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Player Written Story Note Archive

Note: If you see names without the note below, its due to their story not being posted to "All"

Listed By Author Name

X Mercy Killing, Part One X
X Mercy Killing, Part Two X
The Bargain pt. V
[The Operation, Part Three]
Questions
Ponderings
Lessons with Bishop Arreana (Part 1 of 2)
Lessons with Bishop Arreana (Part 2 of 2)
Spirit Walk (Part 1)
Spirit Walk (Part 2)
The Debate
The Bargain pt. VI
Kender and Temples
Where the Fairies Are 01
The Caravan.
Lesson one - "Gold to a cat" (Epilogue)
Who's Helping Who?
Where the Fairies Are 02
Lesson two - "After the rain, earth hardens."
Where the Fairies Are 03
Where the Fairies Are 04
Lesson Two - "After the rain, earth hardens" (Epilogue)
Where the Fairies Are 05
A higher calling (Part 4)
Compassion - Part 1 of 2
Compassion - Part 2 of 2
Light of Salvation: Duel of the Haunted Heart (I of II)
Light of Salvation: Duel of the Haunted Heart (II of II)
On the Hunt IV
Lesson Three - "A frog in a well does not know the great sea."
Patience
Rediscovery
Lesson Three - "A frog in a well does not know the great sea." (Epilogue)
Back to Basics
A day on Pub Row
X Banishment of a Renegade X
The Bargain pt. VII
Kender Meditation Techniques - Part 1
Kender Meditation Techniques - Part 2
Rumination
Departure I
Departure II
The Return I
The Return II
The Return III
The Return IV
Blood and Water
Preparing for Chaos
Departure III
Learning the Old Tales
On the Hunt V
The Rise I
The Rise II
The Rise III
Drafting the Law
Transience
Arrival I
Arrival II
Arrival III
Arrival IV
Arrival V
Arrival VI
Arrival VII
To Apprehend a Traitor
To Apprehend a Traitor II
To Apprehend a Traitor III
Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 1/3
///Tooth and Nail///
On the Hunt VI
To Apprehend a Traitor IV
Harder They Fall...
Harder They Fall... II
Harder They Fall... III
Do you know how I started losing my feathers? I
Taking Accounts
Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 2/3

Taking Accounts II
Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 3/3
X The Challenge - Feeding Time X
X Answering the Challenge X
X The Challenge - Dreaming X
Part One
Part Two
The Unlucky Ones
Once Upon A Time
The Search for a Wayward Guard
Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion
Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion
Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion
Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion
Working From the Bottom
Even the Jovial Get Grumpy; Oh What a Night.
X Fixing Mistakes X
To Apprehend a Traitor: Steel Watch I
To Apprehend a Traitor: Steel Watch II
On The Hunt VII
Taelyn's latest mission
///Answering a Challenge///
To Apprehend a Traitor - Send in the Ironbreakers
A Collection of Tales
File #13
The Plan I
The Plan II
The Plan III
The Plan IV
The Plan V
The Plan VI
Verminasian Fairy Tales: Markon:Rancquas





Writer: Talrenvor
Date Sun Nov 20 00:20:02 2016




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Sun Nov 20 00:22:38 2016




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Sun Nov 20 00:24:33 2016




Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 20 19:10:41 2016




Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 20 19:12:40 2016




Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 20 19:14:39 2016




Writer: Vahriah
Date Sun Nov 20 20:33:07 2016




Writer: Rezekir
Date Sun Nov 20 20:52:43 2016




Writer: Anathaelynn
Date Mon Nov 21 09:48:17 2016




Writer: Mercerion
Date Tue Nov 22 00:41:42 2016




Writer: Zola
Date Tue Nov 22 01:52:43 2016

To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale

Subject X Mercy Killing, Part One X


On the edge of the Althainia Empire, near the borders it shared with
Thalosia, a refugee camp had come into being following the fall out of
several recent phenomenon that had destroyed homes and lives in equal
measure. When strange weather had unleashed acid rain, snow, mist, and
worse upon the world of Algoron, most places and people had been able to
weather it and move on with their lives. Not these. These refugees had
lost their homes and many their lives, and were even now continuing to
suffer.


The sight of a group of Siccaran clerics was therefore a welcome sight this
week, as they'd come to help provide shelter, healing, and aid to people so
desperately in need of it.


The sight of the arriving Zola, however, was far less welcome.

Two young Pages assigned to protect the medical clerics immediately moved to
intercept the Deathscythe. With an almost casual wave of his hand, he
displaced them back to Althainia, far off in the distance. They wouldn't be
returning anytime soon, and his work would not take long.


Though frightened by the sudden display of power, another tried to impede
his progress, a young woman in the white and red robes of a Novitiate. She
threw herself bodily in front of an elderly man with a broken leg, who could
not retreat quickly enough from the approach dark figure and its ominous
scythe. "Sir, no, you can't come here and claim these lives! These people
are under the protection of the Healing Hand! You can't...!
"

He held up a gloved hand, silencing her instantly. "I am not here for them,
" he intoned, his voice echoing like from within a deep well. "The ones in
the far tent... They are the ones I am here for.
"

Puzzled, the healer glanced at the far tent, marked with a black X crudely
painted across the flap. It was where the healers were taking those beyond
their healing ability, those who were simply too badly injured or too far
gone. While they spared a few beginner medics to ease their suffering, they
had to prioritize those with a greater chance of living.


"You don't need to kill them!" She protested again. "If you wait long
enough nature will run its course and do the dirty deed for you."


He swept past her without a word, slicing open the tent flap with his scythe
and slithering inside like a robed serpent, beholding those who lay on the
cots before him. Mangled limbs, damaged skin and organs, blood everywhere,
and more prevalent still was the stench of death. The healers wore cloth
veils to ward off the smell, but it was prevalent everywhere.


Zola breathed in deeply, finding the scent intoxicating.

But he had no time to waste on such trivialities. Moving around the
frightened medics, Zola found one bed with a man not long for this world.
He must have been hale once, but now he seemed withered and decrepit.
Malnourished, Zola would have guessed, suffering from a lack of sustenance.
Doubtlessly he nobly gave up his food that others might have it. Such
weakness. Still, he clung to life, and Zola respected his tolerance for
pain. However, a time came when every flame must be snuffed out.




Writer: Zola

Date Tue Nov 22 01:53:25 2016

To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale

Subject X Mercy Killing, Part Two X


"Who... Who are you? " asked the man, gazing up through feverish
vision. To him, seeing Zola in his plague doctor mask and hooded robe, he
must have seen the Reaper having come for him.


Ignoring his question, Zola instead asked simply "Do you wish the pain to
end?
"

His own question now seemed woefully adequate, the dying man considered his
response carefully. He could feel the sands tickling through his personal
hourglass, running out little by little. With his life now measured in
days, if not hours, there was little value left in it. And looking back, he
felt he had lived a reasonable time on Algoron, done and accomplished much.
He had no real regrets. "Yes," he croaked.

Nodding, the masked priest laid his hand upon the man's chest and ended his
life as swiftly and painlessly as possible. He didn't even leave a mark.
His eyes just sort of glazed over as his final breath slipped from between
his lips and his soul departed for the Void.


Nodding, Zola passed his gloved hand over the man's face, closing his eyes.
"Fatale be praised, " he intoned

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A short while later, when the Deathscythe emerged from the tent, he found
the refugee camp had been upturned, patients and healers were still in
disarray, and a small contingent of knights was coming his way, this time
their ranks bolstered with paladins and confessors, no doubt intending to
annihilate him for his heresy or some other delusion.


He didn't bother to spare them so much as a backward glance as he displaced
himself from his present location, fading away like so much smoke and
shadow, leaving the defenders of 'Light' dumbfounded, unable to pursue.


Not quite as dumbfounded as the medical clerics once they saw the contents
of their tent, All of the bodies laid out peacefully, not a mark on them.
Each and every one had seemingly been visited by him, not a one left to
suffer. The expressions of the deceased were calm and quiet, not twisted
with pain. Their transition had been as effortless as falling asleep. The
last time they would ever do so.





Writer: Fae'lin

Date Tue Nov 22 02:13:30 2016




Writer: Sierus

Date Tue Nov 22 21:08:50 2016

To Abaddon Zola Rohesia All ( Imm RP )

Subject The Bargain pt. V


Stretched out upon the thick, low branch of an ancient cypress, one leg
dangling and head resting upon his forearm, the boy rested in the fashion of
the panthers found within the swamp. Unlike the sleek predators, his mind
churned seeking to dispel or burn away the confusion the days discussions
had left him with. He had hoped to find peace here in his swamp, but the
scowl upon his face was plain evidence of the on going frustration, and his
ill mood was no doubt sensed by the many creatures which normally flocked to
his presence now absent.

Staring off into the thick mists, his brood was interrupted by the return of
a fleeting presence he had many times now sensed, but could never trace to
it's origin. Unlike the frequent shades and ghostly images he had witnessed
within the fog, he could feel this one, and on occasion partially glimpsed.
A swift, shadowed form man-like in shape, it's passage unheralded by sound
and leaving little to no trace in it's wake. The boy resented the
interloper for his unannounced travle through what he considered his domain.
Remaining motionless and straining his senses for any telltale of the
stranger, he fought to control his own breathing as the sense of presence
grew stronger. The faintest of creaks was the reward for stony patience,
though the proximity and direction, close and behind his resting head, drew
his eyes wide.

Turning his head in glacial slowness, he stared into the thick mist toward
the noise and the source of presence he felt so strongly. The shifting
mists ever so slowly thinned over what seemed and eternity and a dark shape
within resolved into what could be a man crouched and peering back through
the fog. Clad in rugged leather armor, the length of arms and legs speaking
to large size when not coiled as he currently was, the figure regarded him
silently and blue eyes locked upon the boy from within the vison slit of his
enclosing helm. The mutual regard turned into a battle of wills, each
locked in a stony pose, the sense of feeling the boy extended meeting
resistance which pushed back upon him slowly denying him from a true grasp
of the other. As he felt the presence swelling up in what seemed the
coiling for a lunge, the boy began to call fire in his mind and readied a
cast from his balled fist. A low chuckle passed through the mere 25 feet
which seperated the pair as the other turned his wrist, fingers splayed and
the boy felt the growing heat of his efforts fade like a candle snuffed.

Rising slowly from his crouch upon the opposite tree's perch, the tall
figure looked off as the fog began to coalesce once again, dimming the
outline. The boy rose to a crouch quickly readying himself for a launch
across the distance when he felt his ankle tugged suddenly, and he spilled
to the mire ten feet below. The familiar snickering greeted his rise
revealing the grinning imp with black hair coving his body and spindly arms
and legs. His anger fueling his reflexes, the boy lunged and bore the imp
to the ground, wrestling to control the imps wiry strength.

"TELLER! I COULD HAVE HAD HIM! WHY?!?! WHY DID YOU.." The boy yelled
then cut off suddenly staring at the imp's wrist he had imprisoned. Beneath
the hair there appeared a mark upon the skin, bearing a shape resembling a
dagger. ".. How.. What does.." The boy began before the imp spewed filth
into his eyes and escaped his grip, vanishing suddenly to leave the boy
alone in the mire with his confusion.




Writer: Xiaos

Date Wed Nov 23 09:08:06 2016




Writer: Xiaos

Date Wed Nov 23 09:11:00 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Wed Nov 23 12:41:14 2016




Writer: Rezekir

Date Wed Nov 23 13:14:35 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz
Date Wed Nov 23 20:46:04 2016




Writer: Ruwen
Date Wed Nov 23 21:09:53 2016

To Abaddon Tayira Zola ( imm religion Fatale All )

Subject [The Operation, Part Three]


It had taken months of work to reach the desired result, though the
objective was simple enough. Careful planning and practice was required,
and Ruwen had relished it. She had the cooperation of Executioner S'tarst
and Bishop Zola, two of her most trusted compatriots. She would almost call
them.. Friends, but the emotion around friendship was entirely foreign to
the Miete woman. Her only sense of family was centered around her father,
and to a lesser extent, her brother, but that was her way. But without
them, she would not be able to accomplish what she desired.

Turning to the skeletal guards, she ordered 'Get this mess cleaned up, and
keep her under watch. I don't want her to expire before the ceremony.
'

Inclining her head to Zola, Ruwen extinguished her candle and left the
crypt.

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

Working under cover of darkness was something the priestess was used to.
She found a certain comfort in the shadows, their closeness, their apparent
emptiness. It suited her. The shadows kept their secrets. She still knew
how to get around without the use of her eyes. She had been born blind,
after all.

She had been monitoring this particular village on the outskirts of
Althainia for some time, dressed as a beggar. Looking for the right victim.
There was a half-elven woman about her age who frequented the village
markets. A bit on the tall side, but she would suit Ruwen's desires. She
watched the woman's daily routine for two weeks before she made her move.
The priestess was nothing if not patient, not unlike a spider lying in wait
for the moth to fall into her web.

So now, she lurked outside the woman's home as darkness settled in, waiting
for her to come. A cheerful tune hummed and the scuff of footsteps on stone
approached. But before the woman was able to enter the building, a rag
soaked in a tincture of sleep was clasped to her face and darkness claimed
another.

The spider had caught her prey.




Writer: Stevron

Date Wed Nov 23 21:22:57 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz
Date Wed Nov 23 21:32:44 2016




Writer: Benthic
Date Sat Nov 26 00:58:49 2016

To All ( IMM RP Mencius )

Subject Questions



After slitting the last Sylvan throat in the forest, Benthic gathered his
bounty and made his way back to the "comforts" of civilization. After
selling his loot to a rather idiotic man, he made his way back to his home
away from home, the Church of Mencius.

Benthic had been thinking on his transition and of All the gods in general,
as of late. What makes the gods who they are? They can die just as us
mortals do... But -we- must be tested? We must show our alliegence. Why?
Only the truly faithful are worthy of their presence.... I would know, he
thought, wryly. Yet, even those are thinning... So why do the gods keep
their silence? Why are they not presenting themselves to more people? When
do we give up on this foolish errand of prayer and faith before they come...
When do they have faith in us?

In time, even they will fade from our minds and new gods will be thought of.
A slippery slope, indeed.




Writer: Kahlyn
Date Sat Nov 26 17:53:39 2016

To All Hrentun Zola Kefkamasu ( Mencius Imm RP Religion )

Subject Ponderings



Kahlyn walked back into the Temple of Mencius and bowed to the statue of
Mencius before sitting down.

He had just learned of Abaddon's beginnings, thanks to Bishop Zola, and it
was one of the most interesting stories he had ever heard. He had never
known of the beginnings of any of the kingdoms and for a long moment
wondered why no one ever spoke of such a thing. He shrugged lightly and
refocused on his prayers, silently waiting for some kind of sign that
Mencius would embrace him.

Then he could focus on his vengeance.





Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 27 18:26:18 2016




Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 27 18:28:38 2016




Writer: Corron
Date Sun Nov 27 18:31:25 2016




Writer: Gwyneera
Date Mon Nov 28 00:53:56 2016

To All Austinian Arreana ( Immortal Rp Religion Cliath )

Subject Lessons with Bishop Arreana (Part 1 of 2)



The lights from the candles flickered in the church, causing the light to
dance over the marlbe walls of Austinian's church. Gwyneera sat among the
pews as usual, a quill in hand and her journal open.

She was reflecting on All that she had learned over the course of the last
several weeks. She'd had the discussions with Mercerion but she had also
had several discussions with Arreana as she was the only Priest whom had
stepped up to help Gwyn thus far.

Despite being a Bishop of Taliena and not Austinian, she had helped Gwyn a
great deal and made her delve deeper into Austinian's tenets and faith and
what it All meant to her. Their first discussion had been brief but Arreana
had given her an optional task of reviewing All the tenets of the Gods of
light and writing a brief, one paragraph explanation of them.

That had proven to be some what of a challenge, trying to condense and
explain the tenets of six Gods in one brief paragraph. Gwyn took on the
challenge though and did her best to explain how goodness was more or less
living for others and not yourself. That it was about being an example and
showing kindness, compassion, and love to others around you, about healing
and helping the sick and injured and about treating yourself and others with
honor and respect. That was the gist of it at least.

Their next discussion had been in person. They sat in Austinian's church
and discussed his tenets in depth, going over some of the questions that
were to be in the Holy Bible. Things such as, 'when would drinking alcohol
become a violation of Austinian's will? ' and, 'how might one lead another
to temptation and sin unintentionally? '

Moderation was discussed and how the tenets did not mean that one had to
abstain completely but one should keep control of their senses. What if
they misjudged and drank too much? They discussed owning ones mistakes,
learning from them and seeking forgiveness.

(Continued)




Writer: Gwyneera
Date Mon Nov 28 00:58:07 2016

To All Austinian Arreana ( Immortal Rp Religion Cliath )

Subject Lessons with Bishop Arreana (Part 2 of 2)



The most recent discussion had involved wandering through All the Temples
in the Church of Light. In each Church, the Bishop asked Gwyn to explain
what that Gods teachings meant to her and then to describe them with one
word.

A single word to describe a God and their faith. The single word came easy
for some of the Gods.. For others it was much more difficult. Siccara was
the first and Gwyn quickly responded Motherly. Arreana seemed surprised by
this, saying that usually that word was used for Taliena. Gwyn explained
that her desire to tend to both the spiritual, mental and physical well
being of her followers and those of the light as well as her desire not to
see her children suffer was what prompted the description.

The next temple was Kantilles. Gwyn gave him the word generosity because of
his desire to share wisdom and the arcane. Nadrik was the hardest one Gwyn
thought, she was slow to answer because there just didn't seem to one word
outside of perhaps honor or justice. Those were too obvious though. She
chose patience at the time explaining that His followers had to have a lot
of it at times to walk the thin lines required.

Now though, sitting in the church and thinking back over the conversation,
Gwyn had another word that came to mind. Perserverence. This word fit
Nadrik's faith even better she thought. To keep one's emotions in check on
the field and remain honorable through everything, delivering justice as
required by the Gods. Everyday they continued to push through All of it and
serve.

For Taliena, Gwyn offered up the word unity because love was the one binding
force in this world that could bring people together. It was one of the
strongest things that Gwyn believed could cross the boundaries between light
and dark. Hope was her word for Kadiya which might seem strange considering
that the Goddess was no longer living. The idea of peace throughout the
world, it was something to hope for. No more evil, no more killing or
harming others.. Just peace. Yes.. Hope.

The Priestess never asked her what her word for Austinian was but Gwyn had
known immediately what her word would be: Benevolent. It easily fit the
Holy Father in her mind.. Big hearted, kind, caring, compassionate, good
natured. He just encompassed Goodness in general.

Sighing softly, Gwyn flipped her journal closed and looked around the church
quietly. All of her discussions and lessons had gone well. She had learned
a great deal already and hoped that each of them knew how grateful she was
for their guidance. One day she hoped to be a guide to another in need, to
repay the kindness given to her.




Writer: Trysarna

Date Mon Nov 28 20:25:41 2016

To All

Subject Spirit Walk (Part 1)



Trysarna sat on her knees in the tent, her eyes gazing into the small
fire that flickered before her. She'd been here for hours meditating,
trying to clear her mind and open it to the spirits. Agitation and
frustration had set in for the young felar and was evident by her twitching
ears and tail.

The sounds of someone outside reached her ears, causing them to perk up and
swivel towards the sound. She started to get up but stopped herself and
glanced back down at the fire and then around the tent. They had warned her
that bad spirits might try to come to her and that she should be careful and
stay in the tent until her guide showed up.

The sounds came again, but this time louder. Trys could no longer contain
her curiousity so she wandered out of the tent and looked around. She
followed the sounds, walking down a path until she came to a river. There
on the river bank sat a large black bear, munching on a large pink salmon.


The young felar froze and stared at the bear, watching it for a few moments
from a safe distance. She shifted her gaze if only for a moment, making
certain there were no other unexpected visitors around. Her eyes fell on
the tent, eliciting a sigh from Trys as she turned to head back up the path.


'Where are you going? ' Trys stopped midstep and turned to look around but
again All she saw was the bear. 'You are supposed to stay in the tent and
wait.
' Before the felar could respond the bear stood up and started to
walks towards her. It was at that point that she realized the bear was the
one speaking.

Suddenly, Trys was nervous as she took a few steps back and out of the path
of the bear, her tail twitching. 'Don't worry child, I mean you no harm. '
'I'm just supposed to take your word for it? ' Trys asked skeptically, her
eyes narrowing as she observed the bear.

The bear growled in annoyance and looked at Trys, 'Would you prefer I find
you a tree to cower in? Faith, have some. ' Thoughts raced through
Trysarna's head as she reluctantly nodded to the bear and glared, 'I don't
cower. ' The bear continued on past Trys, walking up the path several feet
before glancing back at her, 'Are you coming or not? '





Writer: Trysarna

Date Mon Nov 28 20:32:06 2016

To All

Subject Spirit Walk (Part 2)



'WAit? You're my.. ' The bear growled again and Trys simply lifted her
chin a bit and started walking in silence. The two of them walked along the
path for a while before the young felar noticed the change of scenery. They
were no longer near the tent, in fact they looked to be in her old
pridelands.

Trysarna furrowed her brow trying to recall what she had missed, they had
been surrounded by snow and ice before but now suddenly they were in
Tropica? Some movement in the tall grass caught Trys's attention, her ears
perking up as she tilted her head and slowly walked towards the grass.

Just past the tall grass a small village lay off in the distance. The sight
of it knocked the breath out of Trys but even that did not prepare her for
the next sight. A beautiful felar with light brown fur and cream colored
markings. She looked like an older version of Trys and exactly how she
remembered her.

Tyrsarna doubled over, trying to catch her breath a moment as the older
felar turned to her and smiled. She beckoned Trys closer and motioned to
the spot beside her. The two of them sat, Trys watching her mother mix and
prepare the many herbs and pastes that she had always kept on hand. They
talked as she worked, Trys constantly watching her mother and memorizing
every detail about her.

Time seem to be passing slowly, though Trysarna could barely keep up. Her
senses were in overload with All the sights, sounds and smells that she had
missed for so long. She followed the older felar through the village to
what had been her family's hut. It was the largest in the village. The
inside of it smelled so much like her mother that Trysarna could barely
stand it.

A few small herb pouches were shoved into Tyrs' hands as her mother rambled
off the purposes of each. She smiled at Trysarna and nuzzled her before
wrapping her arms around her in an warm embrace. 'Remember us and our ways.
' Trys closed her eyes, enjoying what would be the first and last hug she
had from her mother in years. When she tried to hug her in return, the
older felar was gone.

Opening her eyes in confusion, Trysarna looked around and found herself back
in the tent with the black bear staring at her. She sighed and slumped,
looking down at the pouches that were still clutched in her hand. They
smelled of the herbs inside and of her mother. The young felar looked up at
the bear sadly. 'Its inside you. All the strength, wisdom, courage, and
love you admired in her. Just look inside and you will find it and a part
of her.'

'Its time. ' With that the bear left and Trys was once again alone.




Writer: Kahlyn

Date Mon Nov 28 21:53:42 2016

To All Hrentun Zola ( Mencius Imm RP Religion ).

Subject The Debate



Kahlyn walked into the Obsidian Altar room with a disgusted look on his
face. The debates had been embarrassing to listen to. It sounded like they
were reading from the scriptures of boredom, the Bishop was the worst. She
skirted around questions and continuously stated that love was the most
powerful thing on Algoron, he could barely keep his focus. The clear
winner, in his eyes, was Hrentun.

He shook his head, momentarily, he had to remember not All were accomplished
public speakers and he had to admit it took a certain bravery to even step
into an arena of minds, after all. All he did know is that Lord Mencius's
word of rage had been spread to All the ears that were listening and for
that, accomplishments had been made.




Writer: Sierus

Date Mon Nov 28 22:54:26 2016

To Abaddon Zola Rohesia All ( Imm RP )

Subject The Bargain pt. VI


It had been over a week since he'd last seen Teller. Calls had failed to
bring his friend as it always had before though he'd sensed his presence for
fleeting instances. Fair enough, the young teen thought to himself, if it
was to be a game of stalking then so be it. He'd waited for that faint
sense to come again and moved off slowly in the direction it seemed to call
him, concious of his own noise and movements to avoid leaving sign as he
searched for any his quarry may have left. They'd played this game before
and he knew any telltale was as likely to be misdirecting as true.

The sudden snap of fresh greenery off to his left drew him down into a ready
stance scanning the area through low-clinging mists. It then he saw the
stranger, crouched down on one knee, idly twisting a reed between his
fingers with his head down. Siezing on his targets innattentiveness, he
burst forth and launched himself twisting to land a kick which was followed
by sword and dagger in the same arc. The expected impact never came as the
stranger rolled backwards on his shoulder away from the attack and into a
crouch with an axe in either hand held out to each side. There was mirth in
the eyes of the helmeted stranger who rose slowly, the blue eyes alight
within his visor, "No hesitation.. But no stealth either.." The low-toned
voice offered with a snort. Sensing the grin hidden within the helm, the
youth took up his attack once more, the adrenalin of anger fueling his
muscles. A rising slash of his sword was followed by a cut towards the
larger man's thigh, both skillfully directed away by the coppery bladed axes
with an ease which drove the lad to greature fury.

A sword slash at the stranger's head was ducked, and the dagger thrust to
the mid-section earned the lad a sharp rap on his hand with the back of an
axe head, sending his dagger spilling from his numb fingers. The pain
induced rage made the youth's attacks more desperate, tracing blurring
figures in each new slash the other simply side-stepped. Hunching his
shoulders he drove a thrust forward which was directed down into the dirt by
an even faster axe, and torn from his grip by the boot pressing down on the
flat of the blade. Over-balanced, the boot which met and shoved his chest
backwards to roll in the sodden soil took little effort.

Peering up at the tall stranger who casually rolled his axes in smooth arcs
as he approached, the youth growled through clenched teeth, "I'm not afraid
of you", as he pulled a small knife from his boot. "I know.. Believe
that."
The stranger said slipping the axes back into his boot tops. "Keep
your weight over your knees.. And pay attention to what Vyasa teaches you."
The stranger admonished before turning to slip off into the mist.

Fuming at his embarrassment, the sting of his pride and a new source of
confusion, the youth ignored the cold damp beneath him taking several
minutes to catch his breath as his mind swirled. More than satisfaction,
more than revenge, most of All he wanted and end to the confusion and
uncertainty life piled upon him from All angles. Determination.. Fatale
commanded determination and that seemed the price and path to his salvation.
His sentient moment of purpose was then broken by the fistful of wet slop
which impacted his head, and the gleeful snickering which followed the
crooning words ".. Soon.. Yes, yes, soon.." As Teller's dark form
scampered off into the mists.




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Mon Nov 28 23:41:28 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Tue Nov 29 19:18:22 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Tue Nov 29 19:21:41 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Tue Nov 29 19:28:12 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Tue Nov 29 19:29:25 2016




Writer: Iocaste

Date Tue Nov 29 23:05:51 2016

To All Gray_Church ( Immortal Roleplay )

Subject Kender and Temples



Temples always had a different feel to them. Some felt comfy, some felt
strange, some felt majestic, and others just felt humble. The array of
words that can describe how a temple makes you feel are probably as vast and
expansive as the catalogue of strange things wine-lovers use to describe
their favorite vintage.

The Kender thought so, anyway, although it was just a brief thought that
happened to cross her mind. She happened to be sipping tea near a temple,
as a matter of course, so it wouldn't be the strangest of things to ponder.
Pondering altogether was something she loved to do, whether it be about
temples, or clouds, or, rather often, the strange allotments of small
trinkets and baubles she'd tend to find littering her bag, despite her
oft-stated claims of being disinterested in collecting such things.

Yet, it was this temple in particular that was most intriguing to the
Kender. Situated in the brush, just beyond her reach, and past a ruined
fortress decimated and ravaged by both time itself and the warriors,
scavengers, weather, and even the stray animals that came in course. This
temple was one she'd never been inside, yet at this point she felt content
with her knowledge of its interior, as bland as she'd been told it is.

Often, the Kender enjoyed the fine architecture of temples. The choice
between domed or cathedral-style ceilings, the brickwork, whether coarse or
smooth, the columns holding everything in place; she actually thought she
was a bit strange, especially for a Kender, to enjoy things like that.
Simply exploring the texture of a wall brought her some measure of delight.
Yet this temple, for reasons entirely known to her, didn't enthrall her in
that particular way.

The architecture was surely grand, at least on the outside, yet it didn't
claim her heart as other temples did. It was something else that she liked
about this temple, something a bit different. It wasn't even the temple
itself, but rather what laid within, the symbolism more than an actual
entity. She'd been told All sorts of things of its interior: that the halls
pulsated with energy, that a monk dwelled in its center, that the secret of
the temple's glowing eyes might simply be that "there is no secret," amongst
what could only be called a myriad of other details, many of them likely
untrue.

Rather than any of that, and rather than ever focusing on those details
(despite that they'd capture her heart, were the circumstances different),
the Kender found herself admiring the temple for its actual intended
purpose. A place wherein people like her could devote themselves to their
art, just as one who enjoys forestry might devote themself to the woods as a
ranger, or one who loves weaponry might devote themselves to arms.

It was a guild, just like any other, yet it was the one she wanted to enter.
The Kender thought thusly while sipping her teacup, her gaze roaming over
the brush, rather than the temple: "So, I'll do my best." Her heart did
belong to her art, as much as it belonged to her home, to her friends, and
to those in the world who would ever enjoy her generosity.

And, with that, All thoughts of the temple left her mind, stored for later,
yet not discarded. Her attention shifted toward an amulet she'd procured
earlier, something she found in the arena stands while watching a joust.
She'd laid it out just in front of her on her picnic blanket atop the grass,
amongst a few other things. It looked expensive, which was probably
unfortunate for its actual owner.

She just tsked while gazing down at it, while sipping her tea.




Writer: Arreana

Date Wed Nov 30 10:40:38 2016

To All Dyaki

Subject Where the Fairies Are 01



/ It was a clear night, but it was difficult to spot the sky unless one /
| ascended to the treetops. This wasn't a particularly difficult feat for |
| Arreana. As an Ariel, her wings allowed her to soar above, the sky itself |
| being the only limit. She perched on a branch that appeared as though it |
| should not be able to support her weight, but her body belied its weight. |
| |
| Arreana was already slender, and would have appeared small when compared |
| to most her height, even if she stood taller than most human women. Yet, |
| even a human woman of her height and build should have weighed anywhere from |
| ten to eleven stone, and yet, Arreana, when last she had stood upon a scale, |
| required only six stones to match. She wasn't as light as a feather, but she |
| was light enough to perch on the branches of large treetops. |
| |
| How long Arreana waited there, she did not know. She watched the moon |
| trace its familiar route across the nightime sky, and allowed herself the |
| small, genuine pleasure of feeling the embrace of the warm tropical air. Her |
| wings were outstretched, catching the breeze and beating lightly as a |
| result. |
| |
| Unfortunately, All good things eventually came to an end. Arreana had come |
| to Tropica for a very specific purpose. The task would be difficult enough |
| without distractions and this, lovely as it was, was a distraction. |
| |
| Fairies. Though of distant relation to Pixies, Fairies were entirely |
| different creatures altogether. The tallest of fairies were a just barely |
| over a single hand in height. |
| |
| In addition, where Pixies could be shy or boisterous, Fairies were, almost |
| as if by rule, incredibly shy. Most people would go their entire lives never |
| confirming the reality of Faries with their own eyes. Fairies shared a |
| similar love of mischief, however, and, like Pixies, were beings of magical |
| essence. They could do All sorts of things that would leave even the most |
| learned in the Conclave scratching their heads. |
| |
| It happened that Arreana had seen fairies a number of times and in a |
| number of places. Unlike Pixies, Fairies were ambivalent about cold or heat, |
| and they could be found on every continent and in every environment on |
| Algoron. However, Fairies preferred places far away from the bustle of |
| cities and people. Icewall and Tropica were the two continents with the |
| largest Fairy populations, followed by Shokono. |
| |
| Tropica was where Arreana had grown up, and where almost All of her Fairy |
| encounters had taken place. Though coming home was always bittersweet, the |
| quest to find her flighty friends kindled in her a sense of intense hope, |
\ like a stack of logs finally catching fire. \





Writer: Kahlyn

Date Wed Nov 30 19:06:14 2016

To All Hrentun Zola ( Mencius Imm RP Religion )

Subject The Caravan.



Kahlyn stepped back from the carnage at the small campfire and nodded his
head in appreciation. The times before, in the hamlet and in the tents
served his rage without him realizing... This time, there was no poison, no
disease, there was blood.

Kahlyn had wandered upon a caravan of travelers, All spouting words of love
and such nonsense. He had stayed his hand, mostly because he was hungry and
they were about to serve food, but to see what -they- had to say about love.
The same old things were stated: love is All powerful, love can save, love
can lead you to a better life. Clearly, love did not save them, however it
did lead them to a better place.

Kahlyn looked around, searching for hiding people and came upon an elderly
man. The elderly man begged for his life and swore his devotion to Kahlyn,
all while hiding the symbol of Taliena from him.

"You deny your faith out of fear, old man?" Kahlyn demanded, almost
laughing. "Are All you this weak? You know this makes you a liar." Kahlyn
raised his staff and brought it down on both knees of the elderly man with a
sick pop and then swung it hard into the temple of the elderly man, ending
his life.





Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Wed Nov 30 21:05:41 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Wed Nov 30 21:05:45 2016

To Gray_Church ( All Roleplay )

Subject Lesson one - "Gold to a cat" (Epilogue)



Nothing made sense to the Wemic, everything had gone so wrong, so
quickly. It was almost too similar to his exodus from the pridelands, the
feeling of being utterly alone and utterly vulnerable. A simple creature,
he simply could not understand how words could mean one thing to one person,
and another thing to a different person. He could not understand how he
still was unable to integrate to the society of the outlanders.

