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

Listed By Author Name

{nZandreya's Altar, Opening the Gates, CharredAldar
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (I)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (II)
Zandreya's Light- Reborn Unto Darkness
Origins of a Witch Doctor
The Dark Odyssey Part One: The vision of Caution and Wisdom
The Dark Odyssey Part One: The vision of Caution and Wisdom Cont.
Part Two: The Revelation and Resolve
Origins of a Witch Doctor II
The Journey Begins
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (III)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (IV)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (V)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VI)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VII)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VIII)
An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (IX)
An Itch to Scratch: Epilogue III
Of Paths to Raije
Mobilization II
Mobilization: The Coven's Call
Ride to Gathna - {uReconnaissance
Ride to Gathna - {uCaustus's Castle
A Setback in Progress
{uIt Runs In The Family - {p001
Of Paths to Raije Part 2
Of Paths to Raije Part 2.5
Fissure Research
Ride to Gathna - {uA second look
The Murderous Lance: Tales From The Carrion Fields
The Murderous Lance: Tales From The Carrion Fields ...continued...
The Prairie-Canyon Survey
Small Unit Tactics
{nEarthen Sifting
An artist's work, Mending the broken
The pilgrimmage for Faith
Rise of the Bear Tribe: Wolfsong
Circles of Cogitation (1/2)
Circles of Cogitation (2/2)





Writer: Andreyna
Date Tue Jan 2 14:04:43 2024

To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Zandreya Imm Rp Religion Xenophon

Subject {nZandreya's Altar, Opening the Gates, CharredAldar


A soft smile formed upon the lips of Andreyna as she watched the
construction of Zandreya's altar within the Shared Groves, a smile that
rarely crossed her face lately. The elves worked carefully as they carved
the delicate piece of Vallenwood into a depiction of the Mother of Nature.
Soon, the altar would stand within the groves as a symbol of Balance within
Her Holy lands. A soft, yet deep, sigh rose and fell from the Queen's
chest. She could not shake the worry within her heart. The Mother must
return home, but first, the Vallens must be deserving of Her return.

Zandreya's Cardinal tipped her head to the elves as they continued to work,
making her exist through the portal, she made her way out into the Vallens.
She strode past pool after pool of white lights, alabaster grass, the
moontree, and finally to the sappling, CharredAlder. The small tree grew
daily it seemed. The constant flow of moondust from the Rip, the Dark
prayers offered by allies within Shadow Keep and Verminasia, and the
Darkness that once swelled within Andreyna herself flowed through the tree.
It was imperative to the survival of the Vallens that the tree thrive.

The Queen-Priest hoped the kingdoms and clans heeded her warning well. She
and the Speaker had spoke of opening the gates. They had been closed for
some time. While the threat still certainly loomed and would likely even
swell soon, they both felt the gates did need to be reopened. They now held
a better understanding of the lights, they were even holding them at bay
with newly contstructed altars of Nature's Balance. While the Vallens were
far from safe, they did have better control of the alabaster pools sent to
the Mother's Holy Lands by the Aurora.

Andreyna penned the letter to open the gates of the Vallens, careful to warn
their allies of what would happen should they decide to meddle with the
lights, moontree, or most importantly, CharredAlder. She prayed they
listened to her. She did not want to sound rude or mean, she wanted to make
sure they knew she was serious. While the gates would be open, the elfqueen
would not tolerate anyone or anything that hampered their progress or
exacerbated the threat upon the Mother's lands.




Writer: Piknim
Date Fri Jan 5 17:42:34 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (I)



Lavinah Nether'vyr's laboratory, normally tidy and immaculate, had fallen
into disarray as the condition of its stricken mistress deteriorated.

The air, normally clean and earthy, hung heavy with the rank pungence of a
Gogothathan bog. Medical implements tainted with oily fluids and festering
viscera lined dirty trays. A scatter of medical treatises and lay open upon
the writing desk, pages stained with ochre-hued blots and blood-red smudges.
A chaotic assortment of jars occupied the surface of every bench, table, and
shelf. All contained recently excised bits and pieces of skin, flesh, and
bone suspended in viscous blue liquid.

A gift basket from Piknim Cracklespark rotted in the sun on the window sill,
left to the scavenger birds. Markonian corned horsemeat on rye bread that
could not be enjoyed, for the bottom half Lavinah's face had sloughed off
and her teeth were so brittle they may well crumble from a single bite.
Sacnothan dry cider beyond tasting, for befouled blood and bitter bile had
congealed in her throat. Raspberry candy-flavored lip balm. Lavinah
sniffed the bright pink tube experimentally, only to suffer the sharp agony
of an involuntarily sneer before discarding it into a wastebin.

Sometimes she wondered whether or not the kender witch, upon finding a red
aura, only carried on pretending to care as a means to more callous ends.
That would explain the useless care package. But then, a pang of nausea in
her gut accompanied the thought that Piknim likely cared too much after all,
but her racially inferior brain often failed to keep pace with a heart left
wide open. The Dragothian priestess hoped against the latter. She would
prefer her petite partner in crime employ sympathy and compassion as tools
to open stubborn doors, rather than bare them blithely as avenues to be
exploited.

Lavinah drifted to the window and cast her bleary eyes across the rooftops
to a far horizon as she considered the pieces of her latest scheme. The
affable wemic, Rao'mrath, played his part with aplomb by transporting a host
of fleas from Tropica to her laboratory sacrificed, as had she, in the
development of a terrible disease sacrificed as All servants of Darkness
must first give of themselves in measures large and small before taking.

And once again, the Darkfinder's turn had come. She had one job.
Infiltrate the encampment of Althainian and Wrath soldiers in the valley
near the grell hunters and infect a horse and dog with egg-bloated,
disease-ridden fleas. The forces of Darkness would then wait until the
opportune time to strike, and strike without mercy.

A chuckle escaped the bandages stitched to Lavinah's face in a ragged
wheeze. Piknim. Against All odds the little black pawn had survived long
enough to become a queen in her own right, yet delighted still in taking
direction from bishops.




Writer: Piknim
Date Fri Jan 5 17:49:11 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (II)



The grand bedchamber of Gogothath's provincial estate featured a vast
walk-in wardrobe more spacious than the cottage in which its Archduchess
spent her youth. An ornate vanity lay within, its shelves stocked with
mundane oils, ointments, salves, and the like, as well as a selection of
mystical gourds for every occasion: alter self, change self, change sex,
enlarge, reduce, false image, and impostor. A trifecta of ornate floor
mirrors reflected Piknim from every angle as she went about preparing a
disguise.

First, the kender witch donned the white and blue uniform of the Wrath's
army of tactics, complete with standard issue accouterments and a canary
yellow neckerchief. Next, she applied brew from a potion gourd to both
hands, rubbed the palms together vigorously, and raked them through her
lily-white topknot to dye it with bubblegum-pink streaks. Then, she used a
dropper to apply a tiny amount to each eye in turn, dying the irises pink as
well. A few long trailing ribbons here, a few more there, a crystal
bracelet in every color of the rainbow, and a smattering of cookie crumbs
for that extra touch of jejune.

Finally, she delved into the back of the closet and rummaged about before
emerging with an old hoopak of silver birch-wood. The kender witch handled
it with care, her mission forgotten as she reminisced of days gone by.
Oftentimes, Topknotch Scouts earned woodworking badges by carving a hoopak
they would to carry unto their first Wanderlust. A forked walking staff
topped with a sling and shod with a spear-tip, hoopaks appeared useless at a
glance but were well-suited to a number of adventuring tasks. Only the deft
hand of a kender could produce the hoopak's signature wail.

Piknim ran her fingertips fondly across a collection of tarnished metal
badges embedded in the argent hoopak's shaft. Woodworking, Slinging, Spear
Fishing, Staff Fighting, Hiking, Music. Story Telling. Initials belonging
to old chums were carved into the wood alongside them all. Martingale
Flipsilver, Calumnay Crapehanger, Daffodil Springstep, Gallivant
Glimmerfoot, Periwinkle Pillowbottom, and many more from her scout troop.

Flip, Cal. Daffy, Glimmy, Wink. The latter three disappeared after the
fall of Balifore. Piknim told herself they were simply on Wanderlust and
would return one day as surely as a silver coin must land heads-up sooner or
later, but they never did. Would they even recognize her if they had?

The Darkfinder turned to regard herself in a mirror. Beneath one diguise
lay another only she could see. Chestnut hair bleached white in pale
imitation of the dark elves a magic-less dreamer so envied and admired upon
arrival in the dark city. Hazel eyes colored purple after one arcane mishap
or another from one of many, many failed apprenticeships. The coronet of an
Archduchess glimmered upon the vanity, though its wearer lacked noble blood.
Piknim dropped her gaze to the birch-wood hoopak she would carry on her
mission to the Light's encampment.

Something real to tell a lie.




Writer: Andreyna
Date Sun Jan 7 15:09:04 2024

To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Zandreya Xenophon Imm RP Religion

Subject Zandreya's Light- Reborn Unto Darkness



Andreyna sat near CharredAlder, as she did almost daily, watching as
Knights of Drakkara's Keep delivered moondust to the treant. Prayers were
offered, moondust was delivered, and the Knights departed the Vallens,
returning to their many number of other duties bestowed upon them in service
to the Dark Queen.

Andreyna looked down upon her right hand, flipping it back and forth, slowly
clenching and relaxing her fist. The alabaster glow of the white moon
remained. Her Darkness syphoned from her by CharredAlder, the white moon
engulfing her, marking her hand with its presence.

Andreyna had been conflicted. She had lost her Darkness, something she held
dear to her, something she advocated for time and again within her place in
the Balance. The presence of those blessed, especially those in strong
favor, by the Darkness had been difficult to withstand. A nervousness
consumed the Queen, anxiety so strong it made her almost fearful. Her
whitened fingertips would glow in such a presence, the remnants of the white
moon too 'pure' to not react to the power of the black moon's most loyal.

The elfqueen would cover her hand with a glove and distance herself as far
as she could from the Darkness she once embraced, finding solace and peace
in the glow of the white moon and the pools of light that were scattered
across the Vallens.

Andreyna looked up to CharredAlder once more. Her heart going out to the
treant of the shade. He had been through so much. He had to be restored,
not only for the sake of the Vallens, but for himself as well. For the
wrongdoings bestowed upon him by the Light and by the elves themselves.

There was Light in the Mother too. Andreyna had emphasized this so many
times in her sermons and teachings. The Mother was a Balance of Light and
Darkness, a neverending cycle of Nature. She had to be stronger than the
influence of the white moon. It was the Mother's Light she must look to and
find that solace and peace in.

One could say the Mother's Light represents birth, growth, and even rebirth.
CharredAlder, though of the Mother's shade, he was being healed, preparing
for rebirth, being born again unto the Mother's Darkness.




Writer: Michael
Date Mon Jan 8 11:01:38 2024

To All Knighthood

Subject Origins of a Witch Doctor



How to begin, that's always the question, isn't it? Putting quill to paper, now
a weary, old and frail man, I am brought back to my younger days. My days as a
young swashbuckling hero (so I pictured myself), doing All I could for the
Austinians, spreading Light to the realm, and helping All those who asked.

One fateful day, I set sail on my small vessel, searching south of Althainia for
more good deeds to do, and to explore uncharted waters of a recently split up
world. Little did I know that destiny had a different course charted for me. A
tempest unlike any I had ever encountered descended upon my little skiff,
merciless and unrelenting. I battled the raging sea with All of my might, but it
was a battle I just could not win. With a deafening crash, my ship was torn
asunder, and I found myself alone, cast ashore on an unfamiliar island.

