been carved from a knight of
Nadrik, the god of Honor--a man who had spoken forgiveness with his final
breath, even as Lenore's blade opened his chest.

That prayer had been for her.

Writer: Lenore
Date Tue May 13 21:09:12 2025
To All ( FATALE IMM RP )
Subject Grave Ministry: Rites of Consecration II

And now, his holy heart would be offered to the god who did not forgive.

Lenore set it gently upon the altar.

It made a faint, wet sound.

Blood began to spread slowly across the altars cracked surface, seeping into
the old stone like ink into old parchment.

From her satchel, Lenore produced a leather pouch. Inside was iron salta
sacred compound of rusted blood-iron, sea-salt, and powdered bone. She
scattered it around the base of the altar in a slow, circular motion,
whispering as she did:

{uIron {uto {ubind.

{uSalt {uto {useal{u.

{uAsh {uto {uname.

{uBy {uthis {uring{u, {uI {ubid {uYou {ucome.

The salt hissed on contact. Crimson smoke rose in curling tendrils. The
smell of scorched blood filled the nave. She lit the black tapers. Three
candles. A trinity of shadows. Their flames burned blue. Lenore placed
her hands on the altar, palms flat against the blood-slicked stone. She
bowed her head.

{u"My {uDreadlord {uand {uMaster{u," she whispered.

{u"{uLord {uof {uGraves{u. {uYou {uwho {utake {unot {ufor {ujustice{u, {ubut {ufor {udominion. {u {uBy {uthe
{uwill {uof {uCardinal {uZ{u'{uQuarus{u, {uand {uby {uthe {ublade {uI {ubear{u, {uI {useek to {uconsecrate
{uthis {uplace {uin {uYour {uname{u."

{u"{uHis {uheart {uwas {upure. {u{uIt {udied {uwith {uno {uhate. {u{u {uLet {uits {ustillness {uopen {uthis
{usanctuary {uto {uYou{u. {uLet {uit {uburn {uin {uthe {ubreathless {uhush {uYou {ucommand{u."

Then she waited.

The heart glistened under the flickering candlelight.

Blood continued to crawl across the altar, slow and patient.

The iron salt blackened. The scent of rust thickened in the air.

Lenore struck her flint.

Sparks landed on the heart. Nothing.

She tried again. Then again.

Still, the heart would not burn.

She stood slowly, the blood clinging to her hands like old sins.

No, she said. Her voice was clear, but quiet.

Not emptiness. Not peace. Something else.

It was the silence of a god who does not need to speak to be heard. It was
not rejection. But it was not acceptance. And it carved at her more
cruelly than either. She closed her eyes. Not in prayer, but in
containmentm trying to hold still against the sudden shaking that threatened
to reach her shoulders, her hands, her breath. This was the twelfth
offering since Z'Quarus vanished. Another pure heart. Another cold altar.

Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed May 14 10:26:47 2025
To All Imm RP Austinian
Subject One More Light

Kayaka stumbled through the trembling church, the ground heaving beneath
the flagstones. Acolytes and priests shot her worried glances as she
passed. She offered what comfort she could, clipped reassurances, calming
touches, whispered prayers.

Overhead, the sky darkened and churned. Veins of angry blue laced through
roiling clouds of crimson and violet. A sickening magic tainted the air,
twisting the heavens themselves. Through stained glass, she glimpsed a
brilliant star drifting high above, watching the advancing army as it neared
Fort Ironclad. Soldiers of darkness had already fired upon it, forcing it
to withdraw, but still it lingered, observing.

Townsfolk and travelers flooded into the sanctuary, clutching meager
belongings, eyes wide with panic. Kayaka moved among them, offering bread,
a sip of water, a paper doll to a crying child, a charm of Austinian to a
trembling father.

Then came the sound of stone cracking. A deep, grinding groan. A scream.
Far to the north, a grotesque spire clawed its way into the sky, jagged and
unnatural, dwarfing every other landmark.

She froze at the threshold, hope faltering, as soldiers ran past the church
doors, racing to confront this new abomination.

Then she smelled it.

The stench hit her like a blow. Fetid meat, sour rot, swamp and decay. She
turned toward it...

A scream tore through the air.

Framed in the doorway stood a beast: misshapen, wretched, weeping silently
with a dozen mouths. Its flesh oozed and writhed with foul magic. It crept
forward on limbs too numerous and uneven, its hunger fixed on a child too
terrified to move.

Behind it, more horrors emerged from the ground, from folds in the air,
drawn by the scent of fear.

Kayaka ran to meet them. She drove her staff into the floor, its gem
flaring bright. Holy light bloomed, and with it, a desperate prayer to
Austinian. She called for sanctuary, for protection, for deliverance.

The beast paused. Then, one of its mouths twisted into a leer.

"Priestess of the fading light, " it whispered. Another mouth sobbed in
harmony. "No one comes to save you. Your god has abandoned you. "

The others laughed, wet and broken sounds.

"These prayers are lies. Their hope is a lie. In the end, no one cares if
one more light goes out. "

A crooked arm reached out like a serpent, inching toward the sobbing child.

Then. Light.

A blinding flash. A concussive burst.

When the glare faded, he stood there.

The flagstones had shattered beneath the force of his landing. In his hand,
a sword burned with living flame. His snowy wings unfurled, casting wide
shadows that shielded the gathered flock.

He rose to his full height, a giant of conviction and fury.

His voice rolled like thunder, deep and unshakable.

Two words.

"I do"

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed May 14 13:29:29 2025

Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu May 15 10:22:24 2025

Writer: Agarwood
Date Thu May 15 11:11:55 2025
To All Sebatis ( Religion Imm Xenophon Rhelic )
Subject The Defilement of the Red Moon

From the Indigo Plunge surrounding the Hidden Academy of Magick, Agarwood
stared up at the Red Moon between stints of writing. The arboren was not
having trouble deciding what to write. His concentration was being halted
by a foreign feeling deep within his heart- within the magicks that inspired
life inside of him, and within the divinity belonging to Sebatis buried deep
within his soul. The Chaos Invasion had left a wound in the sky for All of
the realm to see, a disease and scourge of the gods and mortals alike: the
mark of the Everwar worn as though it were a veil in front of the Red Moon.

The arboren's palms still stung from battling the worms and chaosbeasts. He
had expelled much of his magick that day alongside Queen Piknim and her axis
of powers. Cataclysms make unlikely alliances. While he disapproved strongly
of Drakkara, he saw no other path towards foiling Chaos in the moment. This
world belongs to those who oversee it as any kind of steward- even if they
would see themselves become its conqueror one day.

The priest set his quill against parchment and immediately halted once more.
He emitted a troubled grunt as he felt a foreign tug within him. It was dis-
tracting, like enduring a fleeting night terror while awake. It left a tinge
within him as it passed, as though sipping on a cold glass of water ended in
the horrible taste of rust. If his soul were an instrument bear taut silken
strings, it felt as though a dull knife was being dragged across them to test
their integrity. He glanced now up at the mark of Chaos above and furrowed
his brow in anger, the red light of his eyes shifting from its soft glow to
a swirling scarlet fury, and turned to his quill and parchment once more.

At one time, Agarwood had viewed Chaos as the natural progression of a mortal
consciousness that sought to distance themselves from the gods- viewing them
as the cause of All anguish and pain. In their attempt to make sense of their
loss, they honed their suffering into an edge to plunge into the breast of
all gods believing it would free them. Many believed (Agarwood included) that
once they saw the harm they themselves inflicted, they would see the parallel
between the suffering caused by the gods and the suffering caused by Chaos
and come to their senses to acknowledge themselves as equally imperfect and
flawed beings. Not so. Chaos drank deeper from this cup and embraced a future
that can only be called Algoron's Doom.

Agarwood penned one last thought onto the letter, rolled the foil up quickly,
and tucked it away into the sleeve of his robes.

Chaos is not natural. Balance doesn't have an opposing force. If it did, it
would be no different from the extremes of good and evil. Chaos had found a
magick to interfere with the passage of the Red Moon. If by some nebulous,
wyrding magick they wish to inflict harm, then, by magick, they will be smote.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu May 15 17:55:48 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oAppetite

In the tunneled halls of Mount Darkonin, there was little reason for
revelry. While fires guttered low for want of tending, snotlings huddled
together for warmth, their once brazen braying had been reduced to the
whimpering chatter of the meek. Great ogres dozed restlessly, their
once-gorged bellies wasting for need of food and conquest.

Where once drums beat the rhythms of war, and horns heralded the great hosts
of the greenskin tides there lingered now only the chilling howl of icy wind
through the mountain tunnels to interrupt the snoring laziness of those who
still called the Mountain home.

Life has a way of looking past those who haven't the ambition to direct its
gaze.

{u ***

Xaxtur had been {ohungry for as long as he could remember, and the malignantly
orange hobgoblin never denied himself a meal.

His return to Mount Darkonin was one of little fanfare, and the corpulent
glutton forced his way past trembling snotlings who'd lined the halls to see
the great beast who openly professed his appetites for the world to hear.

{u"{oLet Algoron tremble for fear that I grow large enough to swallow Her whole.{u"

Xaxtur would proclaim, while his violently violet tongue stripped flesh from
the femur jutting out between two enormous tusks that weighed down his
protruberant lower lip.

Once clean of meat and marrow, the hobgoblin spat the bone against a wall,
where it rattled against walls long ago hewn from the stone that shields the
heart of Mount Darkonin from Icewall's frozen climes. Snotling goblins
fought for an opportunity to taste a hint of the meat upon which the Great
Orange One gorged himself.

{u ***

Ambition is an appetite. A gluttonous desire to feast on the spoils you
grab and claw from the clutches of whatever you may.

Every {ohunger must be sated, lest the craving consume you instead.

Mount Darkonin's craggy peaks yearn to touch the moons that hang over the
summit's split, and deep within the fortress-like city's harrowing halls,
greenskins began to whisper a two-syllable name.

Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu May 15 18:59:44 2025
To All verminasia Piknim Xaxtur imm rp Drakkara
Subject Gluttony In A Days Work

In the heart of his cavernous lair, a throne of rotting flesh squats, its
surface grotesque mosaic of decaying remains. The seat is a putrid mix of
mottled green and black, glistening with fluids that drip slowly to the
floor below, each drop a testament to the raw, untamed power that resides
here. The back of the throne is a twisted assemblage of ribs and vertebrae,
their surfaces gnawed and yellowed, jutting out like the branches of some
twisted tree. The armrests are the desiccated remains of what were once
powerful limbs, now reduced to little more than bones and tendons, their
surfaces slick and shiny. The skull of a griffin tops the throne, its beak
agape in a silent scream, its eye sockets empty and staring. It is upon the
throne of conquest and decay that Ryzzynth sits.

Ryzzynth's scales, a myriad of rich browns, glisten with a thin sheen of
sweat and blood, a result of his day's labor. His belly is distended, a
vast, protruding sack that speaks of a feast well indulged in. The dragons
eyes, pools of ocean water, are heavy lidded and satiated, his breaths
coming in deep, contented rumbles that resonate through the chamber like the
distant roll of thunder. His tail drapes lazily over the arm of the throne,
its tip twitching occasionally as he recalls the days hunt. The air is
thick with the coppery tang of blood and sweet, cloying scent of rotting
meat, a symphony of delights that speak to the variety in his conquests.

Ryzzynth's satisfaction is palpable, his body a temple to the raw,
unyielding power of the predator, his throne a testament to the lives he has
claimed and the feasts he has yet to enjoy.

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 09:12:51 2025

Writer: Tamello
Date Fri May 16 09:19:13 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 09:20:33 2025

Writer: Tephysea
Date Fri May 16 09:54:05 2025
To Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti All ( Imm RP Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Moon Tree: Asking For a Leaf With the Gift of Song

After making her rounds, ensuring the elves got proper rest for the
continuing battle ahead, Tephysea stopped before the Moon Tree. She studied
it for a long momennt before kneeling down, placing her palm against the
dark bark.

Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she then began to sing. Her voice
sweet, lilting, musical. She sang a melody of hope, the hope she held
within her heart, the hope she held in her people. The hope she held in the
Mother. Even as she sang and wove the tale to the tree, a single tear had
streamed down her face.

Her voice never wavered or faltered, instead it lifted higher until she let
the melody of the song slowly fade out. With one hand still pressed to the
bark, her other hand lifted to curl into a fist against her heart. Her
voice was barely above a whisper as she spoke one word..

'Please.. '

Her niece, Eridessa, had arrived not long after, having heard her sing and
the single word that she whispered. Tephysea remained kneeled near the tree
with her head bowed low as she waited.

Time was of the essence.

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 10:14:51 2025

Writer: Orutix
Date Fri May 16 10:49:22 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Feed the Dream{u: Lucidity in the Underdark

The Sigils on the surface of the relic twisted, rearranging themselves
into shapes that burned into the gnome's fractured mind. Behind grey eyes
that churned as if an underground tempest, the Spine's horrors played out.
The Priests, once devout, now reduced to writhing vessels, their souls
unspooled and woven into the Reliqua's core.

Orutix's blackened finger tips closed around the relic as he stood before
the Spine between Arkane and Verminasia. The ossified relic warm with
stolen divinity, pulsed against his palm like a dying heart. The moment his
skin touched its surface - a grotesque lattice of fused bone and preserved
flesh - his vision splintered.

Everything before him, the trail, the forest, the Dark witch-Queen kender
that handed him the clattering relic, melted away, replaced by a yawning
abyss where silent mouths gaped in endless chorus. Their whispers not of
sound, but pure, gnawing revelation. The Gnome tried to focus his mind and
pull away, but he could not. The stolen Priest's suffering was not his
memory, but a presence. He felt their torment as his own, their final
moments of rapture and agony merging into a single, ceaseless hymn.

Then, the voice came - louder than before, hungrier. "You hold them now, "
the Overseer crooned, its words slithering from the Underdark's depths.
"Their faith, their fear - your key. " Orutix's veins burned with borrowed
power, his gnome-blood singing with the echoes of the unmade holy. The
Reliqua was not just a vessel. It was a door. And something on the other
side pressed close, drawn by his touch.

When Orutix finally wrenched himself free, the Reliqua clattered to the
stones, its sigils still writhing. His hands trembled, his mouth dry with
the aftertaste of something vast and nameless. The trail before him and the
Regal figure returned, but the air was different, heavier, as if the shadows
now watched him back. The Overseers laughter coiled in his skull.

Orutix relinquished the Reliqua to Witch-Queen Piknim, her graceful fingers
twitching with barely restrained patience as she retrieved the artifact from
his grasp. As the relic's maddening whispers faded from his mind, clarity
returned like cold water - yet beneath his feet, he could feel the Dungeon's
foundations trembling to the southeast, the ancient darkness below swelling
upward like some great leviathan breaking the surface after eons in the
abyss, the Underdark called it's Warlord hoem to prepare the Synod Summons.

Writer: Drogan
Date Fri May 16 11:11:06 2025
To Verminasia Marauders Darkonin ( All Imm Rhelic Xenophon )
Subject Isolation of the King

**The winds of Icewall howl across the Ice Plains. ***

The chill of Icewall felt refreshing on the ogre's skin as he made his way
to the base of the mountain. His blood was still hot from battle and the
mountain winds washed the fever away. Ichor from the worms and the denizens
of the Spires were splattered across his leathers and the tip of his spear.
Pausing before the mountain, he recalled the evening's events.

The worms had appeared across Algoron, from Shalonesti to Arkania, they rose
from the ground like deformed maggots. The hideous spires like other
worldly flowers had erupted like tumors from the earth. Elves,
Verminasians, Arkanians, and Dragons All crisscrossed continents to put them
down before more damage could be done. Even a lone angel has prevented
damage to the Church of the Stars. All had united against Chaos but
something wasn't right.

'The blighted miasma falls from the skies above Arkania, soiling the trees
and infecting any it; touches with the warp's madness. '

Drogan had checked on the Fort a few times and witnessed a scout reporting
on All the events. Yet there was something about the scout that had caught
his eye. While the soldiers of the Marauders had fought the worms, this
scout wasn't just covered in gore but also seemed to be leaking black ooze
from his wounds. The Highlord had ordered him to the healer's tents. Still
something tugged at Drogan's senses. He looked at the scout's neck as black
veins crawled up it like wriggling worms.

Calls of another spine drew the King from the Fort and into the fray in
southern Verminasia. His spiritual steed tore the very ground beneath it's
feet as it raced northwards. There, a grotesque amalgamation of earth,
bone, flesh, and bodies rose into the sky. One by one the armies of the
Algoron jumped within it's blighted depths to stab at the heart and the King
journeyed as well. With each swing of his spear, his muscles became weaker
and his breathing labored yet he would show no weakness before his equals.

When the deed was done, and the world oddly silent, the King of Darkonin
returned to Icewall. Standing before the Mountain, understanding
illuminated All that had occurred. Slowly he undid his tunic and as he did,
he noticed that he too bore the infection of Chaos as the black tendrils of
the Warp curled up his flesh. Sighing low he called to his attendants.

'Me will go to Gruntz and the ruined caves within. Me do not wish to spread
this infection to me people. Tell the Chiefs and Shaman not to come until
me find cure. Mountain must be preserved. '

The Darkonin shaman tipped their heads and returned to the home while their
King plodded north to the ruins of the Ogre city.

***A blizzard of white envelopes the lone figure as it treks over the
tundra. ***

Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 11:33:53 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All ( Imm RP Religion Zandreya Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject The Moon Tree: At the Roots of Silence

She had followed the voice through the night, Tephysea's song, a thread
of light in the darkness. Sweet and sorrowful, it was full of the weight
only those who have lived long and seen too much can carry without breaking.
Eridessa came upon her aunt kneeling before the Moon Tree, head bowed, hand
to bark, her final whispered please hanging in the air like the last petal
of autumn. She did not speak. There was no need.

Instead, she knelt beside her. The Moon Tree stood still as stone, towering
and ageless, her bark dark as ink and flecked with hidden starlight. Around
them, the world was not quiet.

The miasma hung in the air like smoke that would not burn. Spores drifted,
languid and pale, curling and clinging as though the very breath of
corruption. The ground itself seemed to churn below them - not visibly, but
felt. A roiling pressure beneath the roots, echoing like a drum in the
belly, stirring nausea and unease that made the blood feel thin and crawling
beneath the skin. Even here, even this close to the sacred tree, the rot of
the world pressed inward, the thought that it too was born of the chaos of
Chaos, had not escaped her.

Elves were good at waiting. They had waited across ages for signs, for
seasons, for stars to shift. But this was different. The forest was
burning, even if not yet by flame. They could not wait forever.

Eridessa reached slowly into the satchel at her side and withdrew what she
had brought in offering. She did not sing, though her voice had also been
raised in times of reverence and worship, she instead gave of what she knew
best. She had no crown to offer, no command to give. Only this: the cold
breath of ages, and the warm cradle of earth. Life, and what might come
after. An alabaster ampulla, shot through with hues of ruby veining, bore
melted ice, gathered from the shattered glacial cliffs of Icewall. If the
Monsignor was right, the breath of Turpa might still linger in the veins of
that old frost. It shimmered faintly, almost impossibly cold to the touch
despite the warmth of these lands and it had chilled her flesh even through
the stone and leather on the way home.

The second vessel held earth, dark and rich, collected from the forests in
Shokono where the trees and bamboo grew high as any Vallenwood she had seen.
Their boughs glowed with health, the glade untouched by rot - untainted,
unblessed perhaps directly, but alive. As they had spoken of the night
before, perhaps there was hopes that clean ground might nourish what divine
blessing could not yet reach.

She applied both with care and reverence.

Eridessa poured the water first. It trickled down the tree's base, catching
in crevices and sinking into the roots. It smelled of ancient cold, like
the breath of an age that had not yet been forgotten.

Then she took the earth in hand and let it fall, slowly, through her
fingers. It was damp, clinging lightly to her skin, releasing the deep,
loamy scent of living ground. Soil that had never known poison. Soil that
might cradle hope. When she had emptied her hand, she pressed her palm flat
to the dirt and bowed her head beside Tephysea.

Still, the tree remained silent. Watching. Waiting. If it heard, it gave
no sign. No leaf fell. No light broke through the gloom. Only the hush of
the sickened glade, the ever-settling spores, and the distant sound of
something moving far beneath the surface, unseen, but known.

Together, they waited. Because elves were good at waiting. But time, would
one day run out.

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:00:18 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:04:22 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Fri May 16 12:55:36 2025

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Fri May 16 13:49:21 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oAmbition

Rivalries amongst the greenskin tides are nothing new. In every warband
you'll find three or four lieutenants with machinations for the mantle of
chief already well underway. It is this splinter-like nature of the
fractious horde that's allowed the better organized legions of 'more
civilized' peoples to drive them from their homes and scatter the fires of
their ire to the winds like so many ashes once the fuel is gone.

{u ***

Fuel.

{u"{oLife's about consumption, lads, {u" Xaxtur oft told any snotlings who'd
position themselves as groupies, sycophants, and cloakriders. They scrapped
and scraped for what meagre offerings the Lord of Hunger might miss in his
daily devouring devotionals. He never missed much. {u"{oYou're either the one
doin' the consumin', {u" the gorging glutton spoke through a never-ending
mouthful of muscle and sinew, {u"{oor yer bound t'find out th' fun way that
you're the one bein' consumed. {u"

The wicked orange hobgoblin had far outstripped the size of most greenskins.
Even in Darkonin, oft famed for the {oappetites of its denizens, he was
corpulently overlarge. Two squibs -- goblins so tiny they barely registered
to most -- lugged around a full keg of ale day and night to slake the Great
Orange One's thirst. {oHunger help them if they tripped, or spilled.

{u ***

An intrinsic pillar of greenskin society is the mantra: {oBigger Is Better.
Those vying for their place in the annals of grunt-laden history have a long
platter from which to eat before they can enforce their will upon the masses
of greenskins either too meek or too small to throw their weight around in
pursuit of their ambitions. Always there lurks the danger that some cunning
slipknife might invite themself to an unannounced slumber party at a
fire-bellied upstart's chosen sleeping chambers and offering up a gift of
eternal slumber for the trouble of it all.

{u ***

When enough feet stamp and march over rolling hills, the very earth of
Algoron flattens. When the voices of a horde whisper in unison, their
ritualistic chanting echoes a dire warning through the tunnels of Mount
Darkonin.

Two syllables spread like a virulent plague in the mouths of the scurrying
greenskin tide that floods through the Mountain, and behind those sinister
syllables lingers the overwhelming idea of something far more dangerous
than the name alone: {u"{oXaxtur.{u"

Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:37:49 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Where Trees Cannot Grow

Eridessa ducked her head for the fifth time in as many minutes, murmuring
soft apologies to the low-hanging beams of Gahboom Hill. The ceiling was
not made for elves, the gnomes, on the other hand, bustled about with barely
a thought to the narrow stone corridors, winding stairwells, or the fact
that the entire hill seemed to hum faintly with a pressure that made her
hair prickle at the nape of her neck.

Her guide, a blur of wild orange hair, soot-smeared spectacles, and
enthusiasm so raw it nearly vibrated off the walls, had introduced himself
as Tinkwhistle Kettlefratch of the Third Sparked Cobalt Order, and had
barely taken a breath since greeting her.

"And this! This here's where we keep the secondary blast chambers! Now, we
don't use them except in case the primary run misfires - you wouldn't
believe how many times someone forgets to calculate the compression curve!
But that's why we line the back wall with copper thread and -oh! That
reminds me! Have you ever seen what happens when you mix crushed fireleaf
with powdered obsidian dust? No? Here, let me draw it! " She had never
been so thankful for her lessons in gnomish as now and she was still certain
she missed at least a third of what he was saying.

He sketched wildly on a bit of soot-blackened slate, his chalk moving faster
than she could track, diagrams appearing like constellations of lunacy. His
excitement was contagious, and despite herself, Eridessa smiled - politely,
graciously - but also vaguely uneasily.

It was not that she wasn't grateful. She was. The gnomes had agreed to
show her the engineering marvel that was Gahboom Hill and how they managed
to blow holes in the mountain without collapsing the entire thing - a
crucial understanding in her current quest. It was just... Well,
Tinkwhistle had now spent nearly a half hour detailing how to get the
biggest bang possible, using terms like "ideal annihilation yield" and
"crater ratio optimization" with glee, none of which were helping her figure
out how the mountain survived it all.

Her smile, a diplomatic reflex, had begun to slip into something more
bewildered when another gnome - this one a bit older, with a shock of white
hair and hands permanently stained with what looked like graphite and
oilambled over. He watched her expression for a moment, then offered a
crooked grin.

"Maybe... Explosions not quite what tall leaf-lady is looking for? " he
said in halting but earnest Elvish, his vowels slanted and heavy, but his
intent kind.

Eridessa gave a soft laugh, brushing a curl behind one ear and bowing her
head with gentle gratitude. "That is correct. I am honored by
Tinkwhistle's passion, " she stated as she gave Tinkwhistle a genuine smile
before turning her attention back to the other gnome as she continued, " but
I came to understand how you protect the stone - how Gahboom Hill remains
intact through so many... Controlled disasters. "

Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:47:35 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Listening Beneath the Mountain

"Ah! " the gnome's eyes lit. "You want... Structure talk! Yes. This
I know. I am Grivven Pebblecrank, Fourth Caster of Load-Bearing Lore. "

Before she could ask what that meant, Grivven had pulled a large roll of
parchment from somewhere beneath his belt and unfurled it with dramatic
flair, revealing a sprawling, annotated cross-section of Gahboom Hill. Then
came the lecture - rapid, wildly technical, and yet somehow clear enough
that Eridessa found herself grasping the shape of it, if not every detail.

"See, explosions go this way, " he jabbed, "but we put runic pressure
breakers here - metal wedges laced with redspin ore, disrupts directional
force. And walls, not stone alone - tri-pressed granite composite, layered
with crushed boneglass, let it flex instead of break. Boom goes up. Never
down. That's the trick. "

He paused only to take a breath before launching into a passionate speech
about flame venting ducts, breathing stone channels, and the sacred
mathematical ratios gnomes attributed to Cliath the Creator, patron of
invention and sheer improbable success.

Eridessa listened intently, her quill scratching steadily as she added to
her notes, capturing what she could. The details often slipped beyond her -
the nuanced resistance of tunneling alloys, the effect of lunar moisture on
ignition delays - but the spirit of it rooted in her well. These gnomes
were not reckless, as surface rumors sometimes painted them. They were
caretakers of stone, engineers of survival, dreamers who had taught fire to
obey.

She could respect that.

When Grivven finally finished, eyes gleaming with pride, she dipped her head
low, the gesture genuine. "You honor me with your knowledge, Master
Pebblecrank. I will carry it forward, and remember it well. "

He flushed crimson. "Tall ones not often listen. You do. " Idly she
wondered if the dwarves and the gnomes might agree on a great deal, though
she smiled, softer now, no longer simply polite.

There was a pause, and then, somewhere deeper in the tunnels, a tremendous
boom echoed up the shaft. Tinkwhistle yelled happily from a nearby chamber,
"That one was supposed to happen! " Eridessa, very carefully, did not ask
what that meant. Instead, she turned back to her notes - and kept writing.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 14:57:30 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Cayenna Rp Imm Relgion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Bearing the Boughs

The journey from Gahboom Hill back to Shalonesti had taken a bit longer
than Eridessa preferred, though the time had allowed her to review her notes
by candlelight, and for Grivven Pebblecrank to pack what he called his
"lecture gear," which included three collapsible diagrams, a crate of carved
stone samples, and a small enchanted pointer that sparked when he tapped it
twice.

Eridessa's satchel bulged with parchment, thick with diagrams, phrases
scribbled in both Elvish and Gnomish, and more than a few enthusiastic
doodles courtesy of Tinkwhistle that she hadn't the heart to remove. Her
fingers still bore traces of soot and graphite, a silent testament to her
efforts, and when the walls of Shalonesti's capital - grown, not built -
rose before them, she could not help but glance back once at Grivven, who
pulled a carefully arranged cart beside her.

"You still think our mountain tricks will be of use to trees? " he asked,
grinning through his beard. "Our trees are more than trees, " she replied,
with a quiet smile. "And the palace is more than boughs and leaves. It has
roots. And weight. You'll see. "

Tephysea's order had gone out barely a few days before their return: Ensure
the palace foundation is sturdy. Repair any cracks. Place barriers where
needed. The Steward had not spoken it lightly. Whatever magic kept the
Vallenwood stable had begun to waver - not fail, but creak beneath the
weight of years and growing pressure from the world outside. The engineers
- clad in soft robes of barkcloth and bronze-touched belts, their hair bound
in clean lines and their brows marked with the green sigil of the Builder's
Circle - gathered in the lower halls, beneath the great spiral staircase
that climbed like a shell through the heart of the living palace.

They welcomed Eridessa respectfully, though she could feel the weight of
their glances as she unrolled her gnomish diagrams on their moss-covered
tables. Not unkind, never that. But skeptical. A Shalonost. A druidess.
A royal.... Offering structural advice.

Their spokesman, an elf named Valethyn Sha'enlas Starbranch, gave her a
shallow bow. "We honor your diligence, Duchess Eridessa, and will review
your records. Though perhaps... The methods of the gnomes do not precisely
match our materials. "

"They do not, " she said, calm and unwavering. "But the principles do.
Pressure, direction, breathability of material. The mountain and the tree
both live. And both can break. "

Valethyn inclined his head, respectful but unconvinced.

That was when she stepped aside, gesturing toward the small gnome just
behind her, who had been quietly adjusting his shirt cuffs and muttering
about someone moving his diagrams. "May I present Master Grivven
Pebblecrank, Fourth Caster of Load-Bearing Lore, of Gahboom Hill. "

Grivven clambered up onto a flat table with the practiced confidence of
someone whod done this before. He tapped his pointer twice - it sparked
with a cheerful crack! - and launched in.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Fri May 16 15:08:17 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm Cayenna Rp Religion Zandreya Xenophon Rhelic
Subject Bearing the Boughs (Part 2)

He spoke in Common for clarity, though occasionally lapsed into Gnomish
when excited. He showed where pressure could be absorbed through curved
support branches, explained how layered material - like the bark-shielded
membranes in Vallenwood - could be reinforced with rune-inscribed flex
plates of shaped amberite. He gestured toward a crosscut of palace root
structure and suggested a lattice of natural stone, grown rather than
placed, to distribute weight more evenly and prevent fracture from magical
stress buildup.

He gave thanks to Cliath, the Maker, with every clever idea, a point that
did not escape his largely Zandreya worshipping audience, but they did not
voice dissent.

The elven engineers listened. Quietly. Intently. And then, they began to
speak among themselves - not to argue, but to build. Questions followed,
and clarifications. Grivven pulled another diagram out of nowhere.
Eridessa, seated nearby with her ink and parchment, recorded everything with
steady hand and sharp ear. She did not need to be the one who understood
every angle. But she might be the one who brought the wisdom forward.

You yourself might not have such talents, but this is part of leadership,
finding those who do and can bring such knowledge back.

Later, Valethyn approached her, his long fingers brushing over one of the
new diagrams, tracing where Grivven had marked a pattern of interlocking
support bands. "I would not have thought to consider such a reinforcement,
" he admitted quietly. "Nor would I have imagined a gnome might show it.
"

"He is not only a gnome, " she said softly. "He is a builder. And I have
been learning that builders speak the same language, even if the words are
different. "

Valethyn gave her a long look. "Your notes were thorough, the insight, even
more so. "

"I am no engineer, " she replied, meeting his stern emerald eyes with her
lavender gaze, "But I am learning how to listen. "

He nodded, and then again "Then you've done more than many ever manage. "

That night, as the engineers began their work in earnest, weaving spells
into the living wood and anchoring them with newfound methods, Eridessa
stood beneath the great boughs of the Vallenwood, looking up at its
silver-veined bark and the faint shimmer of sap-light that pulsed through
it.

Grivven came to stand beside her, his hair wild as ever, a leaf stuck behind
one ear where he hadn't noticed. "You think your home will hold? " he
asked quietly.

"I think.... , " she said, " You are helping to give it the best chance. "

And for now, that would be enough.

Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri May 16 18:30:06 2025

Writer: Ehlwynna
Date Sat May 17 10:32:47 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Sat May 17 12:18:09 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Sat May 17 12:18:16 2025

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat May 17 20:18:27 2025

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun May 18 11:35:38 2025
To All Lindanilis Raphiel Agarwood Aliera Lenore ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Reflections in the Meadow I

The white marble of the Ivory Tower faded behind him as Ulyssus headed
north. He drew his cloak tighter as the dense pines and slender birches of
the forest closed around him. The air was crisp, and a hush clung to the
boughs. Frost glittered in patches where his presence had chilled the
ground.

His staff tapped softly against the earth, its white oak polished smooth by
years of use. The ice crystal at its top glowed faintly, casting a pale
light in the shaded canopy, while his faithful owl drifted above between the
branches.

Soon, the trail opened into the Crossroads. It was a wide stretch of
trampled earth where travelers gathered and routes diverged. Wagons
clattered past, laden with trade goods. A trio of knights on white steeds
headed eastward without a word. Ulyssus adjusted his satchel, nodded once
to the passing knights, and turned west.

He approached the bridge that loomed ahead, crossing slowly, each footfall
echoing with a thud. Halfway across, he paused. Looking down at the river
of blood, he gave a short sigh, and then continued on his way.

At the far end of the bridge stood Althainia's gates. The guards gave him
no trouble as he was known to them. He stopped briefly at a cart of fruit
and speaking with Jhonas he purchased a basket of fruits. Jhonas asked
about the tower, as he often did, and Ulyssus responded with a smile and a
short tale of an apprentice who enchanted the candles to flicker in rhythm
with the librarian's snoring. They both laughed, and Ulyssus promised to
visit again before leaving the city. These small conversations rooted him,
reminding him that for All his power, it was kindness that made magic
sacred.

Walking into the city he saw children playing along the street, and
merchants haggling under colorful awnings. Ulyssus moved quietly through
the bustle, his presence subtle but commanding. He turned and travelled
south along the wall road, passing by the Blue Pixie Tavern.

As he approached a stone bridge, he noticed a beggar sitting near the wall,
wrapped in threadbare clothes and ignored by the passing crowd. Ulyssus
bent down to him and offered the basket of fruit he had purchased, along
with a handful of gold coins. He then recited an incantation and summoned
forth a spring of fresh water for the beggar, saying, 'Mae tha magic o' Lord
Kantilles bae a bless'n te ye thaes dae.' The beggar smiled as he nodded
to him, and Ulyssus continued his journey south.

Further south, he stopped at the edge of an old garden, and looked up at the
original Ivory Tower, now long in disuse. He reminisced about his younger
days and what it was like to step within that tower on his first day as a
student of the White Robes. The wind stirred his cloak as memories flooded
his mind.

A commotion from the north broke his reverie. City guards pursued someone
through the street and he turned and recognized her: Lenore, the Priestess
of Fatale.

She unleashed a divine torrent of shadows toward him. But Ulyssus, always
protected by the spells of Lord Kantilles, withstood the brunt of the
assault. He countered with a disjunction spell, but her blessings shielded
her from its full effect. They traded spells again before the Priestess
fled west toward Austral Square, the city guard close behind. Ulyssus
summoned a blizzard of ice and hurled it after her, striking one final blow
before she vanished beyond his sight.

With the conflict passed, he turned toward the guilds of illusionists and
enchanters. Once again he began to reminisce of old spells and days lost to
study. He had pored over the books of enhanced enchantment in his early
years, and more recently the tome of greater illusions. These were gifts of
the light, enchantments that offered protection and illusions that
delighted. Far more fitting for service to the light than the tome of
necromancy he had once pursued, lured by whispered promises of power. That
was a chapter he had gladly closed.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun May 18 11:47:47 2025
To All Lindanilis Raphiel Agarwood Aliera Lenore ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Reflections in the Meadow II

He said a short prayer to Lord Kantilles, offering thanks for the paths
behind him, then drew up his hood and continued south. When the road turned
west toward Elm Street, he followed it.

As he passed near the graveyard, he stopped beside a large oak tree, bowed
his head, and gave a brief prayer for those who came before him. As he
walked on, a gust of wind rustled the trees. It brought with it the scent
of old parchment and candle wax, the smells of the Ivory Tower. He
remembered his first casting of a simple light spell under the guidance of a
teacher. The orb he had conjured then had flickered wildly, but the joy it
brought him had been steady and bright. He smiled at the memory, so much
had changed since that day, yet the wonder had never left him. He glanced
toward the Chapel of the Eternal Flame before reaching his destination: the
Garden of Wishes.

A warm breeze stirred the hanging ivy as he entered. The scent of lavender
and sage filled the air. Mercedes waved from the shade of a willow near a
tree blooming with silver-petaled blossoms. He asked her for a peppermint
tea and a chocolate croissant, passing a few silver coins and thanking her
gently.

The trail led him into the the Brothers' Meadow, a wide open field where
wildflowers brushed his knees and birdsong filled the air. Ulyssus walked
to an oak bench and sat. He ate his croissant and, with a gesture, summoned
a small flame to gently warm his tea. He drank slowly, letting the
surroundings settle into his bones.

His owl landed softly on a statue shaped like its kind. An inscription hung
from the carving: wisdom, patience, and discipline. Ulyssus read the words
aloud and nodded in agreement.

A butterfly landed on his staff, its wings the color of polished lapis.
Ulyssus didn't move. The stillness of the meadow wrapped around him like a
benediction. The air was warm here, but he could feel the ever present
chill of his magic humming gently below the surface. He breathed in slowly.
'Mae ai always use tha gift en service, nae pride,' he whispered, a quiet
vow to Kantilles and himself.

He unslung his satchel and drew out his journal. The leather cover, worn
smooth, bore the symbol of Kantilles. It was not the stylized emblem used
by temples, but one drawn in reverence. He opened it to pages marked by the
road.

Drawing out a quill, he began to write. His script was steady as he
reflected on the recent altercation with Lenore, arcane versus divine.
Similarities in their spells had not escaped him.

He sat for a long time, flipping through the journal, studying his entries.
He reviewed his notes on divine magic and on service to Lord Kantilles,
discussions with the Priest Agarwood, the Archangel Raphiel, and Cardinal
Lindanilis. Lastly, he turned to his notes from Bishop Aliera, on wielding
divine power in the chaos of battle.

He ran his fingers along the pages, not just reading his words but the
spaces between them, the unspoken hopes, the doubts, the questions. Was
divine magic a flame given by the gods, and arcane magic the mirror that
caught its light and bent it to purpose? He pondered whether they were
truly separate paths, or merely two ways of looking at the same light
through different lenses.

Ulyssus traced a symbol of Kantilles in the dirt beside his boot, then
looked to the sky. A group of children passed, chasing a minor illusion
that danced like fireflies. With a flick of his fingers, he added a shimmer
to the spell and a bloom of flowers scattered into glimmering light.

The children laughed.

He turned back to the journal and continued to read in silence. He thought
about his service to magic and his walk beside it. To walk with it, to walk
with Him, was to bring light to its depths.

And so he sat, continuing to reflect on All that he had learned, the sun
dipping behind him, the path ahead not finished, only beginning.

Writer: Justian
Date Sun May 18 13:53:33 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface - Part 1

The night lay silent over Algoron, thickened by an unnatural hush that
stifled even the faintest breeze. Justian moved along a forgotten path
winding through the forest, drawn toward the ruins of something once
monumental.

Where once a towering spire had loomed, a spine of glistening flesh and
immortal agony, now only a collapsed husk. Shattered vertebrae jutted like
broken ribs from the earth, encased in warped sinew and ossified ichor.
Though the altar had been destroyed, the corruption had not retreated.
Pools of iridescent fluid pulsed faintly in scattered craters, their
surfaces rippling to unfelt winds... For a moment, the pools ripples
synchronized with Justian's own breath.

The air here still whispered. A resonance lingered beneath the soil, not
quite sound, not quite thought. It seeped into the bones of the ground and
waited.

Justian approached the ruin, hooves finding soft purchase on soil made
pliable by lingering Warp influence. At the edge of one pool a tendril of
violet-teal mist coiled upward, chilling yet inviting, whispering incoherent
syllables on the edge of perception.

From the shadows, eight hooded figures emerged, silent and reverent. Each
bore a delicate crystal phial. Taking a phial from the nearest figure
Justian, without ceremony, knelt down and scooped a portion of the viscous,
gleaming substance into one of the vessels. The fluid shimmered brighter as
it touched containment.

"It endures," he murmured, a thin smile curling his lips. "Even broken, it
endures."

He sealed each phial and handed them to a waiting hooded figure as he
worked. Justian rose slowly as he sealed the final phial, his fingers
tingled faintly too brief to matter, too strange to forget. The hooded
figures bowed their heads in eerie unison, then turned and vanished into the
treeline, the Warped essence held like sacred fire.

Alone now, Justian stood in the miasma, letting it stir around him. He
breathed in deeply, and the scent of earth, corruption, and promise filled
his lungs. Not decay. Fertile ruin.

His gaze turned back to the shattered spire... The chanting priests
silenced, the altar gone, yet the message still hummed beneath the ground.

The Warp had not died here. It had rooted deeper.

He drew in a final breath before turning away, each step thudding gently
upon the soil. Beneath one hoof, an eight-pointed star of Chaos bloomed,
faint, pulsing, ephemeral... A mark not upon the earth, but beneath it.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:46:59 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u I

Bigger is Better.

It's the sort of lesson every greenskin learns at an early age. An unspoken
rule doled out in beatings and too many nights spent hungry. Smaller
snotlings typically banded together under some ambitious would-be chief,
hoping for the safety -- and food -- that came in numbers.

Eventually, those snotlings grow in size and strength. Sometimes,
hand-in-hand with their growth, they gain an {oappetite. Ambition rides on
the coattails of the envious need for more that lies couched in every
greenskin's belly. Why give up half what you've scavenged to the warband
leader when you could just take his share, too, if you were big enough?

{u ***

Once was a day that a vaunted member of Necrucifer's Knights wouldn't seek
the assistance of the Mountain's putrid greenskins. Purism and its
sycophants are a dying breed, and the greenskin tides surge. The Stormed
Keep has a new mistress, and Darkonin's monsters found relevance in the
weave of this new tapestry.

Xaxtur had been knocking heads together over a keg of ale shared with a
bugbear who'd earned a meal. The bugbear was diminutive by comparison to
His Corpulence, but being larger than the snotlings and squibs who
desperately clung on to anything bigger than them wasn't particularly
difficult.

Storm Keep needs one hundred daggers imbued with the vicious poisons of
Mount Darkonin, and who to help better but the foul and pungent Xaxtur?

He left the squibs to the bugbear's malignant profession, and found the
Supplicant inside Darkonin's vaults. Before the well-dressed ambassador
from Storm sat a sack filled with a hundred daggers. The two exchanged
words, despite their cultural differences. How could Xaxtur see eye to eye
with someone who'd never eaten a barrel of dwarven teeth boiled in yak
urine?

