|
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat Jun 28 17:50:57 2025
To All Grumf ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject Guidance from a High Place
The letter had arrived in a mirthril scrollcase, unmistakably dwarven in
make, and weighty with respect. Ulyssus had studied its contents once
already, then again, and now a third time. The parchment was spread out
before him, unfurled across a heavy wooden desk within the quiet of the
initiate's chamber in the western wing of the Crystal Monastery. Pale
sunlight filtered in through the tall, narrow windows, casting lines of
light across the floor and catching on the glint of the scrollcase where it
rested atop a stack of open tomes on divine theory.
The White Wizard sat in stillness, a porcelain teacup at his elbow, the
faint scent of crushed mountain mint rising from the cup. The tea had gone
tepid long ago, forgotten in the furrows of thought.
High Priest Grumf's words echoed in his mind, not just the content, but the
tone. Honest. Grounded. As unyielding and precise as the craft of
smithing itself. It pleased Ulyssus to know that such minds existed beyond
the Towers of the Conclave, minds not only dedicated to service, but
unafraid to question, to shape meaning from mystery with hammer and
conviction both.
He read once more the lines about divine power flowing not from one's own
will, but through a bond forged in ritual and devotion. Nothing for us
happens without prayer, the priest had written.
Ulyssus tapped a single finger against the desk, deep in thought. This was
the central divergence, the arcane drew upon one's intellect and discipline
to manipulate the raw energies of the world, while divine magic came through
surrender, not control, but connection.
And yet, there were similarities too. Both required training. Both
required trust in oneself, or in one's god. Both demanded sacrifice, be it
the long hours of study, or the trials of faithful service. The difference
was not in power, but in the source and the path one took to wield it.
He let out a quiet breath and stood, folding the letter with care and
placing it between the pages of a leather journal, his prayerbook and
magical treatise, now filled with a mixture of arcane theory and the early
notes of divine reflection. Grumf's words would remain there, preserved
between scripture and hypothesis.
Stepping out from the quarters, Ulyssus wrapped his cloak more tightly
around his shoulders and made his way through the quiet stone halls, moving
towards the monastery's garden paths. He walked beyond the cultivated
stillness of the garden and out the gates of the monastery, following a
narrow trail that wound upward into the mountains. There, amidst the
silence of Icewall's ridgelines, the sun dipped low over the frozen horizon,
and the wind carried the scent of snow and pine, clean and sharp in his
lungs.
He came to a halt where the path narrowed between frost clung boulders, the
hush of the mountain pressing in like a mantle. There, Ulyssus bowed his
head, the wind stirring the edge of his cloak. In silence, he offered a
short prayer for understanding. That he might walk the narrow place between
arcane and divine with grace, and serve his Lord in both wisdom and wonder.
Ulyssus's snowy owl, nestled in the crook of a stone nearby, ruffled its
feathers but remained still. Standing among the granite outcroppings,
Ulyssus closed his eyes to listen. To the hush of the mountain, the echo of
the High Priest's words, and the stirring of something older than either.
There was magic in that, too.
The letter would remain safely bound within his prayer journal, a touchstone
for continued reflection. For now, Ulyssus stood alone upon the mountain,
the wind tugging lightly at his white cloak. His thoughts were quiet, like
the falling snow across the peaks of Icewall. Between arcane reason and
divine faith, there lay a deeper current he had only just begun to feel.
And so he waited, not in haste, but in reverence, listening for the
stirrings of truth carried on the wind.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Sat Jun 28 18:08:08 2025
Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Jun 29 09:14:48 2025
To All Marauders Waaagh ( Imm Rp Kwainin Derigimus )
Subject Contemplations
Fredrik stood in contemplation, starring at the charred statue of Kwainin as
he often did in times of uncertainty, which were nearly constant in his life.
The Battle for Ironclad had been monumentous, confirming many of his greatest
fears, and worse. However, the realm had triumped over Chaos, he hoped, but at
a terrible cost. That which Fredrik had feared and sought beneath Ironclad had
emerged with terrible force, but had been destroyed. Raije had made his opinons
known, contrary to everything Fredrik had believed. Things had gone poorly, but
they were alive and released from certain anxieties after the hammer's fall.
However, his initial feelings of relief and release had quickly slipped back
towards doubt and confusion. Fredrik had been so sure that Raije was on their
side, supportive of their struggle from a distance. Instead, he had marked the
Marauders for death and seemed to revel in the rampage of Chaos. Wrong, as
always, and left with much to contemplate.
His first realization was that the rush of battle, a true, grand battle, was
sublime. Fear and doubt had only crept back into his mind after All had time
to catch their breath. In each moment of that chaotic battlefield, fighting for
the life of Ironclad and Algoron, he had been free from anxiety. The purpose
and goal of each moment was so clear, and there was no time for second guessing
or over thinking the choices before him. If only he could find a way to harness
that immediacy, how much easier life would be.
Fredrik's thoughts turned to the branching pathways of the future that lay
before him and the Marauders. The state of their Fort, the ruin of their---
'...waaagh?' a voice from nightmares breathed behind him.
Waves of terror, paralyzed by the hope that he was merely mad, certain that
death had come for him. After an eternal moment, Fredrik spun on his heels to
see......nothing. An empty, ruined Temple, as always....
except for the large set of footprints that marked the ash behind him.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Jun 29 18:30:04 2025
Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 14:48:32 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane I
Ostrim's last week had been spent in various parts of Ithelim's estate.
For All its luxury and comfort, the lack of sunlight had been slightly
oppressive for a soldier trained in the Thalosian desert. So, when there
was a break in their work, he decided to take a stroll in the streets of
Verminasia. His brain was a mixture of arcane runes and odd recipes. For a
man used to bashing things or stabbing people, the idea of the arcane caused
him headaches galore. Finding himself at a modest inn, he decided to have a
bit of lunch outside and a fresh pint. He took out his journal and reviewed
the plans laid out by the resident demonologist....
---{uFour Days Ago---
Eustace entered the study where Ostrim had been trying to trace the runes as
shown to him by Ithelim. His hand had begun to cramp so he laid down the
quill and flexed his fingers lightly. Over the last few days, she had come
to inspect his work while her master was busy with the larger rituals and
construction required for the tether. She also did not seem to enjoy being
Ostrim's nursemaid overseeing the training of his work.
'Better but only marginally so. While the body of each rune is much more
defined, you are still sloppy at the points. They must be crisp and clear.
You'll never manage a true rune with such penmanship. Ten more may suffice,
we'll see. That said, the Master requires the blade to be used for the orb
of location. Give it to me. ' she asked holding out a hand.
Ostrim frowned and went over to his sword belt that leaned against a trunk
behind him. The blade, Kayen forged, had been imbued with the unholy
empower of the High Mystic. Within that unholy blessing may reside a
connection, a spark of Archal's essence, that could be used to locate and
remove the knight from Apostus. It was perhaps his most prized possession
and Ithelim could not guarantee that the process would not damage the blade
itself. With a sigh, he handed the scabbard to Eustace. Words began to
form on his lips but he remained silent.
Eustace appraised him for a moment, 'The Master is well versed in many
magiks, Supplicant. You can believe that this blade will be returned to
you. Of that, I have no doubt. ' with a nod she turned and left him alone.
It was perhaps the closest to a kindness Ostrim had received from her.
Taking a deep breath, he returned to a clean sheet of vellum, dipped the
quill in the ink and began tracing the symbols once more. He was determined
not to let either Ithelim or Archal down.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue Jul 1 15:13:17 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Zandreya ( Cayenna Xenophon All )
Subject Prayers to the Mother: Fire Shrine
The flames of the Vallenwood shrine twisted skyward, alive with hunger
but bound by purpose. They did not scorch the bark beneath them, nor the
sacred stones set in a sunward spiral around their heart. Built with
another time and another challenge in mind, the sacred space persisted as a
beacon of the Mother's Wrath in the shadows of the Tower of Stars.
Skalpon knelt just beyond the reach of its heat, a satchel resting across
his knees. Within it were folded scraps of cloth, fragments of torn
banners, and small bundles wrapped in woven leaves. Each piece carried a
name, a memory, a sorrow. These were the tokens left by survivors; those
who had witnessed the fall of kin, comrades, and lovers during the sudden
strike from the Chaos Spire.
He had gathered them in silence, from battlefield and bedside, from
whispered tents and broken walls. The remnants of what was lost and what
threatened to remain broken.
One by one, he placed them at the edge of the shrine. With each bundle, he
murmured a name. Sometimes with reverence, sometimes with a tremor. Not
every name was known. And it seemed to the old elf that the names unknown
to him hurt most. Cousins that he had not yet had opportunity to know.
Children, at times, lost to the destruction of Chaos.
When he had finished, he touched the ground with both palms and bowed low.
"O Flame of Memory, " he said, voice steady despite the ache in his chest,
"bear these lives beyond forgetting. May your fire lighten their burden and
carry their stories from the groves to the deep-woods. Let your children
not be forgotten, great Mother. Ignite your people with the memory of loss
that we may be infused with your wrath into the future. Help us to burn
bright with your fervor as we bring to ash that which would harm your sacred
land. "
One by one, Skalpon nudged the bundles into the flame. One by one, the fire
consumed the offering. No smoke. No angry ember. But the flame grew and,
for a moment, burned blue.
The old elf sat back on his heels, staring into the flame quietly as his
prayers continue to lift from heart to Mother.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 16:04:59 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies in the Arcane II
Ostrim sipped from his pale ale, a seasonal import from New Thalos. It
was refreshing with a bit of citrus to it, not so bad on a hot summer's day.
As he drank, he flipped a page in the journal. The wind picked up and blew
another page over revealing a piece of parchment that was loose from the
other pages. Quickly he snapped up the note before it had a chance to blow
away. Upon the vellum was a diagram depicting a jeweled compass like
device. Sketched out was an ornate piece of jewelery made of thin pieces of
metal forming a circular web like enclosure. In the center of it was a
black orb. Another piece of metal, this one a shade in between the orb and
the metal frame, ended in an arrow like point and had indications that it
moved to various points upon the enclosure like a dial. Words, scribed in
the finest calligraphy, were written below the illustration.
'Supplicant, I am glad the sword survived the retrieval process. Included
here is a sketch of the 'soul compass'. The black bead in the center is the
concentrated unholy essence of Archal Kayen extracted from your blade. This
device is attuned to his spiritual energy. I find it amusing that a being
without a soul created a relic to find and extract a soul. Humor aside, the
compass will point towards the location of the High Mystic. Once you have
found him, the compass can be used to tie the umbral tether to him however
this will consume the energies of the bead. It can only be used once. If
anything breaks the tether, he will need to get himself out. If possible,
return the device intact. It may be useful in the future. '
Ostrim tucked sheet of paper back into his journal. Flipping to another
page, he looked over the runes he had perfected. He smiled for a moment
before inspecting his injured left hand. It was still wrapped in gauze but
the healer had said it was doing well..
---{uTwo Days Ago---
Prior to Knight Arden's retirement from enchanting, several shields had been
animated to float about like spinning black wards. Ostrim was supervising
their placement within the courtyard to see how they would stand up to
attack. This animated shield wall was going to provide defense to those who
would stay behind and secure the tether. The group was composed of Ser
Arden, Supplicant Scott, Knight Kesepton, and the Dark Lord, who would
ensure that if something went wrong then they could be rescued. It also
protected the ritual room from anything that might come through the gateway.
Especially a demon who could possess those linked to Necrucifer's influence.
'AGAIN! ' yelled Ostrim as another volley of magic was unleashed upon the
shield wall. Fire, lightning, and ice were hurled at the shields and Ostrim
stood behind them to see just how much protection they would offer. The
shields, their black wards glowing with reinforced umbral glyphs, spun and
deflected the magical attacks successfully. Truly it seemed the only way to
counter Drakkara's power was with Her own. Stepping out from behind the
wall Ostrim called a halt to the test. However, an errant fireball cast by
an energetic Gray Robe bounced off the shield striking Ostrim's outstretched
left hand.
'Bloody 'ell! ' cried the Supplicant as his hand was scorched.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Tue Jul 1 19:46:40 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery IV
The bowl was warm in his hands. Steam rose from the morning porridge,
hearty grains with dried dates and a drizzle of honey. Ulyssus sat alone at
a corner table, spoon in hand, eyes scanning the young initiates rushing
past. The dining hall was alive with energy, the hum of conversation and
clatter of dishware muffled slightly by the high stone ceilings. Everything
was clean, ordered, and efficient.
The chime was clear and calm, three even tones carried through the monastery
halls. Meditation.
Ulyssus set his spoon aside, wiped his hands on a linen napkin, and stood.
Around him, others did the same, some scrambling to finish, others already
departing. With a slight nod to the acolyte cleaning nearby, Ulyssus turned
and made his way through corridors towards the gardens.
He stepped beneath the archway, where the crisp, enchanted warmth of the
garden met his face like a breath of spring. Though Icewall's skies hung
pale above, this place remained untouched. The shimmer in the air high
above evaporated each snowflake before it could fall. Here, life
flourished.
Pathways wove through flowerbeds and fragrant hedgerows, each section of the
garden carefully labeled and tended. Gold leaved trees stood beside
ornamental evergreens from Icewall. A breeze stirred the herbs with sage
and lemongrass mingling in the air. Ulyssus walked slowly, quietly, past
the patches of chamomile and roses, toward the northwest edge of the pond
where meditation was held.
Beneath a large tree that grew beside the pond, with its limbs wide and
sheltering, its leaves the color of copper and flame, several students had
already gathered. They sat in a loose ring, robes of white, blue, and gray
forming a quiet mosaic against the earth. The pond reflected their
stillness, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of wind or drifting
petal.
Ulyssus joined them and folded his legs beneath him, settling into the warm
soil. The instructor stood before them, an elderly monk robed in white.
His eyes were half closed and serene.
"Breathe in the silence, " the monk said softly. "Let the voices within you
quiet. Not just the ones you know... But those you've not yet met."
So they began. No chanting, no invocation, only breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Again. And again. The garden, warm and fragrant, seemed to deepen around
them. Even Ulyssus's thoughts, ever drawn to runes and syllables and the
inner equations of spellwork, softened at the edges.
The monk's voice came again, low and steady. "Some call this prayer.
Others, meditation. But in truth, it is neither and both. You do not speak
to the divine here. You listen. "
The garden held stillness. The students held silence. Somewhere, a small
bird chirped twice and then grew quiet, as if sensing the atmosphere and
choosing to respect it.
"This is the path of divine connection, " the monk continued. "Not through
rite or ritual, but through presence. You are not doing. You are being.
It is the breath between words."
Ulyssus allowed himself to let go. He did not call for icy winds, nor
conjure light or prayer. He simply sat. He listened, not with ears, but
with the space within that remained quiet long enough to hear. He was not
yet sure what he expected. But for the first time, he realized that
expectation was part of what needed to be let go.