The island was lush and vibrant, teeming with life, and as it turns out, it lay
just off the coast (but beyond the horizon) of the continent of Tropica. I had
survived the shipwreck, but I was alone, with only my clothing and the dagger
sheathed at my waist. As I explored this new land, I encountered a group of
mysterious figures emerging from the shadows of the dense jungle. Though they
didn't speak the common tongue, I saw that they were the spirit-wanderers, a
reclusive and enigmatic people who had inhabited this secluded island for
generations. Clad in tribal attire and adorned with intricate tattoos, they
regarded me with caution at first, but my Austinian charm and good looks soon
won them over.

The spirit-wanderers took me in, teaching me their tribal ways, feeding me plants
and mushrooms which helped transcend the language barrier. I learned the secrets
of their communion with the spirits, and the ancient rituals that bound their
society, and I began to speak their language. In turn for their kindness, I found
neighboring islands, and introduced trade and culture to these long-isolated
people. The island, once a place of exile for me, became my home. I lived as
they did for three long decades, embracing their way of life and becoming a part
of their family.

During those years, I honed my newfound abilities to communicate with spirits,
learning to read the signs and omens of the natural world. My prowess with a
spear grew, and with it, my status. I became a respected member of the tribe,
known for my wisdom and the protection I offered to my newfound family. My
youthful swashbuckling days were a distant memory, replaced by the serene wisdom
of a seasoned shaman.

The island and its secrets became a part of my very soul, and I realized that my
shipwreck had been a fateful twist of destiny, guiding me toward a path I could
never have foreseen. I had been chosen by the spirits of the island as their
vessel, their guardian, and their emissary to the world beyond.

As the years passed, I emerged from the shadows of the island, not as the daring
swashbuckler I once was, but as Michael, touting myself as a witch doctor. Word
of my unique abilities spread across the land, and I was recruited into the Halls
of Valor, fighting to help those in need of guidance and protection. I became
known for my wisdom and my communion with the spirits, and my origin story, a
tale of shipwrecks, survival, and communion with the unknown, became a legend
passed down through generations.

Now, in my old age, I look back on a life filled with adventure, hardship, and
the unbreakable bond I forged with the spirit-wanderers. I may be withered and
weathered, but my spirit remains as strong as ever, and I continue to fulfill
my purpose as a guardian and a guide, for I am Michael deBonair, witch doctor
extraordinaire.




Writer: Rhylgar
Date Mon Jan 8 11:38:51 2024

To All Verminasia Shadow Abaddon Piknim ( RP Imm Cayenna Drakkara )

Subject The Dark Odyssey Part One: The vision of Caution and Wisdom



As the night deepened, Rhylgar reclined in his grand chair by the
fireplace in the heart of his royal chambers. Illuminated by the storm
clouds that rolled in the distance, casting their turbulent dance across the
sky. Although the worst of the storm lay far from Verminasia, its tempests
enveloped the city in an ominous embrace, the dark thunder a familiar chorus
to the evening's descent. A jagged lightning bolt suddenly seared outside
the windows, momentarily blinding the young orc. As his sight returned, he
saw a large black wolf standing regally on the balcony. In this creature,
Rhylgar recognized the enigmatic presence that had been a guiding force
throughout his life's journey.

The wolf's piercing gaze ushered Rhylgar into a haunting vision. He found
himself in the throne room of Verminasia, observing his current self seated
upon the throne, radiating youthful strength but also a certain rawness.
The court around him was a chessboard of shadowy figures, their faces marked
by years and cunning. As the scene unfolded, it became clear that the young
Rhylgar's bold decisions lacked the depth of experience, leaving him and the
kingdom vulnerable to the machinations of seasoned courtiers and outside
threats.

In this moment of reflection, the words of the Faceless Man echoed in
Rhylgar's mind, "Fate is fickle, and the sands of time wait for none." The
truth of these words resonated within him, casting a stark light on the
fleeting nature of power and the urgency of wise and calculated
decision-making. It was a profound reminder that the throne he sought to
maintain demanded strength, ambition, wisdom, and foresight.

The vision whisked Rhylgar from the opulence of his throne into the heart of
Algoron's most treacherous and shadow-draped corners. A whirlwind of scenes
unraveled before him clashing swords with the fiercest adversaries of the
Dark, falling only to rise again, stronger each time. Each encounter and
trial sharpened his resolve, molding him with the unyielding resilience of
darksteel, destined to be a formidable instrument of the night's will. The
journey transformed him, step by step, into a paragon of strength, a true
embodiment of the Dark's indomitable spirit.

<===}-{u@To be Continuted--{{-{u@




Writer: Rhylgar

Date Mon Jan 8 11:41:10 2024

To All Verminasia Shadow Abaddon Piknim ( RP Imm Cayenna Drakkara )

Subject The Dark Odyssey Part One: The vision of Caution and Wisdom Cont.



<===}-{u@Continuted From Before--{{-{u@

In the final throes of this part of the vision, an older, more imposing
Rhylgar emerged. This version of himself bore the marks of time and
knowledge, his presence exuding a palpable sense of power. Here was a being
who had grown beyond the confines of his youthful aspirations, his eyes
reflecting a depth born of countless trials and victories. He stood as a
testament to strength gained through adversity, a ruler not just in title
but in essence.

The older Rhylgar, emanating a lifetime of battles and wisdom, addressed
his younger self with a grounded, solemn ethereal tone. "Your path ahead is
the true test of your mettle. Each challenge you face is a vital stroke in
shaping you into a formidable force for the Dark. This journey is your
crucible, forging you into an instrument far mightier than any crown could
bestow."

Absorbing these words, Rhylgar felt a surge of exhilaration. The vision had
transformed from a warning to a promise of what he could become. "To be
tested and sharpened, to emerge as a true weapon of the night," he said with
growing excitement, envisioning the path of transformation that lay ahead of
him.

Standing as a silent sentinel beside the elder Rhylgar, the black wolf gave
a quiet, knowing nod. Its silent affirmation conveyed a clear sense of
agreement with the elder's counsel. To Rhylgar, this subtle gesture was a
powerful confirmation, affirming that the path laid out before him was
indeed the correct one. The vision around them began to shift dramatically,
the atmosphere turning darker and increasingly chaotic. As the elder orc
gradually faded from sight, Rhylgar found himself alone with the black wolf
amidst the swirling tempest. It was a moment of profound understanding for
Rhylgar; he sensed that the wolf, this guide through his journey, had yet
more to reveal.




Writer: Rhylgar

Date Mon Jan 8 11:43:45 2024

To All Verminasia Shadow Abaddon Piknim ( RP Imm Cayenna Drakkara )

Subject Part Two: The Revelation and Resolve



As the enigmatic vision unfolded further, Rhylgar found himself wandering
through the dimly lit corridors of his throne room, accompanied by the
familiar and imposing figure of the large black wolf. Its eyes, glowing
with wisdom not of this world, cast an ethereal light upon the stone walls.
A heavy air of mystery and premonition swirled around them, painting the
scene with an otherworldly hue.

Approaching the throne, a strikingly lucid apparition emerged. It was
Rhylgar himself but imbued with a solemnity that spoke of burdens yet to be
shouldered. His visage, marked by the gravity of untold decisions,
portrayed a profound introspection. In a gesture devoid of triumph but
laden with the weight of kingship, the apparitional Rhylgar slowly lifted
the crown from his head. This act was not relinquishing duty but a deeper
acceptance of it.

With deliberate care, he placed the crown upon the throne, transforming it
into more than a seat of power a symbol of enduring legacy and
responsibility. As the spectral Rhylgar strode towards the exit of the
grand hall, his cloak trailing like a shadow of the past, a figure awaited
him at the threshold.

The older orc from before appeared again, his face a tapestry of time and
war, and stood with a knowing gaze. The lines etched into his skin told
tales of triumph and sorrow, a lifetime of leading and learning. This elder
version of Rhylgar exuded an aura of hard-earned wisdom. He silently
nodded, a gesture of acknowledgment for the journey undertaken and the path
that lay ahead.

In that moment of silent communion, a profound understanding passed between
the present and the future selves. A realization that the journey was as
crucial as the destination, and each step taken was a step towards a greater
destiny. Then, as suddenly as he appeared, the older Rhylgar dissolved into
the shadows, leaving behind a lingering affirmation.

As the vision faded, leaving Rhylgar back in the solitude of his chambers,
he pondered the weighty implications of what he had seen. The storm outside
continued to rage, mirroring the inner tumult of his thoughts. It was then
that the words of the Faceless Man from that night he was bestowed the crown
resurfaced in his mind, clear and resonant: "You stand poised to be the next
steward of this Dark Jewel, but you are here by your own merit, and the
Countess' doing. Remember All that transpired here tonight, for the Dark
Queen's patience has grown thin, and expectations will be met."

These words served as a stark reminder of the delicate balance of power and
influence that had led him to this juncture. They underscored the role of
his own actions and decisions in forging his path while also acknowledging
the Darkfinder's crucial role in his rise. The mention of the Dark Queen's
thinning patience and the expectation to meet her standards stirred a deep
sense of responsibility within Rhylgar. He realized that his ascent to
power was not just a personal triumph but a fulfillment of a larger, divine
scheme.

The understanding that he was a vital part of something far greater a
steward of the Dark Jewel, Verminasia itself cemented in him a renewed
purpose. The journey ahead was straightforward yet laden with the weight of
expectations from powers both seen and unseen. Rhylgar, now more than ever,
understood the gravity of his role and the necessity to balance his
ambitions with the discipline and wisdom required of a true leader.




Writer: Michael

Date Mon Jan 8 11:50:40 2024

To All Knighthood

Subject Origins of a Witch Doctor II



The years have passed like the gentle caress of a river's current, and I find
myself reminiscing about the time when my journey took an unexpected turn. My
role as a guardian and a shaman for the spirit-wanderers remains steadfast, but
in those days, I was known by a different name: "Jabber."

It All began when I introduced the spirit-wanderers to the concept of trade with
other islands. The lush bounty of our own was plentiful, and I believed that by
sharing our gifts with those beyond our shores, we could strengthen our bonds
and learn from the wisdom of others. Thus, I became "Jabber" during these
expeditions, named for the trusty spear I carried with me.

One island, in particular, captured my heart more than any other. It was a place
where the sands were as golden as the sun itself, and the people were as warm as
the tropical breeze that rustled the palm fronds. These islanders welcomed me
with open arms, and over time, I forged deep friendships with them. I spent more
and more time on their shores, trading the treasures of our island for the
exotic goods they offered.

Among these islanders, I found not only friends but also a young love that
warmed my heart like the tropical sun. Her name is for me alone, but she was a
spirited and kind-hearted soul who captured my heart with her laughter and her
wisdom. Our days were filled with laughter, and our nights were illuminated by
the glow of the moon, a witness to our love.

As "Jabber," I navigated the trade routes between our islands, sharing the
stories and traditions of the spirit-wanderers and bringing back the tales and
treasures of the world beyond. The bond between our islands grew stronger with
each passing day, and I marveled at the unity that trade had brought to our
disparate cultures.

But it was the time spent with my one love that truly defined those years. We
explored the lush jungles together, hand in hand, and shared our hopes and
dreams under the starlit skies. Her laughter and wisdom taught me that love and
friendship know no boundaries, transcending the differences between our people.

As the seasons changed, so did the nature of our relationship. The winds of
destiny carried me back to the island of the spirit-wanderers more frequently,
and the trade routes became my second home. Though she and I drifted apart in
our paths, the memories of those days remained etched in my heart.

Now, as I reflect on these moments in my diary, I am grateful for the
experiences that shaped me into the man I have become. The bonds I forged, the
love I found, and the wisdom I gained from those days have made me who I am
today. I am Michael now, and "Jabber" no longer, but the echoes of those times
still whisper in my soul, reminding me of the beauty and warmth that exist in
the world beyond our own island.