Still. Promises made to Queen Cracklespark and his own {oambition drove him
forward, and the {ohungry, {o hungry hobgoblin set to work. In his rise to
power, Xaxtur had learned more poisons than he could count, but he had
developed as well his own particularly potent and nasty toxin.

Storm Keep's envoy didn't seem particularly pleased to watch Xaxtur sit
himself before the sack of daggers, and less so when the hobgoblin began
lifting those blades up to his cavernous maw. The Great Orange One's slick
violet tongue slathered the sharp edges of these blades in the thick
ichorous phlegm that coated the inside of his mouth, imbuing them with a
potent contaminant. The many rows of jagged and misaligned teeth that
filled the hobgoblin's jaw gleamed in the low light of the vault, and for
each dagger Xaxtur sealed in poison like an envelope meant for an enemy, he
counted the ways Storm's sword-arms could bring his own {oambitions to
fruition.

{u ***

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:53:58 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u II

{u"{oYou gits listen 'ere, an' listen good. {u"

Xaxtur spoke before a brace of greenskins. Bonfires lit behind him were
patrolled by menacing bugbears and nastily cunning goblins. A great ogre
sat between them holding a cudgel easily as large as many orcs were tall.
The bonfires roared in furor, and suspended above them were neatly crackling
sacks of meat. Flesh and fat rendered into bowls hung below, and the scent
of cooking meat filled the tunnels of Mount Darkonin, drawing the greenskin
tides from every corner of the Mountain.

Xaxtur stood, tall and heavy, on a dais before the bonfires. His
countenance was cast in shroud, but the corpulent hobgoblin strode back and
forth as he spoke around a mouthful of muscle, chewing in the face of hungry
greenskins eager for a meal.

{u"This Mountain wot's our home ain't fit f'r standin' still. You lot, too
weak an' scared, meek an' lackin' appetite! You want some-a dis 'ere meat,
doncher? {u"

He was taunting them, throwing another morsel of delicately roasted flesh
between his plaque-and-fungus-encrusted teeth and chewing with vigour.

"Wot you lot ONCE wuz ain't no more. We seen that story too many times,
izzn't we? Long-pigs stamp on our fires afore they can BLAZE. Point-ear
sucklings douse our ire f'r fear it'll consume they trees! Th' little hairy
cattle think THEIR mountain's better'n Darkonin. But I know a secret.
Wanter know it? {u" His voice hushes conspiratorially as he steps forward,
and chittering greenskins lean towards him in anticipation -- of the meal,
or his secret, or both.

{u"{oSomefin BIG is comin'. Th' fires o' Darkonin are lit again, an' YOU lot
needter eat. This Mountain's got an {oAPPETITE again, an' I tellin' you lads
an' lasses right 'ere: we are goin' to EAT! Darkonin's th' home of ev'ry
greenskin that ever walk'd Algoron's putrid earth, an' ev'ry greenskin that
ever will. Together, th' greenskin trickle rises into a Great Tide that'll
sweep o'er Algoron. An' I'll let you know somefing else, too. {u

The bonfires crackle ominously, their light casting Xaxtur in shadow, but
gleaming off the enormous tusks that rise perilously above his protuberant
lower lip. His sulfurous eyes glow in the dim lighting, brazen with feral
ferocity.

{u"{oI{o am 'Is Corpulence, Xaxtur World-Eater, the All-Consumer, Gorger, th'
Great Orange One, and I{o am th' Lord o' Hunger. I aim t'eat ev'ryfing wot
stands in m'way 'til I'm big enough t'devour Algoron whole. March wit' me,
an' I'll see ev'ry one-a youz lot fed 'long th'way. See you fat and gorged,
burgeoning wit' more meat than you've ev'r laid eyes on. {u"

Surprised eyes widened, excited hoots followed. As Xaxtur stepped
wobblingly to one side, his enormous gut swinging with his turn, he splayed
his arms wide, inviting the small horde towards the feast of meat he'd
prepared for them.

{u"{oEAT now, an' prepare your appetites{o, f'r there's a hell of a lot more where
dis came from! {u"

{u ***

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 11:55:42 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oTeeth{u &{o Tongue{u, {oPart {u III

A greenskin charge is a sight to behold. A greenskin charge driven by
{oappetite is another thing entirely, and Xaxtur looked on proudly as the
savage little creatures he was spurring leapt at the chance to devour
freshly roasted meat.

From their meat-filled mouths he could hear the rising of chanted syllables,
but it was somehow entirely impossible to distinguish whether those
syllables were {u"{oXaxtur{u" or {u"{oHunger{u".

Writer: Drogan
Date Mon May 19 18:16:40 2025
To Darkonin Skalpon ( All Imm Rhelic Xenophon )
Subject Isolation of the King : Elven Compassion

***The sound of leaves rustling in the wind. ***

The King sat in the vast cavern of Gruntz, once a bustling gathering hall
reduced to ghostly silence. He was sharpening his spear when the bear loped
inside.

'Me told yus not to come. ' growled Drogan without looking up.

The beastly shape changed and a bugbear stood in its place. The tattoo of
the bear's paw was inked upon his bare chest.

'Me King. Yus get message from Shalonesti asking fer advice. Them lookin
fer information in ice and waters. Me came to tell yus. ' and the bugbear
bowed as he took a step backwards.

Drogan grunted, the sound echoed around the cavern. 'Tell thems me will
meet them in the southern forests in two days. '

The bugbear nodded and then took the form of an owl. Taking wing, it flew
back towards the Mountain.

***Two Days Later***

Drogan had made a campfire amongst the trees. He sat watching the flames in
silence as he awaited the arrival of his guest. The woods were thinner as
they were closer to Thaxanos and with his infection, he felt it was safest.

It was dusk when a voice called from the shadows.

'King Drogan. ' greeted the Eldritch. He has never met this elf before but
the name was storied across Algoron.

'Skalpon. ' grunted the Ogre.

The two would converse for hours and when they said their good byes, Drogan
had a gift in his hand. A small vial to aid with the infection. He didn't
know if it would work but he valued it nonetheless. As the elf made his way
back to Shalonesti, the King took the form of a coyote and slinked into the
shadows to return home.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Mon May 19 22:09:59 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oDental Fortitude

The dawn greeted Xaxtur like a familiar friend. The hungry hobgoblin
stood nude before an open cliff-face atop Mount Darkonin, flesh burgeoning
like a fifty pound sausage stuffed in a ten pound casing. As much ale as
the beast consumes, one wouldn't expect him to be an early riser.
Unfortunately, Xaxtur had been taught young about the early bird and the
worm.

{u ***

Xaxtur was born the runt of a litter of sixteen, and the only amongst their
number with his curious {oorange skin. Before his second year, Xaxtur had
reduced that number to twelve. Curiously, he was no longer the runt.

No sooner had the All-Consumer's teeth grown in than he was stuffing
whatever would fit into his cavernous maw and the great gullet that was even
then developing the {oappetite he would later become known for.

It was his own experience with his littermates, and subsequent meals, that
taught Xaxtur the mantra that would become his life: {oBigger is Better{u. {o Eat
and Be Big{u. {o Eat More and Be Bigger{u. {o Eat Most, and Be Biggest{u.

{u ***

A hobgoblin of many hats, Xaxtur found himself today once more delving into
the bloody work of at-home dentistry.

The void that Mencius' death had left in his gut could only be so sated with
a steady diet of whatever found its unfortunate way into the Gorger's meaty
hands. There was something more that gnawed at him. That burned at his
insides, gnawing at his freshly charred innards. Metaphorically speaking.

Today's lucky patients were the occupants of a nomadic village north of
Althainia, and the hobgoblin had already begun to realise that he made a far
worse dentist than he did a butcher. Not that the knowledge would stop him.

At the end of the day, he wasn't there to safeguard the precious teeth of
all those (relatively) innocent villagers. No, he had bigger plans for
those teeth, and he'd resolved to collect a thousand today. It doesn't take
too many humans to acquire a thousand teeth. Surprisingly low number.

A hair shy of forty villagers did their damnedest to impede the ungodly
creature they suddenly found in their midst, but what weapons they could
bring to bear snapped ineffectually against the tough skin of the corpulent
corpse-reaver.

Xaxtur swept through that village like a Verminasian guillotine, and in his
wake he left a mess for the carrion birds to clean up.

But not before collecting his trophies.

Each body was hovered over after, and the Lord of Hunger pried free the
teeth of the slain with anything but delicacy. When he'd finished, his
meaty hands were covered in gore and offal, and his ichorous phlegm spilled
from his lower lip. Suppressing his {oappetite was no mean feat, but he was
drawn here for higher purpose, and these deaths were meant as a symbol.

{u ***

Evening greeted Xaxtur with the soft embrace of a lover, for the grotesque
orange-coloured greenskin had a face only the night could love. He counted
out a thousand teeth, plinking them into a thick cauldron of star-iron.
They'd wait there, still covered in congealing blood and the remnants of
that from which they were plucked, until he was ready to assemble his gift.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 12:17:28 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oFeast{u or {oFamine

Xaxtur was born when the Black Moon was at its zenith, and his mother
hardly stopped her manic slaughter to be rid of the gnarled orange runt or
his fifteen littermates that were left scattered from one side of the
Nordmaarian village she and her warband were in the process of raiding.

Smoke and salt met screaming agony, and somewhere in the middle the cries of
greenskin babes thrust into a world as dark as it is shattered pierced that
shrouding fog of war. Even in the black-limned foray of battle, it was
clear that tiny Xaxtur was {odifferent.

Before the greenskin raiders had finished mopping up what remained of
stragglers desperately trying in vain to disappear in crevices or safeguard
children from the ferocity of the sudden night-time assault, the {ohungry
little {oorange hobgoblin had already shrunk his litter's size to fifteen.

His mother found him still gnawing at his littermate's femur stripped of
flesh, with a burp locked and loaded for release.

{u ***

Snotlings and squibs mingled with bugbears and berserkers, lugging in the
meagre haul from recent forays into the forests of Icewall. Survivalists
always thought themselves safe, ensconced in the depths of pine trees that
had stood for generations.

The problem with that sort of isolationist defense, of course, is that
you're just as insulated from news as you are attack, and the news of what
was happening inside Mount Darkonin was already being whispered in Inns and
Taverns across the continent. More frequent and further-ranging raids from
greenskins emboldened by {oappetite.

The craggy summit of the Mountain roiled with activity. By day, great
plumes of smoke rose from the crevice within which the greenskin horde was
so quaintly nestled, obscuring the apian shimmer of greenskin activity on
her face. By night the peak glowed with an ominous {oorange light, as though
the Mountain itself was burgeoning with magma, threatening to spill its
destructive ichor across Icewall.

{u ***

By the time he was five years old, Xaxtur had eaten no less than half of his
littermates, and the gnarled {oorange runt had already grown to an immense
size, for his age. He found himself amongst bugbear and troll peers, from
whom he learned the savagery of brute force and the mantra that would
consume every aspect of his being. Bigger is Better. Eat and Be Big. Eat
More, Be Bigger. Eat Most, Be Biggest.

He trained in agility and martial prowess, learning from the squibs and
snotlings how to avoid detection by the fiercely feral roving eyes of
greenskins that might otherwise have knocked Xaxtur about as easily as they
wound up knocking around his smaller, less cunning peers.

The Lord of Hunger discovered the secrets of poison almost by accident,
slaking his thirst with long draughts from a cauldron he'd stumbled upon in
one of the many labyrinthine tunnels criss-crossing one another in the
depths of Mount Darkonin. Those stolen drinks, over time, did more than
provide an immunity to the nasty toxins being brewed within it, if the
ichorous sludge of his phlegm is any indication.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 14:05:45 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oHounds{u and{o Hellfire{u, {oPart{u I

The trek to Dragonspire Peak was uneventful.

That is, the journey was uneventful if you don't consider an enormous orange
hobgoblin forcing his way through the snowy climes of Icewall dressed for
anything but its icy clutches worthy of note.

A trio of snotlings had gifted the Lord of Hunger with news of a recent
settling upon the Peak, a fresh feast of demon-worshipping Yinn who'd
scorned the hobgoblin's squib-delivered entreaty to deliver their arms in
service to the Mountain's lofty goals.

Xaxtur wasn't exactly the most politically-savvy envoy, but the trade he
intended to ply on Dragonspire Peak wasn't of a political nature. After
all, the separation of church and state was very important to the hungry,
hungry hobgoblin.

{u ***

The baying of their houndlike howls was the first indication that the Yinn
were aware of the World-Eater's arrival, and the sound widened the
grotesquely horrible grin the creature wore.

Even at their worst, Yinn are a more formidable opponent than the measly
human villagers he'd mown through. Xaxtur looked forward to the
bloodletting.

The first body to hit him sunk fangs deep into the meat of his shoulder, and
claws tore at his corpulent frame, sinking deep lacerations into his flesh
and exposing the hobgoblin's more tender innards to the icy wind whistling
across the peak that would become a graveyard.

Xaxtur didn't bother shaking that beast loose, though his own hammer-like
hand beat at each of the Yinn's flailing paws until the bones within had
been crushed beyond use. The hound hung from his shoulder, teeth too
securely implanted for it to loosen its grip. The Yinn could only watch in
horror over the World-Eater's shoulder as he set into the rest of the pack.

{u ***

Heaving for breath, the hobgoblin looked back at the spoils of his ten-days'
work. His body was ripped and torn, and the sickly chartreuse colour of his
blood mingled with that of the Yinn and taen'ari demons he'd slaughtered for
this ritual.

Still, the broken-pawed Yinn hung from teeth sunk into Xaxtur's shoulder.
Fear and adrenaline had long since driven the hound past the point of
insanity, and the whimpering sound that it continuously mewled could barely
be heard over the rushing sound of blood that still filled the Great Orange
One's ears.

He hadn't counted on the Yinn warbands roaming the mountain, called home by
the war-howls they sung to the sky at his arrival, and each fresh wave he
was forced to meet with determination, ferocity, and appetite.

A meaty hand raised, and curving claws yellowed with age and plaque gripped
the head of the Yinn he'd dragged along for the ride like a second set of
eyes. He squeezed until liquid ran from its eyes and ears and nostrils. He
squeezed until flesh compacted and gave way, splitting until his fingers
touched bare bone.

He squeezed harder, until his powerfully thick digits snapped that bone,
breaking off its freshly lifeless body and tossing it into place amongst the
rest

To see Dragonspire from afar, one might wonder at the enormous eye made of
dark shapes littering its peak. A closer look would reveal the enormity of
the horror that had been left there.

{u ***

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 20 14:07:04 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oHounds{u and{o Hellfire{u, {oPart{u II

Xaxtur counted the teeth he'd ripped from Yinn and taen'ari alike into
the cauldron as squibs and snotlings saw to his wounds. They sewed and
stitched even while they shoved meat between the heavy tusks weighing down
the protruding lower lip of the Gorger.

Less mindful, or perhaps simply less agile, squibs found their arms caught
in the great machinery of Xaxtur's many rows of jagged and misaligned teeth
along with that meat, for the hungry hobgoblin paid no mind to what made its
way into his cavernous maw.

As someone had recently said to him: that was a them problem.

Between the hounds and the hell-creatures, Xaxtur had slain another eight
hundred in his quest for the lord of death, and another forty thousand teeth
were added to the cauldron before which he sat. The gluttonous giant
chuckled malignantly as his Vision came closer to fruition.

Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:07:18 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Ritual of the Apostate

Archal would do the ritual himself. Confront Apostus, himself. There is
too much to learn, too much to be gained, he couldn't wait and couldn't ask
the demon what he needed to know with others present. With Bearhide
present. His heart raced in anticipation.

He scribbled off a note for Ostrim and instructed one of his assistants to
see that the Supplicant found it. The Supplicant was his second in all
matters pertaining to this ritual, and if this did not go well..

He gathered the materials he had stashed away himself, what he interpreted
from the ritual instructions. Words from the Demon Lord echoed in his mind.
"{uWe shall see how the outcome serves you. Or me. "

It was nearly 3am when Archal strode into Dnoutrar's throne room. The Lord
of Hunger lounged across his throne, and glared balefully at the High
Mystic's approach. The demon was clad in his characteristic vest and shield
of black bone, his sword leaning precariously against the throne.

Archal acknowledged Dnoutrar only by returning his gaze, before donning the
ritual garb, discerned from intelligence pieced together by the Gray Robes,
intelligence that had been gleaned from the various hovels and hideaways of
the cultists of the so-called true prophecy, as they had raided each in
turn.

The Crown of Evil, from this very temple. The weight of it seemed to crush
his temples. The unholy robes, from the High Priest of Hell, and his
hellstone. Archal felt himself warming from the inside. A black dragon's
eye, whose umbral light would be too much to bear for any of the untrue
faiths. The dagger of dark enchantment, which vibrated in his hand, humming
with potency.

3:00am. Archal spoke into the darkness.

Overlooked and underappreciated, the hellstone in his hand grew hot.

Cast me from the priestly nation. So hot it was glowing.

Drag me below, enslave me in fire, the hellstone burning openly now in his
hand, searing his flesh.

Archal thrust the dagger of dark enchantment forward as he began the next
line, and the air in front of him resisting, then flaring, tearing a hole.
Open the door

He carved the pentagram, a glowing wake of fire behind the blade. To
Necrucifer's ire! He encircled the pentagram, creating the pentangle, and
it it flared brightly, along with the hellstone still burning his hand.
Both disappeared, leaving a gaping black doorway in front of him.

He stepped through.

Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:09:32 2025
To to All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Entering the Basilica of Apostus

Archal was hit with an unmistakably sulphuric blast of hot air. He shed
the vestments of the ritual. A facade of cinnabar stone, reddish brown,
towered above him to the west, if he could trust his orientation. To the
east, behind him, a trail wound away and upwards through rock much the same
as the facade, lit by a magmatic glow which permeated the area from below.
Enormous curved doors of ebony swung out towards him, and he entered what
appeared to be the narthex of some unholy basilica.

He found himself inside a low vaulted narthex and surrounded by whispers,
though he saw nothing to explain their issue, nor could he make our their
words. Their sibilance reminded him of more words from the Demon Lord.
Naamitsa had hissed at him. "{uYou have much to learn of souls, mortalkin.
They are currency within the Abyss, power that gives one rise, such as I.
"

Feed me, the thought entered Archal's mind. He felt it coming from the
west, and crossed the narthex into the nave. Great cinnabar columns rose in
rows in front of him. The nave was short, squat, the transcepts close
ahead. The basilica seemed empty. Archal proceeded.

FEED ME. The thought returned, demanding now. Stronger. Archal approached
the choir now. It was long, and empty, and the whispers were louder here,
the echos of an unholy chorus. At the far end of the long choir was the
altar in the apse. Archal could see nobody, but he could feel the demon
there, his manatonic mind searching and feeling for his presence-

And then Archal was standing in the apse. He had no memory of walking
there. Behind the altar was a figure of melted flesh, a hideously distorted
face glistening and slick. ARCHAL KAYEN, YOU WERE HIS, the thoughts came
into his mind, invaded his mind, and he tried to shut them out but could
not. NOW YOU WILL BE MINE. FEED ME.

Archal wrested his thoughts away from Apostus, the demon's psychic screaming
nearly overwhelming. He felt the thing's hunger, intense hunger, and batted
it down, swatted it away. I am not yours, demon, Archal hissed through
clenched teeth. I am not His any longer. She-

YES YOU ARE. YOU ARE HIS. THE TATTERED ENDS OF YOUR SOUL STILL CRY OUT FOR
HIM. FEED ME.

The /tattered ends/, Archal spat, dangled after the failed god for years.
Drakkara claimed them, and you have no po- Archal stopped short, for he had
been unconsciously advancing on the blob of face-flesh in his aggression,
and found himself bound instead.

Writer: Archal
Date Tue May 20 19:10:53 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: The point of no return

YES I DO. YOU WERE OF HIM. I FEED ON HIS FAITH. WHY ELSE DID YOU COME?
FEED ME.

Archal gulped air as he regained control of his body. Naamitsa's words
flooded his memory again, words that followed his promise of caution. "{uWise
and efficient, if you are of stronger mortal mind and actually heed the
words. "

I came to learn your secrets, Apostus. Tell me. How did you ascend into
His service? How did you earn your transformation?

The sibilant sounds seared his ears as Apostus hissed and gurgled with
laughter, psychic and real, and the absent chorus of whispers joined him.
YOU SPOKE THE WORDS TO GET HERE, KAYEN. DON'T YOU SEE?

Archal didn't, and he knew the demon could sense his answer. The demon was
still in his head. I DID NOT ASCEND, YOU FOOLISH MORTAL. I DID NOT RISE TO
HIS SERVICE. I FELL INTO HIS SERVITUDE. More hissing and splashing as the
decaying head of Apostus laughed mirthlessly. NOW I MUST FEED UPON THE
REMAINS OF HIS SERVANTS

Archal felt something then, as Apostus uncoiled himself within Archal's
mind. Tendrils wrapped themselves around his thoughts and being. A sucking
feeling gnawed at the edges of his soul. He began to walk back towards the
narthex, but it was not him. His mind was screaming but his body no longer
obeyed. His mind recoiled in impotence, in horror. FEED ME his voice
croaked. Just inside the nave, Archal sat at a pew, his back towards the
narthex of Apostus' unholy basilica. A moist blob of face-flesh covered his
head.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue May 20 19:45:49 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (I)

Ezrianne had heard the High Mystic speak a hundred times. His voice
always held a calm tenor, layered with command, with purpose, with an
unshakable calm that made it easy to follow his orders.

But this time - this time was different.

Archal clans 'FEED ME'

Maccus looked up from the missive in his hand, his brow furrowing. Ezri
caught his eye, the unspoken question already passing between them. She
closed her journal slowly, hesitating.

The voice was Archal's. It sounded like the High Mystic. But it was wrong.

Beneath the familiar cadence, something else had taken root. Not a voice,
not truly - more a rasping slither, too thin, too slick. It didnt speak; it
invaded, like bone dragged across slate. It curled through her ears and
coiled at the base of her skull, sending a shiver through her.

Ezrianne clans 'High Mystic? '

No answer. No clarification. No jest. Only silence.

Maccus lowered the missive without a word, his head tilting like a hound
catching a sound no human could hear. The firelight threw golden bars
across his giant form as he took a step toward her.

But Ezri was already gone.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue May 20 19:57:37 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Naamitsa Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Tritoch Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Questions (II)

Ezrianne bolted from the desert, racing for the Keep, shouldering through
the Thalosian market crowds with no apology.

She passed through the arched gates with her jaw clenched and fingers
flexing at her sides. The guards saluted; she barely registered them.
Something was wrong. Subtly, maddeningly wrong - like a tapestry hung
askew, like a spell missing a single syllable.

The itch crawled across her senses, something tapping past the limits of her
humanity - stirring the draconic perception buried deep beneath, where
ancient instinct and ageless wisdom coiled in waiting.

Bootsteps echoed as she strode deeper - past the hearth, the armory, the
shined marble staircase she'd mopped this morning.

Nothing appeared out of place in the first three rooms she checked, the most
obvious places she could think of to find him. And yet, the air felt too
still. Heavy. Unmoving.

Down the corridor in the library, a few Petitioners lingered, murmuring over
books. She scanned their faces - carefully checking for anything off.

'The High Mystic. Where is he? '

Someone looked up. 'Haven't seen him today, Supplicant. '

Ezri nodded once, but the knot in her chest pulled tighter. She turned
sharply toward the High Mystic's office.

Her hand hovered on the latch, and she opened it without knocking. The door
creaked.

Inside, the office was still. No incense. No flicker of candlelight. No
scent of sage, vellum, or ink. Just stale air, thick as wool - like a tomb
sealed too long. Her eyes swept the room with practiced precision. But
there was nothing. No sign. No trace.

There was nothing left to find, so she started back home, to fill Maccus in.

Writer: Justian
Date Wed May 21 20:11:21 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 2

They did not All return at once.

The first came at dawn, carried by a silent figure cloaked in smoke-gray
linen, their steps barely disturbing the dust outside the Gathering Hall.
No words. Only a small bow, and the phial left reverently on the stone just
outside the western exit. When Justian reached for it, the phial felt warm.
Not alive, but witnessed.

The second arrived near dusk, borne by a courier whose face was veiled in
mirrored silk. They approached not the Hall, but the Tree, placing the
phial at its root where the blood-sap ran slow and thick. The phial pulsed
once in the shade of the horned bark, the courier bowed, not to Justian, but
to the Tree. Then they left.

The third came days later, without a bearer. It simply appeared in the
center of his chamber atop a folded square of aged vellum, ink-stained and
curling at the edges. There was no note. The wax seal on the phial bore a
symbol Justian did not recall giving, a perfect eight-pointed star with no
breaks.

Others followed, slower, scattered... Left at crossroads, tucked into the
robes of dead pilgrims at the border of Arkane, or brought in the beaks of
birds that did not wait to be thanked. Each phial was sealed. Each unique.

He did not open them.

Not yet.

Instead, he claimed a space in a chamber branching from the Gathering Hall.
An immense sloping vault carved deep into the earth. The walls were
blackened and clawed, the floor littered with bones from creatures both
known and not. It was hot there, damp with unseen breath, and full of
sounds that never stepped into light. Something large moved in the darkness
beyond... It was perfect.

There he laid the phials in careful rows, each upon a separate page of blank
parchment. The pages yellowed faster near the glass.

He visited often, the phials gleaming faintly in flickering Chaos-flame
light. Each shimmered slightly differently, as if holding a breath or
waiting to be spoken to. Justian studied them, not for their function, but
for their refusal to reveal it.

On that night he had thought to find some new catalyst to use against the
false gods...

He did not yet know what they were.

Only that they had come back.

And that they had a purpose for him.

In time, they would speak.

Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu May 22 06:17:23 2025
To All Xaxtur Chantrielle imm rp
Subject Feeding The Hunger

High above an elven village, perched on the precipice of a crumbling
cliff, Ryzzynth, surveyed his domain. His oceanic blue eyes, like twin
sapphires, scanned the valley below, taking in the bustling life of the
elves with a predatory calm. The village was a sprawling tapestry of wooden
huts and thatched roofs, nestled amidst a forest of towering trees, their
leaves shimmering in the sunlight. The elves moved with a grace and agility
that was both beautiful and infuriating to the dragon.

With a sudden, powerful leap, Ryzzynth spread his frilled wings and took to
the skies, the wind rushing past his ears as he swooped down towards the
unsuspecting village. He landed heavily on the ground, his massive form
sending a swirl of dust and debris bursting outward, flattening huts and
sending elves scrambling in panic. The dragon's roar echoed through the
valley, a primal, earth-shaking sound that sent shivers down the spines of
all who heard it. The force of his roar caused the small tendrils on his
face to flap wildly, a grotesque counterpoint to the beauty of his voice.
The elves began to panic, their usually graceful forms now jerky and
uncertain as they fled in terror.

Ryzzynth stretched his neck out, his jaws parting to reveal a cavern of
teeth, and began blasting heated sand from his mouth, a torrent of scalding
particles that caught huts ablaze, turning them into infernos within
seconds. He charged at an elf, his movements swift and deadly, and lunged
his head upward, slinging the elf high into the air. With a swift snap of
his jaws, he caught the elf whole, his teeth crunching through bone and
flesh with ease. The taste of elf blood on his tongue was a heady,
intoxicating sensation, and he licked his lips, savoring the flavor. A
group of elves, their bows drawn, ran at him, arrows nocked and ready. They
fired, a volley of shafts that rained down on the dragon, most bouncing off
his scales with a clang, while one found its mark beneath a scale, drawing a
grunt of pain and anger from the beast. Ryzzynth charged, his claws
slashing through the air, tearing through elf flesh and bone with ease. The
village was reduced to tatters, the ground a gruesome tableau of dismembered
body parts, half eaten elves, and the screams of the dying. Ryzzynth sat in
the middle of the carnage, his stomach distended and full, a satisfied belch
escaping his lips. He licked his maw, cleaning the gore and flesh from his
teeth, his eyes growing heavy as he drifted off into a sated, contented
sleep, the screams of the dying elves fading into the background, a lullaby
to his slumber.

Writer: Tamello
Date Thu May 22 08:11:29 2025
To All Verminasia Shalonesti Arkane Chaos ( Imm Religion RP ( Xenophon ) )
Subject Operation : Southern Barrier

Tamello hopped along with the marching forces. Some were on foot,
others on horseback, All armor was gleaming and All weapons were bristling.
He could ride, had been trained to do so, but something about feeling the
ground beneath him, feeling the tremors that this force sent forth from both
hoof and foot, made him feel more alive, more connected with the soldiers of
this battalion. Made of soldiers loyal to the Crown and the Dark Pantheon.

They were the Eighth Batallion, Second Homeguard unit. Homegrown and
willing to do what needs done, to get it done. He'd watched them drill
night and day for the past few weeks before Chaos struck, both litertally
and figuratively. Trained in homefield fortification, they knew how to set
up the barriers, blockades, and pitfalls to defend the Homeland. Infantry,
cavalry, and sappers All joined together, it was a sight that Tam almost
teared up on. Almost.

As they were passing under the Aurora hisses of disdain and even a few jeers
arose from the ranks. Tam only chuckled and continued to hop along with the
vanguard around him, All on horseback to keep up with him. It was early
night as they reached the spire and, even though he'd seen it multiple
times, it still took him aback by the size and decrepitness of it. Enough
to make a lone man turn the other way, he knew his soldiers were made of
tougher stuff.

Tam hopped a bit down the trail and then looked around, nodding. '{oAlright.
I want a defensive perimeter here, here, and there. You know the drill. '
The company commnaders nodded and began barking out their orders to their
underlings.

Tam noded more to himself as he surveyed the maps one more time before
rolling them up and stuffing them away. This would do, for now.

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu May 22 12:35:28 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {oDrought{u &{o Desolation

Once was a time that the fertile lands around Mount Darkonin teemed with
life. In the bitter winter, life receded and stored its energy for the
bountiful spring and a renewal of life. In those days, bird call harmonized
with rutting deer, flowers and fruit sprung from thawing ground so regularly
you could keep the time by it, and many did.

Little folk in their villages and huts would count their springs as surely
as some count their winters, beliving in the bounty of the land they'd been
born on, and its irrepressible fertility. Children learned which flowers
they could eat, and which to avoid. Which thorns would only draw a little
blood, and which might leave them unable to draw breath.

Of course, there were predators in these less-than-barren lands, but the Ice
Goblins sought simpler prey. Prey that wouldn't bring axe and fork up into
their mountain looking for a wayward child. Easier life, they'd found, to
take only what came delivered to them in neat bundles. They'd grown
accustomed to a life of relative hardship that lent them solitude and
relative peace atop Mount Darkonin.

That was All before.

Following the Althainian campaign of oppression waged against Dolund'ir and
the collapse of the ogre kingdom, Gruntz, the steadfast peoples of the
plains around the Mountain began to see a steady influx of fresh fangs.
Greenskins of All sorts and sizes flooded into the Mountain, as word of the
greenskin alliances spread across Algoron.

The thing about swarming creatures is that taken singly, or even in small
groups, their effects can be easily discarded and dismissed. No one worries
for a grasshopper that's fed on the leaves of their favourite tree. Gather
too many grasshoppers in one place, and they change. The irritable and
{ohungry swarm will travel hundreds of miles, devastating everything in their
desperate search for enough food to sustain the ire they've wrought upon
themselves.

As the greenskin tides grew in number, so too did the once fertile lands at
the base of Mount Darkonin dwindle. The greenskins' rampant and incessant
need for more was at first an irritant and a warning tale for folk whose
families had lived for generations at the base of the great Mountain. Soon,
it became apparent that this merger of the greenskin races was going to put
an end to All that.

For All but the most intrepid, the greenskins' move into the craggy summit
of Mount Darkonin heralded an end to life as it was known, and what once was
green half the year lost its verdant lustre. Grassy plains turned to muddy
fields, and muddy fields to icy desert. All but the hardiest of trees died
trying to overwinter, and what trees remained were oft hewn by greedy
greenskin axes whose bite was far sharper than their bark. Anything to keep
the Mountain warm. Anything to fuel the greenskins' gluttonous lust for
more.

Folks of a less verdegris inclination have learned to stray away from the
Mountain and its environs. The drought-wrought desolation of the fertile
grasslands that had once teemed with life will forever be a lesson taught by
peoples who think of their cultures as more civilized than the barbarous and
brutish beasts that rule the Mountain and the surrounding lands now, but the
ever-present threat of swarming and {ohungry greenskins looms on the horizon,
a beacon of glowing {oorange lit atop the deep crevices of Mount Darkonin's
summit.

Lately, greenskin chants and songs alight upon the breeze, the ominous sound
of their drums beating a two-syllable rhythm that can be distinguished for
miles.

The swarm was growing.

The swarm would need to {oeat.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri May 23 14:33:55 2025

Writer: Justian
Date Fri May 23 15:59:08 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 3

Justian stood in the Main Gathering Hall fixed and unmoving, like a
monument carved from faith and defiance. He contemplated the spiraling
pillar of fire and the horned tree that bled beside it for hours. Golden
light coursed across the floor in branching currents, drawn to the pillar
where impurity was consumed and cast away beneath a glowing seal of
judgment. Yet at the roots of the horned tree, the world recoiled. The air
buckled with a quiet resistance, bending light as the Warp itself refused
absolution. Blood pulsed from the roots in slow a deliberate rhythm thick,
dark, and unyielding. It pooled like memories unwilling to fade and the
silence felt like a standoff between forces too old to speak their names
aloud.

A faint disturbance caught his attention, not a sound but the absence of it,
as if a note had been plucked from silence itself. His gaze dropped to the
ground, where a single phial rested... Sealed, intact, and impossibly
balanced, as though cradled by air rather than stone. It cast no shadow,
bent no light, its presence an anomaly rather than an object. Justian
reached down, and the moment his fingers touched the glass, he felt a chill
that bit deeper than mere temperature, a wrongness subtle and immediate.
The silence around him curved, not broken, but bent, like space remembering
a voice that had not yet spoken.

He was no longer in the main chamber.

Books surrounded him... Towering, ancient, and impossibly close. Their
covers were bound in cracked vellum and stitched with symbols that writhed
just out of focus. These were not tomes made for mortal hands. They pulsed
faintly, as if remembering how to breathe. Ink spilled from their open
pages like tears in thick, glistening lines that trickled down spines
pooling on the floor before rising in twisting tendrils, boiling upward
through the air without steam or sound. He felt no heat from them, only
pressure, like standing at the bottom of the ocean with the weight of memory
pressing inward from every side. Around him, the walls exhaled in slow
shuddering breaths that smelled of copper, old paper, and reverence too long
starved.

The ink hissed, and the silence behind it broke, not with words, but with
voices not meant to speak together.

First came the weight of balance unraveling. Voices rose in discordant
tandem, clashing like overlapping truths spoken in different keys. One
voice rang low and slow like granite grinding deep under the ocean. Another
lashed out sharp and wet, cracking like molten glass. A third voice
stammered like smoke. None spoke sense... But Justian felt meaning in
their cadence, "Inael kothrei... Taruun vektha samerech. Vey dral, vey
dral."

The air grew brittle. A wordless tremor passed through the unseen
architecture of the vision, as if some celestial mechanism had seized. And
then... Laughter. Not mocking. Amused. It rose softly from somewhere
behind the voices, a mirthless ripple that broke them apart like dry leaves.
The moment it emerged, the others fell silent, as though pulled from
existence mid-thought. The air convulsed once then froze.

Writer: Justian
Date Fri May 23 16:02:05 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 4

Now the air crackled... Hot, stinking, volatile. Words arrived not by
sound, but infestation... Skittering clicks and hissed vowels that burrowed
into the base of the skull. "Zzekkta hess varuun... Kkktari vo-sekk. Vree
vree. Krrzaat." The rhythm of insects, the heat of accusation. The tone
was accusatory, defensive, derisive. One voice surged, then shattered in
frustration. Another answered dripping venom, its edge like black iron
dragged through bone.

The argument unraveled mid-thread, like a cord snapped under too much
tension. What remained was not resolution, but vibration... Subtle and
low, humming in the chest. Light retreated and heat rose... A foreboding
warmth of something buried alive, breathing just beneath the skin of the
world.

The vision pulsed.

When the voices fell away, sensation surged in to claim the silence... Not
thought, but scent, primal and overwhelming. It clung to him: scorched
roses, blood cooled on silver, a sweetness turned sour. The air thickened
into a deep, bruised red so vivid he could smell it, taste it, feel it
pressing against his teeth. It coated his tongue like syrup laced with
iron, then soured curdling into something else. Something sentient.
Something searching. A breath brushed his wrist. He looked down to find
nothing there, but his skin recoiled, stinging as if gripped by unseen
cords. Bound not by flesh, but by the memory of a touch that had not yet
happened.

Reality flexed again.

The chamber shifted. A library, uncanny in its construction. The walls
were stitched from living parchment, their surfaces flexing gently with
breath. A single candle burned low, its flame unsteady, weeping black ink
that dripped in sync with the rhythm of his inhalation. Shelves leaned
inward, listening. And in the far wall, a pane of mirrored glass waited.
His own image stared back at him, mouth moving in perfect silence. He
watched himself speak words he did not know, could not remember, and somehow
feared he had once believed.

As suddenly as it had begun the visions unraveled leaving behind only
breath, weight, and the hollow ache of inkless memory. The phial remained
in his hand. Cold. Unopened. Unchanged.

His fingers trembled, not from the chill, but from tension wound too tightly
from muscle and thought. He carried the phial to the others and set it
down, but not among the others. This one he placed apart, as if proximity
to the rest might taint them... Or it.

A breath escaped him, slow and unsteady. In its wake, his voice hummed
without intent... A low, half-melody that did not belong to silence, yet
could not rightly be called sound.

Justian thought to himself,

Some things do not wish to be known. They return only to change you...
That you might finish what they began.

Writer: Symantha
Date Fri May 23 19:45:32 2025
To All ( imm Drakkara Naamitsa Shadow Black_Robes Verminasia Bloodlust )
Subject {uUmbratide - Patience

She had grown knowing a thing of great importance.

It had blossomed young, more an instinct of survival, though observation and
conformity to unforgiving masters had served her well until this knowledge
could grow into the lethal thing it would become.

And so, as the elegant pieces drifted across the glossy board, wielded by
umbra-cracked fingers and slender scarred digits, she employed it once
again.

Her opposition was no stranger to the same knowledge. The slate gaze,
behind which loomed a soul-burning indigo, met hers without mercy. It was
who they were, who they had had to be, and even in sparring across a chess
board they drew on this truth of character.

Her knight was taken, his bishop fell. He weaved a path of destructive
force, the black pieces an elegant weapon in his tactful grasp, but she met
his persistence with graceful traps and deadly efficiency.

How often had they been at this and never two games quite the same. She
smiled to herself though it lacked any countenance in her eyes and, couched
in the comfortable chair as she was, elbow set to the padded arm while
surveying the landscape of the board in the wake of their last ferocious
bout, she mulled.

It was small, this checkered world, and every piece had its purpose. When
wielded wisely, even the most unsuspecting individual could surprise and
overcome their opponent. The true battle however, and at this thought she
lifted her steel gaze to meet his, was in control of the self. That many
lacked this fell into the purview of what had shaped Symantha, often
offering her exactly what she needed to succeed as long as opportunity
existed.

The board was set again - two conquerors bent on victory gazed more at each
other than at the checkered path set before their stalwart pieces. His
pawns, soldiers all, sallied forth a mere distraction though each
potentially deadly if ignored. The looming and draped black bishops wove
between the front lines, the black knights with their pennon's riding forth
to challenge and capture her own pale clad priests.

Her pieces fell rapidly, casualties of a reckless offense. Even her queen,
deadly and regal, was put at risk as she tempted the bulwark of his demonic
rook from its shelter. It knew only how to move in straight lines - a bull
of a piece - but she had taken enough of his key play that his options were
nearly as limited as her own.

The pale queen danced, testing the mettle of the rook, but the demon was not
deferential. Neither interested in the mantle, the person, nor the power of
she who stood before it. Her patience did not slip though and the rook fell
not to the queen, but to the king who she boldly cast forward.

The High Priestess gazed at the Draco Dei.

Their resolve had ever landed on the same plane, encompassing the same
breadth of tapestry as it wove back further than most memory. She had gazed
across the Umbra, into its very heart, and had been infused with its
potency. He had been pulled through the eye of its needle, to be reborn on
the other side as more than a King, more than a Priest, more than the Hand
of Necrucifer.

The game had changed.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 24 14:49:21 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 24 15:04:06 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 24 15:05:04 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 24 15:13:15 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 24 15:13:18 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Sat May 24 19:26:34 2025
To All ( Bloodlust FATALE IMM RP )
Subject A Fatale's Fable: The Gnawing One ( I of II )

In a land where even the gods dare not tread, past the salt dunes and
sun-bleached bones of a thousand dead horses, there lies a valley that no
map names. Wind dies at its border. Trees grow without leaves. The stars
above it do not blink.

Once, a jackal lived there. Small, lean, clever. It lived as beasts dojust
enough. Enough food to hunt, enough water to drink, enough sleep to rise
again.

Then came the great stillness. The river cracked open like dry lips. The
wind turned hot as breath from a tomb. Prey vanished. Shadows grew longer,
even at noon. And one night, beneath a sky the color of rusted iron, the
jackal's mate curled beside him and did not wake.

He buried her beneath brittle reeds and tried to howl. But the air
swallowed the sound whole.

Alone, he wandered. Days passed. Hunger gnawed at his ribs like a rat
behind the walls of the world. His vision blurred. His steps slowed. The
desert whispered, lie down.

But he did not.

And that is when he found the carcass.

It was a wolf--larger than himself, older, bloated, ruptured down the
middle. Its organs spilled like black fruit from a burst sack. Flies
blanketed its eyes. The smell hit like a blow--sweet rot, sour meat, and
something underneath, something ancient.

The jackal circled it, trembling.

This was not food.

This was wrong

He stepped closer anyway.

One bite. That was all. Just to keep walking. Just enough.

His jaws tore into the softest part of the belly, and a foul slurry burst
across his tongue. He gagged, spasmed, nearly fled. But then he bit again.

A rib cracked. Something thick spilled down his throat. Hot, gelatinous.
His stomach clenched with horrorand then relaxed with satisfaction. His
tail twitched. His pupils widened.

He tore deeper.

The flesh came away in long, slick ropes. He pulled out the intestines like
a conjurer drawing silk from a wound. When he reached the bones, he bit
through them. The first snap echoed across the valley like a thunderclap.
Marrow, pale and gleaming, spilled free like sacred oil. He drank.

And he drank.

And he drank.

He did not stop when he was full.

He did not stop when he was sick.

He stopped only when the wolfs skull crushed in his jaws like overripe
fruit.

The desert was quiet again.

And something inside him had changed.

Writer: Lenore
Date Sat May 24 19:33:55 2025
To All ( Bloodlust FATALE IMM RP )
Subject A Fatale's Fable: The Gnawing One ( II of II )

He left the riverlands behind.