They remained that way for what might have been minutes or an hour. When
the monk gave a simple signal to dismiss the group, one by one the students
rose and returned to their paths.
He remained seated a while longer beneath the golden tree, the pond still at
his side. He bowed his head in silence, lips moving in a quiet prayer, not
to call upon Kantilles, nor to ask for power, but a simple offering of
presence.
Then, with the peace of silence still clinging to his cloak like mist, he
rose and made his way back toward the entrance of the monastery, steps slow
and sure.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Jul 1 21:19:55 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Studies on the Arcane III
The sky was getting cloudy with dark rain clouds forming on the horizon
foretelling a summer storm. Ostrim reviewed the journal one last time.
Tether, Compass, shields, supplies, everything was coming together. It was
time to get the troops together however something tugged inside his head.
The Dark Lord had said this was something Ostrim had to do, something Archal
had entrusted him for and he still didn't know why. He needed perhaps one
more boon and he had an idea. He paid his tab and walked briskly towards
the manor. Reaching it just as the rain started, he was escorted in by
Claude.
'Claude, could you tell Eustace that I'd like to speak with her please? '
asked Ostrim.
'Very good sir, can I ask what it pertains to? ' replied the servant
'I need help with runes again. ' smiled Ostrim.
Claude nodded crisply and left to fulfill his other duties.
----------
'You want to do WHAT with a rune, Supplicant? ' exclaimed Eustace.
'Tattoos are historically used by many cultures so why can't we add a rune
to my skin? ' winked Ostrim.
'It is possible but... What rune? Where on your body? This is irregular
Supplicant. I must also tell the Master, clearly. ' frowned Eustace.
Ostrim smiled an impish grin.
----------
Ostrim had taken All his belongings from the Manor and hauled them back to
his cot and trunk in the barracks. Gently he placed All his equipment away
wincing as he reached down. The bandage on his back was large and the blood
had pooled up within the gauze forming a broken outline of some glyph.
Having settled his things, he took quill to parchment.
All was arranged but a chance meeting with the Warder Kesepton reminded him
that a backup plan was needed. Maccus had wondered what if the tether
failed? So Ostrim needed a second option. The rescue group needed a second
way to stay connected to the material plane. Time to think....
Writer: Herbert
Date Wed Jul 2 14:25:31 2025
Writer: Rinern
Date Thu Jul 3 13:48:12 2025
Writer: Rinern
Date Thu Jul 3 13:52:05 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Jul 3 14:34:15 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan
With her soul still officially claimed by Necrucifer, Ezrianne had been
relegated -- politely but firmly-- to the backup plan committee. They were
dealing with a demon that fed on Necruciferian souls, so the front line
wasn't the best place for her, after all.
The others would handle the main event. Ostrim led the charge, flanked by
Kirkland, Ithelim, Melchaleve, and Taeborlin. They would open a portal to
wherever this demon had taken Archal - their High Mystic, and someone
Ezrianne had come to respect deeply -- and do whatever it took to get him
back. Steel and spell, brute force and cleverness.
If the main plan soured, if something failed or cracked or something they
didn't know they didn't know took place. Then it would fall to Ezrianne and
Maccus to salvage whatever they could from the wreckage.
Maccus brought up the idea of some type of tether and then questioned if she
coudl use her skills as a spellcrafter to pair it with muscle gems. She
wasn't sure, but she ran with it, and set off to do her research.
What she found was a gnome.
Ezri didn't catch his name. He offered three, and none of them sounded
real. She called him Clank because he rattled when he walked, his back
loaded with tools, scrap, a portable anvil, and what looked like a bronze
crab with a monocle. Clank was one of those mad little artisans who
wandered the edges of the world perfecting his work: smelting in volcano
forges, carving jewelry from glass-stone pulled from glaciers, claiming he'd
once fixed a dwarven war-crown with nothing but wire, ore, and spite.
He wasn't impressed with Ezrianne Scott, Supplicant of Storm Keep.
But he practically vibrated with excitement when she let him see waht he
really was: a blue Firstborn dragon in human skin, old magic woven into her
bones.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Jul 3 14:47:41 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Ithelim Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Back Up Plan (II)
Clank jumped back as the magic swirled around her in a fog, and then out
stepped Sidorinath.
'That,' he said, blinking fast, 'that I will work for. But it'll cost you!'
They negotated a cask of aged fig brandy -- Sassy Blue's finest cask -- and
a favor he could collect at any time; the details of which Ezrianne would
keep snugly under her chainmail helm.
What he built was a beast.
It took several days, but the chain gleamed like liquid moonlight. Arcanium
links thick as a warriors thumb, each etched a with socket for a muscle gem,
which she'd spent another few nights crafting. She poured the essence into
amethysts and hoped the mid-tier gems would work. They pulsed with power,
warm and thrumming. Then she embedded them into the chain's lattice without
shattering a single one. Not easy. Not cheap.
She tested it by tethering herself to a horse, scaring the beejesus out of
it with a rowdy skald song too close to its ear, and letting it bolt. She
woke up in the dirt with a mouthful of grass, ribs sore, one knee out of
place. The horse was two hundred yards away, frothing and trembling, its
saddle in pieces. But the chain had held.
She wasn't satisfied, so she tested it with the strenght of a Firstborn,
next.
Ezri wrapped one end of the chain around the oldest rock outcropping she
could find, shifted into dragonform, and launched herself into the sky with
every ounce of her might. The chain screamed. Magic flared white-hot
across each link, and a mighty roar tore from her throat with the effort of
her straining - but it held. It anchored her with a teeth-grinding jolt,
and stopped her mid-ascent like a divine hand on her tail. She spiraled
back to the earth in a distinctly clumsy attempt to right her balance and
her wings, but triumphant just the same.
With any luck, the chain would do what they needed it to, in the event they
had to rely on it.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Jul 4 15:49:53 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: {uBranching Paths
As the tear in reality winked out of existence Melchaleve whispered
"Incident report... a tear in reality..."
A book materialized within his hands, bound in bone and silver. Hearing the voice
of the Mistress whisper in his ear,
"Yes. You do."
He shuddered, a deep chill running through his body, while his umbral scar on the
back of his neck pulsed with power and the fresh scar on his face bled freely into
his eyes.
Looking down at the book, his mind throbbed, pages that seemed to rearrange
themselves each time he looked into the book, wild thoeries that defied the very
laws of reality were contained within. Visions of the past, visions of the future,
visions of things that could be swam through his head.
But now... now it was quiet. The throbbing had stopped. He could think, truly think
once more.
He continued to hold the book, examining the pages while slowly cleaning up his notes
for the mission to come to save the High Mystic. He would hold the line. His mind was
his once more. Blessed by a demon of the Mistress to stand firm against the remnants
of the Lord. It seemed fitting.
As he was studying his notes, a strange occurrence began to form. Mirrors, similar
to the one he had seen not All that long ago began to form over his various maps.
"What's this, then?"
It appeared to be the Storm, battle ready and seeming to prepare to enter the abyss.
In the first mirror, the supplicants could be seen yelling a battle charge and diving
through a portal, intent on their goal. Mirrors began to form above as he continued
to watch. One, the supplicants seemed to successfully retrieve the High Mystic and the
portal slammed shut behind them. Another, the supplicants seemed to retrieve the High
Mystic, but an enormous demon chased them out of the portal, bashing into the line of
waiting Knights like an ocean wave. And yet another, which seemed quietscent, the
supplicants never appeared again.
"What...?"
Yet more mirrors began to form over the second mirror, the first appeared to be the
catacombs beneath Storm Keep. It was clear that the demon crashing against the Knights
sought freedom, and if he was successful the Keep would be in grave danger.
Another mirror showed the caves of despair, the looping hallways keeping the demon
trapped, while the Knights hunted it.
Finally, the lands of the Realm of the Endless could be seen, where the demons escape
led it to be trapped in yet again. Upon the mortal plane, but also apart from it.
"Mayhap I should seek out Bearhide and find out his plans on where..."
Melchaleve continued following the path of mirrors, enthralled by the branching paths.
Writer: Erindor
Date Fri Jul 4 22:58:04 2025
To All Admin Religion Storyline RP Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom
Subject A Theoretical Study: Refraction's of Light (I)
The forest held its breath.
At the edge of a deeply buried glade, where the trees no longer sang and the
roots curled inward like wounded limbs, Steward Erindor Shalonost stood
alone, save for the rhythmic pulse of the earth beneath his feet and the
presence of something darker clinging to the undergrowth.
Corruption. The sickness that grew in silence, festered in shadow, and
defied the touch of both steel and spell. It had no shape, no true form,
only influence. The Vallenwood, ancient and watchful, had whispered of its
spread. Erindor had listened.
Tonight, he would answer.
With a breath like moonlight, he exhaled and extended a hand, casting his
focus into the hush of the grove. Illusionary runes shimmered into view,
woven from light and will. From his feet, his own shadow twisted
unnaturally. It peeled itself free from the forest floor, rising upright, a
shape like his, but darker, undefined. Animated by the magic of his greater
illusions, it moved soundlessly toward a knotted root formation pulsing
faintly with the sickly glow of corruption.
The root resisted. The shadow hesitated, then reached forward.
A second passed. Then another.
A shriek echoed, not through air, but through thought, and the shadow
contorted, its edges flickering like unraveling silk. It collapsed in on
itself with a whispering hiss, disintegrating entirely. But in its last
breath of being, it had succeeded: a single sliver of the corrupted root now
pulsed faintly within a sealed glass vial, clutched in midair where the
shadow's hand had been.
Erindor stepped forward, donning his black gloves, gloves consecrated
beneath moonlight by the Devoted of the Grove, inscribed with protective
glyphs no unclean thing could abide. With gloved hands, he retrieved the
vial, wrapping it in silverleaf cloth before slipping it into the satchel at
his side.
The Vallenwood closed behind him as he departed, its silence replaced by the
quiet rustle of leaves relieved.
Writer: Erindor
Date Fri Jul 4 23:01:01 2025
To All Admin Religion Storyline RP Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom
Subject A Theoretical Study: Refraction's of Light (II)
The study was dark, save for the glimmering light of moon-crystals
suspended above. Erindor cleared a small altar, brushing aside books and
ink, and laid the vial at the center. Salt surrounded it in a perfect
circle, interwoven with freshly clipped blades of Vallenwood grass. Above
the altar, he placed the mirror, three-sided, each pane polished to spectral
clarity.
He stood at the point of reflection, whispering the incantation that would
split his image fivefold.
The illusions formed with crystalline precision, each one a mirror of
himself, down to the faint furrow in his brow and the ceremonial clasp at
his shoulder. They moved in unison, surrounding the triangle of mirrors.
Their hands raised. Light began to bloom.
Waves of brilliant, refracted color surged from each illusion's fingertips,
cascades of rainbow light, woven with purpose and intent, streamed into the
mirrors. The beams met at the altar, dancing in interlocking prisms. They
struck the vial.
The corrupted sliver shuddered violently, convulsing within the glass like a
living thing. Hairline fractures spread across the vial as the corruption
within began to bubble. A thick, tar-like ichor oozed from the cracks,
black and glistening, dripping onto the salt circle with a quiet sizzle.
The ooze writhed, as though seeking escape, but the light intensified. The
prismatic beams folded inward. The ichor smoked, hissed, and twisted, as if
resisting its own unmaking. Then, at the height of the light's brilliance,
the entire mass erupted in a silent burst of color, consumed entirely by the
purity of the spell.
Where the vial once lay, only a thin ring of scorched salt and wilted grass
remained.
Erindor dismissed the illusions with a silent wave, the mirrored selves
vanishing one by one. The mirrors dulled. He stood alone. The experiment
had succeeded.
But was it repeatable? Was this method viable beyond the sealed sanctity of
his sanctum, beyond a sliver of corruption already severed from its source?
Could such a solution be deployed in the wilds where the forest still bled
and the roots cried out?
He gathered the scorched remnants into a containment urn and wrote his
findings in careful detail. His notes were methodical, precise. But
beneath his scholar's clarity, a deeper question loomed:
Was this a single drop of sunlight in a spreading night, or the first true
blade of dawn?
Writer: Telthian
Date Sat Jul 5 09:58:09 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Blood of Apostates
Beneath the dim canopy of black-pine and ash-oak, a column of armored
riders moved in formation, hooves crunching the bone-dry needles carpeting
the forest road between Verminasia and Arkane. The Knights of Shadow rode
in number, cloaked in Umbra, the darkmoon's malicious glow casting a
watchful eye.
They rode with purposeful intent, donning crimson tabards and flying their
banners high for this was to be a message, an example made for the time of
clemency had ended. At their head rode the Dark Lord and High Priestess,
their destination lay in the shadow of Mount Levinox: a once-holy place
occupied by pale-robed pilgrims who still knelt to a god long dead. It was
an archaic place, lacking the refinement of temples of the modern era but to
those bloodlines steeped in tradition, their ancestors had once prayed here.
The forest grew thicker as they approached, the leaves whispering like
witnesses too frightened to speak. Telthian raised his fist and the column
halted. Through the undergrowth ahead, flickers of candlelight marked the
temples outer cloisters. The pilgrims paid the approaching knights no mind,
unaware of the encroaching doom, chanted a funeral liturgy in old
Verminasian, words once meant to honor darkness now hollowed by the echoes
of treason.
They were no innocents, not that it would have spared them. Peaceful though
the pilgrims were, these were the last children of Necrucifer, and a veneer
behind which their masters in the Cult hid. To the devotees whose hearts
still bled, the knights would grant their wish and reunite pilgrim and
cultist alike with their dead god.
Telthian dismounted his felbeast. 'All of them. Let none survive,' he
said, his voice cold as the waters of the Umbratide. Symantha's eyes
darkened with malice, lips curling in a cold, heartless smile as she raised
a black-gloved hand toward the sky, her fingers curling to pluck the strings
of the void above. And with a sound like iron shrieking in a furnace,
umbral meteors tore through the firmament, trailing violet fire as they
screamed toward the earth to rend her enemies in shadow and flame.
Knights surged forward, shadows cast by fire and shadow licking across their
blades. Some pilgrims tried to flee into the forest. Others stood, arms
raised, chanting louder, even as steel tore through them as they called down
the dead gods last curse. Yet even that was swallowed by the disciplined
cruelty of the Shadow Knights. They butchered a bloody trail up the stair
toward the temple gates, where Magisters and agents of the Crimson Rose slid
from Umbra and shadow to slit the throats of the gateguards, leaving the
temple's interior exposed and vulnerable.
Telthian advanced like a storm of dark fury, his cloak swirling with the
weight of as he met a guardian rushing to defend the entryway before
Necrucifer's ancient altar. The cult-guard lunged with a warcry, sword
thrust straight for Telthian's heart, but the shadowknight turned the blade
aside with his shield, letting the weapon slide past as his pike found the
seam above the guards breastplate. There was a gasp, wet and sharp.