Writer: Ahava

Date Mon Jan 8 13:04:00 2024

To All knighthood whiskey imms rp

Subject The Journey Begins



The days were long this time of year. The bright balmy tropical sun
warmed the golden sands of the island, Ahava, called home. Warm breezes
brought the scent of salt and the fragrant flowers that bloomed in an array
of colors All around the little island. Outside her window, she could hear
the sound of the village children laughing as they played a game of tag.
Their high pitches squeals and laughter battling with the crashing sound of
the surf as the ocean meets the sand. Wistfully she remembers her days
running barefoot across the beach, wind in her hair and the warm feel of the
sand between her toes.

She smiled wistfully as she ran her hand over her brimming bookshelf. Each
book holding a soft spot in her heart, but she cannot carry a library with
her. With a careful reverence she slid a well worn and obviously well loved
volume from its place amongst the others. The Gods of Algoron was the title
and she had spent hours pouring over it when the rain kept her inside. At
first, before she could read, her grandmother would sit in her comfortable
chair and read to Ahava. Tales of glory and valor, of great men and woman
and the deeds they did in the name of their Gods. Her favorite where the
tales of Nadrik and the Knights of Garreth Keep. She treasured those
moments and once she was old enough spent many a night devouring the same
tales over and over. With a sigh, she tucks the book into her backpack,
nestling it safely among the colorful clothes she had already packed.

She hears her grandmother bustling around their small kitchen and goes out
for one last cup of tea and conversation before she begins her journey. The
kitchen is bright and cheerful with the soft breeze filtering in through the
open windows and the sun lighting the room in a bright glow. Her
grandmother stood over the counter pouring tea into two small porcelain
cups. Porcelain was a rarity here and her grandmother treasured her
collection. Ahava knew that she was using these cups now as a symbol of how
important this moment was. She helped her grandmother brings the cups over
to the neat little kitchen table and sat.

Are you All packed and ready to go? Her grandmother asked as she
delicately sipped the hot tea. Her wrinkled hands a testament to her age
but her face still held an almost youthful appearance.

Ahava smiled at her grandmother and nodded her head before taking a sip of
the sweet spicy tea. She would miss this tea and its unique flavor. She
was sure it would not be available on the mainland, but she hoped she would
find new flavors to taste. Perhaps she would bring some back to her
grandmother on a visit.

You remember everything I have told you, yes? , Her grandmother asked with
a raised eye. I hope you have given up on the notion of finding your
grandfather. He was an important man and he is probably doing important
things as such men do. He left and never returned, perhaps he wont even
remember his time here on the island. Perhaps he is no longer alive. You
mustnt get your hopes up that you will find him, girl. mustnt get your hopes up that you will find him, girl.

Starring into the last remains of her tea, Ahava nodded slightly and let a
small frown grace her face. I know that, Grandmother. I wont search for
him but perhaps our paths will cross if I join the Keep. You say he was a
noble and honorable man, he gave you the book on the Gods so you could'
understand him better. Perhaps he has dealings with the Knights and I will
meet him. I can only hope. She tried to keep the excitement and longing
from her voice but knew from the look on her grandmothers face she had
failed.

Her grandmother made a small tisking sound but smiled warmly at her. With a
sigh, grandmother reached out and took the empty teacup from Ahavas hands.
It is time, dear. You mustnt dawdle. Now get your bag and head out before
the ship leaves without you. She said as she pulled the young girl to her
feet and give her one last hug before gently ushering her out the door.




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Mon Jan 8 20:38:32 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Mon Jan 8 21:07:55 2024




Writer: Vershae

Date Wed Jan 10 16:57:01 2024




Writer: Piknim

Date Wed Jan 10 17:19:37 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (III)



A lone black speck, the distinct silhouette of a bird in flight, circled
far above the Light's encampment on Zaven Island in a figure eight pattern,
its amethyst-hued eyes aglow as it watched the goings-on far below.

A joint force of Althainian and Justice soldiers had secured the ruined
city's southeastern corner, cleared debris from a wide thoroughfare, and
formed a perimeter manned by seasoned veterans to ward off grell incursions.
What few buildings still stood were occupied by a battalion headquarters and
logistics elements: the operations center, quartermaster, infirmary, mess
hall, and more. A small battery of artillery, emplaced atop the crumbling
southeastern watchtower, commanded a superior view of the barren plain.

A single jagged gap in the city wall, fortified with debris and guarded by
sentries, served as an inner checkpoint. Beyond the wall, row upon row of
tents, carts and wagons, a stables, and a kennel comprised an outer
encampment where rank and file competed for shade from the unbearable heat
of a tropical climate. A low wall of burlap sand-bags, rubble, and rotten
timber formed a second perimeter to safeguard the field camp, with an outer
checkpoint manned by more sentries.

The venture's ultimate purpose lay at the base of the valley, surrounded by
signs of recent excavation. A circle of gold-veined marble crested the
barren ground by a matter of inches, with a diameter of seven kenderkin laid
toe to topknot its surface unnaturally smooth and reflective, like a mirror
its conception wholly natural, beyond the shaping of mortal hands or mundane
tools. Delicate motes of lucent gold filtered up from the disc from
sunlight glimmering upon flecks of dust.

On the opposite side of the city, in the cellar of a derelict building,
Piknim Cracklespark studied the Light's operation through the eyes of her
Gogothathan rook familiar, All before its gaze reflected upon the iridescent
surface of a crystal ball. Her child-like expression, initially
enthusiastic if not giddy with anticipation, soured the longer she watched.
Sentries and roaming patrols, both within and without, reported to the
quartermaster prior to shift change, where they were issued a trio of
potions with which to detect not only unseen enemies but the evil in their
souls as well.

The Darkfinder could not disguise her aura.

Every beaming smile, kind word, and innocent gleam in her eyes lay rooted
beneath a blossoming malevolence, bright and shiny and red as a perfect
rose.

Piknim yanked off her yellow neckerchief, wadded it up, and flung it across
the room petulantly. She'd gotten All dressed up for nothing! However, a
witch with All the magic in the world at her fingertips could find a
solution to any problem, borrow whatever spell a situation required. All
the while she seethed a new plan formed in her mind's eye. The change of
circumstances called for shadowform.

Night soon fell upon the Light's encampment, as surely as nature's hand
drops a trinket into a kender's pouch, and with it another opportunity to be
seized.




Writer: Piknim

Date Wed Jan 10 17:29:55 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (IV)



A bantam wraith crept through the outer encampment, shifting from tent to
tent like a shadow as clouds drifted before the winter moon. Soldiers
snored upon sleeping rolls, commiserated around the warmth of campfires, and
passed by her in the dark, none the wiser to a foreign presence among them.
Armed with knowledge of patrol routes, the Darkfinder picked a safe path to
the stables and adjoining kennel.

In the dim light of hanging lanterns, the diminutive specter dissipated. A
cirri of shadow slithered back into the dark corners from whence they came
to reveal a kender in the uniform of an Allied soldier, birch-wood hoopak in
hand. Piknim lifted the latch on a stall and slipped inside. She pulled a
jar from her pack, popped the cork, and held the mouth against a horse's
flank. A firm bop of her tiny fist jettisoned the jar's solitary passenger,
a disease-ridden flea bloated with eggs, onto her equine victim.

"Rot, rot, rot your face! Rot your face right off," Piknim sang in a hushed
tone, chuckling impishly to herself.

"Hold it right there, you," a voice behind her ordered.

Piknim dropped a hand to the pommel of a dagger at her hip. Her lip curled
with menace, as though pulled betwixt a sneer and a snarl, before stretching
into a well-practiced smile. She turned and found herself face to face with
a fellow kenderkin.

Curly blond hair peeked out from under brimmed hat of a cavalry scout, but
his uniform bore the patch and regimental crest of a maintenance unit. He
wore a yellow half-cape secured at the shoulders by a pair of plain, yet
shiny silver-plated rectangular badges. His eyes were the beckoning blue of
an unladen sky, clean and bright. A leather spyglass case hung from a sling
across his front, criss-crossed with another that held a brass warning horn.

"I didn't do anything," Piknim protested reflexively, as one whose hand has
been caught in the proverbial cookie jar far too many times is apt to do.
She kicked the stall door shut with a discreet nudge of her foot and blinked
innocently.

"Where's your starlight reflector badge," the kender inquired, leaning in to
inspect her more closely. "Oh no! Did you miss the safety briefing?
Private Buckner went out at night without his reflector badge. Got run over
by a wagon on his way to the latrine! You'll get in big trouble if they
catch you without a reflector badge. Private Rafferty misplaced his badge
yesterday. They made him do jumping-jacks until he threw up. Three hundred
and thirty-nine. I counted for him! Don't worry, though. I've got plenty
of extras. Look! You can borrow one of mine!"

He presented the contents of a bulging pouch and Piknim peeked inside.
Amongst a collection of trinkets and junk were a suspicious number of plain,
yet shiny silver-plated rectangular badges. Piknim picked out the closest
pair, as well as a silver stirring spoon for safekeeping. Upon a cursory
examination, found the surnames "Buckner" and "Rafferty" etched upon the
backsides. She blanched at the discovery.

"My hero," Piknim declared flatly.




Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Jan 10 17:43:17 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (V)



"Here! Let me help," the unflappable kender offered. He seized the
badges, slipped behind Piknim, and began securing them to the shoulder loops
of her uniform top as he chattered on. "I've not seen you around the camp
before. You must be new here! I'm Dotterel Tenderfoot. Private
Tenderfoot. I'm with the Wrath. Army of tactics. I'm a scout, but mostly
I fetch tea for Captain Sorrel. It's an important job. He's not easy to
please. Very particular about his tea. What's your name?"

"Oh, uhh, it's, pfffhh-mmmhh-buhh.. Boobella. Bubbleblower. Corporal
Bubbleblower," Piknim lied, making a point of emphasizing her superior rank.

"Happy to make your acquaintance, Corporal Bubbleblower," Dotterel said with
a smile, snapping the second badge into place. He clapped Piknim upon the
shoulders chummily and circled back to her front. "All set! Well, I'd
better get back to my bunk, such as it is. There's a midnight curfew in
effect, you know. You'll get in big trouble if they catch you out after
curfew. I'll see you around!"

Piknim bared her teeth in an exaggerated grin, struggling to maintain her
facade. "Oh goody-good! See you around, buddy," she replied with an
overabundance of false enthusiasm.

Private Tenderfoot marched off into the night blithely, whistling snatches
of a military cadence. Piknim watched him go, her grin contorting with
abject disdain. "Imbecile!" she hissed scornfully. Dotterel had come
close, far too close, to foiling her plans. Were the kender scout anymore
perceptive he would have been whistling through a perforated lung. Some say
the gods protect fools, children, and drunks - and kender count for two out
of three. On the other hand, some say the only good kender is a dead one.

Piknim skulked through the darkness to the adjoining kennel. She had only
to infest a dog with the last flea, assume shadowform once more, and make
her escape before the sunrise. The kender witch knelt before a cage and a
canine snout poked through the bars to lap at her hand, oblivious to the
evil it had wrought. Piknim reached into her pack for the second jar and
rummaged about, but found nothing. Nothing. A moment of clarity struck
half a heartbeat before she tore open the canvas flap and peered inside.

The jar was gone.

"Noo-oooo!" Piknim All but shrieked under her breath. The dog whined softly
in reply, sensing her distress. Eyes bulging with consternation, she ducked
behind a water barrel in search of her bearings. "Dotterel Tenderfoot! I'm
going to murder you," the kender witch gritted through clenched teeth.
"Ohh, I'm gonna.. grrhhh. Arrghh!"

She produced a crystal ball from her pocket and waved a hand over it
frantically, invoking aloud the arcane words of a locate object spell.
Dotterel could not have wandered far and such a unique item would not be
difficult to divine. The crystal ball flared bright with magic and
reflected a map of the encampment that shifted rapidly, as though a magical
eye were scanning the terrain.

In a matter of moments the panorama stilled and a bright blip pulsed,
marking an old church just inside the city walls.