The meat of living things no longer satisfied. Instead, he hunted memory.
He sniffed out the bones of the long-dead, clawed through burial mounds,
dragged corpses from shallow graves. His breath stank of age. His teeth
yellowed and blackened. His tongue thickened from scalding marrow.

His name was gone. He became only what the dying whispered The Gnawing One.

He killed his own kind. Jackals, foxes, wild dogs--he tore them open and
cracked their ribs like kindling. He swallowed their hearts whole.

Sometimes, he howled not to mourn, but to bait.

The others said he had gone mad.

But madness is a word used by the full to curse the starving.

The Gnawing One grew.

His legs thickened with coiled muscle. His back arched. Horn-like growths
sprouted from his shoulders. His spine rippled as he walked. His eyes once
amber turned black as oil, and then began to glow faintly with a deep, red
pulse. A beat. A thirst.

He had stopped eating to live. Now, he consumed to become.

The drought became a death knell. No rain fell. The winds screamed. The
sky turned white, and the sun burned cold. The last beasts died in their
holes. Birds dropped from the sky mid-flight, frozen and shriveled. Even
the flies vanished.

Only the Gnawing One endured.

He found an old battlefield buried beneath the sandbroken swords, cracked
shields, and corpses that whispered still. With patient reverence, he
dragged the bodies into a pit. He built a throne of ribs, tusks, femurs,
and shattered skulls.

He sat upon it like a king of carrion and began to feast.

Each day he cracked a new skull.

Each night he slurped marrow like wine.

He chewed cartilage, tendon, spine, his jaws soaked in blood so thick it
steamed when it cooled.

The crunching never stopped.

Even when his tongue blistered. Even when his stomach swelled with bile.
Even when his paws bled from clawing at the bones.

He did not stop.

And thenon a night with no wind, no moon, no sound

He came. No wind preceded Him. No stars blinked out. There was no
trumpet.

Only absence.

A shadow fell across the pit of darkness, but something colder than light.
The bones around the Gnawing One began to hum. His breath stilled.

From the emptiness loomed a spectre of darkness, a cold dry stillness.

He had no eyes. No face. Just a presence. A hunger deeper than death
itself.

The Gnawing One rose, maw dripping, and cracked a final femur in offering.
The sound rang like a tolling bell.

He did not speak. He did not need to.

He left.

Because the lesson had already been carved in bone.

Hunger is not a flaw, it is the foundation. To be sated is to submit. To
be full is to fall. But the one who gnaws through bone, who kills without
pause, who drinks the red wine of marrow and becomes sharpened by every bite
That one walks beside the Dreadlord.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon May 26 09:15:09 2025
To All Penelopina ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject A Discussion at the Tavern of the Three Towers

Ulyssus reached forth with his will and drew a shimmering circle of power
across the air before him. The portal widened like a scroll unfurling to
reveal the azure glow of the highest library in Arkane. He stepped through
into the restricted library of the Azure Tower, where floating orbs of blue
light hovered over tables piled with ancient tomes. Runes lined the walls
like veins of frozen lightning, pulsing faintly beneath the silence of
preserved knowledge.

He descended slowly through the tower's heights. In the grand library,
light filtered through tall windows onto rows of shelves, each humming
faintly with protective enchantments. Beyond it, the training room
flickered with bursts of conjured energy as students practiced incantations
against the various targets. The entry hall below shimmered with the image
of a white, red, and black moon within a marble mosaic. Ulyssus continued
down the tower and stepped into the city's heart.

Arkane was alive with its usual harmony of trade and arcane invention. He
traveled south, making his way through its avenues lined with markets,
passing stone fountains, shops, and alleys perfumed with pipe smoke and
roasting nuts. Past the guild halls and market he came at last to the
southern gate. Above it, built into the ramparts, stood the Tavern of the
Three Towers.

Within the tavern, the mood was calm, touched by the soft mingling of
candlelight and quiet conversation. Mages of every robe and allegiance sat
beneath the flicker of enchanted flames of white, red, and black, each
casting a colored glow that never mingled. Ulyssus made his way to a
polished round table beneath an arched window looking southward.

Seated by the window with the hum of the tavern around him, he was soon
joined by Penelopina, a gentle and thoughtful priestess of Taliena. She
greeted him with warm courtesy and took a seat across from him, her calm
presence a quiet contrast to the storm of questions forming in his mind.
They spoke for some time, their conversation slow and deliberate. Ulyssus
asked her many questions on the nature of divine magic, its use in battle,
and service to one's God. She offered no lectures, only guidance, leaving
space for him to find his own understanding. With his journal placed upon
the table, he took many notes throughout the course of their discussion.

As she rose to leave, she offered a wave of her hand and Ulyssus returned
the gesture. He motioned to Castaspella and ordered a slice of decadent
mooncake, and a glass of white moon wine, chilled and faintly luminous.
Alone now, he sat with his thoughts as he flipped through his journal,
reviewing his many notes on the subject of divine magics.

Beyond the window, the road south curved gently into the night, where the
Church of Stars lay unseen but felt. His eyes followed that darkness as one
might follow a thread of light just beneath the surface of water as his
thoughts turned towards the Crusade of Light. The ring of frost on his
finger gleamed faintly as he lifted the wine to his lips.

For a time he sat unmoving, the sounds of the tavern fading to a distant
hush. He closed his journal with care, not as one who finishes a task, but
as one who seals a vow. Divine magic would not be studied as he had studied
spells, but pursued as a calling, measured in stillness, in service, and in
light.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon May 26 14:56:42 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon May 26 17:15:49 2025
To All - Cayenna Tritoch Xenophon Drakkara
Subject Building: Trust and Efficacy in the Cauldron

They say power draws suspicion as much as it commands awe, and I have
found this to be true in every shadowed corridor I walk. The Cauldron is no
longer myth, no longer whispered among mad seers or buried in the desperate
prose of nameless alchemists. It is real, and it is here. And so is the
scrutiny.

When I first began my research into the Cauldron, its history, its rites,
and its veiled promise of absolute transmogrification, I was alone. Not
just in the libraries, but in belief. The Mother gave no clear omen, and
even among the Tower there were whispers of madness, ambition, and heresy.
But I have been patient. Truth requires more than talent, it requires
proof.

So I traveled. I showed restraint when accused. I opened dialogues, not
just among the Magi of Verminasia or the Necropolis, but with those who'd
lost daughters to poison, sons to hunger, farmers who'd buried their kin and
merchants who'd bartered with desperation. To each, I presented only the
same: the vision of a future where death is understood, not feared, where
suffering is transmuted, not ignored. The Cauldron's true power lies not in
destruction, but in efficacy, in the potential to reconstitute flesh, to
purify blood, to give clarity to the clouded mind.

I do not seek to wield the Cauldron as a weapon, though I could. I do not
claim to command its will, though I know it listens. What I seek is a
covenant: with the realm, with its people, with those who dwell in light and
shadow alike. I have drafted my findings into tomes, opened lectures in
neutral libraries, and offered the first batch of tested reagents to
Tower-approved guilds. Transparency where once there was silence. Results
where once there was only theory.

The Cauldron is no longer a thing I chase. It is a thing I shape. And in
so doing, I shape trust.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon May 26 18:17:10 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon May 26 18:26:47 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon May 26 18:28:59 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon May 26 18:29:04 2025

Writer: Zecnys
Date Tue May 27 08:33:49 2025

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Tue May 27 22:49:28 2025
To All Darkonin ( Ryzzynth Piknim Drogan Chantrielle Lenore Tarabella Xenophon Imm RP Fatale Drakkara )
Subject {uA{o Throne{u of{o Teeth

For a hobgoblin who boasted, loud and proud -- to anyone who might
listen, and many who mightn't -- of his inability to read or count, Xaxtur
had certainly been doing a lot of counting lately.

An enormous cauldron sat before the piles of fur and bone he'd been
accumulating as a sort of makeshift throne, austere but for the mountain of
teeth filling its wide-mouthed belly. Thousands and thousands of teeth from
creatures All across Algoron had been ripped, clean or otherwise, from the
mouths of unwitting creatures alive and dead alike.

Serrated, sword-like canines rolled against herbivorous incisors in a
dichotomous litany of insatiable {oappetite. In moments of thought, the Great
Orange One could be found stood before it in {ohunger, contemplation, or some
disastrous combination of the two.

The snotlings and squibs who'd aligned their paths with the enormous
hobgoblin's had learned (through an ill-advised series of trial and error)
not to touch the cauldron or its trophies from many-maws, lest their teeth
be added to the constantly growing pile.

Xaxtur dipped a hand into the chilly mixture of masticators, letting his
swollen and bruised knuckles sift through them as if it were a great pot of
water, rather than a trove of teeth.

Just shy of a million teeth sat in this great crucible. Teeth, tusks, and
fangs of All shape and size littered the cauldron's insides. For some, such
a collection would be its own reward, a great treasure upon which to
ruminate and gloat.

But these teeth were not pointless.

A hobgoblin's promise is a precious thing. A hobgoblin's word, kept, even
more precious. Lack of supply drives demand, and greenskins of their word
are as few and far between as the desecrated bodies upon which Xaxtur had
plied his trade and pried these teeth free from their erstwhile owners.

{oHunger gnawed at his insides. A restless, insatiable {oappetite that had
driven His Corpulence since he re-awoke beneath the Thalosian sands. An
inexorable need to consume. To devour. To {oeat.

So too, had Xaxtur recently learned of a Godhead whose own {oHunger could be
said to rival his. Such alliances, the {ohungry{u, {o hungry{u, {o hobgoblin had
found to be worthwhile, and so had his quest to deprive the meek of their
jewel-filled jaws and the baubles most failed to recognize the import of
until they'd already been stripped away.

Xaxtur had sealed himself away with this cauldron, away from the prying eyes
of greenskins eager to see what the Gorger willingly busied himself with.

Over the course of three days, the hobgoblin went about his work. Teeth
were painstakingly chosen, placed, and cemented with an ichorous concoction
whose primary ingredient was the viscous black phlegm that lurked in the
depths of his cavernous gullet.

When he finally emerged, Xaxtur gave a directive to the assembled greenskin
goons who'd waited (with as much patience as greenskins can typically
muster, mind you), working themselves into a frothy exuberance for what
their leader could possibly be doing with his cauldron of chompers.

The greenskins set about covering the Great Thing in furs and leathers,
obscuring it from view as they set about the trudging path set before them.
They carried that Great Thing down through the tunnels of Mount Darkonin,
and sailed it across Algoron's tempestuous seas.

This Great Thing was a gift, from one {oLord{u of{o Hunger to another. A {oTerrible
Throne{u of{o Teeth, handcrafted for the Dreadlord, Fatale, himself.

Xaxtur prepared himself to meet the priests of Fatale unto whom he was
having this throne delivered, that their prayerful entreaties to Fatale
might mingle with the {oHunger in Xaxtur's belly, and call that Godhead down
upon Algoron to look upon this Great Thing.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed May 28 14:35:47 2025

Writer: Mau'thulakh
Date Wed May 28 15:23:15 2025

Writer: Rauglothgar
Date Thu May 29 07:33:39 2025

Writer: Rauglothgar
Date Thu May 29 08:32:01 2025

Writer: Ostrim
Date Thu May 29 09:38:23 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual I

UONE MONTH AGO

'Get to the portal and don't look back! ' yelled Ostrim as the crew of
Shadow soldiers ran towards the umbral ring which allowed their escape from
the Abyss. Ezrianne held in her hands a robe stitched with infernal runes
that had not been given freely. In fact, it was the reason why the denizens
of Hades were behind them, let loose by the High Priest. Stewart had the
front, weapons clanking as he ran, his role was to get people through.
Ostrim, since this was his first command, held the rear. Taeborlin, his
breath ragged, was between Ezrianne and Ostrim.

A demonic claw swiped at Ostrim's cloak but didn't find purchase. With a
wild yell, Ostrim slashed out with his blade taking flesh and viscera with
it. Turning back, he saw Stewart breach the portal and reach a hand out to
Ezrianne. Grasping it, she was pulled through. However, the terrain of
Hades is rocky and bleak. Taeborlin fell prey to it's jagged stone and
tripped right in front of Ostrim. With a cry, 'Stewart, get him in! '.
Ostrim sheathed his Kayen blade and unstrapped the Jovir sword from his back
as he stood in front of the prone warlock.

'Alright ya gits, let's see wot ya got! ', challenged the barbarian as the
flames and dark energy pulsed from the giant's blade. Two demons launched
themselves and were cut down quickly. Stewart, having gotten Ezrianne
inside, assisted Taeborlin across the breach. As the armsman reached out a
hand, the ground began to tremble. The lesser demons moved aside as a large
one horned monstrosity bellowed a challenge and stomped its way for the
gate.

'Bloody 'ell. '

'Stewart we good? '

'Almost, sir! '

The demon was picking up speed and lowered its horn down like a charging
rhino.

'Uh, lad.... '

Silence from behind him.

'STEWART! WE GOOD?! '

The demon roared as Ostrim decided perhaps this is where he died. At least
the hellstone and robes were in Archal's possession. As he prepared for the
blow to come, a chain whip lashed out around his waist. With a sudden pull,
Ostrim was off his feet and rocketed through the portal.

'NOW! ' yelled Stewart as Taeborlin closed the umbral portal. In the
chamber of rest, Stewart, Ostrim, and Ezrianne laid on the ground having
just yanked their commanding officer to safety.

'Roight, I'm just going to lay here a moment. '

Writer: Mau'thulakh
Date Thu May 29 13:56:05 2025

Writer: Ostrim
Date Fri May 30 15:52:47 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual II

{uSEVERAL WEEKS AGO

"Now, do not speak unless addressed by the Enchantress. She can be
unpredictable at times. Keep your composure in the face of any questions or
comments. She has been known to test her guests. I will lead this
discussion so All you need do is carry the container and keep it secured.
Understood, Supplicant? ' asked the High Mystic.

Ostrim nodded as he held an iron strongbox. The gates to the Enchantress'
tower were made of a metal he could not identify. They glittered in the
Tropica sun with frames that twisted and turned like vines. Behind them
were a cadre of guards dressed in red and black robes. Surrounding Ostrim
were four shadow mages, hoods covering their heads and faces with hands
folded into the arms of their robes. They neither made a sound nor seemed
to suffer in the heat.

A guard dressed in plate exited the basalt tower and made their way to the
gate nodding to the guards as he passed by. He took out a silver key and
unlocked and opened the gates.

'High Mystic Kayen, the Enchantress welcomes you to her abode and requests
that you ascend the stairs up to her private chambers above. Your soldiers
can wait below with the other guests. '

'With All due respect to the Lady, my soldiers are carrying an item that she
requested and must remain with me. I can assure the Enchantress that they
will pose no problems and will keep to themselves. ' responded Archal, his
gray eyes impassive and cold as they took in the guard.

There was a moment of hesitation and then it seemed the guard was listening
to something far away. With a nod to himself, he returned to the group.

'Of course, your soldiers may enter as well. '

With a bow from the guard, the Knights ascended the tower. Archal led the
soldiers up the stairs, two shadow mages behind him, then Ostrim, and then
the other two. Ostrim carried the square iron box before him at All times
as instructed. The guard lead them to the top of the tower and an iron
bound oak door. Warding glyphs outlined the doorframe and pulsed with red
and purple energy.

The guard knocked twice upon the door and it opened slowly and silently. On
the other side was the Enchantress' salon. The Lady of the tower stood on
the other side in robes of purple and black, violet eyes glittering at the
Knights with interest.

'Lady, I introduce the High Mystic of Storm Keep, Archal Kayen and his
knights. ' bowed the guard.

'{uHow delightful, on time and I see with a gift as discussed. I do so love
this new phase of our relations after your God's fall. Such a happy family
are we. Do come in. ' and the Enchantress motioned for Archal to enter.

'{uPlease leave the box by my desk and then I believe the High Mystic and I
have things to discuss in private. '

Archal nodded to Ostrim who placed the ironbox down, 'Supplicant, wait
outside for me. '

Ostrim exited the room as the guard closed the door, keeping the Enchantress
and Archa's conversation a mystery.

The five soldiers and the guard waited several minutes until nearly half an
hour has passed before the door opened again.

'{uSo lovely to see you again, High Mystic. I do hope this is a sign of more
visits to come. ' grinned the Enchantress with perfect white teeth.

Archal tiped his head in respect and now carried a silver gilded box under
his arm.

'A pleasure, Lady. The Knights of Storm Keep thank you for your hospitality
and dedication to the cause of Drakkara. ' Archal proceeded to turn and
walk down the stairs without comment. The five other soldiers took
formation up around him.

Ostrim sensed that this was not a time to ask what happened but wondered how
Archal was doing. A crack broke through the High Mystics normally stern
visage showing a hint of concern with what had occurred. Perhaps a
conversation for another time.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Fri May 30 16:26:41 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Ritual III

{uTWO DAYS AGO: STORM KEEP LIBRARY

Archal Kayen had laid out All the items they had gathered over the last
month. Hellstones, infernal robes, dragon eyes, daggers, and a crown were
the keys to the upcoming ritual. Ostrim stood beside him as they looked
over their trove.

'All is prepared Supplicant. As discussed, you will be my second if
anything goes wrong. My research into the cult has paid dividends as I now
have the chant required to open the portal. Apostus and his machinations
will be ended soon. The ritual must take place within the ancient Temple of
Evil, that I have also deduced. Prepare yourself well, Ostrim. The time
has come to rid ourselves of this cult. '

'Ser, are you sure you wish me to be your second? Perhaps another of the
Keep? A Knight of the Sanctum? Surely they offer more than I? ' inquired
the Supplicant.

'My orders are not to be questioned, Supplicant. My second you will be. Do
as I have stated, clad yourself in Her relics. Your faith will be your
salvation. Rest now. ' and with that, Archal wrapped up the items in a
velvet cloth and left the library.

Ostrim watched the High Mystic leave but something nagged at the back of his
mind.

{uTHIS MORNING

'Supplicant Bearhide! Wake up! ' yelled the sergeant.

'By the Empress, wot the 'ell is it? ' replied Ostrim as he cleared his
eyes.

'Letter from the High Mystic. ' responded the sergeant as he handed over
the vellum letter and left.

Ostrim picked up the letter and read it, then widened his eyes as he read it
again. He got dressed quickly and shoved the note into his pocket. It was
at this moment that a cry rang out.

'FEED ME' was the bloated voice of the High Mystic.

Ostrim froze in place. Other soldiers buzzed about thinking perhaps it was
some new shadow mage experiment. Gathering his equipment he ventured to the
High Mystic's quarters. He knew what he would find but he went anyway. As
he did, he passed Ezrianne in the hallway. The door was open, the room
undisturbed. Ostrim pulled the paper out of his pocket.

'Bearhide,

I could not wait. I am going to attempt the ritual, get a sense of what's
in store for us, and then I'll await you in Dnoutrar's throne room to face
it with you. Details of the ritual are below, so you can follow me if I
lose track of time inside. Clad yourself in your faith, Bearhide, it's time
to reckon with the past.

-AK

-don the eye, crown, robes
-grip the hellstone in one hand, the dagger in your other
-speak the words of the ritual
-carve the pentangle in the air in front of you while speaking the final
line.

"Overlooked and underappreciated
Cast me from the priestly nation.
Drag me below, enslave me in fire,
Open the door to Necrucifer's ire!"'

The Dark Lord needed to know what happened.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri May 30 17:22:35 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri May 30 17:38:43 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri May 30 17:59:01 2025
To All Conclave - Cayenna Tritoch Xenophon Drakkara
Subject Building: Reconciliation of Craft and Pact.

There is a subtle thread that winds its way through both witch and
warlock alike, a thread often ignored by formal schools of magic, dismissed
as superstition or dangerous improvisation. Yet in my long pursuit of the
Cauldron's truths, I find that thread not only persistent but vital.

The witch brews with instinct and ancestral guidance, the warlock binds with
will and covenant. Both are seen as outsiders, lacking the elegance of the
Arcanium, the formality of sanctioned ritual. But both, in their own way,
have harnessed aspects of the Cauldron long before it became a subject of
research. Where scholars draw diagrams, they draw sigils in dirt. Where
towers require permissions and pacts, they move through hedge, glade, and
spiritwalk with freedom.

This divergence is not a weakness. It is a compass.

I have begun constructing a chamber, one unlike the others. It will not be
infused with the cold precision of traditional runecraft. Instead, it will
hum with old earth, whisper with unseen winds, and drink from the waters
drawn in twilight. It is a place where pact and potion, prayer and pattern
can exist in tension, and perhaps, in harmony.

To that end, I have summoned a circle, not of tower mages, but of witches
and warlocks, vetted by vision and by fire. Some scoffed. Others came
curious. A few stayed. And to them I gave not theory, but praxis: a sealed
cauldron, bound with sigils drawn from both ley and lilt. Their reactions
were telling. One wept. Another sang. A third spoke in tongues I had not
yet studied.

I have always believed the Cauldron to be older than the Conclave. Now I
wonder if it is older than language. What we call witchcraft, what we call
warlock's gift, may be shadows of the Cauldron's earliest breath, distorted
echoes of when magic first met mortal.

This chamber, this collaboration, is not surrender to chaos. It is a
reaching back through time. For if I am to wield the Cauldron responsibly,
I must know not only what it can become, but what it once was, when it
rested in hands now turned to dust.

Let the Tower raise brows. Let the skeptics murmur. Let them watch. For
in the marriage of craft and pact, we may find a third path, the path the
Cauldron has been whispering All along.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri May 30 19:10:33 2025

Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri May 30 19:20:23 2025

Writer: Justian
Date Fri May 30 19:56:21 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 5

Justian stood alone in the stillness of the Main Gathering Hall, the
silence around him heavy and stifling. His breath, slow and measured,
suddenly caught in his chest, a subtle warning of what was to come. The
familiar surroundings blurred at their edges, colors bleeding into each
other until reality itself peeled away like ancient parchment.

The world around him darkened, then rekindled into a twilight lit not by sun
or moon but by something deeper, older. He stood now at the center of a
vast impossible expanse without horizon or sky, without earth beneath his
hooves and yet solid somehow grounding him in nothingness.

As if waking from an ancient sleep, shapes coalesced from the twilight...
Eyes, pairs upon pairs, each set blazing with divine power, circling and
towering around Justian. Thirteen pairs... Immense and inescapable, their
gaze pressing down upon him in silent accusation. Yet their circle was
fractured, incomplete... Five distinct gaps interrupted the symmetry, voids
of gods long dead. Their absence echoing loudly, somehow heavier... More
profound than the scrutiny of those who remained.

Justian's pulse quickened as the eyes rose higher, looming, their intensity
searing through him igniting familiar pains. Scars carved across his body
awoke, twisting beneath his coat, growing as if nourished by the divine
scrutiny. They writhed like living entities carving new paths of agony and
revelation across his flesh. His scars bled yet produced no wounds, a
paradox of suffering and transcendence.

The scars burned brighter radiating a ghostly luminescence, their glow
casting shadows that moved with a will of their own. From the glow emerged
strange runes, letters of an unspoken language that writhed and shifted like
smoke. They momentarily resolved into legible script, only to collapse back
into cryptic scrawls crawling restlessly beneath his fur.

Then, from behind and beneath the ring of divine eyes another presence took
shape... A horned tree of immeasurable age and power. Its gnarled,
sprawling branches twisted upward, breaching and defying the boundaries of
space itself, stretching impossibly beyond the confines of reality.
Recognition hit him like thunder, sharp and undeniable. The living fragment
of Malachive... Towering, undeniable... The Tree pulsed with raw, primal
force. It did not simply linger behind the gods, it wound through them.
Its branches curled around their presence, holding them aloft like
marionettes. What they ruled, it overshadowed. What they judged, it
already claimed.

A sudden surge of clarity cut through Justian's agony. These gods who
judged and ruled, who scorned and condemned, were not supreme. They were
upheld, encircled... Bound... By something far greater. Something born of
Chaos itself. Malachives legacy eclipsed them utterly, leaving their power
exposed... Conditional. Borrowed. Fragile.

His scars throbbed in sync with the Trees heartbeat. Justian met the divine
stares, his eyes alight with revelation and defiance. But before a single
word could rise pain surged anew, his vision faltered as a voice at once
familiar and alien pierced his thoughts with chilling clarity.

"Cast down the pillars! From their ashes, new seeds grow."

The world shattered into darkness leaving him adrift, breathless, poised
between understanding and annihilation...

Writer: Skalpon
Date Sat May 31 01:02:10 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat May 31 19:45:43 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: Between Fire and Formulas.

I have reached the stage where theory must confront flame, where
speculation must yield to synthesis.

The sanctum is not yet complete, but its foundations have held well enough
to support early experimentation. After weeks refining protocols, tracing
rituals with chalk on ashwood floors, and preparing failsafe glyphs upon the
walls, I allowed myself to step beyond reading, to begin brewing. Not in
full, no, what I've attempted is modest, cautious, layered with
contingencies. Yet even modest brews, when tied to the Cauldron's roots,
stir things not easily undone. It was obvious the secrets I sought would
not show themselves until I sacrificed my advanced tomes and committed to
the path of the Cauldron.

The first attempts involved infusions derived from harvested spores,
necrotic in nature, but stable under dark attunement. I combined them with
a diluted extract from verminasian bloom, agitated under a slow weave of
shadow. The result shimmered faintly like ink under moonlight, but reacted
with sharp rejection when tested against soul residue from my glove. My
cauldron whispered, not with words, but with recoil.

My next attempt used essence drawn from items recovered during my travels, a
preserved wart from a sea hag, a knuckle bone etched with old infernal
script, and a single drop of ichor from a creature whose name I refuse to
write. This mixture sang with potential. Not song as in melody, but an
ambient dissonance in the air, like a storm held in breath. The brew took
form. It pulsed. It wept vapors. It wanted something.

These are not mere potions. The Cauldron demands purpose. It rejects
casual concoction. That is the difference, I now realize. Brewing as a
warlock or witch is not formula, it is negotiation.

To test efficacy, I employed prepared simulacra, clay-bound husks animated
by skeletal ichor, bound in containment glyphs. The first brew caused
seizure, the second apathy. The third... The third one changed. Its body
cracked, flaked, and then became... Beautiful. Not in the way mortals use
the word. But in the symmetry of terror. That test subject still speaks,
even though it lacks a tongue.

I have learned more from failure than success. And I have not stepped
beyond ethical boundaries, not yet. But I understand now why this path must
be walked carefully. There is a cost, not always immediate, but cumulative.

The Cauldron grants not power, but consequence.

Still, I press forward. My findings grow. My notes now span volumes. And
I record everything. If this is to serve the Conclave, it must be
replicable, testable, and controlled. I will not offer chaos as
scholarship.

I write this not as warning, but as record. As my voucher nears final
defense, I want the Conclave to know that I do not walk blindly. But I will
walk. Even through shadow. Even through steam.

For Conclave. For Her.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun Jun 1 16:17:30 2025
To All Lindanilis ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Reflections on the Powering of Good Magic

In the portal room of the Conclave, Ulyssus stepped through a portal that
deposited him upon the main port of Icewall. He proceeded along the road
north, where caravans moved steadily by. Beyond Ganth, the road narrowed
into a rugged trail, climbing gradually into the highlands. The mists
thickened as he ascended, until he reached the great heights from which the
valleys below could be seen.

As he neared Nordmaar, the sound of bagpipes carried through the mist. His
homeland welcomed him as he stood before the massive gates. Guards manning
their posts recognized him as the Minister of Defense and saluted smartly.

Ulyssus turned east from the gates and took the winding trail into the
ancient Blackwood Forest. The landscape transformed swiftly with rocky
trails giving way to glades and towering trees. The forest breathed with
hidden life. Dryads watched from the brush, brownies flitted beneath ferns,
and wild beasts passed through the undergrowth. He passed the trailhead,
carefully descended into the gorge, and made his way past the ford and
deeper into the heart of the forest. Eventually, the woods opened to a
peaceful glade near a waterfall. Wildflowers swayed on the breeze, birds
sang overhead, and a sense of deep calm settled over the clearing.

There, Ulyssus unrolled a soft black bear hide and sat in quiet reflection,
gathering the lesson the forest offered in stillness and solitude. Settled
upon the bear hide, Ulyssus drew his white cloak around his shoulders. The
waterfall's song formed a gentle rhythm behind him, a soothing presence. He
opened the leather journal he kept always near and began to quietly review
the lesson given to him by Cardinal Lindanilis.

She had spoken of a powerful truth, that divine magic, particularly the good
magic of Kantilles, must be cast not only with skill and intention, but with
love, joy, and real care for the one receiving it. The perfection of a
spell, no matter how meticulously shaped, was not alone sufficient. Without
the open heart of the caster, and the emotional readiness of the subject,
the Light could not fully flow.

Seated amid nature's grace, he let the lesson take root. The divine was not
distant. Kantilles did not demand servitude to magic but inspired reverence
through its beauty, through the joy it brought when shared selflessly. It
was a dance of intention and spirit, and only those who held the melody of
purpose in their heart could hear the full tune.

Ulyssus dipped his quill, steady despite the soft wind, and began to write
his thoughts in the margin of the lesson:

It is not simply the ritual that matters, nor the strength of one's magic.
It is the intent... Yes, but even more, the joy, the love you share. Good
magic flows where hearts are open. Joy fuels it. Kindness directs it. My
Lord's power thrives not in commanding, but in uplifting.

He closed his eyes and let the waterfall's rhythm answer his heartbeat. He
had always loved magic for its elegance, its structure, its infinite
possibility. But here, in the glade, he understood more deeply that magic
was also kindness, and that the most sacred spells were those cast with
clean intention and a soul aligned to light.

His snowy owl circled once overhead and landed silently nearby, watching.
His manticore, never far, paced the outer edges of the glade, sensing
Ulyssus's stillness and choosing not to interrupt it.

When the wind shifted and the scent of honeysuckle reached him, Ulyssus
lifted his quill again and penned a single closing line beneath the notes:

May All my magic serve the Light, or be not cast at all.

He closed the journal with care, set it aside, and folded his hands upon his
staff. Eyes closed, he sat in stillness, letting the truth of the lesson
settle in like snowfall upon stone. The sound of the waterfall faded into
the hush of his thoughts, and there, within the glade, he meditated, not
upon power, but upon joy.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Jun 2 23:03:24 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenphon
Subject Building: The Wall Between Intellect and Instinct.

There is a wall I keep striking, immaterial, unseen, and yet more
impenetrable than any fortress of stone. The cauldron stands before me,
filled with the right ingredients, bound by incantation, watched with the
obsessive attention of a starving man parsing breadcrumbs for meaning. And
yet, it fails me.

Not violently. Not theatrically. No explosions, no corruption, no deformed
creations clawing at my ankles. No, worse. Silence. Inaction. The brew
thickens, bubbles, then dies into mundanity. Magic unformed. Alchemy
without alchemy. I have mastered every text I could acquire, every tome
hidden in the folds of libraries too proud to speak the word witch. But
none of it replaces the feel. The instinctual bond I do not yet possess.

I am reminded that warlocks do not learn to brew, they become it. Their
power seeps from bone and pact, not parchment and principle. Each failure
in the cauldron is not an error in formula, but in identity.

And so my sanctum, this sanctified space I built to isolate and understand,
has become a tomb of knowledge without transformation. My fingers know the
gestures, my voice knows the words, but my soul has not yet paid the price.
And until I walk further down that path, truly embrace the Witchlock, I will
remain as I am: a conjurer of half-truths staring into a blackened pot
hoping for stars.

Still, I refuse to abandon the work. Every failure clarifies the necessity.
This is no longer an experiment in utility. It is a proving ground of
identity. I must decide whether I cling to the prestige of Conclave comfort
or descend, fully and unapologetically, into the very thing we were taught
to scorn.

Perhaps only then will the cauldron stir.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Jun 3 14:05:42 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: The Cost of Unclaimed Power.

There are truths one does not learn from scrolls or whispered curses,
truths earned only through the crucible of failure.

My sanctum, built to isolate and protect, has become instead a mirror. A
mirror that reflects not success, but limits, limits not of will or
intellect, but of identity. I have conducted the rituals, stirred the
Cauldron, infused reagents with incantations woven from ancient syllables.
And yet, the brews collapse into ash or madness more often than they take
form. What should have been controlled transmutations instead erupt with
unpredictable volatility.

I now understand the barrier was not mechanical nor magicalit was
ontological. I attempted to coerce secrets meant only for Warlocks, all
while refusing to become one. I remained cloaked in the robes of the
Conclave, reluctant to unbind myself from their strict formality. But the
Cauldron does not heed academic ambition. It answers only to those who are
of it, whose power and essence are brewed from the same chaos it thrives
upon. Without the bond of Pact, without the transformation of Calling, I am
a thief at the edge of a sealed chamber, permitted to see, but never to
touch.

Each failed experiment confirms this. The reagents are not wrong. My
theories are not flawed. The fault lies in the one casting them. I have
chosen caution over conversion, and in so doing, ensured impotence. The
Cauldron will not yield to half-measures.

The next step is clear. If I would master this art, not merely observe it,
I must become what I study. Not just a Magus with theories, but a Warlock
reborn through Fire, Pact, and Will.

But that price, once paid, cannot be undone.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Jun 3 16:07:19 2025

Writer: Mau'thulakh
Date Wed Jun 4 06:52:00 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 5 21:37:18 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject Building: A Soul Split Twice

There are truths so tightly wound into the self that to unravel them is
to risk becoming unrecognizable to your own reflection. I have unraveled
two such truths.

The first: power taken is not the same as power earned.

The second: there is no becoming a Warlock without first facing what it
means to be one.

Since the early whispers of my Cauldron work, I have danced on the edge of
the Witch's path. My magicks brewed and bound, my will bent toward
transformation. Yet the further I pressed into those arts, the more the
weave resisted. Not in failure of spell or flame, but in failure of self.
The Tapestry did not reject me, but it withheld. Not because I lacked
knowledge, but because I denied the path's full burden.

A Witch walks with poison and promise. A Warlock kneels to neither. I have
tried to do both and been rewarded with splinters. My experimentations,
once ritual, became noise. The Cauldron boiled with rebellion. The
Tapestry grew silent. I was not ready.

So I turned inward. Returned to the sanctum. Lit every candle. Brewed
without invocation. I laid bare every scroll, every pact I had studied, and
asked a single question:

What do I fear losing if I become what I seek?

The answer was not power. It was place. Identity. The name Thindyss built
as Wizard, as scholar, as heretic and architect, what happens to that name
if I awaken as something else?

But I cannot remain what I was. Not and claim what I seek. Not and walk
the path forward. I have begun to dream again, dreams not given by gods or
ghosts but by the Tapestry itself. Threads of old trials. Whispers of dead
Witches. Each test not of magic but of conviction.

This path is not a prize. It is a door, locked from the inside.

I record this to say: I am learning the key is not a spell. It is
surrender.

Let this journal entry stand as testament. I do not claim the title yet,
but I pursue it, not for station, but for honesty. Let those who doubt the
path come speak to me. Let those who walk it in secret know they are not
alone.

-Thindyss Shiegnath,
Wizard, Wanderer of the {uTapestry's Edge
Seeker of the Witchlock

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 5 22:03:56 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Tritoch Xenophon
Subject {uThe Tapestry's Edge: Threads I am Forbidden to Name

I have stood in sanctums of my own making, surrounded by tomes older than
empires and ruins swallowed by shadow. I have broken laws of alchemy and
trespassed in forgotten domains for answers on warlocks, witches, and the
art they guard like wounded gods. But nothing prepared me for this dream,
for her.

Not a witch. Not a warlock. Not even a spirit. A seamstress of something
far more ancient.

She did not speak in words but wove them. Each breath a thread. Each
gesture a knot in reality. And when she looked through me, not at me, my
soul winced like parchment caught in flame.

"You were not made for this," she wove.

But the Tapestry disagreed.

What I glimpsed was not a path, but a snarl of them. Some led to ruin.
Others to brilliance. One to the Cauldron, still seething with my
half-finished theories. One to a blade that hums with borrowed will. One
to hunger. One to silence. And one... One I could not see, only feel, a
pulse that beat with my name rewritten.

I awoke with the scent of peat and burnt nettle on my gloves, and a symbol
burned into the inside of my wrist, not drawn, but stitched. The thread is
silver, impossibly thin, and it pulses only when I dream.

I do not know the price yet, but I know the direction.

This is no longer about building. It is about unthreading, unlearning, and
surrendering to a truth older than form.

I am not a warlock. Not yet.

But something is pulling me toward the edge of the Tapestry.

And I have always had a weakness for the forbidden stitch.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 5 22:56:54 2025

Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri Jun 6 19:41:05 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Fri Jun 6 22:26:50 2025

Writer: Mau'thulakh
Date Sat Jun 7 02:30:57 2025

Writer: Ithelim
Date Sat Jun 7 10:10:18 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Experimental Forms

Ithelim stood once again in his Umbral Solarium, lips pulled back into a
thin smile. Once more he would be able to experiment with the Umbra's
influence on the Material realm. Beside him Eustace stood, waiting
patiently with a pair of delicate pruners.

'We will need a large amount of the ink. I think half of... Everything, my
good sir. '

Eustace looked up at Ithelim for a moment and raised an eyebrow, 'Sir...
Are you sure? '

Ithelim nodded. "This will be more than just making a single tether. Three
will be going in to obtain a fourth. I just hope that the amount is enough.
Make sure you bring me the petals after you're done. I will be in the
library with our guest. '

Eustace nodded and turned to the precious flowers, and with a brief 'Yes,
sir. Consider it done. ', began the delicate process of removing the
petals from their stems, one flower at a time.

Leaving the Solarium, Ithelim walked through the dining room and into the
kitchens where a large pig slowly turned on a spit over a fire. Martha was
at the counter covered lightly in flour as she kneaded the dough for breads.

"G'day, sir. Dinner's coming along for your guest. So no worries here',
she said through a genuine smile.

Ithelim nodded his acknowledgement, eyes lingering on the spitted pig for a
moment before turning back to the dining room where more servants were
setting the table for the future dinner and making sure that everything was
polished to perfection. As he headed to the foyer his head butler, Claude,
appeared almost as a shadow.

'Everything is on track for tonight. The library is set up for your
experiments once more. Though I might ask sir, do we need to remove the
stones from the relief? ' he asked as he matched Ithelim's pace.

'Just the one. They were put there as an emergency and rescuing the High
Mystic is an emergency if there is one. I blame myself for taking my rest
for so long and not warning them of the implications of entering the Umbra
without a tether. '

'No need to blame yourself. Mortal's like to mess with things they cannot
begin to understand. Sir. '

Giving a small chuckle Ithelim reached the fireplace and ducked down into
the pit and looked at the relief of his true form, the stones in the eyes
gleaming a particular shade of unholy light. With a slight sigh he reached
up and removed the middle umbral stone, leaving behind an empty socket.

Standing up out of the fireplace he looked down at the small stone and then
back at Claude, 'I shall be in the study for when our guest arrives. Do see
them to me. '

Nodding, Claude turned and continued his direction of the other servants,
allowing Ithelim to make his way to the library where the experiments would
begin.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Jun 7 21:38:25 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon
Subject {uThe Tapestry's Edge: Unraveling Control.

There is a difference between casting and calling, between shaping the
arcane and submitting to it.

I once believed mastery was a matter of repetition and refinement, that each
glyph carefully placed, each sigil woven with precision, brought me closer
to truth. But the further I trace the Tapestry of Witchcraft, the more I
see that control is not the only path. There is a wildness at its edge, a
fray in the weave, where intuition defies the rule of law and answers only
to hunger, to intention.

I recently returned to a page I had dismissed early in my studyink blurred,
phrasing erratic, almost manic. A witchs journal, not a textbook. I now
see the value in its instability. It was a spell of unbinding, one cast not
to control but to allow. Allow emotion, allow transformation, allow chaos.
No reagents. No sigils. Just intent and pain. The caster had sacrificed
clarity for power, but in doing so, they achieved something I could not
replicate with All my calculations.

I tested the method, not fully, not foolishly. I replaced chalk with blood.
I spoke not in structured incantation, but in feeling. And the shadows
moved. Not obediently, but knowingly. They acknowledged me not as master,
but as accomplice.

That is the Witchlock. The liminal point between scholar and savage.
Between ritual and wrath.

I have not abandoned Her ways, nor the sanctity of Conclave, but I must walk
closer to the edges of this art than I intended. Not to be consumed by it,
but to understand it.

The edge of the Tapestry is not a flaw. It is a threshold.

I intend to cross it.

Writer: Lenore
Date Sun Jun 8 16:16:17 2025
To All ( Bloodlust Abaddon FATALE RP IMM )
Subject Fatale Fable - The Vultures and the Lioness (I of II )

The sun baked the savannah until the ground cracked open, bleeding dust
and silence. Flies circled in thick, lazy spirals, fat on rot and sweat.
Beneath the brittle shade of a dying acacia, the lion king lay stretched
across the earth, his breath shallow, his eyes dulled by time. His golden
mane had faded to straw, tangled with old leaves and dried blood. He no
longer hunted, no longer roared. His kingdom, once fierce and feared, had
withered around him into quiet despair.

The pride weakened. The cubs cried more often. The lionesses hunted less.
And overhead, the vultures began to circle, not just over the carcasses, but
over the living. They flew low, shameless and bold, red-eyed and
black-winged, fearless of the king's absence. They were no longer
scavengers. They had become executioners. They landed beside the sick and
the slow and tore into their bellies while breath still clung to their
lungs. They pecked at the eyes of newborns. They laughed as they devoured.

Still, the lion king did nothing. He turned his head away and muttered,
"They were weak," as if their suffering justified his silence. As if
weakness were sin enough to erase obligation.

But rage does not abide silence. Rage does not accept stagnancy. Rage
rises.

Among the lionesses was Kivara. She had been born at the edge of the pride,
orphaned during a famine the king had refused to challenge. Her bones had
grown on hunger. Her teeth had learned to fight before they learned to
clean meat from bone. She owed no debt to bloodlines or thrones. Her place
had never been given. It had been carved. She shared her life with another
castoff, a quiet, broad-shouldered male named Rohk, whose fire burned
inward. They hunted together, slept beneath thorns together, and grew into
strength as one, scarred, quiet, and dangerous.

One morning, Kivara left him at the watering hole. Drink. Wait, she
growled, her voice low. "I'll flush them your way." She moved into the
thornbrush, chasing gazelle, her breath steady and her legs sure.

She was gone for only minutes.

The scream that reached her did not sound like Rohk. It was high-pitched,
wet, inhuman. She turned at once and ran, her paws thudding against cracked
earth, her heart already fracturing.

At the edge of the pool, she stopped.

Rohk lay half-submerged in shallow water, his limbs twisted unnaturally, his
chest ripped open to the ribs. His eye was gone, his throat torn wide, and
from the cavity of his belly rose the vultures--six of them, maybe
more--feasting, flapping, shrieking. One turned its gore-slicked head
toward her, met her eyes, and laughed. Then it bent again and plunged its
beak into her mate's body.