Telthian uttered a word shaped in the tongue of the Umbra, and shadows
poured into the mans veins like molten night. The guard crumpled in
silence, his body devoured from within, armor dimming as the last flicker of
his soul was consumed by the shadowknight's torment.
Drakkara's knights would shatter relics, tear open tombs, and desecrate what
had once been sacred and was now twisted and profane as the Cult of the True
Prophecy clung to a hope that would be forever extinguished.
Ahead lay the inner sanctum beneath a dome of bone and glass, and the
threshold to Apostus' demi-plane.
Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:39:53 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n I
Tamello packed his things and headed out of the Stronghold. It was early
in the morning in a way that it was late to be night. A special place where
the realm seemed to both take its breath and release it All at once. And so
Tam slipped quickly and quietly amongst the streets and those few who found
themselves performing their deeds within the Dark Jewel.
Those who glanced his way quickly glanced away. Even in the dark of the
Black Moon the diminuitive form, covered in hood and cloak, was easy enough
to recognize if one looked for the signs. And those who did were quick to
leave the General to his late night comings and goings. Only one was
foolish enough to stumble in his path and a quick kick of Tam's feet sent
them back into the the alley from which they came, much to the laughter of
those drunkards who stayed within the shadows.
Soon enough Tam came to the southern gates and nodded at the guards there,
slipping out the gates and heading first to the Garden Shrine. An easy path
to remember, even in the darkness. Even in the strength of the Darkness, he
could spot the opininci flitting here and there due to the strength of the
Auorra nearby. Something he wholeheartedly hoped he could remove from the
doorstep of Verminasia.
The Gardeners and Tenders of the Flame turned to him as the crows and ravens
announced his arrival. Their silence only punctuated by the crackling of
the flame. Tam removed his hood and offered a low bow, getting a nod in
return as they returned to their duties. Tam hopped up before the statue of
the Dark Lady and knelt upon both knees, averting his eyes to the dark
beauty that the statue held.
"{oDark Lady. Designer of the Tapestry and Bringer of the Infinite Night. I
come to You to signify the End of my following of Raije and the beginning of
my service to You. For too long have I sought to find the strength within,
when I held it already. It is not my service to Raije, but personal
strength. Yet I know I can grow stronger, become more of who I am supposed
to be. Through you. The fights I fought, the foes I have taken down. They
were not in Raije's name, but in Yours. Through Your strength I can go
further. Through Your wisdom I can see the way. Through Your grace will I
know the Path Found. "
Tam reached into his pouch and pulled out the broken half of a medallion and
placed it at the feet of the statue, his fingers hesitating only slightly
before he withdrew his hand completely from it.
"{oThis is my old life readily given. That which has held me back. The
regrets and fears. In Your service I will regret nothing. "
Nodding more to himself than to the statue he stood back up and bowed before
the statue for a long moment, waiting for the realm to take its next breath
before he pulled the cowl up over his ears and walked out of the garden,
only straightening when he exfiltrated the grounds. Ahead he could spot the
path that he needed to walk. In his mind's eye he could see the thread
trailing behind him to the Tapestry.
He did not hope he was on the right path. He knew it. He was, afterall, a
Pathfinder.
Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:41:16 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n II
Tamello slowly made his way through the forests south of Arkane. The
terrain had changed so much since the fight for the Red Moon. A fight that
left Raije weak and helpless. Perhaps dead. No. Not dead... Yet. Tam
could still feel that tie to the Red Moon and through that, Raije. That
slight bit of divinity that held All mortals to the gods and goddesses of
the realm. That string, Tam thought, was what Chaos wanted to sever. Their
members already having severed from themselves. It was not unlike the
thread that held him to the Tapestry, he supposed. Yet where the Tapestry
held purpose and held unity, most of the divine threads were, themselves, in
chaos. All those on Algoron praying and wishing and hoping for a spark of
divinity to come down and bless their lives. Was he any different?
Tam stopped and crouched between the roots of an overturned tree, pondering
that question. Was he truly different than those on Algoron begging for a
spark of divinity? The moment came and went as he furrowed his brow and
then he shook his head. He was different. Different in that he spoke more
than the words. That he worked more than the movements of service. He felt
it deep within. A darkness at the heart of his core that spoke to him in
more than mere words could. A draw to the Dark Moon that he swore he could
feel and yet not see. Yes. He was different. Not special, though. Not
proud to demand what he sought because that would just be going back to
being the same as the others who paid lip service and empty deeds.
His stomach grumbled and pulled him out of his thoughts. He brought naught
but water for his journey and traveled only by foot. He would not ask that
others set the course he followed as if illuminated by a faint glow. This
was for him to venture forth on. No one elses. He took a small drink from
the canteen by his side and continued on through the forest. It was not too
much longer before he found himself nearing the western road connecting the
docktown of Arkania to the main city. He stopped with a few yards of the
forest still blocking him from the traffic that was beginning to awaken on
the road.
He began to make his way to the road when he stopped and turned his eyes to
the right of him. There, through the trees was another just waking to the
morning noises. Tam squinted. Not to make out their features, but against
the brightness that shone through their being. A golden aura seemed to
permeate through them. What a fool. Even in the beginning of his time, Tam
knew better than to be altruistically niave. Life on a farm, even under the
ground, was not for the weak.
Tam returned to his own senses as he smelled the bacon beginning to sizzle
over a now prepared fire. How long had Tam stood there staring at the old
man? His path lead him to the old man. Now it was time for Tam to act.
Writer: Tamello
Date Sat Jul 5 12:43:50 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nBy Three... : {oPathfinder{n III
Tam meandered his way once more across lands and ships, though under the
weight of both food and sleep deprivation. His steps remained sure, though,
with the path laid out ever before him. Tam made his way from the docks of
his destination and began his path north. Into the frigid cold that seemed
both distant and weakened, Tam carried with him the purpose of his trek, and
saw before him the path he was to take. Days passed as he climbed the
mountain ranges. Once or twice he was at risk of falling from the edge, but
his balance righted and he continued to trudge on. In his food-weary state,
visions swam before his eyes, leading him from his goal and into the warmth
and comfort of a mountainous traders cabin or a hunters den built within the
caves of the very beast they hunted. They called to him as he passed.
Called to him to take shelter, to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Yet he did
not listen and only responded with the words that seemed to flood his mind,
the trackers and hunters only catching tidbits before they were ripped away
in the gust of the wind.
It was nightfall on a clear, frigid, night that he finally stopped. Barely
aware of his surroundings he followed the path before him and took shelter
the maw of a cave that threatened to swallow him whole, if it could do such
a thing. Inside were the cold remains of a fire long since blown out and
left to stain the rocky floor. To anyone else it would just be another
cave, another lost fire, but Tam felt something here. The path bathed the
area in its gentle glow and wherever he looked, it stayed within.
In the back of the cave sat a pile of weathered wood, kindling, and herbs of
all assortments. Next to that sat clay pots that held thick, viscous,
liquids of some sort. Of what, Tam could not tell yet. He knew he would
need them in a way that he knew he would soon have the vitals he needed. He
moved as if his body was not his own, watching his arms and legs move this
way and that putting together the fire, setting up the mats that were in the
back of the cave as well.
At last he sat in front of a warming fire, though he still did not truly
feel the warmth or the cold that pressed around him. Just the weight of the
Numen Reliqua at his side. At the rememberence of it he pulled it out and
set it in front of him and stared into it. At first the symbols just
shifted here and there but the longer he stared the more it began to stare
back at him. He surely would have been lost to it if it wasn't for the
cawing of a crow that echoed through the chamber. Or was it the snap of a
log within the fire? He was laying on his side now and didn't remember how
he had gotten there.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sat Jul 5 19:31:56 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery V
The morning meal had been simple, fruit, brown bread, and tea steeped
with mountain herbs. Ulyssus ate quietly in the dining hall, seated near
the eastern windows while the novices moved briskly between their duties.
There was no rush to the hour, only the measured rhythm of monastery life.
Then came the soft chime, gentle yet firm in its authority, echoing through
the crystal halls. It was the second bell of the day, and he knew its
meaning now.
Ulyssus pushed back from the bench, adjusted his cloak, and made his way
through the inner corridors, weaving past quiet monks and a pair of young
initiates carrying incense bowls. The path led him, as he had expected, to
the chapel.
The sanctuary was warm despite the grey sky above, which churned behind an
invisible dome of magic high overhead. Jewels in the white marble floor
caught the light of softly glowing orbs, and the scent of amber incense hung
in the air. Before the crystal altar, a gnomish monk stood waiting, face
mostly hidden in the folds of his white cowl, a glowing globe nestled in his
palm, its faint wisps of smoke trailing behind him like whispers.
Five unlit candles now rested evenly spaced across the front row of benches.
Between them, kneeling on a prayer mat, was a dwarven novice, hands folded
and brow furrowed in concentration.
"Faith does not seize power, " the monk's voice came quiet and clear. "It
opens the gate. You do not summon, you listen. "
Ulyssus took his place behind one of the benches, folding his legs beneath
him as the others had. The marble floor cooled through his kilt, but the
warmth of the divine presence, or perhaps the enchanted air, tempered it.
One by one, initiates were motioned forward to approach the candles.
Some whispered names. Others offered brief lines of scripture.
Occasionally, a flame stirred to life, but more often, it remained still.
The monk neither praised nor chastised, only observed.
When Ulyssus's turn came, he rose and approached the bench where a single
unlit candle rested. He did not reach for it. He did not speak. Instead,
he bowed his head and offered no demand, only quiet invitation.
He thought not of incantations or spellwork, not of gesture or rune.
Instead, he offered up the stillness within, letting it become the prayer.
Nothing happened.
The candle remained dark.
But in that moment, he realized, there was no failure here. No incantation
had been attempted. No force misdirected. Only the simple truth, he had
not yet yielded enough.
The monk stepped beside him, voice quiet as ever. "You carry much. Release
more. "
Ulyssus nodded faintly and stepped back to his place.
As the session drew to a close, the monk addressed them all, standing
between the rows of benches, his globe now dimmed.
"Magic bends, " he said. "Faith surrenders. Let your heart do neither, but
learn when each must be done. "
Ulyssus looked once more to the crystal altar. Then to the flame of a
single candle... One now burning quietly at the center.
The lesson concluded, Ulyssus offered a brief bow to the monk before
stepping back through the marble threshold. The chapel's light dimmed
behind him, replaced by the soft glow of lanterns along the monastery's
inner halls. His boots made little sound on the polished crystal floors.
He did not speak. He did not need to. The candle had not lit, but a
different spark had kindled within. That, he would carry back to the
initiates quarters, where silence and parchment would give shape to his
thoughts.
Writer: Py'nan
Date Sun Jul 6 08:13:03 2025
Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Jul 6 08:50:50 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {n...They Form : {oPathfinder{n IV
Tam slowly sat up and ran a hand through his fur and scratches behind
his ear in thought. It was then that he realized that the orb was gone. In
his panic he began dumping out his pouches and rucksack, but it was not
there. Only the remained. He was about to set back out when a voice, as
soft as a snow capped mountain, and as cold as one as well, called out to
him.
'If you're looking for your toy. I have it. You were foolish to fall
asleep holding it. Or were you entranced by what you were seeing? Either
way, a dangerous aspect of either design. '
Tam looked around for the voice but the light of the path remained fixed
solely upon the fire it seemed, causing the darkened recesses to darken that
much more. '{oWho are you and what do you know of the Reliqua? ' Tam called
out, his own voice sounding flat to his ears.
A deep chuckle filled the cavern, the echo of it growing louder and stronger
until Tam had to cover his ears from the noise. 'Child. Youngling, fresh
of the earth. I am that which you seek. I'm the one to guide you through
your transformation. This Reliqua that you call it is just a dangerous toy
to endanger your chances. It'll be best if I hold onto it for... Now.? '
The breath between the last few words edged at something deepr, darker, but
Tam didn't show it any mind, if he even perceieved it.
'{oYou will give that back or.. ' Tam began before the laughter rang through
the cavern, sending him to his knees. It was more cruel this time with a
definite edge to it.
'Or what, little bunny? You cannot even perceive what I am. You're not
looking smart enough! You're relying on your skills honed. It's time to
cut the cord, little man! Sever the bonds that hold you back! ' the voice
boomed through the cavern and inside Tamello's head causing his ears to
bleed. And then, softly, almost paternally, as the Reliqua was placed
against Tamello's side. 'Are you ready to begin, Tamello de Fformelo
Tussock? '
**********************
Days? Nights? Tamello couldn't count how many began to pass as he began
learning from his invisible tutor. How to staves off the hunger, how to
survive on the melt inside the cavern. How to turn his physical weakeness
into his spiritual strengthening. One that didn't need the strength of War,
but one that would wage it to see a future come to fruition. A future that
had already been prophesized.
He did not care about waging war just for War, but for a purpose. A
singular purpose. He could feel a thread coming lose behind him. One that
was growing ever weaker anyways. One that had been frayed since the assault
on the WarpSpeaker and the Marauder's.
It was finally time to sever that one.
In front of the fire one night ( Day?) He tossed in the herbs that he found
at the back of the cave. Shown to him by the invisible tutor. One that
continued to whisper in his ears even as he slept. If slept was what he
did. Yet now he breathed in deep and began the ritual of cleansing. A
ritual to cut the thread to Raije and fully embrace the Darkness that
surrounded him in this maw of a cave.
Writer: Yazshu
Date Sun Jul 6 09:43:20 2025
Writer: Ostrim
Date Sun Jul 6 11:53:09 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Assault
Blood
The stones of the temple steps ran red and slick from the blood pooling down
them. Black scorch marks could be seen on various pillars and in gardens
from the High Priestess' spells. Beside him were his fellow Supplicants.
They worked as one moving through the fray. The Dark Lord stood ahead of
them cleaving a path that they followed both physically and morally.
They All knew that though this was for Archal, it was more than that. It
was to put down the last vestiges of an ancient idea and to build something
new upon its bones. In All his time as a mercenary, Ostrim had never felt
such purpose.
'Watch it, Bearhide! ' yelled Ezrianne as he was distracted for a moment.
Returning quickly to the task at hand, Ostrim's blade worked left and right
while his shield defended the Gray Robes that stood behind him.
The morning would be long but Ostrim could see the shadowed inner sanctum
and felt assured he would see his mentor before the evening came.
Writer: Dublu
Date Sun Jul 6 17:45:12 2025
To All
Subject First Job {u(Whispercraft Tradeworks Inc)
The pouch of coins was heavier than sin. These old coins hailed from a
time when oaths were worth more than jeweled eggs. The box arrived at dawn,
pinewood, iron-braced, its slats warped from moisture and time. It thumped
when moved, sloshed when shifted, and stank like copper, and wet fur. Dublu
didn't pry. That wasn't the kind of broker he was.