Writer: Piknim
Date Thu Jan 11 18:32:45 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VI)



The crystal ball and its telltale blip guided Piknim to crack in the city
wall, scarcely large enough to accommodate a kender, which provided a
discreet means of circumventing the inner camp's sentries. She wriggled
through a narrow tunnel emerged inside the ruined city amongst heaps of
rubble, across the street from an old church.

The grounds were in sorry shape, with sections of wrought-iron fence
completely missing and a crooked gate that hung open. A small cemetary lay
within, its graves obscured by dead grass and crumbling markers. The church
itself, a stone foundation and empty, scorched shell, provided neither
shelter nor solace.

Death and decay had found this place long before Piknim Cracklespark.

Only the steeple stood intact, tall and sturdy. A warm glow, like that of a
flame, flickered in the steeple's belfry. Piknim crept across the street
and picked a path through the churchyard before ascending the stair,
dragonbone kris held behind her back in a reverse grip.

At the top, in the steeple's belfry, she found Dotterel Tenderfoot seated
upon a stool before a firepit of scorched stones. A small section of
wrought-iron fencing served as a grill, and atop it a copper kettle bubbled
and whistled, as though heralding her entrance.

"Bubbles," Dotterel greeted her with a surprised smile. "What're you doing
here? Come in, come in! Find a seat! Care for a snack? Midnight tea?"

Piknim smirked indulgently and slid the kris back into its sheathe. The
kender Archduchess rather enjoyed being attended by others. Murder could
wait until after snack-time. Her stomach grumbled in assent, woefully
empty. She leaned her white birch-wood hoopak against the wall, took a seat
upon a stool, and sat upright imperiously to survey the proffered repast
laid out atop a slat of wood covered with a faded blue window drapery.

An assortment of porcelain teacups, All of which were chipped in one way or
another, but none of which matched, were clustered together. A collection
of teaspoons were stacked beside them: three of copper, the kind found in
mess kits, two of pewter, likely scavenged from the ruins, one of sterling
silver, monogrammed with somebody else's initials, and one of gold with an
ornate handle. She selected the gold spoon and the cleanest-looking teacup,
which Dotterel promptly filled with hot tea from the kettle.

Piknim raised her teacup and inhaled the aroma, only to wrinkle her nose in
disgust. The tea smelled astringent and looked oily. A nearby pile of
satchets, the bitter blend found only in field rations, told a story as to
why. There were no proper biscuits, but rather squares of hardtack that
repelled teeth like dragonskin and could only be defeated by drowning in
that godforsaken tea. No milk, no honey. Only a single small jar of black
currant jam. She wondered if it once belonged to Captain Sorrel.





Writer: Piknim
Date Thu Jan 11 18:42:07 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VII)



Piknim ventured a sip opf tea, grimaced hard, and shook her head.
Captain Sorrel likes it!"

"Well, your Captain is a nit-wit! I'd rather drink poison. Anyhow! Look
here, you. Did you take my-"

"You were in the Topknotch Scouts," Dotterel blurted, interrupting the
kender witch in the middle of her inquiry. He scooted his stool closer to
the birch-wood hoopak and ran both hands across its argent length
reverently. Piknim hesitated before pivoting directly into the change of
subject.

"Yes! Yes indeedy. Not some mere Copperfoot, either! I'm a bonified
Goldfoot," she boasted, gesturing to the collection of metal merit badged
embedded in the shaft. They winked in the firelight. Topknotch Scouts were
ranked by competence using a tier system based upon metallic dragon types,
with Goldfoot at the very top.

"My grandpa made it to Silverfoot! But how could you possibly make
Goldfoot? Balifore fell decades ago! There's no way. How do you look so
young?"

Piknim fluttered her eyelashes, indulgent as ever in the face of flattery.

"Magic!"

"Magic, huh? Pffftt. Magic! Well, I enjoy a tall tale. Tell me more!
How did you earn this one? Ghost Hunting?"

And so she did.

Her wicked schemes forgotten, if only for a short while, the Darkfinder sat
and shared stories with Dotterel Tenderfoot. The kenderkin took turns
spinning yarns, trading tales, recalling adventures large and small, and
wondering at what the future held until the embers crackled and sparked
their last. A precious handful of hours stretched into the passing of days
long before the night's end.

Finally, Dotterel climbed to his feet and offered Piknim his hand. She took
it, and the kender scout led her to an open arch of the belfry facing the
city wall. He pressed the brass spyglass into her hands and pointed east
through a jagged gap in the ramparts.

She raised the spyglass to her eye.

There, at the base of the valley far beyond the wall, a wide circle of
gold-veined marble reflected moonlight in a gentle eddy of whirling motes in
hues of lucent gold, starlight silver, and pallid vermillion.

"What do you suppose it All means," Dotterel whispered inquisitively.

"Oho! Didn't anyone bother to tell you?"

"Nope! Nobody tells me anything."

"What a pity."

Up close, the same light burned Piknim's eyes and made her sick to her
stomach, but from a greater distance it felt bearable. She pondered what
Geirhart had found in the valley. Why had the old priest come here?




Writer: Piknim
Date Thu Jan 11 18:54:23 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (VIII)



By the time Piknim returned her attention to Dotterel, the incorrigible
scout had picked up her white birch-wood hoopak, flipped open a vintage
Topknotch Scout utility knife, and begun carving his initials into the shaft
alongside those of her old chums. She could only watch and stare, taken
aback, until he finished. Dotterel brandished the staff-sling with the
widest of smiles and handed it back, a friendship newly graven upon it.

Piknim passed the spyglass to Dotterel in turn. In that moment, her mind's
eye painted a gruesome picture of the future upon the present. The kender
scout's blond curls turned sallow and fell out at the roots. His face
sloughed off in layers of diseased skin, congealed blood, and rotten viscera
until only the skull remained, a grinning visage of bleached bone teeming
with tiny black fleas. A future the Darkfinder sought to bring about.

She swallowed hard and blinked the vision away.

"Dotterel. Why are you here?"

"Oh, well, Captain Sorrel says there's been a thief in the barracks and that
I should bunk here for a while so my things will be safe until they-"

"No, no! I mean, why did you join the Wrath? Why become a soldier?"

Dotterel raised the spyglass to his eye, as though truth lay hidden beyond
the dark horizon, only to pass it back with an imperceptible sigh. "I don't
know," he admitted with the ghost of a shrug. "My grandpa told me so many
stories about his adventures in the Baliforian militia way back when. I
thought soldiering would be fun, but looking back now.. I didn't think it
through at all. There's lots and lots of exciting places for a kender to
go, but not so very many for us to stay."

Piknim nodded in somber acknowledgment before turning her eyes up to the
black moon. It loomed in the evening sky like an watchful eye, ever beyond
Dotterel's finding - spyglass or no.

"Why are you here?" Dotterel ventured in return.

"I know what I want. That's why!" Piknim stated sharply, her tone rising
in pitch. "I go wherever the path leads and to hell with anyone who gets in
my way! I won't be staying here any longer than necessary. In fact, I'll
be gone by the morning! You should come with me. I can show you things -
everything you ever wanted but failed to find. There's no magic here but
what the tall folk keep from you."

"I couldn't possibly do that! Well, I mean, I can do it. I could go, but
I'd get in big trouble. It's called absence without leave. Any longer than
five days is desertion. I don't want to be a bad soldier. I wander off
sometimes, it's true, but always for the good of the mission, and I always
come back."

"You don't belong here! Can't you see that? They don't care about you.
They only care if the tea is hot and ready! They only notice you when
something goes missing! Leave them behind. Leave this place and don't look
back!"

"What's gotten into you? Why are you so mad?" Dotterel entreated
innocently.

Piknim eyed the kender scout askance, her chest thundering and lips dry.
The dragonbone kris at her hip throbbed with suppressed ire, feeding off the
hatred in her heart. She rested a hand upon the pommel and considered
Dotterel Tenderfoot, soldier of Justice. So too did she ponder the weight
of a life akin to her own - taken, offered freely, or borrowed. By what ill
fortune had he bumped into her in the dead of night?

Finally, she presented the spyglass to him.

"Look again," Piknim insisted.

Dotterel accepted the spyglass and raised it to his eye impetuously, scanning
the dark horizon.

He never knew what hit him.




Writer: Piknim
Date Thu Jan 11 19:29:50 2024

To All ( Drakkara Dragoth Lavinah Rao'mrath Geirhart Admin )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Ill Fortune (IX)



Dotterel Tenderfoot stirred in his four-poster bed as the dreamscape
dissipated, melting into memory so seamlessly that he struggled to find his
bearings in a sea of stray thoughts. Had it All been a dream? Enlisting in
the Wrath? Zaven Island? A strange kender woman? He buried his face in
the divinely soft depths of a goosedown pillow and drew the satin sheets
more tightly around him. The fragrance of ambrette seed and violets
lingered still.

She was real. It was All real.

His psyche drifted between awakened memories, as though following a trail of
breadcrumbs. The kender scout remembered a billow of pink smoke and a
profound feeling of growing smaller. He remembered a pair of enormous hands
picking him up, and secreting him someplace dark, and the croaking of frogs.

Darkness.

The sound of a door latch drew Dotterel upright, eyes flying open wide to
find himself in the opulent environs of a noble estate. A bevy of servants
entered, one after another. A classically dressed maid parted purple velvet
drapes from a tall lattice window, and then another, feeding morning
sunlight into the extravagant guest room. A steward delivered a silver tray
to his bedside wordlessly while a butler looked on with a fastidious air.

Upon the tray lay a perfect teaset of gilded porcelain and matching cutlery.
Aromatic satchets of tea with berries, herbs, and spices. Proper biscuits,
light and buttery. Milk and honey. Freshly cut citrus fruit. A small,
half-empty jar of black currant jam. Dotterel choked on his surprise and
looked to the butler, down to the elegant repast, then back up again in
bewilderment.

"The Archduchess of Gogothath insists that you join her for afternoon tea,"
the butler declared with a slight bow, "However, you may stay as long as you
wish."




Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Jan 12 09:13:44 2024

To All ( immortal religion rp dragoth )

Subject An Itch to Scratch: Epilogue III



She was puzzled. While she was proud of the work on the fleas, from
drawing the wemic closer to the pantheon to the ever reliable kenderkin
delivering her work to the camp, there was something wrong.

What she designed - and bred - to be an annoyance and sap the soldiers of
the light of their temperament and sleep, something was amiss in her own
infection.

With All of her testing, the fleas to be distributed caused vicious rashes
in the genitals, fever and the associated foul mood. In wildly successful
cases, the infected had incredible difficulty sleeping.

Her cheek was rotting away, there was no rash, no fever. So she dug in to
her own flesh, with a razor and tweezers until she found it - no bigger than
a grain of rice - something she had never seen on Algoron but knew well from
homelands.

An exsvee - such a gift her Lord had brough.

She wondered briefly if the wemic was infected still but that thought left
her mind as quickly as it entered. The pain in her jaw fell away as she was
given a new experiment, a new direction to work her faith and spread His
will across the realm.




Writer: Altacas
Date Sun Jan 14 09:31:56 2024

To All Slayers Mantoron ( Cayenna Raije Imm RP )

Subject Of Paths to Raije


The hour was late, the sun having gone to rest long ago, as Altacas paced
within the holy room, hands clasped behind his back, taking slow steps
towards the steel door of the dragonslayer's Sanctum. His interlocked fingers
released one another as he brought his right hand forward and placed it up on
the steel of the Sanctum door which had been locked for years. Dipping his
head ever so slightly, he sighed as he turned from the door and looked upon
the imposing statue of Raije. Whispering softly, "He is seemingly lost,"
as he locked his fingers together behind his back, slowly walking towards the
large statue.

For weeks now, Altacas found himself in this exact situation, unable to sleep
or clear his mind. During the day, he would battle Greystoke's foes on the field
and at night he would fight a battle within himself. One he could not escape with
sleep, no matter how much he exhausted himself during the day, as his mind simply
would not grant him reprieve and permit his eyes to close.