She did not scream.

She did not cry. Rage rose within her like black smoke curling through the
hollow places of her soul. It was not hot but pressurized, thick, electric.
Her breath tasted of metal. Her vision narrowed. Her claws unsheathed
without thought.

Writer: Lenore
Date Sun Jun 8 16:20:07 2025
To All ( Bloodlust Abaddon FATALE RP IMM )
Subject Fatale Fable - The Vultures and the Lioness (II of II )

She walked forward.

The first vulture didnt even lift its head before her paw slammed down and
crushed its skull. Bone cracked like fruit beneath a stone, and its body
spasmed violently. Blood sprayed across her chest. The second bird flapped
into the air. She leapt, caught it between her teeth, and slammed it down
into the stone with such force the beak snapped sideways. She bit through
its neck and threw it into the water, where it floated beside her lover.

The third bird clawed her cheek. She didnt flinch. She drove it backward
into the mud and dragged her claws across its belly in a single, practiced
motion. Its organs slipped out in steaming ribbons. She watched it twitch
until it stopped.

By the time she left the watering hole, the pool was red, the water stilled.
Her chest heaved, and her fur clung wet to her frame. She did not look
back. She didnt grieve. There would be time for grief only when the
balance had been restored.

She followed the scent of feathers and filth to the cliff nests where the
vultures roosted, jagged outcroppings stained with dung and bone, piled high
with the remains of the forgotten. The sky was turning, wind low and humid.
They stirred above her in clusters, some cawing, some hissing, but none
flying away. They had grown lazy, fat, arrogant.

She did not wait for morning.

The slaughter began in silence.

She launched herself into the lowest nest with the speed of a falling star.
The vulture there barely turned before her teeth pierced its wing joint, and
with a violent twist, she pulled the entire limb free. It shrieked, blood
pulsing from the stump. She struck it again and again until its skull split
open and brain matter seeped into the stones.

Another dove at her. She met it mid-air, locking her jaws around its neck
and dragging it to the earth where she pinned it, bit into its throat, and
held it down until it stilled.

They began to flee--some flapping clumsily, others wheeling overhead, crying
to each other for escape. But she did not let them leave. She leapt. She
climbed. She hunted. One tried to plead with her in broken tongue. She
silenced it with a paw to the face, then pulled its body apart by its wings.
She disemboweled another slowly, dragging its intestines like a warning
banner down the slope. She ripped open rib cages with her teeth. She
cracked skulls beneath her paws. One she bit in half. She felt no pity.
No fatigue. Every scream fed the fire behind her eyes. Every fresh kill
sharpened her limbs. She was not blinded by rage. She was refined by it.
She moved not with madness, but with clarity.

The air reeked of blood, bile, and shit. Twenty vultures lay torn, twisted,
scattered. Their bodies painted the rocks in black and red. Feathers
drifted down like ash.

She stood alone at the summit, her chest rising and falling in slow,
deliberate rhythm. Her fur was soaked and matted. Her muzzle darkened.
Her claws dripped. But her eyes burnedclear, bright, alive. The rage had
not left her. It had fulfilled her. Completed her. She was more than

And the pride came.

They arrived without sound, drawn by the smell, by the silence, by the
absence of the vultures laughter. One by one they stepped into the
red-streaked clearing and saw her standing amidst the carnage, her head
high, her body steaming in the morning light.

Their eyes did not turn to the acacia tree. They no longer looked for the
lion king.

He had not stirred.

At some point in the night, while blood was being spilled in the high
cliffs, his breath had stopped. No claw had touched him. No beast had
challenged him. He died alone, ignored, devoured not by tooth or flame, but
by time and irrelevance. The flies had taken his eyes. No one mourned him.

Writer: Lenore
Date Sun Jun 8 16:24:42 2025
To All ( Bloodlust Abaddon FATALE RP IMM )
Subject Fatale Fable - The Vultures and the Lioness (III of II )

Kivara walked back into the pride without ceremony. She did not declare
herself queen. She spoke no word. But as she moved, the others parted for
her. She walked not through them, but above them, and no one questioned
why.

They followed her not because she was noble, not because she was just, but
because she had acted. She had done what no law could, what no oath dared.
She had delivered vengeance.

The crown was not passed. It was claimed.

And in that moment, the pride remembered what power looked like. Not a
throne beneath an acacia tree. Not a faded mane. But blood, rage, action.

Kivara did not rise from lineage. She rose from murder.

Let this be known. When kings falter, rage must rise. When law is silent,
let blood speak. The lioness did not inherit her rule. She took it, in
fang and fury. And her kingdom, born of vengeance, remembered what it meant
to fear the one who dares to act. This is the will of Fatale. This is the
lesson. Murder is not failure. It is awakening.

Rage is the divine spark that reveals true strength, a sacred force that
forges power in the fires of suffering. In Fatale's domain, vengeance is
not emotion-it is holy purpose, the rightful correction when "justice" fails
as it always does, favoring the weak over the powerful. Through murder, the
faithful destroy, so that weakness may be tore down, the tapestry of night
expanded..

Writer: Archal
Date Sun Jun 8 16:28:55 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim ( Drakkara Naamitsa Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: A mind astir

Archal awoke in a sea of anger and bitterness. His mind awoke, at any
rate. His body was still not his own. The sea he floated in felt like the
mind of Apostus, who he could feel still covering his head, even as he could
not do anything to move it.

He was still seated in a pew, back to the narthex and entrance behind him.
He had fallen asleep - lost consciousness, more apt a phrase - once he had
wrapped his mind around his current situation, of Apostus being wrapped
around his own mind. In command of his body. He had fought the panic,
swallowed it down even as it formed a lump in his throat (all figuratively,
of course, but Apostus had noticed anyway. He had felt the mockery of his
fear in the demon's mind.

But the mockery faded as the long night of waiting ticked on, the repetitive
mantra of Apostus' obsessive thoughts a swinging metronome. It should have
been me, he would complain. Necrucifer lives, he would insist. I should
have ascended, he would lament. The whore is false, he would opine. A
woman cannot possibly lead an entire pantheon, he would assert. Variations
on the theme. Endless looping anger and bitterness that the world had
changed and left him behind.

When he awoke, he felt small and isolated, but not panicked. He still could
not move, and the demon's mantra was still humming like a highland drone,
and Archal decided it was best not to distract him from it. Or, rather, let
him stay distracted by it. Apostus had control over his body, but only
access to his mind, not control of it. Archal's was not a layperson's mind.

He would have closed his eyes, if he could, but instead he did his best to
dissociate from his view of Apostus' basilica. This did not call for an
explosive or an expansive foray into the ether, but a whisper thin probe
that might go unnoticed by the parasite enclosing his thoughts. Softly,
gently, Archal pushed into the mind of Apostus. Archal Kayen, High Mystic
of Storm Keep, Shadowknight of Drakkara, manatonic thaumaturge, yet had ways
to fight.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun Jun 8 19:18:31 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery I

The wind was sharp with salt and snow at the Icewall Port. Cloaked in
the white of the Ivory Tower, his highland kilt darkened by damp sea air and
salt, Ulyssus passed the bustle of minotaur laborers and merchants moving
quickly through the port. Most paid him little mind, just another pilgrim
wrapped in wool and purpose. But one or two turned to watch as he took off
to walk along the coast towards the northwest.

He began his journey in silence, crossing the southwestern shore where ocean
mist and inland wind tangled together in freezing sheets. Drifts of snow
slowed his gait, clinging to his boots and cloak until his silhouette looked
more frost than flesh. As he continued, the wind rose into a howl. Fresh
snow crunched beneath his feet as waves froze in motion along the stony
coast. He paused only once, to draw his white oak staff more tightly in
hand, its crystal faintly glowing, a quiet defiance to the elements.

The glacier rose before him like a sleeping beast, its edge creaking in
frozen breath. Ulyssus moved past the glacier and turned toward the jagged
mountain path that curled high above the western shore. Granite peaks
loomed in silence. The wind no longer screamed but it whispered, cunning
and cold, wrapping itself into seams and sleeves. He pressed on through
shifting trails of scree and bare stone, beneath a blue sky so clear it
seemed carved.

By midafternoon, his route brought him to a lonely ridge where the trail all
but disappeared. He climbed carefully among cliffs and boulders, finding
solace in the rhythm of his movement. A dry creekbed, choked in smooth
white stones, offered temporary shelter from the wind. There, within the
shadow of leaning cliffs, Ulyssus made camp.

He unrolled his bedroll atop a shelf of earth and stone, shaking the snow
free with a flick of his cloak. With a murmured incantation, he sparked a
fire that burned warm and smokeless. From within his satchel he withdrew
his waterbound orb and a small tin cup, into which he steeped a mixture of
roots and herbs. The smell was earthy and sharp, the kind that lingered in
the nose and stirred old memories.

While the tea warmed, he withdrew his journal, its pages already heavy with
arcane diagrams and notes. Beneath the hovering light of his magical orb
and the crackle of flame, he made a careful entry, recording both the
challenges of the terrain and the contemplations stirred by solitude. He
sketched the patterns of frost he'd seen forming in unnatural fractals, made
not by weather alone but, perhaps, the breath of some old enchantment
clinging to the land. He wrote of Kantilles and the sacred charge to
protect and serve magic, not only with power but with devotion. These
thoughts spilled into prayer, written first, then whispered aloud into the
hush between the rocks.

After his tea had cooled and the ink had dried, he tucked his journal back
into his satchel and looked up at the moonlit peaks above. Silence reigned,
broken only by wind and the occasional shuffle of unseen creatures among the
stones. The owl on his shoulder fluffed its feathers and took wing,
circling once before settling into a crag above.

Satisfied that the fire would hold through the night, Ulyssus removed his
boots and lay back on the bedroll. He watched the glow of the fire for a
time before closing his eyes, his thoughts already reaching forward to the
radiant spire high above the peaks. There would be more to climb tomorrow,
but for now, here amid bone dry creek stones and the hush of old stone, he
rested.

To be continued...

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Jun 9 18:40:45 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery II

Dawn came grey and quiet, the light struggling to breach the high cliffs
that guarded the creekbed. Ulyssus stirred beneath his furs, the fire
reduced to embers that shimmered like the last stars of the night. He knelt
beside the ashes, pressing his palm lightly to the ground and whispering a
simple word. The coals flared briefly in recognition, then faded as he
scattered them with a sweep of his hand.

He packed his things with care. The cup was dried and wrapped, the orb
sealed with a trace of frost. His journal was tied shut with a strip of
leather, placed back inside the satchel that hung against his side. His
boots were cold but dry, and his breath fogged around him as he stepped once
more onto the frost-bitten trail.

The path wound higher through the mountains, and soon the creekbed gave way
to jagged peaks and harsh stone. Here and there, brittle pines clung to the
slopes like monks in prayer, unmoved by the wind that scoured the air clean
of All but silence. The trail was hard, the ascent slow. Once or twice,
Ulyssus paused to steady himself, leaning on his staff as his breath misted
before him. He pressed his gloved hand to the mountainside to feel the cold
pulse of stone, as if listening to the heartbeat of the land itself.

Eventually, the harsh peaks softened, giving way to a hidden path where the
stones bore the marks of careful crafting. Though it twisted steeply
through the heights, the footing was solid, the steps deliberate. Someone,
perhaps many, long ago had shaped this passage into the mountain. The ice,
omnipresent in the range, was gone here. Not melted, not broken, simply
absent. The path glowed faintly, touched by some protective blessing.
Ulyssus paused in reverence, tracing a gloved finger along the etched edge
of a step, murmuring a prayer to Kantilles in thanks.

Above him, the radiance grew.

The air changed as he climbed. The sky remained a pale canvas, yet the
brightness ahead defied even the mountain gloom. At last he crested a final
slope, boots landing with quiet weight on bare stone. There, rising before
him, was the monastery.

The gates of the Crystal Monastery shimmered as if caught in perpetual dawn.
The structure seemed born not of stone, but of some celestial glaze, clear
and luminous, yet strong as tempered ice. Walls of the same crystal curled
outward, embracing the base of the mountain in an elegant arc. The twin
doors at the entrance stood tall and unyielding, each carved with sigils of
light and reflection that pulsed softly in rhythm with the unseen source of
the monastery's radiance.

A single sentinel stood motionless before the gates, a towering golem of
sculpted ice, fused with the mountain itself. Its blank face bore no human
expression, but the twin points of crystal-blue light in its eyes shifted
subtly as Ulyssus approached. He paused a respectful distance away and
lowered his hood, the wind tugging at the white cloak of his Tower.

He did not speak, not yet. Instead, he raised his staff slowly and planted
it before him. The gem at its tip flared once with pure, quiet light. A
symbol of his oath, his magic, his intention.

The golem's gaze held him in silence for long moments, then the doors behind
it shuddered once and began to open with no sound, as if parting fog rather
than solid crystal.

Ulyssus exhaled. The path of cold and contemplation had led him here, to
the foot of study and devotion. He stepped forward through the gates of the
Crystal Monastery, into the first breath of sacred light.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Jun 9 18:57:12 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Cayenna Tritoch Xenophon Drakkara
Subject {uThe Tapestry's Edge: Frayed Threads and Final Stitches.

There is a theory, whispered more than written, that the tapestry of
witchcraft is not infinite, but rather, ending. Not unraveling, not
decaying, but finishing, thread by thread, stitch by stitch, as though the
loom itself had a purpose now nearing completion. This theory, known among
a few deranged seers and unburied crones as the Tapestry End Theory, has
taken hold of my mind like a fever.

According to obscure divinatory records found buried beneath the obsidian
bones of Ghuls Folly, the theory claims that All witchcraft is part of a
great weaving, a literal and metaphysical construction formed from each act
of spellwork, pact, and potion. Every witch, every warlock, every ritual is
a thread, woven not randomly but with forethought. Purpose. And each time
a spell is cast, a new stitch is added to the design.

I once believed, like most, that we weaved endlessly, that we continued to
add to it in our growth, But what if that's false?

What if there is a pattern? A destination? What if we're not creating the
tapestry, but fulfilling it?

The last page of the stitched-linen scroll I found while researching the
Witchlock did not describe new methods or spells, it instead depicted a
near-complete pattern. A convergence point. It wasn't symmetrical. It
wasn't beautiful. It was complex, knotted, and tight, as though the magic
itself had grown dense, almost tired. The final threads, it seemed, were
already being drawn.

In this view, some practitioners aren't merely scholars or sorcerers. They
are the last. The final contributors. The finishers.

The implications chill me.

If this theory holds weight, then perhaps the sudden deaths of ancient
covens, the thinning of raw magic in ley-veins, and even the resurgence of
hybrid arts like Witchlock are not coincidences. Perhaps they are symptoms
of closure, echoes of the final chapter. A binding of the last stitches.

And if I am right, if I have followed this thread to its final spool, then I
must ask myself: what happens when the tapestry is done?

Does it awaken? Collapse? Rewrite itself?

Or worse does it begin again?

I will not idly watch this weave complete itself. I will find the Loom, the
hand that holds the shuttle, and demand answers. Whether it is a god, a
mechanism, or a story forgotten by time, I will know the truth.

Should I vanish without trace, know this: my final act was not failure, but
an attempt to touch the end of the tapestry.

And perhaps... to tie a new thread.

-Thindyss, of the Final Weavers
Witchlock Scholar | Dreadneedle of the Ebony Tower
9 June 2005, of the Old Calendar, Journal log

Writer: Tamello
Date Tue Jun 10 08:54:34 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Jun 10 22:08:29 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Tue Jun 10 23:47:11 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Tue Jun 10 23:54:25 2025

Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Jun 11 04:58:11 2025
To Shadow All - Archal Ostrim ( Drakkara Necrucifer Imm RP Tritoch Cayenna )
Subject Cult of True Prophecy: Between Gods and Ghosts

The rain touched the tall glass windows like memory - soft and
persistent, neither storm nor drizzle, but the kind of steady, timeless
patter that seemed less to fall than to settle upon the world. In the
western tower of his manor, the one rebuilt stone by stone upon the crumbled
bones of older vows, Zorreau de la Vega sat in solitude within the deep
embrace of a wingback chair, its dark leather worn by years and shaped to
the weight of him. The hearth nearby cast a dim glow across the room,
illuminating the panelled walls, the shelves of leather-bound volumes, and
the quiet watch kept by his armour, which stood upright on its stand like a
sentinel from another age.

On the low table before him lay an opened letter, the wax seal - emblazoned
with the sigil of Storm Keep - cracked and curling at the edges. The
message within bore no surprises. It was a record of careful plans, lists
of names, the architecture of a rescue mission intended to reclaim Archal
from the demons grasp. There was mention of tethers and circles, anchor
teams and sacrificial steps, All spoken with the clarity of command. Yet
nowhere in its length did his own name appear, and he had not expected it
to.

Still, beside the hearth, the armour had been made ready. A travelling
cloak had been folded with precision, provisions secured, blades cleaned and
sheathed, their edges tested and true. The preparation was not made in
anticipation of orders, nor from any misplaced need to prove his relevance.
It was simply the habit of a soldier whose instincts ran deeper than thought
- one who had, across long years and longer silences, learned to be ready
not for the call, but for the absence of one.

In the great bed across the room, Nimiane stirred faintly, her breathing
steady beneath the velvet weight of the covers. He did not glance toward
her, though he noted the sound with the same quiet attention that he gave to
all things in this hour. Her presence, like the rain, like the fire,
grounded him. Yet even she, who had pledged herself in name and bond, could
not draw him from the spiral of his own mind tonight.

Once, he would have led this charge. Once, the names inked upon that page
would have followed his into fire. Once, the voice of Necrucifer had burned
in his blood, and All who heard it in him had obeyed. But that voice was
silenced now. The god he had served had been unmade, cast down by the very
goddess who now claimed dominion over the dark. Drakkara had taken
Necrucifers place upon the throne, and the Keep - his Keep - had sworn anew.
They served Her will with conviction, as did he.

Yet still, She had not called him.

He had knelt. He had obeyed. He had waited, and waited still.

Another sip of the whiskey brought smoke and shadow to his tongue, rich with
the burn of age. It was a drink meant to mark the end of things, or the
beginning of something weightier still. The fire cracked softly, a single
ember falling in the grate. The missive remained on the table, its contents
unchanged, yet heavy with implication. The officers were remaining behind,
lending their strength to the anchoring. Others - fresh voices, unburdened
by the weight of long history - would cross into the abyss.

And Zorreau de la Vega, once Dark Lord, twice commander of the Keep, now sat
in a room half-lit, his armour idle, his name unspoken.

He had seen empires fall and rise again. He had built thrones from rubble,
only to watch them splinter beneath the weight of time. And now, when all
the banners had changed and the prayers had shifted, he remained - not out
of defiance, nor confusion, but from the simple, unadorned truth that he had
not yet found what must come next.

Not for Storm. Not for the Keep. But for himself.

He watched the fire until the flames lost shape, until the soft percussion
of the rain overtook the sound of the room. He did not speak. There was
nothing left to say. The armour stayed packed. And outside, the rain
continued.

Writer: Kaladon
Date Wed Jun 11 20:57:45 2025

Writer: Orutix
Date Thu Jun 12 09:51:56 2025
To Bloodlust Lenore All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Rising Tide

The change in the air drifted heavy in the underdark, a subtle shift -
like the quiet before a storm. All preparations were made for the ritual,
the deeper they dug, the more the darkness seemingly clinged to him, seeping
into his fractured thoughts like ink in water.

When the Chaos spines erupted from the earth, slivers of jagged bone and
sinew that pushed their way up from the depths, humming with the persistent
eerie resonance that stayed with the Warlord. They carried with them the
fragments of the Reliqua, the strange artifact that Orutix held before the
dark spine, which pulsed with a faint stolen power, as if holding echoes of
somethin glong buried.

Standing at the edge of the excavation, Orutix could feel the creeping,
gnawing darkness seeping up through the cracks in the earth, rising like a
tide of darkness from beneath his feet. Every step he took within the
Underdark made the air heavier, as though the weight of ambition was
dragging the abyss up with him. He could feel his Mistress' gaze upon him,
not from the statue within the Dungeon, but from the storm-wracked skies
above. He flexed his fingers, still stiff from the blackstone's touch, and
wondered how long it would take for the shadow to finally spill over.

Writer: Tamello
Date Thu Jun 12 12:45:23 2025

Writer: Geirhart
Date Thu Jun 12 14:39:07 2025

Writer: Tief
Date Thu Jun 12 14:58:23 2025

Writer: Tief
Date Thu Jun 12 15:10:16 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 12 15:55:56 2025
To All Conclave Verminasia - Imm Admin Cayenna Xenophon Rhelic Croaton Drakkara
Subject The Battle of Ironclad: Preparations for War.

Painstaking efforts were made in preparation for the war. This was no
gathering of arms and allies, it was an unveiling. From my vault, every
trophy, every experiment, every treasure I have harvested through blood,
betrayal, or brilliance was summoned. Floating discs trailed behind me like
the wake of some silent ship, groaning under the weight of secrets not meant
to be carried.

The finest corpses walked with us: the blazing the blazing P{ohoen{oix from a
hidden lair, the Clay Colossus I felled on a dare, even the Keep Lords whose
flesh had once mocked death, now bound by my will. Corpses used in past
experiments, too unstable or too volatile for normal study, were finally
given purpose. They would not return. That was understood.

A tuft of phoenix down, warm even through my wards, rested beneath my robes,
should my voice fail or my hand falter. The beasts pelt, a dragonskin relic
too dangerous to keep close for long, had been reforged as armor for my
Dracolich. It served now as both saddle and sigil, a banner of vengeance
stitched in scale.

Every piece of marrow, every scrap of flesh, every fiber of tissue from
Chaos reanimated in mock rituals. Legs and skulls from the worm composed of
twisted flesh, the serpent-headed chaos beast, and the snarling wolf-headed
chaos beast were stripped, cataloged, and measured against All known forms
of magic. The mantis-like creature with ashen skin and sharp bone
appendages, its death had gifted us a relic of kinetic resistance. Even the
large creeping shadow and plagued bloodless hounds husks, still potent with
the essence of the Hunger, were preserved in a sealed disc, wrapped in
silence spells. I do not believe they are entirely dead. But they are
quiet. For now.

And then, there was the blade. The Blade That Remembers. Its hunger sealed
and its whispers returned to the Queen. It was no longer mine, but its
burden was. Whatever came next, I had traded the scream of the Hunger for
the silence of preparation.

I will not meet Chaos with only incantations and theory. I will meet it
with wrath made manifest, with the will of the Tower and the bones of my
enemies.

Let this be known: the field of Ironclad will not be sacred. It will be
saturated.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 12 16:13:23 2025
To All Conclave Verminasia - Imm Admin Cayenna Xenophon Rhelic Croaton Drakkara
Subject The Battle of Ironclad: To the Gates we Ride.

The preparations were not for pageantry. They were not made to impress.
They were made because I have seen what Chaos does to the unprepared, and I
will not be counted among their number.

We departed under shadow, not secrecy, but solemnity. The air itself seemed
to hold its breath as disc after disc floated forward, heavy with relics,
corpses, components, and contingencies. Each unit of necromantic flesh had
been conditioned. Each artifact bound and warded. Even the winds that
swept over the seas toward Ironclad tasted of ritual.

The Dracolich beneath me did not stir as a beast might. It moved with
memory, a grave-bound intelligence, its wings tattered but unyielding, its
breath a silent frost. The beasts pelt clung to it like a second skin. It
knew this would be not a flight, it would be a plunge.

The Blade That Remembers is no longer in my hand, but I feel its echo. A
hunger muted, perhaps, but never silenced. I have watched Piknim's grip on
it, and though her smile dances, her eyes carry weight now. She knows what
we sealed inside. And what might break the seal.

In the days leading to the march, I reviewed every experiment again, twice.
The sinews of the Chaos-born creatures flexed differently in moonlight. The
mantis-chitin hums when near iron. Even in death, they resist. I do not
know what they are trying to become, only that we cannot allow it.

I had hoped my call to arms would be answered by Ulyssus, Aymer and their
towers and hoped on the field their magick would give me the room to fully
employ my own. If we are to win this, we need those willing to provoke the
dark and those willing to answer it. The soldiers we rode with would be
enough, but with the hum of Aymer's magick shield and Ulyssus upon his own
beast wielding the power of the blackstaff my own powers would truly sing.

Now, Ironclad looms. The earth beneath it quakes with more than tectonics.
I smell it, familiar, acrid, and old. Chaos is not arriving. It is already
here. It waits within, coiled in silence, like the Hunger within the blade.

I have prepared my magicks, my weapons, my minions, my mind. If we fall, it
will not be because we hesitated. And if we rise, then let it be as
architects of the end of this chaos tide.

My tower knows. My Queen knows. Let Algoron know.

We do not walk to war unready. We float there, on bones and memory.

Writer: Kaladon
Date Thu Jun 12 16:26:48 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jun 12 16:39:39 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject {uThe Tapestry's Edge: Loomlight Before War

There are moments, brief as exhaled smoke, when even I question the
purpose of my path.

In the days before Ironclad, before my own preparations, before others oiled
blades and fastened armor, I secluded myself within the obsidian hollows
beneath the Tower, among chalk circles, dead tongues, and stained tables. I
did not prepare for war, yet. I prepared for a question.

The Tapestry has not left me. Not in waking, not in sleep. Every page I
turn, every corpse I raise, every shimmer of ley magic I coax through a rune
speaks to a shape. Not chaotic, not random, but deliberate. Each stitch
revealing more than the last. I no longer believe in coincidence. Only
sequence.

My dreams have not been silent. For seven nights, I have seen an empty
loom. No spindle. No hand. Just threads fluttering as though waiting for
a final draw. Sometimes I hear weeping. Sometimes laughter. But always
the rhythm, pull, tie, cut, begin.

I gathered remnants from my past attempts at Cauldron-bound brews: Dried
blood from a spell that failed but refused to rot. A crystal shard left
inert until it touched a lock of Witchlock hair, then glowed with a memory
not its own. An ink made from star-metal flakes, used to draw an invocation
that mirrored one already etched into the scroll from Ghul's Folly.

I tested them not for power, but for intent. Could the Cauldron create, or
did it only reflect the ends already sewn into the pattern? I poured a
blend into its hollow, and rather than bubble or churn, the Cauldron sighed.
I swear it. Like something accepting its fate.

And then I stopped.

Not for fear. But because I understood. Whatever truths I might wrest from
the Cauldron now would cost me something irretrievable, something I will
need at Ironclad. A thread must not be pulled too soon.

So I sealed the chamber. Left the final experiment incomplete. It will
wait. It must.

The war looms. And in its shadow, I see the threads twisting tighter. The
Tapestry nears its next knot. I must fight, not just to survive, but to
stall its completion, until I know whose hand guides the shuttle.

Let the field be soaked with purpose. And if I fall, let my thread fray in
defiance, not silence.

(Journal Log)
Thindyss Shiegnath, Dreadneedle of the Ebony Tower
Watcher of the Final {uWeave

Writer: Khalifa
Date Fri Jun 13 14:31:49 2025
To Marauders All Chaos Imm Xenophon Croatoan Rhelic
Subject An Admiral's Distress

Ensign Roogin had been assigned to watch the port for any signs of enemy
activity. It had been quiet, almost quiet enough for him to fall asleep
at his post, when he heard it. "thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk..." The sound
repeated for a short time, paused, and began again. He looked around and
saw nothing. Eventually he traced the source of the sound back to the
Cutlass, and he focused his spyglass abovedeck.

Khalifa was pacing from port to starboard and back again. His fist was
clenched on his rapier, knuckles white with tension. He was looking at his
boots as he paced, his mind focused on the recent events within the fort.

The forces of several kingdoms had arrived at the fort, hell-bent on
destroying it before Chaos could. The feeble-minded people of the world
continued to blame Ironclad for the actions of a few traitors in years past.
Many of those kingdoms continued to harbor the people responsible for the
fort's brief occupation by forces of the warp. It was maddening.

The Admiral muttered to himself as he paced. "Opportunists..." he mumbled,
"...more interested in destroying the fort than they are in stopping chaos."
He looked sharply up to the sky and yelled, "And where are YOU??"

His god did not respond. Raije had been cryptically silent throughout the
entire ordeal, but then again, his faithful had been unsuccessful in their
attempts to prevent the takeover by Barol and the rest of his traitorous
rabble, so could he really be blamed?

To confuse matters more, the manifestations of Chaos had appeared to save
the fort from destruction at the hands of a few opportunistic Queens and
their armies. Khalifa's confusion persisted. A skilled tactician, he still
failed to understand what the warp was driving at in the short term.

---

The ensign continued to watch Khalifa from a distance. The Admiral was not
only muttering under his breath, but seemed to have developed a tic.

Writer: Justian
Date Fri Jun 13 14:43:52 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM Xenophon RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 6

Justian stood alone beneath the darkened archways of the Main Gathering
Hall, the ancient stonework casting elongated shadows that danced and
flickered in the dim torchlight, creating illusions of movement at the
periphery of his vision. The silence around him was oppressive, thick and
heavy like a shroud draped over the world, muffling even his breathing.

The scars rippled in sinuous rhythms, their ancient glyphs emerging like
whispers beneath the skin, each stroke and curve filled with forgotten lore
and arcane purpose. Their movements grew more agitated and fervent, each
scar pulsing rhythmically, as though responding to a distant heartbeat or
the breathing of some unseen leviathan. The shifting shapes whispered
forgotten secrets, echoing silently beneath his skin, each mark joining in
an eerie chorus of prophecy that resonated within his bones.

Justian closed his eyes briefly, concentrating deeply, feeling the subtle
vibrations of Truth hidden beneath layers of ancient stone and dense earth.
His mind reached out, brushing against a reality hidden just beyond his
grasp, sensing something vast and ancient beginning to awaken.

Beneath Fort Ironclad, something ancient stirred, an entity whose waking
tremors resonated deep within Justian's bones, pulsing through every scar
etched upon his skin. A sense of profound anticipation and dread
intertwined within him, sharp and raw, as he felt the primal awakening
resonate in the marrow of his being. Each scar seared anew, not with simple
pain but with a clarity of understanding, illuminating truths long buried
under the weight of forgotten sins and whispered treacheries.

This was no ordinary tremor; it was the inevitable manifestation of
countless subtle betrayals, whispered oaths, and carefully cultivated faith
turned awry. The design was intricate, woven meticulously through lifetimes
of deceit and devotion, sealed with blood and betrayal, and now its fruition
pressed urgently against the thinning barrier of reality. Justian saw it
vividly in his mind's eye... The slow, deliberate fracturing of existence,
the unraveling of the veil the false gods arrogantly thought beyond reach.
His heart beat rapidly, not with fear, but with anticipation and solemn
acceptance of his own hand in this profound and inevitable transformation.

Justian's vision shattered into fragments, cascading into scenes of
grotesque wonder. Fort Ironclad pulsed and twisted before him, no longer
stone, but living corruption, a grotesque echo of himself. Veins of shadow
pulsed beneath the fortress, thick and twisting, like blackened roots
clawing desperately through corrupted earth, hungry and relentless. Each
pulse matched the rhythm of the Warp's awakening heartbeat, a deep resonant
drumbeat that thundered in Justian's own chest, powerful and undeniable.

For a brief chilling moment, he saw himself reflected in that corrupted
landscape... A shared identity emerging clearly before him. He and the
fortress were one, both marked by the Warp, reshaped by forces beyond mortal
understanding, poised and trembling on the brink of release, waiting
impatiently to unleash the twisted truths they now carried within.

Writer: Justian
Date Fri Jun 13 14:46:54 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM Xenophon RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 7

"Threads and scars," Justian whispered, his voice barely audible yet
weighted with a quiet intensity that echoed through the oppressive
stillness. A fleeting moment of doubt brushed against his consciousness...
A brief question of whether such profound truths could be borne by mortal
flesh... But it faded swiftly, overshadowed by a fierce determination.

He had long believed himself either the weaver guiding the threads of fate,
or perhaps merely another thread within the intricate design of existence.
But the Truth now revealed to him was far more complex, more profound...
And infinitely more troubling. He was both the weaver and the woven, yet he
was neither, trapped instead as a scar within the grand tapestry itself. An
intentional flaw, purposefully threaded into the cosmic fabric to unravel it
from within. The magnitude of this realization bore down on him, heavy and
suffocating. A fracture from which something ancient, profound, and
terrible would soon emerge.

He wondered with a strange, detached curiosity if the false gods above could
perceive this, if their divine eyes pierced deep enough through mortal veils
to understand the Truth he now carried, or if their blindness was
deliberate, shielding them from the inevitability he embraced.

His scars continued to shift restlessly, weaving intricate patterns across
his flesh in ceaseless flux... Glyphs that formed slowly, meticulously
detailed, only to dissolve back into obscurity like ink dispersing in water.
Some symbols whispered familiarity, echoes of ancient languages or forgotten
rituals, while others were alien, inscrutable, defying interpretation yet
undeniably charged with meaning. Each glyph was a fragment of prophecy, a
shard of revelation imprinted upon his very being, as though the universe
itself had chosen him as its canvas.

Justian breathed steadily, centering himself amid the whirlwind of
sensation. The pain was intense, but he embraced it willingly, seeing it
not as suffering but as enlightenment, a necessary conduit for the knowledge
now flowing through him. He no longer required the sharpness of a blade or
the precision of incantations for clarity; his own body, marred and reshaped
by these scars, had become the ultimate instrument of Truth. Each pulse,
each burning ripple across his skin was a testament to the profound truths
Chaos sought to unveil, a living message etched permanently into his
existence. Justian felt a quiet pride, mingled with solemn reverence,
knowing that his flesh bore the story of worlds yet to be unraveled.

Justian opened his eyes slowly, the dim torchlight reflecting faintly off
their intense unblinking depths. He fixed his gaze forward, peering into
the oppressive darkness that seemed alive with unseen whispers waiting
anxiously on the threshold of revelation. The tension around him was
palpable as if reality itself held its breath uncertain and wary of what
loomed just beneath its fragile veneer. Yet he felt no hesitation, only a
profound certainty in the inevitability of what approached.

The world above was oblivious bound by ignorance and false serenity, yet
beneath their feet a Truth was uncoiling... Massive, majestic, and
terrifyingly beautiful in its awful inevitability. Justian's heart thrummed
steadily with anticipation, a fierce eagerness blending seamlessly with a
sober acceptance of his destined role. He would not avert his gaze, he
would stand firm, unwavering, a witness to the cataclysmic birth of a
reality long obscured, ready to welcome its emergence with open eyes and an
unyielding spirit.

Writer: Justian
Date Fri Jun 13 14:47:48 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM Xenophon RP Religion )
Subject Cracks Beneath the Surface: Part 8

The gods had built upon sand, Justian thought, their grand towers and
temples merely faades masking a fragile foundation of deceit and delusion.
Now, he would watch as the tides of inevitability surged upward, relentless
and unstoppable, washing away false truths and crumbling illusions. Chaos
was no distant threat... It had always been here, buried beneath the thin
veil of reality, simmering patiently under the skin of the world, within the
marrow of his own bones.

He felt a profound sense of destiny swell within him, a fierce pride and
quiet reverence intertwined, as he accepted his role... Not merely as an
observer, but as a catalyst, the spark that would ignite the profound
transformation waiting just beneath the surface. The world trembled on the
edge of an epoch-defining rupture, and Justian, cloaked in shadows and
marked by scars that whispered Truths long concealed, stepped forward
deliberately, resolute and unafraid. He was prepared not only to witness
this cataclysmic birth, but to herald its arrival, a harbinger of revelation
and change.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Jun 13 17:48:05 2025
To All Conclave Verminasia - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Rhelic Croatoan
Subject The Battle of Ironclad: The Weight of Command.

I have issued the orders. Words, parchment, arcane signals, All so
feeble when weighed against the blood soon to be shed. And yet, they carry
weight, these syllables etched by my will. Not for pageantry. Not for
politics. For purpose.

There is a gravity in speaking the names of those I command. Each name is a
spark, a potentiality of devastating brilliance or calamitous failure. The
Ebony Tower, for All our strength, is still mortal. Still finite. And I do
not march them into fire lightly.

I sat in the sanctum, candlelight sputtering in rhythm with the ley lines
beneath us, drafting what may be the last orders I give to some. I crafted
each phrase with care, not only for clarity, but to bind intention with
invocation. No ambiguity. No sanctuary in inaction.

Her eyes are upon us now. Drakkara, the Mother of All Dark Magicks. I feel
Her gaze upon every command I have issued. She does not care for
hesitation. Nor will I.

The battlefield will not wait for diplomacy. Chaos does not parley. It
devours. And so I have demanded that we answer it not as individuals, but
as a Tower, one voice, many hands, All soaked in the dark resolve of Her
power.

Still, the heaviest burden is not battle. It is command.

To weigh loyalty against fear. To name those who would abandon their oath.
To make clear that Her will is not optional. That was not rage. That was
protection, of the Tower, of Her vision, of magick itself.

If we fall, it will not be because we failed to prepare or lacked
conviction. It will be because the hour demanded more than even we could
conjure.

But if we rise? If we succeed?

Then let it be known that when Chaos clawed at the gates of Algoron, it was
the Magi of the Ebony Tower who stood defiant, not as pawns of war, but as
architects of its end.

Thindyss Shiegnath, Ebony {uWizard
First in Command of the Ebony Tower.
(Personal journal log before the battle for Ironclad)

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:12:05 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:13:33 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:14:41 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:16:07 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:17:04 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:18:02 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:19:08 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:20:08 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:22:53 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:26:39 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:27:11 2025

Writer: Ancaladar
Date Fri Jun 13 22:27:49 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Sat Jun 14 00:19:19 2025
To All Abaddon ( Imm Fatale Xenophon Rp )
Subject Bone and Flame (Part 1)

The cavern reeked of alchemical fire and old, seared bone. It stretched
beneath the blackened earth like the gutted belly of some vast and long-dead
beast, its ribs shaped of steel struts and enchantments, its breath choked
with ash and iron filings. Here, deep within Abaddon's bowels, the dracolae
slumbered-not in peace, for such a thing had never touched them-but in tense
anticipation. Bone wings shuddered occasionally as spells hummed across
them, layered one over the other like lacquer on lacquer, death upon death.

Sedinae's boots clicked like a metronome upon the stone. The sound echoed
in unnatural syncopation, swallowed and spat back by wards meant to suppress
magic and spirit alike. She moved without a trace of hesitation. The air
near her shivered slightly, as though even the enchantments knew better than
to interfere.

Clusters of arcanists in dark robes parted as she entered the chamber. Some
bowed. Most did not. Fear is not always obsequious, and many in this place
counted her as dangerous as the creatures she had sought to remake.

The acting Head Arcanist, a sharp-shouldered man with fine silver scrollwork
at his collar and a mind like cracked glass, stepped from the edge of a
summoning circle. A long strip of blackened parchment trailed from his hand
like a discarded skin. His gaze flicked up-amber goggles masking the
flicker of irritation behind the glint of his gnomish spectacles.

"Eidolon Sedinae, " he said, carefully neutral, though there was steel
buried just below. "We had not expected you. N'othro is engaged, as you
well know, with matters that do not permit interruption. "

"I am well aware. And so, " she replied, eyes like molten brass in shadow,
"his proxy speaks with measured impatience. "

The Arcanist's mouth twitched. "I had hoped your last request had been...
Sufficient to slake your ambitions. Turning deathless wyrms into
flamethrowers was not a simple act of spellcraft. Some among us
were-are-still recovering from the backlash. "

"Then perhaps they should not have been standing so close when I asked them
to reach farther. " She stepped toward him, slow and precise. "You speak
as if I demanded fire from stone. I did not. I merely pointed out that
stone, if fed the right blood and broken in the right way, will burn. "

"You asked us to reforge the rules of necromancy, " he snapped before he
could stop himself. "To force a thing long dead to recall the agony of
flame and make it hunger again. It is unnatural. "

A hush stole through the chamber at the word, the sound of the Arcanist's
last word grasping at air and then sputtering to a hastened death.

Her expression remained still as a painting, save for the faintest narrowing
of her gaze. When she spoke again, her voice was low, dangerously smooth.

"And what in Abaddon's cause is not? "

Silence descended again, thick and expectant.

"I did not come, " she continued, "to debate the nature of monstrosity. We
are long past that. I came to see the Bone Wing. Prepared. Armed.
Mounted. "

He blinked. "You wish to observe the deployment? "

"No. " The word was soft but rang like a blade unsheathed. "I will be
riding. "

"You? " His disbelief was almost a laugh. "Eidolon, with respect, those
seats were not meant for-"

"Say 'women, ' and I will make certain you breathe ash for the rest of your
short, inconsequential life, " she interrupted, stepping into his personal
space. "Say 'Gifted' and I'll show you how little your arcane seals will
matter when the Undead pry them open with your blood. Say anything but
'yes, my Eidolon, ' and I will ensure you do not speak again until after the
battle, assuming you live to make it to the deployment. "

Writer: Sedinae
Date Sat Jun 14 00:25:26 2025
To All Abaddon ( Imm Fatale Xenophon RP )
Subject Bone and Flame (Part 2)

The Arcanist paled. His lips flattened into a bitter line.

"... Yes, Eidolon, " he managed, voice thick.

"Good. " She turned from him, already walking. "Have the saddle affixed.
I will see the beast. If it is not ready, I will make it so. "

Behind her, whispered incantations resumed, more frantic now as she made her
way further into the cavern.

The Bone Wing awaited beyond the final threshold, a cluster of four
dracoliches bound to one another through tethered will and sorcerous chain,
their sockets burning with malignant light. The air around them writhed.
One raised its skull, as if sensing her approach, and exhaled a gout of
ghost-flame through its empty jaw.

Sedinae stopped at the edge of the staging platform. She inhaled the scent
of burnt marrow, scorched cloth, and resurrection. The wards crackled,
their flaring and the rattle of chains shifting filled the silence as
Sedinae descended the carved stone ramp leading to the dracoliches' mooring
platform. Four. Only four.

Her boots halted, heels scarring a runic sigil etched in rust-hued chalk.
She did not care. Her attention fixed on the grim count of titanic forms in
the half-dark of the cavern: two coiled near the southern wall, one perched
high on a rock outcropping, and one-the largest, marked with scythe upon the
breastbone-unfolding slowly from slumber as it recognized her scent.

Only four.

She turned. "Is this a jest? " Her voice was low, velvet sheathed over
steel, but it struck with the force of a lash. "Four? "

The Head Arcanist, still scowling from their exchange, answered with clipped
precision. "They are the only ones currently stabilized. It was your...
Earlier request that required reallocation of sigils and mages...
Flame-breathing dead are expensive, my l- Eidolon. "

"I did not ask for excuses, " she replied, stalking closer. The runes under
her boots crackled, some crumbling into lifeless ash at her passage. "I
asked where the rest of my wing is. You said they would be ready. "

"They will be, " came a second voice-lighter, quicker, almost stumbling over
itself in urgency. A young man, pale-haired and robed in dark saffron,
stepped forward. His ink-stained fingers twitched with nervous energy.
"Eidolon Sedinae, forgive the interruption. I've worked closely with
Arcanist N'othro on the bone-binding rites. I know the sequences and
stabilizers. I swear it. We were set to summon a full wing, but-"

"But what? " she demanded, turning her full attention to him. Her
golden-storm eyes pinned him like a specimen.