He wheeled the crate on a hand wagon through the Port of Althainia, weaving
past merchants haggling over silks, mercenaries polishing spears, elves
muttering in circles, and dwarves cursing crates, captains, and seagulls
alike. He parked the box by a stack of cargo nets, far from prying eyes,
and waited for the loading crew to tire enough not to care. The ship was
ready.
The Nomad rocked gently at its mooringa slow, trustworthy merchant vessel
trimmed in cheerful reds and sea-greens. Her shimmering white sails caught
the first hints of wind, and her figurehead, a smiling mermaid with
outstretched arms, seemed to beckon Dublu into something warmer than truth.
He boarded without ceremony, watching dockhands wince as they hoisted the
crate below deck. He made sure it was stored near the masts lower
hatchwhere shadows fell thick and crew rarely lingered. By the time the
last rope was loosed, the sky had turned a pale silver, and the sea pulled
them outward, toward the vast, bone-cold reach of Arsataw Yaa. The ocean
stretched forever, too wide, too still, too silent. It was said that four
continents surrounded Arsataw Yaa, a comfort in theory, though from the deck
of The Nomad, you could see none of them. Just an endless expanse of
glassy, frigid water, so deeply blue it almost bled violet. Some days the
sea was calm, its surface like black silk brushed by ghost winds. Other
times, it rolled with slow, towering swells that made the ship groan like a
dying whale. Salt crusted every surface. The rails, the ropes, even
Dublu's boots. The air was sharp and cold, filled with brine so dense it
left your throat raw. He spent his days alone, playing a card game of
chance and strategy.
Sometimes he sat on the crate, coat drawn tight, gloved hands resting on his
knees. Sometimes he wandered the deck, stopping at the mast. An immense
wooden finger thrust into the sky. Hed stare up at the crow's nest, the
rope ladder swaying gently in the breeze, and think not about climbing, but
falling. The platform up there mightve seen All four continentsif not for
the clouds. Snow came early some days, fine and dry, stinging his face and
icing the deck in crooked patterns. Once, the sleet froze the hatch shut
and he had to hammer it open with the back of his dagger. Crewmen whispered
about the box. Said it growled once. Said it shifted at night.
Dublu didnt answer.
He took his meals in silence and slept in the corner of the hold, one leg
looped through the crate's bindings. He listened at night, to the slow
lapping of waves against the hull, to distant animal calls echoing over the
water. Sometimes low and mournful. Sometimes high and wild, birdlike but
too large, too ancient. One morning he awoke to frost blooming across the
wooden floor like veins. Another day, they passed through a fog so thick
the crew tied bells to the mast to keep from forgetting where they were.
Still, Dublu did not flinch. The journey was part of the job. Finally,
Icewall appeared. At first just jagged white fangs rising from the sea,
then cliffs and pine-laced slopes, and a harbor half-frozen with silver ice.
The water around the docks was thick and black, slapping the hull with a
slow, wet anger. The Nomad limped in under a grey sky, sails streaked with
frost, her bright trim dulled by salt and wind.
Dublu was the last off the ship.
He used a hooked rod to drag the crate across the gangplank, every thud of
wood against wood sounding too loud in the hush of snow. Dockhands watched
from behind crates. No one offered to help.
Ice crackled beneath his boots. His breath rose in coils.
He didn't look back.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Jul 6 20:24:25 2025
To All Conclave Piknim Vierxae - Imm Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara
Subject The {uTapestry's Edge: The Eye That Sees
I once believed the Tapestry to be something seen only in retrospect,
events woven and revealed by time. But now I wonder if it, like so many
threads of magic, might be anticipated, grasped, even twisted, by those with
the will and tools to see further than sight allows. It was Vierxae who
first drew my attention to the canyon, though not through any overt
instruction. One of my students, meddling where curiosity exceeds
discipline, recounted a conversation, a gift of knowledge passed down from
Piknim to Vierxae and then whispered forward. This was no coincidence.
Threads do not move themselves, they are pulled.
I traced the paths, through the canyon narrows, past monoliths etched in
forgotten dialects, finally arriving at the rise of black sand and crystal.
It was as if the land itself had been carved by ritual, concentric circles
etched by divine geometry. The glass sphere at its center pulsed with
latent energy, the leyline's hum syncing to the beat of my own thoughts.
There was a silence there, broken only by arcane pulses and the occasional
mutter of the wind that sounded far too much like a whisper.
Vierxae's proposition was elegant in its madness: to create an eye of glass,
a seeing orb embedded with the ability to scry, not merely outwards, but
through the strands of fate. What she proposed as a replacement for her own
lost sight, I saw as an instrument for reaching deeper truths. Could one
peer through the Cauldrons haze? Through the veil of the Umbra? Through
time itself?
We theorized together. An embalmed eye, necromantically sustained,
suspended in glass, infused with umbral resonance. A seeing eye, yes, but
one with a will. An artifact not unlike the Cauldron itself. But as with
all creations born of Death and Will, I fear it may see me back.
And yet, I find myself compelled to proceed. Not alone, this experiment
must be conducted with Vierxae. Her insights, her questions, and her cursed
clarity offer a balance to my ambition. Together, we will attempt to create
a means of visually perceiving and, if the theory holds, grasping the
threads of magick themselves. The Tapestry will no longer be metaphor, but
material, woven before us like strands across a loom. If we can perceive
the flows, the frays, the knot... Perhaps we can unmake them. Or worse,
remake them in Her image.
There was a moment, there beneath the juniper trees and rattling idols, when
doubt flickered. Not doubt in the theory, but in myself. Could I bear
another artifact that knows me? That reveals me to myself? I buried the
thought quickly. Doubt is a solvent to clarity, and I will not allow this
Tapestry to fray again.
Ive begun collecting eyes. Not of the mundane sort, those will rot, even
with enchantment, but of casters, conjurers, manipulators. Those whose very
soul shaped their vision. Each one tells a story. Each one might lend
itself to a composite, a lens through which All magic is seen, and perhaps
redefined.
The Cauldron boils not with what is added, but with what is stirred beneath.
I shall return to the circle soon with samples, glyphs, and perhaps one of
the woven relics Ive begun crafting. If this Eye can be completed, it will
not merely watch the world, it will rewrite the way we understand the Weave.
For Her vision. For our Magicks. And for what lies just beyond the edge of
knowing.
Writer: Symantha
Date Mon Jul 7 03:44:53 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Crimson Wake
The High Priestess followed in the wake of the Dark Lord's fury but it
was the aura of the circlet that progressed first. Fel and pervasive, she
spied two pilgrims back away into the shadows only to be slaughtered by the
men and women of Storm slipping through umbral darkness.
There was purpose in All that she cast her gaze over. She watched the
Supplicants span out, set to their bloody task. Felt the resonance of faith
as it swelled, carried like a storm in the souls that whirled like a
hurricane around Telthian's merciless advance.
A stone in the mind; the weight of the Cult had grown over the years it had
taken to establish All that had come to pass. To find that it was Apostus
at the root of this...
It wasn't surprise she felt but rather, a circle drawing full.
The umbral scar grew hot on her palm while gloved fingers hid the pulses of
divine power along fingers and hands. In this den of apostasy, her own
purpose could not but be jarred to burgeoning. Confidence met animus as she
drew her naginata to address the fanatical advance of a cult-guard who had
thought to catch any stragglers.
The long bladed instrument, crackling with latent umbral lightning, caught
the swing of the weapon. The metal clash thundered through the near shadows
and then she swept the blade down to take his feet out from under him. His
sword clattered off into the dark, the shield broke.
"No mercy!" She called out, her voice a cascade in the acrimonious temple,
echoing the orders of the Dark Lord. As the cult-guard managed to get to
his knees, he began to chant their blasphemy once again but she would not
suffer it.
The High Priestess took hold of the guard's face with her right hand, the
power in her scarred palm - even gloved as it was - no less potent for the
durable fabric layer, and uttered aloud the same prayer the Dark Lord had
invoked recently.
"{uDark Queen give us the conviction to hate: for mercy is a weakness and
{upity" - she paused, voice growing colder yet as she stared into the eyes of
her victim - "{ua sin."
He could not scream as she let the hunger of the moonstone reach out to
consume All that he was. Dark indigo fire ate through him as if he were
made of paper and she felt the soul devoured. Another for the soulsteel.
She let the remains flutter to the ground like so much ash and followed the
now crimson river that the forces of Storm had unleashed ahead.
There was design in this. Tempering between anvil and hammer. In every
blasphemous cultist lain low, in the dedicated faith rooted in the heart of
the Goddess' new dark order. In the men and women who would embody that new
order. Drakkara's Legion - their purpose was great and would evolve into
greater things yet.
Apostus, and his cult, would not escape final retribution.
Writer: Orutix
Date Mon Jul 7 11:09:15 2025
To Bloodlust Black_Robes All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna
Subject {uDuskvein : Scholars of Shattered Sanity
The Black Tower's libraries were not mere halls of parchment and dust,
they were vast tombs of knowledge, bookshelves made of calcified bones the
stretched toward a ceiling lost in swirling nebula smoke. Orutix stalked
the library like a wolf among gravestones, his fingers leaving smoldering
prints on every grimoire he touched. The librarians, hooded, hollow-eyed
devotees of Drakkara, flinched whenever the blue gnome passed, as if his
mere presence made the shadows pull tightly around the room. There was no
attention paid to their fears, the Duskvein's meaning was meant to be
unlocked, his dreams of the Mistress were All to telling, that it's secrets
were close, buried in the cracks between forgotten dialects and necromancy,
the treatises on dying stars. Each tome devoured only proved how little the
Conclave truly understood.
Days bled into nights as Orutix bent over crumbling scrolls, his storm-grey
eyes, churning as the underground tempest, began to reflect the Duskvein's
eerie glow. Every method of elemental resonance were deployed, from the
farthest reaches of the Shokono continent. Even the forbidden song of the
unmaking, and still the relic remained mute, swallowing his spells like a
throat. A snarl escaped his lips, the gnome's patience unraveling, every
failure gnawed at him. Every wasted effort, each hour brought the Conclave
closer to some pathetic intervention, some doomed attempt to restrain him
before his work was done.
In response to the gnome's growing indignation, the Black Tower's archivists
began hiding their rarest texts, claiming the Dark Mother's will forbade
their release. Orutix responded by peeling the flesh from a living scribe's
palm and pressing it against the Duskvein's surface. The resulting singular
pulsation shook the dust from the rafters, and the crystal shuddered, just
once, as if stirring from a dream. That was enough, now the librarians
brought him every blasphemy he demanded, their hands trembling around
offered volumes like holy men clutching poisoned sacraments.
The mages of Red, and White, whispered from afar. The White Tower's
astromancers cluthered their orreries like shields, their star charts
fraying at the edges whenever Orutix passed through the common rooms. Where
the white mages whispered of omens that shattered their carefully calculated
celestial charts, the red mages whispers were that of sensing a predator
shrouded in darkness, with an equally shrouded purpose - and both factions,
though they would never admit it, secretly prayed upon their moons that the
Black Tower would keep it's student contained.
The gnome sat enthroned in parchment and madness, the Duskvein pulsing
softly before him. The jagged sliver of murdered divinity that drank the
spells as if flesh cast upon it, time. Time, he realized with a gnome's
manic clarity, was not on his side. The White and Red Towers had ensured
their wards and barriers of saffron light and cardinal fire, keeping the
Warlord away from their own libraries. The other Towers could fret, their
scholars could whimper. Let them, he had already begun carving his next
experiment into the library floor.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Jul 7 19:50:14 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery VI
The chapel was quiet that afternoon, save for the faint hum of magical
globes set into the walls. Sunlight filtered through the windows,
occasionally breaking through the stormy Icewall sky to bathe the floor in
golden flecks. Ulyssus sat alone in the second row of benches with a small
treatise on divine curatives open across his lap.
He had read the passage three times already, but found himself reading less
for content and more for rhythm, for the way the words framed healing as
devotion made action. It echoed the lecture from days past, you do not will
divine magic into being, you are lent its grace.
His thumb marked the page as a chime sounded far down the corridor, sharp,
clear, and deliberate. The hour for instruction had come.
Closing the book and slipping it into his satchel, Ulyssus rose. He paused
at the aisle, casting a glance toward the crystal altar, then gave a silent
nod before making his way out of the chapel's southern door.
The hallway beyond the chapel shimmered with warmth and color. Magical
lights kept the corridor bright, while the tapestries, runes, beasts, and
star charts, stood guard like woven sentinels. As he passed, a dwarven
novice grumbled and scrubbed the base of a wall, his short beard flecked
with soap and irritation.
The stairwell ahead coiled upward, its crystal walls gleaming with faint
enchantment. Ulyssus ascended without haste, letting the echoes of his
steps merge with the monastery's breath, quiet, ancient, composed. Each
turn of the stair brought him closer to the quiet pulse of learning above.
At the landing, he turned into the final hall and stepped through the door
to the classroom.
Rows of desks filled the wide, well lit room, with students hunched forward,
notes scattered like windblown leaves. An old elven teacher stood at the
chalkboard, tall and poised, with eyes that had seen centuries pass. He
gestured toward a diagram of a holy symbol radiating lines of energy, and
his voice flowed like wind through chimes.
"... You must understand, " the elf was saying, "that a divine spell is not
cast, it is received. You speak not to control, but to commune. " Ulyssus
made his way quietly to a seat near the middle, nodding slightly to a weary
student who looked up from scribbled lines. He placed his satchel down and
retrieved parchment and ink, listening intently.
"Cure light wounds, " the teacher said, "is the beginning of All sacred
healing. Not in strength, but in form. Its truth lies in humility. You
ask, not demand. And the Light of Kantilles, if willing, answers. "
A flick of the teacher's hand and a quiet prayer in elvish brought forth a
shimmer of healing energy. It bathed a mannequin set near the board,
cleansing a painted mock wound with soft gold and white radiance.
Around Ulyssus, quills danced across parchment. He didn't write, not yet.
He let the lesson settle first. The arcane had taught him to analyze. The
divine asked him to receive.
Ulyssus did eventually take notes, brief lines more for meditation than
memorization. He marked the teacher's phrasing on humility, on surrender,
and the gentle reminder that the spell was not a tool but a trust.
The class continued with a few demonstrations, including a student near the
front reciting the prayer clumsily, eyes clenched as if bracing for pain.
The teacher corrected him gently, encouraging calmness over fervor. A soft
pulse of healing energy rewarded the attempt.
When the final chime rang, the students stood, some stretching, others
already lost in discussion. Ulyssus gathered his things in silence. He
offered a nod of gratitude toward the teacher, who returned it with the
faintest smile.
The white cloaked Wizard of Kantilles stepped out into the bright hallway
beyond, the sound of quiet footsteps and rustling parchment fading behind
him as he descended toward the lower levels.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Mon Jul 7 20:02:29 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Stewart Ezrianne Taeborlin )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Spirits Divide
As the knights marched grimly up the steps of the temple of evil, Melchaleve took
a moment to appreciate the raw power of the High Priestess's meteors. As he watched
them smash into the steps he took a moment to set the corpse of a werewolf down in
front of him, drawing its spirit out.