Altacas stopped his movements and looked up at the statue, inhaling deeply and
then exhaling almost sadly he spoke to the statue, "He has charged, headstrong,
into this life with a dark heart, foe to All that is light." Altacas shifted his
weight to his right feet, obviously uncomfortable sharing these thoughts - even to
an empty room. His armor making soft clinking sounds as he continued, "Though as
of late, He finds that darkness fading, lessening, He feels the intense fire he once
felt slowly dimming." Altacas quiets himself as he considers what he is saying.
He would never lose his Faith in Raije or the purpose of Greystoke. He would never
permit the soulless or the dragons who defied their creators to roam unchallenged,
however, He now questions his path to Raije. Altacas had since continued his pacing
and as he turns to walk towards the Sanctum door he says, "He wonders then if He is
on the right path to Raije. He knows there are three, a path of Goodness, a path of
Darkness, and the path between."

Altacas unclasped his hands and lets them rest at his side, clenching his fists to
usher the blood return to hasten. Eyeing the lock on the Sanctum door he stops his
forward progress, his fists half-clenched as he announces to an empty room, "He is
on the wrong path." Exhaling completely, Altacas smiled in relief. With a single
statement he had admitted the struggle that had kept him awake the last few months.
Perhaps he would not be destined to repeat this night again. Turning from the steel
door he says, "He must seek the High Clerist, Mantoron, with first light," and
proceed down the stairs to the Great Hall of Greystoke, eyeing the mounted head of
Pyros as he enters.




Writer: Vershae

Date Mon Jan 15 16:20:49 2024

To Abaddon, All imm rp

Subject Mobilization II



Vershae paces back and forth in his quarters on the naval ship that is in
dock. His quarters provide him a place of solace and a way to do some of
his heaviest thinking. Just then he hears a knock on the door to which he
swiftly moves to open it. Standing on the otherside of the door is a
crewmate that says, "Sir, there is word. You are needed on the deck. "
Vershae nods and gathers a few items as he steps out of his quarters. As he
walks down the hallway of the vessel his mind is racing with question. Is
this viable? If it is, how effective would it be? Would he, survive this?


As he continues, he reaches the ladder as he makes his way up toward the
deck....

He opens the hatch and is greeted by those of who he trusts the most.
Sedinae says to him, "Harbinger, the items have been prepared as you
requested and the supplicant has also been brought.
" He takes the items
and the supplicant, an unwilling student from the Althainian University,
back into the ship only to disappear in the heart of the vessel. From the
darkness he speaks, "Ensure this being is fed properly for a period of two
weeks and make sure it remains, comfortable. If this works, it could give
us a decisive edge in the upcoming battle against these rouge vampires.
The
statement is loud and clear. The guards take the student into the heart of
the ship and disappears. Vershae returns to the deck and looks out over the
bay, silent.




Writer: Kaladon

Date Mon Jan 15 19:53:40 2024




Writer: Kaladon

Date Mon Jan 15 19:55:44 2024




Writer: Kaladon

Date Mon Jan 15 20:12:30 2024




Writer: N'othro

Date Thu Jan 18 00:05:32 2024

To Abaddon All Imm RP

Subject Mobilization: The Coven's Call



In the shadowy kingdom of Abaddon, where the moon cast an eternal pallor
over the land, N'othro moved with a grace that belied his purpose. His
elven form, draped in a plain robe, seemed to blend seamlessly into the
darkened alleys and mist-laden streets. The icy blue gaze cut through the
obsidian night, betraying a depth of contemplation.

While many of his craft had some talent with the undead, N'othro's
connection to the undead had become something of an artform. Four candles,
one to represent each of the dark pantheon, placed meticulously upon a
summoning circle glowed with sickly flames as a dark essence filled the
swamps around. For years he had used such circles when garnering the
greater strength of the dracolae that now so oft soar in the skies above
thanks to his skill. This summoning circle was different than anything he
had done before, however. The scale was nearly beyond belief. This was not
an effort for a single dracolae... But an army of the undead.

Like sous chefs to their master, warlocks and witches moved in, out, and
around the summoning circle as they followed closely the commands of the
revered arcanist. His gift of gourd and ritual had become famed within the
bloodlands, offering results rarely seen in the unschooled science that he
had crafted. This new effort, however, was less about his famed precision
and more about mass. Quantity over quality in this case. A slight frown
formed on his visage.

This is not the sort of work that he found particularly inspiring... But it
was necessary. THEY were necessary. The army that was to be formed... IT
was necessary. The army did not need to have true strength, but it did need
to be impressive in its size. It needed to be enough to draw them out.

As he ventured around the circle in his inspection under the moon's muted
glow, N'othro's thoughts were consumed by the impending confrontation. The
kingdom was at war. Not against the Light but instead against rival
vampires to the queens. It All seemed so ridiculous, but the elders desired
power. Soon enough they would regret their vying of the queens' thrones.
Soon enough, the undead of the realm would be reminded of the strength of
the bloodlands.




Writer: Kaerick

Date Thu Jan 18 12:30:18 2024




Writer: Piknim

Date Thu Jan 18 21:07:47 2024




Writer: Piknim

Date Thu Jan 18 21:11:29 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Sat Jan 20 10:03:05 2024




Writer: Asrar

Date Sun Jan 21 13:33:16 2024

To Abaddon All Imm rp

Subject Ride to Gathna - {uReconnaissance



Asrar stood in the laboratory of the Coven, looking out over the
bloodlands. Though the tower was only two stories, it towered over the
city, giving a clear view clear into the swamps. She knew Vershae was
working on something on the ship and the Arcanist was rarely idle with his
research and his skills with conjuring the undead. Her last mission, though
not entirely her fault, was still a failure. She had not anticipated
Belstrad's servant's loyalties. No matter how she tried to deflect though,
that failure was hers. She did not like failure, it was like feeding from
centaurs, it left a bad taste in her mouth.

It was time to gather some intelligence on Caustus. Gathna was not an easy
place to get to, werewolves and hunters scoured the forest, and the church
knew of her kind, they would like nothing more than to put a stake through
her heart. She would have to go more prepared, though a fight was not what
she was after.

Donning her armor, she decided to go with finery over it rather than her
daily wardrobe. Her cloak was yeti fur lined with fine silk. The braided
chain keeping it on her shoulders was pure silver. She chose amulets that
depicted the sign of Drakkara rather than the sharkskins she usually wore.
Her hair she put into a tight bun, the helmet tucked away in her pack, not
easily reachable but there just in case. Though not one usually for the
court, when it was necessary, she could play that role. As the sun fell to
the horizon, she set out for Caustus's castle, not entirely sure what she
would find, but this was a fact-finding expedition, she would see what she
could.




Writer: Asrar

Date Sun Jan 21 13:54:23 2024

To Abaddon All Imm rp

Subject Ride to Gathna - {uCaustus's Castle



Asrar stepped from the carriage to stand before the massive iron gates.
There was no sound. No birds flew in the sky. No wolves howled from the
forest. There was only silence. Pushing lightly on the gate, she stepped
into a courtyard of ruin. The furniture that had once likely been quite
exquisite, was now rotten and decrepit. The stone walls were chipped, the
paint that once would have brought life to the walls were mostly gone save
for patches here and there. The silence of the outside was present inside
too, the castle seemed abandoned.

A bit disappointed in this finding, she made her way through the mostly open
courtyard to the hall leading deeper into the castle ruin. The doors had
long since rotted away leaving darkened maws into the rooms. As she stepped
into one on the left, she found why it had been silent. Vampires, a lot of
them. They were not dressed for court. Or the battlefield. They were
feral and they were hungry. Rags of rotten silk hung from their bodies,
what jewelry they had on were dulled by age and lack of care. One thing
they All had in common though, they All looked at her as if she was their
next meal. A fight was not what she had come for, but it looked like she
was going to have to fight or die where she stood.

Quickly she called forth a swarm, the spell's affects quickly causing them
incredible pain as she ran from the room. The castle filled with screams of
anguish and hunger, the alarm it seems had been raised. Feral, hungry,
vampires poured out of the rooms, first one, then two, then four, the hall
crowded with them. Quickly surrounding her, fists pounding her body,
beating against the spells that protected her. Her darkstaff a whirl of ice
as it connected with one, then another, trying to hold them at bay. Her
swarms causing a distraction for some, but she quickly realized she was not
going to get any further into the castle. She had what she had come for.

Caustus was building an army, and when they came for Abaddon, none would be
left.




Writer: Kojo

Date Sun Jan 21 21:35:47 2024

To Arkane All ( imm rp Croatoan Sebatis )

Subject A Setback in Progress



Kojo grimaced. He once believed that All knowledge, no matter how
powerful or occult, should be shared. Yet as he looked at his creations
destroyed by a self righteous priestess and a fearful king, the goblin
scientist was forced to admit he needed to reevaluate that belief.

How could these fools not see that his creations would have benefited
everyone? An unlimited source of labor at no cost that would do All the
menial and dangerous work. There was literally no logical reason or
downside to his idea to animate the bodies of the dead save those fabricated
in the name of morality. A foolish notion that hindered progress. He even
was trying to cater to alternative ideas for labor beyond the dead but the
vindictive king, bent on hampering progress even destroyed his alternative
creations. A man so detached from reality he actually claimed there was no
poverty or hunger in Arkane. The view from that glass tower must be great!

Kojo shook his head, taking a deep breath to stop his fuming. The soulless
minions of orthodoxy would always be present to hamper progress. The fault
was in him, for not anticipating how they would move to block All efforts
towards progress citing their moral dogma rooted in fear of the unknown.
People cannot handle progress. Even the town drunk had pointed out that
obvious fact to the goblin scientist. He would not make the mistake of
sharing his findings with the public again. But oh yes, the work would
continue and the world and Sebatis would one day come to realize what a
great intellect Kojo had! For now he had a therapeutic essay to write.




Writer: Melora

Date Mon Jan 22 10:12:17 2024

To All ( Verminasia RP )

Subject {uIt Runs In The Family - {p001



{uMany years ago...


"I'm sorry mother but this is what is best for my Lora. " the young woman
whispers as she leans back from the limp form before her. Her tears begin
to fall in earnest, slowly wetting the pillow she holds tightly in her
hands. Her bleating can be heard from outside as she bellows out sob after
sob.

It doesn't take long before another small wailing can be heard next door,
and the young woman tries to collect herself. She stands tall after wiping
her face and tossing the pillow aside, then she moves out of the room and
approaches the small form uttering such wickedly loud cries of need.

With a soft motherly tone she soothes, "Be sweet my little Lora, be sweet.
Mum is here.
". She picks up the babe and begins to rock her, more
soothing mumbles and little kisses to the baby's forehead until she quiets.
She watches her little beauty, Melora. She named her after her mother,
which seems foolish at this moment, but in time her little Lora will come to
believe the name is one of respect and nobility and not of a dying old woman
who nearly got them All killed for acting like a witch.

Lora begins to close her eyes and is soon asleep in her mother's arms, the
softest of blue light glowing around her as she slumbers deeper. She always
did look so peaceful when she slept. Surely the dreams were a good idea to
grant a baby.

She settles down in the middle of the floor and closes her eyes while
counting backwards from 100 and focusing on her breathing. Before long
she'd need to start teaching lessons to her little Lora. Lessons about the
world, men, and their families special gift. With a frustrated growl she
clears her mind and restarts the countdown, her mind and body relaxing and
soon entering the Dream.