Belatedly, he realized that might not matter any more - for the life he had
was assuredly gone for good. There was no way to return to it, there was no
way to forget All that he had learned, All that he had said, All that he had
felt. His instinct had been to flee, but that was simply instinct. He had
no idea of where to go, or what he would do, and so his body simply carried
him forward. From dusty road to carefully laid cobblestones, and then
finally to ancient and well-worn wood. When a voice asked him if he was
ready to go, All he could do was dumbly nod - the Wemic unable to find his
voice.

Days and nights passed and he could not be sure if he had eaten or if he had
simply lurched from one hour to the next. All he knew is that after what
felt like an eternity in self-imposed purgatory, he finally saw a familiar
sight. Sea gave way to sweeping cliffsides and verdant greenery, the scents
of salt and fish gave way to cherry blossom and cedar. He had returned to
the only place he could - a place where he did not matter, where none would
find him. He had returned to Shokono.

Still in a daze, the Wemic departed from the ship with little more than the
belongings he could carry. He wandered slowly, burdened by a heavy heart
and lack of sustenance, but surely. The steps were almost familiar, and he
felt stupid for not having thought of it sooner - but glad that his
instincts lead him 'home'. The thought gave him pause, just before the
final ascent to where he knew the village lay.

She had said they were a family. She had so quickly adopted her new role
and so quickly seemed to abandon the pretenses of him being anything other
than a simple friend and compatriot in service to the church. How could he
view them as such? How could he willingly go through what was All too
similar to the pridelands he left behind? To the land of Arkane that he had
left behind? He had thought it would be different. It was never different.
Never.

Paw after paw, he forced himself forward - each step carrying him further
away from the past and one step closer to the future. The village's square
came into sight, and with it, the familiar face of the elder. The old man
simply looked the Wemic over and nodded his approval. Nothing was said save
for a simple observation, as if such were All that needed to be said.

"Mu-ra-ka-ra, you have seen the truth. Your second lesson begins tomorrow."




Writer: Corron

Date Wed Nov 30 21:54:35 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Wed Nov 30 22:00:23 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Wed Nov 30 22:03:00 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Wed Nov 30 22:09:14 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Wed Nov 30 22:16:03 2016




Writer: Gwyneera

Date Thu Dec 1 00:25:40 2016

To All Austinian ( Immortal Rp Religion )

Subject Who's Helping Who?



Baskets of food and clothes were carried through the square as several
clerics followed Gwyneera, both theirs and her arms loaded down. They made
their way to a house that was moderate in size and while it looked old, it
had a very cozy appearance.

They carefully stacked the baskets and goods on the lovely wooden porch
before Gwyn approached the door and knocked. An older matronly lady
answered the door and smiled warmly at the group on the porch. Gwyn and the
woman exchanged a hug, seeming as if old friends, and chatted a bit. The
sounds of children playing and laughing spilled out of the home, eliciting a
smile from Gwyneera.

She indicated All the goods they had brought and within moments some of the
older children spilled out onto the porch and began helping to carry the
baskets inside. Gwyn followed them inside, carrying a large box in her
arms. She tucked the box off in a corner for the moment and helped with the
unpacking of food and clothing.

The children chattered excitedly as they helped sort the items and put them
away. Some of the girls squealed with delight as they found a selection of
new dresses in various sizes. Even the boys seemed excited over the new
clothing. It made Gwyn both sad and happy at the same time.

A hand clasped her shoulder, squeezing it lightly, as Gwyn glanced up at
Mother Francine and smiled. She slipped her own hand up to lightly pat the
older woman's. 'Do ye bae needin' anaethin' else? Ah made certain ta
inclu'e some 'erbs an' things incase anaeone bae sick o 'urt. ' Mother
Francine shook her head as she watched the children, 'No, Gwyn, dear. We
have plenty for a while. Thank you. '

Tilting her head, Gwyn smiled a bit as she spied a small boy that looked to
be about three. She watched him as he played with the other children,
listening to their laughter. 'You need some of your own, ' Gwyn laughed
softly and offered a warm smile to Mother Francine. 'Wae 'ave tha girls for
now bu' aye.. Maebae a' some poin'. '

'Ach! Ah almos' forgo' tha las' box! ' The highland lass returned to the
entry way and retrieved the large box she had carried in. She sat the box
down and opened it before calling the children over. It was full of various
toys from blocks to puppets to marionettes to dolls and carved wooden toy
soldiers.

Mother Francine picked up one of the wooden soldiers, as the children all
ran over to grab toys out of the box, and peered at Gwyneera, causing her to
blush deeply and shrug her shoulders as she offered the woman a silly smile.
'Ah 'ave ta do somethin' while ah run errands.. '

Gwyn took the small soldier from the woman and walked over to the small boy
she had been watching. She kneeled down to offer him the soldier and then
pulled a bear out of her own pack, offering it as well. The young boy
squealed with delight, hugging both toys and then tackling Gwyn in a hug.

She ruffled the boy's hair and stood up before turning to leave. As she
passed Mother Francine, she reached out and fondly squeezed the woman's
shoulder. They nodded at each other though neither said a word before Gwyn
walked out and headed off for another delivery.

Hours later, Gwyn sat in Austinian's church staring at the altar. What had
started out as a mission to help others had ended up helping Gwyn more than
she could have ever imagined. Now she sat here at a loss for words over the
events of the day. The laughter and smiles from the children and people
they had brought supplies and food to had warmed her heart.

The sweet children at the orphanage who were so excited about some clothes,
toys and food. The innocence evident in their eyes reminded Gwyn what she
was striving for, what she wanted to stand and fight for. She moved up to
the altar and knelt in prayer. The words would just have to come.




Writer: Arreana

Date Thu Dec 1 08:38:49 2016

To All Dyaki

Subject Where the Fairies Are 02



| To find the Fairies, Arreana had descended below the jungle canopy once /
| more. While Fairies could sometimes be found amidst the treetops, they, |
| like Pixies, did not possess the true flight that Ariels did, and preferred |
| their homes to be closer to the ground. |
| |
| In spite of the fact that their homes were more easily accessible, they |
| were not easy to find. One of the strengths of Fairy magic were illusions, |
| and their natural talent toward trickery and disguise meant that every |
| Fairy home was protected by a number of complicated and masterful illusion |
| spells. Even a fully-fledged Sorceror of the Conclave would have difficulty |
| getting past their enchantments. |
| |
| The best way to find a Fairy was by not looking. It was a lesson that |
| Arreana had learned early on, after her first encounter with the Fairies |
| near her home. Fairies were so incredibly shy that they would only reveal |
| themselves if they felt they could quickly get away and vanish before they |
| were noticed. This usually manifested in some trickery or another, but |
| sometimes a bored Fairy would simply pop into one's vision for the span of |
| a blink, and then vanish once more. |
| |
| Arreana wasn't going to try and catch a Fairy in those brief moments, not |
| without some help. |
| |
| The other trick that a younger Arreana had learned was that Fairies were |
| incredibly fond of local fruits and berries. What a Fairy enjoyed depended |
| almost entirely on the region they were from. A Fairy would rarely travel |
| outside of a 10-mile radius, which meant that even Fairies on the same |
| continent could have wildly different tastes. |
| |
| Where Arreana had grown up, among the Absaroke tribe, there were Blood |
| Berries, Elderberries, Acai Berries, Araza, Bacuri, Mangos, and Sun Fruit. |
| It was the Sun Fruit that the Fairies near the Absaroke favored. It had the |
| peculiar quality of starting out sour, but leaving a sweet aftertaste. In |
| addition, though it was not a berry, Sun Fruit was composed of one |
| prune-sized orange fruit, and a ring of smaller, blueberry-sized yellow |
| fruits, giving it the appearance of its namesake. The smaller fruits were |
| easily picked off, and provided a sharper sour flavor, with less of an |
| aftertaste, and it was these smaller Sun Fruits that the local Fairies had |
| enjoyed. |
| |
| As Arreana walked through the jungle, she reached out and let her finger |
| and wing tips brush against the bark of trees lightly. She closed her eyes, |
| but walked without stumbling, for even after so long, every root, rock, |
| rise, and dip were known to her. Arreana reminisced, her memory slipping |
| into play mode as she remembered running around with other Ariel children, |
| playing games of chase and games to test one another's flying skill. She |
\ opened her eyes, looking around quietly. This would always be home. \





Writer: Bogg

Date Thu Dec 1 10:10:42 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Thu Dec 1 16:03:48 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Thu Dec 1 22:34:19 2016

To Gray_Church All ( Roleplay )

Subject Lesson two - "After the rain, earth hardens."



The Wemic awoke to a peal of thunder, almost felt in his very bones due
to the complete lack of insulation. No longer was he a sluggish waker,
content to languidly greet the day - instead he was instantly on edge and
ready. The weather outside seemed to taunt him, a constant reminder of
everything he positively hated: It was pouring rain, the sort that turned
all but the most solid of dirt into nothing but muddy mire that clung to his
fur long after he had dried himself off.

Shokono increasingly appeared to be no place for his kind, yet he could not
deny it had a rough attractiveness to it. Here he was an outsider, but at
least he -knew- why he was different. The lessons and drills did not care
though, and each exercise that was done by one, was done by all. Even by
the time his mind wandered to those thoughts, he was up and padding out into
the rain.

Already the elder of the village was seated upon a mat of woven reeds,
swathed in a cloud of steam from a large pot of tea and rice porridge. The
wemic detested both - the tea too bitter and the porridge like slurping down
wood pulp - but it was All there was. It was All he was supposed to need.
He sat down in his assigned spot - furthest from the 'head' of the circle
that would be formed and waited for the others to join him. One by one the
warriors made their way into the pouring rain, seemingly oblivious to the
harshness of their conditions and almost eagerly seating themselves to eat.

Breakfast passed in silence, the warriors believing that conversation
prevented proper digestion. With only mugs of steaming tea left, the Elder
abruptly rose to address them - a man of few words and apparently not one to
engage in preamble.

"This day, we are reminded of the second lesson a warrior must learn. Ame
fut-te chi katamaru. Murakara, you must find the truth in this before sense
can be made of the rest - just as the rain will stop and we will see what is
left."

As before, the Elder gave an abrupt nod of his head and All were dismissed.
The Wemic often wondered if the others resented him, for these should have
been lessons they already knew - but they never showed signs of such.
Indeed, they All seemed content to meditate upon what they had learned,
offering no aid to the Wemic as he was instructed to find his own answers.
Firstly, he would have to think upon what the Elder's words even meant -
their language so much more difficult than even the Common tongue he had
learned upon first reaching the Outlands. His only 'hint' this time was
that it had been raining, and that something would happen when it stopped.

Upon returning to his abode, he saw his small pack was neatly packed with
provisions and a single chit for passage back to Althainia lay upon his
sleeping mat. He had long stopped wondering how and when the villagers
moved so stealthily, but he understood the import. As before, this was not
a lesson he could learn by himself and away from what brought him here.

He would have to brave his own storms, and hope that something was
discovered when they cleared.




Writer: Arreana

Date Fri Dec 2 08:04:33 2016

To All Dyaki

Subject Where the Fairies Are 03



| In her hands, Arreana held a small wicker basket, inside of which were /
| half a dozen Sun Fruits. She had already separated the smaller fruits and |
| piled them on top of the larger ones as best she could. In spite of her |
| efforts, many of the smaller fruits stubbornly resisted, filling any open |
| nook or cranny that they could. |
| |
| Though Arreana knew the jungle around where her tribe had once been, time |
| had an awful habit of changing things. She had walked around with closed |
| eyes only on pathways that had been made by her tribe, and which still |
| remained mostly untouched. However, the plants that her tribe had carefully |
| tended to had grown wild. Many of the Star Fruit plants had died out, but |
| there were also numerous new plants. It was as though she were hunting for |
| the first time All over again. |
| |
| It had taken roughly an hour's time to find the six fruits, where, before |
| it would have been a long search if it took a quarter of an hour. There |
| were significantly less fruits in the absence of the tribe, and that caused |
| Arreana to worry about the Fairies. What happened if their favorite foods |
| disappeared? Did they have to find something else to eat? Would they leave? |
| Then there was the unthinkable thought, would they starve? |
| |
| Arreana's search for a Fairy became more urgent than for the Star Fruit. |
| The only problem being that the best way to find them was to NOT look for |
| them. It took All of Arreana's self-control to not go peeking around and, |
| instead, finding one of the spots she remembered meeting Fairies before and |
| sitting down, with the Star Fruit available and visible. |
| |
| There was no expectation for when a Fairy might show up. Unfortunately, |
| the worry gnawing at Arreana's chest also gave the sinking expectation of |
| a Fairy showing up at all. How long would she have to wait? How long should |
| she try before she had to conclude the worst? |
| |
| In order to mollify herself, Arreana took out a blank book she had |
| brought along and began to write. The Bible of Holiness was still far from |
| becoming a completed work. However, at the moment, Arreana was its sole |
| author, with others choosing to take the role of reviewer as their method |
| of contribution. |
| |
| The books for Austinian, Taliena, and Siccara were in their first-draft |
| stage or beyond at this point. However, Arreana had brought a blank book |
| because she was still attempting to settle on a consistent format. Each |
| book for each member of the Holy Family was limited to three pages, per her |
| own design. Arreana feared that if they were longer, that she would lose |
| the attention of the reader. |
| |
| Arreana managed to lose herself in her writing. Time passed quietly, and, |
| it was with great surprise that she looked up to find the sun retreating |
| from the sky. She prepared to gather up the basket when her eyes caught on |
\ a tiny orange figure. A Fairy. \





Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:43:49 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:45:53 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:48:20 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:51:05 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:54:26 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:56:24 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Fri Dec 2 09:58:45 2016




Writer: Cassian

Date Fri Dec 2 12:26:46 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Fri Dec 2 19:45:42 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Fri Dec 2 19:49:41 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Fri Dec 2 19:51:35 2016




Writer: Rezekir

Date Sat Dec 3 02:16:22 2016




Writer: Arreana

Date Sat Dec 3 18:13:17 2016

To All Dyaki

Subject Where the Fairies Are 04



| Arreana blinked and simply stared at the Fairy for several long moments of /
| surprise. For her part, Arreana assumed the Fairy was a her, for she was |
| clothed in an orange sundress, the Fairy was simply sitting on the edge of |
| the basket, picking yellow fruits off of the larger Sun Fruits and plopping |
| them in her mouth. |
| |
| Simply watching in silence, it wasn't until the Fairy happened to glance |
| up at her that Arreana smiled. |
| |
| "Hello." Arreana whispered softly. The next few moments were critical. If |
| the Fairy decided Arreana could be trusted, she would remain and Arreana |
| had a chance of talking to her. If the Fairy became shy, she'd disappear |
| before Arreana could even attempt to stop her. |
| |
| The Fairy froze, but did not immediately vanish. Instead, she blinked her |
| large eyes, eyes which seemed much bigger than was proportional to the |
| face. Arreana noted that, in addition to the Fairy's pixie-styled orange |
| hair, her irises were the same vivid shade with flecks of a deep red and |
| yellow. |
| |
| Finally, after a pregnant pause, in which Arreana's mind considered a |
| hundred different questions and scenarios, the Fairy responded. |
| |
| "Hi!" The Fairy didn't open her mouth, nor did her lips move. Instead, a |
| tiny, high-pitched voice sounded in Arreana's thoughts. It had been awhile |
| since Arreana had last talked to a Fairy, but she had remembered this and |
| was able to manage her surprise. |
| |
| Fairies could speak with their natural voices, but the sound was so small |
| that it came out as squeaks, they had to speak quite loudly to be heard, |
| and listening to them was like listening to a Tinker-Gnome, trying to hear |
| through the squeaks and decipher their words. |
| |
| There were additional barriers as well. Most Fairies did not know common, |
| for when they talked amongst their own kind they used Sylvan, an ancient |
| form of Elvish that had long ago passed out of knowledge of even the most |
| scholarly of Elven-kind. Arreana knew from past experience that the extent |
| of a Fairy's common was limited to what they picked up from spying on |
| others. They could say hello, good-bye, and speak in a very broken form of |
| common, but preferred to transmit mental images and share their feelings in |
| order to communicate. |
| |
| It was an intimate experience, but one which could leave most feeling |
| vulnerable once they realized that Fairies could sense their surface |
| thoughts and emotions. |
| |
| The Fairy hadn't run. Though, as soon as she greeted Arreana, she went |
| back to picking at the Sun Fruit in the basket. In the ensuing quiet, |
\ Arreana considered how she would tell the Fairy what she had come for. \





Writer: Corron

Date Sat Dec 3 19:07:13 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Sat Dec 3 19:11:38 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Sat Dec 3 19:14:05 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Sat Dec 3 19:16:39 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Sat Dec 3 19:19:48 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Sat Dec 3 23:15:23 2016

To Gray_Church All ( Roleplay )

Subject Lesson Two - "After the rain, earth hardens" (Epilogue)



As soon as the calls from the crows-nest sounded, the Wemic was plunged
into self-doubt. He did not -want- to return, he had in fact vowed to
himself that he would not, so-as to never find himself in the same situation
again and yet here he was. His guts felt as though an ice cold ball of lead
sat within them, hearing the calls more clearly now as if counting down the
minutes until he would be back in the lands of Althainia.

Time seemed to pass too quickly as the dock came into view and it felt like
mere moments until his paws set themselves down atop the weathered dock. He
could almost hear the greetings, made All the more painful by how they'd
surely be delivered - and for a moment he almost wanted to just turn around
and get back on the boat, to give up. The faces of the warriors swam into
his vision, lead by the elder, shaking their heads disappointedly at him.
No, he had to do this. He had to trust in -something-, and that was just
going to have to be that this lesson would mean something.

And so it went, the Wemic steeled himself as though preparing to wade into
battle. He strode down that familiar path, resisting the urge to simply
turn back at each mental landmark until at long last, he had passed from
barren desert surroundings to rolling hills and prairie-land. In the
distance, his destination almost seemed to loom - looking so different from
the first time he had seen it. It seemed an eternity ago, even though it
couldn't be: He remembers the warmth that lured him there, the orderly
arrangement of every single adornment, the peace that overtook All of his
shame and sadness. Now however, it was very different.

He noticed how squat and sterile it looked, how just a few miles away
battles were waged constantly - creating a constant din of bloodshed, and
lastly - the warmth seemed to be replaced with a sullen chill. He had no
desire to return to those surroundings, he had no desire to confront what he
left behind, yet he knew he had to. He knew it surely then, the Elder had
sent him here to force his wounds to heal. For just like the earth that was
turned to mud in a heavy rain, he would grow stronger and more resilient
after it passed. Feelings would be tamped down, memories would only serve
to push him harder.

The wemic was already walking down the well-trod path, coming to its
entrance when a familiar voice called out a greeting to him - like the
claxon heralding impending despair and doom. He had not prepared himself,
and that sweet voice cut through him to his core, weakening the Wemic enough
to almost fall to his knees. He did his best to remain silent, to swallow
the anger and the thoughts that raced through his mind like a courser or a
fox-hound seeking its prey.

How could it be like this? How could everyone just pretend nothing had
happened? How insignificant -was- he, that life just carried on?

Like one of the great waves that assailed the ship he had just been on, the
emotions crashed upon him and bore him out. Mechnically, he managed a
respectful bow, his form trembling with the strain. She continued to speak:
Praises for the work he did, things he would need to do, All things that
just seemed so far away. He dumbly nodded and began to pad past her, doing
his best to keep focused on that single mantra that kept him whole. It
echoed in his head and soon it drowned everything else out, even as he
managed to find the familiar cot of his, not noting how it had been smoothed
and prepared, how it was almost clear everyone had expected him back. How
he was just a petulant little cub. Throughout All of it, that mantra
provided something to cling to.

"After the rain, earth hardens. It is raining. It is raining. It will
stop. You -will- be stronger. Next time it won't hurt as much. It
will pass. It will end."

And with that, the Wemic managed to fall asleep - back in the temple, as
though he had never left.




Writer: Arreana

Date Sun Dec 4 08:45:52 2016

To All Dyaki

Subject Where the Fairies Are 05



| The silence was almost perfect. Arreana watched the Fairy pick at the Sun /
| Fruit as she mused. The bond between a Fairy and its home was, as far as |
| she had heard, stronger than even the bonds of marriage. Somehow, Arreana |
| doubted that. Still, as she watched the Fairy, the realization that her |
| hope lay in a vain, unlikely dream that she could convince the Fairy to |
| come to Althainia. |
| |
| In the tranquil silence, Arreana thought about her life before that day |
| when everything went to hell, when Malachive had taken everything from her. |
| But the jungle had survived. Malachive might have taken her people from the |
| land, but the land was memory itself, and it stood forever in defiance of |
| what the false god wrought. |
| |
| "What do you want?" A voice, small and sweet, penetrated through her |
| thoughts. |
| |
| "I- I have some questions." Arreana replied, "What happened when- ... |
| -when Malachive came. You... ...the Sun Fruit?" |
| |
| This caused the Fairy to stop. She frowned a little and looked into the |
| basket, apparently in thought. Arreana caught her breath, wondering if the |
| Fairy would flee. However, the small figure just sat there, quiet, rocking |
| slightly. |
| |
| "So many gone." The Fairy responded, her soft voice like a whisper in |
| Arreana's head. "Some were taken. Others died...." The Fairy began to shake |
| convulsively. Arreana reached out to touch her, but stopped short. |
| |
| "The fruit- " The Fairy sniffed, "Some grows. Lots don't, won't grow no |
| more." |
| |
| "This is a sad place for me too." Arreana whispered after a moment. |
| |
| "I know- I remember." Whispered the Fairy's voice in Arreana's thoughts, |
| but now she was looking at Arreana, wide, curious, bright orange eyes. "You |
| want something. What is it?" |
| |
| "I have this... friend." Arreana tilted her head, her wings spread out |
| slightly and curled around her. "Like me, but she- she didn't grow up here. |
| So I... I wanted to find something from here to bring back with me." |
| |
| "Meaning me?" The Fairy looked slightly incredulous, though not angry or |
| even upset necessarily. "Why would I do that?" |
| |
| "I want her to know about it. About... our home, before Malachive defiled |
| it." Arreana felt a tear slide down her cheek. "She deserves to know." |
| |
\ The Fairy looked back down into the basket once more, expressionless. \





Writer: Kyrlynn

Date Sun Dec 4 09:31:57 2016




Writer: Kyrlynn

Date Sun Dec 4 09:36:44 2016




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Mon Dec 5 01:35:13 2016

To Gray_Church All ( Roleplay )

Subject A higher calling (Part 4)



-Drip, swipe, drip, swipe, drip, swipe-

The sounds of too-wet ink and a too-broad brush were All that filled the
temple's garden at this late hour, even the Wemic's breath held baited
within his lungs. He was not accustomed to such fine work, his paws too
broad and his digits not agile enough - yet rather than infuriate him, the
struggle seemed to calm him. It provided focus, for he could see the
characters in his mind so clearly, yet each practiced movement failed to
paint them accurately, and so he would try again - and again.

It was but one of several activities the warriors had insisted he learn -
for a true warrior was not just one who could fight in battle, but rather
one whose body and mind were both perfectly tuned to the harmonies of the
world. At rest one moment, in motion the next. Such could not be
accomplished, they told him, if the mind was sluggish and unfocused. In the
grand scheme of things, he supposed this was more enjoyable than some things
- he certainly did not enjoy trying to puzzle out the meaning behind cryptic
sayings, for it just made him feel stupid. He already had difficulty with
their tongue, but the way they spoke and how they seemed so ready and
willing to believe such simply infuriated him.

-Drip, swipe, swipe-

One mistake followed by another. There was symbolism in that perhaps, but
eventually as he practiced each form, he would improve. He would compensate
for his own differences, and even if it was not the way the others did
things - it was *his* way, and it produced a similar result. He knew that
wouldn't be good enough in the end, but for now - it helped to calm him. It
helped to push out the memories of the conversations everyone seemed so
intent on having with him. Was he okay? Was he happy? What was wrong?

-Drip, swipe, drip, swipe-

Better this time, but rushed - as though just thinking about those words
caused the Wemic distress. Of course he was not happy, plenty was wrong -
but was he okay? What did -that- matter? The Furless seemed so focused on
*fixing* things, perhaps that was the real problem. Too much focus on the
here and now. Still, such a thought did not comfort the wemic and his mind
immediately flit back to the last exercise the elder had forced upon him
before he was sent back to the temple. Those words along with the
repetative movements *did* seem to comfort him, or perhaps simply served as
a panacea.

"You must see All the suffering of the world as black smoke. Take it in.
Absorb it. All the rage, All the anger, All the sadness. Breathe it in.
It is yours now. Breathe out white light, rid yourself of your own love,
your own compassion and joy. Give it to the world."

That is why he joined the temple, was it not? It was not simply for her, it
was not simply to escape. No. He was not that weak, was he? He did not
need to belong so badly that he would suffer for such. He wished to see
good done. He wished to see people protected. He wished to never feel the
fear, or the hunger he had felt in the Pridelands. That is why he was here.
That and nothing else. They deserved peace. They deserved happiness. They
deserved perfection.

-Swipe, swipe, swipe-

Perfection.




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Mon Dec 5 17:23:48 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Mon Dec 5 17:25:41 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Mon Dec 5 17:28:47 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Tue Dec 6 18:55:39 2016




Writer: Catroina

Date Tue Dec 6 18:58:53 2016




Writer: Gwyneera

Date Tue Dec 6 21:39:25 2016

To All Arreana Teimhnean Austinian ( Immortal Rp Cliath )

Subject Compassion - Part 1 of 2



The sounds of sweeping echoed off the walls of the church as Gwyn swept
the last little bit of the church floor. Once the task was done she put the
broom away and checked All the candles, replacing those that had burnt down
with new ones. With All the tasks in the church complete, Gwyn returned to
the pew where her things were laid out. She had taken over one of the pews
with her various parchments, her journal, and her writing materials.

She picked up the parchment with the Sacraments of Faith and scanned them
over for a moment. Gwyn had been over them backwards and forwards for days,
studying them and trying to sort out her own thoughts on each. She had
copied them into her journal, making notes on her thoughts here and there in
the margins. There was only so much that she could do on her own so when
Teimhnean had offered to quiz her over them and discuss them. She was happy
to accept the help.

Compassion seemed to be the subject for the day's discussion. Where did
compassion fit into the sacraments? Gwyn explained that while there was not
specifically a sanctity of Compassion, it did have a part in three of the
other Sanctities: Sanctity of Faith, Sanctity of Just Actions, and Sanctity
of Redemption. Teimhnean chose the Sanctity of Just actions and asked Gwyn
to explain how compassion fit into it.

Her explanation of showing mercy was an act of compassion brought on the
question of: 'Do you show compassion to those who you smite? ' She thought
on the question for a few moments before nodding and explaining that if they
were truly lost and the sword was the only option left then you grant them
mercy or more specifically a merciful end. The Emperor nodded but seemed
perplexed, perhaps still trying to reason out his own thoughts on the
subject.

(Continued)




Writer: Gwyneera

Date Tue Dec 6 21:43:16 2016

To All Arreana Teimhnean Austinian ( Immortal Rp Cliath )

Subject Compassion - Part 2 of 2



The discussion ended but Gwyn continued to think on the matter the rest
of the evening and the next day. So when Bishop Arreana invited her to chat
and asked what she had learned since they last spoke. It was the first
thing that Gwyn brought up.

She explained that she had been working through the Sacraments of Faith
including a few discussions regarding compassion and specifically if you
show compassion to those you smite. Bishop Arreana asked what conclusion
they had come to:

"Ah'm nae cer'ain tha' 'e came ta one fer 'im bu' from wot ah've learn'd an'
though' aboot on mae own. Ah think et comes down ta this.. Sometimes
people are jos ta far los'.. Words are alwaes tha firs' corse ye take bu'
as a las' resor' tha sword es need'd a' times. When et es need'd, et should
bae ta serve Jus'ice.. Nae yer own personal feelin's an' et should bae a
quick an' merciful end. Ah think tha compassion comes wit tha merciful end.
"

"Taliena calls us to love all, even our enemies. Through Taliena's love,
the salvation that Austinian provides is made possible. By that notion,
there is no one too far lost to be saved. There are those souls who would
be destroyed in their salvation, such as Necrucifer, his family, demons,
chromatic dragons... No mortal is ever truly lost. What does that mean
within the sacrament of compassion? And how does one, as a follower of
Austinian, apply that love to His commands? "

Gwyn though about Arreana words for a moment before responding, "Thar es nae
Sancramen' o Compassion specificallae bu' ah think tha Sacramen' o jus'
ac'ions covers this. Wae are ta try ta protec' all bu' Austinian accep's
tha' some are simplae los' ta tha ligh'. Those tha' are will bae embrace'd
by 'im once Jus'ice es serv'd. Ah think tha et bae an ac' o love ta cleanse
'em o their sins an' send 'em enta 'is embrace. Ye end tha 'old tha
darkness 'as on their soul. "

The Bishop nodded and smiled, saying that she would keep her own answer to
herself because she was trying to help Gwyn and teach. "So I hope it is a
suitable thought to carry with you for a little while, and to talk to others
about. "

Now Gwyn sat in the Temple, thinking back over the discussions and wondering
what answers others would give. She could guess depending on their faith
perhaps but then again not everyone believed the same. There was only one
way to find out, she'd just have to start asking people.




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Thu Dec 8 16:06:14 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Thu Dec 8 16:08:09 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Thu Dec 8 16:09:56 2016




Writer: Talrenvor

Date Thu Dec 8 16:13:42 2016




Writer: Mercerion

Date Sat Dec 10 17:02:26 2016

To All Knighthood Darkonin Nadrik Immortal Religion Storyline Roleplay

Subject Light of Salvation: Duel of the Haunted Heart (I of II)



The air was dense, think with emnity that was All too real to Mercerion
as he strode purposefully into Darkonin. This place held much in the way of
meaning for Mercerion. Here in these halls he had lost a mentor, and a
friend. Madness... Grief... Anger... Call it what you will, it had
driven his friend to the point of calling out the King of this accursed
place, and challenging him to honorable combat... To the death.

A duel which every follower of Nadrik cringed when the news had spread...
Dialook had taken from them their Cardinal. Bolter was gone. Defeated and
beheaded in combat, on the cusp of losing the third shard. Grief and
despair rocked through the church, and Mercerion was left alone with his
anger and guilt for many years.

As he contemplated these thoughts, he was rocked by an echo. Something that
was common when one of his kind was taken from the world. The kindred mind,
when shattered, could leave remnants. And for the briefest of moments,
Mercerion saw glimpses from that fight. He saw the king in his armor, and
vast array of weapons, toss aside Bolter as if he were a ragdoll. He saw
the swing of the blade, the spray of the blood...

The vision stopped suddenly, and Mercerion felt it. The very presence of
kindred mind. When he opened his eyes, there before him stood the one whom
had called him out for a fight. A member of Darkonin whom had a historied
past with Althainia. In his robes, various emblems that only their kind
could recognize he stood, staff idly in hand as if he'd been waiting for
Mercerion to arrive for ages.

Just as Mercerion drew his blades, another echo struck him. This time a
feast, a celebration. The very center-piece? THe head of Bolter. A
shudder of anger ran through Mercerion as he recognized faces. Leaders of
olde from Necrucifer's ilk... Even a few of the vampires, Jeering and
tossing Bolter's head around as if it were some plaything. One of them even
attempting to extract blood from it to drink.

As the anger rose, Mercerion was snapped back from the vision rather
forcibly as he caught a staff to the head, and then arc'ed lightning jumped
from his foe and bounced betwixt the General and his akita. Mercerion
quickly separated himself from the Akita and charged his foe.

The larger foe had barely any time to react before the General had slipped
past the defensive range of the staff and landed a shoulder square into the
foe's sternum. The larger foe stumbled backwards and gasped as the wind was
forced from him, and Mercerion planted his blades between the staff and his
foe, twisting viciously to send the weapon to the ground.

He might have remembered how well the kindred are trained in hand to hand
combat before he chose this route, or perhaps should have, and was rewarded
for his efforts by a flurry of punishing blows to the head from his larger
foe, the ham sized fists being slowed down only some by the kabuto and its
faceplate.

Fortunately for the General, after the third our fourth cross, he had picked
up the signs that a punch was coming, and began to use his aikido training
to his advantage, lingering just long enough to present a welcome target and
feint out of reach at the last second, causing his opponent to expend a vast
amount of energy on missing strikes.

As his foe tired, and became increasingly frustrated, his attacks became
sloppy and he began to leave windows open for countering strikes which both
Mercerion and his Akita took advantage of, exchanging attacks and keeping
the foe focused upon themselves, and protecting eachother, it became clear
that the Darkonin citizen was overwhelmed.

At one point Mercerion's akita bit into the ankle of the foe, and with a
howl of anger he began the incantation for chained lightning. Mercerion
recognized the incantation and gave a sharp whistle, causing the akita to
let go and to flee. WHen the spell had finished, the lightning arced
between Mercerion and his opponent, which nearly finished the opponent off.






Writer: Mercerion

Date Sat Dec 10 17:04:15 2016

To All Knighthood Darkonin Nadrik Immortal Religion Storyline Roleplay

Subject Light of Salvation: Duel of the Haunted Heart (II of II)



Another vision struck as Mercerion closed on his foe. The King looming
over the defeated Bolter, poised for the final strike. This time however,
through the armor and the visor... It was His eyes... Mercerion's own eyes
he saw. The blade lifted and his vision faded... Back before his defeated
opponent. It was his choice now. Did he claim the life? Would defeating
this opponent and taking from him not just his life, but his essence...
Really accomplish anything more than vengeance for his fallen friend?

No. It would not. Mercerion cast off his kabuto and dropped it to the
ground, kneeling next to his near dead opponent. You have fought honorably,
but you serve Wickedness in your ways. You have been judged, and found
wanting. Repent and be saved.

With that, Mercerion drove his weapon into the chest of his opponent, being
a quick and merciful death, rather than slowly succumbing to wounds. Given
the gift, this opponent would return to life when his body mended. For now,
it was time for the General to return to prayer.