"We delayed. At Aresen's directive, " he added quickly, stopping just short
of gesturing to the Arcanist in question before continuing "pending the
reorientation of glyph harmonics for your enhancements. But I can have
three-maybe four more-manifested within the hour. I'll oversee it myself.
"

A long pause followed.

Sedinae said nothing, but the weight of her silence pressed the breath from
the room. Then:

"See that you do. If I discover your work has cost us discipline or
obedience, I will use your bones to summon the last one myself. You have
twelve hours, I expect the proper results"

"Yes, my lady. " He bowed low, sweating.

She stepped past them both without another word.

Writer: Sedinae
Date Sat Jun 14 00:30:52 2025
To All Abaddon ( Imm Fatale Xenophon RP )
Subject Bone and Flame (Part 3)

The cavern forked into a narrower side hall where the riders were
quartered, a collection of tents and weapon racks spread between stone
columns carved with draconic script. These were not knights. There was no
pageantry here-only grim purpose and long shadow. The riders moved like
wraiths, their bodies lean, scarred, and shaped for war. Some still bore
the pale bite-marks from bonding rites-places where their dracoliches had
claimed them with a bite not of flesh but of essence, and a few baring dual
marks, the other from slightly more storied denizens of Abaddon.

At her entrance, every soul stood. Spines straightened, weapons dropped,
eyes fixed. They saluted her in silence, crossing their forearms over their
chest-right over left, wrists turned so that the palms face outward. The
"X" over their heart marking the death bound in service before flinging both
open hands and fingers downward-as if casting bone and fire to the earth, a
silent oath to Abaddon.

She strode among them.

"You will ride at Verminasia's flank, along with the Brown. " she said.
"You may not be seen by our allies, you will be seen by those we march
against. That is the point. We are not here to be counted. We are here to
be feared. "

A murmur of assent.

The battle plan followed, along with naming a commander, who would be in
direct contact with the Brown. Gul'Shar would ride in the sunlight where
she could not. She would prepare them, she would ride to the boundary, and
she would guard Abaddon."

No cheer followed-only sharpened breath and blood-warm resolve. These were
not men and women who hungered for glory. These were monsters, given form
and chain, and now purpose.

Sedinae turned to the wrangler standing by the saddle prep. "Armor them in
the blackscale barding. No banners. No colors. They will know we are
Abaddon by bone and flame. "

She drew in a long breath that she had no need for, letting it burn in her
chest. The scent of alchemical residue, of draconic musk and oiled leather,
stirred something beneath her skin- the ancient, something that did not fear
the dead.

Tomorrow, they would not ride as soldiers. They would ride as warnings.
Abaddon's teeth bared to the world. Let the gods and kingdoms of the living
send paladins and heroes. Let them ride under banners of virtue. Abaddon
would ride under a banner of bone, a creature of fireless death remade in
spite and rage, and the Fort would tremble.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat Jun 14 07:13:46 2025
To All Abaddon Chantrielle Xaxtur Imm Xenophon RP
Subject Inspections of War

A large and dark mouthed cavern yawned wide, its depths shrouded in an
impenetrable veil of mist. The ground trembled with the heavy, rhythmic
rumble of footsteps, a primal heartbeat that echoed through the cavern,
resonating with a sense of foreboding and power. Mist poured in from the
outside, swirling and curling like spectral tendrils, as Zecnys stepped into
the cavern, his leather boots striking the stone floor with a confident,
echoing cadence.

As Zecnys marched on, his quick stride leaving no room for hesitation,
torchlight began to flicker to life on the walls of the cavern. The flames
cast dancing shadows, their light playing off the rough-hewn stone and
creating a macabre ballet of light and dark. Behind Zecnys, his dark elven
shadow twisted and contorted, taking the form of a lithe, frilled creature
with wings and a toothy maw, a dark mirror of his determined stride.

At the end of the chamber, Zecnys' eyes narrowed, focusing intently on the
four chained up dracoliches that stood like ancient, undead sentinels. He
ignored the figures working around them, his gaze locked onto the bones of
the fallen dragons, their forms a grotesque parody of their former selves.
The dracoliche's bones were nearly pristine, pearly white with blotches of
grey decay, a testament to the unnatural magic that kept them animated.
Massive saddles rested on their backs, designed for riding, and their jaws
were chained closed, forcing them into an eternal, silent roar.

Zecnys approached the first dracolich, his steps purposeful and unyielding.
He grabbed the beast's lower jaw bone, his fingers digging into the cold,
hard bone as he twisted and turned the creature's head, inspecting it with a
critical eye. He noted every flaw, every sign of rot and decay, his
expression growing more intense with each discovery. Leaning in, he peered
into the beast's hollow eye sockets, as if searching for some spark of life
within the empty void.

With a swift, fluid motion, Zecnys drew a khopesh from its sheath at his
hip, the curved blade glinting menacingly in the torchlight. He pressed the
tip of the blade to the dracolich's snout, digging into the bone with a
grating, crunching sound. With precise, deliberate strokes, he carved an
open, fanged maw into the creature's face, the bone shavings falling to the
ground like grim confetti. The dracolich struggled, its body twitching and
jerking as it tried to free itself from Zecnys' grip, but it was no match
for his strength and determination.

With a final, forceful twist, Zecnys released the beast, slamming his wrist
down onto its skull, forcing it to bow before him. A grin spread across his
face, his yellowing teeth bared in a wide, triumphant smile. 'They're
ready, ' he declared, his voice echoing through the cavern.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sat Jun 14 11:02:59 2025
To All Marauders Croatoan Rhelic Imm Rp Andreyna Piknim Nereza
Subject Battle for Ironclad - Marauders (pt I)

A day like any other after the assault on Ironclad and the appearance of the
Chaos spires. Watching the nearby armies of misguided kingdoms, waiting for
them to move to try and extinguish the Marauders. Wondering what was brewing
beneath their feet. Trying to think of solutions, now that Piknim had closed
the last door he could think to try.

Then, reality came crashing down around them. Commanders were shouting while
the unbreakable walls that they practically worshipped, Ironclad, cracked and
was thrown asunder by the sickening birth of a Chaos spire. But as they turned
around in horror at what was Hammurabi Square, a sin against reality emerged
from the depths, with forms to alien for their minds to make sense of. Some
broke, and fled from their nightmares made real. Many had seen the works of the
Warp before though, and training took reign of their muscles as sergeants began
barking orders. Many formed up at holes in their proud wall, gazing out upon
the assembled armies waiting outside.

Fredrik shut his eyes tightly, reeling from the visual assault of The Seed upon
his senses. Then he smiled, for the moment they had awaited was finally here.

'Now is the moment of our vengeance, comrades! Now is the hour that we set the
past right, and pay pennace for our failures! This is the night your blades
will sing the song of our wrath! Strike the Warplings! Cleave the roots! Pay
no heed to those outside our gates, our only enemy is within!!!'

He tried to act quickly as confused soldiers looked to him for orders, senior
officers rushing to his location. Practiced contingensies for All manners of
attack on Ironclad unfolding around him, trying to adapt to the impossibility
of being attacked from behind and below while their walls ALSO fell, opening a
path for the wolves at their door. Certainly that Alliance was also beginning
to react to what had happened: their opening and their foes exposed.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sat Jun 14 11:03:40 2025
To All Marauders Croatoan Rhelic Imm Rp Andreyna Piknim Nereza
Subject Battle for Ironclad - Marauders (pt II)

'Turn them around, turn them around! The enemy is behind us! Get those cannons
facing the Spire and unleash hell! Protect them at All costs. Pull troops from
the Armory and Supply Depot to reinforce the Siege Battery! Do not impede those
beyond our walls if they wish to enter. Let them decide who their enemy is!'
he barked, as officers quickly began relaying messages to subordinates while
the Fort swirled into motion, soldiers sometimes dropping to shriek in terror
at the horrors bleeding through reality around them.

Ogrelord Mruz's massive form was suddenly beside Fredrik, gazing down at the
Highlord with an inscrutable face. Mruz spoke his tactical advice in the calm
and confident cadence Fredrik had grown to admire, cautioning them that any
attempts by the Alliance to strike at their backs should be responded to with
maximum ferocity. To repay any treachery with mutual destruction.

'Your counsel is fair, Ogrelord, and it will be so. I pray that The Queens take
up my offer to cooperate, but if they try to take advantage of our open hand
then they will find themselves in the raptor's claws. See to that contingency.'

Moaning rang out across the air, and Fredrik's gaze was cast up to the Spire
looming over them. Warped things were beginning to slough off, and humanoid
forms seemed to be writhing across its twisted form, moaning in agony. The last
of the stolen priests. What could be done in the face of so many horrors?

'Find a way into that Spire! If there are no holes, cut and blast your way in.
There must be some way. Focus cannon fire, unleash your axes upon the roots!
Engineers, see if we can get some scaffolding or ladders from the walls to
climb onto it! There are priests trapped up there. We might be able to cut them
lose, but our only goal this day is to destroy the Warplings!!!'

He turned from the soldiers and officers who were rushing into battle and found
a relatively quiet nook to close eyes and focus his mind, draw it away from
this living nightmare. The Queens were no doubt scrambling just as fast as he
was trying to, and they had to know his plans if there was any hope of working
together to stop this madness. To end the nightmare...

'Andreyna, Piknim, Nereza. Please...' he began, reaching out with his mind.

Writer: Khalifa
Date Sat Jun 14 12:05:59 2025
To All Marauders Croatoan Rhelic Raije Imm Rp
Subject Breaking Point

Lieutenant Jackson moved silently, and carried no light. He was training
for the Blades. He didn't talk about it, but people knew. His soft-soled
moccasins made no sound as he moved confidently through the fort. Shadows
were hard to find these days, as the fort was on full alert, and torches
were affixed to the walls every twenty feet or so. The smell of burning
pitch did little to mask the choking stench of rot that had overcome the
fort, and in fact it mixed in such a way that made it a bit worse.

The Lieutenant, nevertheless, had found himself a dark position of some
elevation from which to watch the rotting remains of Raije's fortification
on Arkane. He had stood there, unmoving for the past four hours and was
ready to make his-

"Report?" Major Filbert said, without looking up from his desk.
The Lieutenant approached the massive oak desk and spoke softly.
"The watch continues. There is a brief hole between the northwest
corner and the west gate, once every eighteen minutes that lasts for
perhaps thirty seconds. It could be closed by adjusting the routes of
Sentinel Red six and Sentinel Green four, here and here," pointing at the
map on the Major's desk.

"And the Admiral?"

"He's still out there. He hasn't slept."

"Has he interfered in the patrols at all?"

"No. He's growing increasingly paranoid. He's living on coffee. Hasn't
slept in three days. He's still talking to himself. I think he's hearing
things that aren't there. But he mostly seems to have his wits about him.
For now."

"He's an Admiral, Lieutenant. Don't forget it. Find Sergeant Melcher."
Tell him I want him to activate the reserves. Then find the Admiral and
tell him I have news."

"You're thinking he'll rest if we double the watch for a shift?"

The Major smiled. "You'll go far, Lieutenant."

Writer: Khalifa
Date Sat Jun 14 13:56:04 2025
To All Marauders Croatoan Rhelic Raije Imm Rp
Subject A clear head

The door slammed closed as the Admiral left the office. Major Filbert
breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't an easy task, directing your superior,
it required equal parts tact and charm, but the Major excelled in both, and
Khalifa had left with the indication that a long rest was in his immediate
future. He had even taken the bottle of brandy the Major had offered, to
counteract the effects of the coffee that had been keeping him upright.

The Major sat back down and jotted a few notes down on his report.

*** eighteen hours later ***

Khalifa sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. The sun was high in the sky and
it appeared to be early afternoon. He was clear-headed and understood at
once that the good Major had played him, and played him well. The dark elf
smirked and made a note in his journal to remind him to thank the Major, if
they both get out of this alive, that was.

The Admiral crossed the room and retrieved his snuffbox, taking a pinch in
each nostril, relishing the immediate nicotine hit and the brief headache
that came with it. He stoked the coals in his furnace and put water and
coffee grounds into his percolator and sat down at his desk.

He licked the end of his pencil and began making notes. He wrote, and he
scratched out what he wrote, and he wrote some more. The coffee perked, and
he poured himself a mug, and sat back down to review his notes. When he was
satisfied, he wadded up the paper and threw it into the fire, and retrieved
a quill and inkwell and wrote out his proper orders.

Writer: Khalifa
Date Sat Jun 14 15:02:27 2025
To All Marauders Croatoan Rhelic Raije Imm Rp
Subject Khalifa's Orders

Khalifa stood at parade rest, watching his men filter by with wagons full
of lumber. The dinghies had been carefully dismantled, and the lumber was
being stacked in Hammurabi square.

"That's good, men, keep them sorted. Make it easy for the engineers. "

When the last of the lumber had been stacked, the men stood in formation,
and Khalifa began to speak.

"Something is going to happen, and soon. We don't know when, but I can feel
it in the air. Can you feel it?"
The men were nodding and murmuring in the affirmative. Khalifa looked
across the gathered troops, surveying their faces. Many were resolute, a
few younger ones were visibly shaken, others seemed eager.

"The enemy is at the gates, men." He gestured upward at the Chaos sigil
in the sky, then nodded at the actual gates. "The warp is here, and the
Highlord's optimism aside, I'm expecting to be attacked by opportunistic
forces again. Your orders are to stand and defend. Attack warplings on
sight. Attack known agents of the cult on sight. Any other forces, we
hold until their intentions are made clear. There is always the chance,
however slight, that they will come to aid us against Chaos. We are
not to instigate an attack against them. Anyone who shows up to attack us,
we hit them with everything we got. Including..."

He gestured toward the pile of lumber, "the trebuchets we will be building
from this."

Writer: Sedinae
Date Sat Jun 14 16:47:31 2025
To All Abaddon ( Imm RP Fatale Xenophon )
Subject Bone and Flame (Part 4)

Twelve hours later, the cavern beneath Abaddon pulsed with a different
kind of tension-one born not from scarcity, but from strain. The air was
thick with the copper tang of blood, the acrid sting of alchemical exhaust,
and the faintly sweet rot of burned flesh. The arcanists had worked through
the dark tide of night, ceaseless in their efforts, and it showed:
sweat-soaked robes, trembling hands, and eyes ringed with exhaustion. But
they had delivered.

Seventeen.

Seventeen dracolae now hunched or coiled in the shadowy vastness of the
summoning chamber, their massive bone forms shifting restlessly, the glow of
necromantic binding still threading faintly along joints and socketed runes.
Smoke drifted from the nostrils of a few, still testing their new
alchemically-forged breath with low, rumbling huffs that echoed like dying
storms against the stone.

Not All attempts had succeeded.

Near the summoning circle's southern edge, a mangled heap of blackened bones
and sloughed flesh steamed quietly. The stink of scorched marrow clung to
the pile, and mixed with it-the burned remnants of crimson-robed arcanists,
their robes fused with their skin in a grotesque tapestry. A single boot,
still laced, jutted from beneath a crushed pelvis. Another body, smaller,
lay prone with half its torso missing. One of the riders, by the armor.

Sedinae said nothing at first as she entered, her boots whispering across
the stone.

Her gaze flicked over the row of assembled horrors, their looming frames
casting elongated shadows across the floor. One of the earlier
four-Verak'thul, the jaw-splitter-stood toward the end, his massive maw
visibly altered. The bone of his left mandible had been cleaved, reshaped
as if struck by a titanic blade. The fracture had been etched in runes
since, sealing the damage rather than repairing it, leaving the injury to
remain like a wound worn as heraldry.

Sedinae's lips barely moved, but a faint ghost of a smirk tugged at the edge
of her mouth as her gaze lingered on him and she inhaled.

"So, " she murmured, her voice a razor smoothed in velvet, "the brown still
remembers how to bite. "

No fear in her tone. No reverence either. Only recognition-cold and
pragmatic, as one might grant a clever enemy or a faithful dog with a mean
streak, not that he was either, particularly.

Behind her, the tired but sharp-eyed Arcanist's assistant-a man too young to
bear so many burn scars-stepped forward with a scroll clutched in a
trembling hand. He did not speak until spoken to, but the tremor in his
throat gave away that he had been preparing for her entrance for hours.
Sedinae waited, her arms folded, a storm behind her amber-gray eyes. Time
scraped by in the grinding silence that even the dracolae respected. Their
glowing sockets flickered in anticipation, breath rattling through bone as
they prepared for war.

He cautiously, sweat slicking his brow despite the cavern's chill. He held
a scroll still damp with ink, trembling slightly in his fingers.

She turned toward him with a look sharp enough to slice.

"Well? " she demanded, voice like cooled iron drawn across stone. "Out
with it. "

He flinched, then spoke-rushed, as if afraid the words would rot in his
mouth if he didn't let them go quickly.

"Seventeen have held, Eidolon. Four failed-the bindings collapsed mid-seal,
took a pair of Arcanists and one rider with them. We lost two more to
backlash-bones shattered on summoning. But-but the glyph matrices have been
recalibrated. We've reached capacity for tonight. The rest will have to
wait. "

Writer: Sedinae
Date Sat Jun 14 16:56:48 2025
To All Abaddon ( Imm Fatale Rp Xenophon )
Subject Bone and Flame (Part 5)

A muscle in Sedinae's jaw ticked. Her gaze swept across the cavern to
the heap of twisted bone and sloughed flesh half-shrouded beneath a torn
warding cloth. She said nothing of it.

Instead, she looked past him, to the assembled riders.

"Then we ride, " she said flatly. "Seventeen will answer for the thousands.
"

She didn't wait for acknowledgment. Her boots struck the stone with
deliberate, lethal steps as she moved to her mount. They began to mount.
One by one, the riders approached their assigned dracolae-their bond-sealed
mounts-and mounted with grim, precise movements. There were no cheers. No
fanfare. Only the creak of leather, the clang of bone plate, and the low,
hollow exhales of the dead that would fly.

Sedinae herself approached Verak'thul, whose bone jaw bore the scar of that
recent blow. He lowered his head slightly, not in submission, but as if to
acknowledge that she had returned. She climbed his ridged spine with
practiced ease, settling into the saddle carved directly into the
bone-lashed with black iron and plated with runed obsidian. Her hands found
the reins, though they were mostly ceremonial.

With a single gesture-fingers raised, palm down-the command was given.

The Bone Wing launched.

They rose in utter silence, seventeen shadows against the night sky,
breaking from the stone cavern into the clouds beyond the high black cliffs
of Abaddon. Not a word passed between them. Not even Sedinae spoke.

The sky above was ruled by the triple moons, and as the Bone Wing carved its
flight path through the heavens, their forms shifted beneath the lunar
triad.

First, under the pale white glow of the Maiden Moon, the dracolae glinted
like deathcloaks made of porcelain and marrow, their skeletal forms gleaming
faintly-beautiful in their terror.

Then, under the Red Moon, blood bathed their backs and wings, marred yet by
the presence of the chaos mark before it. Their bodies burned crimson, as
though flame coursed beneath their bones. Shadows lengthened. Jaws opened.
A few riders ignited their breath to test it-tongues of alchemical fire
streaking the sky in silence.

Finally, under the Ebon Moon, they vanished almost entirely-bone dissolving
into black, as though the night itself had swallowed them. Only the faint
shimmer of breath and the tremor in the sky marked their passage.

They flew across the breadth of Abaddon's lands, silent reapers gliding over
marsh and ruin, forest and fault. Below, a few scattered camps lit beacon
fires in warning or awe. No cries were raised. Those who served Abaddon
did not question the movements of the dead.

As dawn neared but had not yet broken, they landed at the barren edge of
Abaddon's northern frontier, where the lands grew cracked and wild, and the
scent of ancient, forgotten wars still lingered in the loam of the swamps.
Waiting at a broken watchtower was Gul'Shar, the Orc Commander draped in
furs and chain, with a massive axe strapped across his back and the
bone-carved insignia of Abaddon glowing red against his chest.

He said nothing as Sedinae dismounted. She said nothing in return. The
handoff was silent.

She moved toward him, eyes sharp, and removed the obsidian ring of command
from her left gauntlet-twisting it once before passing it into his waiting
hand. The glow within his armor flickered briefly, syncing with the bond.

Gul'Shar nodded once, tight and grave. There was understanding. She would
hold Abaddon's walls. He would ride the storm and be her eyes.

As the Bone Wing rose again, this time led by the orc, Sedinae remained
behind, her silhouette still as a carved idol in the growing light. No
words. No gesture of farewell.

Only the wind, and the distant sound of bone cutting through sky.

And so Abaddon flew to war.

Writer: Drogan
Date Sat Jun 14 17:47:58 2025
To Darkonin ( All Imm Rhelic Xenophon Croatoan )
Subject Isolation of the King : Icewall Patrolled

The breeze over Icewall was crisp and strong as the owl flew across the
tundra. As the coalition had requested, Drogan had been asked to seek out
the Warp on Icewall. Across the sea, through the forests, and up mountain
tops he had searched for a sign of Chaos but none had appeared. The only
alien presence was the now discolored balls that remained outside the
Conclave Tower dedicated to Sebatis.

Today's search completed, he retreated to the isolated ruins of Gruntz. In
an old cave, he had recreated some semblance of a home with a fire and
bedding. The Chaos infection had grown and now went from his neck down the
length of his left arm. Spidery black veins pulsed and squirmed. The
sensation was almost like having maggots living under his skin.

Crackling fire

The fire warmed him, the flames created shapes upon the walls. Drogan could
see the various spirit animals in the shadows. How he had wished to bring
them back to the Mountain, however it wasn't to be. The tribes had not
answered the calls and the spirits remained unspoken for. Perhaps the past
needed to remain in the past.

'Perhaps me should look from Bear spirit to another. ' said the Ogre as he
fingered the necklace he wore. Long had he believed in the Rage of Mencius
that now resided within Fatale. In the war against Chaos, Drogan would
bring the full vengeance of the Mountain upon them for what they had done.

The fire glinted off the Ogre's coal black eyes giving them red aura.
Staring into the flame, he thought of All the Darkonin races who went to
serve Chaos only to be sacrificed for in this cause. He saw their souls
chained to the Warp. Something burned within him.

'Chaos believes they know madness.. They know nothing of true Rage and I
will teach them. '

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Jun 14 17:57:32 2025
To All Conclave Verminasia - Imm Admin Cayenna Xenophon Rhelic Croaton Drakkara
Subject Battle for Ironclad - Deployment of the Ebony War Doctrine.

The plan was never conquest. It was control.

As the final sigils of war were etched into the scorched soil outside
Ironclad, I released the last of the prepared commands. Every name, every
rune, every sealed scroll handed to the strike captains with the solemnity
of a eulogy.

The Battlemages were deployed alongside the Gnarthian vanguard they
controlled, our strength matched with theirs not by brute force, but by
design. Each battlemage bore upon their flesh the sigil of Absorption,
layered with the Aura of Pain they wove through months of whispered
enchantments. Coupled with the Thorn Keeps hexed radiance, these mages
became avatars of aggravation, funneling enemy rage into magical backlash.
They did not endure. They infuriated, and in doing so, obliterated.

To the rear, the Invokers formed our arcane bulwark. Wreathed in
anti-magick fields, they stood sentry between the field and the edge of
disaster. Their spells did not splash, they tore. Cones of devastation
sprayed forth from their outstretched staves, raking Chaos formations. At
their sides lumbered Golems, shaped of bronze and stitched with relic sinew,
programmed for one purpose: to intercept anything that reached their
masters.

Rising upon manticores clad in voidsteel barding, rode the Transmuters,
their frames enhanced through artifice and spell. With one hand, they
blanketed the battlefield in frost, turning blood to slush and soil to trap.
With the other, they unraveled enchantments through sweeping Disjunctions,
stripping protections from the corrupted as if peeling flesh from bone.

But it is the Necromancers who carved our path.

They moved not in formation but as phantoms, scouts of bone, scouts of
spite. Animated corpses carried arcane runes across their flesh, whispering
spells as they advanced silently into the veins of Ironclad. But these were
not mere forward observers.

They carried scourges.

They spoke in curses, their voices a choir of blight. Boils erupted across
enemy lines as maledictions bloomed in the marrow of those who stood against
them. Skin split like ripe fruit, bone blackened, lungs filled with rot.
The necromancers did not waste spell slots on elegance. Their art was raw
suffering, pustules, pestilence, plague, each spell a sermon in the gospel
of decay.

When the time was right, they would crack open their reliquariesand from
within, the Dracolich Hoard would rise. Winged corpses of forgotten
tyrants, reanimated dragons of vengeance, each ridden by hand-picked
necromantic and Verminsian elites. They would flank the Chaos horde,
striking from above with talon, claw, and spell, disrupting their cohesion
while the dead below surged forward, animated not by rote command, but by
memory of what Chaos had taken from them.

These were not the mindless undead of novice conjurers. These were
revenants with hatred in their souls, animated by purpose, focused through
my will.

This is the Ebony War Doctrine. Not an army. A ritual of annihilation.
Every deployment, every aura, every spell layered like strata in a killing
field.

I quietly picked up my pieces laid out in design for planning and readied
myself for the beautiful destruction of our enemy.

Writer: Drogan
Date Sat Jun 14 18:45:44 2025
To Darkonin ( Imm Mencius Fatale Xenophon Rhelic Croatoan All )
Subject Isolation of the King : Embers of Mencius

The fields around Ironclad looked like swarming ants surrounding the
large stone structure. The last task given to Drogan had been to look into
the sealed obelisk within the middle of thr Fort. The Queen had said
something was in there. He circled in the air a few times.

Marauder guards were stationed on the walls prepared for the imminent attack
from the Alliance. His scouts has seen the Lights winding through the fort
along with the angry red symbols of the Warp. It seemed that some
supernatural war mimicked the war outside.

Drogan wondered about the scout he had met and how he had noted the
infection. The same infection he also had. Far to the north, a spire rose
into the air. The very tip visible on the horizon. Drogan sought the the
obelisk and found it in the center of the Fort by a garden area. It was odd
as it didn't seem to have any entrance.

He flew down and took a closer look from a tree nearby. The Obelisk was
smooth black marble and there seemed to be a line in the middle almost like
a door. There was a small hole, almost for a key but nothing else. He saw
no hinges or anything. No one seemed to enter or exit the obelisk kn the
time he watched it.

As he looked, there was a rumble across the continent that shook the tree he
was in. He took flight and watched as the ground churned below him. The
earth rose and then from below a cry of pain and agony roared as a fleshy
spire raised up from the broken ground.

Drogan was almost struck out of the sky as the eldritch spire wound higher
and higher above the Fort. He swooped down towards the Verminasian battle
lines to get a clear idea of what had come into being. It was monstrously
crowned with the bodies of Sebatis priests, their cloaks reminding him of
the Arborean searching for Shinalstin.

His heart pounding, he dived down before the soldiers of the Dark Jewel
changing form only at the last minute. Several soldiers stepped back,
raising their spears, as an ogre landed with a heavy thud before them.
Drogan, spear in hand, faced the Spire with utter Vengeance in his heart.
Those around him heard just one utterance.

'It begins. '

Writer: Szalestzus
Date Sat Jun 14 21:56:11 2025

Writer: Szalestzus
Date Sat Jun 14 22:20:32 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Jun 14 22:41:52 2025
To All Shadow Verminasa ( Immortal RP Drakkara )
Subject No Rest For The Weary

Ezrianne sat beneath the waterfall that cascaded down the giant canyon
wall that made up part of her lair, staring at vast pond below her. The
water drenched her, her body still shaking with adrenaline. Maccus had gone
off to bed hours ago, but the last two days sank into her bones and pulled
her down with fatigue.

Piknim's coronation, late last night with little sleep afterward, knowing
they were headed into war today. Then, fighting the Warp, and the taste of
the Warp Speaker's foul blood in her mouth, one eye constantly on her Kender
to ensure her safety.

And now, a sharp pivot, returning her total focus and support on helping
recover the High Mystic, perilously in the clutches of a Demon.

Her muscles ached like she'd been thrown against stone and left to rot, and
every nerve in her body still thrummed with the sharp edge of battle. But
her metephorical steps remained sure, each one taken with purpose. Her
faith in the Darkness did not falter, not even now, not even with fury and
the emotional crash post-battle tangled in her chest.

The gods of Light could take their comfort and softness - she had shadow in
her veins, and service to uphold.

And no matter the cost, she would rise again. Especially when allies and
friends needed the assistance.

Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Jun 15 09:17:14 2025
To All Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti_Kingdom Shalonesti ( Imm Religion RP Xenophon Rhelic )
Subject No Time to Breath : Scouting the Southlands

Tamello loped through the Verminasian battlements, looking for the
Commander. Filth and gunk still clung to his armor and was deep within his
fur. It'd take more than just a simple bath to clean him up this time. It
was a full few minutes later that he found the Commander's tent with the
guards outside of it.

"{oHe in there? " Tamello asked, entering before they even had a chance to
fully nod. He even waved the Commander down as he went to stand "{oNo no.
Stay seated, Commander. This will be quick. "

Nodding the Commander sat back in his chair, battle maps still covering the
table inside.

"Hail, General. Blessed be the Dark lands tonight. Though I am sure that
is not what you're here to talk about. What new task is upon us? "

Tamello nodded and looked at the sandtable, pointing to the lands where the
reports of the meteor fell.

"{oScout it out, sir. I want the best. No engagement with the Marauders, but
I want them tracked as well. Fresh scouts if we have them. If not, give
them some good chow and hot bath's before sending them. "

The Commander looked at the table and nodded. 'Consider it done, sir. '

{o***************************************************************************-
*****************

As the realm quieted down Tamello finally sought the solace of the hot
springs. A pumice stone and soap scoured the viscera from his fur, though
the red scythe on his forehead was still stained into his fur. Finding
another, cleaner, hotspring, Tamello began to actually relax as best he
could, the tension relaxing from his shoulders and legs. After a moment he
pulled the Numen Reliqua out of his ruck and held it in the water with him,
looking into it from every side, careful not to read too much of the Chaos
inscriptions.

After a minute he put it away and closed his eyes. Truly earning a relax in
the springs.

Writer: Damion
Date Sun Jun 15 10:30:42 2025
To All Abaddon Zecnys Chantrielle ( Drakkara Fatale Imm )
Subject Iron, Air and Blood

Under the pale gleam of the moon, Damion slipped through the trees like a
living storm. His cloak whipped with every step, as if the wind itself were
eager to obey him. When he spotted the lone novice clericrobes glowing
softly against the darkDamion let a playful breeze beckon the unsuspecting
follower deeper into the forest. By the time the cleric realized the warmth
in the air had a mind of its own, Damion stood before him, crimson eyes
alight with hungry intent.

Steel tendrils sprang from the earth at Damions command, coiling around the
clerics limbs with cold precision. Within minutes, they stood aboard the
DeliveranceAbaddons dread flagshipwhere corridors of cold metal pulsed under
crimson lights. In the torture chamber, Damion surveyed his instruments:
blunt hammers, hooked shackles, and crystalline vials whispering of untested
possibilities. Yet he needed none of those when the true power lay in his
veins: with a soft word, he drew the first drop of blood from the clerics
wrist, spinning it into delicate filigrees above the iron altar.

No blade ever kissed flesh. Instead, Damion wove gusts of air that
tightened invisible nooses, and sent shards of metal dancing beneath skin to
tease out the smallest flicker of fear. He cataloged every quiver in
muscle, every gasp as the prisoners life-stream bent to his will. In that
clinical ballet of suffering, Damion found his greatest art: transforming
terror into data. When dawn crept across the Deliverances decks, he would
lock his findings away in Abaddons hidden archivessecrets to sharpen his
craft and spread unchallenged darkness across the world.

Writer: Damion
Date Sun Jun 15 10:33:22 2025
To All Abaddon Zecnys Chantrielle ( Drakkara Fatale Imm )
Subject Iron, Air and Blood II

Under the harsh glow of crimson lamps, Damion stood over his latest test
subjectan anonymous wretch bound by spiked steel cuffs woven into his flesh.
He whispered an incantation, and the metal in those shacklesnow morphed into
liquid ironslithered into the victims veins. A soft wind swirled around
Damions fingertips, guiding each molten filament through arteries until his
quarrys blood shimmered with veins of quicksilver metal. The mages eyes
glinted as he probed: would a man break when his lifeblood turned to weapon?

Next came the calibration. Damion drew on the subjects iron-laden
hemoglobin, condensing it into microscopic shards that danced beneath the
skin like swarming locusts. He tuned the wind around the victims chest to
amplify their heartbeat, each thrum echoing through those metallic filaments
and sending shockwaves of agony to every nerve ending. At every flicker of
the prisoners panic, Damion adjusted the shards resonancepushing them toward
bone, feeling for the threshold where flesh tears but consciousness holds.

By dawn, Damions notes were filled with granular data: the exact wind
pressure needed to sever a tendon with a thought, the molecular shift that
turned blood into brittle metal, the split-second before pain shatters will.
In the aftermath, the subject lay still, veins hollowed of iron and spirit
alikean empty shell cataloged for study. As Damion sealed his scrolls in
Abaddons archives, he already craved the next advance: what if he could bend
a mans very skeleton to his whim, or sculpt blood into cages inside living
flesh? The pursuit of that dark alchemy had only just begun.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Jun 15 10:33:47 2025

Writer: Waaagh
Date Sun Jun 15 13:31:02 2025

Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Jun 15 16:18:24 2025

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun Jun 15 18:56:23 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery III

The monastery was warm and alive, despite the mountain wind that howled
beyond its crystalline walls. When Ulyssus stepped through the gate, the
chill of the mountains of Icewall fell from his shoulders like a cloak left
behind. Magic lived here, but so too did peace. Not the silence of
solitude, nor the stillness of prideful power, but the peace of harmony, a
place where the divine and arcane held hands like siblings.

He had made the ascent alone, declining magical travel out of reverence. It
was said that the path up the Icewall range tested more than one's body.
And as he passed beneath a row of wind chimes forged from hollowed
moonstone, he felt that test had only begun.

Those in the gardens greeted him with quiet bows and watchful glances. A
bald human monk with white eyebrows and a golden sash offered him a simple
blessing. The older man placed two fingers on Ulyssus's brow and whispered
a prayer in old speech, one Ulyssus recognized from a book of hymns, though
the accent was gentle.

"You'll not be needin' the novice robes," the monk said with a ghost of a
smile. "The Lord already knows your voice."

And so, without ordeal or sweeping, without carrying buckets or fetching
stones, Ulyssus was shown to the Initiates' quarters. It was a shared room
of polished stone and timber beams, with narrow windows opened wide to the
alpine light. A carved statue of Kantilles rested in the alcove, draped in
white cloth. The scent of beeswax and mint lingered in the air. His bed
was modest, with a thick white woolen blanket folded at the foot, a single
shelf above it, and beside the bed, an empty stand meant for a prayerbook or
relic.

Ulyssus hung his cloak and leaned his staff carefully in the corner, crystal
end turned upward. The owl on his shoulder gave a low hoot before taking
flight to perch atop a nearby support beam. She preened her wing,
unbothered by the solemnity of the place.

A young elven initiate glanced up from her reading across the room. Her
robes were clean but plain, and her posture that of someone unsure whether
to speak or offer deference. Ulyssus gave her a respectful nod, then sat
cross-legged on the bed, drawing forth his spellbook and the small, worn
tome of Kantilles' meditations he had brought from the Ivory Tower.

Outside the chamber, a bell tolled once, high and clear. A call to
mid-morning reflection.

He heard footsteps in the hall. Quiet ones. Someone paused at the
threshold, and a woman's voice followed.

"You are Ulyssus MacAllen of Nordmaar, are you not?"

He looked up. The speaker wore the raiment of a senior monk, the trim of
her robes stitched with threads of silver and blue. She had pale hair like
frost and a gaze as clear as sky. Her presence filled the room without
force.

"Aye, thaet ai ahm," he replied, rising.

"I am Sister Velaithe," she said, bowing. "I guide the path of the
initiates. We are honored you have come to study with us."

Ulyssus inclined his head and said. "Ai ahm 'ere te learn tha ways o' Lord
Kantilles, thaet ai mae draw upon 'is divine magic en service te 'im and te
'is magic."

She studied him a moment, then smiled.

"Then you have come to the right place. The Lord welcomes All who seek with
sincerity."

She stepped aside and motioned toward the long hall beyond. "The morning
rite is about to begin."

Ulyssus followed, his boots silent on the stone. Behind him, his owl
stretched once before settling in. His spellbook and the book of Kantilles
remained on the shelf together, side by side, their bindings not so
different after all.

As he passed beneath the high arches toward the chapel, Ulyssus whispered a
prayer.

"Lord Kantilles, ef et please ye, let mae 'eart bae aes open aes tha moon,
and mae will aes steadae aes tha stars. Ai offer mae 'ands en yer service.
Teach mae te wield yer loight wit wisdom, nae just power."

The crystal bell tolled again.

He entered the sacred hall beneath its echo.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Mon Jun 16 13:55:55 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparing the Way

Ostrim marveled at the food prepared for him within Ithelim's manor.
Roasted pig, bread, fruit, and wine were All available at the table.
Servants hovered over him, however Ostrim's appetite was lacking thinking
about the High Mystic's fate. Archal was trapped in the manse of Apostus
and who knew what was happening to his mind or soul. He pushed those ideas
down so that he could feed his body. He would be no good to the High Mystic
if he didn't eat or see to his own needs.

'The Master will see you in his study when you are done. ' spoke Claude as
Ostrim finished his meal.

'Thank you, Claude. Did the items that Kirkland and Melchaleve deliver get
received yet? ' asked the Supplicant.

'Indeed, sir. Sir Arden's shields were received this morning and the
Supplicant's amulets arrived by courier this afternoon. All has been
brought into the Master's study and are under the watchful eye of Eustace.
' responded Claude with a tip of his head.

Ostrim nodded and then followed Claude towards the study doors.

{uTWO DAYS LATER

Ostrim wandered into the Keep having spent several days in the Manor with
Ithelim. His mind was reeling from All that they had discussed and
researched. He needed a break and was entering the Eclipsian Watchtower
when the guard on duty stopped him.

'Supplicant, there is a message from Supplicant Scott that she had some
things for you. She asked you meet her when you can. '

Ostrim nodded, 'Thank you for that, I will find her in the Keep proper. '

The guard nodded and Ostrim proceeded into the Watchtower and through the
portal to Storm Keep. Having been away for so long, Ostrim was hit by the
Thalosian heat as soon as he stepped through. Travelling from the wooded
area around Verminasia to the desert was a shock to the system even though
most Knights became accustomed to it as they went about their duties.
Ostrim however began to sweat as soon as he was inside the recesses.

He searched the Keep and found the skald in the Library.

'Greetings Supplicant Scott, I heard you had some things for me? I
apologize for being delayed. ' smiled Ostrim.

Ezrianne turned her small form in the chair and her green eyes appraised him
for a moment. Ostrim felt a power behind the eyes that betrayed the human
form before him.

'Indeed, I have gathered a multitude of potions and other balms that will be
useful for your trip. Please follow me. ' responded the Supplicant as she
stood and walked down to the storage rooms.

Ezrianne went over the various potions and their uses with him and he
thanked her for the effort.

'If there is anything else I can help with, please let me know. We are all
worried about the High Mystic. ' offered Ezrianne.

'Of course, thank you again, Supplicant. As soon as I know of anything more
and a date to get him, I will let everyone know. ' responded Ostrim.

She nodded and left to return to her duties. Ostrim itemized everything and
put it in his footlocker with the other relics and items required for the
ritual. He then climbed into his bunk and thought about the last few days.

'Demons, vampires, and dragons, why can't it ever just be an overzealous
paladin? ' sighed Ostrim as he tried to find sleep.

Sleep would find him with dreams of nebulous figures and the haunting cries
of someone saying, 'FEED ME'

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 17:33:29 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 17:42:59 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 17:43:31 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 18:50:34 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 18:50:38 2025

Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Jun 16 20:01:09 2025
To All Conclave Verminasia Shalonesti Arkane Marauders - Imm Admin Xenophon Croaton Rhelic Drakkara
Subject Battle for Ironclad - Ebony Tower War Record.

It began with rumblings beneath Fort Ironclad, the cries of Chaos, the
stench of rot, the pulse of the Spine. I had sensed this war before it
began, threads of divination tangled with the scent of voided futures. What
emerged was worse than I had feared: a Greater Spine ruptured from the
tunnels, its spined tendrils reaching skyward to the fractured heavens,
draining the souls of the faithful to feed its apotheosis. The Warpspeaker,
the psionic herald of the Brand of Everwar, was not a mere foe, he was the
key to a ritual centuries in the making. I would see that key broken.

The Ebony Tower answered the call, not in whispers but in wrath. While the
battlemages advanced with the Gnarth infantry, they were imbued with the
aura of pain and thorns, so that any who dared strike them were met with
maddening retaliation. Infuriated by the aura's touch, enemies faltered,
and were swept away by the devastation of our arcane volleys. Invokers
formed the rearguard, their anti-magick shields absorbing the worst of
Chaos's conjurations, while their golems stomped beside the main force,
crushing flesh and faith alike.

Transmuters, suspended high upon manticores, blackstaffs in hand, cast frost
across the battlefield. The ground beneath Chaos's advance turned brittle,
their protections shattered with the force of arcane disjunction. But it
was our necromancers who led the way through the snow-stained wastes of the
Spine. Their skeletal legions and grafted zombies were immune to the
piercing tusks of Marauder warbeasts and the Chaos-forged worms. It is no
exaggeration to say that without their fortitude, our flanks would have
collapsed. With necromancers at their head, these undead held the line for
our Dragons and allied front.

I had prepared hundreds of corpses for this moment, long before the first
horn had sounded. The boils and blights I imbued upon these constructs
proved effective, stripping enchantments from our enemies, tearing wards
from flesh, and corrupting magical defenses until they rotted off entirely.
The undead horde was driven not only by hate, but vengeance. The
Warpspeaker did not fall easily, but his form slowed by my hexes and
hindered by malaidictions, was finally struck down by the Firstborns of
Darkness. His body now rests in an isolation chamber beneath my sanctum,
awaiting necromantic testing. There is still much to learn.

The Conclave's towers fought well, with Ivory Tower aiding Shalonesti, and
Crimston bolstering Arkane, but it was the Ebony Tower that stood at the
forefront. Our magic was the spearhead, our dead the shield. The Red
Lunite may have shattered the sky, and the gods may have bled upon the ice,
but it was our art, Her Art, that turned the tide long enough to break the
ritual.

Now, I prepare. The corpse of the Warpspeaker holds secrets, and secrets
are rarely silent. There is a tremor in the ley-lines. I do not know if we
have won the war, but in this battle, the name of the Ebony Tower has been
etched into the crust of the Red Moon.