Writer: Altacas

Date Tue Jan 23 10:12:43 2024

To All Slayers Mantoron ( Cayenna Raije Imm RP )

Subject Of Paths to Raije Part 2


He was resting in the Holy Room, his back against the sealed door of the
Dragonslayer Sanctum, his eyes pouring over the large statue of Raije in
the center of the room. His fingertips mindlessly tracing the symbol of
Greystoke on his pavise shield while he softly hummed a battle hymn he had
read in an ancient volume stowed away in the library. The bridge of the
book was tattered and failing and some of the pages had been torn out but
it remained his favorite. Weeks had passed. His duties remained the same,
however, the struggle He had known was slowly fading. It was not simply going
away, instead, through His path of discovery and with the guidance of the
High Clerist Mantoron, the fog on His outlook had slowly begun to dissipate.
The clarity he was now able to view situations with was foreign to Him, as
He had previously approached these same situations from a place of self gain,
but now, it seemed, He was able to view the situation as a whole - outcomes
for All parties involved. Where His effort would best benefit the War, battle,
or effort, as a whole, was becoming clearer and clearer to Him.

He smiled mirthfully recalling the conversation He and the High Clerist had
some weeks prior. The pair had talked long about the Tenets of Raije and how
each following, whether good, neutral, or evil, generally associated with
them. He knew, in prior years, He had always followed a selfishly beneficial
approach to battle - specifically how the outcome would impact Him, and Him
alone. He smiled, recalling His youth, as he placed his palm, fingers fully
out-stretched over the crest of Greystoke on His shield. His smile fading into
a child-like smirk as He recalled how, at one point, His hand would not have
covered so much of the crest. Now though, just the outer most regions of the
crest are visible beneath his massive hand.

Shaking off the thought of youth, he began reciting the Tenets of Raije to
the otherwise empty room. His words softly bouncing off the mural-painted
ceiling. He locked eyes with the hulking statue of Raije, a hauntingly large
Minotaur, "Courage, Loyalty, and Victory." He repeated these three words a
handful more times and grew silent, his deep breaths escaping him slowly.
He knew His courage on the battlefield was not of question but perhaps that
was it. The courage referenced was not physical, but instead, it was verbal.
He knew that He had recently discovered the courage to question His own
approach to combat. He posed this query to Himself now before entering combat.
He forced Himself to gaze upon the field and view the events before Him at
face value. What impact will His involvement truly have? Would His
involvement alter the battle for the worse? For He knew, a lopsided battle
would give less honor to Raije than a battle of worth, a battle of longevity.

To be continued..




Writer: Altacas

Date Tue Jan 23 10:13:11 2024

To All Slayers Mantoron ( Cayenna Raije Imm RP )

Subject Of Paths to Raije Part 2.5


He blinked, pulled out of the state of thought He was in and back into the
Holy Room. Nothing had changed. However, He could feel Himself changing
for the better. Balling his hand into a fist he placed it on the center of
His shield, "Loyalty," the word trailed off as He looked down at his steel
dragon-skin boots. He had always known His Loyalty was to Greystoke, however,
He also held loyalty to Raije. Though he would never let one of the Manor
fall without attempting to assist them, He would, at times, need to steady
His own blades so the battle could carry out, and on, appropriately. For,
his interference, could drastically topple the might in one direction. He
nodded once, his head slightly titling to the left as he continued on this
pathway of thought. Casting His eyes up at the statue before him again, he
says, "A more even and hard fought battle between two equal forces brings
far greater worship,". He sat straight up, and rested His head against
the sealed doors of the Dragonslayer Sanctum behind Him, He slid His shield
from his lap and let half of it clang softly on the floor of the Holy Room.

He winced at the noise, sad to have interrupted the silence within the room.
He carefully lifted the shield and placed it against the door beside Him. His
platemail clinking softly against itself with the movement. "Courage,
Loyalty, and Victory," He repeated as he shifted His weight and cast His
gaze up to the mural-painted ceiling of the room. His eyes following the
epic battle above in a clock-wise direction. How glorious it would have been
to be a part of that battle. Perhaps, He thought or rather knew, the time
would come again for such a battle. He briefly thought of Chaos and the mayhem
the group had caused. He doubted their efforts were done, however, He knew
they would not hold Victory over Algoron. He sighed, annoyed at letting
Himself get distracted on thought irrelevant to the task the High Clerist,
Mantoron, had given Him.

Rocking forward, he placed a hand before Him and rose to His feet. He looked
with concern upon the sealed door He had been resting against before turning
to the statue of Raije and began slowly walking towards the hulking
Minotaur. He approached the statue but maintaned a respectful distance. He
looked up, realizing for the first time just how much larger than Himself
the statue was. "Victory.. Victory generally means to have won, however,"
He paused for a moment considering something, "Is it possible to be
victorious even when the battle is not won?" He pondered this for a solid
minute before acknowleding that yes, it was possible to be victorious even
without winning a battle. Although He does desire to be victorious, as
anyone should, it is plausible to hold victory through fleeing. However,
now speaking outloud, "An individual would need to see the situation almost
through it's entirety, awaiting the final moment to either fall or flee." He
smiled, knowing a long and evenly matched battle would be the ultimate gift
to Raije, any situation where one party does not instantly flee the battle
field would also pay homage to the God of war. He smiled even wider at the
statue lumbering before Him.

Turning from the statue, He made His way towards the Sanctum door and kneeling,
He gathered the pavise shield and re-attached it to the harness on His back.
Tugging the leather strap holding the shield in place in an effort to tighten
it snugly, He made His way to the stairwell leading down and took one last
look upon the God of Wars statue in the center of the room. He nodded deeply,
showing His respect for the God, before continuing on His way down the
stairwell in search of the High Clerist, Mantoron.




Writer: Yannok

Date Tue Jan 23 11:28:50 2024




Writer: Yannok

Date Tue Jan 23 12:52:30 2024




Writer: Kaladon

Date Thu Jan 25 15:55:49 2024

To All IMM (RP)

Subject Fissure Research



Kaladon stands there pondering over what the Sultan said. To prove
himself as a powerful Wizard he has to solve some of New Thalos problems.
He walks into the bathhouse and looks at the aftermath of the carnage caused
by the chaos followers. He whispers "We shall have been better prepared for
this!" He goes to look at the fissure and sees the sides giving away from
time to time and decides that, that is the most pressing issue.

He sighs as he cast fly spell and decends into the fissure. At the raging
river, he notes the direction it is flowing and tries to get a rough
estimate on volume of water. He collects some water samples for later
testing. He follows the river to where it suddenly stops. Then he goes to
where it starts, counting his steps as he goes. He takes several
measurements as he is walking around. When he feels satisfied, he visits
the Ethereal Lake and collects samples of water and the rock from around the
area. Then He sits at teh bank and just watches the water. His thoughts
ponder over how this was made and why. If he is missing something or if
this is chaos magic or Drakkara. As he was staring into the lake, an
unnerving feeling started to creep into his thoughts. What if he tried to
use magic on this place and something unforseen happens and it causes more
damaage then this? He sighs as he leaves to go to his laboratory.

As he is leaving, he looks back at New Thalos and mutters in disgust. He
whispers "Had they not remodeled the Magic Tower then I could have conducted
my experiments with proper equipment." As he gets to his manor, he informs
his servants that they are expanding his laboratory. Gerterd smiles and
says "It's good to have the master of the manor back." Kaladon does not
even acknowledge her but simply hands her the list of things he is going to
need. The next day or two was spent expanding his laboratory. Then he got
started on experiments of the water, soil and rock samples collected.
Testing for everything was conducted. Poisons, foreign objects or other
material and of course magical properies.

Then came the testing on plants. One set had water from a common source and
the other sets from the fissure both river and lake water. He started
sleeping in his spare bed that is in the room while he was running
experiments. He would leave to go to remote libraries and to collect more
samples. He is searching for any and All information to help him solve
this. Has this happened before? Has something similar happened? Can a
moral reverse the magic of the Gods? Many more thoughts races across his
mind.

After several days of waiting on his experiments he decideds to form a plan
to use nature to deal with the fissure. All the while, still working on his
research, experiments and studies.




Writer: Symantha

Date Fri Jan 26 02:22:22 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Fri Jan 26 19:33:44 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Fri Jan 26 20:03:39 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Fri Jan 26 20:07:04 2024




Writer: Melchaleve

Date Fri Jan 26 20:10:52 2024




Writer: Asrar

Date Sun Jan 28 18:38:01 2024

To Abaddon ( Verminasia Darkonin Bloodlust Shadow Imm rp All )

Subject Ride to Gathna - {uA second look



Cursion to the ruins of Gathna, Asrar went a little more cautiously. She
enters the town in the shadows of the ruins unseen. As she passes by
residents, she whispers softly, her voice mesmerizing. Slowly each of them
stops what they're doing heading through the church to the waiting carriage.
The carriage full, Asrar steps up to the bugboard as the driver begins the
short trip to the castle. As the carriage stops, nine humans exit and open
the gates, entering the ruins and are immediately set upon. Asrar, still
unseen to All but her own kind, watches as their numbers swell with the
smell of fresh blood.

Thirty, fourty, fifty, rabid, feral vampires swarm into the room as she
observes from the top of a broken wall. This is far more than she saw
before and is very glad she had chosen not to enter with the blood offering.
Though she could not see him, Vershae was watching somewhere close by in his
spirit form. Just as soon as it happened, it was over, those that had fed
looking a little less rabid but just as feral as the broken, mangled, bodies
were left behind. Moving with stealth and unseen, she made her way deeper
into the ruins, she wanted to see what they did, those that had fed. She
got her answer as she neared Causcus's receiving room. Peering inside
showed her what she had suspected : They were waiting on him hand and foot.
Their loyalties were to him which would change how they must be dealt with.
She had seen enough, and she wasn't there to engage them, just to watch.
Slowly she crept like a shadow from the ruins, making her way back to the
Bloodlands.




Writer: Tobryck

Date Wed Jan 31 07:46:19 2024

To All RP Religion Fatale

Subject The Murderous Lance: Tales From The Carrion Fields


In the dim, flickering torchlight of the Horde's dungeon, Tobryck, the
towering and malevolent giant ogre, stood amidst the stench of death and
decay. His massive, grotesque form loomed over the fresh stack of one
hundred bodies, a gruesome testament to his newfound status as the Overlord
of Bloodlust. Boof, the twisted hobgoblin priest and warlord, had elevated
Tobryck to this exalted rank in service to the god of murder and death,
Fatale. This macabre promotion had unleashed a savage hunger within
Tobryck, a hunger that could only be sated through the most brutal of
sacrifices. As he ponders what sacrifice to make with these corpses he
remembers some of his most memorable murders....


Deep within the mysterious woods north of the city of Althainia....

A young elven woman, her delivate features now contorted in agony with
broken bones protruding from her once unblemished skin. This elven eldritch
of great power dared to oppose Tobryck, Fatale's Templar and murderous
zealot. Perhaps it was to bring peace to the realm, or aide the warriors of
the light in their quest to defeat the massive giant ogre. No matter. Her
attempts to slay this beast were futile. She stood firm, her eyes focused
with brazen intent, raising her staff high as she commanding a blistering
wall of fire to consume Tobryck. The fire rained down upon this beast of
darkness, its blinding power bringing light to the dark forest. The fire
engulfed Tobryck as the elf, proud of her assumed success, smiled as she
turned her back on the beast. As the smoke cleared two eyes could be seen
coming through the embers, paired with a sinister grin now fully revealed.
Tobryck, burnt and scarred, survived the fiery onslaught. He rushed the elf
clutching at her throat as she turned around to face her demise. His grip
tightened as the elf's life slipped away. Tobryck relished the terror that
had flickered in her eyes as he closed his massive, clawed hands around her
slender throat. Her screams had echoed through the quiet of the forest, a
symphony of horror that had sent shivers down the spines of even the most
jaded of demons.


Along the roads connecting Althainia with the city of New Thalos....