Writer: Paxx

Date Sun Dec 11 13:56:09 2016




Writer: Garrett

Date Sun Dec 11 15:32:07 2016




Writer: Damerus

Date Sun Dec 11 21:33:04 2016

To All Iocaste Mercerion Fardoc ( Imm RP Religion Nadrik )

Subject On the Hunt IV



A rusty groan gave voice to protest as the main gate was slowly pushed
open. An akita padded through and followed the cobblestone entryway toward
the double doors leading to the manor. Damerus strode past the gate,
carefully closing it behind him, only to be met once more by the rused groan
of metal grinding on metal. He grumbled to himself, a look of frustration
painted on his face as he stalked along the cobblestone path to the doors to
his home. He had spent weeks in the Great Library of the Balanx looking for
answers, and he found none.

He threw the double doors open angrily, nearly being struck by one when it
recoiled from the force. Damerus sighed. His patience was wearing thin the
longer this dragged on. He moved over to the nearby armor stand and pulled
the helmet off his head, carefully setting it upon the stand. He followed
suit with the rest of his armor, piece by piece he carefully stripped it off
his body and set it upon the stand, until he was free from both the burden
and the restriction. He set aside his blades as well, hanging their sheaths
beside the armor. He scooped up a nearby robe, threw it around himself and
then moved off toward the study.

The familiar scent of old leather bindings and carefully processed ink
assailed his nostrils as he pushed the doors to the study open. The smells
were heady, and not entirely unpleasant. Row after row, shelf after shelf
full of books covered nearly every wall, with a marble desk at the center of
the room. One of the few walls free of bookshelves had an overstuffed
couch, which he moved to and settled down to sit. He pinched the bridge of
his nose, closing his eyes as he tried to focus his thoughts.

He was running thin on options. He had only gone down this road at the
behest of a friend, as part of an agreement struck with her, yet he could
not help but wonder if she would insist he try harder if he went to her to
report his failure. He was already getting resistance from those in Gareth
who wanted him to step aside.

'I remember you mentioning Nadrik before, long ago. Forgot you followed
him. Hm. Well, there's a simple way to figure everything out! Pick out
the highest ranking priest of Nadrik you can find, and ask their thoughts.
That's what I'd do.
'

The words flittered into his mind suddenly. A new path had presented itself
to him, but he was certain it'd end the same as the conversation with
Mercerion had ended. Damerus reached up and swept the loose strands of
long, crimson hair out of his face and back against his head, frowning
softly.

He was going to have to try.




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Sun Dec 11 22:12:22 2016

To Gray_Church All ( Roleplay )

Subject Lesson Three - "A frog in a well does not know the great sea."



Love was a tricky thing, and something not fully understood by the Wemic.
He had been told by many, that love was different from person to person: It
could be a genuine care and adoration of another, or it could be a romantic
affair that lead to a lifelong mate, or it could be as simple as a
meaningful friendship. How could the Furless use a word that meant so many
different things, and why weren't they more careful about it?

Whatever the context however, it was the past. That too was a tricky thing,
for memories that were once happy were now tinged with sadness. Facts he
was so sure of were now peppered with doubts. It did not matter, for one
could not return to the past and moreover one could not cling to it for it
would slip through their grasp as time wore on. Instead, the Wemic focused
on removing the emotion from those memories - using them as lessons to be
learned from. Like the hide of a wild animal was slowly flensed, dried, and
hardened - so too were those memories. It became the Wemic's armor.

It was not All existential or theoretical, it actually allowed the Wemic to
truly listen to the Kender for the first time. All the old things were
said, All the new things made more sense. He was not special, he was not
different, he was just like the rest. She wanted friends, and as the
conversation waxed long and wore thin, the Wemic realized that he could not
ask for more. He had to be content with his lot in life. He had to
remember that he was not here for his own pleasures, for his own desires -
he was here to serve. He had to be the strong one, he had to be the one who
could shoulder All of the burdens that the others seemed unwilling to face.
He had to be a friend.

The realization hit the Wemic as surely as an archer's shot, and the lesson
was complete. He knew then that he had to leave once more, wasting only
enough time to beg forgiveness of his 'friends' before making the
now-familiar pilgrimage. This time there was no sadness, there was no
anger, there was only calm. As the ship rose and fell, the Wemic moved with
it. As the sun rose and set, the Wemic followed it. Each day that passed,
the simplicity of the lesson threatened to overwhelm him - reminding him of
just how foolish he was and how much could change if only he did not resist
it.

Drifting from open seas to rocky forests and finally to mist-shrouded
mountains, the Wemic finally returned to the village which had become his
second home. He was greeted this time not by the warriors he had come to
know as brothers, but by the aged leader himself. The elderly man shook his
head as he studied the Wemic, instantly taking the measure of the beast
before giving a single and curt nod.

"The river cut deep, but it reached the hard stone beneath. You learned,
Mura-kara. Now you must take the next step."

With that, the conversation was over. There was no exasperation or
frustration this time, the Wemic simply accepted that when it was time - he
would be given his next lesson. Whether it took a day, a week, a month, or
years - he was ready. This time, it would not be pain or sadness that
pushed him forward.

It would be desire. It would be need.




Writer: Gwyneera

Date Mon Dec 12 19:46:15 2016

To All Austinian ( Immortal Rp Cliath Religion )

Subject Patience


'Austinian has faith in us, more faith than we have in ourselves, often.
He believes in us. He trusts us. Instead of being in front of us, he is
instead behind us, ready to catch us if we fall. Letting us try to learn
and go forward, for we have to if we wish to get anywhere. ' The Frost
giant, Thaydius' words were stuck in Gwyn's head.

She didn't doubt the truth of the Frost's words at all, she knew they were
true for those of Austinian's faith and those of the light. Were they true
for those not of the light though? Did he have faith in her? She
desperately wanted him to but she was not of the light and nor was she one
of His. The fear that she might never be crept in at times.

This was certainly a lesson in patience as she knew it would be. She had
even stated to Thasgerd in the beginning that it would be one of the hardest
parts for her, being patient. You could not demand the Gods attention and
expect to get anything but silence, or perhaps scorn. All she could do was
pray often and learn All she could from those of the light. She had been
praying.. A lot and others prayed for her as well. Every bit of the aide
she had recieved was appreciated. Her hope was that she could some day pay
all that help forward to others.

She was struggling lately even though more were coming forward to speak to
her like the Silver Dragon and now Thaydius the Frost. Every word of advice
and lesson was something she cherished and recorded so that she could mull
over her own thoughts in her spare time. Gwyn didn't know if she was on the
right path though, nothing from either of the Gods left her worried. She
had done All but demand to removed from Cliath's church and even that was up
to ones interpretation since some of her prayers had sounded pretty
forceful.

Someone, though she couldn't recall who it was, had told her in the
beginning that she might spend the rest of her life trying to gain
acceptance into Austinian's fold. At the time she had nodded and said that
she wouldn't give up even if it took the rest of her life, which was true
still. She hadn't really thought it would take that long though. Was that
cocky? Perhaps. It wasn't meant to be cocky at all, she just knew what was
in her heart and knew she was good. Talk about a humbling experience
though.

The doubt. The fear. It was All creeping in. Usually when it would start
to creep in, Gwyn would just push harder. She'd go work on gathering
potions or herbs to donate or gather items to put in the donation box.
Anything that would be of aide to people. At this moment though, Gwyn sat
on the back floor of Austinian's church with her back against the wall. She
couldn't face anyone right now, not even herself because the emotions were
consuming her. Was this some new form of torture? Perhaps it was, either
way it was hard to breathe through the lost feelings. It made her sick to
her stomach at times. If she could not even draw the ire and shunning of
Lord Cliath, how could she possibly expect the Holy Father to have faith in
her.

Deep breaths. Gwyn would pick herself back up as she always did, push the
feelings aside and trudge on. Every act of kindness, every act of goodness,
every kind word spoken, every act of love shown. It All mattered, no matter
how small or miniscule it seemed. The light was out there, always fighting
and never giving up. Gwyn wasn't waving a white flag yet and she never
intended to.




Writer: Rezekir

Date Wed Dec 14 10:14:11 2016




Writer: Vyasa

Date Wed Dec 14 22:36:11 2016




Writer: Cassian

Date Fri Dec 16 13:31:55 2016




Writer: Hillunirower

Date Sat Dec 17 10:32:35 2016




Writer: Erebaal

Date Sat Dec 17 11:53:26 2016

To All Chaos ( Sufferers Seekers Malachive Scorn Immortal Religion )

Subject Rediscovery



Barren ash...

He stood alone in a desolate waste, his bootfalls crunching into the deep
layer of ash that covered the earth. Before him stretched an endless
horizon, unbroken by features. No trees. No mountains. No life. The land
and sky itself seemed to merge, the watery grey of the earth's chalky coat
and the lifeless grey-white of the sky blurring in the distance. Behind him
tracked endless footprints, his own dogged pace etched in the mire. The
destruction of his own creation.

This was his wish, was it not? The bitter end so embraced by the man who
had fallen to madness. To whom rage and wrath were as meat and wine, the
conqueror-turned-destroyer. A world truly dead, an enemy so impossibly
vast, yet brought to an end by his own hand. It should have brought a
measure of satisfaction, to have been the sole conqueror of this world, and
yet...

The taste of ash had never left his mouth. The air was thick with it.
There was no water left in this world to slake it, and he had no need of it.
Not anymore. It had been years since the end, since the last of the False
Pantheon had met their ruin on the unyielding earth. Since the last of his
followers had given their lives in the horrific battles, amidst the
innumerable atrocities that had scourged All life and features from the
land. The Crusade had shaken the very foundations of creation, and the
ceiling had finally come crashing down. The sky had fallen, bringing ruin
as the wrath of the Gods was met, and the fury of mortalkind responded. It
had been glorious, unlike anything else, but like so much else, was merely a
fading memory.

A memory that had not yet come to pass...

Still he trudged, seeking some vantage. Some hill, some variance in the
land. The oceans had been filled by this hateful ash, the remains of all
consumed in the fires that raged in the aftermath of the battle. The
mountains had been ground to dust by the powers brought to bear. Cities
annihilated. Canyons collapsed. Valleys submerged. Forests razed. This
was his wish, as the Chosen by the Dead God. As the bearer of Malachive's
will.

'Our lives have been taken from us. Stolen from the start. Raised by lies.
Shaped by lies. All that is ours to choose is the manner of our dying.
'

And yet still he stood, condemned to this existence. This fresh torture.
This brand new hell of his own creation. He had demanded to be the last man
to pass into the flame, but by the time his work had been done, the last
fire had burned itself out for want of fuel. Now, only the torture of
existence remained. It was...

Maddening.

The Everchosen snapped out of his reverie as the horns of battle sounded
ahead. His small host had ridden with him to quash some resurgence of the
Tropican natives, who stubbornly refused to yield to the Warp's returning
presence. He had come to deal with the matter personally. In the back of
his thoughts, in the depths of his heart, he felt an old feeling stir. The
old madness, the old bloodlust. He had almost forgotten what it was like to
be a warrior first, rather than an archon, a leader, a vessel.

A wolfish smile stretched his dead lips, dark eyes glinting in the recesses
of his infernal helmet. It was time to rediscover himself.

The world would learn soon after.




Writer: Mra'krarz

Date Sun Dec 18 13:28:06 2016

To Gray_Church All ( Roleplay )

Subject Lesson Three - "A frog in a well does not know the great sea." (Epilogue)



The days turned to weeks, and with each one that passed - the Wemic's
view of the world surpassed the wildest imaginings he would have had in the
Pridelands. The warriors of this land left nothing unquestioned, left
nothing to chance or fate - they showed the Wemic the tales of their land,
the parables that built upon one another. Soon, he was no longer thinking
in the same way he had - about the Pride, about the way he had felt, or his
purpose. Now, he was thinking about 'why' things worked they way they did.
-Why- did he leave the Pridelands? -Why- did he feel the way he did? -Why-
was he here, learning from these strange men?

Like one who had just seen that a pond is smaller than an ocean, or a hill
is smaller than a mountain, he could finally see how All that had happened
was simply small. Insignificant. There would always be good and there
would always be bad, but there was no way to tell what was the 'best' or
what was the 'worst', for time always flowed. The teachings were comforting
to the Wemic, so used to things being small and easily understood. It made
sense that even if he now knew just how vast the world -was-, that it didn't
truly matter - All that mattered is that he did his best at any given
moment, gave of himself in hundreds of tiny instances that would some day
add up to something greater than himself.

Each day that passed, he trained - the movements of the new style of combat
mingling with each of the lessons he learned. You had to be fluid, you had
to adapt, you had to change. You could not rely on always moving forward,
sometimes you had to take a step back. Most importantly, there were battles
you were not going to win. But you had to try, you had to fight for the
greater good even if it meant your death. The last thought was one that
clung to the Wemic like a second skin, fulfilled that dream of some sort of
higher calling, a true reason for existing. He was *not* special, he was
*not*, somehow more important than others, he had to protect those who were.
He had to protect the ideas they represented. He had to give them the
chance to do great things.

It gave him peace, as it suffused through All of his other thoughts: Love
was for others, he had to ensure that they found peace and tenderness in
this world. Friendship was for others, he had to ensure that they survived
no matter what. Glory was for others, he had to ensure they could claim
such. It All made sense, it All made him -proud-. He could see the faces
of those who waited for him, he could see how happy they would be and how he
would smile and remain at their side. He could see how they would be happy,
oblivious to the sacrifices that had to be made - and that was what warmed
him the most.

With every battle fought, with every lecture given, the Wemic saw it more
clearly. And when it was time for him to depart once more, he gazed out
upon the sea and knew then. He knew that there would only ever be that
warmth, so long as he could keep others safe. So long as he could give
others what they needed.

There was no greater honor than to give of himself.




Writer: Falric

Date Sun Dec 18 13:36:24 2016

To Knighthood All ( Immortal Storyline Iocaste )

Subject Back to Basics


It had been a long time since he had returned to the forbidden archives.

It was a nice place, really, if a bit musty. So very few knew of its real
location, so few had passed the trials, had proven their wits enough to join
the fraternity. He, himself, was not terribly special, in his own opinion.
It had been a stroke of luck that had laid bare the cipher, and the wealth
of knowledge that was opened up to him was nothing short of overwhelming. A
history of the Knighthood, a history of the ancient Order, of Serpantol, of
so many things. It was staggering, really. Who could be faulted if he had
not digested everything on his first few visits? Who could blame him if he
had missed something? Even if it was something important...

'Hmm.. Let's see.... Serpent's Eye... History of the Chancel.. ' The
young Inquisitor murmured to himself as he traversed the musty shelves,
climbing on a rickety ladder in the dead of night. A pair of dusty
leather-bound tomes were already tucked under one arm, and his precarious
balance was aided only by the narrowness of the ancient shelves. With
caution, Falric picked his way down the thin rungs of the ladder, ignoring
the creak that seemed deafening in the erstwhile silence. Nobody would ever
consider coming down this far to find him, and he had been, as ever, careful
not to be followed. The time that he had felt guilty about keeping these
secrets had passed, as long as it had lasted. A glimpse at the information
available to him had assuaged his doubts. He knew the gravity of the
knowledge contained here, important only to few, and to be entrusted to even
fewer.

For now, there had to be something here to his benefit.

Finding a small study table, barely better than an end table, Falric
situated himself on a simple stool, reaching out to touch the ornate staff
that leaned against the end of the bookshelf adjacent to him. A murmured
prayer was sufficient to cast a small light from the tips of the angel wings
that topped his staff, giving him enough gentle, subtle luminescence to read
by. With deliberate care, he cracked open one book, then the other,
steeling himself for a long night...

'Mmmerph.. That's... Wait a minute.. ' It had only been a couple of
hours, by his imprecise reckoning, but already his eyes had started to drift
shut. It was exhausting, poring over the archaic vernacular of the older
tome. It was a chore, comparing the knowledge from one era to another's,
but the need was great enough that he had undertaken the trip back into the
brotherhood's sanctuary. It seemed, too, that his labor had been rewarded.
The young Inquisitor's face lit up as he glanced from one book, then the
other, 'That's.. The Chancel's work is All wrong! ' He glanced at his
staff, still patiently glowing in the dark, 'I don't know what happened..
Maybe someone couldn't translate, but.. No wonder nobody could figure out
how to swing a stick. The stance is All wrong, the forms, the angles..
'

He stood up, dropping a thin sheaf of parchment, hastily scribbled with his
own notes, into the ancient tome of Serpantol, picking up the newer tome of
the Chancel and turning back to his shelf. This would change everything
about the Confessors' practices. The original attempt to marry the form and
stylings of the Monks of the Serpent's Eye and the Tenets and the Order of
Knighthood had been noble, but riddled with flaws, at least in the martial
aspects. With some hard work, some effort expended correcting his own
behaviors, he could teach the others as well.

Replacing the tome back on the shelf, Falric returned to his staff, picking
it up with an almost mournful look. It was a beautiful piece of work, but
almost entirely unsuited for the sort of work that was to come. It was time
to return to the basics, to humble beginnings, to a fresh start. The
Inquisitor took up his tome and his staff and made his way back to his own
quarters, smiling. He only hoped that it would be enough.




Writer: Shogath

Date Sun Dec 18 20:42:51 2016




Writer: Loe'pan

Date Sun Dec 18 22:17:20 2016




Writer: Loe'pan

Date Mon Dec 19 10:01:20 2016




Writer: Marina

Date Tue Dec 20 12:08:13 2016




Writer: Loe'pan

Date Tue Dec 20 15:28:39 2016




Writer: Karden

Date Tue Dec 20 17:37:08 2016




Writer: Karden

Date Tue Dec 20 17:40:54 2016




Writer: Karden

Date Tue Dec 20 17:43:07 2016




Writer: Loe'pan

Date Wed Dec 21 09:41:32 2016




Writer: Loe'pan

Date Wed Dec 21 09:49:14 2016




Writer: Kulek

Date Wed Dec 21 23:01:34 2016




Writer: Thzad

Date Thu Dec 22 09:43:44 2016

To All RP Imm Kyri

Subject A day on Pub Row



Thzad walked down Pub Row, his boots muddied from much travel. He turned
into On Tap and sat down at his reserved seat at the bar.

The barmaid asked the Thane "What kin I get ye?" Thzad replied "Me usual"

The barmaid proceeded to pour a massive flagon on ale and two glasses of a
brown liquid. The barmaid put a glass of the liquid in front of the Thane
and herself and began pouring another flagon. Then they both drank the
brown liquid and she smashed the first flagon over the Thane's head. The
Thane laughed and yelled "OY! THAT'S WHAT AH NEEDED!"

The barmaid then handed the Thane the second flagon and he took a deep
drought from it. The barmaid than proceeded to set a placemat and utensils
and brought plate after plate out for the Thane, and the Thane invited other
dwarves in the pub to share his food and ale, and a great throng of dwarves
joined in the merryment.

Eventually, as these things go among dwarves on pub row someone got into an
argument, and then some other dwarf threw an axe. These things happen.

It was late in the wee hours when other dwarves started leaving "On Tap" on
Pub Row. A wain of wheelbarrows began to form as dwarves would set their
drunken mates into the wheelbarrows to cart them home. Thane Thzad was
still ordering drinks and food for others when the barmaid told him she
would hit him with something sharper if he would not leave, and the Thane,
being no fool, obliged her.

Upon Pub Row, dwarves were not cast out because it wss closing time, the
Taverns on Pub Row never closed, it was just the dwarves who ran the pubs
got tired of you and kicked you out. Of course that meant half drunk
dwarves wound up walking about and invariably picking fights, as dwarves who
drunkenly bump into each other are wont to do.




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:41:16 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:43:50 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:46:38 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:49:00 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:51:41 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:54:00 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:56:11 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 17:59:20 2016




Writer: Corron

Date Thu Dec 22 18:01:23 2016




Writer: Wrenpip

Date Fri Dec 23 01:13:31 2016




Writer: Zola

Date Fri Dec 23 06:38:11 2016

To All Bloodlust Abaddon Darkonin Verminasia Immortals Fatale

Subject X Banishment of a Renegade X


It was a day unlike any other.

Perhaps a touch unusual that the Warlord was taking to the field with them,
but Zola welcomed the presence of his old ally, particularly given how rough
the field was, and how popular a target he had become of late. Everyone
wanted to tear apart the Minions of Bloodlust, and it was rare anyone was
targetted more than Zola himself.

They feared him, clearly.

When his efforts were in vain in the encounter, the killers returned to the
Dungeon. The Warlord was in a decided foul mood, fur on the back of his
neck standing up as he berated Zola for what he felt was costing them the
encounter with his reckless fighting. Perhaps unwisely, Zola snapped back
that if the Warlord didn't care for it, he should show up more to aid the
Dungeon, not critique one of its few remaining, loyal members.

Zola stepped up to the Dungeon entrance, perhaps half a step behind the
Warlord Ferg and the others. His injuries were slowing him down, but he
bore them without complaint. He would heal in time. But when he stepped up
to the gate, the porticullus slammed down, almost right in his face.
Warlord Ferg glared at him from the other side as the masked visage of Zola
tilted in confusion, his hooded head and posture conveying his surprise,
even if his mask hid it from view.

"This has been a long time coming, Zola. Begone."

He turned away, leaving the Deathscythe behind. For half a moment he
registered what had become of him, then gave a shrug and turned, his cloak
sweeping behind him ominously as he departed for his lair.

He did not need the Dungeon. He had managed quite well enough on his own in
the past few weeks, he would continue to manage well enough on his own for
the remainder of his time in the field. Zola would continued the hallowed
work of Fatale.




Writer: Sierus

Date Fri Dec 23 22:18:30 2016

To Abaddon Zola All ( Imm RP )

Subject The Bargain pt. VII


The slowly shifting mists of the swamp were nearly mesmerizing, forcing
concentration from the youth as he sat maintaining alertness over the faint
trail. The second night of his ambush attempt offering little in the way of
success. The usual noises, smells and sights remained undisturbed apart
from the occasional fleeting images found in the mists. He'd grown used to
the visions somehow trapped within the mists as though time held no sway.
Though the images were often vivid, they lacked the feel of reality, the
presence he felt in the here and now. Visions such as the one playing out
before him now.

Three men, moving in what they considered stealth, crept slowly along the
old path though the metallic rasp of the outdated brass scale of their armor
and clumbsy footfalls would have alerted sleepiest of bog beasts to their
passage. What they sought or hoped to avoid was unknown, though it was
evident to him they were in a state of unease with their surroundings.
Their combined lack of stealth was rewarded as he knew it would be, but not
by the usual dangers. The hand axe which flew to set itself in the upper
back of the last in line was the only warning to proceed the deadly force
which sprang into their midst. Crashing into the victim to speed his fall,
the leather clad wraith met the rising blade of the second with another hand
axe and a twist saw the blade whirl from grasp before the return stroke
found the exposed neck in a shower of arterial spray. The third had time
for a single note of alarm from his raised horn before a coppery axe sent
him thrashing to the ground, clawing at his cloven face.

Quickly retrieving the axes and dispatching those who yet stirred, the
ominous figure turned to face the sound of his approaching enemies when the
pair of arrows arrived. The first to skip harmlessly across his armored
shoulder, but the second to bury itself within the inside of his thigh. As
the pair of archers emerged, bows at the ready, the first suffered a misstep
particular to the swamps as his leg was shattered and torn away at the thigh
by the bog beast he trod upon. The wounded warrior seized the confusion to
hurl himself upon the second, hacking in a frenzy of crude butchery. His
gutteral victory cry was cut short, as he looked down to see the broken
shaft which had turned within his leg and the heavy crimson gush that spoke
of doom.

A faltering crawl was All the strength he had left could muster to finally
prop himself against the twisted roots of a tree. For an instant the youth
almost felt the man's dying gaze settle on him within his concealment. The
moving lips carried no sound to his ears and with a final twisting of the
mist, the scene faded leaving no sign of the struggle he witnessed. The
ground had changed from what he had seen, as the swamp was wont to do, ever
shifting, but there stood a tree upon the same spot. A tree differing in
appearance, but similar in a fashion. It was a curiosity he pondered as he
sat, and longer yet the day to follow after ending his vigil and returning
within the walls for his scheduled duties.




Writer: Iocaste

Date Tue Dec 27 15:17:20 2016

To All Gray_Church ( Immortal Roleplay )

Subject Kender Meditation Techniques - Part 1



It was a decidedly boring day in the Gray Temple--well, the Gray Church,
if the Kender's parlance weren't used, despite the events of the day only
having to do with the Kender. Her little world probably seemed like
something a bit foreign to a lot of people; her way of life and vocabulary
and even just every other little detail possibly, -probably- seeming to
contrast so directly with the various impressions many of her kind had left
in the minds of those who had spent time around them, interacting with them
or observing them. Altogether though, when it came down to it, she was just
a typical Kender the same as All the others, with All the innate traits and
quirks of a typical Kender, though with a special personality All of her
own.

And the temple was just an ordinary temple, though more trafficed than most.
Except today. Today, the Gray Church's temple was especially empty, with
very few travellers taking to the pillows or making use of the Kender's
services. She always felt times like this were the most bland. She loved
company, loved to talk, loved sharing tea even with strangers, and she
especially loved doing whatever she could to keep her little corner of the
world cheerful in whichever ways she could manage. When it came to days
like this, quiet ones, ones where people didn't rely on her for company or
help, it always felt a little empty to her. Not just the temple, but the
day itself.

So, with some strange mixture of reluctance and determination, she set her
dustpan and broom aside and, with a resolute dusting of her hands, set forth
toward the library, through it and to the temple's gardens. Today was a
special day with just the right abundance of boredom in the air. She'd
actually been waiting for it, and almost anxiously. A little glance was
given over her slender shoulder just before rounding the corner into the
gardens, just a last peek as if to make sure the empty temple were still
empty, which it certainly was.

She padded leisurely through the carefully tended gardens, past All the rare
and delicate flowering plants and herbs, and down the path. She'd picked
this spot out on a whim, realizing how perfect it was only after visiting it
a thousand times prior, usually in the company of her friends. She'd
actually sat just in the spot she intended to sit this time, too, so she
could vouch for the soft, comfortable qualities of the grass underfoot, in
the shade of the giant, ancient tree which she'd once been warned felar
lived in. She actually still wasn't sure whether it was true or not, but
she distinctly knew that she'd never seen any furry tails hanging down from
the branches, at least not yet.

She gave her surroundings the briefest of inspections, a quick glance to her
left, to her right, green eyes sweeping over the lush scenery laid out in
the shade of the tree, and then a more lingering glance over her shoulder as
if to assure herself that the state of the day's boringness still hadn't
changed. Ahh, nope. Nobody had followed her. With that, she settled down
cross-legged.




Writer: Iocaste

Date Tue Dec 27 15:20:52 2016

To All Gray_Church ( Immortal Roleplay )

Subject Kender Meditation Techniques - Part 2



She wasn't entirely sure how this All worked, but she had a good idea.
You sit, and think. Don't think too hard, but don't think too little,
either. It's fine to fidget, she knew that much, and it was good to know,
too, because it wasn't like she could help it. The hardest part of learning
to meditate, probably, was really just the "being alone." It was a thought
that was hard for the Kender to enjoy, but she was determined to endure it.
It really wasn't so bad.

If anyone had peeked in, if the temple weren't so empty, they'd see her
there, sitting in the shade of that tree with her legs crossed, her hands
folded on her lap, her gaze studying the natural tones and textures of the
giant tree's bark. They'd see her fidgeting occasionally, squirming a
shoulder, maybe even scratching a cheek, or pretending to as she sometimes
did. Yet, within the Kender herself, she was invested in her thoughts, the
entire myriad of them. Unsortable, but still very categorical.

Strangest thing, but the whole idea was to learn to focus. Yet, from what
she'd learned, the entire process of learning to focus generally seemed to
involve "not focusing," instead opting to let her thoughts roam as they'd
like, simply accepting them, but not lingering on them. She wasn't actually
sure if this was really a method adopted by the Snake Temple--the Temple of
the Serpent's Eye--or its esteemed monks, but her overtly thorough research
had lead her to believe that it just might be.

It was something to try, at least. Whether or not the monks taught it this
way, maybe it'd help her. Maybe it was the right way just for her, just one
of many practical techniques that she could exercise herself, for herself,
without relying on the old monk guildmaster explicitly. Controlling that
ancient energy coursing through her body, something which was simply
"another part of herself--" If she could become a better person, better at
her art, then she'd endure this. Somehow, in some way, it seemed to suit
her.

So, she sat, and she thought, and she glanced around. She shifted
restlessly on the grass and fidgeted, All alone. But she didn't give up.
She'd promised herself that the only urge that should drive her away from
this would be the calling of a good cup of tea when the time felt right for
it or, at any point, the calls for assistance that travellers and
adventurers might have.

If someone had continued watching, they'd see her more relaxed, more
content. Thinking of ancient powers and tea, and the comfort of knowing
that later, not right now, her company would be appreciated in the main
chambers of the temple. Meditating wasn't so bad.




Writer: Kulek

Date Wed Dec 28 00:28:53 2016




Writer: Hillunirower

Date Wed Dec 28 13:17:59 2016




Writer: Kulek

Date Thu Dec 29 17:06:55 2016




Writer: Erebaal

Date Thu Dec 29 21:46:08 2016

To All Chaos ( Immortal Religion Storyline Scorn Malachive )

Subject Rumination



Silence.

The halls of the Warp had known it for so long that the absence of it had
been almost jarring, at first. The growth of the Champions of Chaos had
always been sporadic. Painstaking leaps forward followed by gradual
regression. It was a wearisome cycle, one that saw one out of a handful of
prospective Champions become true lieutenants, the rest fading into
obscurity.

It seemed that things were changing.

The armored behemoth of a man stood in silence, the midnight hours of the
Warp finally allowing him a measure of solitude as he stood in the great
hall dominating his fortress. Before him sat an edifice. A monolith. An
entity. A keystone. A gateway. It was his charge and his ward. It was
his strength and his calling. It was the embodiment of his will and he, the
vessel of its own. A black stare peered out from the leering eyeholes of
his metal mask, his face hidden even amongst his followers. To them, he was
more than a man. To them, he was a harbinger. A leader. An avatar. He
had become larger than life by his exploits and his rhetoric, and he led
with that impossible charm into the hopeless crusade he had set down before
them.

Deep in his ruminations, he paid no heed to the hour. Only the dull rasp of
his iron claws scraping across the uneven surface of the Thing before him
interrupted the stillness. His metal talons traced patterns of fresh blood
against the surface of the Thing, meaningless to him but on a subconscious
level. The ranks of the Warp's warriors had swollen rapidly in recent days,
but the growth of these new recruits were... Stunted. Tainted. Truly
corrupted, without mastery over the Warp's influence as those he had named
brother in years past. They were blighted. Maimed. Disfigured. Cursed.
He gazed upon them and knew of their agonies and knew of their fates. It
was plain to any with the eyes to see. His was a hopeless crusade, a
suicidal charge into the End of All Things. Such a goal would require
sacrifices. Fanatics. Zealots to charge into the endless bodies and blades
arrayed against him. He had received them, these lost souls. They had
found their way to his banner, but they were not the Champions he sought.

The line of his jaw hardened as the truth of it rankled. His warrior's
pride festered at the back of his thoughts, the madness of a butcher and the
pride of a fighter meeting to reject the notion even as the Leader of Men,
the Everchosen of Chaos admired the simplicity of the notion. Those who
obeyed him now had nothing to lose. They were dying, to a man. Faster than
the rest of them, even. They would fight with the strength of ten. Of
twenty. They would take many with them into the Abyss, and clear the way
for his Champions to bring more ruin before the Gods were moved to intercede
on the behalf of their creations.

But then...

The Everchosen let his armored hand fall to his side, dark ichor dripping to
the floor near his boots. The ranks of the truly Chosen were sparse yet.
Those who had endured the trials to their greatest extent. Who had survived
without the stigma of the body. Without cursed half-lives. Those he could
trust numbered fewer yet. He had not become a warlord on Icewall through
his free trust. He had not become the Everchosen through his foolish whims.
Those he could give his will unto were a paltry lot.

He needed more.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Thu Dec 29 22:05:48 2016

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Religion Scorn Malachive )

Subject Departure I


Gorlend Warpeye hammered another piece of metal together as his
assistants brought the next out of the forge. The head of this ram had
proven to be a challenge, one that his dwarven sensibilities relished as he
armed the Chaotic war machine. The Everchosen's ambitions were infectious,
spreading throughout his fortress like a plague. The zeal with which he
bellowed his rhetoric. The fearlessness with which he lead- not as a
general, dictating from the rear, but as a warlord, cutting out the hearts
of his enemies and leaving his furious horde to tear apart the remainder-
had awoken a lust for battle as like he had never known serving Raije back
in Thaxanos.

Now the Warp prepared for war, on a scale unlike any that the Tropican
fortress had ever known previously. It kept his hammer-arm busy, and his
assistants were in from dawn til dusk, though his passion for the forge led
him to be there long before their arrival and still hammering out his works
after they had left. There was something about the Warp that twisted the
notion of limitation. That inspired a sense of greatness, no matter how
abhorrent, how terrible the vision of its Everchosen. To be a part of that
was a forbidden joy. To create works of destruction that would rival any of
Raije's was to declare a challenge of his own, that he could stand on equal
footing as any forgesmith of the False Pantheon. The dwarf grinned his
manic grin as he hammered the last rivets into place, leaning back to admire
the ram's head. Tomorrow, they would bring in the logs to form the body of
the device, and affix it to is frame in the coming weeks. The first sign of
the end for many would be this fiendish visage reducing their fortress gates
to splinters before the slaughter began in earnest.

He had barely begun to wipe the sweat from his brow when the metronomic thud
of a familiar gate jarred him from his stool, turning to the entrance to his
subterranean forge. Through the dancing light of the torches and the smoke
from his flame, the shadow cast by the approaching figure was colossal, yet
twisted. Demonic and warped beyond the dimensions of mortality. Even when
the Everchosen had come into sight properly, the impression was hard to
dispel, his hulking figure bound in mail that any layperson would recognize.
His had become an infamous image, the very picture of the evil the world
abhorred. He had become something worse than the Darkness. Something far
greater and yet far more terrible.