Thindyss Shiegnath, the Ebony Wizard.
(Personal journal log after the battle for Ironclad)

Writer: Kirkland
Date Mon Jun 16 20:53:44 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Ostrim Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Time Approaches

Kirkland wiped his blade across his pants, the smell of lightning and
smoke permeating the room, as he walked away from the enchantress's body and
headed back down the tower steps.

Time had been moving fast as of late. Once the plan was set it motion,
everyone dispersed to their roles, and they needed to be ready for anything.
The High Mystic's life was at risk. Or worse, his soul.

His new guild was filling him out nicely. His senses were already improving
with such close combat, and the fine motor skills already in fine form. He
found himself idly tossing and catching shuriken and daggers rather than
bouncing a leg or tapping his chin. And... Well... His armor and array of
weapons were taking on much more time than he realized. He was still too
messy, not yet refined enough.

There would be more time to hone his craft. After. If there was an after.
While the plan was for him to stand on the safe side of the portal to help
pull them through, he'd already been working on and planning several
contingencies if and when things turned sour. And many of those included
diving through the portal itself, either as distraction or direct aid. He
was not nervous, but instead just a sense of seriousness. Of resolve.

Failure here could not be an option.

He quietly made his way back to the Keep, making sure the amulets and
shields were packaged for transport, before finding an open cushion and
kneeling down upon it. He solemnly gave his prayers to the Mistress before
sitting down, and getting back to work.

He continued sewing and preparing his disguise throughout the night.

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 22:54:59 2025

Writer: Sedinae
Date Mon Jun 16 23:08:04 2025

Writer: Imshael
Date Tue Jun 17 09:52:44 2025
To All black_robes dark_elves drakkara fatale Tash'a
Subject A Red Wake Follows

Dawn passed without incident. No answer came. No sign. No shifting of
air or twitch of omen. Imshael waited unmoving in a disinterred barrow
beneath the hill, the blood on his hand long dried into black resin, like
bark scorched and cracked by fire.

He waited still, but it was not silence he kept. Beneath the surface of the
earth, something in him stirred. Something old, something dead and
vestigial. Not his mistress, not yet, for her blood thinned with the
passing of time, but something bound to her will.

A thin resonance too low for the waking mind teased the edges of hearing.
Imshael tilted his head.

Not a call in reply. A provocation.

His lips curled slightly, though it was not yet a smile. "So she indulges, he
whispered, voice rough from disuse. "Jealousy is a demon All to itself,
Imshael. Patience." The moss at his feet curled inward, recoiling.

He had located a thin crack that spread across the hills stone crest
spidering outward toward the trees where the barrows were laid in the
hillside, nature's relentless march over the years compromising the elven
craftsmanship. The ancient elven wardings were rigid, elegant, unyielding.
He probed at their spellwork with a simple cantrip and tasted metal on the
air.

Not yet. Not so simply done.

Imshael stepped back from the cracked stone, fingers twitching with the
residue of the offering. The voice returned, quieter this time, less
mocking than before: "You fed the root, not the flower. You always do."

He did not answer it.

Instead, his gaze turned northward, where the vale sloped downward toward
venerable crypts half-swallowed by soil and vine. The Shalonost watched
that place too, even now, whispering stories to their children of the
honored dead that slept forever in their Mother's embrace.

If his mistress would not come to him, then he would entice her further.
The pact had been acknowledged. That was enough.

For now.

Exiting the barrow, the elf spun an illusion over his hiding place and with
a slow turn, Imshael descended the hill, a shadow moving beneath
sunset-dappled branches. The grovekeepers would come, making their rounds
and lighting the foxfire torches to honor their dead.

Writer: Rinern
Date Tue Jun 17 16:33:47 2025

Writer: Tamello
Date Tue Jun 17 20:05:12 2025

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue Jun 17 20:37:00 2025
To All Chaos ( Shadow Verminasia Marauders Shalonesti IMM RP )
Subject What the Mire Remembered

I had abandoned ship nearly a league from that accursed shore. Not that
it troubled me, not in light of what lay ahead. Contrary to the ignorant
assumptions of the common folk, my Yaenni blood grants me a certain inborn
aptitude for the sea. Swimming came as naturally as any other pursuit.

No magic. No trace. Nothing to stir curiosity or leave behind a fragment
for the trail. Such is the way of our enterprise. Silent, patient,
cautious. It made for missions of maddening length, and this one, even more
unsettling for its uncharacteristic urgency. Still, the necessary
precautions were taken, at least those that time allowed.

I had slipped aboard as a deckhand on a modest fishing vessel, bound for the
fertile shoals beyond Crystal Bay. With little more than salt air and
silence as company, I turned over the implications of the whispers winding
through our network, that something had happened. That the first knight,
enigmatic even by our standards, ever prone to secrecy bordering on the
absurd, had vanished.

The first circle alone were ever granted even the faintest glimpse of his
movements. Such was the nature of Atennim's caution, even in the best of
times. The changes, when they began, were imperceptible to most, but not to
us. Not in the midst of our greatest operation yet. To his inner circle,
the silence rang too loud. Something was undeniably wrong, and I intended
to wrest the truth from the shadows myself.

Reaching this moment in our engagement had been an ordeal of exhausting
precision. Every piece placed upon the board was assessed, tested, and
sacrificed if found wanting. Intelligence scoured, cross-checked, layered
with webs of misdirection. Counter-intelligence sewn with exacting care.
Agents embedded, their false lives made airtight. The unreliable silenced
or vanished. And most crucially, the tools. Weapons birthed in
collaboration with those accursed bloodletters of the Warp were forged and
perfected. Those entrusted with wielding them, handpicked from the eight
circles, had been trained beyond flaw.

Yes, contingencies existed for Atennim's absence. Of course they did. But
none could feign this plan into existence. It had been his vision, his
ambition wrought in iron and secrecy. After everything, I would not suffer
ignorance as my reward. As first among the three commanders beneath him, I
bore more than strategic burden. I carried a task unspoken, even among the
trusted of the command.

The first knight had always understood the stakes, and more deeply than any
of us. From the earliest days of our campaign, when the path forward was
but a whisper on blood-slick stone, he recognized the insidious risk that
came with drawing power from the Warp. Even he, with All his years of
vigilance and his uncanny patience, could not claim immunity to its slow,
ravenous reach. He kept his knights at arm's length from its true nature,
shielding them from knowledge too dangerous to hold. So secretive, in fact,
that even the most cunning tendrils of the Warp would find little to latch
onto.

But the signs were there. Even before my encounter with him in that sullen
cave upon Icewall. They had grown more obvious in the days that followed
and nigh impossible for me not to see. Now, with the calamities unfolding
upon Arkane and his unexplained disappearance, the moment I loathed drew
near. He had entrusted me, above All others, with the gravest of our many
fail-safes. To execute him, should the corruption ever overtake him fully.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue Jun 17 20:42:41 2025
To All Chaos ( Shadow Verminasia Marauders Shalonesti IMM RP )
Subject What the Mire Remembered (continued)

Why he chose me for this damnable duty, I still do not fully understand.
Perhaps it was because I was among the first to join him, long before the
others saw the shape of the storm we would become. Or perhaps it was
something more personal. His oft-unspoken bond with my great-grandfather,
Vokkyn, forged in blood and misery, may have kindled a peculiar trust that
lingered in my veins. Whether blood or conviction, he trusted me. And so I
accepted, though my instincts have never stopped resisting.

And if my suspicions are confirmed, if I find the man we once followed has
been twisted beyond return, then I will do what must be done.

I moved through the jungle with ease, silent despite the loose loam beneath
my feet. My eyes did most of the work. My ears and nose overwhelmed by the
endless cacophony of chirps, shrieks, and rustling limbs... The scents too
rich, too mingled with rot and bloom to parse anything clearly. The air
hung thick with moisture, the heat clinging like a lingering specter. I
wore little, just a pair of tattered breaches cut at the knee and a curved
blade slung at my hip. The rest of my kit I had cached near the shoreline,
i'll reclaim it on my way out.

Years had passed since I last ventured into this stretch of no-man's land,
the verdant corridor that carved a forgotten path beneath the sweltering
canopies. My objective was not the citadel of the Warp, though I knew it
lay somewhere ahead, buried beneath foliage and corruption. No, I sought
the old tower. The last known place where we might hope to find him.

We had already turned over every known safe-house, every dead-drop and
bolt-hole spread across Algoron's hidden veins. Even the Seer, reluctant
though she was, had crossed the threshold of the Storm's Lair in search of a
thread. But every trail ran cold. This this was the last.

My ears flatten as I catch a scent. Subtle and out of place. Not beast,
not man. Not bird or serpent or any of the natural predators that ruled
these woods. Something more off putting. I scaled the nearest tree with
quick, silent precision, claws digging deep into the bark of a giant older
than most cities. From a break in the canopy, I glimpsed it.

And what I beheld would not be believed in any tavern tale. It would be
dismissed by hedge-wizards and would be soothsayers alike. Too blasphemous,
too mad. A vision torn from a heretic's wretched dream, clawing its way
into our realm from the ragged edge of sanity.

A quivering spire of flesh and bone twisted toward the sky, obscene and
utterly alien. An aberration of nightmare proportions. The mere sight
turns my stomach, evoking a dread so tangible it coils deep in my gut.

"That's new," I mutter, forcibly wrenching my gaze away as an unnatural wave
of paranoia washes over me, followed by the disturbing whispers of chiding
and unseen voices.

But before averting my eyes completely, I glimpse something familiar. Crude
battlements clustered at its base. A momentary flash of clarity pierces my
unease. The citadel of the Warp itself had wrought this ... Manifestation.
This discovery guides my bearings, due west lies the bog, where Atennim's
tower awaits.

Writer: Crelius
Date Tue Jun 17 20:47:46 2025
To All Chaos ( Shadow Verminasia Marauders Shalonesti IMM RP )
Subject What the Mire Remembered (end)

I decide it best to stick to the canopies for the remainder of the trek,
who knows what might be skulking below. I draw the coal-blackened,
diamond-edged blade from my hip and grip it between my teeth, the cold tang
of the metal grounding me and my senses. Then I move, lupine and hastened,
bounding from limb to limb, a phantom among the branches. The jungle blurs
around me, each stride a vaunting leap toward the west, toward the mire,
where the air thickens with rot and quiet.

The trees begin to thin as the ground below gives way to marsh and stagnant
pools. I slow, crouching upon a thick limb, and peer down. There, where
the tower once stood, is nothing.

Not a stone, nor remnants of a foundation. Only a sinkhole of blackened
brine, a pool barely reflecting the light around it, rippling faintly at its
surface as if some strange current stirs beneath. The stench is unlike any
swamp I have crossed before. Sweet, cloying and unpleasant. Like meat left
too long in the sun, mixed with the scent of wilted flowers and something
far more ancient.

The trees at the edge lean away from the pool, their roots curling upward as
though in revulsion. I drop from the canopy, landing softly in the muck,
blade drawn now in hand. The soil here quivers beneath my step, oiled with
veins of iridescent corruption that pulse faintly in rhythm with the pools
surface.

I approach slowly. The water is utterly still suddenly, but I feel
something observing me, something vast and buried. It's awareness brushing
the edges of my thoughts like the flick of a serpent's tongue.

Gone. The tower is truly gone. Consumed, it seems, by the warp's design.
And if the first knight was within... I clench my jaw.

"Shit."

Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Jun 18 11:12:09 2025

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Wed Jun 18 11:20:29 2025
To All Darkonin Verminasia ( Imm Tarabella Xenophon Admin ) ( Mencius Fatale Drakkara ) ( Piknim Zecnys Chantrielle Lenore Sedinae )
Subject {oSomething Old{u,{o Something New{u,{o Something Bold{u,{o Something Orange{u,{o Part I

Fires roared All around the crag-laden summit of Mount Darkonin.

For weeks, greenskins had been gathering, and in their whispered frenzy,
building a frothy air of tension thick enough to cut with one of the jagged
and misshapen blades they were wont to carry.

Kegs of ale were filled with swill from which the greenskins drank. Only
half of those were stolen. The other half were filled with a concotion so
potent it would likely blind an imbiber with a lesser tolerance.

Throngs of greenskins had been gathering in and around Darkonin for weeks,
pulled as if by an invisible cord for the promise of two-syllable words that
rang in every greenskin's head like a gong whose inexorable calling couldn't
be ignored.

{u ***

A muggy Verminasian evening is nothing to scoff at.

Sweltering heat blew between the crowd of patrons arranged like books in an
overful library, leaving in its wake the stale scent of ale and sweat amidst
the stench of violence that permeates the Dark Jewel like a gaudy Thalosian
perfumery.

Verminasian taverns are a strange mixture of fight club, brothel, and
watering joint, and they attract every sort of person you might imagine
would be tempted to step foot in their foul environs.

Taverns have a curious way of missing the mark. Some taverns miss the mark
because of their food, their drink selection, the service the staff
provides, or even the staff themselves. One way or another, patrons are
likely to find something missing from the taverns they visit. This is a
primary catalyst for the frequency with which people will visit their
'primary' establishment. You don't become a regular by visiting once a
month.

Xaxtur doesn't know a thing about hospitality. Likewise, he doesn't know a
good drink from a bad one.

There's only ever been one thing driving the hobgoblin's unstoppable path
forward, and that one thing is {oappetite.

Xaxtur was quite certain that {othis tavern was missing the most important
thing of all: {oHIM.

He sauntered into the Skull & Bones with All the aplomb of a creature whose
presence was a necessity to a great evening. In his wake came the
caterwauling call of a waif whose thieving hand had found itself pressed
tight to the over-sharp edge of the tri-bladed phurba tucked tight against
the hobgoblin's waist.

Those cries were unlikely to cease anytime soon, given the amount of blood
spilling across the misshapen cobblestones that made up Verminasia's
streets.

{u ***

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Wed Jun 18 11:25:18 2025
To All Darkonin Verminasia ( Imm Tarabella Xenophon Admin ) ( Mencius Fatale Drakkara ) ( Piknim Zecnys Chantrielle Lenore Sedinae )
Subject {oSomething Old{u,{o Something New{u,{o Something Bold{u,{o Something Orange{u,{o Part II

The feast had been promised for weeks. Goblins hunted for wayward
livestock, bugbears sought out larger prey. Ogres bashed snotlings whose
insistence on cheap swill for ale ran counter to the needs of The Great
Orange One.

All across Algoron, hushed whispers had turned to fervent insistence.
{oHunger, those whispers promised, would be abated. {oHe knew how to eat. {oHe
would teach the greenskins how to eat.

A great migration began. Greenskins Algoron-wide turned from their homes
and steered their way towards Icewall, and the great Mountain that all
greenskins could call home.

What began as a trickle of wayward goblins and ogres soon turned into a
flood as the promises of what lay in store for the greenskins under the
ever-growing gut of Xaxtur World-Eater was spread further and further.

{u ***

Xaxtur's entrance to the Skull & Bones was met with the stares of a people
who're used to a crowd of regulars whose names and stories are already
known.

An outsider was always likely to draw attention, whether good or bad. In a
joint as hot and stench-ridden as the Skull & Bones, the latter was more
likely than the former, especially for a mostly-naked hobgoblin whose
wobblingly corpulent body stood out against the darkly-coloured outfits of
the rabble gathered within.

{u ***

Quickly-filling halls stood in stark contrast to the wind-whipped empty
caverns that Mount Darkonin previously tried to obscure beneath the smoke of
hearty bonfires and flagons of watered down ale.

Greenskins of All shapes, sizes, and colours arranged themselves to hear the
words of a great orange hobogblin who'd already made his prophetic
proclamation.

Decades had passed since the last greenskin with {oambition to match the
Gorger's. Not since the reunification of the greenskins under the banner of
Mount Darkonin had such an array of filthy & cunning beasts flocked to the
caverns and tunnels of the Great Mountain in numbers such as these.

The ground swelled with the piss that the Mountain's poorly irrigated septic
tunnels flooded with, and the icelands surrounding Mount Darkonin grew for
the efforts of their relief.

{u ***

Xaxtur had been sent here on a mission. The Skull & Bones wasn't a place
one typically found themselves on a lark, unless they were already a
purveyor of the sorts of evenings that its musty walls promised.

A burly giant ogre sat, forlorn, in the corner. His foul face was twisted
in a grotesque mimicry of the tiki mugs often sold out of Haven's flamboyant
docks.

His shoulders were over-broad, and his brow thicker still. His lips were
engorged to the point of sagging from their posts, long since having given
up the straight-backed posture of soldiers stood at attention.

Xaxtur's waddling saunter brought him right up behind the giant ogre, and
the overlarge hobgoblin didn't bother tapping on the green-and-brown-skinned
ogre's shoulder.

{u ***

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Wed Jun 18 11:29:52 2025
To All Darkonin Verminasia ( Imm Tarabella Xenophon Admin ) ( Mencius Fatale Drakkara ) ( Piknim Zecnys Chantrielle Lenore Sedinae )
Subject {oSomething Old{u,{o Something New{u,{o Something Bold{u,{o Something Orange{u,{o Part III{u, [{ofin{u]

The spoils of greenskin defecation littered the halls as readily as the
foodstuffs that had been carted in -- stolen or otherwise -- from All over
Algoron to feed the greenskin horde that had begun to amass at word of His
Corpulence's {ocommand.

Restless greenskins are their own kind of menace. Fights broke out with the
kind of regularity one might expect from an Arkanian Duke's diet. Fights
over nothing, and fights over everything. Too much food, and not enough.
Too drunk, and too sober. Fights over nothingness, ain't it something?.
Brawls to pass the time and spats to settle long-standing blood-feuds that
kin who'd long since been forgotten had started generations ago.

New scars were placed, old scars re-opened. Blood flowed as easily as piss
or ale, and the greenskin rabble that packed Mount Darkonin's halls began to
feel whole again.

{u ***

"{oOi, grub. Yer lookin' kinda SMAWL, aintcher? "

Xaxtur had always had a way with words. The giant ogre turned, fixing the
hobgoblin -- smaller by more than half -- with a baleful, one-eyed glare.
That eye was startlingly blue, in contrast to the purpling-green of his aged
flesh. The other eye was suffering from the effects of having been hastily
stitched closed by a back-alley surgeon. Pus and gunk ran from the eye and
its crooked closure, leaving a welt of dried {oick in a trailing line from eye
to mouth.

The giant ogre's breath was rank. The foul scent spoke of rotting teeth and
worse.

"What's it to YOU, gobsmack? "

The ogre was equally eloquent.

"{oYer got somethin' I'm gointer need from ya. An' I ain't here t'pay fer it.
"

The orange hobgoblin darted forward with a quickness that belied his already
swelling belly, but the giant ogre had been ready for this. The ogre palmed
Xaxtur's head easily, and began to squeeze. Patrons began to back away from
the pair, just in time for a spray of brilliant blood to erupt from the arm
holding the hobgoblin at bay. The arcing swing of desperate hands had found
their purchase, delivering in their wake the sharp bite of a dagger's savage
kiss directly into the wrist of the giant ogre, who {uhowled an unholy scream.

The baying shook the Skull & Bones from its rafters to its foundation. The
ogre released Xaxtur's head and took a step back, recollecting himself, as
saccharine sanguinity spilled to the dirt-and-ale streaked floorboards
separating Xaxtur and his newfound friend.

"{oDon't have ter be like dis, " the not-yet-great hobgoblin muttered. He
held his curved dagger in front of him threateningly, but his other hand
rose to rub at one temple. The giant ogre was strong. Those overlarge
hands could have crushed Xaxtur's head like an overripe melon, and left the
future {oworld{u-{oeater without enough brains to chew.

Xaxtur grinned a sickening grin as he shook of the pounding headache brought
on by so much blood being forced into his skull. Greenish liquid flowed
from his nostrils and his ears, and his sulfurous eyes were run through with
an electric green current.

The one-eyed ogre's face split in a grin somewhere between wan from lack of
blood and menacingly over-extended. "Wotcher want, den, liddle squib? "
His voice was weak, likely from All that losing so much life-liquid. Blood
seeped into the cracks between floorboards that hadn't been cleaned in
years, and hadn't been replaced in decades. It sunk into the spaces where
little beasts snuck and scurried, and began to congeal.

The hungry hobgoblin strode forward and slapped a hand thick with coinage on
the bar. The familiar sound of gold-on-gold-on-wood filled the pub's
liminal silence, and almost immediately chatter began again.

The pubtender snatched up those coins and put fresh ales down for Xaxtur and
his overlarge friend, and the former spoke in a conspiratorial whisper...

{u ***

Writer: Orutix
Date Wed Jun 18 12:30:04 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Rhelic Croatoan Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Red Sands: Convergence {u(I)

I stood at the edge of the new excavation site, my axe still slick with
the blood of the last surface-dweller foolish enough to wander near the
Dungeon's new domain. The air tasted of iron and burnt stone, something was
wrong. The Warlord had been restless since the sky-fire struck the earth.

Orutix the Sapphire Scourge moved through the ranks of the Horde like a
ghost, his storm-gray eyes burning with a fever none of us dared name. His
hands, already blackened from delving too deep, now clutched a jagged shard
of something that wasn't stone. It pulsed. Like a heart. Like our hearts
when the killing-song was upon us.

"Dig. "

We obeyed.

The impact site was a wound in the world. The earth had folded inward like
rotten flesh, revealing veins of crimson crystal that throbbed in time with
the Warlord's footsteps. The weaker thralls collapsed within minutes, their
eyes bleeding black. The rest of us worked in silence, our axes biting into
stone that whimpered beneath each strike at the edge of the crater.

I saw the moment Orutix found what he sought.

The crimson veins converged into a single, pulsing mass - a sliver stone of
corrupted moonlight. When his blackened fingers closed around it, the very
air screamed. The ground beneath us shuddered, and for a breath, I saw
through the earth... To something vast and abating in the depths.

Then the vision passed. The Warlord turned to us, the sliver stone now
locked away in an iron chest, its light seeping through the cracks in the
seal and lid.

"Deeper. "

We followed. We always follow.

Writer: Chantrielle
Date Wed Jun 18 12:36:08 2025

Writer: Orutix
Date Wed Jun 18 12:45:37 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Rhelic Croatoan Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Red Sands: Convergence {u(II)

The Red Moons fall was no accident, it was an omen. Orutix watched as
its jagged shards pierced the earth near his dungeon, their corrupted lunite
veins seeping into the soil like poison. The ground itself grew feverish,
pulsing as if something beneath it stirred.

Above us, the heavens waged their own war. Raije clashed with the Chaos
Spines that had erupted from the depths, until one barbed tendril impaled
him through the back. His divine blood rained upon Arkane, each drop
igniting the land with the fury of battle. Some struck the Red Moons
wreckage, fusing lunite and godflesh into searing amalgams of power. The
earth trembled, and the thought seeped into Orutix's mind, the veil between
worlds was thinning further still.

The war above had ended, the armies of Chaos lay broken, their ruins still
smoldering under the ash-choked sky and covering the soil near the Dungeon
where nothing would ever grow again. But Orutix knew that was the surface
world's problems. Orutix's attention was fixed upon the impact sites of the
red moon in the distance where his Dungeon home was on the eastern most
lands of the continent.

For months, his miners had dug deeper than any before them, following the
whispers of the Umbral Synod, seeking the crystallized essence of abyss'
fallen. Now, with the Red moons tainted shards poisoning the soil above,
the earth itself had grown soft, as if the boundary between worlds was
rotting.

The tiny gnome Warlord had in the iron chest what he needed, the sliver of
celestial stone, still warm from it's impact on Algoron. The devotees of
the blood priestess' Umbral Synod would soon gather, the ones that survived
the purges, the sacrifices, and the madness.

There would be no second attempt.

Writer: Szalestzus
Date Wed Jun 18 18:27:18 2025
To All Piknim Nereza Andreyna Fredrik Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti_Kingdom Marauders ( Croatoan Rhelic Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Battle for Ironclad - Aftermath

The vast southlands of Arkania, its undulating forests and grasslands,
its mountain ranges and ravines, its networks of streams and game trails,
host many mortal settlements, and especially those of the halflings - tinker
gnomes, deep gnomes, kenderkin and more still thrive here, despite the loss
of the forest city of Balifore. In one such settlement upon the rolling
plains, the gnomes delve within the hills for All the bounty of the land -
coal, ores, gems, All can be found here.

And, curiously, the halflings of this settlement awoke one morning (after a
terrible racket of a storm, everyone said. "Did you hear that racket last
night? Terrible storm," they All said to one another, nodding vehemently at
one another before finding another neighbour to complain to) to a previously
unseen type of ore, like the land itself had burped it up. A reddish
colour, but not like clay, one particularly learned deep gnome who had gone
to the Univeristy of Althainia (that's clear across a whole ocean!) And was
only home every other weekend from his job in Gahboom, well, that deep gnome
said rather plainly, "That's no ore from the ground, that there's lunite!"
To which the crowd of gnomes and kender around him dutifully exclaimed
"Ooh!" And "Aah!" As lunite sounds very important indeed.

And that deep gnome set about organizing the hillside village to collect as
much of the stuff as it could find, though it All seemed pretty scattered
about, THOUGH there was also this fine red dust that was settling on a lot
of things. Not thick, mind you, like the ash of a volcano, but just a
little dusting. Enough to make a white flower look the daintiest shade of
pink.

As the industrious little halflings set to work, so did warp-corrupted red
lunite, and though none of them quite knew it yet, if something didn't halt
the process.. Well, it's too terrible to consider.

A cool breeze picked up from the north, and everyone was quite happy for it,
at first. It eased the work, and the cooling sweat upon their brow was a
relief. Before long, however, the cool relief became a chilling touch, and
the halflings began to remark to one another, "Bit cool for the summer,
isn't it?" They would nod vigorously and reply "Downright chilly!" They'd
reply, expressing their disapproval of the turn in the weather with no
uncertain terms, then find another neighbour to repeat the conversation.

With a low whooshing sound, the halflings soon discovered the source of the
chill, as the sleek(ly enormous!) Frame of an ancient white dragon, quite
without warning, mind you, if you discount the unnatural and growing chill
brought by a northerly breeze rarely felt in summer, which most of the
little folk had after complaining quite enthusiastically about it, yes quite
without warning indeed, rose above the hillcrest, hovered, took in a huge
gulp of air, and unchambered the full might of his frozen breath.

* * *

The thousand facets of the shattered mind of the ancient white dragon
Szalestzus All bent themselves in concert, to the North Wind. In the
aftermath of the Battle for Ironclad, one thing had become clear - the cold
of Zandreya's tempest had slowed the corruption of the warp, and prevented
it from tainting the entire field of participants in that immense clash of
forces.

But Zandreya was nowhere to be seen, and Szalestzus was intent upon claiming
the North Wind, so he patrolled the skies over the southlands of Arkania.
If he did not yet bend the will of the North Wind, he would act where
Zandreya was neglectful. The main impact site of the Red Lunite was
something he did not dare fly to, even over, but there were countless
smaller pieces that had streaked through the sky. He would grant the
blessing of cold, the statis which halts corruption in flesh and, perhaps,
even in soul.

Writer: Kaladon
Date Wed Jun 18 21:05:46 2025

Writer: Gragnar
Date Thu Jun 19 00:11:28 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jun 19 12:04:15 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jun 19 12:07:13 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jun 19 12:07:16 2025

Writer: Veythar
Date Thu Jun 19 12:31:22 2025

Writer: Necrantis
Date Thu Jun 19 15:20:15 2025

Writer: Tash'a
Date Thu Jun 19 18:18:05 2025
To All black_robes dark_elves drakkara fatale Imshael
Subject A Dark Pact

The chill of the ancient crypt was unnatural.

As if the final rasping breath of every denizen who occupied it in undeath
had been captured, the very primordial core of death itself had been
preserved in this hallowed place.

In every tomb, every skull or urn-bound alcove, a dark elf. In every
shadow, a wisp of memory or lingering sense of wrath. The mountain of its
berth was without end, a deep well that grew ever deeper with the unmet
resolve of an accursed race and those who had been bound to its stewardship.

In this hallowed dark, even the demon was inspired as the memories of the
dark elf jogged in recognition of what still needed to be done. It was
distraction as much as it was memory yet. One day, there would be a time
for each of these enraged souls. Even those of ash and dust would be useful
to her. One of these bloodlines carried at least two memories she intended
to dig out of its death..

Her long fingers were weaving through the demi-plane, through the shadowy
power that had yet to find a shell of her liking, when a ripple shivered
through the blood.

It had been quiet within, as still as death, but into that dark sea he
dropped a pebble. A slow smile revealed a pale fang that the strange
abyssal light of the crypt glimmered across before she drew a complicated
arcane gesture, carving a rift into the space before her, and red eyes
disappeared into the snuffing depth of the Shadow demi-plane.

It had taken decades but slowly, slowly... the pieces were beginning to
come together. She could taste it, sense it, in the blood. The dark pact
had only just begun to reveal what it needed to through him.

It will work both ways. The shrouded form that she had awoken long ago
followed her through the demi-plane. She was the predator in this Garden of
Shades though and the demon met the ancient voice with a grin.

I am counting on it.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Thu Jun 19 19:28:24 2025

Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Jun 20 09:51:18 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Jun 20 11:16:05 2025
To Shadow Verminasia Archal Telthian Symantha Daizi ( Immortal RP Drakkara All )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparing the Way (Ezrianne)

The air in the room was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and the
slow-blooming perfume of spell reagents. Ezrianne moved through the armory
like a woman possessed, with purpose. The mission to retrieve the High
Mystic wasn't just another every-day skirmish; it was high stakes, delicate,
and there would be no margin for oversight.

At the alchemy bench, her fingers worked fast, nimble despite the sweat
dripping from her, caused by the fire in the stuffy room. She checked an
double checked each potion she'd chosen for Ostrim, making sure they were
all accounted for in the correct quantities, and then that each was
stoppered appropriately and marked in such a manner he wouldn't have to read
labels and fumble in the heat of bedlam -- color codes were her choice this
time.

None of Drakkara's gifts were bestowed upon the Barbarians, no natural
tether to the weave, no patron-given tricks to twist fate. But this was her
best effort to help lend Ostrim a margin as he lead their party against the
powers of a Demon with a grudge, and a situation no one could accurately
predict before jumping head-long into the fire.

Next she prepped the gear that had been passed over to her for inspection
before they departed: every helmet was examined, every leg plate checked,
every shield inspected and banded anew. She moved among each piece,
checking gauntlets, tightening buckles, testing straps. Leather was oiled
supple, and chainmail adjusted in tiny amounts with a small armor hammer in
places it was stiff from use.

By the door, everyone's packs were laid out, each carefully laden with
rations, staves, scrolls..... Whatever she could think of the team might
need for the task. Her own satchel, and Maccus' next to it, were loaded
with the necessities of the Skald and other items she'd though useful for
their assignment as back up when the proverbial shit hit the proverbial
ceiling fan.

A final check of blades - oiled cloth drawn lovingly down steel, whetstone
applied as needed. Then she glanced around the room, her eyes catching on
each piece, each preparation.

Although they were unsure of what awaited them at the other side of this
portal, they would not go in blind. They would not go in weak. And
Drakkara help Demon that underestimated what Storm Keep was capable of.

Ezrianne tied her hair back into a messy bun at the top of her head, and
slung her satchel over her shoulder.

'Let's go get our High Mystic back.'

Writer: Justian
Date Fri Jun 20 19:28:12 2025

Writer: Justian
Date Fri Jun 20 19:30:59 2025

Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Jun 21 06:25:10 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Preparations for Madness

Melchaleve was once again within the Library, he had several notes laid out
across the table. Notes of ages past, notes on abberant events, notes on the
realm of the endless. Notes detailing items that had any connection to the
Mistress.

"You won't see me getting possessed by a damn Demon, my mind is my own!"

Thud.

"Do you enjoy his migraines? I always found them sufferable. Predictable."

Thud.

Closing his eyes and rubbing his head with a hand, his other drifting back to
his freyed sword sheath, stroking it for comfort.

"My mind is my own."

Melchaleve began to pack his gear in preparation for the supplicants work. A set
of shackles, should the High Mystic need to be restrained for an excorcism, the
shield of black magic, imbued with the Mistress's protections. An amulet of the
Mistress, and an amulet of the Lord. The lance of the hemskoen, which the High
Mystic had given to him. The shard of distortion, to provide perspective.

Thud.

"You will need to figure that out...what was his is now mine..."

Thud.

"My mind is my own."

"The journey into the abyss is not mine to take. I must keep myself anchored. I
must remain as a strong link of the chain for the supplicants. We must pull them
home when the time comes."

Thud.

"..And you will find, that they drive you mad."

Thud.

"My mind is my own."

Tucking a sprig of scented {ulavender into a pouch, Melchaleve began to
pack his work, set his bag near the supplicants and head to out for his next
patrol.

Ambactus a Caligo

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat Jun 21 09:32:31 2025
To All Lindanilis ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject A Lesson on Consent

It was still early when Ulyssus stepped quietly through the crystalline
halls of the monastery, the pale light of dawn just beginning to stretch
across the high walls. The globes of magical light hummed softly overhead,
and the air held that familiar hush before the monastery stirred to full
life.

He had risen before the bell, intending to reflect beside the garden pond
while the frost still clung to the outer veil. As he made his way toward
the southern doors that opened onto the garden paths, a small voice
interrupted him.

"Excuse me, Wizard Ulyssus," came the voice of a young novice, a hill dwarf
by the look of him, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and clutching a folded
letter with both hands. "This was left in the chapel for ye. Sealed."

Ulyssus offered a quiet word of thanks and accepted the letter with a nod,
noting the white wax seal bearing the impression of a crescent moon.

He did not open it just then. Instead, he stepped through into the
monastery garden, its warmth washing over him like a quiet blessing. The
protective enchantment above shimmered faintly, warding off the snows and
cold winds of Icewall. The scent of flowers and herbs greeted him like
familiar friends. As he made his way to the small bench at the pond's edge
where he often sat to reflect, he paused near a marked bed of herbs to
gather a small sprig of mint.

From his satchel, he withdrew his prayer journal, a simple, leather-bound
book, and slipped the sealed letter within its pages. Then he placed it on
his lap and took out a small cup and water.

The orb of water in his palm shimmered faintly, responding to a soft
invocation. With a quiet motion of his hand, a coil of magical warmth
encircled the ceramic cup. He added the fresh mint leaves to the water and,
as it began to steam, leaned forward, his gaze resting on the mirrored
surface of the pond, and only then did he break the seal.

The script within was unmistakably the hand of Cardinal Lindanilis.

She wrote with the gentleness of a teacher and the care of a friend. Her
words spoke of her absence, drawn by magic into the Deep Forest as the moon
waxed, and then they turned, as her letters often did, to a lesson.

Consent.

He paused to consider the word.

She spoke not of surface permission, but of something deeper, the
full-hearted, willing embrace required by good magic. She contrasted it
with the workings of balance and evil, where storms, ruin, or command
pressed down without regard. But good magic, the magic of Lord Kantilles,
required trust freely given.

He read the letter twice more, slowly sipping the warm mint tea that now
curled fragrant steam into the air.

She spoke of how the Light could not be imposed, how even a healing must
wait for the heart to open to joy. How eagerness to share must be tempered
with humility. That one must not ask only if they may help, but how.

Ulyssus sat in quiet stillness long after the letter was folded once more
and returned to the pages of his prayer journal.

The Divine did not command as the arcane did. The Divine did not bind.
Where once his magic had shaped ice and altered the forms of things by force
of will, now he was learning to shape nothing, only to offer.

To serve as priest of Kantilles would not be to wield new power. It would
be to learn restraint. To let others choose the Light, not because he
placed it in their hands, but because he had listened to their need and
offered what was welcome.

He looked again toward the sky beyond the shimmering veil, where a single
shaft of morning light pierced the grey above.

Ulyssus raised the cup in quiet reverence and finished the tea, still warm.
Then, setting it down beside him, he opened his prayer journal and began to
write in it not a spell, but a question.

How do I offer the Light in a way that honors freedom?

The page remained unfinished, as he meant it to. Some answers, he had begun
to learn, must be lived to be known.

Writer: Justian
Date Sun Jun 22 19:32:24 2025

Writer: Justian
Date Sun Jun 22 19:38:13 2025

Writer: Hildegarde
Date Sun Jun 22 20:20:05 2025
To All ( Nordmaar Austinian IMM RP )
Subject Sin Eater I of II

The ritual was not forgiveness. It was not cleansing. It was burden.

It began with memory and silence, older than stone altars, passed from
mother to daughter like a rite of fire and frost. Sin-eating was not bound
to temples or priests. It was a tradition older than written history. It
was rooted in the old ways, born of the fjords and snows, whispered among
shieldmaidens and bone-readers. It was the rite of the hearth, the burden
of blood-kin, a sacred task for the living to guard the dead. Hildegarde
had only seen it once, when her mother performed it in hushed defiance, and
had never spoken of it since. But now, it was her turn. Jorund had died
with unrepentant sin. If he were to pass beyond the veil, someone had to
carry what he would not name.

She rose before the sun. Her breath fogged in the chill air of the
homestead as she knelt by the hearth. Birch and pine ash, burned from
sacred wood, were ground by hand and sifted through linen until they were
fine as silt. She mixed them with flour and coarse salt in a wooden bowl.
The salt stung her cracked knuckles, but she did not flinch. Pain was part
of the making.

Water drawn from the well before dawn was stirred in slowly. The dough
resisted, cold, gritty, stubborn. Her palms worked it with steady rhythm, a
cadence passed down from generations of women who bore grief in their
silence. The ash turned the dough a heavy grey, sticking to her skin like
guilt. As she worked, the silence deepened. The dough grew pliant. The
ritual took shape.

She wrapped it in linen, her mother's linen, stained and thinned, and set it
by the fire to rise. There was no leavening. The bread was not meant to be
soft. It was meant to bear weight.

Later, she shaped it into a thick, rough loaf and laid it on the stone
hearth. The heat kissed it slowly, unevenly. Cracks split its back like
old scars. Smoke filled the room, sharp and bitter. The scent wrapped
around her like a memory: sorrow and duty, burnt salt and farewell.

When it was done, she wrapped it again, tucking dried herbs, sage, yarrow,
and bitterroot into the folds. Then she stepped out into the cold where
Jorund lay upon the pyre plank. His body was stiff in death, the honor of a
knight masking the silence of his sins. She placed the loaf on his chest,
over the heart that once beat for her, and laid her palm atop it.

Her voice cracked, but she did not waver.

"Austinian, Father of Light, hear me now. He died without confession,
without repentance. His hands were stained in murderous blood, and his
tongue was silent. He did not speak the truth, and so it falls to me. I
take this bread upon myself. I will consume the sin that he could not face.
I carry what he would not name. Let it pass through me if there is any path
forward for his soul. Let my deeds speak in the silence he left."

The ash clung to her tongue like judgment. The salt was the sting of
betrayal. The bread crumbled like old bones in her mouth. Each bite was a
vow: not to forget, not to forgive, but to carry.

She chewed slowly, eyes closed, every movement deliberate. There were no
prayers. Words would only dilute the act. This was older than language,
older than law. She felt it settle in her stomach like stone. Her body was
ill. Her spirit endured.

Writer: Hildegarde
Date Sun Jun 22 20:22:13 2025
To All ( Nordmaar Austinian IMM RP )
Subject Sin Eater II of II

And as she ate, she imagined the sin itself, his rage, his violence, his
cowardice, passing into her, curling like smoke in her lungs, darkening her
blood. She would carry it in her belly, beneath her breastbone, beside her
heart. It would be part of her now. Not his shame, but her sacrifice.

By taking it into herself, she accepted not only the memory of his sin but
its weightits moral stain, its spiritual inertia. It sat on her heart like
thick, viscous ink spilled. It was not just grief or duty, it was a moral
wound, a tethering. She became the site of judgment, the one to answer for
his silence. If he passed beyond the veil, it would not be through divine
mercy, but because she dared to carry the full cost of what he had left
undone.

It was not justice. It was not penance. But it was love. Fierce, searing,
defiant love

She finished the final bite, her throat raw, her breath shallow. She placed
her palm against her belly and whispered his name, ot with affection, not
with grief, but with solemnity. She was his sin bearer now. His soul, if
it wandered, would find its way not because of anything he had done, but
because she had chosen to bear the unbearable.

The wine came last. Thick and dark, nearly black, it scalded her tongue and
burned All the way down. It was the sealing. The final lock. It made her
stomach twist, but she drank it all. She would not let even that part pass
undone.

When it was over, she sat in silence. Not absolved. Not clean. Her heart
felt like a stone in her chest, weighed heavy now with sin.

Writer: Archal
Date Mon Jun 23 20:21:21 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Ezrianne Kirkland Ithelim Melchaleve Zorreau Telthian Symantha Naamitsa ( Carrionmaw Tritoch Imm RP Storyline )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Invasive Thoughts

You are around three feet tall, hellishly red of skin, and a little
scamp. Your name is a series of emotions - not the names of the emotions,
but the emotions themselves, and you're usually feeling some or All of them.

Right now that includes a nosy greediness, envy of greater power, pleasure
in others' misfortunes, and greed, again. You like jumping about within
the hellish planes from this spot to that, and today you've landed in the
realm of Apostus - a caged-in space of sulphurous stone and a jumped up
basilica filled with delusions of grandeur and self-importance.

You absolutely delight in the self-torment of Apostus, and so you're quite
happy to have landed here today. You, you once heard a pair of dwarves
arguing the point, are (or are not) a Class IV Demonic Presence. Of course,
if the other dwarf was to be believed, that's just made up hooey and the
first one didn't have a clue what he was on about, but the first one
insisted that Demon Lords are class I demonic presences, lesser demons are
class II, minor demons, of the sort who infect souls for a bit of time on
the material plane, are class III, and YOU are a Class IV Demonic Presence
(imp).

Like most demons, you have a touch of telepathy, and today you feel
something different. But before you have a moment to think about that, you
spy a curious little hole in the realm of Apostus. Demonic realms aren't,
generally speaking, meant to have holes in them, so this immediately grabs
your already dubious attention, and you get right up close to it. It's
tiny, but you can press your eye right up and see.. Nothing.

At first, anyway. But your eye adjusta before long and you realize you're
looking into a void. A celestial void, by the looks of it, with faintly
glowing dots and nebulous clouds of colour. Idly, you wonder if the
scholars of the material plane have a name for this, never guessing it's,
indeed, nebulae.

You think it's odd that the infernal abyss seems to have a hole into the
cosmic abyss, but you stop thinking about it altogether when you panic -
specifically because your eye is gently but insistently suctioned to the
hole it's plugging and you're pret-t-ty sure it pulled out of its socket as
you pulled away in aforementioned panic, before snapping back into place
with what you're sure would be a comedic popping noise, if you were watching
instead of experiencing it first hand.

You waste no time putting distance between yourself and that little hole,
not at All noticing it grow the tiniest fraction larger as you do, and
remember the odd feeling you had before that unpleasantness with the hole
you'd rather not think about again.