Another victim had been a valiant knight, a human crusader and foolhardy
soul who had dared to challenge the might of the dark beast. The knight
screamed a battle cry as he charged the mighty ogre. He held his lance
tight, and without an ounce of fear tried to take down this beast of murder.
But this lack of fear only hastened his demise. Tobryck, riding a dark
colored steed of his own, met his challenger head on. Wielding an enormous
crimson pike he charged the knight piercing the hero in the chest, lifting
him off his horse then slamming him into the ground with a force heard from
the mountains to the sea. Crimson poured from the gash on the knight's
chest as he gasped, choking on the blood in his throat. An insidious grin
flashed over the ogre's face as he lept from his horse pouncing on the
fallen knight. Tobryck had reveled in the sound of bones snapping and flesh
tearing as he dismantled the knight's armor with his bare hands, the man's
defiant roars reduced to pitiful whimpers that faded into silence. He
pulled the bloody corpse of his fallen foe up onto a cross as a symbol of
fear for All who traveled the Eastern Road.


.... Too be continued....




Writer: Tobryck

Date Wed Jan 31 07:57:08 2024

To All RP Religion Fatale

Subject The Murderous Lance: Tales From The Carrion Fields ...continued...


... Continued....

High upon the hills and mountains near the dwarven kingdom of Thaxanos....


Another lasting murder had been that of an elderly dwarven sage, a feeble
priest of Raije, who had unwittingly stumbled into the clutches of the
bloodthirsty ogre. This follower of the god of war had tried his best to
return the murderous beast back to the path of righteous war. He shouted
his tenets and shook his blessed books but the murderous ogre had turned his
back on Raije long ago. Tobryck had taken cruel pleasure in shattering the
old man's cherished tomes and relics before ending his life in a frenzy of
savage brutality. The beast grabbed the dwarven priest by the legs,
slamming him upon the altar of Raije with a crackling sound as his bones
protruded from his skin, the echoes of the sage's pleas for mercy ringing
hollow in the desolate chamber. Finally, the ogre held the sage up by his
arms and with a mighty tug pulled the limbs off the dwarf's torso one by
one, blood splattering across the ground as the dwarf's body lay there
twitching and clinging to life. With a loud SMASH! Tobryck grinned as he
stomped the sage's head into a crimson mess.


.... Back in the dungeon....

As Tobryck thought upon the ghastly tableau of death and suffering he had
wrought, a primal euphoria surged through his monstrous heart. The air was
thick with the coppery tang of blood, and the anguished wails of the
departed seemed to reverberate through the very stones of the dungeon. With
each life he had extinguished, Tobryck had forged an unbreakable bond with
the dread deity Fatale, and his insatiable craving for carnage had only been
stoked to greater heights.

In the depths of the dungeon, bathed in the sickly glow of the torches,
Tobryck, the Murderous Zealot, stood as a grim embodiment of unspeakable
terror, a harbinger of unrelenting darkness in a world gripped by fear. And
as the echoes of his victims' tormented cries faded into the sinister
embrace of the shadows, Tobryck knew that his reign of terror had only just
begun. The roads will become bathed in horror! Symbols of fear shall be
seen in All directions!

Praise Fatale!




Writer: Haeros

Date Tue Feb 6 10:06:02 2024




Writer: Haeros

Date Tue Feb 6 10:08:18 2024




Writer: Agarwood

Date Thu Feb 8 11:46:42 2024

To All New_Thalos Sebatis ( RELIGION IMM ADMIN )

Subject The Prairie-Canyon Survey



Juxtaposed against the harsh deserts south of New Thalos, the wilds north are
a sea of grassy greens and wildflowers of many different colorful species. All
swathed in a gentle, sweet breeze, it was Agarwood's preference to find a sett-
lement in an environment that's more welcoming and facilitating of life than
that of the blistering dunes. His race would not last long and he suspected,
aside from the brown dragons, not many other races did either.

The Deacon of the Red Moon is led by a willowy man, a guide of the northern
lands by the name of Akeem. He was hired to accompany Agarwood on a short
quest to scout the northern canyons for a suitable plot of land for a shrine
in honor of Sebatis. Akeem believed in gold and silver- a god as powerful as
any other, which the arboren did not discredit. It is not his place to judge
the beliefs of others, much less challenge them. One could hardly dispute the
power of coin.

Families of prairie dogs chirped at the pair from their small mounds and hills
as they walked by. Akeem pointed at whatever he thought was interesting while
saying very little. He pointed at the prairie dogs with a slender finger and
grunted, a species of wildflower known to correct rheumatism, and a vacant
scented tall plant called fireweed suitably for making a spicy honey. Being
that Agarwood is a literal plant person, it is a common misconception among
the fleshly races that All arborens know All plants. This is not so for, like
all others, you do not know until you are taught and learn.

The periwinkle sky overhead became embroidered by long, thin clouds as the
two approached tall canyons and, not long after entering them, a large oasis
of crystalline water greeted them. This place was familiar to Agarwood, for
he had conducted a sermon here once before. The shelter of the canyon walls
made those inside feel protected while the waters are life-giving. Akeem
gesticulated Agarwood's attention and pointed north past the juniper trees
with their sappy, dry branches to a large canyon wall. The surface of the
wall, made of a beige and fine sandstone, was perfectly plane with small
laminations of iron-bearing minerals present. Agarwood ran his wooden digits
across the surface and inspected the rock closely taking a step back and
nodding his approval. The arboren presented Akeem with a handful of golden
coins. After inspecting the coins for a short moment, Akeem bowed to the
Hajji and departed without saying a word. A shrewd man of few words, but
the silence was appreciated.

This is the place, Agarwood thought to himself.




Writer: Kaerick

Date Fri Feb 9 12:03:08 2024




Writer: Kaerick

Date Fri Feb 9 13:40:24 2024




Writer: Kaerick

Date Fri Feb 9 14:00:15 2024




Writer: Vorgoth

Date Fri Feb 9 17:14:55 2024

To All Shadow Symantha Telthian Carrionmaw Drakkara Chaos ( Imm Cayenna Admin RP )

Subject Small Unit Tactics



The Black Moon hung close, looming large above the crystalline sands of
an onyx lake. Nearby, a serpentine path of crushed stone leads up, away
from the shore, towards the Night Gardens and a circle of draconic statues,
scantly illuminated in the subtle glow of umbral light and foxfire.

An ogre kneels in the sand, in obeisance and labour, scrubbing dried blood
and tarnish from an array of plate armor, and myriad weapons. Paying homage
to the Starkiller, the Queen of Evil, Mistress of Darkness, Lady of the
Infinite Night.

His first, most crucial assignment had seemingly completed itself, a first
victim of the vagaries of time, inherent in its disruption. He had now to
prove himself, to the most sacred order of Darkness, before his next could
begin. If he could not be part of a team for now, he would create his own.

He was experiencing a sort of culture shock - chrono-shock - of returning to
a familiar place, in a vastly different time. They had told him to focus on
his work, that it would fade in time. He had thought that an obvious bit of
advice, until he had been thrown into it, found the doldrums probing at him,
searching for a mental crack to take root inside.

Recognizing this new danger he faced, he was immediately on familiar ground.
He had an enemy to fight, beyond the nebulous threat of Chaos. Culture
shock, chrono-shock, doldrums, call it what you will, it is an enemy to be
battled. And so, Vorgoth scrubbed down his equipment, and when he was done,
he scrubbed down his own bare body. Submerged himself within the black,
frigid lake, and formulated his plan.

Until he could enter Storm Keep, he would have to employ another speciality
of his type of training. Small unit tactics. So-called Littlewarfare.
Part of his training, not as a soldier, an armsman, but as a Warden, was to
stand up small fighting units from amongst the local populace, teach them to
employ small unit tactics, asymmetrical warfare. He needed to get
organized, to improve his own armament over this basic, ancient arcanium,
and he needed a way to take the initiative.

He would gather his small team, establish his personal cache of arms and
armor, and make himself of use in the fight against chaos, and those who
oppose order.

Be brushed the crystalline sand from his body, dried in the chill night
breeze, and donned his small clothes. Slowly, fastidiously, he strapped
back into his pristine armor, and formulated his Littlewar plans.




Writer: Symantha

Date Fri Feb 9 20:46:52 2024

To All Darkonin Shadow Verminasia Boof Extir ( Drakkara Dragoth Imm RP ) Carrionmaw

Subject
{nEarthen Sifting



The sky was a fitful gray, the wind a gentle bitter gust from time to
time, but from her perch it was easy to ignore.

There wasn't much to see from this height but dust had still to settle from
the collapsed tunnels within the mountain of Darkonin. The goblins and
their supporters were milling about like ants through the streets that she
could see.

Carrionmaw's snort encompassed the only response needed between them, heard
amid the great sweeping rush of his wings that maintained their elevated
position.

How quickly the past was forgotten, how easily goblinoid and ogre nature was
brushed by the wayside, and the facts of past and present ignored.

The nature of the earthquake was of disturbing interest but she wondered if
anyone had stopped to wonder at its origin. While she believed wholly in
the unpredictable ways of the land and the weather, she also had reason to
believe that it was not so unforeseen.

The last determination between herself and Extir had been positive enough,
she reflected, but not without another cautionary note issued. A great deal
of nothing had followed the advice she had been asked for.

"I will go see to this comatose King once things have settled some."

Carrionmaw's acknowledgment came in the form of a grunt and, trailing an
umbral aura behind the sweep of his wings, he landed on the balcony of the
Basilica of the Fallen Sun. Built along the side of the mountain, it
offered a view down on Darkonin.

"If you wish, High Priestess." The deep draconic tone echoed through the
balcony opening. They had come to check on the Basilica. If it had
sustained damage in the earthquake, it would need to be repaired.

A mighty and persistent shame. The thought was followed by irritation as
she looked out on the kingdom of Darkonin. None of this was the legacy I
expected or hoped might follow Dialook and Dunnikin.

The goblin High Priestess of Dragoth had hied herself to Verminasia years
ago and Symantha reflected on the absence. Dunnikin was at one with the
Swarm, with the Will of Dragoth. She was also missed.

She lifted her chin after several moments of gazing out over the balcony and
exhaled sharply before turning to accompany her husband in a walk-through of
the expansive cathedral. The Dark Army stationed in the mountain could and
would be rallied to help fix this mess, as or if required.




Writer: Maccus

Date Sat Feb 10 02:41:51 2024




Writer: Maccus

Date Sat Feb 10 09:45:46 2024




Writer: Maccus

Date Sun Feb 18 13:58:19 2024




Writer: Maccus

Date Sun Feb 18 13:58:33 2024




Writer: Malkavia

Date Wed Feb 21 11:36:03 2024

To All IMM Religion

Subject An artist's work, Mending the broken


A roaring cacaphony of cries and screams rip through the air. The
sounds ricochet off the walls, bringing an eerie symphany to Malkavia's
ears. A grin creases her lips, sardonic yet gleeful. She walks about the
building, letting the piercing cries permeate her mind, building her
happiness. She peers through the bars set into a door, a small holding room
where a few subjects hang from chained collars and shackles.

"Oh Dears.. I see you need some help, " Malkavia chided playfully, "Allow
me to mend those ghastly wounds.
" With a wave of her hand, her body become
transluscent and pale, and she walked through the doors. The cries rose as
the inhabitants recognized the pale form floating in, hard to mistake such a
hulking haze. The moans became near deafening as fear rose and hope quickly
fell.

"Now now, that's no way to greet someone out to help you. Look at those
wounds.. No no.. That just won't do. Quick. Let's clean that up!
"
Malkavia said gently, her voice almost sweet and sensitive.

A soft whisper leaves her lips as tendrils of light snake outward and lap at
the wounds of those hanging. Divine nature grasps their bodies, entwining
them as they magically heal. "See my friends, I am not All bad. "

As the forms shudder in fear, knowing what is about to come next, their eyes
are glued to the Priestess, the divine tendrils healing their wounds.
Malkavia whispers something almost intelligble, and as the tendrils stop,
she reaches down and unfurls a bloodied whip covered in shards of glass.