'E'erchosen. Nae offin yeh come ta visit. Yer arm'r needin' tendin'? Ah
could 'ear yeh comin' from tha other end o' tha Warp.
' His familiar manner
was a rare concession granted by the warlord who gazed upon his works, his
face shrouded in the cowled helm that had become his public face. Even most
of the Warp's own had only seen his face under greatest duress, or, in
Gorlend's case, when it had been damaged so badly as to be unsuitable until
it had undergone repair. His keen eye already registered the many scars of
battle his masterwork had received. Pieces of patchwork failing and new
wounds poorly-mended to serve for another day. It would set his other work
back for a week, at least, but he could restore this to something like new
without much fuss.

'You are correct, dwarfin. ' The blunt answer was almost a surprise. There
was almost never a straight answer from the surprisingly-poetic warrior.
Gorlend had wondered in the midst of his work what kind of man it took to
become a soul like the Everchosen, but had dismissed the notion as beyond
his ken as the shape of his projects took form beneath his gnarled hands.
Now, the question returned as he looked up at his lord, who began to divest
himself of his shrouding armor. Allowing it to fall to the smithy's floor
with a great clatter as the heavy plates slammed to the earth.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Thu Dec 29 22:22:01 2016

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Religion Scorn Malachive )

Subject Departure II


Even without his armor, the Everchosen cut an imposing figure. His
physique had been twisted, as so many others of the Warp, but the
grotesquery of his form lent him an overbearing physicality. He was muscle
and might, unyielding and uncompromising. Even clad in the leathers and
linen that he wore beneath his armor, there was little doubt as to the
danger he posed. Even as his weapons rested upon the anvils and racks
around him, his lethality went unchallenged.

Last to be removed was that infernal helm, revealing the face weathered by
the burdens borne by the man. Gorlend did not know how old the Everchosen
truly was, though he imagined it to be in the thirties. Middling age by
human years, and yet the ravages of his corruption and the unending
conflict, the war he waged against the entirety of mortalkind and the
heavens beside had added another ten to his features. His hair had
prematurely greyed and hung lank around his head, falling onto his broad
shoulders and down past his neck, giving him a feral aspect as his gaze
found the dwarf once more. 'I require a replacement set. Something that
shall suffice for my journey.
'

The dwarf eyed the Everchosen dubiously, hiding his surprise behind
curmudgeonly surliness, 'Whot? Yer jus' gonna take off like tha'? Yeh've
got new recruits comin' in by the day an' yer jus' takin' a holiday, s'at
et?
' Even as he bantered, his keen mind raced through the inventory of his
supplies. There were suits of armor that could be altered to fit, made more
for a half-ogre's frame. In many ways, it was a perfect fit, though in
some, the Everchosen managed to surpass even those measurements, just from
the casual glance as Gorlend spun his armorer's hammer between his
forefinger and thumb, 'Ah'll need tonight ta get sommat readae, E'erchosen.
Ah know yeh unnerstand. Yer armor's always demandin' on tha forge ta get
right, an' Ah'll not 'ave ya droppin' dead from an arrow er an angry mob
where'er yer takin' yer break. Weapons too, Ah assume? Whot cin Ah get fer
yeh? Swords? Axe? Maybe e'en a hammer fer yeh? Throw 'em off yer scent a
bit, aye?
'

The Everchosen's lip curled at the dwarf as he crossed the smithy himself,
to the gloomy racks that dominated an entire wall of the great metalworks.
A warhammer found its way to his hand, its head unadorned by any of the
common motifs of Chaos- a weapon still incomplete, by his reckoning. It
would serve. 'Have the armor brought to me by dawn. I will return by the
time that your work is complete. Do not mistake me, dwarfin. This is no
leisure. You know better than to assume it so. The men who come to you now
for arms and armor, who answer to me now are merely an impermanent solution.
They are limited and they are insufficient to carry out my will.
'

Gorlend gave a sardonic smile as he nodded and hopped from his stool, making
his way to one of the silent dummies on the periphery of his forge, pulling
one of the gauntlets off to inspect its measurements, 'Oh, aye. Ah cin tell
tha' a few o' em got et bad. Barely cin stand, some of 'em. An' so where
are yeh goin' that'll 'ave tha sorta men yeh seek?
'

The Everchosen gave the dwarf a dark look, one devoid of humor, of anger, of
pride. 'I shall take what I need from the heart of where talent once
flourished and withered. I will pull my soldiers from the depths of a
soldier's paradise, now a soldier's hell. Hurry with my armor, smith, for
on the morrow, I make for Fort Ironclad.
'




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Dec 30 03:13:22 2016

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Return I


Winter had settled across Algoron and obscured the heavens with thick,
dark clouds filled with the promise of snow and other unpleasant weather.
Early morning dawn painted the sky in an eerie shade of blood while a
permeating mist danced over a frost-laden ground. Frigid gusts of air
skittered across the land like ephemeral predatory creatures on the prowl
with the only sign of their passing being the displacement of debris and
decaying foliage. It was the kind of morning that farmers and villagers
stayed in their beds a little longer and stoked the fires a little higher.

Near the southern reaches of Arkane, just west of the marauding Fort of
Ironclad, a single imposing figure appeared upon the rise of low hill.
Mounted upon a sturdy horse of mottled colors that were better suited for
blending with the rugged and snow-capped fields of the north the figure
paused their mount at the hill's crest and gazed down upon the Fort with
eyes as bleak as the weather. Crystallized breath spilled past thin lips
and billowed in great plumes from the nostrils of the warhorse as rider and
mount paused.

The Fort sprawled out before them like a stone colossus that had fallen to
the earth centuries ago. At one time the massive beast had glared outward
upon the word with life; it's forges had burned at All hours to fill the air
with its molten breath and endless plumes of black smoke. The colossus had
groaned endlessly with the cadence of soldiers training and sparring, and
with the preparation of great machines of war. Life and purpose had
burgeoned within the hefty fortress as All manner of man and beast had
united to serve the great will of the God of Competition and Arms, the
patron of Conquest and Might.

Now, the colossus slumbered a deep sleep. The light of the forges had
faded, the breath gone from its bellows, and the walls and corridors had
been abandoned by its sentries. There was no sound of machinery, no strain
of mortals seeking to ever improve and test themselves. There existed no
sign of the greatness that had been and could be again for those that gazed
upon the ancient stone walls overgrown with vines and lichen.

Still, an echo remained. A single spark that only needed a proper fuel
source to kindle a new blaze - one that would arise higher and burn brighter
and longer than those of the past.

What that fire would provide - creation or consumption - would yet be
determined.

With a low click of their tongue and pressure from their legs, the rider
urged the warhorse forward and it responded by moving forward and down the
hill toward the Fort. The quiet jangle of harness was met by the whisper of
metal on metal as well tended armor shifted with each of the horse's steps.
As they rounded the great walls and approached the gate a half sleeping
sentry roused himself to a proper stand and tightened the grip on his awl
before leveling the tip toward rider and mount.

"Halt!" cried the sentry. "Declare yourself and your business!"




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Dec 30 03:18:29 2016

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Return II


Orson Longfellow was not a coward of a man. Close to his mid-forties, he
was aging, but tempered by his long years with the Marauders. His father
before him had been a soldier and his father's father had been a miner.
They were a line of big, burly men that enjoyed fist fights and womanizing
and were often accused of being bullish or stubborn, but they were loyal,
too. Didn't know a lot about fear or backing down from a fight no matter
the odds. Or the reason, really. That was one of the reasons they liked to
put him as a gate guard.

This morning, as he leveled his awl toward the approaching figure, he felt
the first real tingle of fear in his spine.

The horse's gait was slow and powerful, muscles rippling beneath a glossy
and dappled hide that reminded him of snow on the pitch of a blacksmith's
hut. The horse was a beauty and likely worth a noble's ransome, but what
caught Orson was the figure atop the steed. Wrapped in a thick cloak of
black bear hide with a deep cowl casting shadows over their face, the figure
was elsewise garbed in midnight plate armor. Etchings and rivets within the
pieces confounded his eyes and made it hard to focus on any one part of the
stranger, but he squinted and tried to focus. The figure was tall but lean
beneath the bulk of the armor; their posture was beyond confidence or
typical pride. Purpose exuded from them, and malice. A very palpable aura
of dread swirled about rider and steed, complicated by the freezing
temperatures of the chilled air.

They kept coming. Slow and steady. Unhurried. A force of nature that was
inevitable and inexorable as a raging storm, or death. The powerful horse
snorted and a great plume of frosted air poured from it's nostrils. For a
moment, Orson feared that perhaps he was facing one of the Four Riders and
his courage waned.

Wetting his lips, he called again while tightening the grip on his awl.

"State your business, Stranger, or the way will be barred and you'll face
the might of the Army of Fort Ironclad!
"

This time, the figure tilted their head ever so slightly. Just out of range
of a thrust of his awl, the dappled warhorse came to a halt, stamping a hoof
against the worn ground as if irritated at the hindrence to its forward
progression. Orson felt his heart race as a gauntlet clad hand, the
fingertips ornately worked to appear like the claws of a great beast, rose
and pushed back a side of the cloak. A moment later, he snapped to
attention.

"Lieutenant! Beg your pardon, sir! "

"Carry on, Corporal. "

Orson hurried to rap on the gate and holler to the sentries up above that it
was clear and to open the gate as another tingle of fear gripped his spine
in a hard fist. The voice that had come from beneath the hood was cold as
ice and just as hard, laced with the clip of someone who was used to control
and being obeyed without question. As the heavy bar was shifted from inside
and the gate was opened wide the cloaked Lieutenant urged their warhorse
forward once more. In their passing, a long shadow fell over Orson and with
it, a deep chill.

He was not a superstitious man, but as he gazed at the black-clad form that
rode into the Fort, he felt a sense of change in the air - a premonition
that he had just witnessed a moment of when history would forever be
altered. A brief vision of glorious battles and a pay raise, which meant
more mead and womean, danced in Orson's head and a big grin spread over his
lips and missing tooth. The Fort was long overdue for some excitement and
maybe the Lieutenant's return would herald just that.

It was about time.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Dec 30 03:20:41 2016

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Return III


As Aeriset guided her stallion toward the stables, she looked at the
buildings and the people that she passed. Most of them skittered out of the
way - those that remained were beaten down by life and unused to the vision
of the imposing rider in black. Her warhorse snorted impatiently now and
then as she guided him along the broad and refuse-filled corridors. While
her eyes, hidden within the darkness of helm and cowl, studied the world
that the Fort had become, her mind wandered lightly.

When she had departed for a long sojourn in order to pursue her training and
to better learn about the world the Fort had been in a stable place.
Soldiers had moved about with purpose and there had been regular drills and
activity from the Officers. Slowly, but with apparentness, the Army of the
god of War had begun to awaken. In a world ripe for an explosion of
alliances, betrayals, and conflict, the Fort had been poised to chose a side
once All the players had been revealed.

What happened in her absence, she could not be sure.

Regardless of what had happened, it no longer mattered. The original Army
had risen from nothing, and if that was the challenge to be presented now,
so be it. What was certain was that the current Highlord had failed. A
change in leadership was past due.

Entering the stables, Aeriset slid from the back of her warhorse and chased
away the stablehand. She did not know the boy, and until her personal
things were removed from the saddlebags and she saw to the beast the first
time, no other would touch him. He had cost her quite a bit. Not in coin,
certainly, for there were better ways to earn that which you desired and the
nobleman had been quite pleased that the firbolg terrorizing his settlement
had been cleared. Even so, his prized warhorse was a steep price and she
had watched him squirm as he tried to offer other things, but in her travels
a horse had become necessary and once she and the beast had become used to
one another she rather liked him. He was a vicious sort and still tried to
kick or bite her from time to time. That spirit would serve him well in the
future.

Later in the day, Aeriset had finished an on-foot patrol of the battlements
and the city. Everywhere she had gone she had seen a sagging of the spirit.
People busied themselves simply to be busy, the day-to-days an attempt to
stave off a loss of hope and true purpose. Every last soul that resided
within the Fort served Raije. No others were accepted. Not priests of
other gods that wanted to visit for holy or unholy pilgrimages, not
refugees, not friends or family that served another deity. It was Raije's
Army, but Raije had been quiet for a long time. There were no leaders any
longer - only those that served in other capacities. The bartenders, the
vendors, the wives and husbands of soldiers that helped in the forges or the
clinics in times of war. The Fort was slowly turning into a cesspit and
that was entirely unacceptable.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Dec 30 03:23:12 2016

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Return IV


After the sun set, Aeriset sat down at an empty long table with a cold
meal and a glass of not-quite-stale mead. Also in her possession was a thin
stack of parchment, quill, and vial of ink. She was not a person of many
words, nor did she like to speak in eloquence when that could lead to a
misunderstanding. No, she prefered to be blunt and to the point and with as
much brevity as possible. As she ate, she selected a single sheaf of
parchment and scrawled no more than a handful of words. Then, she beckoned
an errand boy and paid him thrice over what his efforts would be worth,
watching the greedy glint in his eye as he stashed the gold into his money
bag.

"You will have copies made and they will be delivered to the world, " she
ordered.

"Yes, Sir, Lieutenant. Anything else? " the boy asked. He grinned from
ear to ear, clearly eager to earn further coin from what he mistakenly
assumed was a generous person. He was entirely wrong. The gold was merely
to assure that the job was done right, and quickly.

"That will be all. "

After a brief look of disappointment, the messenger ran off to do as
instructed and Aeriset drained the last of her mead before gazing into the
fire she had built herself within the hearth. There, in the empty dining
hall, Aeriset did the one thing she thought she never would have.

"Raije, if you hear me, then ken that your Army's leaders have failed. This
is Your chance to stop me. If You do not, then a new Army will be raised
where the old one fell and the world will not know what struck until it is
too late, so mark my word,
" she prayed.

Then, she rose, bathed herself, and read the messages of the realm until it
was time to retire. The amount of work to be done was daunting and would
require allies and new souls willing to sacrifice much for the glory of
their Lord, but she was determined to see her vision come to fruition and
she knew exactly where to start.




Writer: Vadol

Date Fri Dec 30 22:43:15 2016




Writer: Vadol

Date Fri Dec 30 22:45:40 2016




Writer: Vadol

Date Fri Dec 30 22:48:52 2016




Writer: Vadol

Date Fri Dec 30 22:50:50 2016




Writer: Vadol

Date Fri Dec 30 22:53:13 2016




Writer: Kaelowyth

Date Sat Dec 31 15:41:33 2016

To All ( Religion Roleplay Mencius )

Subject Blood and Water



The Elf stormed through the gates of his keep, the thralls eying him
wordlessly as though well-versed in their master's moods to know that
discretion was the better part of valor in this case. His boots clicked
feverishly upon the cobbles and limestone floors until he at long last
reached his study. Flinging the doors wide open, he did not bother to close
them behind him - yet nevertheless, the broad doors closed without so much
as a sound.

He knew that the anger was not wholly his, as if something were -forcing-
him to feel it, incepting it within his thoughts. Afterall, was such not
the reason he did not interact with many? Afterall, was such not the whole
reason he had purposefully avoided 'family' All of these years? Was it
truly such a stretch to believe then, that this was simply vindication of
those decisions? Or, would it have come to light anyways?

Sibling rivalry aside, the Elf knew this was a serious matter and cursed
himself for even facilitating it. Perhaps it was self-destructive behavior,
or perhaps it All tied back to the research he had done upon gaining access
to the realms beyond this one - to find a way 'home'. Carefully laid plans
were now dashed, and of course, he had to solve the now incipient issue of
what to do with his brother and his soon-to-be protege. Did he dare care
what the young one even thought? Why should he, these were centuries-old
games. All that changed was what was now at stake. His life, or his
brother's.

Swiping a scale-covered fist across his work-table, the Elf cursed beneath
his breath - nothing was ever simple, no matter how much he tried. The
anger rose through him, bubbling through tiny cracks in the composed facade
until he could almost feel the white hot rage warm his face. It wasn't
until he looked down that he noticed the tiny droplets of blood - an errant
shard of something having pierced the less-protected palm of his hand. A
funny thing, blood was. It gave both life and death, it caused so much
strife in this world - as there was so much importance attributed to having
the right kind.

The voices whispered at the back of his mind, doing their best to assure and
assuage the Elf that the blood was no more important than he would let it
be. That All he had to do was give in and surrender control, that -then-
all would be well. Of course he knew better, he knew that -those- thoughts
were not entirely his, and while he reveled in the heat of the passionate
anger and the thought of removing the perpetual thorn in his side that was
his brother, he knew that he could not act rashly.

It was All laid out so simply and clearly in his mind now. Without anything
to hold him back and with perhaps just a little bit more power, he could
finally escape. The goal would be his, if only. If only he let go.




Writer: Betha

Date Sat Dec 31 23:38:06 2016

To All Wargar Thaxanos Immortal RP Cliath

Subject Preparing for Chaos



A cold breeze blew across the mountain. It's motion was gentle and the
snow that swirled along with it gave Cliath's lands a beauty that seemed
magical. It also carried a frigid bite that went deep beneath one's armor.
As Betha stepped outside, She shivered. It wasn't the cold this time
though.

Something else was afoot. Betha could feel it. Something evil and vile
that was brewing.

Turning in the direction of Tropica, Betha's eyes narrowed and she wondered
what plans hatched in the halls of Chaos. Their numbers were growing, only
a fool wouldn't have noticed and she had heard rumors of attempts to recruit
more. The godless people had been mostly silent but no longer were. It
meant something - but what? Chaos needed to be watched. Their plans needed
to be known. They must not succeed!

She wasn't surprised when she got word from Shalonesti for a meeting with
the elder Shalonost. Both had seen the signs and both agreed there was a
foreboding of death and destruction that the new generations must take
seriously. All wars needed to remain but All focus turned on Chaos whenever
possible until they were destroyed or at least put back into their halls to
hide.

Malachive would not go down easily. Betha herself had felt his wrath on the
battlefield and seen his fighting prowess. He hid behind his army until
they were slaughtered and then ran when he lost the upper hand. It would
take All the fighters that could be gathered to defeat him and the army he
would build. It would take a well organized and varied army.

It could be done, as it had before. But this time Malachive's escape needed
to be blocked.

A heavily cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows behind Betha. She
didn't turn, just waited. A deep growling voice quietly informed her 'the
armorcrafter for Chaos, we have a name. The rumors are true, It is dwarven.
' The runestaff in Betha's hand struck the ground with a deafening crack and
splinters flew in All directions.

Composing herself enough to find her voice, she replied, 'Attempt ta find
'im an bring him to tha cells of King Grumf's jail. Ah traitor nay deserves
an easae death. Hire more spies if needed, ah'll see ta tha funds. '

As the footsteps behind her faded, Betha pulled her cloak tighter around her
and headed back inside. Work to be done.






Writer: Kulek

Date Sun Jan 1 00:01:29 2017




Writer: Erebaal

Date Sun Jan 1 16:25:37 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Religion Scorn Malachive )

Subject Departure III


The new armor was well-crafted, if uncomfortable. He had spent so long
within the confines of his old platemail that, for All of its imperfections
and damage, it was as though a second skin to him. It was tough, thick, and
intimidating. It had been painstakingly wrought with a lifetime of his
black devotionals and images of fear and anguish. It was as much a monument
to his hatred as his actions were, and his very presence spoke volumes that
so few understood and even fewer appreciated.

There was no piece of Gorlend's gear that was subpar, but it was
unquestioned that the Everchosen's raiment was the finest he had ever
wrought beneath the Warp. It had survived things no suit of armor had been
meant to endure, and the damage and the abuse that had heaped upon it had
contributed its own character to the battered metal. It was almost
unthinkable to leave it behind, but his mission called for discretion. The
armor of the Everchosen was its own symbol, more recognizable than the man
himself. Almost nobody outside of the Warp knew his true face, beneath his
mask. Nobody at All knew his form beneath the unique suit.

With but a simple change in attire, he could become somebody else.

Clad in his new raiment, the Everchosen pondered his weapons in turn. They,
too, were unique, masterworks in their own right. Each had been paid for at
great cost, had been gathered and altered in the Warp's forgeworks until
they could not be known by any other wielder. They, too, would have to
remain. He hefted the warhammer in his right fist, the line of his jaw
hardening as he felt the stiffness in the leather that served as the glove
beneath the pristine gauntlet. He went unhelmetted, trusting the anonymity
of his true face over the chance that a helmet's unique timbre betraying the
familiar tones of his voice. He would speak little, travel under the guise
of a wanderer. So long as he acted discretely, he feared little.

Gazing upon his spartan chamber, the Everchosen rested his black gaze upon
the flesh-bound tome that rested on a stand, the face upon the front cover
twitching as it slept. Seanan had not spoken in months, and he had little
concern that the Arch-Witch would wake in his brief absence. The magics
pervading the tome had been woven as to prevent any theft, and so he left it
in his holds without worry.

The other...

His gaze rested upon the krissed dagger that sat upon the table before the
Book's stand, its hateful edge glinting crimson in the dim light. This
dagger was one of his finest works. A sacrificial knife. A tool of both
ritual and practicality, that drank deeply of the blood of friend and foe.
It had known the taste of All of the Champions and warriors he had elevated,
and it rankled to leave it behind. It was a superlative masterwork, crafted
by the hand of War's High Priest, and it had served him well and without
question. It was almost a dishonor, both to the blade and to Grumf, to
leave it behind.

The Everchosen snarled and turned away, slinging the warhammer onto his
belt, letting it dangle at his side. Sentimentality for a blade was an
unneeded distraction. To become softhearted over a tool, no matter how
fine, was beneath him. Nothing in this mortal world was made to last, not
even he, and to open himself to any such ties would chip away at the bastion
of his dark resolve, no matter how thickly reinforced by the power of the
Dead God.

He departed without further rumination, inwardly resenting the difference
even in the cadence of his heavy bootfalls. This new armor was not the
equal of his own, but it would have to serve.

Ironclad awaited.




Writer: Fardoc

Date Wed Jan 4 22:37:34 2017

To All Wargar Thaxanos Betha Grumf Nadrik Imm Religion Storyline RP

Subject Learning the Old Tales



Ink flew from the edges of the parchment as Fardoc hurriedly scrawled his
notes. The High King spoke rapidly, and the dwarf had to continuously stop
the ancient King in his lecture to clarify a name or sequence of events.
The histories were incredibly complex, much more difficult to keep straight
than the relatively simple and straightforward tale of the Demon Exile.

As the day stretched on, the tales kept flowing, and soon Fardoc was
carrying several large reams of parchment, All filled with hastily scrawled
notes in cramped script. The dwarf was daunted at the task of turning the
thick sheaves of notes into a cohesive and easily read book, but it was a
necessary task to ensure that the old tales are never lost, and that any
dwarf that knows his letters may peruse the histories at his leisure.

Fardoc ventured to sit in the library inside Lord Nadriks temple, and
settled in for the long slog of work and effort. Many suns rose and fell as
he labored with the task, attempting to find further interviewees and old
dwarves who had been there back in the old days. The dwarf, as his tome got
longer, began to hope that he would do honor to Lord Nadrik, his clan, hall,
and kin with his work, and dwarves for generations to come would come to
read his History of the High Kings inside Bellowgranite Library.

The dwarf was heartened by the fact that even when his bones grew cold and
his spirit has long since gone to live with the Lord, dwarves would still be
able to learn from the old tales, and the memory of a devout Bishop of
Nadrik would live on in the efforts he made for kin and kingdom.




Writer: Damerus

Date Fri Jan 6 00:19:09 2017

To All Mercerion Fardoc ( Imm RP Religion Nadrik )

Subject On the Hunt V



'Ye want mae tae bae perfectly honest with ye, lad?'

'I don't need you to be. I know you agree with him.'

Shafts of sunlight burst through the natural slits in the chamber ceiling,
casting shadows upon the smooth rock that made up every inch of this stone
santuary. Fardoc Galehammer stood illuminated by one of the beams of
sunlight pouring in from above him. The expression on his face betrayed no
emotion, yet the look in his eyes could not mask the concern.

'Yer right, ah agree with 'im on the essentials. Justice needs doin', but
ye bae too close tae the matter tae do et dispassionately.
'

Just a few feet from the dwarf, encased in the shadow, stood Damerus. His
arms were folded across his chest. He too, wore an expression of stoicism,
but just like Fardoc, the emotion he felt burned in his eyes. Mostly it
was anger, but there was frustration as well. He shook his head with
disappointment. He had gone to the Bishop in search of help, hoping that
he might see things differently. He was wrong.

'Bishop, if you truly believe that, then you are making the same mistake
as the Crown General. You do not know me, and do not trust me.
'

The Bishop of Nadrik stood tall as a dwarf might, his eyes sterm as he met
gazes with the half-ogre standing before him. The pitch of his voice rose,
the sound of his words reverberating gentle off the sanctuary walls when
he spoke.

'Ah know ye will bae angry tae hear mae say et, but if jus' about every
elder in the church has close tae the same opinion on the matter, don' ye
think ye should step back ahn take et seriously? We say et because we
care deeply for ye lad. We know exactly how badly ye bae hurtin', ahn the
anger ye feel. Tha' bae exactly why ye need tae step back ahn nay let yer
emotions git the better of ye, ahn allow ah differen' party tae bae the
judge, jury, ahn executioner.
'

The look on Damerus's face darkened, a scowl forming on his lips as the
intensity of his rage only seemed to grow. His eyes screamed their anger
as he glared back at the Bishop, until finally the dam of his self-control
finally burst open and All the negative emotion came surging forward like
swift-moving rapids.

'And among you, who besides Mercerion knows what it's like to bury a
child? No one! Her justice is my responsibility. I FAILED HER! I did
that! nobody else ... I must do what I can to make it right.'

As quickly as the outburst came upon him, it passed. He took in a deep
breath, inhaling and then exhaling slowly. After a few such breaths he let
out a forlorn sigh. The Bishop watched the scene quietly at first, his
eyes carefully upon Damerus as he struggled to find his self-control. Just
when Damerus seemed to have it again, that's when the Bishop spoke.

'Ah bae willin' tae go myself ahn fight on yer behalf, as are All yer
brothers ahn sisters o' faith. We dunnae doubt yer courage, we have no
desire tae see ye give in tae yer hate.
'

Damerus locked eyes with the Bishop once more and once more his gaze was
strong, stern. the outburst from moments ago was already a thing of the
past, replaced now with a steely determination and a stubborn refusal to
bend. He shook his head vigorously.

'No ... this won't happen without me Bishop. I will tell you the same
thing I told Mercerion. If you want the name, I will give it to you and I
will accept your help ... but only on the condition that you give me your
word that I will be there to be part of it.
'

Damerus thrust a hand out of the shadow and into the shaft of sunlight
that illuminated the Bishop of Nadrik.

'Either give me your word and stand beside me ... or stand aside and watch
as I do this alone, Bishop.
'




Writer: Tonson

Date Fri Jan 6 00:20:44 2017




Writer: Tonson

Date Fri Jan 6 00:31:43 2017




Writer: Tonson

Date Fri Jan 6 00:45:34 2017




Writer: Tonson

Date Fri Jan 6 00:48:53 2017




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 6 08:07:14 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Rise I


Rain poured from the skies in heavy droplets. The darkness overhead fell upon
the world without mercy, the hand of an oppressive giant whose will would not
be denied. Sputtering torches and iron braziers flickered wildly beneath the
wetness, swirled and taunted by a near-freezing wind. Those with half a sense
in their brains had found places of shelter to hide in, to hole away until a
new dawn arrived and the weather cleared.

A harsh flash of lightning sundered the sky with wicked claws and as the echo
of its satisfied growl prowled across the land a single figure emerged into
the storm. Twisted, dark plate covered their form from head to toe, their
footfalls clanking heavily upon the wet cobblestone path as they made their
way through the streets. A few soldiers were visible upon the ramparts of the
Fort, torches burning weakly at each corner and arch as the miserable yet
determined sentries peered into the night as they kept watch. None of them
paid mind to the stalking, hulking form that passed beneath them inside of the
walls.

The plate clad formed moved without hurry, the long cloak that flowed behind
them catching in the unsettled wind and whipping out like the ominous wings of
a beast of darkness. The tattered ends of the cloak clawed at the night and the
sky, a vengeful creature fueled by unseen forces, but ever dragged along by the
steps of its owner and burdened by the rain which began to soak into the heavy
material. Eventually, the figure's step guided them into the large courtyard
covered in heavy granite and rough slate. They came to a halt before the massive
statue of bronze, its image crafted into the form of Highlord Hammurabi.
Aeriset Ereson scowled inside of her helm, her eyes narrowing as the light did
its best to weakly illuminated the well-tended image of the old Highlord. She
stood still, her right hand gripping a crumpled and dampened piece of parchment
while she stared hard at the idol.

By All accounts, she had nothing to be upset about. The Fort had begun to stir,
soldiers returning from their journeys and reporting more frequently from their
patrols. Fealty and support had been declared by most she had spoken with in
person, allowing them sight of her face beneath her inhuman guise. She saw in
the eyes of many the same hunger that ever gnawed upon her insides. She saw in
their hearts yearning and fire, determination and greed; she also saw loyalty.
They were the makings of fine soldiers for their purpose. For her dream.
Gripping her fist more tightly she could not feel the parchment nearly turn back
into pulp.

Slow. It was so slow, the game of waiting. She could feel the cold water
dampening her face through her eye slits, and on her spine as the rain pooled
and found the small gaps in her raiments to touch upon her skin. It reminded her
of her past, but before the memories could surface she buried them again. That
self had long since died and there was no cause to exhume the dead.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 6 08:11:10 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Rise II


Turning her mind to the preset, she turned and looked instead upon the Fort's
Guillotine. The structure was sorely underused, but it was not a soldier's way
to use blatant executions when most of their enemies fell upon the field of
battle. Echoes of words spoken to her and by her rippled through her mind.
The weak will be culled and the worthy will be granted an honorable death.
Aeriset's scowl turned into a satisfied, if twisted, smile.

There would be no more waiting. The time had finally come and her intentions had
been clearly declared. The ability to turn back was now gone, but such had never
been a thought or possibility to her in the first place. If something needed to
be done, then you did not wait around in hopes that someone else would see to
the task. You did it yourself. There was no more room for excuses. There was no
more time to spend playing political games. There was no more forgiveness for
those men and women that were not willing to abide by the oaths that they had
sworn and paid for in blood.

Recalling those that had come before her, Aeriset closed her eyes to picture
each of their faces more clearly. There was the felar huntress, Phemia, with her
golden fur and her insatiable hunger. She had been the first and Aeriset felt
within the woman a kindred spirit. There conversation had been long and despite
the broken Common the felar had been spoken they had managed to reach a mutual
understanding.

After Phemia had come the male named Xal'riath. The sly fox had scittered and
quivered before her, but she was not one easily swayed or fooled by such masks.
She bore one herself and it was never wise to try and trick a trickster. After
the pretentions had been cast aside then Aeriset had been privy to the real man
beneath the airs and words. They, also, had reached an understanding, and a vow
had been made. Upon parting the future had begin to be more clear.

Other meetings had followed. Aeriset had shared passionate words with the
Warlord, Mezlak, and witnessing their discourse had been the Thaumaturge,
Miribelle. A challenge had been presented to Aeriset that she prove herself
worthy of guiding the Army, of being resolute enough to bear the mantle of its
leadership. Though one would not have called the end to their exchange pleasant
in any form of the word, there was a moment of pride to be had. Despite the two
differences in views there had been no pettiness. The Warlord had offered the
blessings of Raije and the Thaumaturge had woven the cantrips of protections and
enhancements, the two senior members of the Army granting All that was within
their power to aid in Aeriset's training.

Then had come the meeting with the High Priest of Raije, High King Grumf of the
dwarven nation of Thaxanos. The old and grizzly dwarf had been a gracious host,
as he always had been. In Aeriset's early days of service she had visited with
Grumf many times, asking him questions and listening to the stories and wisdom
that had been shared in return. It was only natural that after making her choice
she would have sought him for counsel. They had spoken so deeply into the night
that the sun had begun to rise before Aeriset had been guided out of the chamber
by a guard of veteran dwarves. What she had taken away from their talk had been
meant to help her become a good leader, to temper her for the road ahead, and to
remind her that others stood behind her cause. In their own ways.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 6 08:12:02 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Rise III


The most recent meeting had been with Sentinel Ryim. The aging human was still
strong, still sharply intelligent, still deeply loyal to Raije and the Army. He
had looked upon her and spoken of the Fort's stirring. "About time" had been his
exact words and the expression of approval, no matter how it was phrased, was a
final act of encouragement, of the rightness of her purpose. If a man that had
lead the Army multiple times before was willing to watch her try and wake the
great colossus then who else could deny her the right to attempt it?

Lightning again gnawed upon the sky, shattering the darkness and the monotonous
sound of the rain striking the earth. The world-shaking snarl that followed the
blinding brilliance settled upon reality like a portent of the changes to come.

Turning in a sudden flare of her dampened cape, the wet material produced a hard
snapping sound, though it was quickly drowned out by the resounding ring of her
sabaton upon the cobbles. Making her return through the streets she traveled the
way to the War Room. There, she removed her helm and tossed the damp parchment
she had been clutching into the fire before she sat down at the table. It took
her only a moment of gazing upon a blank sheaf of parchment before she gathered
the quill and began to write.

The week allotted had passed and she was done waiting.

The time had come for the Marauders to cry the name of a new Highlord.

Then the real work would begin.




Writer: Fardoc

Date Sat Jan 7 02:23:25 2017

To All Thaxanos Storyline Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject Drafting the Law



Fardoc knelt in meditation inside the sanctuary of the Temple of Nadrik,
eyes closed in silent concentration. The final task given to him by the
High King was not to be taken lightly, for it was the Bishops responsibility
to maintain the honor and integrity of the Xaprar clan and represent his
people in the Kings Council.