There's two minds here, today, and you're certain you felt one gloating,
just a tiny bit, before it quieted itself. Amidst, and unnoticing, the mind
of Apostus cycles through its anger and anguish and self pity that normally
so delights you. But now, your insatiable greed for gossip has you
wondering just what this other mind is about.

{u-----

Slowly and carefully, Archal made his way within the mind of Apostus, which
was too busy maintaining control of his body, and churning through impotent
rage, to notice. Archal began the subtle art of coercion.

Writer: Justian
Date Wed Jun 25 17:32:41 2025

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat Jun 28 17:50:57 2025
To All Grumf ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Guidance from a High Place

The letter had arrived in a mirthril scrollcase, unmistakably dwarven in
make, and weighty with respect. Ulyssus had studied its contents once
already, then again, and now a third time. The parchment was spread out
before him, unfurled across a heavy wooden desk within the quiet of the
initiate's chamber in the western wing of the Crystal Monastery. Pale
sunlight filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, casting lines of
light across the floor and catching on the glint of the scrollcase where it
rested atop a stack of open tomes on divine theory.

The White Wizard sat in stillness, a porcelain teacup at his elbow, the
faint scent of crushed mountain mint rising from the cup. The tea had gone
tepid long ago, forgotten in the furrows of thought.

High Priest Grumf's words echoed in his mind, not just the content, but the
tone. Honest. Grounded. As unyielding and precise as the craft of
smithing itself. It pleased Ulyssus to know that such minds existed beyond
the Towers of the Conclave, minds not only dedicated to service, but
unafraid to question, to shape meaning from mystery with hammer and
conviction both.

He read once more the lines about divine power flowing not from one's own
will, but through a bond forged in ritual and devotion. Nothing for us
happens without prayer, the priest had written.

Ulyssus tapped a single finger against the desk, deep in thought. This was
the central divergence, the arcane drew upon one's intellect and discipline
to manipulate the raw energies of the world, while divine magic came through
surrender, not control, but connection.

And yet, there were similarities too. Both required training. Both
required trust in oneself, or in one's god. Both demanded sacrifice, be it
the long hours of study, or the trials of faithful service. The difference
was not in power, but in the source and the path one took to wield it.

He let out a quiet breath and stood, folding the letter with care and
placing it between the pages of a leather journal, his prayerbook and
magical treatise, now filled with a mixture of arcane theory and the early
notes of divine reflection. Grumf's words would remain there, preserved
between scripture and hypothesis.

Stepping out from the quarters, Ulyssus wrapped his cloak more tightly
around his shoulders and made his way through the quiet stone halls, moving
towards the monastery's garden paths. He walked beyond the cultivated
stillness of the garden and out the gates of the monastery, following a
narrow trail that wound upward into the mountains. There, amidst the
silence of Icewall's ridgelines, the sun dipped low over the frozen horizon,
and the wind carried the scent of snow and pine, clean and sharp in his
lungs.

He came to a halt where the path narrowed between frost clung boulders, the
hush of the mountain pressing in like a mantle. There, Ulyssus bowed his
head, the wind stirring the edge of his cloak. In silence, he offered a
short prayer for understanding. That he might walk the narrow place between
arcane and divine with grace, and serve his Lord in both wisdom and wonder.

Ulyssus's snowy owl, nestled in the crook of a stone nearby, ruffled its
feathers but remained still. Standing among the granite outcroppings,
Ulyssus closed his eyes to listen. To the hush of the mountain, the echo of
the High Priest's words, and the stirring of something older than either.
There was magic in that, too.

The letter would remain safely bound within his prayer journal, a touchstone
for continued reflection. For now, Ulyssus stood alone upon the mountain,
the wind tugging lightly at his white cloak. His thoughts were quiet, like
the falling snow across the peaks of Icewall. Between arcane reason and
divine faith, there lay a deeper current he had only just begun to feel.
And so he waited, not in haste, but in reverence, listening for the
stirrings of truth carried on the wind.

Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Sat Jun 28 18:08:08 2025

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Jun 29 09:14:48 2025
To All Marauders Waaagh ( Imm Rp Kwainin Derigimus )
Subject Contemplations

Fredrik stood in contemplation, starring at the charred statue of Kwainin as
he often did in times of uncertainty, which were nearly constant in his life.
The Battle for Ironclad had been monumentous, confirming many of his greatest
fears, and worse. However, the realm had triumped over Chaos, he hoped, but at
a terrible cost. That which Fredrik had feared and sought beneath Ironclad had
emerged with terrible force, but had been destroyed. Raije had made his opinons
known, contrary to everything Fredrik had believed. Things had gone poorly, but
they were alive and released from certain anxieties after the hammer's fall.

However, his initial feelings of relief and release had quickly slipped back
towards doubt and confusion. Fredrik had been so sure that Raije was on their
side, supportive of their struggle from a distance. Instead, he had marked the
Marauders for death and seemed to revel in the rampage of Chaos. Wrong, as
always, and left with much to contemplate.

His first realization was that the rush of battle, a true, grand battle, was
sublime. Fear and doubt had only crept back into his mind after All had time
to catch their breath. In each moment of that chaotic battlefield, fighting for
the life of Ironclad and Algoron, he had been free from anxiety. The purpose
and goal of each moment was so clear, and there was no time for second guessing
or over thinking the choices before him. If only he could find a way to harness
that immediacy, how much easier life would be.

Fredrik's thoughts turned to the branching pathways of the future that lay
before him and the Marauders. The state of their Fort, the ruin of their---

'...waaagh?' a voice from nightmares breathed behind him.

Waves of terror, paralyzed by the hope that he was merely mad, certain that
death had come for him. After an eternal moment, Fredrik spun on his heels to
see......nothing. An empty, ruined Temple, as always....

except for the large set of footprints that marked the ash behind him.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Jun 29 18:30:04 2025

Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 14:48:32 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane I

Ostrim's last week had been spent in various parts of Ithelim's estate.
For All its luxury and comfort, the lack of sunlight had been slightly
oppressive for a soldier trained in the Thalosian desert. So, when there
was a break in their work, he decided to take a stroll in the streets of
Verminasia. His brain was a mixture of arcane runes and odd recipes. For a
man used to bashing things or stabbing people, the idea of the arcane caused
him headaches galore. Finding himself at a modest inn, he decided to have a
bit of lunch outside and a fresh pint. He took out his journal and reviewed
the plans laid out by the resident demonologist....

---{uFour Days Ago---

Eustace entered the study where Ostrim had been trying to trace the runes as
shown to him by Ithelim. His hand had begun to cramp so he laid down the
quill and flexed his fingers lightly. Over the last few days, she had come
to inspect his work while her master was busy with the larger rituals and
construction required for the tether. She also did not seem to enjoy being
Ostrim's nursemaid overseeing the training of his work.

'Better but only marginally so. While the body of each rune is much more
defined, you are still sloppy at the points. They must be crisp and clear.
You'll never manage a true rune with such penmanship. Ten more may suffice,
we'll see. That said, the Master requires the blade to be used for the orb
of location. Give it to me. ' she asked holding out a hand.

Ostrim frowned and went over to his sword belt that leaned against a trunk
behind him. The blade, Kayen forged, had been imbued with the unholy
empower of the High Mystic. Within that unholy blessing may reside a
connection, a spark of Archal's essence, that could be used to locate and
remove the knight from Apostus. It was perhaps his most prized possession
and Ithelim could not guarantee that the process would not damage the blade
itself. With a sigh, he handed the scabbard to Eustace. Words began to
form on his lips but he remained silent.

Eustace appraised him for a moment, 'The Master is well versed in many
magiks, Supplicant. You can believe that this blade will be returned to
you. Of that, I have no doubt. ' with a nod she turned and left him alone.

It was perhaps the closest to a kindness Ostrim had received from her.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to a clean sheet of vellum, dipped the
quill in the ink and began tracing the symbols once more. He was determined
not to let either Ithelim or Archal down.

Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue Jul 1 15:13:17 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Zandreya ( Cayenna Xenophon All )
Subject Prayers to the Mother: Fire Shrine

The flames of the Vallenwood shrine twisted skyward, alive with hunger
but bound by purpose. They did not scorch the bark beneath them, nor the
sacred stones set in a sunward spiral around their heart. Built with
another time and another challenge in mind, the sacred space persisted as a
beacon of the Mother's Wrath in the shadows of the Tower of Stars.

Skalpon knelt just beyond the reach of its heat, a satchel resting across
his knees. Within it were folded scraps of cloth, fragments of torn
banners, and small bundles wrapped in woven leaves. Each piece carried a
name, a memory, a sorrow. These were the tokens left by survivors; those
who had witnessed the fall of kin, comrades, and lovers during the sudden
strike from the Chaos Spire.

He had gathered them in silence, from battlefield and bedside, from
whispered tents and broken walls. The remnants of what was lost and what
threatened to remain broken.

One by one, he placed them at the edge of the shrine. With each bundle, he
murmured a name. Sometimes with reverence, sometimes with a tremor. Not
every name was known. And it seemed to the old elf that the names unknown
to him hurt most. Cousins that he had not yet had opportunity to know.
Children, at times, lost to the destruction of Chaos.

When he had finished, he touched the ground with both palms and bowed low.

"O Flame of Memory, " he said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest,
"bear these lives beyond forgetting. May your fire lighten their burden and
carry their stories from the groves to the deep-woods. Let your children
not be forgotten, great Mother. Ignite your people with the memory of loss
that we may be infused with your wrath into the future. Help us to burn
bright with your fervor as we bring to ash that which would harm your sacred
land. "

One by one, Skalpon nudged the bundles into the flame. One by one, the fire
consumed the offering. No smoke. No angry ember. But the flame grew and,
for a moment, burned blue.

The old elf sat back on his heels, staring into the flame quietly as his
prayers continue to lift from heart to Mother.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 16:04:59 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane II

Ostrim sipped from his pale ale, a seasonal import from New Thalos. It
was refreshing with a bit of citrus to it, not so bad on a hot summer's day.
As he drank, he flipped a page in the journal. The wind picked up and blew
another page over revealing a piece of parchment that was loose from the
other pages. Quickly he snapped up the note before it had a chance to blow
away. Upon the vellum was a diagram depicting a jeweled compass like
device. Sketched out was an ornate piece of jewelery made of thin pieces of
metal forming a circular web like enclosure. In the center of it was a
black orb. Another piece of metal, this one a shade in between the orb and
the metal frame, ended in an arrow like point and had indications that it
moved to various points upon the enclosure like a dial. Words, scribed in
the finest calligraphy, were written below the illustration.

'Supplicant, I am glad the sword survived the retrieval process. Included
here is a sketch of the 'soul compass'. The black bead in the center is the
concentrated unholy essence of Archal Kayen extracted from your blade. This
device is attuned to his spiritual energy. I find it amusing that a being
without a soul created a relic to find and extract a soul. Humor aside, the
compass will point towards the location of the High Mystic. Once you have
found him, the compass can be used to tie the umbral tether to him however
this will consume the energies of the bead. It can only be used once. If
anything breaks the tether, he will need to get himself out. If possible,
return the device intact. It may be useful in the future. '

Ostrim tucked sheet of paper back into his journal. Flipping to another
page, he looked over the runes he had perfected. He smiled for a moment
before inspecting his injured left hand. It was still wrapped in gauze but
the healer had said it was doing well..

---{uTwo Days Ago---

Prior to Knight Arden's retirement from enchanting, several shields had been
animated to float about like spinning black wards. Ostrim was supervising
their placement within the courtyard to see how they would stand up to
attack. This animated shield wall was going to provide defense to those who
would stay behind and secure the tether. The group was composed of Ser
Arden, Supplicant Scott, Knight Kesepton, and the Dark Lord, who would
ensure that if something went wrong then they could be rescued. It also
protected the ritual room from anything that might come through the gateway.
Especially a demon who could possess those linked to Necrucifer's influence.

'AGAIN! ' yelled Ostrim as another volley of magic was unleashed upon the
shield wall. Fire, lightning, and ice were hurled at the shields and Ostrim
stood behind them to see just how much protection they would offer. The
shields, their black wards glowing with reinforced umbral glyphs, spun and
deflected the magical attacks successfully. Truly it seemed the only way to
counter Drakkara's power was with Her own. Stepping out from behind the
wall Ostrim called a halt to the test. However, an errant fireball cast by
an energetic Gray Robe bounced off the shield striking Ostrim's outstretched
left hand.

'Bloody 'ell! ' cried the Supplicant as his hand was scorched.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Tue Jul 1 19:46:40 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery IV

The bowl was warm in his hands. Steam rose from the morning porridge,
hearty grains with dried dates and a drizzle of honey. Ulyssus sat alone at
a corner table, spoon in hand, eyes scanning the young initiates rushing
past. The dining hall was alive with energy, the hum of conversation and
clatter of dishware muffled slightly by the high stone ceilings. Everything
was clean, ordered, and efficient.

The chime was clear and calm, three even tones carried through the monastery
halls. Meditation.

Ulyssus set his spoon aside, wiped his hands on a linen napkin, and stood.
Around him, others did the same, some scrambling to finish, others already
departing. With a slight nod to the acolyte cleaning nearby, Ulyssus turned
and made his way through corridors towards the gardens.

He stepped beneath the archway, where the crisp, enchanted warmth of the
garden met his face like a breath of spring. Though Icewall's skies hung
pale above, this place remained untouched. The shimmer in the air high
above evaporated each snowflake before it could fall. Here, life
flourished.

Pathways wove through flowerbeds and fragrant hedgerows, each section of the
garden carefully labeled and tended. Gold leaved trees stood beside
ornamental evergreens from Icewall. A breeze stirred the herbs with sage
and lemongrass mingling in the air. Ulyssus walked slowly, quietly, past
the patches of chamomile and roses, toward the northwest edge of the pond
where meditation was held.

Beneath a large tree that grew beside the pond, with its limbs wide and
sheltering, its leaves the color of copper and flame, several students had
already gathered. They sat in a loose ring, robes of white, blue, and gray
forming a quiet mosaic against the earth. The pond reflected their
stillness, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of wind or drifting
petal.

Ulyssus joined them and folded his legs beneath him, settling into the warm
soil. The instructor stood before them, an elderly monk robed in white.
His eyes were half closed and serene.

"Breathe in the silence, " the monk said softly. "Let the voices within you
quiet. Not just the ones you know... But those you've not yet met."

So they began. No chanting, no invocation, only breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Again. And again. The garden, warm and fragrant, seemed to deepen around
them. Even Ulyssus's thoughts, ever drawn to runes and syllables and the
inner equations of spellwork, softened at the edges.

The monk's voice came again, low and steady. "Some call this prayer.
Others, meditation. But in truth, it is neither and both. You do not speak
to the divine here. You listen. "

The garden held stillness. The students held silence. Somewhere, a small
bird chirped twice and then grew quiet, as if sensing the atmosphere and
choosing to respect it.

"This is the path of divine connection, " the monk continued. "Not through
rite or ritual, but through presence. You are not doing. You are being.
It is the breath between words."

Ulyssus allowed himself to let go. He did not call for icy winds, nor
conjure light or prayer. He simply sat. He listened, not with ears, but
with the space within that remained quiet long enough to hear. He was not
yet sure what he expected. But for the first time, he realized that
expectation was part of what needed to be let go.

They remained that way for what might have been minutes or an hour. When
the monk gave a simple signal to dismiss the group, one by one the students
rose and returned to their paths.

He remained seated a while longer beneath the golden tree, the pond still at
his side. He bowed his head in silence, lips moving in a quiet prayer, not
to call upon Kantilles, nor to ask for power, but a simple offering of
presence.

Then, with the peace of silence still clinging to his cloak like mist, he
rose and made his way back toward the entrance of the monastery, steps slow
and sure.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 21:19:55 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies on the Arcane III

The sky was getting cloudy with dark rain clouds forming on the horizon
foretelling a summer storm. Ostrim reviewed the journal one last time.
Tether, Compass, shields, supplies, everything was coming together. It was
time to get the troops together however something tugged inside his head.
The Dark Lord had said this was something Ostrim had to do, something Archal
had entrusted him for and he still didn't know why. He needed perhaps one
more boon and he had an idea. He paid his tab and walked briskly towards
the manor. Reaching it just as the rain started, he was escorted in by
Claude.

'Claude, could you tell Eustace that I'd like to speak with her please? '
asked Ostrim.

'Very good sir, can I ask what it pertains to? ' replied the servant

'I need help with runes again. ' smiled Ostrim.

Claude nodded crisply and left to fulfill his other duties.

----------

'You want to do WHAT with a rune, Supplicant? ' exclaimed Eustace.

'Tattoos are historically used by many cultures so why can't we add a rune
to my skin? ' winked Ostrim.

'It is possible but... What rune? Where on your body? This is irregular
Supplicant. I must also tell the Master, clearly. ' frowned Eustace.

Ostrim smiled an impish grin.

----------

Ostrim had taken All his belongings from the Manor and hauled them back to
his cot and trunk in the barracks. Gently he placed All his equipment away
wincing as he reached down. The bandage on his back was large and the blood
had pooled up within the gauze forming a broken outline of some glyph.
Having settled his things, he took quill to parchment.

All was arranged but a chance meeting with the Warder Kesepton reminded him
that a backup plan was needed. Maccus had wondered what if the tether
failed? So Ostrim needed a second option. The rescue group needed a second
way to stay connected to the material plane. Time to think....

Writer: Herbert
Date Wed Jul 2 14:25:31 2025

Writer: Rinern
Date Thu Jul 3 13:48:12 2025

Writer: Rinern
Date Thu Jul 3 13:52:05 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Jul 3 14:34:15 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan

With her soul still officially claimed by Necrucifer, Ezrianne had been
relegated -- politely but firmly-- to the backup plan committee. They were
dealing with a demon that fed on Necruciferian souls, so the front line
wasn't the best place for her, after all.

The others would handle the main event. Ostrim led the charge, flanked by
Kirkland, Ithelim, Melchaleve, and Taeborlin. They would open a portal to
wherever this demon had taken Archal - their High Mystic, and someone
Ezrianne had come to respect deeply -- and do whatever it took to get him
back. Steel and spell, brute force and cleverness.

If the main plan soured, if something failed or cracked or something they
didn't know they didn't know took place. Then it would fall to Ezrianne and
Maccus to salvage whatever they could from the wreckage.

Maccus brought up the idea of some type of tether and then questioned if she
coudl use her skills as a spellcrafter to pair it with muscle gems. She
wasn't sure, but she ran with it, and set off to do her research.

What she found was a gnome.

Ezri didn't catch his name. He offered three, and none of them sounded
real. She called him Clank because he rattled when he walked, his back
loaded with tools, scrap, a portable anvil, and what looked like a bronze
crab with a monocle. Clank was one of those mad little artisans who
wandered the edges of the world perfecting his work: smelting in volcano
forges, carving jewelry from glass-stone pulled from glaciers, claiming he'd
once fixed a dwarven war-crown with nothing but wire, ore, and spite.

He wasn't impressed with Ezrianne Scott, Supplicant of Storm Keep.

But he practically vibrated with excitement when she let him see waht he
really was: a blue Firstborn dragon in human skin, old magic woven into her
bones.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Jul 3 14:47:41 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan (II)

Clank jumped back as the magic swirled around her in a fog, and then out
stepped Sidorinath.

'That,' he said, blinking fast, 'that I will work for. But it'll cost you!'

They negotated a cask of aged fig brandy -- Sassy Blue's finest cask -- and
a favor he could collect at any time; the details of which Ezrianne would
keep snugly under her chainmail helm.

What he built was a beast.

It took several days, but the chain gleamed like liquid moonlight. Arcanium
links thick as a warriors thumb, each etched a with socket for a muscle gem,
which she'd spent another few nights crafting. She poured the essence into
amethysts and hoped the mid-tier gems would work. They pulsed with power,
warm and thrumming. Then she embedded them into the chain's lattice without
shattering a single one. Not easy. Not cheap.

She tested it by tethering herself to a horse, scaring the beejesus out of
it with a rowdy skald song too close to its ear, and letting it bolt. She
woke up in the dirt with a mouthful of grass, ribs sore, one knee out of
place. The horse was two hundred yards away, frothing and trembling, its
saddle in pieces. But the chain had held.

She wasn't satisfied, so she tested it with the strenght of a Firstborn,
next.

Ezri wrapped one end of the chain around the oldest rock outcropping she
could find, shifted into dragonform, and launched herself into the sky with
every ounce of her might. The chain screamed. Magic flared white-hot
across each link, and a mighty roar tore from her throat with the effort of
her straining - but it held. It anchored her with a teeth-grinding jolt,
and stopped her mid-ascent like a divine hand on her tail. She spiraled
back to the earth in a distinctly clumsy attempt to right her balance and
her wings, but triumphant just the same.

With any luck, the chain would do what they needed it to, in the event they
had to rely on it.

Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Jul 4 15:49:53 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: {uBranching Paths

As the tear in reality winked out of existence Melchaleve whispered

"Incident report... a tear in reality..."

A book materialized within his hands, bound in bone and silver. Hearing the voice
of the Mistress whisper in his ear,

"Yes. You do."

He shuddered, a deep chill running through his body, while his umbral scar on the
back of his neck pulsed with power and the fresh scar on his face bled freely into
his eyes.

Looking down at the book, his mind throbbed, pages that seemed to rearrange
themselves each time he looked into the book, wild thoeries that defied the very
laws of reality were contained within. Visions of the past, visions of the future,
visions of things that could be swam through his head.

But now... now it was quiet. The throbbing had stopped. He could think, truly think
once more.

He continued to hold the book, examining the pages while slowly cleaning up his notes
for the mission to come to save the High Mystic. He would hold the line. His mind was
his once more. Blessed by a demon of the Mistress to stand firm against the remnants
of the Lord. It seemed fitting.

As he was studying his notes, a strange occurrence began to form. Mirrors, similar
to the one he had seen not All that long ago began to form over his various maps.

"What's this, then?"

It appeared to be the Storm, battle ready and seeming to prepare to enter the abyss.

In the first mirror, the supplicants could be seen yelling a battle charge and diving
through a portal, intent on their goal. Mirrors began to form above as he continued
to watch. One, the supplicants seemed to successfully retrieve the High Mystic and the
portal slammed shut behind them. Another, the supplicants seemed to retrieve the High
Mystic, but an enormous demon chased them out of the portal, bashing into the line of
waiting Knights like an ocean wave. And yet another, which seemed quietscent, the
supplicants never appeared again.

"What...?"

Yet more mirrors began to form over the second mirror, the first appeared to be the
catacombs beneath Storm Keep. It was clear that the demon crashing against the Knights
sought freedom, and if he was successful the Keep would be in grave danger.

Another mirror showed the caves of despair, the looping hallways keeping the demon
trapped, while the Knights hunted it.

Finally, the lands of the Realm of the Endless could be seen, where the demons escape
led it to be trapped in yet again. Upon the mortal plane, but also apart from it.

"Mayhap I should seek out Bearhide and find out his plans on where..."

Melchaleve continued following the path of mirrors, enthralled by the branching paths.

Writer: Erindor
Date Fri Jul 4 22:58:04 2025
To All Admin Religion Storyline RP Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom
Subject A Theoretical Study: Refraction's of Light (I)

The forest held its breath.

At the edge of a deeply buried glade, where the trees no longer sang and the
roots curled inward like wounded limbs, Steward Erindor Shalonost stood
alone, save for the rhythmic pulse of the earth beneath his feet and the
presence of something darker clinging to the undergrowth.

Corruption. The sickness that grew in silence, festered in shadow, and
defied the touch of both steel and spell. It had no shape, no true form,
only influence. The Vallenwood, ancient and watchful, had whispered of its
spread. Erindor had listened.

Tonight, he would answer.

With a breath like moonlight, he exhaled and extended a hand, casting his
focus into the hush of the grove. Illusionary runes shimmered into view,
woven from light and will. From his feet, his own shadow twisted
unnaturally. It peeled itself free from the forest floor, rising upright, a
shape like his, but darker, undefined. Animated by the magic of his greater
illusions, it moved soundlessly toward a knotted root formation pulsing
faintly with the sickly glow of corruption.

The root resisted. The shadow hesitated, then reached forward.

A second passed. Then another.

A shriek echoed, not through air, but through thought, and the shadow
contorted, its edges flickering like unraveling silk. It collapsed in on
itself with a whispering hiss, disintegrating entirely. But in its last
breath of being, it had succeeded: a single sliver of the corrupted root now
pulsed faintly within a sealed glass vial, clutched in midair where the
shadow's hand had been.

Erindor stepped forward, donning his black gloves, gloves consecrated
beneath moonlight by the Devoted of the Grove, inscribed with protective
glyphs no unclean thing could abide. With gloved hands, he retrieved the
vial, wrapping it in silverleaf cloth before slipping it into the satchel at
his side.

The Vallenwood closed behind him as he departed, its silence replaced by the
quiet rustle of leaves relieved.

Writer: Erindor
Date Fri Jul 4 23:01:01 2025
To All Admin Religion Storyline RP Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom
Subject A Theoretical Study: Refraction's of Light (II)

The study was dark, save for the glimmering light of moon-crystals
suspended above. Erindor cleared a small altar, brushing aside books and
ink, and laid the vial at the center. Salt surrounded it in a perfect
circle, interwoven with freshly clipped blades of Vallenwood grass. Above
the altar, he placed the mirror, three-sided, each pane polished to spectral
clarity.

He stood at the point of reflection, whispering the incantation that would
split his image fivefold.

The illusions formed with crystalline precision, each one a mirror of
himself, down to the faint furrow in his brow and the ceremonial clasp at
his shoulder. They moved in unison, surrounding the triangle of mirrors.
Their hands raised. Light began to bloom.

Waves of brilliant, refracted color surged from each illusion's fingertips,
cascades of rainbow light, woven with purpose and intent, streamed into the
mirrors. The beams met at the altar, dancing in interlocking prisms. They
struck the vial.

The corrupted sliver shuddered violently, convulsing within the glass like a
living thing. Hairline fractures spread across the vial as the corruption
within began to bubble. A thick, tar-like ichor oozed from the cracks,
black and glistening, dripping onto the salt circle with a quiet sizzle.

The ooze writhed, as though seeking escape, but the light intensified. The
prismatic beams folded inward. The ichor smoked, hissed, and twisted, as if
resisting its own unmaking. Then, at the height of the light's brilliance,
the entire mass erupted in a silent burst of color, consumed entirely by the
purity of the spell.

Where the vial once lay, only a thin ring of scorched salt and wilted grass
remained.

Erindor dismissed the illusions with a silent wave, the mirrored selves
vanishing one by one. The mirrors dulled. He stood alone. The experiment
had succeeded.

But was it repeatable? Was this method viable beyond the sealed sanctity of
his sanctum, beyond a sliver of corruption already severed from its source?
Could such a solution be deployed in the wilds where the forest still bled
and the roots cried out?

He gathered the scorched remnants into a containment urn and wrote his
findings in careful detail. His notes were methodical, precise. But
beneath his scholar's clarity, a deeper question loomed:

Was this a single drop of sunlight in a spreading night, or the first true
blade of dawn?

Writer: Telthian
Date Sat Jul 5 09:58:09 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Blood of Apostates

Beneath the dim canopy of black-pine and ash-oak, a column of armored
riders moved in formation, hooves crunching the bone-dry needles carpeting
the forest road between Verminasia and Arkane. The Knights of Shadow rode
in number, cloaked in Umbra, the darkmoon's malicious glow casting a
watchful eye.

They rode with purposeful intent, donning crimson tabards and flying their
banners high for this was to be a message, an example made for the time of
clemency had ended. At their head rode the Dark Lord and High Priestess,
their destination lay in the shadow of Mount Levinox: a once-holy place
occupied by pale-robed pilgrims who still knelt to a god long dead. It was
an archaic place, lacking the refinement of temples of the modern era but to
those bloodlines steeped in tradition, their ancestors had once prayed here.

The forest grew thicker as they approached, the leaves whispering like
witnesses too frightened to speak. Telthian raised his fist and the column
halted. Through the undergrowth ahead, flickers of candlelight marked the
temples outer cloisters. The pilgrims paid the approaching knights no mind,
unaware of the encroaching doom, chanted a funeral liturgy in old
Verminasian, words once meant to honor darkness now hollowed by the echoes
of treason.

They were no innocents, not that it would have spared them. Peaceful though
the pilgrims were, these were the last children of Necrucifer, and a veneer
behind which their masters in the Cult hid. To the devotees whose hearts
still bled, the knights would grant their wish and reunite pilgrim and
cultist alike with their dead god.

Telthian dismounted his felbeast. 'All of them. Let none survive,' he
said, his voice cold as the waters of the Umbratide. Symantha's eyes
darkened with malice, lips curling in a cold, heartless smile as she raised
a black-gloved hand toward the sky, her fingers curling to pluck the strings
of the void above. And with a sound like iron shrieking in a furnace,
umbral meteors tore through the firmament, trailing violet fire as they
screamed toward the earth to rend her enemies in shadow and flame.

Knights surged forward, shadows cast by fire and shadow licking across their
blades. Some pilgrims tried to flee into the forest. Others stood, arms
raised, chanting louder, even as steel tore through them as they called down
the dead gods last curse. Yet even that was swallowed by the disciplined
cruelty of the Shadow Knights. They butchered a bloody trail up the stair
toward the temple gates, where Magisters and agents of the Crimson Rose slid
from Umbra and shadow to slit the throats of the gateguards, leaving the
temple's interior exposed and vulnerable.

Telthian advanced like a storm of dark fury, his cloak swirling with the
weight of as he met a guardian rushing to defend the entryway before
Necrucifer's ancient altar. The cult-guard lunged with a warcry, sword
thrust straight for Telthian's heart, but the shadowknight turned the blade
aside with his shield, letting the weapon slide past as his pike found the
seam above the guards breastplate. There was a gasp, wet and sharp.
Telthian uttered a word shaped in the tongue of the Umbra, and shadows
poured into the mans veins like molten night. The guard crumpled in
silence, his body devoured from within, armor dimming as the last flicker of
his soul was consumed by the shadowknight's torment.

Drakkara's knights would shatter relics, tear open tombs, and desecrate what
had once been sacred and was now twisted and profane as the Cult of the True
Prophecy clung to a hope that would be forever extinguished.

Ahead lay the inner sanctum beneath a dome of bone and glass, and the
threshold to Apostus' demi-plane.

Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:39:53 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n I

Tamello packed his things and headed out of the Stronghold. It was early
in the morning in a way that it was late to be night. A special place where
the realm seemed to both take its breath and release it All at once. And so
Tam slipped quickly and quietly amongst the streets and those few who found
themselves performing their deeds within the Dark Jewel.

Those who glanced his way quickly glanced away. Even in the dark of the
Black Moon the diminuitive form, covered in hood and cloak, was easy enough
to recognize if one looked for the signs. And those who did were quick to
leave the General to his late night comings and goings. Only one was
foolish enough to stumble in his path and a quick kick of Tam's feet sent
them back into the the alley from which they came, much to the laughter of
those drunkards who stayed within the shadows.

Soon enough Tam came to the southern gates and nodded at the guards there,
slipping out the gates and heading first to the Garden Shrine. An easy path
to remember, even in the darkness. Even in the strength of the Darkness, he
could spot the opininci flitting here and there due to the strength of the
Auorra nearby. Something he wholeheartedly hoped he could remove from the
doorstep of Verminasia.

The Gardeners and Tenders of the Flame turned to him as the crows and ravens
announced his arrival. Their silence only punctuated by the crackling of
the flame. Tam removed his hood and offered a low bow, getting a nod in
return as they returned to their duties. Tam hopped up before the statue of
the Dark Lady and knelt upon both knees, averting his eyes to the dark
beauty that the statue held.

"{oDark Lady. Designer of the Tapestry and Bringer of the Infinite Night. I
come to You to signify the End of my following of Raije and the beginning of
my service to You. For too long have I sought to find the strength within,
when I held it already. It is not my service to Raije, but personal
strength. Yet I know I can grow stronger, become more of who I am supposed
to be. Through you. The fights I fought, the foes I have taken down. They
were not in Raije's name, but in Yours. Through Your strength I can go
further. Through Your wisdom I can see the way. Through Your grace will I
know the Path Found. "

Tam reached into his pouch and pulled out the broken half of a medallion and
placed it at the feet of the statue, his fingers hesitating only slightly
before he withdrew his hand completely from it.

"{oThis is my old life readily given. That which has held me back. The
regrets and fears. In Your service I will regret nothing. "

Nodding more to himself than to the statue he stood back up and bowed before
the statue for a long moment, waiting for the realm to take its next breath
before he pulled the cowl up over his ears and walked out of the garden,
only straightening when he exfiltrated the grounds. Ahead he could spot the
path that he needed to walk. In his mind's eye he could see the thread
trailing behind him to the Tapestry.

He did not hope he was on the right path. He knew it. He was, afterall, a
Pathfinder.

Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:41:16 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n II

Tamello slowly made his way through the forests south of Arkane. The
terrain had changed so much since the fight for the Red Moon. A fight that
left Raije weak and helpless. Perhaps dead. No. Not dead... Yet. Tam
could still feel that tie to the Red Moon and through that, Raije. That
slight bit of divinity that held All mortals to the gods and goddesses of
the realm. That string, Tam thought, was what Chaos wanted to sever. Their
members already having severed from themselves. It was not unlike the
thread that held him to the Tapestry, he supposed. Yet where the Tapestry
held purpose and held unity, most of the divine threads were, themselves, in
chaos. All those on Algoron praying and wishing and hoping for a spark of
divinity to come down and bless their lives. Was he any different?

Tam stopped and crouched between the roots of an overturned tree, pondering
that question. Was he truly different than those on Algoron begging for a
spark of divinity? The moment came and went as he furrowed his brow and
then he shook his head. He was different. Different in that he spoke more
than the words. That he worked more than the movements of service. He felt
it deep within. A darkness at the heart of his core that spoke to him in
more than mere words could. A draw to the Dark Moon that he swore he could
feel and yet not see. Yes. He was different. Not special, though. Not
proud to demand what he sought because that would just be going back to
being the same as the others who paid lip service and empty deeds.

His stomach grumbled and pulled him out of his thoughts. He brought naught
but water for his journey and traveled only by foot. He would not ask that
others set the course he followed as if illuminated by a faint glow. This
was for him to venture forth on. No one elses. He took a small drink from
the canteen by his side and continued on through the forest. It was not too
much longer before he found himself nearing the western road connecting the
docktown of Arkania to the main city. He stopped with a few yards of the
forest still blocking him from the traffic that was beginning to awaken on
the road.

He began to make his way to the road when he stopped and turned his eyes to
the right of him. There, through the trees was another just waking to the
morning noises. Tam squinted. Not to make out their features, but against
the brightness that shone through their being. A golden aura seemed to
permeate through them. What a fool. Even in the beginning of his time, Tam
knew better than to be altruistically niave. Life on a farm, even under the
ground, was not for the weak.

Tam returned to his own senses as he smelled the bacon beginning to sizzle
over a now prepared fire. How long had Tam stood there staring at the old
man? His path lead him to the old man. Now it was time for Tam to act.

Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:43:50 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n III

Tam meandered his way once more across lands and ships, though under the
weight of both food and sleep deprivation. His steps remained sure, though,
with the path laid out ever before him. Tam made his way from the docks of
his destination and began his path north. Into the frigid cold that seemed
both distant and weakened, Tam carried with him the purpose of his trek, and
saw before him the path he was to take. Days passed as he climbed the
mountain ranges. Once or twice he was at risk of falling from the edge, but
his balance righted and he continued to trudge on. In his food-weary state,
visions swam before his eyes, leading him from his goal and into the warmth
and comfort of a mountainous traders cabin or a hunters den built within the
caves of the very beast they hunted. They called to him as he passed.
Called to him to take shelter, to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Yet he did
not listen and only responded with the words that seemed to flood his mind,
the trackers and hunters only catching tidbits before they were ripped away
in the gust of the wind.

It was nightfall on a clear, frigid, night that he finally stopped. Barely
aware of his surroundings he followed the path before him and took shelter
the maw of a cave that threatened to swallow him whole, if it could do such
a thing. Inside were the cold remains of a fire long since blown out and
left to stain the rocky floor. To anyone else it would just be another
cave, another lost fire, but Tam felt something here. The path bathed the
area in its gentle glow and wherever he looked, it stayed within.

In the back of the cave sat a pile of weathered wood, kindling, and herbs of
all assortments. Next to that sat clay pots that held thick, viscous,
liquids of some sort. Of what, Tam could not tell yet. He knew he would
need them in a way that he knew he would soon have the vitals he needed. He
moved as if his body was not his own, watching his arms and legs move this
way and that putting together the fire, setting up the mats that were in the
back of the cave as well.

At last he sat in front of a warming fire, though he still did not truly
feel the warmth or the cold that pressed around him. Just the weight of the
Numen Reliqua at his side. At the rememberence of it he pulled it out and
set it in front of him and stared into it. At first the symbols just
shifted here and there but the longer he stared the more it began to stare
back at him. He surely would have been lost to it if it wasn't for the
cawing of a crow that echoed through the chamber. Or was it the snap of a
log within the fire? He was laying on his side now and didn't remember how
he had gotten there.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat Jul 5 19:31:56 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery V

The morning meal had been simple, fruit, brown bread, and tea steeped
with mountain herbs. Ulyssus ate quietly in the dining hall, seated near
the eastern windows while the novices moved briskly between their duties.
There was no rush to the hour, only the measured rhythm of monastery life.

Then came the soft chime, gentle yet firm in its authority, echoing through
the crystal halls. It was the second bell of the day, and he knew its
meaning now.

Ulyssus pushed back from the bench, adjusted his cloak, and made his way
through the inner corridors, weaving past quiet monks and a pair of young
initiates carrying incense bowls. The path led him, as he had expected, to
the chapel.

The sanctuary was warm despite the grey sky above, which churned behind an
invisible dome of magic high overhead. Jewels in the white marble floor
caught the light of softly glowing orbs, and the scent of amber incense hung
in the air. Before the crystal altar, a gnomish monk stood waiting, face
mostly hidden in the folds of his white cowl, a glowing globe nestled in his
palm, its faint wisps of smoke trailing behind him like whispers.

Five unlit candles now rested evenly spaced across the front row of benches.
Between them, kneeling on a prayer mat, was a dwarven novice, hands folded
and brow furrowed in concentration.

"Faith does not seize power, " the monk's voice came quiet and clear. "It
opens the gate. You do not summon, you listen. "

Ulyssus took his place behind one of the benches, folding his legs beneath
him as the others had. The marble floor cooled through his kilt, but the
warmth of the divine presence, or perhaps the enchanted air, tempered it.
One by one, initiates were motioned forward to approach the candles.

Some whispered names. Others offered brief lines of scripture.
Occasionally, a flame stirred to life, but more often, it remained still.
The monk neither praised nor chastised, only observed.

When Ulyssus's turn came, he rose and approached the bench where a single
unlit candle rested. He did not reach for it. He did not speak. Instead,
he bowed his head and offered no demand, only quiet invitation.

He thought not of incantations or spellwork, not of gesture or rune.
Instead, he offered up the stillness within, letting it become the prayer.

Nothing happened.

The candle remained dark.

But in that moment, he realized, there was no failure here. No incantation
had been attempted. No force misdirected. Only the simple truth, he had
not yet yielded enough.

The monk stepped beside him, voice quiet as ever. "You carry much. Release
more. "

Ulyssus nodded faintly and stepped back to his place.

As the session drew to a close, the monk addressed them all, standing
between the rows of benches, his globe now dimmed.

"Magic bends, " he said. "Faith surrenders. Let your heart do neither, but
learn when each must be done. "

Ulyssus looked once more to the crystal altar. Then to the flame of a
single candle... One now burning quietly at the center.

The lesson concluded, Ulyssus offered a brief bow to the monk before
stepping back through the marble threshold. The chapel's light dimmed
behind him, replaced by the soft glow of lanterns along the monastery's
inner halls. His boots made little sound on the polished crystal floors.

He did not speak. He did not need to. The candle had not lit, but a
different spark had kindled within. That, he would carry back to the
initiates quarters, where silence and parchment would give shape to his
thoughts.

Writer: Py'nan
Date Sun Jul 6 08:13:03 2025

Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Jul 6 08:50:50 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {n...They Form : {oPathfinder{n IV

Tam slowly sat up and ran a hand through his fur and scratches behind
his ear in thought. It was then that he realized that the orb was gone. In
his panic he began dumping out his pouches and rucksack, but it was not
there. Only the remained. He was about to set back out when a voice, as
soft as a snow capped mountain, and as cold as one as well, called out to
him.

'If you're looking for your toy. I have it. You were foolish to fall
asleep holding it. Or were you entranced by what you were seeing? Either
way, a dangerous aspect of either design. '

Tam looked around for the voice but the light of the path remained fixed
solely upon the fire it seemed, causing the darkened recesses to darken that
much more. '{oWho are you and what do you know of the Reliqua? ' Tam called
out, his own voice sounding flat to his ears.

A deep chuckle filled the cavern, the echo of it growing louder and stronger
until Tam had to cover his ears from the noise. 'Child. Youngling, fresh
of the earth. I am that which you seek. I'm the one to guide you through
your transformation. This Reliqua that you call it is just a dangerous toy
to endanger your chances. It'll be best if I hold onto it for... Now.? '
The breath between the last few words edged at something deepr, darker, but
Tam didn't show it any mind, if he even perceieved it.

'{oYou will give that back or.. ' Tam began before the laughter rang through
the cavern, sending him to his knees. It was more cruel this time with a
definite edge to it.

'Or what, little bunny? You cannot even perceive what I am. You're not
looking smart enough! You're relying on your skills honed. It's time to
cut the cord, little man! Sever the bonds that hold you back! ' the voice
boomed through the cavern and inside Tamello's head causing his ears to
bleed. And then, softly, almost paternally, as the Reliqua was placed
against Tamello's side. 'Are you ready to begin, Tamello de Fformelo
Tussock? '

**********************

Days? Nights? Tamello couldn't count how many began to pass as he began
learning from his invisible tutor. How to staves off the hunger, how to
survive on the melt inside the cavern. How to turn his physical weakeness
into his spiritual strengthening. One that didn't need the strength of War,
but one that would wage it to see a future come to fruition. A future that
had already been prophesized.

He did not care about waging war just for War, but for a purpose. A
singular purpose. He could feel a thread coming lose behind him. One that
was growing ever weaker anyways. One that had been frayed since the assault
on the WarpSpeaker and the Marauder's.

It was finally time to sever that one.

In front of the fire one night ( Day?) He tossed in the herbs that he found
at the back of the cave. Shown to him by the invisible tutor. One that
continued to whisper in his ears even as he slept. If slept was what he
did. Yet now he breathed in deep and began the ritual of cleansing. A
ritual to cut the thread to Raije and fully embrace the Darkness that
surrounded him in this maw of a cave.