"Now then... Where were we? " Her voice ragged and sharp, a distinct
difference from her previous tone. "Ah yes, we were practicing the Tenets,
for you need to learn to bend a knee and serve.
"

A quick flick of her wrist, experienced and true, sent the falls flying
across the room, seeking newly healed flesh. The jagged edges of the glass
catch sending out a new wave of fear and screams. The room rang with
screams of pain, newly instilled into those hanging, for the punishment was
far from over.

"We're All sentenced to solitary confinement in our own skins. " Malkavia
replied to her victims with a sardonic gleeful edge. The falls of her whip
lashed out, each time they made purchase, the screams radiated outward,
their bodies being broken, again and again.

"Oh no! You are getting blood on yourselves... " Malkavia said in a sweet
motherly tone, "This just can't not be done. " She stopped her lashing and
surveyed the new cuts and slices, the copper smell rising to her nostrils,
as she breathed in deeply. "Now now.. You look just awful, you really
should get that looked at.
" Her soft voice spread through the chamber as a
light grew from her hands, the divine tendrils seeking out the fresh wounds.
"Isn't that just dreadful, let's get you cleaned up. " She smiled, her grin
stretching from ear to ear. The divine healing once again sought the fresh
wounds to heal and close them.

"Are you ready to kneel now? " the sharp voice rang out, just as the lash
leapt to life.




Writer: Altacas

Date Wed Feb 28 10:20:32 2024

To Slayers Mantoron Cayenna Raije All ( Imm Religion RP )

Subject The pilgrimmage for Faith



The days had begun to run together and the faces he had seen and spoken with
melted and merged to form a single face. This face seemed watchful and ready
with piercing eyes and large horns. He realized the likeness was that of
Raije's statue in the Holy Room of Greystoke. He shook himself awake as the
thought seemed to resound with an audible click.

Realizing He had fallen asleep on the deck of the Silver Bass and the click he
had heard was likely one of the crew adjusting the rigging high above him, he
smiled as he wiped the remaining crumbs of sleep from his eyes. It was early or
it was late, either way he determined it was time to wake up and eat. Grabbing the
top of a nearby barrel, he hoists himself to his feet and stretched for a moment.
Tilting his head to the side and looking left and right until he heard his spine
align with a soft crack. He stared out from the deck, searching the dark sky with
his slate gray eyes, the hints of green reflecting the bright stars intently
staring back at him.

The ships crew worked busily around him as he walked the starboard side of the
vessel towards the bow. From here he could see the twinkling lanterns of the Port
of Althainia. He knew the Silver Bass had to be near the continent as they had set
sail from Arkania what seemed almost a week prior but he knew that was an
exaggeration. He felt as though he had slept most of the voyage and rightfully so.
He had traveled Althainia to Icewall and then to Arkania in search of Raije's temples.
He had met dwarves and humans in the churches on Althainia, minotaurs in the Kingdom
of Ganth, Priests of many races in the churches on Arkania. However, he now headed
back to where his quest had started. Where he initially began to comprehend his own
understanding of faith and how he had previously approached it, how he had served
Raije, what he thought was correct and just in the name of War. Most recently,
where he began to question his efforts and his own worship. It had never occured to
him that there were more paths to Raije and that an alternate path would be where he
should be walking.

Growth through experiences and conversation, he determined to be the catalyst. He
had met many people since joining Greystoke. Every one of them worshipped with
personal elements, however, those personal elements seemed to stem from specific
paths. Those of gold alignment, those of evil intent, and those who walked between
and offered balance. Everyone he had met walked one of these pathways to Raije.
Everyone he had met and learned from had developed a deeper understanding and
connection with Raije beyond their path. Courage, Loyalty, and Victory. The three
tenets of Raije. He could see how each path led to these tenets and how each path
interpreted them. He smiled, recalling a conversation he had with Mantoron, the High
Clerist of Greystoke, prior to his departure. His smile faded to a smirk and he
laughed to himself.

This pilgrimmage had done wonders for him and he believed Mantoron knew it would.
There had been a glimmer in the minotaur's eye when he relayed the news of the
pilgrimage. He had seen battles and groups of men surround a single. He did not
partake in many of them, however, he had joined the losing side of each in an effort
to even the odds and glorify the moment by prolonging the excitement of battle. He
exhaled, casting his eyes out to where the lantern light of the port had blinked and
could now see forms scurrying up and down the docks. He turned from the sight and
headed below deck to gather his belongings.

He would soon be home, his back against the sealed door of the Sanctum. He had not
heard much, if anything, about the Manor while he was away. He looked forward to
seeing the Highlord, Captain Tremere, Lord Shrike, the Slayer, and many more.




Writer: Drogan

Date Wed Feb 28 15:12:01 2024

To All Darkonin Imm Mencius

Subject Rise of the Bear Tribe: Wolfsong



Drogan, shaman of the Bear Tribe, had returned to Darkonin ages ago and
lingered amongst it's caverns. He had left his tribe of northern Icewall to
learn more about the Mountain. Over time he had seen kings and queens rise
and fall, he had witnessed the pikes paraded through the streets, and
watched the citizens drift away. Now, as the debris was cleared away, he
had seen the new king fall to the Mountain's wrath. The coal black eyes of
the ogre watched them cart the unconscious king away. Silver haired head
raised into muted respect as the body passed him.

The Mountain Spirit Speaker, an old goblin shaman, had claimed the kingdom
needed a new leader. Drogan felt the time was ripe to bring the people back
to the old ways but to do that, he needed to journey home and claim what he
had left behind. It was time to return to the village of Ormatrug. Using
his spear as a walking stick, he began the slow descent down. His journey
would take him across the fields of ice, north through the destroyed kingdom
of Gruntz, and finally into the valley of Uxikorik.

WOLFSONG

It was night when Drogan began the trek across the fields of ice. The howls
of the wolves greeted him but he carried on using the stars to guide his
path northward to Gruntz. His heavy form crushed snow, ice, and rock as he
moved across the fields. Footfalls leaving divots behind him. However the
ogre's mind was elsewhere.

"Drogan! You spear is too low! " yelled Ogluk. "Lift high, pierce heart
of prey or you become meal.
" Ogluk smacked the ogre child in the back with
the butt of his own spear. Drogan lifted his spear higher to the same
position as the other ogre children, the pain radiating up his back. They
had formed a circle in the village center thrusting their spears into
enemies made of straw and wood as the old hunter instructed them. From a
young age, ogre children learned the ways of hunting and killing. It was
how they survived in the harsh climate of Icewall.

Some of the other children chuckled under their breath and received a
reminder that Ogluk did not take kindly to distractions as the spear came
down on them as well. "Keep stabbing! " The children returned to their
work, stabbing into the practice dummies. As the afternoon turned into
dusk, Ogluk sent the children home but one child remained. Drogan had
stabbed his wolf into bits, a hole forming in the wood that would have been
the heart. The anger was in him, anger at being reprimanded, anger at the
laughs of his peers. The anger gave him strength.

Ogluk stood behind Drogan and grunted his approval. "Rage is the bear's
power. Rage make you strong.
" spoke the hunter and turned away towards
the warmth of his hut. As the cold rain began to pour, Drogan continued
until his hands were numb and his breath could be seen in the cold air. His
blood however ran hot.

So entranced was he in his thoughts that he did not notice the pack of
wolves surround him until it's alpha was growling before him. The Ice
Plains wolves were white furred with blue eyes. The alpha was larger than
the rest with a gash of missing fur on his flank, signs of his fight for
dominance. Drogan readied his spear but did not unsling his shield. At
this display of aggression, the alpha made it's attack as the other four
flanked the ogre.

Raising his spear, the shaman went to stab alpha but the thrust missed it's
chest, grazing it's white coat but enough to make the wolf miss it's mark.
The wolf on his left, a skinny thing, pounced but was caught mid jump by the
throat. Drogan slammed the wolf down with a sickening crunch as the life
was crushed out of it. The other three wolves attacked his right side and
back bowing the Ogre under their weight. However with a gutteral chant, the
translucent spirit of a wolf rose from the corpse and began to assist the
shaman in his fight.




Writer: Agarwood

Date Wed Feb 28 16:14:03 2024

To All ( Sebatis Admin Religion Imm )

Subject Circles of Cogitation (1/2)


Few places of worship please Agarwood as the Magnetizing Circle does. That may
also be due to there being very few places of worship dedicated to the Young
Master Sebatis, but if there were more temples, the Circle would remain his
favorite. The quartz pillars, the sparse decor bearing no trace of comforts to
distract from one's thoughts, and the mysterious magnetizing hum All aided the
arboren in his exercises to digest, interpret, and commit Sebatis's precepts
to memory. The Deacon wandered about the room following the outermost surfaces
of the quartzose pillars, pausing in word, motion, and thought only to listen
to the hum.

"It is He who presides over magic for magic's sake. He and those who follow
love magic even in the absense of additional purpose. Our love for magick is
unconditional and it is valued for its own sake."

The hum returned. Agarwood froze in place and waited for it to dissipate, then
he continued, "Neither the Light, nor Darkness, Nor Balance could sustain the
world alone. With All of these, share His gifts and His words as is fit. Keep
an open ear toward the thoughts of others, as they too compose the world. The
world cannot hope to survive if it falls to any extreme. Each has something to
offer and, conjoined, they compose the world."

"Power remains with those who command it. Fear it, and it rules the holder.
Crave it, and it eludes the seeker, as water from a clenched fist. Those that
reach and grasp at power desperately are the ones in power's control. To be
powerful is to have mastery over one's self, even in the pursuit of growth.
An obsession with power can hinder one's ability to obtain and maintain it."

"Control over magic is essential. Protect it from those who would manipulate
it without mastery. Those who use His gifts muyst be conscious of the impact
of magick. To do otherwise perverts and endangers. Those that wield magic
must hold a high degree of control over it, for improper handling can have
lasting negative consequences. Guard against the misusage of magick. Wielding
magick without mastery has a corrupting influence."

The hum returned. The Deacon inhaled slowly as he collected his thoughts,
yet leaving them blank and plain. He could feel this hum deep within his heart
wood and it left an impression on him. When the hum passed, he pressed on,
"His gift of Spirit exists in All mortals and incites All acts of purpose,
whether it works to honor Him. Respect the Spirit that flows toward a goal,
even if it drives the acts of a foe. There is a shared spiritual essence that
connects All living things. This commonality is the gift of Spirit that drives
us forward in a direction unique to each individual's unique compass needle.
To be true to your motivations and beliefs is to honor Sebatis. Respect the
motivations and the individuality of friends and foes alike, even in times of
conflict."





Writer: Agarwood

Date Wed Feb 28 16:15:37 2024

To All ( Sebatis Admin Religion Imm )

Subject Circles of Cogitation (2/2)


"Those driven by the command of oneself honor the spirit that He has bestowed
upon us. The obedient are not forgotten, so long as they act with All of their
heart. Those driven by their inner calling or sense of purpose act with the
full gift of Spirit bestowed by the Young Master. Honoring the gift of Spirit
means living and behaving true to yourself. Let the wisdom of others guide
your actions and influence your Spirit, but never let them dictate what shape
it should take."

"Waste neither the moment nor the blood of His pious. A hidden dagger is secret
only once. Seek balance between impulse and patience. Actions should be taken
purposefully and not flippantly. Be mindful of the transience of secrecy and
the inevitability of truth. Find a balance between action and mindfulness to
consider the appropriate time for engagement."

The arboren placed a hand on the cool surface of a quartz pillar. He could feel
the hum gathering in the air and, soon, it was upon him. He closed his eyes and
allowed it to wash over him. When it waned, the Deacon continued, "Love Him and
His magick in the fashion of your own spirit. Worship Him in the method of your
comfort and He shall be pleased. Appreciate and love both magick and the Young
Master in the unique shape of your spirit. Let it represent the unique form of
your devotion. Be comfortable in this, knowing that these shapes and forms can
differ from yours and change just as you do."




Writer: Milleuda

Date Thu Feb 29 20:00:30 2024



 


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