The law and paths of progression he laid forth, as well as the council he
shared, would determine the path of his kind for generations to come, and
Fardoc was determined to make his Lord proud, to set his people on a path
that would instill discipline, honor, courage, and wisdom into them, and
inspire as many dwarves as possible to return to hearth and home.

The Bishop had barely entered middle age by dwarven standards, a mere
century and a half, and as much as hed done in that stretch of time, he
wished to have a lasting impact on his people, demonstrating the power of
his faith in the Lord Nadrik so strongly, that his kin would be drawn back
into more frequent worship of him. Or even if they do not choose to follow
him foremost, respect the path of his teachings and bear them in mind in day
to day life.

The Mountain had always been a a place for dwarves of All aura, and
countless times the very fact of the Bishops open faith and preference for
the light had been a source of contention in the politics of Wargar, when he
led there. In Xaprar, he had to make the same vow that he had when he led
Wargar. To swear to Lord Nadrik, his kin, and himself, that he would do
what is best for his people of any and All auras, for that was what was
required of him as a Thane.

As much as his faith drives him in everyday life, to swear a vow in service
to a Kingdom is a sacred bond, and Fardoc would never forsake such an oath.
He would offer the same guidance and loyalty to any dwarf that served under
him, aura notwithstanding. His example in a position of power of the wisdom
of Lord Nadriks teachings could do what countless sermons could not. He
could lead his people onto the path of righteousness, perhaps even budge the
hearts of those bearing red auras.

Standing from his meditation, the priest brushed the dust from his robe and
murmured a short prayer to Lord Nadrik, praying that his work in revising
the Xaprar government and military would be pleasing to the Lord, and that
he would be a lasting righteous influence on his kin, and of use to the Lord
and the Gods of Light as a whole. Striding into the library adjacent to the
Sanctuary, the priest sat in a thick armchair and pulled a small writing
table close. He retrieved a quill, ink, and thick book, and began to write
in neatly formed dwarvish runes, weighing every word in turn before
committing it to the page.





Writer: Kaelowyth

Date Sun Jan 8 10:42:39 2017

To All ( Roleplay )

Subject Transience



Change.

It had always been at the forefront of Kaelowyth's thoughts, ever since both
he and the world were young. Sonnets, parables, koans, entire dissertations
had been penned to dutifully and beautifully capture the importance of
change. So perhaps, the fate that had befallen him was indeed the cruelest
sort of punishment, a constant reminder that he would not, and could not
*change*.

Thinking upon such had brought a sour taste to the Elf's mouth, yet enough
years had passed that he no longer angrily railed or gnashed his teeth at
such. No, he had learned to simply accept the sleights of the world and the
'blessings' he had received - for as the adage went: No good deed goes
unpunished. No matter how many years passed, there was always a *pattern*
to things for him, a repetitiveness that presented itself quicker and
quicker now with each 'new' experience.

Excitement and pleasure at first, realization next, boredom and resignation
last. Loves and hatreds, journeys and exiles, war and peace - All fell into
that same damnedable pattern. Something however, something about this new
skin, this new passion would not let him dismiss everything so easily this
time. It was dangerous.

Dangerous, because it could very well *be* the same as other sensations and
feelings, even if his every sense screamed at him otherwise. Afterall, so
many new and different 'coincidences' were not normal. The sensations of
love, of protectiveness, of true comraderie were not normal. The three
vastly different souls who All reminded him and promised him varied and
disparate things were not normal. None of this was anywhere *near* normal.
It was as if Past, Present, and Future had finally intertwined, presenting
not only the whole of his too-long-life but (and for All he knew, it could
simply be a figment of his own desires) a way to break the cycle.

No, at his core the Elf recognized this as wonderfully dangerous and new.
Something that somehow set itself outside the rote and recognizable
constructs that have plagued him for so long. Even this however, was short
lived enjoyment - for no sooner did that thought cement itself in the Elf's
mind than did he begin to pick apart and plan how to prolong it. Visions of
clinging to a sinking vessel ran through his over-active mind, of a man
desperately trying to save another who is drowning but in turn being pulled
into the depths. For some reason, the vision lingered - it drowned out all
other thoughts and at once elicited fear and elation from deep within the
Elf.

Fear. It accompanied this urgent sense of change now. His fear of those
untold depths and too-vast spaces. His fear of being truly alone and at the
mercy of fate. The only way to accept and revel in -this- change, was to
accept and revel in -his- fear. As quickly as the thought came, it was
fully incepted and accepted. It was the way of things.

He would face his fear.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 03:07:13 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival I


'Come off it, Lars. Lookit the size uvvim. He'd stomp a hole in ya and
use ya as a chamberpot.
'

Lars glanced with annoyance at his partner, having to look up a bit (to his
immense chagrin). He was a shorter man, with a face like a rat. In spite
of this, or perhaps because of it, he prided himself on being a first-rate
highwayman, relieving those passers-by who did not have the blessings of the
thieves' den of Arkania. His partner was a dour sort, a thuggish man by the
name of Garn whose reluctance was almost unbefitting a man of his prodigious
physique. Rumor had circulated that he had some ogre blood in him somewhere
down the line. The last man who had been heard making that claim in his
vicinity had been forced to swallow his words, as well as most of his teeth
and a sizable chunk of his own tongue. In spite of this, Garn had an
infuriating habit of passivity. A reluctance to engage in the very trade
that would someday make him and his partner very rich men, if the
grandmasters of the guild ever got it in their heads to loosen their purse
strings a little.

'Look again, ya lug. He's alone, wanderin' around by Smuggler's Bay. Aint
nobody here with a good agenda, and nobody went and sent word ahead that
there'd be anyone bringin' goods, either. Looks like the sorta guy what
doesn't wanna be noticed. Even if he's almost as big as you, that's why
there's three of us, aint it?
'

Garn gave a pensive grunt, peering over the ridge that cut into the
cliffline overlooking Smuggler's Bay. The sole figure approaching was still
some few hundred feet away, marching along at an unhurried pace. Even from
this distance, the dark cast of his platemail glinted in the evening sun.
Strangely, even in the brisk northern Arkanian chill, he had no cloak or
other protection against the elements. The thick-headed warhammer dangling
from its side went uncovered as well, swaying like a pendulum to the man's
stride. The ocean wind tugged at what appeared to be a respectable mane of
hair, blowing it with its eddies and currents, obscuring the man's features
at this range, and to the large man's chagrin, the mark didn't appear to
mind, never once raising a hand to pull it back and offer a clear view.

The big man shook his head, turning his gaze skyward to the young woman
nestled in one of the cracks in the cliff face a few yards above, 'Whaddya
think, Elli? Got a Knightly look to'im, ya think? Onna them Shadow folks,
even. Can ya see anythin' on 'im? Got a crest?
'

The girl pursed her lips with frustration as she focused her gaze, using her
legs to keep her perch secure in the nest she had made for herself. Her own
lack of size made her smaller even than Lars, but her figure was as
tightly-wound up as the crossbow she held in both hands. She leaned
forward, shifting the heavy oak mechanism to cup one calloused hand over her
brow, peering down at the figure climbing the slope toward their favorite
hold-up perch. 'Honestly... S'no wonder they stuck me with you two. One
of you's green, the other looks more yellow from here. And him?
' Her
narrow expression turned sour as she stared intensely, brow furrowing with
concentration, 'This one's All black. Not a sigil on him, an' anyone who's
been anywhere knows those Knightly boys are more in love with their seals
and sigils than their wives.
'

Lars sneered, slugging Garn on the shoulder and jerking his head toward the
figure, who had closed some fifty feet during the exchange, becoming more
distinct with every ponderous step, 'See, ya lug? He's no Knight. He's no
princeling raised by his pampered sword-tutor. Prolly just another sell-arm
comin' to pay some respect to old man Madaur up north. Once he's there,
he's untouchable, but hey. He'll prolly fight harder if his pocket's empty
when 'e gets there, eh?
'




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 03:39:23 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival II


The ratlike man rapped his knuckles on the stone of the ledge, casting
another look at the mark below, still some hundred and more feet distant,
'You know the routine, my man. Elli'll get 'is attention for us. Lemme do
the talkin'. If he gets it in 'is head to play anything funny with that
hammer, show 'im that's a bad idea 'til Elli's ready to turn 'im into Ma's
pin-cushion.
'

Garn grunted again, looking down the eight-foot drop to the worn path below.
Already, he began to ponder, looking at the stout figure of the man who
steadfastly approached their hideout. There was no fear in that stride, nor
the swagger of the battle-hardened. He did not present himself as a novice
nor a veteran, a lack of distinction that raised his hackles for reasons he
did not fully understand. The man walked without presumption, and yet as if
there was nothing in the world as could stop him, even in a land he had
clearly just arrived in. There was something off about him, and the
brawler's sense in the half-ogre didn't like it. 'Lars... '

The smaller man ignored him, his focus turned up toward Elli, 'Let 'im get
about twenty feet out and aim for the feet! You know the bosses! Dead guys
only pay up once!
' His grin stretched his snout-like features as he rubbed
his hands together. There was something about this guy. Armor like that,
probably came from an alright family. Kinda guy that had more money than
sense. Probably stealing away to elope with some Arkanian girl, the way he
always wanted to. Trying to make some money to live on... He shook himself
out of remembering with a curse. It was almost time. He looked out from
his perch, feeling almost fond. This had always been his favorite spot, and
not just for holding up easy marks. The path below him was wide enough for
ten men, but dropped off almost straight into the churning Smuggler's Bay on
the far side. The suddenness of such a drop was intimidating to most, but
when the sun was setting like it was now, it caught the tops of the waves
and turned the surface of the ocean gold. It was a nice thing to think
about.

'Lars. Garn. Get ready. ' Elli's voice was a raised whisper, a hiss as
she adjusted her stance and raised her crossbow, sighting down it with a
practiced eye. Another twenty feet. Ten. Five.

In her little hollow, the crack-snap of the crossbow's release seemed loud,
the quarrel launching to strike the ground an inch from the traveller's
booted foot, burrowing into the dirt with a muffled thud. Immediately, she
began to reload. If the little man and his friend were as shoddy as they
looked, she'd need it sooner rather than later.

'Arright! That's far enough! ' Lars called out as he and Garn vaulted the
ridge, both of them falling to the path below and landing with varying
degrees of poise. Garn struck hard and took to a knee, unslinging a sheet
of dull steel from his back and drawing his sword. Lars alighted in a
crouch, already pulling the short sword from his back, his cocksure grin
widening. 'There's a toll 'round these parts for newcomers. Can't let just
anyone in through the back way, y'know?
'

The armored figure looked at the bandits, and from this close, Garn could
see far more than the glint of armor and riches that his partner perceived.
The man's dark gaze was... Empty. His face was that of a man far older
than the robustness of his figure would suggest, his hair lank and grey
where it should have been as bursting with vitality as his brawny physique.
Something was wrong. 'Lars.. '

Lars continued, undeterred, 'Look here, friend. I don't like repeating
myself. Or did I just not make it clear? This is our road, man. You gotta
go by us, or you're goin' nowhere? Understand?! This aint a negotiation!
Your money or your li-
'

Whumph.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 04:25:39 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival III


Garn blinked. The armored man was still standing where he was, but his
arm was now outstretched toward him. The hammer at his side was gone. He
turned his head. Lars was gone, too. He turned his head farther. Lars was
slumped at the base of the slope, face pale with shock. His sword lay
forgotten near where he had been standing, and his fingers twitched and
danced madly around the haft of the warhammer that lay nestled in the bloody
crater of what had just moments before been a chest cavity. The ratlike man
struggled for a moment longer, blood running from his mouth as he tried to
take a breath with muscles that were now pulp, to pull air into a mashed
indent that once housed lungs. He looked up at Garn, shocked. He opened
his mouth, as though to say something, then went slack, jaw hanging open
stupidly. His eyes glazed over, and he grew still but for the errant twitch
of his death throes.

The man took another step forward, his face still that unsettling mask of
neutrality. There was no victorious smile, nor bloodthirsty savagery. Lars
was dead. His friend was dead, and his killer had nothing to say for it.
Simply swatted him aside. Like a bug.

Garn's world turned red.

'Damn it! ' Elli struggled with the hook of her reloader, almost falling
from her perch as she snagged the line and began to yank it back, drawing it
agonizingly slowly until the entire construction groaned with tension.
These idiots were going to get her killed. She should have known that the
guildmasters never had easy babysitting jobs. Someone probably wanted her
out of the way, too. 'The hell they'll get it! ' she snarled, reaching for
her quiver of bolts with a trembling hand. The oath she almost screamed
could have curdled milk when she fumbled with her grab, spilling the cup of
ammunition she had set up on one of the nearby stone faces to save her some
discomfort, sending them All tumbling down the expanse to the ledge that her
charges had been occupying a moment ago. Slinging her taut weapon over her
back, she began to make the climb, trying to scurry as the sounds of a fight
rang out. She didn't care to think about how that was possible. Their mark
had just thrown away his only weapon.

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

The Everchosen stared coldly as the ogre-kin rushed him with a bellow,
leading with the crude plate that passed for a shield. Brigands. The sheer
idiocy of it curled his lip as he strode forward, feeling the rage uncoil in
his breast. It had taken him two days' journey from the seedy port of
Tropica's pirate Haven to get here. Two days of skulking belowdecks as to
avoid arousing the suspicion of the knaves and cutthroats that frequented
the illegal ports. It was almost a relief to have this outlet for his
frustration, no matter the need to remain inconspicuous. These sorts of
human refuse would go unnoticed.

The half-ogre swung his shield as his enemy closed, and the Everchosen
allowed himself a savage grin, seeing the surprise on the bandit's face as
the steel slab was arrested, one gauntletted hand holding its outer edge.
Muscles screamed at the sudden exertion after the neglect, but the
Everchosen disregarded their protest, heaving with a grunt. The half-ogre
was spun about cross-ways, staggering back a step, and the armored man
stepped into the gap, his other metal-shod hand closing into a fist.

Garn barely got the shield back up in time to catch the blow, the strike
hammering against the metal hard enough to drive the sensation from his
forearm. He staggered back again, trying to catch his balance enough to
retort with his sword. With another yell, he lunged, holding the shield up
before him as he poised the sword around the side to stab even as he tried
to smash headlong into the murderer of his friend.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 04:56:42 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival IV


The Everchosen bared his teeth in a wolfish grin as he leaned back a
step, bringing a steel-shod boot up to smash into the half-ogre's shield.
As powerful as a half-ogre's build was, his was the will of a God. His
strength was borne of a hundred lives taken. Of a thousand lives
slaughtered. Of decades of constant war. Of the singular favor of a Dead
God. He was the Everchosen, and this rabble had opened themselves to his
wrath. His kick stomped into the bandit's shield, this time knocking him
straight back onto his back, sword clutched in nerveless fingers as
bloodshot eyes beheld the early night sky in shock and confusion. The smile
only became more savage as he stalked closer, feeling the old madness
bubbling to the fore, given rein to dispose of the witnesses to his arrival.

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

Garn grunted as his world shifted, and a good deal of his worldview as well.
He was not proud of his ogre blood, and made his attempts to defend his
dignity, but there was no denying that he enjoyed the sort of benefits being
larger than everyone else provided. He was bigger and stronger than most of
the other louts, and made sure that they knew that. He and Lars had plans,
despite the smaller man's flaws, and now he was dead. Dead at the hands of
whatever monster now had him flat on his back with nothing but his own
hands. Whatever freakish strength he had was unnatural. The traces of ogre
ancestry were missing from his features. There was just his bulk and that
Gods-damned strength.

His view was blotted out as the armored man stood over him, raising his boot
to bring it down on his unarmored skull. Garn brought the shield up again,
guarding his face as the steel-clad foot came down with crushing force,
smashing the inside of the shield into his nose with a crunch and battering
the back of his skull into the packed dirt of the road beneath him. He
could taste blood. Could smell blood. Could feel the heat welling up in
the back of his head. A second blow threatened to bring him the mercy of
unconsciousness. Teeth broke this time as his skull was jarred, his
clenched jaw causing them to crack in his mouth.

He could not even muster much resistance as iron fingers closed around the
edge of the shield and wrenched his arm out, exposing him to the sky once
more. A feeble swing with the sword was met by an upraised arm, the
half-hearted swing barely drawing more than a small welter of sparks and a
squeal of metal as the blade skirled off the superior armor. The retort was
a contemptuous snarl, Garn's hazy focus finally finding the fire of emotion
in his enemy as a gauntletted hand closed on his wrist, the grip vice-like
before his arm was twisted savagely, bones grinding and snapping like dry
twigs in the afflicted joint. The sword fell from numb fingers with a dull
clatter, useless.

He could see it now, even as his vision started to flicker in the haze of
pain. This was no mark. Wasn't a noble, wasn't a sellsword. Wasn't a
marauder or another thug like him, either. Not even a warrior, one of the
proud men at arms who roamed the world. That smile, the cruelty in his
black gaze as Garn felt the cold grip of leather and iron close around his
throat, that was the smile of a vengeful god taking pleasure in smiting the
unworthy. They never even had a chance...

Garn's world turned black.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 05:20:39 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival V


Elli looked up over the edge of her perch and paled at what she saw. The
man in black armor was kneeling over Garn's body, the big lug not making any
kind of movement. Already, the armored figure was pulling at the
half-ogre's arm until the leather strap of the shield snapped and came free.
Holding one end of the leather cord, he advanced on her perch, the shield
blocking his exposed face from her, presenting only the heavy armor of the
rest of his body. Reason flew in the face of panic, the feeling of being
trapped crashing down around her. There was only one way out, down the
slope to where the man was advancing, and then farther up the road back
toward Arkane to the southeast. Even with a good shot, she couldn't hope to
kill him through that kind of armor with a single bolt. 'Damn it, Garn!
Had to go and die on me!
' She stomped her foot and allowed herself the
barest fraction of a moment to lash out at the dead idiot. He was the only
one of the two with any promise, really. If he'd had a spine, he woulda
gone far.

If he'd had a spine, he and Lars would still be alive, and she wouldn't be
afraid of dying right now.

The smaller woman raised her heavy crossbow to her eye and sighted,
scrabbling for a small pocket of calm within herself to take her shot. She
saw the way the shield wobbled when he stepped, saw how loosely he had to
hold it. With the right angle, she could...

Her trembling finger squeezed the crossbow's trigger and the contraption
bucked, spitting a quarrel that angled an inch too high, biting into the
shield well above her target's head. The urge to scream welled up in her
again, stronger than before as she vaulted over the ridge, clutching tightly
to her crossbow in one hand and a couple of bolts in the other, sliding down
to land in a disheveled heap. Groaning, she looked up and choked back a
sob. He was upon her.

The shield was flung aside as the man lunged, and she rolled away with a
thin scream, scrabbling at the earth and kicking as she crawled, struggling
to get her feet under her to run away. She left her weapon behind, the
animal terror clawing at her as she fled up the road, only the ragged sound
of her panting and the staccato hammer of her heart in her ears telling her
that she had a chance.

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

The Everchosen looked down at the weapon before him contemptuously as he
picked himself up. The girl was slippery. He had fought his share of
sneak-thieves in his life, many of them fleeing before him rather than be
cut down like so many others. Most times, he cared little for how they ran.
They were beneath notice, worth consideration as living sacrifices to his
Dead God only. Today, however, he could afford no survivors. His gauntlet
closed around the body of the crossbow, picking it up.

The bow was the tool of a coward. Of a man who could not muster the will to
stand before his enemy and feel their blood cover his hands. It was unfit
for his kind, and yet had its use on the battlefield. He entertained the
presence of few bowmen among his forces, many of those who had rallied to
his cause sharing in his philosophy. It was, however, a necessary evil.
With a grunt of effort, he pulled back the crossbow's cord, straining as the
yew arms of the weapon groaned in protest. The girl did not leave him the
reloading mechanism, and his own knowledge was rudimentary at best. All the
same, it took a handful of seconds to cock the weapon, and another five
second span to locate and load one of the abandoned bolts.

The girl was some hundred feet away now, sprinting. Even without training,
the weapon's function was simplicity. The Everchosen raised the crossbow
and sighted, his dark gaze focused before his finger squeezed the trigger
and fired.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 05:55:04 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival VI


Elli sprawled on the ground, tears staining the dirt as she clawed at the
earth, dragging herself forward. Her breath came in hitching gasps, choked
bursts of agony welling up in her chest with every inhalation. The bolt had
punched into her unarmored back. Cracked a rib and buried itself in her
right lung. She could feel it, as big as a spear in her mind, a white hot
spike of pure torment. She had to keep moving, though. Had to keep
running. He was going to catch her. He was going to kill her. If she
stopped, she was going to die. She was going to die. She was going-

The grip around the back of her neck was more unforgiving than a prisoner's
shackles, the feeling of his grip cold and wet. A shiver ran down her spine
and prompted a mewl of agony as the crossbow quarrel in her back twinged.
There was probably blood on his hands. Her partners' blood. He was just
cleaning up, now. She was next.

She was lifted as though she was no more than a child, his painful grip
stretching her as she was dragged across the ground, her feet scrabbling in
vain for purchase on the road. His strength was irresistible, however, his
pace inexorable as he half-carried, half-dragged her back to the perch she
had enjoyed just minutes before, or was it a lifetime, now? She almost
giggled. It would be a lifetime, in a minute. This one was just about
over. The panic was fleeing, now, being replaced with a sort of awful calm.
He had been quick about the other two. She might not have to hurt any more
than this. He was big and strong. He could just crush her head like an egg
with that hammer, or cut her head off with Garn's sword, or just snap her
neck like-

Like Garn.

She gave another thin scream as she was dumped on the ground, tasting blood
as the bolt was pressed against the earth, spearing deeper into her body.
Twisting weakly, she watched as the armored hulk that was her killer
methodically stripped Garn of his cloak, pulling the tattered grey cloth
around his own form, clasping it at his throat. He then crossed the road,
kneeling to take hold of the hammer that still jutted from the corpse of the
wiry Lars. Even from here, she could hear the squelch as the weapon
relinquished its place in the man's destroyed chest, the weapon dripping as
it was belted back in place. With a grunt of effort, the man grabbed the
thin corpse by the material of his shirt and cloak, hauling him back over to
Garn's own body.

He almost cut a striking figure, Elli thought, giddily. Night had fallen
truly, now, and she could only discern the twisting, billowing silhouette of
his figure framed against the pale glint of the bay as he lifted his brawny
arm, tossing the ruined body of Lars over the edge and down the sheer drop
into the sea, some sixty feet below. There was no use in trying to escape.
Not like this. He would just drag her back. Would hurt her again. No, she
was dying. She could only hope it was quick.

Garn went next, the burly half ogre taking both arms and a grunt of exertion
to send him tumbling into the void. There were muted thuds and cracks as
the body slammed into the rocks on the way down, followed by the splash of
impact. She gazed at her killer in trepidation, panic trying to find its
way through the blissful fog of acceptance that had ruined her will to live.
He had turned, was walking toward her.

She did not struggle as he grabbed her shirt, hauling her to her feet. She
barely put up a fight as she felt her feet leave solid earth and dangle over
the abyss. She gazed into his eyes and found nothing in them, no pity or
joy in the black stare that met hers. She saw the armored arm flex, and
then she was falling, tumbling. The sea rose to meet her and a momentary
spike of panic destroyed her calm, then she slammed into the water and
everything went dark.




Writer: Erebaal

Date Mon Jan 9 06:14:24 2017

To All Chaos ( Immortal Storyline Malachive Scorn )

Subject Arrival VII


The Everchosen watched the last bandit disappear beneath the waves
dispassionately, the fire of his hatred subsiding into the simmering rage
that was his calm. They were barely worth the effort, and yet the act had
pleased him. He had gone unblooded and had endured the wearisome travel by
sea that vexed him so. It had cost him little time, and the road before him
would bring him to the desiccated husk of Fort Ironclad within two days if
he could secure transport. It would simplify things to do so. More
distractions like this not only taxed his time, but threatened to expose his
presence. His face, his appearance may have been unrecognizable, but the
hallmarks of his savagery were infamous.

His hand strayed to the haft of his warhammer as he turned back to the road,
continuing the climb up to the Arkanian Highroad. He would have to wash his
hands of the evidence of his killing, much as it rankled him. The blood of
the slain were a badge of honor to be displayed, proof of strength and
mastery. To hide that did him a disservice, and yet to display it would
raise questions he could ill-afford to answer. Such vigilante justice as
the like he could have claimed to have met would still be investigated. Too
many prying eyes.

The road stretched out before him, and his heavy stride carried him forward,
leaving behind the site of his arrival, of the first mark he had left on
Arkania in some years. He pulled the hood of his looted cloak over his
head, drawing it forward like a cowl against the night air as he climbed to
the Highroad, toward the heart of this land, to his objective. This site
was the first mark he had etched into this continent, but it would not be
the last on this journey. His plans ran far deeper.

Far to the south, Ironclad awaited.




Writer: Fardoc

Date Mon Jan 9 07:37:32 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor



The breeze of his passing swept the hem of Fardocs cloak behind him as he
stormed into the War Room of his tower. His normally placid and kindly
features were plastered with rage, and he walked with one hand tightly
grasping the handle of his flail, even though none were present in the
chamber but himself.

"Oathbreaker, traitor." He thought to himself.

Even inside his own mind, the words dripped with loathing. For a dwarven
priest of Nadrik who prized his honor, and the honor of his kin and kingdom,
above All else, there was not a single insult more vile. The knowledge that
the Everchosen of Chaos, and the rest of Malachives scum, was receiving
armor and weapons from a dwarven smith was utterly unthinkable. It could
not go unchallenged.

This was an act of betrayal so severe that it could not be ignored. For the
Bishop, it was a religious imperative to find the traitor and bring him or
her to justice. Lord Nadrik would abide no less from him. Malachive and
the cretins of the Warp were monsters as heinous as any of the Dark
Pantheon, and there was a reason that Chaos was one of only two holy wars,
ordained by the gods, in dwarven society.

Fardoc approached the enormous atlas of the world on the far side of the
chamber, and closely examined the area of the map detailing Thaxanos, Mount
Axpvjib, and the other surrounding territories under dwarf control.

From the sparse rumors he had heard from other dwarves, the dwarf
responsible for the weapons and armor was not currently a resident, but
perhaps might have been in the past. It was also unknown if he served Chaos
of his own will or was forced into the arrangement. It mattered little to
the priest. The consequences would be the same for the dwarf should he be
taken alive. Even under duress, dwarven craftsmanship was never meant for
the Warp, and any honorable craftsman should have chosen to die before
crafting for the Everchosen.

As kindly as the middle aged dwarf generally was, he had no compassion for
oathbreakers and traitors. He would go to whatever lengths to catch him or
her and bring justice. Fardoc had heard that Betha had hired spies to dig
up whatever information she could. Good, it was a start, and definitely
something the priest could aid with.

Even though the High King had not officially granted him the post of Thane
of Xaprar yet, he held the post of a Longbeard, and could thus order the
Axebearers and patrols into action, albeit on a more limited basis. He did
not have the full support of the Xaprar army behind him yet, unfortunately,
but he knew what he could do at the present may very well make a difference.


A plan began to take form in the Bishops mind, and he thought to himself as
he gripped his flail tight enough to turn his knuckles white, "Ah few patrols
ahn loyal Axebearers with their patrols is fine, but ah need more numbers.
Ah need the bloodae Xaprar army. God help the traitor, whoever he is, when
ah become Thane ahn cin order the entire bloodae Xaprar army into action."




Writer: Fardoc

Date Mon Jan 9 12:21:58 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor II



Fardoc strode into the Xaprar district of Thaxanos with energetic
purpose, but there was no hint of a smile on his face. Dozens of affluent
looking mountain dwarves strolled along the street, enjoying the cool
afternoon air, but All made way for the Longbeard when he passed, the
civilians tipping their heads towards him and the city patrols saluting.

The streets and alleyways within the district were among the most beautiful
and ancient in the city, but the priest had little attention for the
magnificence of the architecture this day, so focused he was on his mission.
Fardoc stopped when he reached Ironlaw Hall, the ancient Xaprar center of
power named for the first High King of Thaxanos.

The great building, easily the largest structure built in he district, was
built of enormous blocks of hewn granite. The hall was an architectural
marvel, the entire surface of the exterior wall carved in bas relief to
depict the history of the dwarven race All the way to the rise of High
KingFolgir Ironlaw. Fardoc strode up the steps and nodded towards the guard
commander stationed at the enormous stone doorway.

"Kugrim, please assemble the other Axebearers in the meeting chamber
immediately. Ah have ahn important message All of ye need tae hear. "

Kugrim, the guard commander, was a heavily muscled mountain dwarf with a
thick mane of black curly hair and a beard whose braids reached to his mid
chest. He heard the urgency in the tone of the Longbeards voice and knew
that this was not the time to banter. He simply saluted and issued orders
to his subordinates stationed alongside him at the gates, and All three went
separate ways to fetch the other Axebearers.

Fardoc paced into the meeting chamber and stood, far too anxious to sit
while he waited for the dwarves to gather. One by one they filed in,
muttering to themselves as the strode in, curious as to what could get the
normally even tempered Bishop of Nadrik in such a foul temper.

"Axebearers, disturbing rumors have been circulatin regarding the craftsman
responsible for the Everchosen of Chaoss weapons ahn armor, as well as the
other cretins of the Warp." At the mention of Malachive, the jaws of nearly
every warrior in the room tightened slightly, which turned into an outright
scowl as Fardoc uttered his next words, "Ets ah dwarf, lads."




Writer: Fardoc

Date Mon Jan 9 12:29:44 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor III



The quiet of the chamber was broken at these words, as the dwarves broke
out into terse whispers amongst themselves. The Bishop smashed the palm of
his thick hand into the table, issuing a loud crack. "Quiet! " He
commanded. The mob of dwarves in the room gradually ceased their murmurs,
and turned their attention back to the Longbeard at the front of the
chamber.

"We know ets ah dwarf, lads. What we dunnae know is where he is, who he is,
or even if he wos ever ah member of Thaxanos or Wargar. However, ah find et
rather hard tae believe any decent dwarf smith who the Warp would use tae
craft for em would have received his trainin anywhere other than here. As
far as ahm concerned, et makes no difference. The dwarf who would use his
gods given abilities tae craft for the Warp is ah traitor ahn oathbreaker,
ahn et shall not abide. "

At these words the Axebearers once more erupted into noise once more, the
chatters this time sounding more approving as they slapped the stone table
in support.

"Ah ask each ahn every one of ye tae take yer patrols into the city, every
district, ahn even in the countryside. Any rumor ye hear, signs of missin
persons, ah want tae know about et. Ets possible this craftsman was taken
from home, held against his will, ahn coerced into betraying his gods ahn
kin. The result is still the same. This dwarf will bae captured,
imprisoned in the High Kings cells, ahn justice brought upon him. Even if
coerced, et makes no difference. Any honorable dwarf smith would rather
have died upon capture than ply his craft for the Warp. Bae the law of
Thaxanos ahn the will of Lord Nadrik, ah judge the wretch guilty. With the
authority as Longbeard of Xaprar ah ask ye tae spread ahn find him
immediately, or news of his whereabouts. "

Cheers erupted at his words and fists pounded the table as the spark of
imminent action lit in the eyes of the Axebearers. Pushing their benches
backwards, the dwarves, All clad in heavy armors of plate and chain, nearly
tripped over each other in their haste to gather the warriors under their
command and convey their new orders.




Writer: Arreana

Date Mon Jan 9 14:41:16 2017

To All Teimhnean Althainia Knighthood Justice Immortal Taliena Religion Storyline Roleplay

Subject Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 1/3


/ Not Alone:{p Trespass the Heart, Arreana, feat: Teimhnean 01 /
| In many ways, life was a funny thing. Sometimes it was genuinely funny, |
| and you could laugh from a place of good humor. A good, belly-aching laugh |
| was always welcome. Other times, the funniness of the moment was tragic. It |
| came with the sort of laughter one made when there was an empty pit where |
| their stomach ought to have been. |
| |
| Arreana was possessed by a spirit of trying to find the former. In spite |
| of her quiet, reverent nature, those who knew her might have found her a bit |
| silly. She laughed often, and giggled nearly as often, finding good humor |
| wherever it could be found. |
| |
| Laughter was, in Arreana's opinion, a trespass on the heart. It was not an |
| invasion, the sort of trespass that was unwelcome and immediately rebuffed. |
| Instead, it was a party crasher who was simply a guest whose invitation had |
| been forgotten. It was not an uncommon saying that laughter was infectious. |
| As a trained healer, Arreana could find nothing wrong with that comparison, |
| save that the vast majority of infections weren't welcome. Laughter nearly |
| always was. |
| |
| Whenever Arreana laughed, two things happened: first, she opened up her |
| heart to trespass, made vulnerable but embracing that vulnerability; second, |
| she spread the trespass to others. It was always an individual's choice to |
| laugh or not laugh, unless magic was involved, and so it was a trespass that |
| Arreana found easy and guilt-free. If laughter was not returned, Arreana |
| simply stepped back from the other person's heart and began to find an |
| alternative way in. |
| |
| No such detour was needed presently. Across from her at a table in the |
| Gryphon was a man who needed no introductions. In spite of his unassuming |
| appearance, he appeared like any soldier or mercenary one might find, albeit |
| with a slightly noble bearing, his handsome features had been depicted |
| in countless portraits All over Althainia, All over Algoron. However, those |
| portraits had been replaced by the lovely vision of a female half Elf, the |
| new Empress. |
| |
| Teimhnean and his wife, Clarissia, had stepped down from their role as |
| head-of-state once more. Arreana's conversation with the former Emperor, now |
| Duke, had turned to this change, and she had elicited a hearty chuckle from |
| the man who was known for his reserved, composed demeanor. |
| |
| "There is certainly less stress weighing upon our shoulders," Teimhnean |
| responded conversationally, "but both of us will always feel duty-bound to |
| Althainia in whatever capacity she requires." |
| |
\ "I'm glad to hear it," Arreana replied. She had been let in. \





Writer: Rouxelle

Date Tue Jan 10 03:10:37 2017

To All Abaddon Imms Roleplay

Subject ///Tooth and Nail///


Casually strolling down Mortality Lane and turning at the end of the
street, Rouxelle felt a wide, toothy grin stretch across her delicate muzzle
as she beheld the sight before her:


The Tooth and Nail Salon.