The wolf howled, and looked to its master.
Resting his hand upon a drake from the Basilica, he pointed towards the temple.
"Feast."
The wolf howled again and began to charge into the falling meteors, savagely tearing
into any unfortunate that got in its way.
Mounting the drake, he patted its neck affectionately. It had been some time since
he had been able to commune with the majestic creature.
"Time for us, as well. Leave none alive."
Drawing his crystallized blade of {uumbra{ul essence and his shield of black magic
he checked himself over once more. The amulet of the Mistress upon his neck, and a
sprig of {ulavender tucked into a pocket.
"My mind is my own."
As reality began to fuzz around the edges, he could see the different paths of battle.
He could see what would happen should he go down the western path. He could see the cult
members cowering down the central hallway. He could see the creatures lurking along the
eastern wing.
Laughing maniacally, Melchaleve urged his mount forward to enjoin the fray in earnest.
Calling out as needed to his fellow knights as needed to warn of incoming danger.
"The Storm Comes!"
As Melchaleve dove into the frey, he began to chant a spell. One which would turn the
weather to the worse.
Slowly, clouds coalesced in the skies above and lightning began to build, streaks could
be seen lancing through the clouds. The air became heavy, the thrum of electricity could
be felt building within the body.
"Ambactus A Caligo!"
Writer: Xiephoas
Date Tue Jul 8 11:03:41 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Tue Jul 8 17:45:18 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm Zandreya ( Xenophon Cayenna )
Subject {oMeteor: Research within the Archives
Within the quiet sanctuary of the Arlathil archives, Skalpon moves among
dust-covered tomes and rune-etched shelves. The fallen star still lies
embedded in the earth--its radiant, crystalline structure pulsing faintly
beneath the soil, too hot to touch, too strange to name. It feel in a blaze
of orangish-red light during the Festival of the Stars; it seemed, to the
old elf, a blessing from the Mother Herself. But now elves were dead.
Bones were scattered. And questions were raised within Skalpon's mind.
Beneath lantern light and silence, the old elf poured over ancient
texts--scrolls that spoeak of skyfire and stone humming with unworldly
power. Myths and warnings, theories and observations... His gnarled finger
tracing along the fading texts as he sought for structures of celestial
origin, hoping to find resonance with the fallen star's glow.
The Mother had used the blessing of the Stars in moons past to bring the
Mother's strength to the Vallenwood. The old elf himself regularly sought
the wisdom and strength of the constellations to see Zandreya's Will made
manifest upon the realm. Again, he thought this another blessing. But
Skalpon knew that such blessings were often complex--and those who acted
before study at times found poor endings.
Another tome closed. Another tome opened. The search continues.
Writer: Tephysea
Date Tue Jul 8 17:47:52 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom ( Imm RP Zandreya Cayenna All )
Subject {oMeteor: Resonance among the Dead
Tephysea had arrived on the scene in the savage labds once the
information had gotten word to the elves as a whole. As she listened to
Eridessa ans Skalpon speaking, her attention turned to the remains and she
knelt down. Her hand hovered above the remains and she closed her eyes.
'Are you able to discern any mental resonance from the remains? ' the High
Keeper had asked.
She opened her eyes and began searching, whispering an apology under her
breath as she searched around the remains. Finding a fragment of a memento
of some sort, she turned her gaze back to Skalpon and Eridessa both. 'I
have a guess, a best guess as to what may have happened. It could have been
one of the beasts that roam the lands. That is the best guess. The
other... '
Tephysea turns her attention to the memento in her hand. 'I'll need a bit
more time to discern the mental resonance. '
Writer: Eridessa
Date Tue Jul 8 18:54:57 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All Imm RP Zandreya ( Xenophon Cayenna )
Subject {oMeteor: Stardust and Sacrifice
The stench of scorched earth still lingered, even days after the sky had
been ripped open.
The savage lands were never kind. Tall grasses whipped around her like
grasping fingers, and strange hoots and the occasional rawrs of distant
creatures punctuated the eerie quiet. But the druidess was not here for
beasts.
Eridessa moved with reverence through the crater's fractured edge, her soft
boots slipping in the soot-streaked mud. The meteor had landed hard, too
hard, and even now the air was warped with heat, the plants nearby blackened
as if cursed, having wilted in the presence of the relentless heat in a
place typically so cold.
The meteor lay where it had the last couple of days, the crystalline
structure in the center both glowed with it's own radiant light and managed
to catch what weak rays of light made it this far over the ridge at this
time of day.
But it wasn't the stone that stopped her breath.
It was what lay nearby.
Bones.
Elven bones, unmistakable in form and proportion, slumped near the basin's
edge where the rock had burned white-hot. The guards they'd sent. The
elves who had stood here, living, only last evening, now stripped clean of
armor, clothing and even the meat from their bones.
"No, " she whispered, more to the air than her companions.
The Kyorl accompanying her shifted. One stepped in front of her slightly,
eyes narrowed. Another knelt to the ground, scanning for threat, not grief.
"They kept their post, " she whispered, voice choked. "To the end. "
She searched the area for signs, any disturbed plant life, signs of battle
but All that remained were the wilted forms of plants that had been too
close to the heat, the carved swath of earth from the landing, the
footprints of the beasts and a few of the elves. Nothing definite, nothing
that stood out.
A sending followed, a whisper through the trees. To the Senate. To the
Kyorl. The guards have fallen. The site is unclean. The meteor remains.
We need aid.
The beat of wings signaled Skalpon's arrival, descending astride a feathered
beast. He removed his helm wordlessly and stepped beside her. His eyes
moved over the crater, the upturned soil, the bones. His time worn eyes
lighting on the bones as he winced.
Soon after, Tephysea arrived on foot. Dust clung to her boots, soft blonde
waves of her hair hanging long over one shoulder. She said nothing at
first, only lowering herself beside the bones. Her gloved hands worked with
delicate care, brushing aside debris until something small caught the light.
Tephysea studied it in silence, then held it in both hands and closed her
eyes. Her brow furrowed with quiet effort and whispered "I'll need a bit
more time to discern the mental resonance. "
Eridessa turned her gaze back to the plants and even the dinosaurs in the
area as she swore to herself again what she had already written, We owe them
a full return. Funeral rites. Names remembered. And we must discover what
took their lives.
Behind them, the wind stirred across the savage lands, carrying the smell of
ash, of scorched wood and stone. And deep within the heart of the crater,
the meteor sat, quiet, waiting.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Jul 9 12:05:24 2025
To Shadow All Archal Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve )
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: The Sacrifice and the Ritual
'FOOLISH KNIGHTS! I allowed Kayen to enter into my sanctum out of
respect to his line but this defilement will not stand! ' roared Dnoutrar
as he stood. The demon's emaciated form was not the pillar of strength it
once was. The loss of his infernal patron and power had diminished him to
but a fraction of what he once was. Yet his blade was still strong and the
power granted to him by the clerics of Apostus sustained him enough to pose
a challenge.
Telthian stood at the entrance, his umbral blade casting shadows that sought
to grasp at his enemies. The plate mail he wore was now both red and black,
stained with blood of the fallen. Beside him, Symantha, chin raised in
defiance and command held no weapons. Her hands were wreathed in the power
of the Mistress and black with the ashes of her enemies. To the other side
of the Dark Lord stood Maccus, the skald had cleaved his way across the
Temple like a dervish. His battle chants echoing across the stones of the
Temple.
Behind the three stood the Knights assembled: Ostrim, Ezrianne, Kirkland,
Melchaleve, Ithelim, Taeborlin, and others. They waited like a pack of
wolves about to pounce upon their prey. For a moment there was quiet after
the demon? S challenge yet an energy hung in the air, quivering with
anticipation. Then after a moment, the Dark Lord answered the demon in a
voice that resonated across the room.
'Dnoutrar, for centuries we served together, this I recognize. In alliance
we wore the bridle of Necrucifer's power, symbol of both our authority and
binding ties to His will. Yet through Drakkara's new promise, I have
scattered the remnants of my chains and created a greater bond still. A
power that WILL cascade across this realm like an umbral torrent. You, old
ally, have become twisted and tangled within yours without Him, bound now to
Apostus and his machinations. And so, as one final mercy to which you are
owed, I will free you from those binds. Knights, cut him loose! ' ordered
Telthian.
From behind the trio, the soldiers charged with a rally cry upon their lips.
They fell upon the demon like wolves upon an injured bear. Swords and
shields collided some soldiers met horrible wounds from the demon's blade.
However, no mercy was given and when the deed was done, silence was All that
was left within the sanctum.
'Bearhide, it is time. Cast your ritual and let us retrieve our absent High
Mystic. ' ordered the Dark Lord.
Ostrim cleared away the stone floor and placed the ritual items in the spots
as he was trained. He took out the worn letter that had been sent to him by
Archal with the words of the ritual upon it. He nodded to Kirkland and
Taeborlin who took up spots beside him. Novices of the Legion brought in
three thick chains, creations of Supplicant Scott, who took them and
attached them to her fellow Supplicants and then to those who would stay
behind. Ithelim then came forward, he spoke mystic words as umbral tethers
were woven into existence attaching to the three like cold grasping hands.
One tether stuck to the soul compass making it glow with a faint purplish
hue.
Ostrim looked over his shoulder at his old friend Melchaleve. They had been
Petitioners together but now Sir Arden was managing the defenses of those
who remained behind. His spirit animal stalking the chamber waiting for a
threat. There was a nod between the two and Ostrim turned to the ritual
items and began reciting the words from the note.
A dull hum resounded in the air and the temperature rose with each
incantation until there was a horrible crack. The veil between realms was
torn and a blast of infernal heat battered All within the room. The portal,
like a cat's eye, opened before them leading into the Manse of Apostus.
Ostrim took out the compass in one hand and sword within the other.
Allowing himself a breath, he walked into the portal with the two other
Supplicants behind him. The chains rattled upon the stone as the remaining
Knights looked through the window into the ruined landscape of the demonic
realm
Writer: Xaxtur
Date Thu Jul 10 08:00:55 2025
To All Darkonin Greenskins Abaddon Verminasia ( Tarabella Xenophon Imm Storyline Fatale Chantrielle Zecnys Sedinae Piknim Lenore )
Subject {oA Throne {uof{o Teeth{u:{o Reading's{u for{o Rubes
"You absolute bloody fool! "
Bleurgh slapped Ph'real in the back of the head. The sound was almost
ethereal, posited as it was against the thrumming melodrama of the New
Thalosian marketplace. They were so close.
"You've been holding the map upsidedown this whole time, aint'tcha? Do you
even know how to read? "
Bleurgh narrowed hungry eyes at the map wielding greenskin, a sudden
premonition of mistrust creeping across their features.
Ph'real could not, in fact, read. Not a book, not a letter -- and certainly
not a map. The yellow-fleshed greenskin smiled a sickly smile. Their eyes,
the colour of rotting plums left to enjoy themselves, flashed dangerously.
"I can read your future, Bleurgh, if you ever lay a hand on me again. I
see... "
Ph'real held an overlong index and middle finger against their own temple --
communing with the spirits.
"Touch me like that again, and I foresee you'll have a hard time wakin' up
tomorrow... "
Bleurgh could only laugh. Their laugh was a mad cackle, a cacophonous
double-voiced shriek. The shaman, communing constantly with the spirits,
bore insight Ph'real could never understand.
Ph'real had been hand-chosen by {oXaxtur. As had Bleurgh, and every other
member of the party.
"{oTake dis THRONE ter th' LORD O' DEATH'S priests. Ter 'is KINGDOM. TER DA
SWAMP. A gif' from da LORD O' 'UNGER ter th' LORD O' DEATH, innit? "
Ph'real took their charge very seriously.
The path from Mount Darkonin, on Darkonin -- the Greenskin name for Icewall
-- to the swamps of Abaddon is a long one. Without a good navigator, it's
nearly impossible to traverse, even without bearing a throne fashioned from
the teeth of thousands of corpses reaped by the Lord of Hunger.
Ph'real looked blankly into the distance, then they grinned a stupid little
grin, full of misshapen masticators, turning the map right-side up.
"'ow about, since we's 'ere anyway... " The goblin shook a purse full of
coin, lecherous grin full of danger. "We's spen' some-a tha Gorger's money
on some fun times at da White Sands? "
Bleurgh wanted to hit Ph'real again...
But, the greenskin raised a good point.
The Thronebearers needed relief, and the thirteen Chosen spent a raucous
evening at the White Sands Bordello, spilling {oXaxtur{u'{os coin like liquid from
the Fountain of Youth. Greenskins have never been treated so well on the
continent of Dolund'ir -- the Greenskin word for Althainia.
Greenskins have a long history of resiliency, not the least part of which
was shaped by the Althainian campaign of oppression against their city of
Dolund'ir, a defeat suffered at the hands of a "good-aligned" Empire build
on bones and blood.
A campaign without which {oXaxtur would never have ruled the Mountain.
A story for another day...
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Thu Jul 10 11:44:11 2025
To All Xellessia Orutix
Subject The Dungeon's Shadow Within
Within the Meeting Room of the White Robes, beneath the crimson glow cast
by the stained glass wall, Ulyssus met again with his trusted advisor,
Xellessia. The pair stood near the long ashwood table, quiet in their
exchange as the flickering light from the iron dragon-lamps stretched
shadows across the chamber. Their focus was fixed on one subject alone,
Orutix of the Ebony Tower whose loyalties remained uncertain.
For some time now, Orutix had moved too carefully, too deliberately. Though
he wore the Black Robes, he still held allegiances with the Dungeon of
Bloodlust, an enemy of the Ivory and Crimson Towers. These observations,
gathered in patient detail by Xellessia and verified through careful watch,
had brought the pair to this quiet chamber to prepare their next course.
Nothing rash would be done. No accusations, no confrontation. They would
simply observe, with greater precision.
After their final discussion, Ulyssus withdrew to the library. There, in
silence, he began work on the enchanted item. A small coin-sized token was
forged from pure silver, its polished surface etched with a subtle sigil
that pulsed faintly with arcane light. The magic woven into it was precise,
quiet, constant, and uniquely bound to his wizard's mark. With it, he would
be able to follow the token's movement anywhere within the bounds of the
Conclave and beyond, if necessary.
Once completed, the token was sealed in silence, veiled from casual
detection. The enchantment was layered with care to ensure it would not
reveal itself to the untrained eye or mind. It was a tool of observation,
not a threat, and its purpose was singular: to track Orutix without his
knowledge.
The plan was simple. While Xellessia kept quiet watch from the edges of the
Conclave Common Room, Ulyssus entered with the token in hand. The chamber
was as familiar as ever, ringed with entrances to the three Towers, dotted
with colored cushions and soft couches, and filled with the gentle hum of
magical artifacts. The white fountain trickled nearby, and old trophies
from the Clan Wars stood proudly along the wall.