Writer: Yazshu
Date Sun Jul 6 09:43:20 2025

Writer: Ostrim
Date Sun Jul 6 11:53:09 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Assault

Blood

The stones of the temple steps ran red and slick from the blood pooling down
them. Black scorch marks could be seen on various pillars and in gardens
from the High Priestess' spells. Beside him were his fellow Supplicants.
They worked as one moving through the fray. The Dark Lord stood ahead of
them cleaving a path that they followed both physically and morally.

They All knew that though this was for Archal, it was more than that. It
was to put down the last vestiges of an ancient idea and to build something
new upon its bones. In All his time as a mercenary, Ostrim had never felt
such purpose.

'Watch it, Bearhide! ' yelled Ezrianne as he was distracted for a moment.
Returning quickly to the task at hand, Ostrim's blade worked left and right
while his shield defended the Gray Robes that stood behind him.

The morning would be long but Ostrim could see the shadowed inner sanctum
and felt assured he would see his mentor before the evening came.

Writer: Dublu
Date Sun Jul 6 17:45:12 2025
To All
Subject First Job {u(Whispercraft Tradeworks Inc)

The pouch of coins was heavier than sin. These old coins hailed from a
time when oaths were worth more than jeweled eggs. The box arrived at dawn,
pinewood, iron-braced, its slats warped from moisture and time. It thumped
when moved, sloshed when shifted, and stank like copper, and wet fur. Dublu
didn't pry. That wasn't the kind of broker he was.

He wheeled the crate on a hand wagon through the Port of Althainia, weaving
past merchants haggling over silks, mercenaries polishing spears, elves
muttering in circles, and dwarves cursing crates, captains, and seagulls
alike. He parked the box by a stack of cargo nets, far from prying eyes,
and waited for the loading crew to tire enough not to care. The ship was
ready.

The Nomad rocked gently at its mooringa slow, trustworthy merchant vessel
trimmed in cheerful reds and sea-greens. Her shimmering white sails caught
the first hints of wind, and her figurehead, a smiling mermaid with
outstretched arms, seemed to beckon Dublu into something warmer than truth.
He boarded without ceremony, watching dockhands wince as they hoisted the
crate below deck. He made sure it was stored near the masts lower
hatchwhere shadows fell thick and crew rarely lingered. By the time the
last rope was loosed, the sky had turned a pale silver, and the sea pulled
them outward, toward the vast, bone-cold reach of Arsataw Yaa. The ocean
stretched forever, too wide, too still, too silent. It was said that four
continents surrounded Arsataw Yaa, a comfort in theory, though from the deck
of The Nomad, you could see none of them. Just an endless expanse of
glassy, frigid water, so deeply blue it almost bled violet. Some days the
sea was calm, its surface like black silk brushed by ghost winds. Other
times, it rolled with slow, towering swells that made the ship groan like a
dying whale. Salt crusted every surface. The rails, the ropes, even
Dublu's boots. The air was sharp and cold, filled with brine so dense it
left your throat raw. He spent his days alone, playing a card game of
chance and strategy.

Sometimes he sat on the crate, coat drawn tight, gloved hands resting on his
knees. Sometimes he wandered the deck, stopping at the mast. An immense
wooden finger thrust into the sky. Hed stare up at the crow's nest, the
rope ladder swaying gently in the breeze, and think not about climbing, but
falling. The platform up there mightve seen All four continentsif not for
the clouds. Snow came early some days, fine and dry, stinging his face and
icing the deck in crooked patterns. Once, the sleet froze the hatch shut
and he had to hammer it open with the back of his dagger. Crewmen whispered
about the box. Said it growled once. Said it shifted at night.

Dublu didnt answer.

He took his meals in silence and slept in the corner of the hold, one leg
looped through the crate's bindings. He listened at night, to the slow
lapping of waves against the hull, to distant animal calls echoing over the
water. Sometimes low and mournful. Sometimes high and wild, birdlike but
too large, too ancient. One morning he awoke to frost blooming across the
wooden floor like veins. Another day, they passed through a fog so thick
the crew tied bells to the mast to keep from forgetting where they were.
Still, Dublu did not flinch. The journey was part of the job. Finally,
Icewall appeared. At first just jagged white fangs rising from the sea,
then cliffs and pine-laced slopes, and a harbor half-frozen with silver ice.
The water around the docks was thick and black, slapping the hull with a
slow, wet anger. The Nomad limped in under a grey sky, sails streaked with
frost, her bright trim dulled by salt and wind.

Dublu was the last off the ship.

He used a hooked rod to drag the crate across the gangplank, every thud of
wood against wood sounding too loud in the hush of snow. Dockhands watched
from behind crates. No one offered to help.

Ice crackled beneath his boots. His breath rose in coils.

He didn't look back.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Jul 6 20:24:25 2025
To All Conclave Piknim Vierxae - Imm Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara
Subject The {uTapestry's Edge: The Eye That Sees

I once believed the Tapestry to be something seen only in retrospect,
events woven and revealed by time. But now I wonder if it, like so many
threads of magic, might be anticipated, grasped, even twisted, by those with
the will and tools to see further than sight allows. It was Vierxae who
first drew my attention to the canyon, though not through any overt
instruction. One of my students, meddling where curiosity exceeds
discipline, recounted a conversation, a gift of knowledge passed down from
Piknim to Vierxae and then whispered forward. This was no coincidence.
Threads do not move themselves, they are pulled.

I traced the paths, through the canyon narrows, past monoliths etched in
forgotten dialects, finally arriving at the rise of black sand and crystal.
It was as if the land itself had been carved by ritual, concentric circles
etched by divine geometry. The glass sphere at its center pulsed with
latent energy, the leyline's hum syncing to the beat of my own thoughts.
There was a silence there, broken only by arcane pulses and the occasional
mutter of the wind that sounded far too much like a whisper.

Vierxae's proposition was elegant in its madness: to create an eye of glass,
a seeing orb embedded with the ability to scry, not merely outwards, but
through the strands of fate. What she proposed as a replacement for her own
lost sight, I saw as an instrument for reaching deeper truths. Could one
peer through the Cauldrons haze? Through the veil of the Umbra? Through
time itself?

We theorized together. An embalmed eye, necromantically sustained,
suspended in glass, infused with umbral resonance. A seeing eye, yes, but
one with a will. An artifact not unlike the Cauldron itself. But as with
all creations born of Death and Will, I fear it may see me back.

And yet, I find myself compelled to proceed. Not alone, this experiment
must be conducted with Vierxae. Her insights, her questions, and her cursed
clarity offer a balance to my ambition. Together, we will attempt to create
a means of visually perceiving and, if the theory holds, grasping the
threads of magick themselves. The Tapestry will no longer be metaphor, but
material, woven before us like strands across a loom. If we can perceive
the flows, the frays, the knot... Perhaps we can unmake them. Or worse,
remake them in Her image.

There was a moment, there beneath the juniper trees and rattling idols, when
doubt flickered. Not doubt in the theory, but in myself. Could I bear
another artifact that knows me? That reveals me to myself? I buried the
thought quickly. Doubt is a solvent to clarity, and I will not allow this
Tapestry to fray again.

Ive begun collecting eyes. Not of the mundane sort, those will rot, even
with enchantment, but of casters, conjurers, manipulators. Those whose very
soul shaped their vision. Each one tells a story. Each one might lend
itself to a composite, a lens through which All magic is seen, and perhaps
redefined.

The Cauldron boils not with what is added, but with what is stirred beneath.
I shall return to the circle soon with samples, glyphs, and perhaps one of
the woven relics Ive begun crafting. If this Eye can be completed, it will
not merely watch the world, it will rewrite the way we understand the Weave.

For Her vision. For our Magicks. And for what lies just beyond the edge of
knowing.

Writer: Symantha
Date Mon Jul 7 03:44:53 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Crimson Wake

The High Priestess followed in the wake of the Dark Lord's fury but it
was the aura of the circlet that progressed first. Fel and pervasive, she
spied two pilgrims back away into the shadows only to be slaughtered by the
men and women of Storm slipping through umbral darkness.

There was purpose in All that she cast her gaze over. She watched the
Supplicants span out, set to their bloody task. Felt the resonance of faith
as it swelled, carried like a storm in the souls that whirled like a
hurricane around Telthian's merciless advance.

A stone in the mind; the weight of the Cult had grown over the years it had
taken to establish All that had come to pass. To find that it was Apostus
at the root of this...

It wasn't surprise she felt but rather, a circle drawing full.

The umbral scar grew hot on her palm while gloved fingers hid the pulses of
divine power along fingers and hands. In this den of apostasy, her own
purpose could not but be jarred to burgeoning. Confidence met animus as she
drew her naginata to address the fanatical advance of a cult-guard who had
thought to catch any stragglers.

The long bladed instrument, crackling with latent umbral lightning, caught
the swing of the weapon. The metal clash thundered through the near shadows
and then she swept the blade down to take his feet out from under him. His
sword clattered off into the dark, the shield broke.

"No mercy!" She called out, her voice a cascade in the acrimonious temple,
echoing the orders of the Dark Lord. As the cult-guard managed to get to
his knees, he began to chant their blasphemy once again but she would not
suffer it.

The High Priestess took hold of the guard's face with her right hand, the
power in her scarred palm - even gloved as it was - no less potent for the
durable fabric layer, and uttered aloud the same prayer the Dark Lord had
invoked recently.

"{uDark Queen give us the conviction to hate: for mercy is a weakness and
{upity" - she paused, voice growing colder yet as she stared into the eyes of
her victim - "{ua sin."

He could not scream as she let the hunger of the moonstone reach out to
consume All that he was. Dark indigo fire ate through him as if he were
made of paper and she felt the soul devoured. Another for the soulsteel.

She let the remains flutter to the ground like so much ash and followed the
now crimson river that the forces of Storm had unleashed ahead.

There was design in this. Tempering between anvil and hammer. In every
blasphemous cultist lain low, in the dedicated faith rooted in the heart of
the Goddess' new dark order. In the men and women who would embody that new
order. Drakkara's Legion - their purpose was great and would evolve into
greater things yet.

Apostus, and his cult, would not escape final retribution.

Writer: Orutix
Date Mon Jul 7 11:09:15 2025
To Bloodlust Black_Robes All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject {uDuskvein : Scholars of Shattered Sanity

The Black Tower's libraries were not mere halls of parchment and dust,
they were vast tombs of knowledge, bookshelves made of calcified bones the
stretched toward a ceiling lost in swirling nebula smoke. Orutix stalked
the library like a wolf among gravestones, his fingers leaving smoldering
prints on every grimoire he touched. The librarians, hooded, hollow-eyed
devotees of Drakkara, flinched whenever the blue gnome passed, as if his
mere presence made the shadows pull tightly around the room. There was no
attention paid to their fears, the Duskvein's meaning was meant to be
unlocked, his dreams of the Mistress were All to telling, that it's secrets
were close, buried in the cracks between forgotten dialects and necromancy,
the treatises on dying stars. Each tome devoured only proved how little the
Conclave truly understood.

Days bled into nights as Orutix bent over crumbling scrolls, his storm-grey
eyes, churning as the underground tempest, began to reflect the Duskvein's
eerie glow. Every method of elemental resonance were deployed, from the
farthest reaches of the Shokono continent. Even the forbidden song of the
unmaking, and still the relic remained mute, swallowing his spells like a
throat. A snarl escaped his lips, the gnome's patience unraveling, every
failure gnawed at him. Every wasted effort, each hour brought the Conclave
closer to some pathetic intervention, some doomed attempt to restrain him
before his work was done.

In response to the gnome's growing indignation, the Black Tower's archivists
began hiding their rarest texts, claiming the Dark Mother's will forbade
their release. Orutix responded by peeling the flesh from a living scribe's
palm and pressing it against the Duskvein's surface. The resulting singular
pulsation shook the dust from the rafters, and the crystal shuddered, just
once, as if stirring from a dream. That was enough, now the librarians
brought him every blasphemy he demanded, their hands trembling around
offered volumes like holy men clutching poisoned sacraments.

The mages of Red, and White, whispered from afar. The White Tower's
astromancers cluthered their orreries like shields, their star charts
fraying at the edges whenever Orutix passed through the common rooms. Where
the white mages whispered of omens that shattered their carefully calculated
celestial charts, the red mages whispers were that of sensing a predator
shrouded in darkness, with an equally shrouded purpose - and both factions,
though they would never admit it, secretly prayed upon their moons that the
Black Tower would keep it's student contained.

The gnome sat enthroned in parchment and madness, the Duskvein pulsing
softly before him. The jagged sliver of murdered divinity that drank the
spells as if flesh cast upon it, time. Time, he realized with a gnome's
manic clarity, was not on his side. The White and Red Towers had ensured
their wards and barriers of saffron light and cardinal fire, keeping the
Warlord away from their own libraries. The other Towers could fret, their
scholars could whimper. Let them, he had already begun carving his next
experiment into the library floor.

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Jul 7 19:50:14 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery VI

The chapel was quiet that afternoon, save for the faint hum of magical
globes set into the walls. Sunlight filtered through the windows,
occasionally breaking through the stormy Icewall sky to bathe the floor in
golden flecks. Ulyssus sat alone in the second row of benches with a small
treatise on divine curatives open across his lap.

He had read the passage three times already, but found himself reading less
for content and more for rhythm, for the way the words framed healing as
devotion made action. It echoed the lecture from days past, you do not will
divine magic into being, you are lent its grace.

His thumb marked the page as a chime sounded far down the corridor, sharp,
clear, and deliberate. The hour for instruction had come.

Closing the book and slipping it into his satchel, Ulyssus rose. He paused
at the aisle, casting a glance toward the crystal altar, then gave a silent
nod before making his way out of the chapel's southern door.

The hallway beyond the chapel shimmered with warmth and color. Magical
lights kept the corridor bright, while the tapestries, runes, beasts, and
star charts, stood guard like woven sentinels. As he passed, a dwarven
novice grumbled and scrubbed the base of a wall, his short beard flecked
with soap and irritation.

The stairwell ahead coiled upward, its crystal walls gleaming with faint
enchantment. Ulyssus ascended without haste, letting the echoes of his
steps merge with the monastery's breath, quiet, ancient, composed. Each
turn of the stair brought him closer to the quiet pulse of learning above.

At the landing, he turned into the final hall and stepped through the door
to the classroom.

Rows of desks filled the wide, well lit room, with students hunched forward,
notes scattered like windblown leaves. An old elven teacher stood at the
chalkboard, tall and poised, with eyes that had seen centuries pass. He
gestured toward a diagram of a holy symbol radiating lines of energy, and
his voice flowed like wind through chimes.

"... You must understand, " the elf was saying, "that a divine spell is not
cast, it is received. You speak not to control, but to commune. " Ulyssus
made his way quietly to a seat near the middle, nodding slightly to a weary
student who looked up from scribbled lines. He placed his satchel down and
retrieved parchment and ink, listening intently.

"Cure light wounds, " the teacher said, "is the beginning of All sacred
healing. Not in strength, but in form. Its truth lies in humility. You
ask, not demand. And the Light of Kantilles, if willing, answers. "

A flick of the teacher's hand and a quiet prayer in elvish brought forth a
shimmer of healing energy. It bathed a mannequin set near the board,
cleansing a painted mock wound with soft gold and white radiance.

Around Ulyssus, quills danced across parchment. He didn't write, not yet.
He let the lesson settle first. The arcane had taught him to analyze. The
divine asked him to receive.

Ulyssus did eventually take notes, brief lines more for meditation than
memorization. He marked the teacher's phrasing on humility, on surrender,
and the gentle reminder that the spell was not a tool but a trust.

The class continued with a few demonstrations, including a student near the
front reciting the prayer clumsily, eyes clenched as if bracing for pain.
The teacher corrected him gently, encouraging calmness over fervor. A soft
pulse of healing energy rewarded the attempt.

When the final chime rang, the students stood, some stretching, others
already lost in discussion. Ulyssus gathered his things in silence. He
offered a nod of gratitude toward the teacher, who returned it with the
faintest smile.

The white cloaked Wizard of Kantilles stepped out into the bright hallway
beyond, the sound of quiet footsteps and rustling parchment fading behind
him as he descended toward the lower levels.

Writer: Melchaleve
Date Mon Jul 7 20:02:29 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Spirits Divide

As the knights marched grimly up the steps of the temple of evil, Melchaleve took
a moment to appreciate the raw power of the High Priestess's meteors. As he watched
them smash into the steps he took a moment to set the corpse of a werewolf down in
front of him, drawing its spirit out.

The wolf howled, and looked to its master.

Resting his hand upon a drake from the Basilica, he pointed towards the temple.

"Feast."

The wolf howled again and began to charge into the falling meteors, savagely tearing
into any unfortunate that got in its way.

Mounting the drake, he patted its neck affectionately. It had been some time since
he had been able to commune with the majestic creature.

"Time for us, as well. Leave none alive."

Drawing his crystallized blade of {uumbra{ul essence and his shield of black magic
he checked himself over once more. The amulet of the Mistress upon his neck, and a
sprig of {ulavender tucked into a pocket.

"My mind is my own."

As reality began to fuzz around the edges, he could see the different paths of battle.
He could see what would happen should he go down the western path. He could see the cult
members cowering down the central hallway. He could see the creatures lurking along the
eastern wing.

Laughing maniacally, Melchaleve urged his mount forward to enjoin the fray in earnest.
Calling out as needed to his fellow knights as needed to warn of incoming danger.

"The Storm Comes!"

As Melchaleve dove into the frey, he began to chant a spell. One which would turn the
weather to the worse.

Slowly, clouds coalesced in the skies above and lightning began to build, streaks could
be seen lancing through the clouds. The air became heavy, the thrum of electricity could
be felt building within the body.

"Ambactus A Caligo!"

Writer: Xiephoas
Date Tue Jul 8 11:03:41 2025

Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue Jul 8 17:45:18 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm Zandreya ( Xenophon Cayenna )
Subject {oMeteor: Research within the Archives

Within the quiet sanctuary of the Arlathil archives, Skalpon moves among
dust-covered tomes and rune-etched shelves. The fallen star still lies
embedded in the earth--its radiant, crystalline structure pulsing faintly
beneath the soil, too hot to touch, too strange to name. It feel in a blaze
of orangish-red light during the Festival of the Stars; it seemed, to the
old elf, a blessing from the Mother Herself. But now elves were dead.
Bones were scattered. And questions were raised within Skalpon's mind.

Beneath lantern light and silence, the old elf poured over ancient
texts--scrolls that spoeak of skyfire and stone humming with unworldly
power. Myths and warnings, theories and observations... His gnarled finger
tracing along the fading texts as he sought for structures of celestial
origin, hoping to find resonance with the fallen star's glow.

The Mother had used the blessing of the Stars in moons past to bring the
Mother's strength to the Vallenwood. The old elf himself regularly sought
the wisdom and strength of the constellations to see Zandreya's Will made
manifest upon the realm. Again, he thought this another blessing. But
Skalpon knew that such blessings were often complex--and those who acted
before study at times found poor endings.

Another tome closed. Another tome opened. The search continues.

Writer: Tephysea
Date Tue Jul 8 17:47:52 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom ( Imm RP Zandreya Cayenna All )
Subject {oMeteor: Resonance among the Dead

Tephysea had arrived on the scene in the savage labds once the
information had gotten word to the elves as a whole. As she listened to
Eridessa ans Skalpon speaking, her attention turned to the remains and she
knelt down. Her hand hovered above the remains and she closed her eyes.

'Are you able to discern any mental resonance from the remains? ' the High
Keeper had asked.

She opened her eyes and began searching, whispering an apology under her
breath as she searched around the remains. Finding a fragment of a memento
of some sort, she turned her gaze back to Skalpon and Eridessa both. 'I
have a guess, a best guess as to what may have happened. It could have been
one of the beasts that roam the lands. That is the best guess. The
other... '

Tephysea turns her attention to the memento in her hand. 'I'll need a bit
more time to discern the mental resonance. '

Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue Jul 8 18:54:57 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm RP Zandreya ( Xenophon Cayenna )
Subject {oMeteor: Stardust and Sacrifice

The stench of scorched earth still lingered, even days after the sky had
been ripped open.

The savage lands were never kind. Tall grasses whipped around her like
grasping fingers, and strange hoots and the occasional rawrs of distant
creatures punctuated the eerie quiet. But the druidess was not here for
beasts.

Eridessa moved with reverence through the crater's fractured edge, her soft
boots slipping in the soot-streaked mud. The meteor had landed hard, too
hard, and even now the air was warped with heat, the plants nearby blackened
as if cursed, having wilted in the presence of the relentless heat in a
place typically so cold.

The meteor lay where it had the last couple of days, the crystalline
structure in the center both glowed with it's own radiant light and managed
to catch what weak rays of light made it this far over the ridge at this
time of day.

But it wasn't the stone that stopped her breath.

It was what lay nearby.

Bones.

Elven bones, unmistakable in form and proportion, slumped near the basin's
edge where the rock had burned white-hot. The guards they'd sent. The
elves who had stood here, living, only last evening, now stripped clean of
armor, clothing and even the meat from their bones.

"No, " she whispered, more to the air than her companions.

The Kyorl accompanying her shifted. One stepped in front of her slightly,
eyes narrowed. Another knelt to the ground, scanning for threat, not grief.

"They kept their post, " she whispered, voice choked. "To the end. "

She searched the area for signs, any disturbed plant life, signs of battle
but All that remained were the wilted forms of plants that had been too
close to the heat, the carved swath of earth from the landing, the
footprints of the beasts and a few of the elves. Nothing definite, nothing
that stood out.

A sending followed, a whisper through the trees. To the Senate. To the
Kyorl. The guards have fallen. The site is unclean. The meteor remains.
We need aid.

The beat of wings signaled Skalpon's arrival, descending astride a feathered
beast. He removed his helm wordlessly and stepped beside her. His eyes
moved over the crater, the upturned soil, the bones. His time worn eyes
lighting on the bones as he winced.

Soon after, Tephysea arrived on foot. Dust clung to her boots, soft blonde
waves of her hair hanging long over one shoulder. She said nothing at
first, only lowering herself beside the bones. Her gloved hands worked with
delicate care, brushing aside debris until something small caught the light.
Tephysea studied it in silence, then held it in both hands and closed her
eyes. Her brow furrowed with quiet effort and whispered "I'll need a bit
more time to discern the mental resonance. "

Eridessa turned her gaze back to the plants and even the dinosaurs in the
area as she swore to herself again what she had already written, We owe them
a full return. Funeral rites. Names remembered. And we must discover what
took their lives.

Behind them, the wind stirred across the savage lands, carrying the smell of
ash, of scorched wood and stone. And deep within the heart of the crater,
the meteor sat, quiet, waiting.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Jul 9 12:05:24 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Sacrifice and the Ritual

'FOOLISH KNIGHTS! I allowed Kayen to enter into my sanctum out of
respect to his line but this defilement will not stand! ' roared Dnoutrar
as he stood. The demon's emaciated form was not the pillar of strength it
once was. The loss of his infernal patron and power had diminished him to
but a fraction of what he once was. Yet his blade was still strong and the
power granted to him by the clerics of Apostus sustained him enough to pose
a challenge.

Telthian stood at the entrance, his umbral blade casting shadows that sought
to grasp at his enemies. The plate mail he wore was now both red and black,
stained with blood of the fallen. Beside him, Symantha, chin raised in
defiance and command held no weapons. Her hands were wreathed in the power
of the Mistress and black with the ashes of her enemies. To the other side
of the Dark Lord stood Maccus, the skald had cleaved his way across the
Temple like a dervish. His battle chants echoing across the stones of the
Temple.

Behind the three stood the Knights assembled: Ostrim, Ezrianne, Kirkland,
Melchaleve, Ithelim, Taeborlin, and others. They waited like a pack of
wolves about to pounce upon their prey. For a moment there was quiet after
the demon? S challenge yet an energy hung in the air, quivering with
anticipation. Then after a moment, the Dark Lord answered the demon in a
voice that resonated across the room.

'Dnoutrar, for centuries we served together, this I recognize. In alliance
we wore the bridle of Necrucifer's power, symbol of both our authority and
binding ties to His will. Yet through Drakkara's new promise, I have
scattered the remnants of my chains and created a greater bond still. A
power that WILL cascade across this realm like an umbral torrent. You, old
ally, have become twisted and tangled within yours without Him, bound now to
Apostus and his machinations. And so, as one final mercy to which you are
owed, I will free you from those binds. Knights, cut him loose! ' ordered
Telthian.

From behind the trio, the soldiers charged with a rally cry upon their lips.
They fell upon the demon like wolves upon an injured bear. Swords and
shields collided some soldiers met horrible wounds from the demon's blade.
However, no mercy was given and when the deed was done, silence was All that
was left within the sanctum.

'Bearhide, it is time. Cast your ritual and let us retrieve our absent High
Mystic. ' ordered the Dark Lord.

Ostrim cleared away the stone floor and placed the ritual items in the spots
as he was trained. He took out the worn letter that had been sent to him by
Archal with the words of the ritual upon it. He nodded to Kirkland and
Taeborlin who took up spots beside him. Novices of the Legion brought in
three thick chains, creations of Supplicant Scott, who took them and
attached them to her fellow Supplicants and then to those who would stay
behind. Ithelim then came forward, he spoke mystic words as umbral tethers
were woven into existence attaching to the three like cold grasping hands.
One tether stuck to the soul compass making it glow with a faint purplish
hue.

Ostrim looked over his shoulder at his old friend Melchaleve. They had been
Petitioners together but now Sir Arden was managing the defenses of those
who remained behind. His spirit animal stalking the chamber waiting for a
threat. There was a nod between the two and Ostrim turned to the ritual
items and began reciting the words from the note.

A dull hum resounded in the air and the temperature rose with each
incantation until there was a horrible crack. The veil between realms was
torn and a blast of infernal heat battered All within the room. The portal,
like a cat's eye, opened before them leading into the Manse of Apostus.
Ostrim took out the compass in one hand and sword within the other.
Allowing himself a breath, he walked into the portal with the two other
Supplicants behind him. The chains rattled upon the stone as the remaining
Knights looked through the window into the ruined landscape of the demonic
realm

Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu Jul 10 08:00:55 2025
To All Darkonin Greenskins Abaddon Verminasia ( Tarabella Xenophon Imm Storyline Fatale Chantrielle Zecnys Sedinae Piknim Lenore )
Subject {oA Throne {uof{o Teeth{u:{o Reading's{u for{o Rubes

"You absolute bloody fool! "

Bleurgh slapped Ph'real in the back of the head. The sound was almost
ethereal, posited as it was against the thrumming melodrama of the New
Thalosian marketplace. They were so close.

"You've been holding the map upsidedown this whole time, aint'tcha? Do you
even know how to read? "

Bleurgh narrowed hungry eyes at the map wielding greenskin, a sudden
premonition of mistrust creeping across their features.

Ph'real could not, in fact, read. Not a book, not a letter -- and certainly
not a map. The yellow-fleshed greenskin smiled a sickly smile. Their eyes,
the colour of rotting plums left to enjoy themselves, flashed dangerously.

"I can read your future, Bleurgh, if you ever lay a hand on me again. I
see... "

Ph'real held an overlong index and middle finger against their own temple --
communing with the spirits.

"Touch me like that again, and I foresee you'll have a hard time wakin' up
tomorrow... "

Bleurgh could only laugh. Their laugh was a mad cackle, a cacophonous
double-voiced shriek. The shaman, communing constantly with the spirits,
bore insight Ph'real could never understand.

Ph'real had been hand-chosen by {oXaxtur. As had Bleurgh, and every other
member of the party.

"{oTake dis THRONE ter th' LORD O' DEATH'S priests. Ter 'is KINGDOM. TER DA
SWAMP. A gif' from da LORD O' 'UNGER ter th' LORD O' DEATH, innit? "

Ph'real took their charge very seriously.

The path from Mount Darkonin, on Darkonin -- the Greenskin name for Icewall
-- to the swamps of Abaddon is a long one. Without a good navigator, it's
nearly impossible to traverse, even without bearing a throne fashioned from
the teeth of thousands of corpses reaped by the Lord of Hunger.

Ph'real looked blankly into the distance, then they grinned a stupid little
grin, full of misshapen masticators, turning the map right-side up.

"'ow about, since we's 'ere anyway... " The goblin shook a purse full of
coin, lecherous grin full of danger. "We's spen' some-a tha Gorger's money
on some fun times at da White Sands? "

Bleurgh wanted to hit Ph'real again...

But, the greenskin raised a good point.

The Thronebearers needed relief, and the thirteen Chosen spent a raucous
evening at the White Sands Bordello, spilling {oXaxtur{u'{os coin like liquid from
the Fountain of Youth. Greenskins have never been treated so well on the
continent of Dolund'ir -- the Greenskin word for Althainia.

Greenskins have a long history of resiliency, not the least part of which
was shaped by the Althainian campaign of oppression against their city of
Dolund'ir, a defeat suffered at the hands of a "good-aligned" Empire build
on bones and blood.

A campaign without which {oXaxtur would never have ruled the Mountain.

A story for another day...

Writer: Ulyssus
Date Thu Jul 10 11:44:11 2025
To All Xellessia Orutix
Subject The Dungeon's Shadow Within

Within the Meeting Room of the White Robes, beneath the crimson glow cast
by the stained glass wall, Ulyssus met again with his trusted advisor,
Xellessia. The pair stood near the long ashwood table, quiet in their
exchange as the flickering light from the iron dragon-lamps stretched
shadows across the chamber. Their focus was fixed on one subject alone,
Orutix of the Ebony Tower whose loyalties remained uncertain.

For some time now, Orutix had moved too carefully, too deliberately. Though
he wore the Black Robes, he still held allegiances with the Dungeon of
Bloodlust, an enemy of the Ivory and Crimson Towers. These observations,
gathered in patient detail by Xellessia and verified through careful watch,
had brought the pair to this quiet chamber to prepare their next course.

Nothing rash would be done. No accusations, no confrontation. They would
simply observe, with greater precision.

After their final discussion, Ulyssus withdrew to the library. There, in
silence, he began work on the enchanted item. A small coin-sized token was
forged from pure silver, its polished surface etched with a subtle sigil
that pulsed faintly with arcane light. The magic woven into it was precise,
quiet, constant, and uniquely bound to his wizard's mark. With it, he would
be able to follow the token's movement anywhere within the bounds of the
Conclave and beyond, if necessary.

Once completed, the token was sealed in silence, veiled from casual
detection. The enchantment was layered with care to ensure it would not
reveal itself to the untrained eye or mind. It was a tool of observation,
not a threat, and its purpose was singular: to track Orutix without his
knowledge.

The plan was simple. While Xellessia kept quiet watch from the edges of the
Conclave Common Room, Ulyssus entered with the token in hand. The chamber
was as familiar as ever, ringed with entrances to the three Towers, dotted
with colored cushions and soft couches, and filled with the gentle hum of
magical artifacts. The white fountain trickled nearby, and old trophies
from the Clan Wars stood proudly along the wall.

Orutix had fallen asleep near a triune of cushions. Ulyssus moved without
drawing attention, crossing the room in silence. The token slipped easily
into place, tucked within a fold of the gnome's belongings where it would
not be noticed. A flicker of arcane resonance pulsed as it bonded to its
bearer, unseen by All but the one who cast it.

Without a word, Ulyssus turned and departed. Xellessia followed a short
time after, their presence unremarked upon by the others gathered in the
chamber.

Later, back within the Ivory Tower's Meeting Room, the first results of
their work began to take shape. A small magical map lay unrolled across the
ashwood table, marked by a single point of light that now moved faintly
across its surface. The token had taken hold.

Orutix's path would now be known.

What he did next would determine whether his presence within the Conclave
was to be tolerated.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Thu Jul 10 18:14:02 2025
To All Marauders Dublu Zecnys Xaxtur Ezrianne Sedinae ( Imm Rp )
Subject A Grim Message

Fredrik woke from another night of restful sleep, some of the best sleep of his
life that he had been having at long last. But as he stretched lazily, something
felt off. The bed was....wet. He opened heavy eyelids and brought his hands to
his face, seeing that they were slimy and red with blood.

The initial jolt of fear quickly subsided as he understood that he having yet
another blood dream. It seemed quiet though, no usual screams, and not taking
place within The Dominion. He touched his face, feeling the sticky blood and
smelling fetid copper with an intensity that.....should not be. No. He sat up
to look down at his blood covered chest, and knew with All the certainty of
his senses that this was no dream.

True panic set in, and he instinctively kicked furiously to remove the sticky
sheets and discover his wound, reaching to check his neck at the same time.
One foot squished into something warm and wet, and he began to scream.

The guards outside shrugged, and one handed the other a few copper with a
laugh, 'Blast, he has not had The Fear in awhile...was starting to think he
might actually be getting straightened out again.' but then Fredrik began
calling for the guards, and they rushed into the room with the realization
that was no normal episode of the HighLord's fits.

Then the guards screamed in shock at the sight of their HighLord, buck naked
and covered in blood. He had half fallen out of bed, and was trying to crawl
back from the severed horse head that one foot was stuck in, shin deep.

Somewhere, someone laughed with a rumble, knowing from the morning screams in
Ironclad that a message had been delivered.

Writer: Cieran
Date Fri Jul 11 09:17:58 2025
To Althainia ( Immortal Cayenna All )
Subject Reclaiming the Concourse - The Work Begins

The air near the eastern Concourse was still, save for the low rasp of
wind slipping between broken stone. Where the city wall had once stood
proud, now a slow decay held sway - years of rain-softened mortar and the
quiet weight of disuse. Beyond the breach, the Blood River stretched wide
and sluggish, its surface dark and viscous.

There was no mistaking it. The smell of copper hung low in the air, heavy
and clinging - not sharp like fresh blood, but old, thick, as though it had
soaked into the stone itself. The scent settled at the back of the throat
and never quite left.

The blood moved lazily in its channel, too slow to ripple, too thick to
gurgle. From time to time, something shifted beneath its surface - not in
hunger, but in presence. It was a river that watched, even as it flowed.

Cieran stood near the breach alone at first, gloved hands behind his back.
He had sent no formal summons. There were no trumpets, no escort. Only a
few quiet words passed to those who might listen - and the hour of his
arrival, just before dawn.

Now, a small group stood behind him - stewards, old guardsmen, two
carpenters from the market row, and a boy too young to swing a hammer, but
old enough to carry one.

Cieran turned to them, "We'll begin here" he said, voice even. "Clear the
stone along the breach. We'll trace the old walls edge and see whats sound.
Work in pairs. Watch your footing near the channel. "

No fanfare. No declarations. Just motion - steady and practiced. Picks
began to strike old soil. Chalk marked the frost-bitten earth. And slowly,
the stillness gave way to purpose.

Cieran remained where he was for a time longer, gaze fixed not on the blood
below, but on the people who had come. Then he stepped forward, reaching
for a shovel.

The work had waited long enough.

Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:04:00 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx I

The day Blinx turned twenty was marked not by celebration, but by the
first cough. At the cusp of adulthood, when most pixies blaze into their
prime and their wings shimmer with the full maturity of magic, Blinx began
to fade.

It started with a cough. A dry, hollow thing that scraped at the back of
his throat and left his chest tight after spellcasting or flying too fast.
He was only twenty, a newly full-grown pixie, and should have been reveling
in mischief and magical discovery. His ruby eyes, once radiant with
curiosity, still held a spark of laughter then. He assumed it was nothinga
passing chill, perhaps too many nights sneaking into dew-drenched glades.
But the cough didn't pass. It lingered. It grew.

Over the next week, the fatigue set in. He would wake beneath his
blossom-curled leaf bed feeling as if he hadnt slept at all. Flying became
harder. His wings, once agile and quick, began to tremble mid-flight. He
landed more often, breath coming in sharp hitches, his limbs aching from the
effort of simple motion. When he looked in pools, he noticed his golden
glow had faded to a dim, pallid sheen. Still, he said nothing. Pixies are
proud creatures, and Blinx-clever, sharp-tongued Blinx-most of all. He
wrapped his growing discomfort in silence and half-smiles, trying to outfly
the dread curling in his gut.

By the third week, he was coughing up flecks of golden dust, dulled and
tinged with grey. His skin grew pale, nearly translucent. The wiry
strength of his limbs wasted away, revealing taut sinew and delicate bones
beneath. His curly red hair, once a wild halo, began to thin. Something
was wrong. Something inside him was breaking down, slowly, cruelly, and no
amount of rest or potion or spell could stop it.

He moved to the edge of the forest, under the arching roots of an ancient
tree, isolating himself with the excuse of needing quiet for study. In
truth, he didnt want them to see. Not the other pixies, not the woodland
creatures. He didn't want their pity, or their fear. Because it had
started already: the sideways glances, the awkward silences, the shifting
away from his path. Even flowers seemed to close their petals when he
passed. His presence upset something in the land. The light didn't fall
quite the same around him anymore.

Nights were the worst. The fever came in waves, drenching his fragile frame
in sweat, burning behind his eyes. And with the fever came the dreams.

He dreamed of a thousand mirrors, each reflecting a version of himselfsome
as children, laughing and golden, others hollow-eyed and grey, shivering.
They reached toward him, mouths open in agony, but no sound came. The wind
whispered his name in his own voice, cracked and full of dread. He dreamed
of being unraveled like thread, his magic pulled from him strand by strand
while he screamed voicelessly in the dark. The dreams left him weeping. He
stopped sleeping altogether, terrified of what might greet him in the dark.

In the stillness of night, he began to praynot to the gods of trickery or
wind that many pixies favored, but to Sebatis, the god of neutral magic. He
whispered into the void, trembling under leaf and root. "Sebatis," he
rasped, lips chapped and bleeding. "Please. I am a rose that has not even
had a chance to bloom. I was meant for more than this. What is happening
to me?" He scratched symbols into bark with shaking fingers, left offerings
of burnt feathers, broken beads, fragments of his failing wings. There was
no reply.

Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:19:35 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx II

His spells turned volatile. Once precise and elegant, they now flickered
wildly. A simple incantation to conjure light flared into blinding fire. A
cantrip to summon mist turned the pond to slush. His magic had become a
mirror of his illness: unpredictable, feverish, unstable. He feared his own
power now, just as he feared his failing body.

His panic deepened. He began to hallucinate. He saw insects crawling
beneath his skin, felt them scuttling across his bones. He tore at his arms
until the skin broke. His reflection in still water began to move
differently than he did. He stopped speaking, afraid the illness would
crawl into his words and infect his thoughts. He lay awake for hours, too
weak to move, staring at the hollow of the tree above him and whispering
again and again, "Please. Help me."

By the third month, he couldn't fly. His wings cracked and crumbled at the
edges. His joints ached so severely he couldnt bend without moaning. His
world shrank to the hollow tree and the sliver of sky above it. He counted
the stars like they might answer him. His voice, when he used it at all,
was hoarse and reedy. He began to forget words. Entire sentences became
confusing puzzles. He feared he was going mad. He wrote his prayers now,
scrawling in ash and dust: "Please. Sebatis. I don't want to die." He
begged not for healing, but for understanding. To know what this was, what
had stolen his youth and joy and breath. He felt betrayed by his body. By
his magic. By the gods. Fevered and skeletal, he dragged himself into a
ring of stones hed placed at the heart of a clearinghis last ritual. He
laid in the center, breath rattling, magic sparking at his fingertips in
erratic pulses, and whispered, "If I am to fade, let it be with meaning.
Let me know why."

The wind rose. For a moment, it felt familiar. Not kind. Not cruel. Just
present. Something old and deep brushed against the edge of his mind.
Then, stillness.

He cannot fly. His magic is erratic, spasming from his fingertips in bursts
he no longer trusts. His limbs tremble with the weight of standing. But he
breathes. He wakes. He survives.

He thinks this is a kind of cruelty. On the twenty-third night of the fifth
month, the wind shifts. Not gently but violently. The forest groans as if
exhaling something long buried. Blinx lies still, skeletal and silent in
the hollow of the tree, too weak to lift his head. Fever sweat clings to
him. His breath rattles like a dying wind. He blinks once, and the shadows
along the roots deepen.

At first, he thinks it's another dream. He's had so many. But then he sees
it: movement, slow and deliberate, pooling and folding like ink spilled into
water. A darkness without form, yet almost a form, something vaguely shaped
like a hunched figure with no face. The shadows crawl along the bark like
fingers.

Panic does not come this time. Instead, something colder does: surrender.

He closes his eyes and whispers hoarsely, "Please... If you've come to kill
me... Do it."

The shadow tilts, as if amused. It does not speak, but he feels its answer,
not in words but in instinct, in breath, in a cold certainty that this
presence has always been near, waiting.

It does not strike him down. It turns.

Blinx watches, dazed, as it begins to move into the forest, melting through
trees and stone with unhurried confidence. He doesn't know why he follows.
He shouldn't be able to. But something pulls him up, one trembling limb at
a time. He crawls, stumbles, drags himself after it. Branches tear at his
arms. Dirt cakes his pale skin. His wings are useless shreds. Still, he
follows the shadow deeper into the dark.

They reach a shrine.

It is not a place he has seen before, though he knows every grove and glen
near his hollow. This place should not exist. A stone arch stands sunken
in ivy, surrounding a basin of water black as pitch. The forest here is
silent, so silent it aches. No birds. No breeze. Even the moonlight does
not touch this place. The shrine drinks the light.

Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:23:31 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx III

The shadow waits beside the pool.

And then, it speaks.

Its voice is not sound. It is a vibration in his bones, a pressure behind
his eyes. Words not spoken but imposed.

"You are dying, little ember."

Blinx, on his knees, coughs until blood drips down his chin. "I know."

"Sebatis will not save you."

There is no malice in the voice. No joy. It is simply truth. Blinxs lips
tremble.

"I prayed," he rasps.

He does not answer. He will not. He values balance. You are imbalance.
You are failing.

The tears come silently. He does not sob. He has no strength left for it.

"You are not meant for the void. But you are close. I offer you a door."

A limb stretches forth from the shadowvaguely humanoid, but wrong in its
proportions, slick and smoke-veiled. With a sudden, deliberate motion, it
slashes open its own wrist, and from the wound spills a stream of blood,
unnaturally bright and crimson, glowing faintly like embers in darkness.
The liquid hisses as it hits the basin.

"Drink. And live. Drink, and be unmade. Not destroyed--but remade."

Blinx stares at the water. Something moves within it, stars, or teeth, or
both.

"But you must cast aside the god who abandoned you. Rebuke Sebatis. Rebuke
the Red Moon. Swear to the Dark Moon, Swear to the night."

The forest breathes. The shadow waits.

Blinx lowers his head. For a long moment, there is silence.

Then, slowly, he speaks.

"I don't want to die."

The shadow leans close, and its voice is almost tender.

"Then kneel."

And he does.

There, in the grove no map records, beneath the gaze of no god who will
claim him, Blinx rejects the balance of Sebatis, rejects the apathy of the
Red Moon, and swears fealty to something older, darker, and far less
merciful.

He drinks.

And the forest watches as the wind shifts again.

Dark