On the outside, largely unassuming, a simple building amongst so many others
in Abaddon, both in and out of the Merchant District. Marked only by its
large sign, surrounded by white and red striped lanterns. Inside, however,
it was a pristine place of beautification, with a series of chairs
stretching back towards the rear of the store, and mirrors lining both sides
of the store in front of them. Yinn ladies not unlike Rouxelle herself
strolled to and fro as customers began trickling in, working to improve
their appearance. A list of services was available for view near the front
counter, and she strolled over for a closer look, pondering just what sort
of service to order.


As she perused, a young yinn woman in a low cut apron approached her, giving
a practiced curtsey as she spoke. "Evenin', " she said, with a southern
drawl in her vowels. "Ah'm Janine. How can ah help ya'll? "

Rouxelle smirked at her, then flicked a long nail to one of the more
expensive services the salon offered. "Full coverahge, " she replied.

"Rahght this way, " intoned Janine with a bob of her head, beckoning
Rouxelle over to one of the chairs in the back and coaxing her to take a
seat. The refined Paragon of Abaddon did so, laying down comfortably and
closing her eyes as her head settled onto the headrest. The leathery
material of the chair (wyvernhide, if she wasn't mistaken) was as
comfortable as lying on a cloud, instantly putting her at ease as Janine
undid her bun and letting her dark hair drape behind her.


What happened next sort of came in a blur as her senses relaxed, as Janine
worked her magic on Rouxelle Renard. Smoothing out the tangles in her hair,
and then applying a brush to do the same with her short, grayish fur. Her
nails were trimmed (including her toes, at her request), and after a
moment's hesitation, Rouxelle even agreed to a bit of tooth polishing as
well. Customers with larger teeth could have them filed if so desire, but
she had no need for anything
like that. Her canines were quite sharp enough
as it was. But a little polish to make them shine wouldn't be amiss. A hot
towel was added to the mix to help open the pores of her skin and let them
breathe, and Janine even threw in a brief but therapeutic muscle relaxing
massage into her performance before she declared it to be done.


Rising from her chair, Rouxelle felt positively like a new woman. The cost
of the full coverage was easily offset by the contents of her purse.


Preparing to depart, she paused once more by the counter, spotting some
merchandise for sale inside of a glass case. Some beauty products, that was
only to be expected from a salon, but in addition, they had a collection of
artificial claws and fangs for those who'd been unfortunate enough to be
born without. Lawyer's teeth and Mane claws alongside artificial ones of
gold, silver, and fine alloy. Some were beautiful, All were practical.


Her gaze lingered on a pair of fine alloy claws that there was a sale going
on for. Rouxelle's eyes sparkled as she beheld their shimmering edge,
imagining them resting on her fingers, coated in blood.....


"How much for this one? " she asked sweetly.




Writer: Damerus

Date Tue Jan 10 05:51:38 2017

To All Mercerion Fardoc ( Imm RP Religion Nadrik )

Subject On the Hunt VI



His hang hung there in front of Fardoc, the outstretched hand and part of
the wrist illuminated in the shaft of light still pouring in from the vent
above his head. The Bishop folded his arms across his chest, the look in
his eyes resolute as they peered up at the man before him. The eyes that
stared back at him were deep blue, unyielding as arcanium, their gaze cold
and detatched and seemingly trying to bore their way through him.

'Hate mae if'n ye wish, but ah mus' do wot ah think is right. Ye servin'
the sentence o' death is nay ah path the gods o' light would wish ye tae
tread. Ah understand yer feelins. Ah've nay buried ah child, but ah've
buried loved ones.
'

Damerus slowly withdrew his hand, the look on his face once more becoming a
mask of anger and frustration. He shook his head, his hand reflexively
closing into a bound up fist. 'You call this a death sentence? It wouldn't
be if even one brother of sister of the faith had the courage to stand
beside me in this instead of standing by and watching it unfold!
'

The Bishop watched as Damerus withdrew his head, then shook his head at the
half-ogre. A great sadness seemed to settle on the dwarf as his lips
shriveled into a frown. In spite the emotion written on his face, he still
stood stern, arms folded across his chest.

'Yer descent tae darkness is nay somethin' we will bae accomplices for. We
cin either help ye ahn act as yer champions, ye helpin' on this end make the
mission successful, but ye cannae come for et. We bae more than happy tae
carry out the sentence, et bae yer soul we will protect. Ye cannae bae the
executioner in this, ye must step aside ahn realize yer emotions bae
cloudin' yer judgement.
' Fardod quickly added 'Ye keep ignorin' half mae
words lad, blood crazed as ye seem.
'

Damerus reeled as if struck, taking a step back toward the exit of the
sanctuary. The expression on his face immediately softened, a look of guilt
forming on his face. 'Ive heard All your words. I have. My anger is at
everyone around me who keeps saying the same thing and not listening to me.
Stand with me and we can All do this together, but it is still my
responsibility. I must see it done.
'

'You think this will shatter my faith Bishop, I get that. My life has been
once big test of faith since I was a young man though. From my time living
in Darkonin to loving Cardinal Liviya. No one in the faith has had theirs
tempered the way mine has been. I'll never fall, I'll outlast All of you.
I can promise you that.
'

Fardoc unfolded his arms, clasping his hands together in front of him as he
lowered his eyes. Slowly his eyes fluttered shut and for a few long
moments, the only thing Damerus could hear in the sanctuary was the beat of
his own heart. When his eyes finally opened and settled on Damerus once
more, his lips once more wore a frown.

'Ah've jus' prayed tae the Lord, askin' for the word o' one of his
messengers if he wills et. Ah ask ye this lad, if ah say tha' ah will help
ye if the messenger wills et, yer presence included, will ye agree tae stand
aside ahn trust the Lord ahn the Church leadership if the messenger agrees
with us in the matter?
' Fardoc then added 'Because then, if the messenger
says somethin' ye dunnae like, et would nay jus' bae us, but the Lord
himself.
'

Damerus shifted his weight from one left to the other as stood there with a
discomforting look of resignation and defeat upon his face. Compromise was
precisely what he had come here looking for, and he was finally going to get
it, but not in the way he hoped. Fardoc thrust his hand out to the
half-ogre his extended hand disappearing into the shadows.

Reluctantly Damerus thrust his hand out to grip Fardoc's, giving it a firm
shake. 'Very well ... I trust the Lord will continue to have faith in my
commitment and trust me to be part of this.
'




Writer: Gheirin

Date Tue Jan 10 16:45:23 2017




Writer: Fardoc

Date Wed Jan 11 06:35:15 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor IV



Kugrim Warmane donned his rune-etched platemail with stoic composure.
The armor was forged for his frame in the forges of the finest royal
armorcrafters, and the arcanium used in its construction was polished to a
high sheen. He was rather proud of the armor, as it was forged upon his
promotion to guard commander. He still held the rank of Axebearer within
clan Xaprar, but the post of guard commander was especially sought after
among the ranks, as it was seen to be the Axebearer who was held in the
highest esteem of the Thane.

He tightened the straps of his breastplate securely around him and checked
his greaves and vambraces one final time. Tying his thick black hair into a
single knot at the pack of his head, the mountain dwarf shoved his helm onto
his brow and marched towards the guard barracks placed opposite the huge
expanse of Ironlaw Hall. The orders from the Longbeard had been given
inside the meeting chamber, and it was his duty to pass down those orders to
his men and act upon his superiors word.

Kugrim barged into the barracks and began barking orders immediately. "Form
up ye lazy buggers! Git off yer arses!"

The guard commander wasnt particularly well-liked among the soldiers he led,
even though he was the most accomplished warrior among the guard. He had a
tendency to treat the rank and file harshly for the slightest errors, and
over time this began to build resentment among the troops he commanded.

Grunts and murmurs answered his command, followed by slow compliance.
Kugrim felt a hot flash of anger upon their disrespect, and he began
swearing foully at them, spittle flying from his mouth and face turning red
in consternation.

The faces of the soldiers hardened in Kugrims overbearing presence, and they
merely stood silently with blank faces as he shouted.

"Listen here ye bloodae sons of motherless twigs! Ahve received orders from
the Bishop! Weve discovered that the lad responsible for craftin the armor
ahn weapons of the Warp is ah bloodae dwarf!"

Mutters met this news as the soldiers looked at each other, as if unable to
believe what they had just heard.

A vein twitched in Kugrims forehead. "Did ye bloodae hear mae ye pile o
sweaty bawbags? Ah want ye tae get yer arses in gear ahn get on the streets
ahn find out who et is! When yer done in the city, move tae the
countryside. Ahn ah swear on All the bleedin gods above ahn below if the
bloodae Xaprar guard is nay the unit tae find him first ah will shove mae
foot so far up yer arses ahll bae wearin ye as mae boots for ah week!"

The soldiers winced at Kugrims words and hustled out, excited at the
prospect of the hunt, despite the commanders crude threat. All over the
Xaprar district, Axebearers told their soldiers and grunts the same news and
delivered the same orders, and within the night every Xaprar unit was
mobilized to begin the hunt at daybreak.




Writer: Iler'yx

Date Wed Jan 11 11:02:08 2017

To All (Immortal Chaos Nadrik Imm RP)

Subject Harder They Fall...



He could feel the crushing blow of the impact All through his back and
taste blood in his mouth. As the pain started to register he struggled to
raise his shield once more. One wing hung limply, numb from where it had
come between his body and the tree he had been backed up to. His mind
registered the advance of yet another of the goblin band that had ambushed
them as they traveled through the great forest, two now facing off against
him. Behind them the girl lay bleeding from a wound at her temples, her
small body disheveled and battered, impossible to know if she yet lived.

He uttered a prayer to Nadrik for the power strike down those assaulting him
as his shield once more barely caught the impact of a rusted goblin blade.
Again the prayer went unanswered. The goblin on his left lept forward in
bloodthirsty glee and landed on a knot of roots at the base of the tree,
slipping and falling to the ground at his feet. His pitifully prepared
instincts finally led him to drop and slam the edge of his shield into the
goblin's throat. As he did the other goblin rushed forward and kicked the
shield away. He kicked out his foot and barely managed to clip the goblin's
ankle causing it to fall forward upon him. The two rolled on the forest
floor, kicking, clawing, biting, doing anything that would give a moments
edge.

At the end he stood. Gasping in breaths of the forest air, heavily scented
with the smell of rotting vegetation and spring blooms. The goblin at his
feet still twitched, not yet finished but unable to rise and assail him once
more. He scanned the forest floor and unable to find his weapon laid eyes
upon a fallen limb, he reached down and dragged it over, hefting it as high
as he could and brought it down upon the goblin's skull with a resounding
crack. It moved no more.

He collapsed in exhaustion.

When he awoke the girl was dead. Her body and the stinking corpses of the
goblins who had ambushed his party already drawing flies and crawling
insects. Still the forest was oddly silent. A rustle of leaves nearby
caused his wings to twitch in irritation, something large was coming.
Likely drawn by the smell of blood and rot. He pushed himself up to
standing and limped over to the girl's crumpled corpse, his mind registering
the bodies of his fallen comrades nearby. As he came close the rustling
became a titanic roar of challenge and a dragon, it's green scales blending
with the canopy above and the underbrush nearby burst into the clearing.
Knowing he could do nothing to even honor the dead he fled, spreading wide
his wings and taking to the sky. The dragon savoring it's easy victory
began to tear at the soft parts of the bodies as he flew away east.

He went straight to the temple.




Writer: Iler'yx

Date Wed Jan 11 11:06:52 2017

To All (Immortal Chaos Nadrik Imm RP)

Subject Harder They Fall... II



He stood in the alcove of Nadrik, glaring at the altar, at the items that
rested upon it. Items dedicated to the imprisoned god, blessed long before
his capture. His ire rising he began to speak once more to his god "This
was too much. I have observed All the rituals. I have prayed, given alms
and thanks, shown honor to those with none. I have lived a life in service
to your ideals. You, you have failed me"

He stepped up to the altar, crossing over the observed edge of respect.
That one simple step that raised the representations of the gods above
mortals within the temples. "Perhaps they are right. I am but a slave."
He reached out and slowly pushed over the chalice with one dusky finger.
His voice came slowly at first, a soft whisper. "Nadrik, I deny you. I
deny your weakness. I deny an existence of subservience to your pathetic
whim." By now his voice had reached a level that could be hear throughout
the alcove, "I deny the slavery a life of service dedicated to you would be.
I will rise on my own, I will make my own way in the world. I will fight
and take what would be mine." Now high enough to be heard in other alcoves,
"I will see the weight of your shackles lifted and thrown back upon you. I
will bring forth black flames to scald your form and your very essence.
Look not here for succor for you will find only hate." Shouting, his voice
echoing throughout the entire temple complex, "You are cast out. Divested
of my being."

A horse and rider could be head approaching, they stop outside the complex
and the rider enters.

An old weatherworn appearance seems indicated that he was from an era much
older than this. His armor is in repair but dented and antique in nature.
He walks with the rattle of chain mail and light plate, his well-oiled
leathers squeaking as his purse chime with each step. At his waist his
swordbelt rests comfortably, the hilt of his sword bearing a symbol of
Nadrik.

He sneers at Nadrik's crusader.

Neethan says "An ironic place to find yourself."

He looks at the aged warrior and says softly "Perhaps. But where better to
go to insure a link is broken."

The aged crusader of the Lance says "If you are indeed the one I was sent to
find. Perhaps I am mistaken and you are here to pay homage to the gods
instead of begging for lessons and finding a good place to fit a knife."

He replies, still speaking in a soft voice, "Sent by your Master?"

Neethan looks to him with a smirk, 'Aye. '

Matching the smirk he replies "He who is chained and imprisoned upon the
black surface."

Neethan looks sorrowful, his response calm, "He who is patient."

You snarl.

"Perhaps you are not," Nadrik's crusader replies, "and perhaps you will
learn it, should you not recant."

With a sneer he growls out "He will wait forever then in demonstration of
his patience. I would tear his lingering stink from me. I would place my
heel upon his neck and hear it crack as he lay bleeding in imprisonment,"
his wings flex in irritation.

Neethan's mouth forms into a hard line, "As is the maxim in regards to
chains, it is only as strong as its weakest link, and you are indeed as
shining example of a weakness born of selfish indignation. Your link will
easily be removed."

He can feel a noticeable absence, something some would call loss, he however
perceives it differently. A small laugh escapes his lips. Neethan says
"Chortle and make merry, your days will not but be filled with your own
well-earned suffrage. A pity. "

He stills himself and meets the eyes of Nadrik's holy warrior, "Nadrik is
not my God. I am quit of him. His frown may see my back as I leave him
behind and eventually my face again as I bring his end closer. His servants
and allies will face the same."

Neethan, crusader of the Lance turns on his heel and departs. Iler'yx
laughs one last time as he takes to wing and flies from the temple.





Writer: Iler'yx

Date Wed Jan 11 11:09:59 2017

To All (Immortal Chaos Nadrik Imm RP)

Subject Harder They Fall... III



Soaring high above he spies a flash of white through the canopy.
Descending he finds himself before a statue which stands upright atop a base
of mortared rubble and cobble. The sculpture's stance is offset slightly,
not facing square with its base. The idol of Malachive holds its chin
upright in a proud display. His expression is calm and serene and his
smile, warm. The effigy of the God's hair is long and rests upon his
shoulders, seemingly blending with the relaxed hood of his robes. The
figure's left arm is tucked behind to rest on the small of his back and his
right arm is extended outward. The open right hand stretches its fingers
flat, inviting those who come to appreciate his design to what lays beyond.
A small plaque is secured to the mortared base composed of the ruins of what
once resided past the simulacrum. It reads "As a man's foot leaves the
history of his travels in the sand, so to does a God leave the history of
his travels in this world."

Iler'yx looks to the statue and says softly "What you started I would see
continued. All gods will be thrown down, their slaves given a chance to
break free. The cleansing fires will rise."




Writer: Shiyou

Date Wed Jan 11 15:11:46 2017




Writer: Gheirin

Date Wed Jan 11 16:51:20 2017




Writer: Vredaeres

Date Wed Jan 11 17:28:29 2017

To Chaos Malachive Erebaal All ( Imm RP )

Subject Do you know how I started losing my feathers? I


The weather had been awful that week. Seriously. Rain, more rain,
pouring rain, thunderous rain. The occupants of the poor little farmhouse
expected to find they'd lost a few trees back in the wood too, with All the
lightning striking near by.

Save for feeding the pigs and the cows.. And the chickens, filthy chickens,
nobody had left the house since the rains started. It was a situation
rapidly closing on bedlam and not looking to improve at all.

Which might explain the level of enthusiasm which they met with a knock at
the door.

Normally cautious country folk, the father of the clan approached his door
with vigor, throwing it wide open to the man on the porch. Soaked to the
feather, the ariel on the doorstep was cloaked in traveling wools and
leathers, the vestments clinging tightly to his form.

Please, come in! Cried the father, anxious for relief from the tedium
imposed by the weather. With a slight bow, the ariel stepped inside with a
pleasant word of thanks and stood, arms wrapped around himself, shivering
where he stood, dripping on the floor.

Come, come, the words of the mother, ushering and beckoning the ariel to a
seat by the fire. Have a set, get warmed up! May I take your cloak?


Teeth chattering, the ariel shook his head no, wrapping the cloak tighter
around himself and making his way towards the fire. As he sat down, a
feather fell to the floor - once a pristine white, the feather was wilted,
rotted at the root. He bent down to pick it up, but hesitated, seeing one
of the youths reach to pick it up.

Beneath his hood, the Ariel was smiling at this, but the family's attention
was on the feather. He sat, facing the fire, vapour rising off of him as
the heat of the fire began to dry his cloak. The family were passing around
the feather, arguing over whether or not it was normal. Whether or not he
was healthy. Their voices raised, Vredaeres sensed he would soon be
unwelcome.

Do you want to know how I started losing my feathers? He asked quietly,
but something about his voice, perhaps even just because it was the first he
had spoken since his chattering thank-you, or perhaps some underlying
gravitas.. Something about it caused the family to sit in quiet rapture.

Vredaeres smiled to himself again. These untrained farmers, they had no
will, no resistance to his charm. I was traveling one day in weather,
weather as bad as this. I couldn't help but think, if Turpa cared, or..
Perhaps by now it was Zandreya. If Zandreya cared, why would she send such
misery to the people?

Vredaeres turned to face the family, and saw them sitting in rapt attention.
Bound perhaps by his story, or more likely by his song. And I spied a
family through the windows of their cottage, and they looked miserable
indeed. It occurred to me then, he said, watching their expressions grow
strained, that a good-hearted fellow ought to put an end to such misery.
What else could a creature of good conscience do?


Vredaeres stood, removed his cloak. It was quite graceful really, such a
simple action. He threw the cloak over his shoulder, stretching his wings,
displaying the rotting pox which had begun to take him. So I relieved them
of the cold and damp! Their cottage burned quite well once it heated up
enough to dry the roof.


With a flash of anger, he bent over, peering closer at the family, more
withered feathers dropping to the floor. And do you know what happened
next? To thank me AUSTINIAN came down and gave me this pox! He said it was
a cruel, awful thing to do! Can you believe it?
Hissing and seething with
his anger, Vredaeres paced in front of the fire, throwing his cloak half in
and half out, leading directly to the wicker chair upon which he had sat.


Spreading his wings, Vredaeres took to the sky outside the cottage, staying
near enough to maintain the charm of his song until the house had
transformed into a large, burning pyre.





Writer: Fardoc

Date Thu Jan 12 07:57:33 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm Kwars RP

Subject Taking Accounts



The Xaprar district of Thaxanos was one of the first areas constructed in
the first days of the Kingdom. Stone steps lead upwards to the caverns
containing the district, directly to the north of the anvil monument to
Cliath. Within the roads and alleys of the vast district, Ironlaw Hall is
the largest, the ancient granite fortress of the mountain dwarves of Xaprar.
The vast building was constructed just after the reign of High King Groxten
Stonehammer of Xaprar, during a time of great turmoil when the Xaprar
leadership was fearful of a widespread dwarven civil war.

The longbearded mountain dwarf reclined into the stone seat that was the
Thanes throne inside Ironlaw Hall. This was the first moment he had had to
himself since the High King had formally proclaimed the Bishop Thane, and
even the first moment he had seen the ancient seat of Xaprar power he was
currently sitting in.

With the proclamation of his leadership, the stone seat was his by right.
The ancient Xaprar, first clan of Thaxanos and mightiest house of old, had
judged this simply carved granite slab a worthy seat of power, and the
Bishop knew that what was good enough for his ancient kin was certainly good
enough for him. The throne was inlayed with etched dwarven runes but lacked
any sort of jewels or gaudy symbols of wealth.

The High King had sent the key to the chamber via a messenger, and Fardoc
was the first one to set foot in the Xaprar Thanes private rooms in many
years. When he entered, the granite furnishings were covered with a coating
of dust, and the room was filled with the possessions of past Thanes, left
behind in the chamber when they left office. Rather than calling to a grunt
or another servant, the Bishop chose to set about cleaning the chamber
himself, sweeping away the dust and grime of the long years and arranging
the area more to his liking.

Fardoc pulled open the heavy purple curtains covering the windows, and arrow
slits opening to the courtyard outside were revealed, casting a narrow beam
of light into the chamber. He frowned, wishing for a moment that more light
was let in by the windows, but remembered that Ironlaw Hall was constructed
during the ancient days, when hostilities between the clans were a danger,
and every clan having a defensible stronghold was the wisest course of
action.

Over the next several hours the chamber was gradually tidied, a semblance of
order returned. With his immediate task done, the Bishop turned his
attention to the scrolls, files, and tomes he had inherited as part of his
duties as Thane. In his pursuit of the dwarven traitor, the priest
previously had the authority as a Longbeard to order the units of the Xaprar
district guard into action, but his authority as Thane was near absolute
within the clan.

Poring through the scrolls of commanders, troop, positions, and general
military strength, a small smile caused the corners of Fardocs beard to
raise slightly. While the district guard was a notable force, it was
absolutely nothing compared to the horde he now commanded, stationed far and
wide over dwarven territory, and deep into the caverns beneath the city.

"Hmm. Ironbreakers. Bloodae marvelous, well see if the oathbreaker cin hide
with those lads on his trail."




Writer: Arreana

Date Thu Jan 12 10:15:56 2017

To All Teimhnean Althainia Knighthood Justice Immortal Taliena Religion Storyline Roleplay

Subject Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 2/3


/ Not Alone: Duty-Bound, Arreana, feat: Teimhnean 02 /
| "I've only been in Althainia for a short time, but I feel the same way." |
| |
| Arreana paused for a moment, picking up the glass of wine before her. It |
| had only been half-filled to begin with, and had lost about a quarter of its |
| contents while she chatted with the Duke. Nevertheless, Arreana could feel |
| the subtle effects of alcohol already. It made so many things easier to |
| tolerate, such as small-talk. Nevertheless, one had to be careful. Teimhnean |
| was not quite as big a drinker as rumor seemed to have it, but he'd already |
| downed his first mug of ale. His second mug had been brought wordlessly, but |
| he had not-yet touched it. |
| |
| "I was here before," Arreana continued. "However, that was a temporary |
| stay to help with the World Games. In the end, I didn't do nearly as much as |
| I had hoped. Althainia already had a combat expert, so I merely played the |
| role of a blacksmith's hammer than a blacksmith herself." |
| |
| Caution was required, even though the chat was a friendly, informal, |
| unplanned event, Arreana had struck it up with a more serious intention. If |
| either she or Teimhnean let the alcohol get the best of them, her |
| opportunity would be wasted, and, as friendly as the Duke was, he was a busy |
| man. Teimhnean seemed fine, he looked cheerful, but no different than he |
| normally did. |
| |
| "A worthy hammer nonetheless, I am sure." Teimhnean replied, grinning a |
| little. The grin revealed a bit, he was feeling comfortable. |
| |
| "I know I'd already asked for your review and it was given, but I was |
| curious if I could ask you a few more questions about it." Arreana's wings |
| curled inward, a reflexive motion she often made when she was nervous, or |
| excited. |
| |
| "Sure," was the genial response. |
| |
| "Was it too dense? Do you think others might find it difficult to read?" |
| |
| Teimhnean mused for several moments before his reply, "I have seen books |
| of similar formatting, if that's what you mean." He paused, scratching his |
| chin and glancing around the room. It was an instinctive reflex that Arreana |
| had noticed him doing since he'd sat down. |
| |
| "But I'm better read than most." Teimhnean finally picked up the second |
| drink and taking a short sip. A look of curiosity creeped into his eye, it |
| wasn't the subtle wondering like a child might have. Instead, it was a look |
\ that was calculating and thoughtful. \





Writer: Fardoc

Date Fri Jan 13 05:40:24 2017

To All Kae'ron Fatale Nadrik Religion Imm RP

Subject <Turning Murder>


A young mountain dwarf sat quietly deep in the tunnels beneath Thaxanos
inside Bellowgranite Hall. Seated opposite him, speaking in a calm,
low-toned voice, was an older priest, clad in luminescent blue robes, and
bearing an iron pendant on a long chain around his neck. The priest was not
young, but neither was he haggard enough to be considered elderly by the
dwarven scale of time. Rather he was just leaving the summer of youth,
where the ravages of time are only beginning to take their toll.

The priest spoke earnestly to the younger dwarf, telling tales of ages long
past, when so many of the dwarves of the mountain gave Nadrik his due
worship. The days when the Pantheon of Wargar was the Temple of Nadrik, and
dwarves kept the tenets of honor as a way of life.

The Bishop, for that is what the insignia on his collar declared him to be,
drew the younger dwarf into the conversation, inviting him to linger on the
decisions he made during youth to lead him on Fatales path. A rebellious
childhood, casting aside the wishes of parents and authority figures, the
story was familiar to the priest. Nodding his understanding, the Bishop
slowly guided the younger dwarf to the knowledge that the path he had chosen
was only destined for destruction, and that he had been foolish to cast
aside the ways of his forebears.

Over time, the young dwarf came to agree and desired to learn more of the
way of Lord Nadriks faith. He learned how a righteous being must conduct
themselves in everyday life, as well as how to work for the well being of
the realm as a whole. The priest, when he was satisfied that the young
initiate had learned All he could from the study of tomes themselves,
brought the dwarf to the summit of the dwarven mountain to visit the shrine
to Nadrik the Bishop had constructed inside his home.

The younger dwarf spent hours in meditation and prayer, calling out his
renunciation of the Lord of Death, and his desire for the salvation brought
by Lord Nadrik. He wrote a missive to the realm declaring his intent to
abandon the faith of his youth and devotion to the path of honor, and still
the shrine remained silent, with no bolt from the heavens striking away his
magic.

Gently, the priest urged patience, "Such things take time, lad. Ah urge ye
tae continue yer prayers, ahn ye will bae free o Fatales hold soon enough.
Ah warn ye though, the shun is often the easies bit. Et dunnae take much
tae git favor stripped away, but gainin the favor of the gods later will bae
ah tryin process."

The dwarf nodded his understanding, and swore to maintain his faith and be
diligent with his prayers. Smiling approvingly, the Bishop murmured a brief
prayer to his god on the young disciples progress, petitioning on the dwarfs
behalf. At the conclusion of his prayer, the older dwarf briskly turned and
walked away from the shrine, wind causing the hem of his cloak to flutter
behind him. He greatly hoped for the initiates success, and had great
confidence in his ability to succeed.




Writer: Paxx

Date Fri Jan 13 07:31:09 2017




Writer: Fardoc

Date Fri Jan 13 09:22:01 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Storyline Religion RP Nadrik

Subject Taking Accounts II



Hoarse shouts echoed through the rough hewn caverns as the clash of metal
filled the air. Through the haze of the dust coating the tunnels, a
moderate sized company of stout looking dwarves were visible. Clad in thick
platemail etched with runes, enormous tower shields, and flanged maces
clasped in their plated gauntlets, they were in imposing sight. They
advanced in a well ordered phalanx formation through the narrow tunnels, in
pursuit of a small band of unkempt looking goblins.

One of the goblins shot a hurried look over his shoulder, and in his haste
to flee, did not see the rock that bore him to the ground. A startled cry
drew his companions gaze, but they did not turn to help him, instead
choosing to save themselves and flee at All possible speed. The phalanx
quickly overtook the injured goblin, and a short backhanded blow with a mace
put a quick end to his life when the lead line came upon him.

The line had only advanced a few paces beyond the broken corpse before a
grunt runner came tearing down the long tunnel.

"Axebearer, sir! News from Ironlaw!" The young dwarf runner, scarcely out
of his fourth decade, had to struggle to make himself heard over the din of
clattering boots and armor on the stone cavern floor.

After several repeated shouts, the Axebearer of the company heard the caller
and bellowed to his troops, "Ironbreakers, halt!" The well disciplined
dwarves immediately cut their advance short and slammed their shields to the
floor, straightening their posture to stand at attention. The Axebearer of
the company, a thickly muscled graybeard, was an imposing presence, however
the torso of his breastplate was distended to encompass his round belly,
built up over years of ale in the pubs of Thaxanos but covering an iron web
of thick muscle. He broke from the formation and made his way towards the
runner, who was standing to the rear of the phalanx, panting and attempting
to regain his breath from the long run and shouting.

"Ah assume ye have ah damned good reason tae cut off our pursuit of those
lads. We got one of em, but we have been hunting that little band of
greenskins for ah bloodae week. Wot news have ye brought from the Kingdom?"
The Axebearer looked pointedly at the runner. "Hurry et up grunt."

The runner snapped to attention and dug for a moment in the small pouch on
his belt. Before removing a small scrap of parchment and passing it over to
the graybeard. "Sir!"

Unfolding the parchment and examining the seal, the Axebearer chuckled.
"Heh, wot do ye know. Seems there is ah new Thane. Cannae say ah have seen
the seal of the Thane of Xaprar for ah while."

The humor in the Axebearers eyes dissipated after he cracked the seal and
examined the missive. He silently read the letter, and a small snarl crept
onto his face as he read the script. Crumpling the note into a ball and
tossing it onto the cavern floor, the grizzled dwarf called to his unit.

"Alright lads! Good news ahn bad news. Good news is we have got ah bloodae
Thane agin, bad news is theres ah bloodae dwarf traitor runnin around the
Warp, insulting the honor of our kin bae aiding our holy enemies o Chaos.
Thane Fardoc has called us back tae the Citadel. Were tae report tae
Ironlaw Hall in All haste tae receive further orders. Quick march lads,
come on!"

The soldiers took the news in silence, with only the rustling of armor
creaking back and forth giving a hint to their agitation. Without
hesitation at their commanders word, they rapidly reversed their position
and set off at a rapid clip back through the caverns towards the Kingdom,
many leagues away through the spiderweb of tunnels that honeycomb the
expanse of dwarven territory.




Writer: Arreana

Date Fri Jan 13 11:59:31 2017

To All Teimhnean Althainia Knighthood Justice Immortal Taliena Religion Storyline Roleplay

Subject Not Alone: Seeds of Doubt 3/3


/ Not Alone: Where the Path Leads, Arreana, feat: Teimhnean 03 /
| "Did that answer your question?" Teimhnean asked. He had already placed |
| his mug on the table, but his hands were wrapped around it still. |
| |
| "I- I guess so." Arreana said, returning Teimhnean's curious gaze with a |
| smile. |
| |
| "You're worried it will be too out-of-touch for the commoners?" Teimhnean |
| asked. Arreana was struck by the accuracy of his insight. It wasn't the |
| first time she had been struck with the feeling that the Duke was a lot |
| older than he appeared, but that feeling was as strong now as it ever was. |
| |
| Arreana blushed slightly as she responded, "Well, yes. Precisely." |
| |
| Teimhnean nodded and reflected. His attentive gaze was replaced by the |
| expression of one working through a puzzling problem. |
| |
| In the ensuing quiet, Arreana thought about her book. No, not her book, it |
| was meant to be a collaboration of followers for followers, giving them |
| additional opportunities to explore the depth of the words by their gods and |
| goddesses through their tenets. |
| |
| Most commoners didn't know how to read, outside of whatever they needed |
| for their day-to-day life. Nevertheless, if something was read to them, they |
| could then consider its meaning. If the Bible of Holiness was inaccessible, |
| then her entire quest would be pointless. How could the text be something of |
| inspiration for followers of Goodness if it confused them? How could it show |
| followers of Evil the path to the Light if simply looking at it was painful |
| and boring. |
| |
| "You're a Bishop, and a well-known one at that," Teimhnean finally said, |
| breaking his silence and drawing Arreana out of her thoughts. "In many ways |
| it's difficult for you to be in-touch with the small-folk. We had the same |
| problem when we ruled Althainia. |
| |
| "That's why Clarissia made it a point to be visible, to answer questions, |
| and to have conversations with everyone we could. It wasn't possible to talk |
| with absolutely everyone, and the small-folk are more difficult to speak |
| with from a place of authority, tripping over their 'your Majesty's and |
| general awe, but as long as you remain available, the rest will follow. |
| |
| "You're taking the proper path, follow where it leads. By seeking input, |
| asking questions relentlessly," Teimhnean chuckled a little at this, "by |
| taking the time to reach out, you're doing what you need to." |
| |
\ Arreana took another sip of her wine and smiled, mulling over his words. \

END (Seeds of Doubt)




Writer: Karden

Date Fri Jan 13 17:17:11 2017




Writer: Karden

Date Fri Jan 13 17:19:50 2017




Writer: Karden

Date Fri Jan 13 17:22:29 2017




Writer: Karden

Date Fri Jan 13 17:24:28 2017




Writer: Juelian

Date Fri Jan 13 22:15:52 2017




Writer: Zola

Date Sat Jan 14 02:06:38 2017

To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale

Subject X The Challenge - Feeding Time X


Now that the challenge had been re-issued, Zola needed to make his own
contribution, and prove his devotion and his inventiveness in his faith
towards the Lord of Murder. Pausing to consider the still silent silver
bell at this belt... Gave Zola a grand idea indeed. Very ambitious.