Orutix had fallen asleep near a triune of cushions. Ulyssus moved without
drawing attention, crossing the room in silence. The token slipped easily
into place, tucked within a fold of the gnome's belongings where it would
not be noticed. A flicker of arcane resonance pulsed as it bonded to its
bearer, unseen by All but the one who cast it.
Without a word, Ulyssus turned and departed. Xellessia followed a short
time after, their presence unremarked upon by the others gathered in the
chamber.
Later, back within the Ivory Tower's Meeting Room, the first results of
their work began to take shape. A small magical map lay unrolled across the
ashwood table, marked by a single point of light that now moved faintly
across its surface. The token had taken hold.
Orutix's path would now be known.
What he did next would determine whether his presence within the Conclave
was to be tolerated.
Writer: Fredrik
Date Thu Jul 10 18:14:02 2025
To All Marauders Dublu Zecnys Xaxtur Ezrianne Sedinae ( Imm Rp )
Subject A Grim Message
Fredrik woke from another night of restful sleep, some of the best sleep of his
life that he had been having at long last. But as he stretched lazily, something
felt off. The bed was....wet. He opened heavy eyelids and brought his hands to
his face, seeing that they were slimy and red with blood.
The initial jolt of fear quickly subsided as he understood that he having yet
another blood dream. It seemed quiet though, no usual screams, and not taking
place within The Dominion. He touched his face, feeling the sticky blood and
smelling fetid copper with an intensity that.....should not be. No. He sat up
to look down at his blood covered chest, and knew with All the certainty of
his senses that this was no dream.
True panic set in, and he instinctively kicked furiously to remove the sticky
sheets and discover his wound, reaching to check his neck at the same time.
One foot squished into something warm and wet, and he began to scream.
The guards outside shrugged, and one handed the other a few copper with a
laugh, 'Blast, he has not had The Fear in awhile...was starting to think he
might actually be getting straightened out again.' but then Fredrik began
calling for the guards, and they rushed into the room with the realization
that was no normal episode of the HighLord's fits.
Then the guards screamed in shock at the sight of their HighLord, buck naked
and covered in blood. He had half fallen out of bed, and was trying to crawl
back from the severed horse head that one foot was stuck in, shin deep.
Somewhere, someone laughed with a rumble, knowing from the morning screams in
Ironclad that a message had been delivered.
Writer: Cieran
Date Fri Jul 11 09:17:58 2025
To Althainia ( Immortal Cayenna All )
Subject Reclaiming the Concourse - The Work Begins
The air near the eastern Concourse was still, save for the low rasp of
wind slipping between broken stone. Where the city wall had once stood
proud, now a slow decay held sway - years of rain-softened mortar and the
quiet weight of disuse. Beyond the breach, the Blood River stretched wide
and sluggish, its surface dark and viscous.
There was no mistaking it. The smell of copper hung low in the air, heavy
and clinging - not sharp like fresh blood, but old, thick, as though it had
soaked into the stone itself. The scent settled at the back of the throat
and never quite left.
The blood moved lazily in its channel, too slow to ripple, too thick to
gurgle. From time to time, something shifted beneath its surface - not in
hunger, but in presence. It was a river that watched, even as it flowed.
Cieran stood near the breach alone at first, gloved hands behind his back.
He had sent no formal summons. There were no trumpets, no escort. Only a
few quiet words passed to those who might listen - and the hour of his
arrival, just before dawn.
Now, a small group stood behind him - stewards, old guardsmen, two
carpenters from the market row, and a boy too young to swing a hammer, but
old enough to carry one.
Cieran turned to them, "We'll begin here" he said, voice even. "Clear the
stone along the breach. We'll trace the old walls edge and see whats sound.
Work in pairs. Watch your footing near the channel. "
No fanfare. No declarations. Just motion - steady and practiced. Picks
began to strike old soil. Chalk marked the frost-bitten earth. And slowly,
the stillness gave way to purpose.
Cieran remained where he was for a time longer, gaze fixed not on the blood
below, but on the people who had come. Then he stepped forward, reaching
for a shovel.
The work had waited long enough.
Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:04:00 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx I
The day Blinx turned twenty was marked not by celebration, but by the
first cough. At the cusp of adulthood, when most pixies blaze into their
prime and their wings shimmer with the full maturity of magic, Blinx began
to fade.
It started with a cough. A dry, hollow thing that scraped at the back of
his throat and left his chest tight after spellcasting or flying too fast.
He was only twenty, a newly full-grown pixie, and should have been reveling
in mischief and magical discovery. His ruby eyes, once radiant with
curiosity, still held a spark of laughter then. He assumed it was nothinga
passing chill, perhaps too many nights sneaking into dew-drenched glades.
But the cough didn't pass. It lingered. It grew.
Over the next week, the fatigue set in. He would wake beneath his
blossom-curled leaf bed feeling as if he hadnt slept at all. Flying became
harder. His wings, once agile and quick, began to tremble mid-flight. He
landed more often, breath coming in sharp hitches, his limbs aching from the
effort of simple motion. When he looked in pools, he noticed his golden
glow had faded to a dim, pallid sheen. Still, he said nothing. Pixies are
proud creatures, and Blinx-clever, sharp-tongued Blinx-most of all. He
wrapped his growing discomfort in silence and half-smiles, trying to outfly
the dread curling in his gut.
By the third week, he was coughing up flecks of golden dust, dulled and
tinged with grey. His skin grew pale, nearly translucent. The wiry
strength of his limbs wasted away, revealing taut sinew and delicate bones
beneath. His curly red hair, once a wild halo, began to thin. Something
was wrong. Something inside him was breaking down, slowly, cruelly, and no
amount of rest or potion or spell could stop it.
He moved to the edge of the forest, under the arching roots of an ancient
tree, isolating himself with the excuse of needing quiet for study. In
truth, he didnt want them to see. Not the other pixies, not the woodland
creatures. He didn't want their pity, or their fear. Because it had
started already: the sideways glances, the awkward silences, the shifting
away from his path. Even flowers seemed to close their petals when he
passed. His presence upset something in the land. The light didn't fall
quite the same around him anymore.
Nights were the worst. The fever came in waves, drenching his fragile frame
in sweat, burning behind his eyes. And with the fever came the dreams.
He dreamed of a thousand mirrors, each reflecting a version of himselfsome
as children, laughing and golden, others hollow-eyed and grey, shivering.
They reached toward him, mouths open in agony, but no sound came. The wind
whispered his name in his own voice, cracked and full of dread. He dreamed
of being unraveled like thread, his magic pulled from him strand by strand
while he screamed voicelessly in the dark. The dreams left him weeping. He
stopped sleeping altogether, terrified of what might greet him in the dark.
In the stillness of night, he began to praynot to the gods of trickery or
wind that many pixies favored, but to Sebatis, the god of neutral magic. He
whispered into the void, trembling under leaf and root. "Sebatis," he
rasped, lips chapped and bleeding. "Please. I am a rose that has not even
had a chance to bloom. I was meant for more than this. What is happening
to me?" He scratched symbols into bark with shaking fingers, left offerings
of burnt feathers, broken beads, fragments of his failing wings. There was
no reply.
Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:19:35 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx II
His spells turned volatile. Once precise and elegant, they now flickered
wildly. A simple incantation to conjure light flared into blinding fire. A
cantrip to summon mist turned the pond to slush. His magic had become a
mirror of his illness: unpredictable, feverish, unstable. He feared his own
power now, just as he feared his failing body.
His panic deepened. He began to hallucinate. He saw insects crawling
beneath his skin, felt them scuttling across his bones. He tore at his arms
until the skin broke. His reflection in still water began to move
differently than he did. He stopped speaking, afraid the illness would
crawl into his words and infect his thoughts. He lay awake for hours, too
weak to move, staring at the hollow of the tree above him and whispering
again and again, "Please. Help me."
By the third month, he couldn't fly. His wings cracked and crumbled at the
edges. His joints ached so severely he couldnt bend without moaning. His
world shrank to the hollow tree and the sliver of sky above it. He counted
the stars like they might answer him. His voice, when he used it at all,
was hoarse and reedy. He began to forget words. Entire sentences became
confusing puzzles. He feared he was going mad. He wrote his prayers now,
scrawling in ash and dust: "Please. Sebatis. I don't want to die." He
begged not for healing, but for understanding. To know what this was, what
had stolen his youth and joy and breath. He felt betrayed by his body. By
his magic. By the gods. Fevered and skeletal, he dragged himself into a
ring of stones hed placed at the heart of a clearinghis last ritual. He
laid in the center, breath rattling, magic sparking at his fingertips in
erratic pulses, and whispered, "If I am to fade, let it be with meaning.
Let me know why."
The wind rose. For a moment, it felt familiar. Not kind. Not cruel. Just
present. Something old and deep brushed against the edge of his mind.
Then, stillness.
He cannot fly. His magic is erratic, spasming from his fingertips in bursts
he no longer trusts. His limbs tremble with the weight of standing. But he
breathes. He wakes. He survives.
He thinks this is a kind of cruelty. On the twenty-third night of the fifth
month, the wind shifts. Not gently but violently. The forest groans as if
exhaling something long buried. Blinx lies still, skeletal and silent in
the hollow of the tree, too weak to lift his head. Fever sweat clings to
him. His breath rattles like a dying wind. He blinks once, and the shadows
along the roots deepen.
At first, he thinks it's another dream. He's had so many. But then he sees
it: movement, slow and deliberate, pooling and folding like ink spilled into
water. A darkness without form, yet almost a form, something vaguely shaped
like a hunched figure with no face. The shadows crawl along the bark like
fingers.
Panic does not come this time. Instead, something colder does: surrender.
He closes his eyes and whispers hoarsely, "Please... If you've come to kill
me... Do it."
The shadow tilts, as if amused. It does not speak, but he feels its answer,
not in words but in instinct, in breath, in a cold certainty that this
presence has always been near, waiting.
It does not strike him down. It turns.
Blinx watches, dazed, as it begins to move into the forest, melting through
trees and stone with unhurried confidence. He doesn't know why he follows.
He shouldn't be able to. But something pulls him up, one trembling limb at
a time. He crawls, stumbles, drags himself after it. Branches tear at his
arms. Dirt cakes his pale skin. His wings are useless shreds. Still, he
follows the shadow deeper into the dark.
They reach a shrine.
It is not a place he has seen before, though he knows every grove and glen
near his hollow. This place should not exist. A stone arch stands sunken
in ivy, surrounding a basin of water black as pitch. The forest here is
silent, so silent it aches. No birds. No breeze. Even the moonlight does
not touch this place. The shrine drinks the light.
Writer: Blinx
Date Fri Jul 11 14:23:31 2025
To All Abaddon Conclave Sedinae Vershae Chantrielle
Subject The Withering of Blinx III
The shadow waits beside the pool.
And then, it speaks.
Its voice is not sound. It is a vibration in his bones, a pressure behind
his eyes. Words not spoken but imposed.
"You are dying, little ember."
Blinx, on his knees, coughs until blood drips down his chin. "I know."
"Sebatis will not save you."
There is no malice in the voice. No joy. It is simply truth. Blinxs lips
tremble.
"I prayed," he rasps.
He does not answer. He will not. He values balance. You are imbalance.
You are failing.
The tears come silently. He does not sob. He has no strength left for it.
"You are not meant for the void. But you are close. I offer you a door."
A limb stretches forth from the shadowvaguely humanoid, but wrong in its
proportions, slick and smoke-veiled. With a sudden, deliberate motion, it
slashes open its own wrist, and from the wound spills a stream of blood,
unnaturally bright and crimson, glowing faintly like embers in darkness.
The liquid hisses as it hits the basin.
"Drink. And live. Drink, and be unmade. Not destroyed--but remade."
Blinx stares at the water. Something moves within it, stars, or teeth, or
both.
"But you must cast aside the god who abandoned you. Rebuke Sebatis. Rebuke
the Red Moon. Swear to the Dark Moon, Swear to the night."
The forest breathes. The shadow waits.
Blinx lowers his head. For a long moment, there is silence.
Then, slowly, he speaks.
"I don't want to die."
The shadow leans close, and its voice is almost tender.
"Then kneel."
And he does.
There, in the grove no map records, beneath the gaze of no god who will
claim him, Blinx rejects the balance of Sebatis, rejects the apathy of the
Red Moon, and swears fealty to something older, darker, and far less
merciful.
He drinks.
And the forest watches as the wind shifts again.
Writer: Archal
Date Sat Jul 12 06:06:45 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Awareness
Archal's focus was on a razor's edge. His thauma strained, he was inside
the mind of Apostus, a pinpoint counterincursion into the mind that
enveloped his own and controlled his body.
Three things were immediately apparent to Archal. First, this was, on a
fundamental level, the mind of an angry child. Archal was swimming in an
ocean of entitlement, anger, and self-pity, the youthful cocktail of feeling
that accompanies the spoiled brat who is denied a sweet roll. A thread of
emotion, occasionally plucked, insisted Necrucifer deserved to die for
passing him over and elevating Telthian, so long ago.
There was a shred of self-awareness - he knew his desecrations were wrong -
but this thought induced such a chasm of vulnerability within him that it
was immediately filled with the entitlement, anger, and self-pity which seem
to buoy his self-image, even as it reinforced the cage of his own
demi-plane, trapped here as he was.
The second thing Archal noticed is that his senses had deceived him -
Apostus had deceived him - from the moment he arrived. He was indeed still
sat within a pew inside an enormous cinnabar stone basilica, the mercury and
sulphur mineral polished to a blood-drop sheen, but the whispers of absent
voices were not whispers, nor absent.
Apostate Cultists chanted beyond them, deeper within the Basilica, the
elongated choir of the building filled with their discordant voices. No
unity bound them in rhythm or tempo. Instead, each seemed to compete with
the other, a desperate cacophony of individuals trying to rise above the
next, burying them All in noise.
With this sensory reintegration, through Apostus, Archal could now feel the
parasitic presence of the demon, whose own self image had not managed to
overcome reality - Archal's impression of a melted blob of face flesh was
accurate enough. Still covering his own head and face, Apostus glommed onto
Archal like fleshy moss.
Longer tendrils invaded every orifice - his mouth, his ears, nose, and
throat. Through his tear ducts and behind his eyes. More than this,
however, smaller, rhizoid protrusions of Apostus meat insinuated themselves
into every open pore, anchoring him in place, and drinking every drop of
sweat and effluent that routinely cycle out of the human body through the
skin. This was more than normal human perception, the manatonic awareness
gulping down the information it had been denied while bottled up by Apostus'
desecration of Archal's autonomy. The demon had invaded him physically,
impressed his face upon Archal's own, a moist, macabre, monster mask of
madness meat.
Archal fought down the horror and revulsion that threatened to break
through, threatened to warn Apostus of his presence and his growing
awareness. He needn't have been concerned, however, because Apostus was
focused elsewhere. Worried. Confused. Outraged and fearful. The third
thing Archal had noticed resurfaced. Something was wrong in the realm of
the Apostate.
Archal pitted his manatonic mind against its own exhaustion, stretching his
thauma even further, pulsing a telekinetic nudge to a nearby candelabra. It
wobbled. Apostus didn't react. Archal began to take stock of every
tendril, every moss-like grasping root of Apostus flesh invading his own.
Preparing to rip Apostus off his head when the moment presented itself.
Apostus stood Archal's body from the pew, shuffled awkwardly to the aisle
(is there any other way to exit a pew?) , And turned to face the narthex,
beyond which the enormous doors of obsidian were swinging open, their creak
and screech the groan of a demon chorus.
At the far end of the realm of Apostus, nobody noticed the slow but steady
expansion of a hole, a coin-sized rift into the celestial void now much
bigger than the beady little eye of a minor imp.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat Jul 12 09:50:08 2025
To All Abaddon IMM RP
Subject Preperations
Zecnys strode through the bustling streets of Abaddon, his lithe form
moving with a grace that was almost predatory. The kingdom was aflutter
with preparations for the masquerade ball, and he took it upon himself to
ensure that every detail was perfect. His porcelain pale skin seemed to
glow even more brightly under the flickering torches that lined the
cobblestone paths, casting an otherworldly aura around him.
As he walked, the thorned crown atop his head caught the light, its dark,
twisted branches glinting menacingly. His long, lustrous brown hair,
shimmering with black and purple glitter, cascaded down his back, catching
the eyes of those who dared to look his way. The deep, mesmerizing blue of
his eyes was framed by thick, sooty lashes, and the black demon mask that
covered the upper half of his face added an air of mystery and danger to his
already imposing presence.
As he continued his inspection, Zecnys passed by a skeleton guard standing
at attention, its very loose dress uniform hanging awkwardly on its bony
frame. With a swift, almost dismissive gesture, Zecnys straightened the
guard's uniform, ensuring that it fit more neatly and presented a more
polished image. The guard, unable to speak, merely nodded its skull in
acknowledgment, its empty eye sockets seeming to glint with a mixture of
respect and fear.
Zecnys' final touch was to adjust the guard's helmet, ensuring it sat
perfectly on its skull. Satisfied with the guard's appearance, he continued
on his way, his black dress shoes clicking softly against the cobblestones.
The ensemble of trimmed and pressed black trousers, paired with the glossy,
reflective shoes, added a final touch of sophistication to his already
striking appearance. As he walked, the people of Abaddon watched in awe,
whispering among themselves about the enigmatic figure who ensured that
their kingdom shone with perfection for the masquerade ball.
Writer: Flennalgh
Date Sun Jul 13 16:10:35 2025
To Wargar ( All Cliath Imm RP )
Subject The making of a Fyne Stout
A pale dwarf, still in his fighting studs, was fussing about his own
little corner of the mountain. His shaggy hair was normally down around his
shoulders, but for this task, he had it tied up in a topknot. His long
beard was similarly bound in a trio of hair ties by his chin, half way down,
and a final one at the end.
He was muttering to himself. "Six pounds o' pale malt," as he was checking
a number of grain bags on a beam balance scale, the granite weights used to
measure against were his own creations, and if he did say so himself, they
were bloody perfect.
"A single pound o' roasted barley.. Aye, that's et." He brightened in
happy surprise as he thought of the next ingredient in his mental list. "Oh
yes, an' who could ferget, a pound o' Thaxanos flaked oats fer the mash."
He set aside the larger portions of grain and with a finer scale, began
another couple measures. "Aye, hops, bloodae hops, but et helps, don't
et.." He groused, measuring out a single ounce of North Thaxanos Bitteroma
Hops, half early on for a touch of bitterness, half reserved near the end
for aroma. Very little aroma.
Glancing about, he dug through his crates and pulled out a ceramic jar of
pumpernickel sourdough starter. His yeast. Oh aye.
He tinkered with the fire on a number of vats to ensure a good steeping
temperature to make the mash. Cliath's bloodae finest stout, passed from
generation to generation. Flennalgh Fyne hadn't ever made it, but under the
supervision of his mother and father. But since he up and took up the cause
defending the mountain in Wargar, that wouldn't be an option for a while,
and he'd just as bloody well get started at it. He added the grains and sat
on a stool he made himself from Vallenwood, pilfered right out of the
Vallenwood. Feet up on a crate, he kicked back to watch the pots and make
sure none of 'em boiled.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Mon Jul 14 09:03:42 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Ithelim Melchaleve Carrionmaw )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Tendrils of Fate
Cinnabar stone, reddish brown, laid out before the trio as they stepped
through. A basilica built of the substance stood to the right, black basalt
doors opening before them. A barren plain of rock stretched north and south
while to the east the stoney landscape rose into a craggy hill with a trail
slicing through it's top. The sky billowed with smoke and ash but behind
the sulfurous clouds was an expanse of the same color that made sky and
ground blend together on an unending horizon.
It took the trio a moment to adjust to their surroundings but the doors were
their clearest point of interest and so they walked carefully towards their
invitation. The ceiling rose up into a low vaulted narthex, ornate frescos
dotted the walls, and demonic statues watched from on high. As Ostrim
looked at the frescos, the images depicted the Prophecy of Necrucifer. The
creation myth, the work of Malcom, All of it stretched before him on either
side. The frescos moved or did they change? In each painting the classical
visage of Necrucifer would warp into the twisted abomination of Apostus. In
this telling it was the Demon who would create the prophecy and not is old
master.
However, it was the pews that finally drew Ostrim's attention. There,
seated on the cinnabar stone, were multitudes of cloaked individuals.
Shadowy tendrils reached onto each and into them. Their orifices invaded
yet instead of screams, what came out was a cacophony of whispers. Some
were in thrall, some in pain, some as though their voices were pulled from
their lungs. They All travelled back, a multitude of twisted strings, to a
figure in dark robes. As it shuffled about the pews, the strings of smoke
moved with him and through the others, like a twisted spider with many legs
checking on its webbed food.
Ostrim wondered how he would find Archal in this mass of beings when he
remembered the soul compass. Taking it out, the black dormant bead within
the bronze device now pulsed with a purple light. The dial twisted to the
left and right before pointing in a northwesterly direction. Ostrim
unsheathed his longsword. It was time and with that realization Ostrim got
cold in his soul. It was as though things had come into focus, like some
purpose gave him clarity. With the umbral tether of Ithelim pulsed upon his
back, the arcanium chain of Ezrianne grounded him. He moved forward towards
the direction the compass pointed. His stride long and the chain grinding
upon the stone has he did.
Yet in the din of the whispers, in the hiss of the chain, a new voice arose.
From the Kayen forged blade a new melody was added to Apostus' discordant
choir...
'{uIf my blades whisper in the dark, it is only Drakkara's power seeping into
the world. '
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Jul 14 12:53:08 2025
To All Immortal RP Shadow Verminasia Zecnys Chantrielle Piknim Drakkara Sedinae Fredrik
Subject Attending The Abaddon Gala
The music was good. The banquet table gleamed with artfully presented
libations. The company? Passable. And yet Ezrianne exhaled, annoyed with
herself for waiting on someone she knew damn well wouldn't be showing.
She stood at the edge of the Death Garden in Abaddon, posture perfect, chin
high, gown glinting with every shift of her hips. She knew how she looked:
divine and radiant with power, a creature wrought from storm clouds and
ancient magic. Still, every passing glance from the room's suitors washed
over her like lukewarm rain.
She mentally catalouged their flaws, as if she had a check list for a
partner: too short, too smug, too polite in that way that stank of pretense.
And worst of all? Not a one of them was HIM.
Maybe that was a mercy. What kind of man falls for a Blue, then recoils
from her lightning? What kind of man fails to see the full spectrum of
opportunity from being partnered with a Firstborn, one who was also a
Countess, an successful entrepreneur, and had worked herself into the trust
of high circles of influence?
Ezrianne rolled her shoulders and drew a slow breath. Somewhere in the vast
world was a man who'd see her for who she was, and count himself lucky to
have been pulled into her orbit. Someone would treasure what she had to
share, rather than ignore the influence of her station and grant her a
grudging pass to exist, while extolling to her face how the rest of her kind
turned his stomach.
And, perhaps, if she were very lucky, that respect and fealty would lead to
love again.
Quickly, as she realized her folly, she admonished herself: She wasn't about
to sulk. She was too proud, too old, and too Ezrianne for that. And he
could choke on his childish prejudices.
Ezri lifted a glass with swirling purple and glitter liquid from a passing
tray, and drained it in one graceful motion. When her eyes caught a
reasonably handsome man across the room - cleary interested - she didn't
smile; but she tilted her head in acknowledgement as their eyes met, enough
to pique interest. She was here to see and be seen, foster allyship, and
relax a moment.
Then she, once again, slapped down her disappointment that this man wasn't
HIM: he didn't need to be and it was much, much better if he wasn't.
Writer: Vierxae
Date Mon Jul 14 17:08:19 2025
To All Conclavee Piknim Thindyss - IMM Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara
Subject A Students Journal: {uThat Which Lay Beyond - Entry One
I fear I have made a mistake.
Not the kind you turn away from and abandon. No, this is the kind of
mistake where you open a box of endless possibilities only to find enticing
horror within. I have found myself such a box, or rather grains of sand,
that have opened a door of possibility that will either restore something to
me which has been lost.. Or very likely drive me unto madness with what
lies beyond.
Obsession. Such a horrid sounding word for something so terribly
amicable to the study of a singular subject. Yet that is the only word that
offers the correct description of my current state of mind. It's been over
a week.. Two..? I can scarcely remember now, sleep lies beyond my grasp
and I fear the extensive hours I've remained awake within the libraries of
the Ebony Tower have truly taken a toll upon me. I feel a bare husk of my
usual self, though even that was barely a state better than I find myself
within.
I have begun to hear whispers when All is too silent, barely audible even
upon the most still of nights. They are felt within the back of my mind,
scratching and gnawing at mine own mental barriers as they seek entry to a
mind not their own. It's possible they are simply my own thoughts, ones
pushed aside screaming for the relief of rest and nourishment. Though the
chance that they are something more, something dangerous, keeps me alert
enough to maintain my mental barriers even as my body fails me.
This detracts from the purpose of this journal with my own ramblings. My
initial experiment has been, thus far, a partial success. I have been
attempting to melt the umbral sands gathered from the site Queen Piknim
brought me to. And I have managed a, to be blunt, miniscule sphere of
glass.
Attempts were made to model the appropriate color and opacity from the
sphere at the center of formation, having taken numerous trips back to the
side to take further notes as my mind brought forth new questions. This
has, at least, been successful on the small scale in which I attempted to
reproduce said sphere.
Magical flames that I produced, which are likely severely sub-par to what
a full magus is capable of, were not able to melt the sands. I've melted
more than a few vials and set no less than three tables aflame due to the
unforeseen consequences of using magical flame with the sand. At times, it
does seem magic is its own greatest enemy. Or perhaps bumbling students
are. Regardless.
I acquired the services of glassblowers in Verminasia for a modest fee to
instead work the glass for me as I observed and took notes. As one might
expect, the transformation of the sand to a usable medium was horrifically
long by compared to its mundane counterparts. In the end a whole pouch of
sand was reduced to a barely usable sum. This, at least, they were able to
transform into a sphere about the size of a large marble. Hardly fitting
for our purposes, but it does show that it can be worked with and shaped.
This must be presented to Wizard Thindyss so we might continue our joint
research. I will, eventually, need one large enough to hold not only an
eye, but a small amount of liquid in which it will be suspended within. I
do not know how we will manage the eye and.. What ever we decide to suspend
it with.. Inside the sphere. That is tomorrows problem.
Today? A small success.
Through I swear when I hold it up, I can almost see something within it..
Not with my eye, no.. But through the gaping socket where my other used to
be. Like a lingering shadow, formless and vast. Quite frankly, it
terrifies me.
But I can't stop looking at it...
Writer: Agapitos
Date Mon Jul 14 18:46:42 2025
To All Althainia Immortal ( Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject Little Light: The Walls Must Rise I
Sussurations. Murmuring. Argument. Cacophony.
The Throne Room was abuzz. The Throne dais had been swarmed for days with
representatives of the mason guilds, miner guilds, smith collectives,
mercenary companies, and All of their collected hangers-on to engage the
Emperor on what seemed to be a trade negotiation that had strangled most of
the functions of the Imperial Court. Audiences had been rescheduled, guard
shifts redrawn to afford extra men to the Throne Room to protect the Emperor
as he treated at All hours with his burgeoning coterie.
Izha watched from the left hand flank of the Throne, her role as Royal
Guardsman set aside for the present in favor of a more courtly place. She
recorded her father's words of state as he pronounced them, listening to him
attempt to navigate the endless debates of figures, timelines, and logistics
necessary to facilitate the reconstruction that he had envisioned. She was
almost as tireless as he, and it was only for a few hours a night that she
slipped away to rest, leaving the responsibility of record to a junior who
would do their best not to be overwhelmed in the proximity of the Lucent
Emperor and the nonstop chatter of the guildsmen who arrived at any indecent
hour to make offers, counteroffers, or offer reports on progress.
The months as Emperor had not changed much about her father, Izha had
reasoned. The stony mask that he had always worn in public (and, if she was
being honest with herself, largely in private) had solidified into a nearly
expressionless affair, austerity verging on boredom when tied down by the
endless minutae that the repairs to the capital city demanded. It was the
insistence upon managing it directly that had been less in character for her
sire, the insistence on stepping down from his plinth while somehow
remaining on a pedestal to treat with the mortals that served his Throne as
though an avatar of the Gods descended.
This micromanagement had started before the Althainian journey, she
reasoned. Time's passing had seemed strange, her memory disjointed at
times, as though years had passed within but mere seasons in one
recollection, while other days had felt like eons. For some reason, she
remembered the days before his journey to the Lucent Empire (a term that, in
truth, had originated with the man who was now Emperor) as though from a
toddler's perspective, though it could not have been more than a couple of
years, now. He had been named Colonel, then General, a long-held title that
even now he had not formally shed. He had served as the right hand of
Empresses as they passed through their reign, only now stepping forward to
rule with no crown of his own.
This, she thought, technically made her a Princess. She did not ever voice
this consideration to her father. Pahamut, her own fond name for the stern
man who had been her guardian and guiding star when she was not acting as
his, was not a man who believed strongly in the notion of the Royal. Not in
the same capacity of others. It was a title, one that weighed more heavily
than any crown, sword, or armor. He had shed his mantle of sky-beckoning
blue, a symbol of freedom, and adopted the royal purple. He had shackled
himself to a Throne that on days like these, he could not leave. His
tirelessness, his otherness that was born of being so fundamentally inhuman,
had made him a victim of his own need for surety.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Mon Jul 14 18:47:42 2025
To All Althainia Immortal ( Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject Little Light: The Walls Must Rise II
Something had happened before Althainia, perhaps. A breach of trust, a
loss of faith. Not in Nadrik. Never that. The Emperor's faith in his
Father had earned him the heavy title of His Eye, the left eye of Judgment
burning before his own semi-mortal gaze. Perhaps it was what he saw through
that lens of flame that had hardened his heart against mortals. Perhaps it
was the disdain of the timeless ones, those greater beings who had stalked
Algoron for millennia that colored his interactions. Perhaps it was a
specific incident, one which he did not confide even to his daughter.