So it was he located a suitable victim, a pet store owner in a small village
southeast of Althainia City. On the edge of the Empire. A kindly young man
who took care of his animals, loving them almost more than he did his
humanoid customers, and speaking of the joys of life and living. He was a
fine victim. And Zola had just the plan to deal with him.


First, in disguise (or rather, sans his robes, mask, and usual attire, he
made delivery of a rare black cat whose owner, he explained, was not able to
care for him. An affectionate creature, it was soon rubbing All over the
young man's arms, shoulders and hands, pressing its coated fur against his
body as he hugged it, delighted to share the affection. Spreading the
subtle pheromones into his tunic and onto his skin. The Coven alchemist who
had sold it to Zola had worked tirelessly to get just the right results out
of it.


Zola, meanwhile, stepped outside, claiming he had other business to deal
with, and donned his robes, hood and mask. He re-entered the shop from the
back door, easily breaking the lock, and proceeded to free every animal from
their cages. By now, the pheromones were starting to fill the air, and
every animal, from the smallest bird to the largest hound, were being driven
wild by hunger and aggression. When the young man headed into the back to
see what was going on, he had only a moment to glimpse the Deathscythe
pointing at him before the animals attacked.


For irony and no other reason than it amused him, Zola rang a bronzed dinner
bell (not his silver bell, still silent) to let the animals know it was time
to feed. They did not disappoint.


In the end, his bones were All that remained, and they would tossed into a
pine box and buried in the Graveyard of Fallen Enemies. His spirit, on the
other hand, would languish in the Void, knowing he had been killed by those
he had loved most in life. Zola had been the murderer, but they had been
his murder weapons.





Writer: Ulrog

Date Sat Jan 14 02:22:29 2017

To All Zola Fatale Imm Religion RP

Subject X Answering the Challenge X


A short, yet imposing, figure clad in a black cloak paces through the
rain-soaked streets of Althainia. None could see his face, and the
downturned hood hid the dull red glow of his eyes from passersby. It had
been a long time since the demon had visited the city, yet his hatred had
not diminished in time. He simply hoped he had waited long enough for the
paranoia to die down amongst the city guard.

Aliera was gone to Gareth, and her husband at the height of the demons feud
with Althainia had long since been divorced. There were few amongst the
leadership who remembered the terror he had caused those months, the nights
spent indoors with windows barred with the vain notion that any bar could
stop him. Ulrog smiled, none were even glancing at the cloaked figure in
the streets. The rain was a perfectly plausible explanation for the cloak,
even in the warm night air.

Ulrog had heard his friend, the now renegaded Bishop of Fatale. It was a
perfect time to return to the place of his previous murderous trials, and
once more take a life in service to the Master. No rank and file soldier
would do, and he would not strike at royalty this night. He chose his
target carefully, spotting the captain of the night patrol, marching the
sodden streets at the rear of a formation of soldiers.

Ulrog always appreciated an enemy commander who led from the rear. They
were much easier to sneak behind and assassinate than when at the lead or
center. He nodded to himself and cast off his cloak, drawing upon his vast
store of blood magic to cloak himself in darkness. Using the power at his
disposal, it was simple work to sneak to the rear of the patrol and clamp a
gauntleted hand around the captains mouth. Dragging him backwards into a
long alley, the dwarf kept his hand firmly pressed downwards, muffling any
possible cry for aid the hapless man could have made.

The demon could have finished him any of a hundred different ways, each more
heinous than the last, but he valued the personal approach with this kill.
It had been too long since he had reached into the very depths of a mans
body and boiled him alive from the inside out, but it was a taste that had
never disappeared.

And that is what occurred. With a flash in his eyes and his hand still
clamped over the mans jaw, the demon drew upon his power and slowly heated
his blood from inside. He could not savor the mans screams as he died, but
some muffled sound had managed to escape beyond his gauntlet, and the mans
contortions had been fairly amusing. It would have to suffice.

Ulrog kept up his magical cloak until leaving the boundary of the city with
the corpse in tow. Safely away from the city, the dwarf held a warpstone
and called upon more traditional magery to cast a nexus right outside the
Graveyard of Fallen Enemies. Dragging the dead captain through, the dwarf
hauled it into the graveyard to find the masked Bishop already waiting for
him.

"I had a premonition would one answer the call tonight, yet I had no idea it
would be you, old friend. Who have you brought for the Lord?"

"Meat, old friend. Just meat. This one is proud to offer a captain of the
Althainian guard as a sacrifice to the Master, freshly slain."

The Bishop nodded his assent, and gestured to the hole in the ground,
already dug, with a shovel waiting next to it. It seemed the Bishop truly
had been prepared, as when the dwarf looked from side to side, the large
field was littered with empty holes, ready for use.




Writer: Sierus

Date Sat Jan 14 14:57:42 2017

To Zola Abaddon All ( Imm Rp )

Subject X The Challenge - Dreaming X


Moving through the swamp to think upon the Bishop's words, Sierus was hit
with a sense of disturbance quickly confirmed by the excited shift of Sparks
within the patchy mists. A sense of directed attention, like an oyster
would devote to any foreign mote, seeking to envelop it. A short run
alongside the current of other interested parties brought him to the object
of focus.

Stumbling through the bracken and bog, an elderly came on in tattered and
stained bedclothes. The look of exposure was upon him, face drawn and jaw
slack, but his eyes kept within them an unwavering focus upon something
unknown. An unknown he would never reach thought the young Reaver, noting
the bogbeast in the man's path a few paces away. The settling of his mind
to the expected intersection of fate, was shaken away and a sudden flurry of
thoughts brought his arm up in an arc to loose a rock striking the beast
which exploded into a thrashing spray of mud before shifting off, as the
unaware man carried forward.

Watching him continue on, Sierus pondered what he had seen and reacted so
suddenly to. He had seen the man's course pause, step to the side and back
with the smallest of nods. As if upon a crowded street. It called to his
curiousity instantly and intensely, what world does this man walk in? Does
he see through the mists and could he glimpse the dream place holding this
man? Reaching a clearing the man stopped and turned with nods off towards
the shifting shadows and mist. Sierus watched the man gesture and nod but
perceived nothing and finally stood and simply walked up on the man. The
man's gaze slid across him with no regard. Moving to peer into the man's
gaze, Sierus could see no way into this man's vision world. Frustrated or
piqued, it was a short quick stroke of a blade that opened the man's neck in
a pulsing spray.

The eyes finally drew from their resolute focus to fix those of Sierus, and
a look of defiance took hold of the man's aspect. Sierus stepped back as
the man aimed to strike him and claw for and finally draw an unworn sword.
Seeing the man assume a stance, shield arm high and sword arm cocked for a
thrust brought a sense of delight as he shadowed the man's phantom attacks.
In his world Sierus was confident the man reigned supreme as the man acted
out vanquishing the intruder with a confident smirk at his lips. However,
in this world the dream ended with a final feeble spurt and silent crumble.


Pondering the man and the surrounding mists, the sense of disturbance
receeding, he knelt and scooped up the wasted form. This would be his
offering, this warrior who changed his world till he found the one he
reigned victorious in. It seemed a powerful ability and led the young man
to questions as to which dream is real, who's dream is real, and are we
dreaming other's realities? He would offer these thoughts and the shrunken
form which stirred them to Fatale.




Writer: Shiyou

Date Sat Jan 14 18:01:26 2017




Writer: Ro'maeve

Date Sat Jan 14 22:31:58 2017




Writer: Ro'maeve

Date Sat Jan 14 22:36:52 2017




Writer: Ro'maeve

Date Sat Jan 14 22:38:57 2017




Writer: Ro'maeve

Date Sat Jan 14 22:44:56 2017




Writer: Fardoc

Date Mon Jan 16 03:02:55 2017

To All Thaxanos Grumf Scorn Nadrik Religion Storyline Kwars RP

Subject <His Most Holy Order of Divine Retribution> Part One


A shrieking war horn blared from beyond the Thaxanos city gates. Bells
tolled from the towers within the city, announcing the presence of new
arrivals. Even from within the city, the clanking armor of hundreds of
soldiers was audible.

Calls echoed from guard posts, announcing that the strangers were friends,
gave relief to the populace. Orders were relayed, and a regiment of dwarven
soldiers, led by a mountain dwarf Axebearer, met the contingent of strangers
outside the gates.

The Axebearer stepped forward to meet the leader of the assembly. The
soldiers outside, who were revealed to be dwarves of both mountain and hill
stock, were clad in mostly chain armor, and were led by a sturdy looking
longbeard with a gleaming great sword strapped to his waist. Stepping
forward, the longbeard greeted the Axebearer and bowed slightly, twisting
his hand over his heart in an ancient gesture of greeting that the Axebearer
was unfamiliar with.

"Ah greet ye, Axebearer. Mae name is Fjalar Halfear, ah longbeard of the
ancient ahn noble dwarf clans of the caverns." The longbeard spoke with a
strange lilting accent that had not been heard in Thaxanos for many years.
"Ah have come seekin ahn audience with the Bishop of Nadrik, Fardoc
GaleHammer. Et is mae understanding that he lives here now, yes?"

The Axebearer considered, as it was not condoned to allow unknown armed
regiments, even dwarves, into the city without higher permission. "Do ye
come here in peace, Longbeard? Yes, the Bishop is now the Thane of Xaprar
ahn lives nearby. Though ah do not feel comfortable allowin yer men entry
yet without passin et up the chain of command."

The longbeard tipped his head slightly. "Ah assure ye, we come in earnest
Axebearer. We have nay had contact with the city in some time, but word has
reached us of the activities of the Bishop, and we have cause tae speak with
him. Ahn yes, ah understand, we shall await his arrival."

With a signal from the longbeard, the regiments of soldiers stood at ease,
and they waited patiently for the runner to be dispatched to alert the
priest of their presence.




Writer: Fardoc

Date Mon Jan 16 03:17:17 2017

To All Thaxanos Grumf Scorn Nadrik Religion Storyline Kwars RP

Subject <His Most Holy Order of Divine Retribution> Part Two


Fardoc was walking back to the Xaprar District from prayer in his temple
when he heard the call from the dwarf runner.

"Thane, sir! Ye have visitors at the northern gate! Armed dwarves from the
tunnel clans, hundreds of em!"

The Bishop quirked his eyebrow up in curiosity. "Aye? They bae friends,
right?"

"They say so, sir, but they have nay said wot this is All about yet."

Fardoc nodded to the young dwarf. "Ah will go see wot they want lad. Thank
ye for deliverin yer message."

The priest made haste to the northern gates, and waved towards the gateguard
to allow him to exit the city. When he stepped outside, he was met by
scores soldiers clad in gleaming chain, mostly armed with sword and shield.

A longbeard stepped forward from their ranks and gave the Bishop a deep bow.
"Bishop GaleHammer, ah presume?" Upon the priests nod of affirmation, the
longbeard continued, "Ah am Longbeard Fjalar Halfear, of the ancient dwarf
tunnel clans. Ah have been elected spokesdwarf of this company, bae virtue
of seniority. We come from ahn isolated sect of the Mountain, far beyond
the walls of the city, where the ancient dwarven laws ahn customs still hold
sway. We follow the old path of Lord Nadrik, as our fathers ahn forefathers
before us did, ahn we seek nothin more than tae place ourselves at yer
service ahn the service of the faith. We have heard of the recent revival
of the faith, ahn we want tae do wot we cin tae bae part of et."

The Longbeard spoke swiftly, but the old Bishop listened intently, never
interrupting. When the longbeard had finished his explanation, Fardoc
nodded slowly, contemplating what he had just heard.

"Ah have never heard of ye before, but et brings mae great joy tae hear there
are still clans out there that give their proper due tae the lord of honor.
Et would give mae great pleasure tae take ye into the service of the faith.
However, ah need the permission of the High King tae garrison ye in the
city, ahn as ah lead the Xaprar military, ahm nay sure how he would feel
about mae offering shelter tae ahn army not totally in the citys chain of
command." The Bishop frowned slightly.

The longbeard acknowledged the point with a nod. "We will fight for the city
as ye order, Bishop, ahn will happily form with the existing regiments, but
we wish our orders to come from the faith, first and foremost. Provided ye
cin pay for the upkeep of the men, they will remain under yer command should
ye wish et."

Fardoc nodded. "That could bae amenable tae the High King, provided ah give
the city ets due ahn proper just as much as ah give tae mae faiths militia.
Ah will check with him, but firs, wot do ye call yerselves ahn wot is yer
current strength of arms?"

The longbeard again tipped his head towards the Bishop. "Ah greatly hope the
arrangement is agreeable tae him. We are His Most Holy Order of Divine
Retribution, ahn we swear upon our honor tae fight for the Lord Nadrik under
the command of the ranking clergy. Here bae ah record of our strength."
The armored dwarf passed Fardoc a small scroll, and the priest unrolled it
to review its contents.

"Ah think this is ah grand start, Longbeard. Ah will send this information
tae the High King for his review."




Writer: Cieran

Date Mon Jan 16 08:53:36 2017




Writer: Rmed

Date Mon Jan 16 09:14:33 2017

To All Chaos Erebaal

Subject The Unlucky Ones



The girl was still considered quite young by elvish standards. The jewel
of her family eye, she had already shown quite a talent for the harp and
poetry. The expectations were quite high and she participated cheerfully,
proud of her accomplishments and proud of how the Shalanosts commended her
father when she played. However, when she could get sometime alone she we
sneak off in to the woods surrounding her city, let her hair down and just
wander. When doing so, she felt so much more alive. Her shoulders would
relax, she would walk silently through the woods instinctively reacting to
changes in the mood of the forest itself.

On this particular day, she had managed to leave her first lesson of the day
a bit early and instead of going straight home had slipped through the city
guard. The forest was beautiful, as always, and the songs of the birds and
whispered tensions of the land animals pulled her in. After a short time
she found herself in a new area of the forest. Smaller, shorter trees let
sunlight beat down and a dense undergrowth had popped up. A small holler
ran between two hills in the woods and a small creek trickled through it.
She was new to this area so the stillness and quiet didn't really concern
her but it did create a sense of unease.

There at the bottom of the holler she found the cause. There was a
grotesque array of vivisected squirrels, rabbits and woodlands creatures,
splayed out in a parody of a woodland scene. Their bones replaced with
sticks and their eyes with polish stones they stood frozen in comical scenes
of elf and animal. In one section a rabbit and a squirrel, stood on their
hindlegs, pegged to the ground, and walked hand in hand next to the creak.
With their flayed skin falling behind them like a cloak. In another, a fox
stood with his back to a tree gripping a long stick as one would a sword.
An army of small, mice, voles and other rodents, led by a sloppily sewn
together grotesque combination of a badgar and a number of other
indistinguishable parts, surrounded him.

The girl fled that day, changed. She would go on to be a reknowned court
musician that played only when she wanted and those that were privileged to
hear would call themselves lucky. But also, they would in turn leave more
sad than they were before. A darkness crept in to her music, a sharpness.
She was never able to shake the feeling of what she saw that day and, in
turn, spread the feeling to All she played for.




Writer: Kae'ron

Date Mon Jan 16 10:03:18 2017




Writer: Kae'ron

Date Mon Jan 16 11:12:06 2017




Writer: Paxx

Date Mon Jan 16 11:23:51 2017




Writer: Kulek

Date Mon Jan 16 23:50:49 2017




Writer: Euterah

Date Mon Jan 16 23:59:52 2017

To Darkonin All Imm ( RP )

Subject Once Upon A Time



Once upon a time, it snowed.

Heavy, fat flakes of crystalline wonder cascaded from the Heavens to the
delight and detriment of all, coating sinner and saint, rake and righteous,
thin and thick. The Mountain lay quiet in its cloak of hushed white
grandeur. The Witch Queen made her way through the caverns, her destination
set, feet shuffling through hoarfrost built up with the humid depths. It
was time to gather her resources again. The Mountain was a demigod of
slumber, those who had rallied with her before were dead to her or dead in
general. It was a generous amount of time she spent. The Witch Queen
strove to the Heart of the Mountain. The inner sanctum of the Darkonin,
ignored by the shamans she was whom chanting filled the Heart with their
devotion, with their subtle magic pleas she set herself down beside one of
the monolithic stones that ringed the courtyard.

It was so hard to concentrate, to calm herself in order to hear the
heartbeat of the Mountain. It was as if the icy winds stole her senses and
ability. The Witch curled into herself and shuddered. Empty, that is all
she felt. Empty as the whistling wind that bent the naked boughs of ancient
sleeping trees while she shut her eyes, covered her ears and keened with the
wind. Such grief overwhelmed her she could not help but cower in the bare
stony earth. Time passed, weather and earth remained a constant, clouds
brought snow and left her. The wind whipped at her and reminded her of her
station. Her spirit floundered amidst a storm of guilt over sanguinities
that now appeared so much less fruitful to her. Her frame shivered, racked
with the weight of the Mountains citizens.

The Witch Queen would need a circle of confidantes or the Mountain would
stay in torpor until the next plots of a new regime. The Witch stood with
abrupt sharpness, a cascade of frosty crystals fell from her. She curled
her lips into an icy stolid expression. She would seek those that once
counseled her from the beginning.




Writer: Cieran

Date Tue Jan 17 07:19:21 2017

To All RP

Subject The Search for a Wayward Guard



Cieran surveyed the area for a moment longer, his eyes searching over the
market for anything out of place. Finding nothing he turned to the
Lieutenant, "And then where? " The young officer nervously turned and
pointed to the east, towards the city walls. Cieran nodded and motioned for
the city guard to lead on, moving to follow then stopping short, pausing
next to the entrance of a smaller alley. Noticing he was not being followed
the Lieutenant turned, tilting his head slightly in question "Sir? It's
this way.
" But Cieran didn't hear the young man nor offer any response.
His brow was furrowed and his eyes were steady, focused on a spot just a few
paces into the darkened alleyway. The hard packed road gave way to unkept
dirt mixed with a bit of straw, the recent rains turning the path into
nothing more than a muddy mess. It was in this mess however that Cieran saw
something that gave him pause and had him feeling that distant tinge of
worry. There in the mud lie two ragged lines, broken up in places by deep
impacts in the sod and flanked by boot prints facing the street. Cieran let
out a long slow breath, glancing back to the market for a moment, then
moving his gaze slowly back to the alley, playing out the scenario in his
head, hoping he was wrong. But again his eyes came to settle on those
telling marks in the mud... Someone had been dragged, struggling, down that
alley. Cieran didn't even bother to speak to the Lieutenant, he just
started off down the alleyway, the young man knowing better than to question
at this moment, he just fell in step behind his commander.




Writer: Mathesan

Date Tue Jan 17 10:06:02 2017

To All imm storyline rp

Subject Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion


Never underestimate the power of the Arcane.

Those were the first words spoken in the first class by the first Professor that
Mathesan had studied under in his quest to become a mage. He had already been
eager to study the art of the Arcane, but those words had him hooked before his
studies even began.

Mathesan never did. That faith was likely one of the reasons that he had been
the top student in his class at the Academy. In his first year of the three year
program he was one of four students whose names were added to the Arcanium Wall,
a prestigous honor that was usually only achieved by third year students.

By the end of his second year, Mathesan was asked to guest lecture on some
lessons, something that had only been asked of a handful of students over the
centuries of the school's existence.

Not only was Mathesan Valedictorian, he graduated with Honor in Eminence, an
award having been bestowed only twice before in the Academy's history.

Never underestimate the power of the Arcane.

The Art, Magic, the Arcanum. Its potential knowledge was vast, and mortals had
only the most cursory of relationships with it. Some men believed that the
Arcane was their lover, but it was foolish ideation. The depth to which most
magic was employed was more superficial than a casual acquaintance.

The true secrets of the Arcane lay in experimentation.

Some magi would go on to be battle casters, employed by armies and mercenaries
for their fearsome prowess with offensive spells. Other magi would become
teachers at other institutions. Others would become Court Magicians, using their
magic for the benefit of royalty.

Few outside of the Conclave delved into the unknowns of experimentation. It
wasn't a matter of attitude. Rather, the Conclave had resources that most
practitioners could only dream of having. Mathesan had many of those resources,
thanks to the Madaur name.

Of course, there were resources rumored to be in the Conclave that existed
nowhere else. He had been tempted to drop everything and join them at once for
access to those resources.

However, the Conclave had become fanatical in its mission to protect magic, they
were as much an organization of battle as anything else. Further, Mathesan
couldn't stomach the "Unity" praises that were used to support a perverse
cooperation between the Light, the Balance, and the Darkness.

Mathesan didn't need the secret resources of the Conclave for most experiments
anyways. This one was no different. The first stage of the experiment involved
the creation of a potion, and Mathesan's alchemy lab would have been the envy
of any mage.

The base potion was a glowing blue vial and it sat in a clamp-stand, resting on
the table nearest to him. In front of Mathesan was another vial, this one
contained a clear liquid that was bubbling over a burner. Though the liquid
appeared like water upon first glance, a closer look revealed that it was
more viscous, clearly boiling, but doing so at a much more lethargic pace than
water would have.

The substance was Aegar, a magical liquid that formed the base of most potions,
though the list of exceptions was quite long itself. Aegar wasn't found
naturally. Instead, it was made through a process known as Translusion, wherein
the alchemist transfuses magical energy into mercury. The liquid metal would
turn clear after a successful translusion, gaining certain distinctive
properties: 1) the new substance had a similar consistency to mud; 2) the
boiling point of the new substance was only 200 degrees Celsius; 3) the
substance gained a faint magical aura and interacted in unique and wondrous
ways to the introduction of other materials.

In this case, Mathesan was trying to recreate the glowing blue potion that sat
to his left.
01/04 The Jilir'isv Potion




Writer: Mathesan

Date Tue Jan 17 10:07:26 2017

To All imm storyline rp

Subject Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion


The recipe to recreate the glowing blue vial was rather simple, though it had
taken Mathesan several hours to stumble on it.

The glow suggested that the potion had more magic than the Aegar base used in
most potions. Mathesan had initially been concerned that this meant that it
required a different base entirely. However, upon casting a spell of sleep on
the liquid, he had discovered that the additional magic caused a residual glow,
though, for the clear Aegar, the glow was a faint-white color.

Mathesan tested this with some other spells on other vials of Aegar and
discovered that only certain spells caused the glow. He also discovered that, if
the Aegar was mixed with a catalytic substance, often used to combine magical
spells with naturally and supernaturally occurring effects of existing
substances, before the introduction of the spell, that there was no glow effect.

All of the information was mundane, and yet it fascinated Mathesan, who was
bored of his recent research projects. Those projects contained information that
would be of use to the kingdom of Verminasia. While tedious, they were more
valuable in a pragmatic sense.

Pure research was rarely considered valuable. But, as Mathesan had the advantage
of inherited wealth, he was able to spend his time as he saw fit. There would,
ultimately, be practical use for his research, and when that time came, he and
the Madaur name would benefit immensely for his efforts.

For the simple sleeping potion, the recipe consisted of an Aegar base which
needed to absorb the magic of the sleep spell. This, infused with lavender oil,
only after the initial mixture, recreated the potion precisely.

However, sleep was not the only effect he was aiming for.

The purpose of the potion he was concocting was to evoke dormant memories in its
subject. In order for that to happen, the imbiber needed to not only be
sleeping, but also in a state of mind conducive to vivid dreaming.

This had been the focus of much of Mathesan's research. Long before he descended
into his lab, he had been in the Library of Dark Magick searching specifically
for what could elicit such a state. The library was a treasure trove of
knowledge, one which had already put Mathesan on paths of advanced magic in
Mentalism that weren't taught by any established practitioners, for they hadn't
been "invented" yet.

It was in "Liber au Venenum" that Mathesan found his answer. Glycoalkaloids were
a specific sort of toxin formed by the Nightshade family of plants. Potatoes,
tomatoes, tomatillos, eggplants, as well as various peppers were members of that
family. However, it took concentrated doses of glycoalkaloids in order to
produce a hallucinogenic effect.

The balance was tricky, however. Too much glycoalkaloids and the imbiber would
experience the permanent sort of sleep that was Fatale's gift.
02/04 The Jilir'isv Potion




Writer: Mathesan

Date Tue Jan 17 10:08:25 2017

To All imm storyline rp

Subject Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion


It was complete.

Never underestimate the power of the Arcane.

The thought rang through Mathesan's thoughts as he held up a vial of smoky,
glowing, purple liquid. He admired the gentle eddies that swirled and formed as
the magical concoction danced inside as though it too were celebrating
Mathesan's achievement.

On a metal table beside him, a man moaned. It would have been more startling if
it had been the first time, but the man had been asleep for close to four hours
and didn't show any signs of waking up soon.

It had taken nearly two hours until the first signs of a dream-like state had
begun to show. Mathesan had taken the opportunity and slipped into the man's
consciousness.

Strange, but vibrant visions had stolen over him. The vivid detail was far
clearer than Mathesan could have ever expected. It was as though he had been
walking through his own memories. Mathesan had become used to the blurry, often
indistinct edges in other people's memory. They never seemed to notice, but he
did.

It was likely the eidetic memory that made the difference, but Mathesan knew the
man on the table had no such talent. He had explored the man's consciousness
earlier, to ensure there were no connections that would have someone come
looking for him, asking the wrong sorts of questions. The memories had been as
vague as any Mathesan had experienced. It wasn't terribly surprising, the man
was a dullard. What was surprising was how vivid and clear the man's memory was
now as it lay open to Mathesan.

The room he stood in was dimly lit, but there was just enough light to make out
the finer details. The room was dilapidated, a broken table listed to one side,
its legs cut out from beneath it; chairs were tossed All over the place, one
turned over, the other on its side. As the moments passed, more and more could
be seen.

Broken mugs and plates were littered around food debris, debris that crawled
with maggots and other insects. This room was not a room in a home. Even though
Mathesan had grown up in the Madaur estates, he had seen the homes of poorer
folk during his travels. They were still homes.

Then Mathesan noticed something out of the corner of his eye, a slight movement
in the shadows. If the movement hadn't been made, then he might never have
spotted the boy. Dressed in rags, he remained almost perfectly still, watching
for something that Mathesan could not see. As Mathesan examined the boy's
features, he realized that this boy was the same as the man on the table, simply
younger.

Given what Mathesan knew, he deduced that they were in one of the slummier
neighborhoods in Verminasia. While the capital was a great city, it was not
immune to squalor. The city guard did their best to maintain order, but much of
the stewarding of this part of the city was left to crime bosses. Buildings were
left derelict, quietly decaying into the urban wilds.

But this was not the slums of Verminasia in the present. It was Verminasia's
slums as they had been twenty years ago. Mathesan hadn't been much younger than
the boy beside him, just a few years. Yet All he had known was comfort. The man
on the table might have had a decade or more on Mathesan if one went by
appearance alone.

The boy continued to wait in the shadowy quiet, which stretched between the
moments until it strained like cloth at the point of ripping.

Then there was movement from just outside the room. The movement was heard
first, not seen. Someone was stumbling and shuffling, and then a man emerged,
filling the door frame. He looked back and forth, searching for something... or
someone. The boy shrank back, as though wishing the shadows would consume him.

"Boy?" The man spat out, his voice was deep and menancing. Whatever he intended,
it wasn't good.
03/04 The Jilir'isv Potion




Writer: Mathesan

Date Tue Jan 17 10:08:56 2017

To All imm storyline rp

Subject Experiment: The Jilir'isv Potion


If Mathesan had actually been there, he would have killed the man. Instead, he
stood, watching as the man threw his third punch at the child this time in his
abdomen. Mathesan's feelings didn't stem from a place of concern for the boy, he
simply could not tolerate when anyone inflicted harm on a child; the thought of
any man inflicting adult anger and violence on someone who was not capable of
the same, or even of understanding what was happening, woke something burning
and primal within him.

The boy whimpered and collapsed to the floor, curling in a fetal position.
Unable to continue his assault with fists, the man aimed a solid kick which was
blocked by the boy's arms, which had been brought up in front of his face and
chest.

Helpless to act, Mathesan's thoughts turned instead to the man who was having
this dream, this memory. He was not altogether surprised that the man had
repressed it, it was horrifying to recall. Mathesan briefly wondered if his
potion had created a false memory, if it was simply inducing nightmares. The
only answer to that question would be found in continued research.

As if on cue, the memory began to fade to black. The man was beginning to wake
up, which was most certainly not supposed to happen this soon. Mathesan sighed,
returning back to himself and gazing down at the hollow-eyed man on the table.
It seemed more likely than not that he had witnessed a true memory. The man's
visage was haunting, singularly seeming to account for a lifetime of horrors.

It was clear a few adjustments needed to be made, that he needed to conduct a
few more iterations of the experiment. However, in the end, he had precisely
what he was looking for.

The Jilir'isv Potion, the Memory Restorer, was nearly complete.
04/04 The Jilir'isv Potion




Writer: Kae'ron

Date Tue Jan 17 11:46:26 2017




Writer: Cassian

Date Tue Jan 17 11:48:49 2017

To All Cieran

Subject Working From the Bottom



Cassian tightened his old cloak around him, not so much for warmth as the
winters of the Empire still paled in comparison to his home, but to hold out
the rains, and to draw a little less attention. It hadn't taken long to get
his first promising lead, as dubious as it was, and he didn't want it
squandered by making people feel like it was an interrogation or as if he
were military or noble in the Empire. Although his voice stood out, and he
maintained the presence of his kilt beneath the darkened materials,
experience told him that not many outside of the upper echelons tended to
recognise his family colours, something that would hopefully work to his
favour this time. It had been a long time since he'd chosen to downplay who
he was, but some memories never fade, and some requests don't go unanswered.

In the time since his arrival in the Empire, there was one thing that had
become rather painfully clear to him; In nations this large, without such a
family-led society, homelessness and alcoholism ran rife. By and large it
wasn't something he was comfortable with, but it did come with one apparent
perk: Eyes are absolutely everywhere, and who notices the downtrodden after
a lifetime of avoiding them? Sad as it might be, it was just a fact of the
Empire as he was seeing it.

The sound of his boots breaking the puddles on the stone ground came to a
slow halt as his thoughts were broken by the raised voices and commotion
coming from the building before him, his destination. It was off the beaten
path, but he'd been assured this was where he was likely to find the guy, in
what was likely the most run-down tavern that Althainia played host to. He
tilted his head left and then right, taking a deep breath as the clicks
filled his ears, before pushing his way in and surveying the many faces
before him.

Thankfully, it doesn't take much to identify the homeless alcoholics and
perceived crazies. His target was here.




Writer: Cassian

Date Tue Jan 17 12:08:08 2017

To All Cieran

Subject Even the Jovial Get Grumpy; Oh What a Night.



The night had been longer and far less enjoyable than he'd hoped, not too
mention also far more expensive. The good news was that it didn't require
him to get heavy handed, but the bad news was that he didn't get the chance
to be heavy handed at all, instead having spent the whole evening listening
and trying to raise the man's spirits.

The problem with raising another man's spirits however is that it works best
when your own are raised too, and his no longer were. One of the few traits
he had often held as defining him; his ability to laugh no matter what is
thrown his way.

Now however, he felt an old feeling, an anger and dread long since forgotten
but not entirely unliked. For as much as he had fallen into a focus on
pleasantries of late, there was a darker part to his history and way of
being that he had never quite wanted to let go of.

Squinting under the freshly lit lights of the stateroom, his eyes not really
welcoming the sight, he fell heavily into the chair with an even heavier
sigh. After taking some moments to catch his breath and adjust to being
back inside, he bent over to dig about his things, knowing just where to
look for what he was after. With a thud loud enough to risk waking Cieran
back up from the other end of the ship, the two volumes landed upon the desk
before him.

The night was just begun.




Writer: Kae'ron

Date Tue Jan 17 12:11:54 2017




Writer: Kae'ron

Date Tue Jan 17 12:39:20 2017




Writer: Damerus

Date Tue Jan 17 22:55:36 2017




Writer: Damerus

Date Tue Jan 17 23:00:51 2017




Writer: Damerus

Date Tue Jan 17 23:07:09 2017




Writer: Benthic

Date Wed Jan 18 00:15:44 2017




Writer: Zola

Date Thu Jan 19 01:57:12 2017

To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Darkonin Immortals Fatale

Subject X Fixing Mistakes X


Returning to the household where he had left the native boy, Zola watched
from a distance. Abaddonians having an active night life as they did, it
was no surprise their windows were open and lights were still lit amongst
their rooms. He could see the boy at the table, dining with the couple who
had taken him in. The father was a lowly Digger in the Forsaken Army of
Abaddon, the mother a seamstress who specialized in funeral shawls. Their
own children had died years before, they were anxious to adopt the boy and
bring him into the fold.


Not knowing his spirit and blood were tainted.

Zola's hand tightened around his scythe's haft, the dark metal creaking
under his grip. He'd been doing that more and more often lately. Becoming
angry. He couldn't let it cloud his judgement. He'd already failed once.
He could not fail again. The boy had to die.


He waited until the boy stepped outside that very night, either to clear his
head or to relieve himself. Making not a sound, Zola rose up behind him out
of the shadows and mists like a spectre of death, swinging his scythe. It
cut clear through the boy, almost a full foot of steel erupting from his
chest as he gaped and gasped dimly, blood bubbling up from his lips as he
perished without a sound.


Grimly picking up the body and throwing it over his shoulder, Zola carried
it into the swamps. The blood seeping down his robes would trail away and
be lost amongst the marsh, and the family would conclude the boy had run
away or been killed by a swamp creature, like a crocodile. They need never
learn the truth of it. As for the boy, the fault was not his own. Zola
would bury him somewhere comfortable. Perhaps in one of the vast cemetaries
Abaddon was so well known for.


Once finished, he would return to the Temple.

He had a lot of reading to do. He had to understand more clearly. He had
to more closely align his thoughts with the Lord of Murder's will. Another
failure could well be fatal. Zola did not fear death, but he was not
anxious for it. He still had so much left to do. Fatale's truth needed to
be heard and understood by all.





Writer: Staldrache

Date Thu Jan 19 09:45:49 2017

To All Fardoc Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor: Steel Watch I



Staldrache soared far above the jungles of eastern Tropica. Bishop
Fardoc was a dwarf the Steel had worked with in the past when it still
carried the title Thane of Wargar. He had urged the dwarf to embrace the
Father's wisdom, and not to judge this seeming traitor until All the facts
could be discerned, but even as he did so he felt the weight of the little
creature's betrayal.

Below, bare patches marked features of the jungle he was well familiar with.
A meadow filled with wildflowers, the ruined Sluss'i monastery. He sought
an unfamiliar patch - somewhere a legendary craftsman might have made his
own.

The trouble was time.

Staldrache had only recently awoken, and he was still given to great bouts
of slumber. Even now, peering down at the canopy, he felt his lair calling
back to him. The warm, dry chamber in the depths of the land where heat
from the magma burned away any moisture in the air.

And time - how long had it been since the dwarf was active? Perhaps his
camp was long abandoned. Perhaps there was no camp at all. Perhaps he
toiled within the warp itself. Staldrache's thoughts turned back to his
lair... Perhaps he stayed in the warm, dry heat of an underground
chamber...

Finding nothing, yet, Staldrache soared off, returning to sleep.

He may have found sleep, but he did not find rest. Even as he dozed, his
mind was filled with images of heat. Water striking magma and disappearing
in a cloud of steam. Bars of metal, sweating from humidity, rusting into
nothing. Tropican oak, smoldering, turning into coal. Eventually, he
drifted into greater slumber, the images left behind.




Writer: Staldrache

Date Thu Jan 19 10:07:37 2017

To All Fardoc Thaxanos Chaos Wargar Religion Nadrik Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor: Steel Watch II



When he awoke, a nagging need tugged at his mind, though Staldrache could
not at first place it through the fog of his slumber.

The images and visions of his flight and slumber came together before long,
leaving behind a single thought: the dwarf may seek a place similar to his
lair, a place deep underground where the heat is enough to dry the air, a
place close to the Warp that would not scar the ground above.

The tunnels of the Sluss'i. A dwarf could easily construct a new passage,
down into the earth, to build his forge. The pathways of the Sluss'i would
let him move under the cover of canopy and darkness to deliver his wares to
the warp without attracting notice.

A theory is well and good, but without evidence, Staldrache found himself no
closer to the dwarven traitor.




Writer: Damerus

Date Thu Jan 19 16:17:13 2017

To All Fardoc Elynsynos Mercerion ( Imm RP Religion Nadrik )

Subject On The Hunt VII



The main chamber of Damerus's home was unusually dark, the curtains on
all the windows were drawn and only a few candles lit as he sat in the chair
his first wife had gotten for him so long ago. Unlike the study, this room
had no magical illumination, a fact the half-ogre appreciated when the two
of them had it constructed. The main source of light was the fireplace not
far from where he was sitting. A strong fire danced across the surface of
twin logs he had placed there earlier, flames lashing the air as they made
slow work of their meal. Shadows danced and writhed in the middle space
where the light ended and darkness began.

Damerus lifted a bronze goblet to his lips, draining its contents while he
gazed into the fire, then set the goblet down upon a tray positioned near
his armchair. Om the tray sat a crystalline carafe full of wine, beside it
the bottle the wine had belonged to. Apparently it was more civilized to
serve the wine from another container instead of serving it straight from
its bottle. He didn't know why that mattered, then again he was never much
of a drinker.

'Well then ... I will keep it simple - I seek knowledge of the Void.
Specifically, how to reach it.
'

For some time now, the answer to that question had been part of his aim, yet
nobody would, or could, give him that answer. A lot of people had said to
him a lot of things. Offers had been made, deals had been struck, but
nobody wanted to tell him the answer to this question. Now, as he reached a
hand out to grab his goblet and pour himself saome more wine, he knew why.
He had finally gotten an answer.

'His path will be shrouded and filled with risk. This one knows of only one
mage which has the knowledge and skill necessary for him to not only enter
the Void, but to return. He must perish, for it is the only way through the
Vale of the Void, and upon his death he must willingly cast his own spirit
into the pit.
'

Damerus carefully set the carafe down upon the tray beside his armchair,
then glanced down into the contents of his goblet. In such poor lighting
the wine within looked inky black. He sighed, raised the goblet to his
lips, and in a few strong gulps, he siphoned the wine from his cup and down
his throat. Hearing those words had been shocking for the half-ogre, yet as
he sat here now, he recalled another conversation from a time long ago,
where such an answer had been given to him.

This wasn't the first time he had tried to pursue this demon, and back then
something had held him back. He reached over to the tray and snatched the
carafe up, moving to pour himself more wine. It was empty. Damerus
chortled contemptously before discarding the carafe back onto the tray and
snatching up the bottle instead. As he began to pour the wine, he stared at
the bottle in one hand and the empty goblet in the other. He tossed the
goblet onto the floor unceremoniously and took a swig straight from the
bottle. Now he finally knew what it was that had held him back before.

'This one does caution him to leave well enough alone. He dives into a den
of foul creatures that wear lies like armor and shall be even more potent
within their own realm.
'

Damerus glanced up at the mantle of the fireplace, where an empty space on
the wall called out to him to be set with decoration. There was only one
thing worthy of sitting on that mantle though. A gift that had been given
to him long ago. A war cleaver. Sadly, he had lost it recently and had no
idea where it could be found. Or if it could be found. He gently shook his
head as his eyes began to mist.

He had given his word to Bishop Fardoc, and now he had to wait.




Writer: Taelyn

Date Thu Jan 19 16:31:14 2017

To Abaddon All Tayira Kreel Devion Immortal RP

Subject Taelyn's latest mission



The streets were bright and quiet, normal for the daylight hours when
shadows cant be found. Taelyn scampered around the guards, yanking
playfully on the tails of the bloodless hounds as she passed them. She was
on a mission and couldn't be bothered with other things. She stopped at the
door of the morgue, pushed the heavy door open slowly then peered around it
to make sure noone was just inside to chase her away. She could hear the
mortician cursing loudly in a room at the back of the building.

"Who the hell keeps dressing up these corpses and covering their faces with
lipstick?!" She stiffled a giggle as she heard the mortician throwing
things, "When I catch those juveniles I will have THEM on this table!"

Taelyn snickered quietly under her breath as she fingered the stolen
lipstick container in her pocket. If that mortician didn't want her to play
there, he should be watching instead of running to the kitchen with all
those body parts!

She tiptoed inside and made her way to the casket room. A daily task for
her as she searched for just the right coffin. Waiting for a vampire to die
was going to take ages, so she wasn't expecting to find her treasure anytime
soon but someday she would find one and then maybe her daddy would have it
delivered to her room.





Writer: Rouxelle

Date Thu Jan 19 20:30:25 2017

To All Abaddon Imms Roleplay

Subject ///Answering a Challenge///


The average human heart was surprisingly rich in vitamins and iron.

That was partially the appeal that it held for Rouxelle as one of her
favorite foods. Well, that and the texture. It was firm without being
tough, soft without being mushy. Just the perfect sort of meal to sink her
canine teeth into. Then wash down with some cranberry juice.


Normally she didn't make it a habit to procure her own hearts, there was a
store in Verminasia to do that for her, and lady never ruined her nails.
But today she'd gone to great lengths to select this one herself, plucking
it right out of the heart of its previous owner, a gnomish engineer who'd
almost spilled oil on her dress during her last trip to Gahboom. Such
simply would not do. A little blood on her nails could be washed away. And
she got her lunch out of the deal as well. A net win-win for Miss Renard.


Finding no one at the Graveyard to meet her, she tossed the body into the
nearest hole she could find and left it to rot. It was someone else's
problem now. The worms, perhaps, or whatever scavenger stumbled across it.
Not her concern.





Writer: Fardoc

Date Fri Jan 20 06:40:24 2017

To All Thaxanos Chaos Erebaal Staldrache Grumf Nadrik Scorn Religion Storyline Imm RP

Subject To Apprehend a Traitor - Send in the Ironbreakers



A sharp rap sounded on the door of the Thanes chamber in Ironlaw Hall.
"Enter," a voice called from inside. Fardoc GaleHammer sat at his short
writing desk next to the Thanes throne, scribbling on several pieces of
parchment, when the door to his chamber opened to reveal a broad, heavily
muscled longbeard, clad in exquisite runed armor.

The dwarfs muscles were evident beneath the thick armor, but the only off
thing about his appearance was the distended breastplate, hammered outwards
to encompass his round belly. He approached the robed priest at his table
and snapped off a quick salute.

"Thane, sir. Ahn honor. Axebearer Torlend Ramhorn, commander of the 1st
Ironbreakers, at yer service. Ah received yer summons at the front ahn we
recalled as soon as we could."

The priest stood from his short chair and extended a hand to the other dwarf
in greeting. "Well met, Axebearer. Ah am Thane Fardoc GaleHammer, formerly
of Wargar ahn now in service tae the Xaprar. The Ironbreakers serve too
long et the front, ets ah shame that not many ever meet ye lot. Yer our
most gifted warriors, ahn we cast ye away like exiles."

The longbeard grinned wryly and clasped the priests hand, pumping it once.
"Aye, we spend more time out there than not. But we do our duty tae the
mountain in wotever capacity is needed, which is why ah imagine ye recalled
us. Ye mentioned the basics in yer letter but ahd like tae hear et from yer
own lips."

A shadow crossed over Fardocs face and his good cheer began to evaporate.
Taking a step back and clasping his hands behind his back, he explained to
the Axebearer. "We have found out that the armor ahn weapon crafter for the
Warp is ah dwarf, likely formerly one of Thaxanos. Ets treachery tae yer own
kind ahn yer gods tae use yer gods given talents in the pursuit of
Malachive, ahn ah have vowed tae Lord Nadrik tae bring justice upon dwarf
upon mae honor. Ah mentioned as much in mae note, ahn that alone wos enough
tae recall ye, but somethin else happened after ah sent the runner off with
yer missive."

Fardoc took a moment to glance down at the parchment he had been writing
before, and collected his thoughts a moment. "The Steel Staldrache has been
helpin mae scout the Warps territory, ahn he has ah hunch he thinks we
should investigate. Likely the only place far enough from sight tae build
ah forge on Tropica, ahn near enough tae the Warp tae cut down on supply
trains, bae the Slussi Tunnels. Staldrache obviously cannae shimmy in there
himself tae check et out, but ets wot the Ironbreakers train for, ahn wot
yer meant for."

The longbeard nodded once, "Aye, ah remember hearin ah bit about those
tunnels. Those uns infested with those great big lizards, aye?"

Fardoc nodded, and the longbeard snorted derisively, "Shouldnt bae ah
problem. Mae lads cin clear et out for ye no problem, Thane."

Fardoc shook his head vigorously. "Nay, lad! Tha is nay wot ah want. Ah
want tae send the Ironbreakers as ye have the most experience in this sort
of work, but treat this as ah scoutin mission ahn naught else. Ah need ye
back here in one piece tae report. If ye find wot were seekin, ahm nay
sendin in ah single regiment in there, even if theyre bloodae Ironbreakers.
Ye understand?[x"

The longbeard muttered, but nodded. Fardoc grabbed two small scrolls from
the desk, and dribbled the wax seal of the Thane of Xaprar on each, passing
them over to the Axebearer when they had cooled.

"Here are yer orders, lad. One copy for ye, ahn the other copy tae bring tae
the Captain of the Bearded Wench. That will bae the ship ye take across the
sea tae Tropica ahn ye leave at first light in the mornin, so make sure ye
ahn yer lads git ah good nights rest tonight. Everythin clear?"

The longbeard snapped a salute and turned to walk briskly out the door.
Fardoc sighed, murmuring a prayer to Nadrik that not only would the
Ironbreakers find evidence of the traitor, but that All the soldiers he had
just sent would return safely to their homes and families.




Writer: Mathesan

Date Fri Jan 20 10:40:39 2017

To All Verminasia Storyline Immortal

Subject A Collection of Tales



A Collection of Tales

Mathesan should have simply used magic. He rode into the Death Marshes in a
stately carriage that was visually jarring against the backdrop of sunken
roads and the flat colors of swamp fauna and water.

The stench was incredible. If one walked into a less ordered area of Verminasia,
they would be struck with the scent of human filth. But this smell, this smell
was altogether different. It was not the smell of feces, stale urine, vomit,
and poverty; instead, it was the sickly aroma of decay, the putrid stench of
sulfur, and the overwhelming, suffocating sensation of the humidity in the air.

The reason for the carriage was simple: he had a job to do, and that job
required the trappings of royalty, the subtle craft of statesmanship, and a
reliance of his station as one of the Crown Princes of Verminasia.

"Hold!" A voice shouted in the distance, from somewhere in front of the
carriage. "Who goes there?"

"Envoy of the Prince, Mathesan Madaur." The response was given by Mathesan's
herald.

"Aye?" Mathesan heard footsteps as the watchman approached the carriage, and
then the distinct sound of paper being shuffled.

"Papers All here, sir." The herald continued.

There was a silent pause, in place of which Mathesan pictured a balding, rotund
middle-aged man in loose-fitting armor reading over the words -- many of which
he probably didn't understand. Mathesan knew the type.

"Alright, checks out then. Mind if I see for meself?" In spite of the question,
Mathesan heard the guard approach the passenger door.

"Um, yes- yes, sir. Should be okay."

There was a grunt in response, after which the door to carriage swung open. The
man on the other side wasn't balding, but he definitely had salt-and-pepper
hair, the rest of him mostly fit the image Mathesan had formed in his head.

Blinking, the watchman bowed clumsily.

"Your Majesty." He uttered, still gazing at the ground.

"Granted." Mathesan said, almost automatically.

The watchman lifted his gaze to meet Mathesan's own and shivered. It wasn't
the first time his gaze had elicited that sort of response. Mathesan's eyes
were frozen windows into the barrens of his soul.

"Sorry to ho-hold ya up, your Majesty."

Mathesan shook his head, "no need. Security is vital. Can you send word in
advance of my coming? My task will be better suited if materials are already
gathered when I get there."

The watchman listened in a sort of stupor, and it took several long moments
before he seemed to return to himself.

"I- I think we have a couple o' messengers standing by."

Mathesan nodded and reached into his travel bag, pulling out a sealed scroll
which he then handed to the watchman.

"Be sure your man understands the importance of this document."

The watchman blinked, "o-of course, your Majesty. Wha- what's this All about?"

Only belatedly did the watchman seem to realize his step out of line with the
question. Mathesan was amused as this realization worked across the watchman's
face with a dawning horror.

"Y- your Majesty, I-" He stammered, but Mathesan held up a hand to silence him
and he fell mute immediately.

"I am here with good business: I search for your region's oldest and most
venerable fairy tales."

The watchman blinked at Mathesan, who smirked. This would be interesting.
-----------------------------------------------------------A Collection of Tales




Writer: Szalestzus

Date Fri Jan 20 13:33:27 2017




Writer: Elrei

Date Fri Jan 20 16:20:37 2017

To All Taliena Imm RP

Subject File #13



It was amazing how often people felt entitled to pass judgment, even
after admitting a lack of knowledge regarding past history and actions. In
that regard, the Highlord's accusations were no different than those made by
a string of other individuals in the past, and marked her, in Elrei's mind,
as simply another antagonistic individual.

And he supposed the vagaries of diplomacy and polite interaction were
somewhat lost on a Marauder. He did not know her, personally, and had long
taught that polite first contact should be through written means when
seeking information from an unknown individual, so to be berated for not
approaching her in person... It seemed that perhaps she was seeking reasons
to demean him.

On reflection, Elrei wondered whether most of her accusations were
leveled based on his perceived role as a Bishop of Taliena. Perhaps the
Highlord simply had a low view of Talienites, or of priests in general. If
the latter, he could not necessarily fault her - he had long held rather a
dim view of those in the profession of priesthood, himself.

But her invitation, to "put on some traveling shoes and walk the lands as
a no-man," that was what struck him as most odd. He was part of no nation,
no Clan, not even of the Gray, and had not been for years. Nor was this his
first stint at nomadic life, though it was his longest.

But again, she would not be the first to claim no action in the face of
its presence.

He did not fault her decision to withhold the requested information. He
had not expected much when he wrote the request, and when a day went by
without a response, Elrei had thought that he may not even receive one. He
did not fault her reasoning, either, nor consider her cruel for desiring to
keep her soldiers safe. Her cruelty came, instead, in attempting to shame
an Elf whose methods she did not understand or share, and whose actions she
was unaware of.

In the end, Elrei thanked her for her observations. He would file them
alongside the notes he'd made of others who spoke without knowing who he
was, what he had done or continued to do, and those who had no care to learn
such.

It was an ever-growing file. After all, as she had said, Elrei's past
was before her birth was even thought of - a trait she shared with the
majority of the world.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:26:29 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan I


Mid-afternoon light filtered through sparse, gray clouds that hung low and fat
overhead. Though it was winter the breeze that scurried over the hills was a
warm one, a teasing promise of an early spring to come. In the wind's wake it
left behind dancing grasses and fluttering foliage, the sigh of the fauna mild
and hushed. In comparison, the racket going on a little to the south was loud,
and somewhat deafening.

Atop a dappled, powerful warhorse sat the figure of the new Highlord of the
Army of Raije. The sun glinted weakly off of sable armor as the warhorse stood
stamping and snorting, fidgeting with energy and strength, but held firmly in
check by a strong pair of hands within gauntlets that had been carefully made
to mimic the appearance of scaled, demonic claws and hands. The Highlord wore
no marking to denote their station, but the command of their presence was worn
like the midnight cloak slung behind their shoulders. And the shadows that the
horse and rider cast stood another figure, this one much smaller and, at first
glance, entirely unassuming.

When the sun's light managed to slip around the metal-glad figure and land on
the fur of the felar huntress, the thick, silky coat gleamed like well polished
gold. It would seem that the Veteran had recently deigned to take a bath to
get rid of the residue and stains that the blood of her many victims often left
behind. Both individuals had their attention trained toward the Fort, its walls
and ramparts visibly swelling with soldiers, but it was the shouts of soldiers
within, grunting and screaming as they practiced and honed their skills, that
drew a firm nod from the Highlord.

"Is growing, yes," said the Veteran, her claws idly digging into the fur of her
belly in a familiar habit, though this time the female found no blood to remove
from the strands. Though the felar's features did not change her ears laid back
slightly and her tail gave an agitated twitch.

The Highlord shifted in the saddle, metal whispering against metal as even from
this distance their gray eyes could pinpoint the Warlord atop the battlements,
the wind carrying his voice as he shouted drilling instructions to the recruits
and non-officers below. It had been officially one week since the new Highlord
had been placed in command and things were beginning to come together, one step
at a time.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:27:40 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan II


"There will yet be much that needs tending," replied the warped tones of the
Highlord. The vile image of their helm was that of a truly nightmarish image,
but the full coverage it provided had a way of warping the already strong
voice until it tended to echo and reverberate upon itself. The effect was one
that was peculiar and unsettling, but still allowed their words to be heard
clearly, as the Highlord rarely spoke in quiet tones, or projected anything
less than a barking command. Full obedience was expected at All times.

A War Meeting had been held a few days prior, and though it had been brief a
great deal had been decided, in the grand scheme of things. Few were yet privy
to the bulk of the decisions that had been made, but plans had been laid and
goals set that would see them being facilitated. The first stages were simple
enough. Draw in recruits. Glory, it seemed, was not enough to summon many of
Raije's soldiers, many of whom were minotaurs or dwarves and swore allegiance
to their racial homes. Others still were part of the Clans and fixated on the
short-term prestige that came with it. Hard work, yes, but their battles were
more like scuffles - duels between individuals or groups that did not carry
with them the same gravitas as the movement of massive armies, of nations. A
number of good fighters would not shake the memory of the world like the wars
of tremendous powers colliding, nor would they have the same impact. Those
that were content with the brief bouts of combat likely did not have the true
discipline a soldier would need to become Officers and battalion leaders.

"We have not yet found a capable artisan?" the Highlord asked, their hands
and arms shifting as they worked the reigns to calm the impatient warhorse
once more. The beast snorted mightily in defiance, prancing for a few more
moments before giving in and settling back down with an agitated flick of
his tail.

"Is thinking no. Warlod asks, no answer," replied the Veteran. Behind Phemia,
that long tail gave a swish and then the end settled into a rhythmic twitch
back and forth. The leonine did little to hide her distaste of the Common
tongue, but while the Highlord could understand the language well enough, the
voluntary speaking of it was rare - and good soldiers obeyed the will of the
higher ranking officer, no matter how frustrating or minor.

The morning drills came to an end and the soldiers were dismissed for their
first meal of the day. It would be light fare, little more than wine, bread,
and perhaps a fruit or a hunk of cheese, but the hunger born of hard work had
a way of making even a simple meal seem like a feast to a grateful belly and
tired eyes. After the fast breaking was over for the soldiers they would then
be sent to classrooms for several hours. Everyone needed basic literacy and
knowledge of mathematics. No soldier went without learning how to take count
of troops and supplies; no soldier was exempt from learning basic triage for
themselves and their comrades, nor were they allowed to skip lessons in basic
sewing, trapping, or cooking. War times could be lean and the more knowledge
a soldier had, the more often they would find coin in their pocket and food in
their belly.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:28:48 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan III


What they were preparing for promised to take a long time indeed. They would
need to form bonds of companionship to keep up their spirits and morale, to
give them a reason to fight hard for one another when their muscles ached and
their lungs burned, their eyes danced with visions of home and lazier times of
relative peace. Divisions were formed to give units the ability to form strong
ties of loyalty and brotherhood, sisterhood, among themselves. People rarely
fought for every last person within a massive force, but would become capable
of rare and tremendous feats when those they had bonded closely with were at
their sides, or at risk of their fate being forfeit at the hands of the enemy.

A long time, but needed time.

At last, the Veteran had enough with the silence and the Common to switch to
her native tongue and prod the Highlord verbally.

"Arkane is growing restless without their King regularly tending to business.
If we are going to secure our own borders we will need to ensure that our
allies on this continent do not buckle immediately when Verminasia marches."

The Highlord grunted. It was not unfamiliar news, but the reminder of such
business was unpleasant. Diplomacy was required when force could not be used,
and while the Marauders were, in fact, in the business of applying force they
were not bullies, and their purpose was to serve Raije well, to live by the
Precepts that exemplified His faith. Attempting to force Arkane to do what
the Army wished would only serve to weaken them further. It was something the
new Highlord's long-term goals could not afford.

A brief thought flickered through the young Highlord's mind - a vision of all
of Algoron consumed with fire and left a husk of the abundance it currently
stood as. Shaking their head to clear it, the armor-clad armsman allowed the
moment of silence to linger a little bit longer before replying.

"We can send an emissary to speak with them," came the reply at last. For the
time being, until their own soldiers were ready, until Officers rose from the
ranks to guide the batallions and train newer soldiers, their options were at
best limited. The Highlord did not care to think about the 'at worst', but a
promise from perhaps an unlikely ally eased the thoughts. "Something will be
done, one way or another, lest our enemy in the North finish preparing before
we are ready. Their promise is not forgotten, nor the slight that came before
it. We will deal with them when the time is right, then secure our passage on
to the true conquest. A rabid dog is still a dog, and when we put them down
there will be loot and victuals plenty for all. You will risk growing fat and
lazy, Veteran."

A small, feline snort came immediately in response to the Highlord's dry brand
of teasing and humor. Few recognized the jokes, as they were never spoken any
differently than someone making an observation, but after nigh a month of many
conversations between the two a bond was beginning to form, a little bit at a
time.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:30:19 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan IV


Before Phemia could chose a response, two pairs of eyes noticed the small bit
of dust that arose from the northern Way. The approach of the arrival was well
hidden behind the ambling roll of the hill for a ways, the pair upon the hill
waiting in silence to see who rounded the bend. At last, a single wanderer was
revealed, and even from the great distance it could be seen that they had no
glint of fine armor, though the size of the monstrosity was impressive. Maybe
it was an orc or an ogre, even a large yinn, come heeding the cry and call for
Raije's faithful.

The Highlord looked down toward the felar and noted that the ears were perked
forward, attempting to glean information from the great distance. A hasty and
determined stride carried the figure forward at a brisk clip, but for now it
appeared that the two on the hill had either not been noticed or had been of
no concern to the one on the road.

"Veteran, I doubt he has seen you there in my shadow. Go and see what you can
glean of our new visitor. I will take a quick patrol around the south and
return through the western gate. You know what to do," the Highlord said, the
order vague to some, but between the two it was well understood. With no more
than a simple nod, the felar vanished into the tall grass of the lowlands; a
well-trained eye would have struggled to pick the leonine huntress' path out
of the dancing, golden grasses, but the Highlord had no such vision and went
back to watching the arrival's approach.

After a few moments, feeling assured that Phemia was out of sight, the rider
swung down from the dappled warhorse, keeping firm grip of the reigns.

"Show yourself, Fox."

With a low whistle as if mimicking a bird's call, a lithe figure eased forth
from a low escarpment on the hill. At first glance the male's gait was easy
and languid, but for observers with a practiced and knowing eye they could
possibly detect the way the lanky figure moved with purposeful precision and
note that his passage made no sound whatsoever. The feral male slipped up
behind the Highlord, his head canting as he waited in silence, the gesture
seeming to relay both an answer and a question at once.

Several moments passed before the Highlord spoke again, their words churned
by the hollow echoes of their helm as they took a rare moment so speak with
quieter tones. "I have a new assignment for you," the metal-clad form began.
"Dither about Arkane. I need to know the state of their morale, their minds
on the state of things as they wait for true war, and any names of those
that might be of use for future plans. No stone unturned, no den unexplored,
Fox."

Behind the Highlord's form, wreathed in the shadows that the cutting figure
cast, a single and dutiful nod accompanied the ghost of a smile. The elf's
assent was followed by his vanishing as quickly and as quietly as he had
appeared. In his parting, he boldly touched upon the Highlord's cloak, the
faint pressure felt as a parting acknowledgment. As the figure upon the
Way grew closer to the gate, the sound of a thrush's call carried up the
hill, buoyed by the wind and drifting northeast with its haunting melody.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:31:42 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan V


Drawing themselves back into the saddle, the Highlord gave a nudge to each
side of the dappled warhose, and the beast flicked its long ears before he
set off, a snort of enjoyment to finally be given his head filling the air.
As beast and rider skirted the eastern wall of the Fort, making their way
south to come about and make their way to the western gate, the Highlord's
mind played over the tasks at hand.

First, meetings with the other nations. Truces, alliances, assessments of
those that would play at a game of Crowns and Thrones as primary powers. A
full review of the Fort's resources and garrisoned troops was ongoing, but
things looked grim if they could not find enough soldiers among the ranks
with the ability to rise above non-officer positions and become true and
proper leaders of battalions. The Highlord had already met with a few that
bore seeming importance, and a few others that might become important, or
at least influential enough to matter in the grander scheme of things. It
was currently a game of paperwork and politics. Beneath their helm, the
Highlord snarled briefly in irritation.

As the warhorse trotted with a steady gait over the more level ground that
circled the fort, the Highlord toyed with the idea of a more suicidal and
bloody March. Many in the Fort were just as eager to see some real action,
to leave an actual impact, but just as many wanted to do that AND live, to
enjoy the spoils of conquest hard earned. They could not just run off with
their swords drawn and battle cries on their lips, though it seemed a real
shame they could not.

Every time someone encouraged caution, the person inside the armor wanted
to rip off a pair of limbs and beat someone with the detached arms or legs
until someone finally understood they no longer had All the time ever. It
was clear someone was going to have to be the goading force. Shaking their
head, the Highlord rode through the western gate, guards closing the large
doors behind the mounted form with an exchange of salutes. Once clear of
the doors, the warhorse was guided to the stables located next to the lawn
before dismounting and leaving the beast in the care of one of the hands,
now well appraised and trusted to the feisty animal's tending.

After passing into the keep, the Highlord made their way toward the Office
that had been cleaned and tidied a little, but otherwise left without new
additions or the removal of old things. The walls and nooks hid a number
of secrets, but one by one they were slowly being ferreted out, forced to
give up their information. Before closing the door, the Highlord spoke in
a quiet tone to the guard standing at attention just on the other side of
the frame.

"Bring me Corporal Longfellow."

"Yes, Highlord," came the response, and the Blade - masquerading as a
mere sentry - set off to do the Highlord's bidding.




Writer: Aeriset

Date Fri Jan 20 19:32:59 2017

To All Marauders of Raije | Imm RP Storyline Religion |

Subject The Plan VI


The door closed, the heavy and aged wood securing with an audible click at
the Highlord's back. Their steps were heavy and thudded against the floor
as they made their way around the large desk to settle down where legends
of the past had once sat, conversing, thinking, assigning orders and again
and again playing small, integral roles required by history. Lacing their
fingers, still bound in blackened metal, the current Highlord leand back
against the firm support of the chair, their eyes on the desk, but their
mind elsewhere.

Within the guise of her armor, Aeriset wondered not for the last time if
all the posturing, the carefully chosen words and actions would eventually
be rewarded. If the daily suffering of forcing herself to be something she
had to be, but essentially was not, would be worth it in the end. There
was no room for doubts or worries about whether she would succeed or not,
but there were always questions about if the cost was too high. Fingers
loosening from one another, a hand reached inside the black armor, a cord
of raw hide tugged upon until it draw forward a stone.

There was nothing remarkable about the rock. An end had been worn down, a
hole made for the cord to be placed through, but any other that looked at
it would not understand it. It was not attractive and appeared to have a
stain of some sort, perhaps soot or something equally dark and clingy. It
bore no markings of any kind, and Aeriset was not known to be one given
to keeping any sort of accouterment, so its mere existence would be odd,
at least if any but her knew about it. Even so, its significance to her
was tremendous.

She had picked it up inside the ruined fane the night she had come face
to face with the Everchosen - had learned of her father's death, and had
learned of the vision that the forces of Chaos painted for the future. It
was the moment her life had been altered, a sensation of fate settling
heavily like a noose about her throat.

Turning the stone this way and that for a few moments, time flowed slowly
about her until a hard and ringing knock on the door sounded through the
chamber. Aeriset tucked the stone back into her armor and sat up straight
while schooling herself back into the persona of the Highlord.

"Come in!" the Highlord barked hard.

The door swung open and inside stepped the burly figure of Corporal Orsen
Longfellow. The man glanced over his shoulder as the door was shut by the
sentry within the hall, then stepped forward to salute the iron-clad form
seated at the desk. A paw of a hand was lifted in salute and acknowledged
with an austere nod.

"Sent for me, Highlord?"

"Aye," came a sinister response. "I have a job for you, Corporal."




Writer: Mathesan

Date Fri Jan 20 20:45:59 2017

To All Verminasia Immortal Storyline

Subject Verminasian Fairy Tales: Markon:Rancquas


Verminasian Fairy Tales
Markon:Rancquas

In the cold of the winter, when families would huddle around their hearths to
share in company and warmth, a tale was often told of the wicked, whispering
winds that found their way through every crack and crevice, until one would
feel it in their bones.

Rancquas.

That was the ancient name for the malevolent being that stoked Winter's winds
with the cold fury of a white wyrm. Most children knew of her by the more
common, familiar name shared in the stories: Ranc, Lady of Shiva.

In the time before time, when there were more gods and goddesses, there was one
known as Shiva, Mistress of the Frost. Shiva was a even-tempered woman. She
could be cold, aloof, and distant, but she was not quick to anger or judgment.

In those days, every deity had favored followers. This was a time before humans
and Elves, and All of creation. The followers of these gods and goddesses were
powerful spirits in their own right -- with the ability to rise to godhood
themselves if they were so-fortunate.

Most, however, did not ascend. They were fiercely loyal, faithful to the patrons
and matrons that favored them.

Ranc was one such being. A spirit of immense beauty, she provided an odd
contrast to Shiva. Though she too had power over the cold and the elements, she
had a warmer personality. Where Shiva was almost always cold, Ranc embraced the
other spirits with affection and playfulness. Her use of cold was often employed
for fun.

Ranc was attracted, in particular, to a male spirit who went by Bomeian. The
strong, well-built spirit was one of Raije's followers. Raije was a god who
stood above many others. His skill in battle had earned him the favor of many of
his peers, and his followers bathed in that power.

Bomeian exuded a heat that Ranc lacked. He was warm and sensual, and his
passions were easily aroused. He provided a strong balance to Ranc's flighty and
capricious manner.

Shiva worried about her Favored. She understood Ranc's dangerous attraction to
the violent spirit of Bomeian. Like water is want to fill a hole, the spirits
of cold sought out heat to fill their own void. However, Bomeian, possessed of
confidence and strength, did not seek anything from Ranc. She was a curiosity,
pleasurable company different from what he was used to.

But curiosity was one of the quickest things to grow cold. What would happen
when that spark of Bomeian's was quenched by another, more powerful passion?

And it came to pass that Shiva's fears would be borne true.

One day, when Ranc went in search of Bomeian, she could not find him. This had
never happened before. Bomeian was not one to hide. In her concern she searched,
desperate to find her warm flame. Ranc searched and searched, but her efforts
were in vain, for Bomeian had left her forever, taking his glory to the
battlefields of Raije.

So Shiva watched her favored fall. Ranc knew only the chill of despair, and her
playful innocence was extinguished. Ranc's sisters and brothers, All followers
of Shiva, tried to renew her, but Ranc could not feel their touch, could not
hear their voices, or see their faces.

And Ranc was alone, All alone. Eventually, every last spirit gave up. But not
all spirits perished in the God Wars. Though Shiva fell, along with countless
others, there remained the forgotten. The abandoned.

In her grief and her loss, Ranc saw only one purpose for her existence. She had
to be the wind of agony, the cold chill that stole warmth from the heart. She
screamed out in her pain, and the winds bore her forevermore.



 


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