Whatever it was, it was eroding the Throne into a prison-chair, an
entrapment for the Emperor who even now went armored.
His need to ensure that it was done as he expected was as taxing on others
as it was on himself. For every two days that he spent constantly upon the
throne, others were making sleepless journeys across the breadth of the
Empire delivering messages. Quarry workers were working extra shifts.
Smelters were taking on raw material by the wagonload. Smiths were coaxing
their fires well past the middle of the night. All of them laboring,
sweating, driving themselves to exhaustion for the Emperor's will.
In some fairness, Izha mused, they were also being exorbitantly well-paid.
The tax imposed upon the Empire when her Pahamut had been Regent had almost
sparked riots. The altercation in the Council Chambers had almost resulted
in mutiny by the Court nobles, two of which had been arrested when rumor of
collusion with the Slayers of Greystoke had been followed up on and found to
be verifiable. The highest taxes in Algoron, it was said, stripping coin
from the pockets of the houses noble and visitor alike. Ten percent, some
kingly sum that had angered half the world. It was paying its dividends
now, being put back into the public works that the Emperor had devised.
Like any player of the Royal Game, the Emperor employed spies. His
investigations were thorough when he did not bring the Eye to bear upon his
subjects. Mortal means could, if entrusted to the right soul, serve just as
well. Even now, agents of the Throne were following in the footsteps of
messengers, ensuring that nobody was tailing them. They were scouting the
River of Blood, hoping to provide early warning if the project were to be
discovered before it was too late to stop it. The parasites of the Swamp
would, it was reasonable to assume, take offense to their bloody gift to the
Light were to be tampered with. These reports, too, reached the Throne, and
Izha combed through them to provide condensed information to her father. He
trusted her implicitly, and though she was no Princess, nor public right
hand of the Empire, she was undoubtedly his left, the hidden facilitator of
the necessary functions of statecraft.
It was well into the fourth day when the Emperor finally banished his
courtiers from his presence, the exhaustion of constant interaction drawing
lines of weariness across preternaturally youthful features. The body of a
warrior in his early thirties did not teeter to weariness, but the faint
glint of gold at his temples, at the corners of his mouth, spoke to the
instability churning beneath the surface. He leaned back upon the Throne, a
faint grimace settling on his stoic features when it was, at last, merely
himself, his guards, and his ward. Nobody spoke for a long while, waiting
for the Emperor to break the weary silence.
Writer: Agapitos
Date Mon Jul 14 18:48:44 2025
To All Althainia Immortal ( Cayenna Xenophon )
Subject Little Light: The Walls Must Rise III
'For All of this, we could fight the War against the Shadow with
guildsmen alone. They are relentless. ' The joke passed into the dead air.
Nobody laughed. The Emperor despised insincerity, and his impossibly rare
jokes were, to a one, awful, 'I must rest, however. Keep the Throne Room
sealed until my return. '
The Captain of the Guard merely bowed his head as Izha stepped forward,
laying a hand upon her father's shoulder, 'Will you be returning home,
Pahamut? ' The question was gentle, but her gaze was sharp, eyeing the
signs of distress in her father's physical frame. His time was short.
The Emperor nodded, rising to his feet slowly and taking his daughter's hand
in his gauntletted one, 'I shall, Little Light. Will you join me? ' The
response was equally gentle, uncharacteristic of his stoic rulership and
almost as stony parenting. The weariness, it seemed, did let the guards
around the golden heart drop just a fraction.
Izha smiled, but shook her head, 'No, Father. Someone has to make sure that
the Empire doesn't burn itself down for a week. Go sleep. I will make sure
that the guilds are paid and the reports are filed. All is well. '
Agapitos nodded and made his way down the steps of the dais, his booted
footfalls heavy as he descended, leaving Izha beside the Throne, 'All shall
be made well. Look ever to the Dawn, Little Light. '
The benediction was one of the few fond things he ever spoke regularly. A
heartfelt wish given words. Izha had, at times, wondered if he had ever
said them to her mother or, in truth, if her mother had ever known this side
of him. Never had he spoken of her, never of his time with anyone before
her birth. She knew nothing of her provenance, only that her Pahamut had
been there, even by proxy. Even when waging his battle against half the
world for the souls of the other half, he had tried to spare the moments he
could to train her, to sit with her, to speak with her. He had devoted much
to her betterment in those blurry years of her youth. Now, feeling some
twenty years later, she understood that those lessons, those stories, the
taxing physical training had been the closest form of fondness he had been
capable of expressing. Though she had wondered if being dragon-blooded
herself would render her so distant from mortals as her father was, she
found that she related to others at least passingly. He had, in his
fashion, taught her how to survive, the skills of endurance, patience,
discipline, and ability. He had raised her, she had realized, like she was
a hatchling given mortal form. Whatever his reasons for his silence, he had
at least always treated her with All of the kindness he knew how to give.
Izha shook her head out of her woolgathering as the Emperor made his way
down the carpetted avenue to the double doors of the chamber, passing
through them as the guards opened the way for their ruler. For the stern
kindness he had shown her, he was still a driven man of unyielding
principles. He would expect as much diligence in addressing the needs of
the project, even in correspondence with the Throne Room sealed, as he would
expect from himself. She settled upon the Throne and took up her own notes
for review. The afternoon was still young. She could get started.
She looked up as a great shape passed by the high windows of the Throne
Room, light reflecting from it casting a dazzling golden corona over the
Throne as it wheeled away. Izha Vortigern, daughter of the Agapitos di
Lucis, smiled and lowered her quill. He would never be far. Until his
return, however, she had so much to prepare.
Beside the stack of letters for address, there was a vellum drawing of the
southern walls of the city, and designs for a walkway besides. The City of
Light's time to heal had come, and by the Emperor's will, it would be done.
Writer: Tief
Date Mon Jul 14 20:37:01 2025
To All imm religion
Subject Into the Moonfall
The gnome pulled his fingers away just in time. The tortoise chomped the
last few bites of character, narrowly missing the few precious fingers of
the gnome's hand. It was a close thing.
Laden across the tortoise's shell were enough resources for a week's
expedition. The gnome went through his tally one final time. Bedroll.
Carrots. Cabbages. Spare slippers. Wooden clogs. An eyeglass. Charts.
Charcoal sticks. Umber sticks. The list continued. He was not sure what
they would find in the southlands. This would be, by his reckoning, new
territory.
Tomorrow, the gnome would start making his way into the dust and wreckage of
the moonfall. The flattened grasslands and forest, crushed from a force
like a giant foot treading on weak grass, were an ill omen. But the gnome
held hope that native life might have found a way to continue out there.
And if not... If things were hostile... He would deal with things then.
Tomorrow at first light.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue Jul 15 14:02:30 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim (Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Incursion (I/II)
Archal felt Apostus' awareness shift to him, and he emptied his mind lest
Apostus notice the shape of his incursion. He could feel Apostus gloating.
With his sensory reintegration, albeit through Apostus for the time being,
he could also feel something else. A gentle worrying of the flesh, like
maggots eating the rot from a wound, but.. Not flesh. Internal to his body
but not corporeal at all.
Apostus' attention switched again, accompanied by a cascade of emotions, and
Archal cast his own awareness wide, an otherwise reckless action rendered
prudent, if not entirely safe, by the apoplectic chaos and confusion of his
parasitic host. Archal knew a number of things at once.
Celestial bodies had ravaged the steps and approach to the hidden temple of
evil. The temple itself was awash in blood, blood which mingled traitors
and apostates with simple pilgrims, innocent of anything but completing the
pilgrimage, or novitiates who simply tended the memory of Necrucifer. But
each had fed their divine offerings to Apostus, some unawares, many as
members of the cult. The cult of the so-called true prophecy. Apostates of
Apostus.
Dnoutrar had fallen. Pitifully, only absent any kind of sentiment like
pity. Apostus was weakened his tether to Algoron a thread which was moments
ago a thick rope of desecrated fidelity, and until moments ago, he had
expected more followers of Necrucifer to arrive, lured by the presence of
the Shadowknight. The Kayen. Even those who had embraced the ascendence of
that woman Drakkara (a special bitterness inflected Apostus' thoughts on
Her), even they had ragged edges and loose tethers of the soul that still
sought, still craved their old connection to the unholy divine of
Necrucifer
It was that which had given Apostus complete control over Archal (he doesn't
know!) , Those ragged edges which helped sustain him as devotion to
Necrucifer waned and the divine energies from prayer grew thin, like stock
from twice boiled vegetable scraps and bones long bleached and leeched of
any value. Apostus couldn't eat Drakkara-bound soul, and not even Dnoutrar,
demon of hunger, had been able to help him overcome this failing, and by
now, Archal's soul had been picked clean. No amount of chewing and gnawing
(that maggot-cure sensation) could clean another morsel from it. Apostus
needed more to feed from.
And the three who stood before him now, these three would have to do.
Apostus reached out with his mind to grasp their souls - and found himself
repulsed. The hum of the black moon amulets around their necks stepped
down, thrumming with power as it protected the ones who bore them. At the
same time, runic wards tattooed on the lead figure flared, producing a
lambent, umbral glow in the air between them. He tried again, another,
focusing his efforts on one in the back, one whose soul yet emitted the
cloying aura of his affinity, Necrucifer. His amulet throbbed even lower,
began to warm, but Apostus was stymied again. Growing frustration and anger
welled up within him on a rising tide of self pity.
Writer: Archal
Date Tue Jul 15 14:06:55 2025
To Shadow All Ostrim (Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Carrionmaw )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: Incursion (II/II)
An indecipherable stream of whispers joined the sibilant choir of
cultists with the weight of the black moon. It reverberated through the
demi-plane of Apostus, the gravitational shockwave of two black holes
merging. Archal, his manatonic mind still wide open to the universe,
absorbed this notion without understanding it. The whisper of the sword
reverberated still.
A hush fell over the Basilica, leaving only that whispering sword. The
cultists All turned to face Ostrim, as Apostus did, each face a mimetic mask
of their master - open mouthed astonishment, perplexity, and horror. Archal
seized his moment, thrust himself into Apostus' consciousness, coercing
Apostus to croak in Archal's own hoarse voice, "If the blade whispers in the
dark, it is only Drakkara's power seeping into the world. ' A confused
Apostus panicked, just for a moment.
It was enough. Archal seized control of his mind, expelling Apostus in a
burst of thauma that left him entirely drained, but himself again. Except
for Apostus still physically masking him, choking him now that the
autonomic processes of each were separate again. The cultists began a
shambolic advance towards the incursion at the narthex, and Archal felt the
eruption of heat as Apostus invoked a cavalcade of fire and brimstone at the
Supplicans there. The runic wards pulsed again and Bearhide bore up his
Shield of Black Magic - the fire parted around them, a scornful rebuke of
the abyss by the umbral power of an ascendant Drakkara's faithful.
His body starved of oxygen with Apostus still covering his face, still
plugging every hole and pore of Archal's head, and Archal's thauma too
depleted to quench the need for air, he felt his consciousness begin to
slip. His hand reached up to the moist flesh of Apostus and with a final
effort, he began to peel the demon from his face. He felt the flesh begin
to slide up his throat, out of his ears and nose, even the tear ducts. He
felt every little rhizoid intrusion resist their tug from his pores, immense
relief as each one let go. He flung Apostus back, towards the advancing
herd of cultists, even as the demon cast more brimstone towards the
supplicants, whose protections began to heat up, even as they held up.
Archal barely felt the tickle in his sinuses, where a little worm of Apostus
flesh dug in, weathering the convulsions and expulsions of a body then
blacking out.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Tue Jul 15 19:13:19 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery VII
Morning sunlight filtered down in silver shafts into the monastery
chapel. Though outside the skies above the Icewall mountains churned with
cold clouds, the space within was warm and luminous, aglow with magical
globes flickering soft golden hues upon the jeweled mosaics that adorned the
crystal walls.
Ulyssus sat in quiet stillness upon one of the polished white marble
benches, cloak drawn neatly about him. A few others were gathered as well,
novices, monks, and one hooded elf, All turned to listen as a monk stepped
forward near the altar. In one hand, the monk held a glowing globe of
incense, thin white trails of smoke curling up toward the ceiling.
"Walk with wisdom, " the monk began, his voice calm and measured, "is the
first of our Lord's tenets and the first for good reason. The path of light
is not a race, nor is it straight. Each step matters. Each choice bends
the path ahead. "
Ulyssus kept his hands folded and eyes lowered as the monk spoke. He could
feel the gravity of the lesson not just in the words, but in the way they
stirred the very stillness of the chapel around him, the incense hanging
like fog, the crackle of magic in the crystal floor beneath their feet.
"To walk, " the monk continued, "is an act of will. Of intention. And we
must choose to walk with sight, with understanding. For is is magic
without wisdom? What is Light without direction? "
An elven monk sat quietly to one side of the altar, offering no
interruption. He simply watched the congregation as the monk spoke on,
weaving tales of Kantilles performing wonders in the streets of Algoron,
offering joy to children and guidance to mages in troubled cities, never
casting without thought, never stepping forward without weighing the cause.
Ulyssus breathed deeply. He thought of Nordmaar, of the Crusade, of the
recent trials of the Ivory Tower. How many steps had he taken in urgency,
even righteousness, yet without full clarity? The monk's words pierced
cleanly: Be sure that every step you take does not lead you down the wrong
path.
He looked up again toward the altar, where the incense now curled around the
crystalline dais, catching the golden glow of the lights above.
"Wisdom is not knowing All things, " the monk said gently. "It is knowing
to pause before each step. To seek Light before movement. That is what
sets our walk apart from the blind wanderings of those lost to darkness. "
The lesson closed not with a bell, but with silence. The monk stepped down
and bowed, and the congregation did likewise.
Ulyssus lingered after the others had risen and begun to depart. He stood
slowly, resting a hand against the bench, then made his way quietly toward
the southern exit. The white marble shimmered under his boots. With each
step, he tested the weight of the lesson, not merely its words, but its
truth.
Out beyond the chapel, the soft chimes of the monastery bells rang in the
next hour. But Ulyssus moved more slowly than before, not because of
weariness, but in reverence, walking not just forward, but with wisdom.
Writer: Agarwood
Date Wed Jul 16 11:33:55 2025
To All Sebatis ( religion imm roleplay )
Subject Torn in Different Directions
Shirking the darkness of a library or study hall, Agarwood preferred to do his
thinking under the light of the sun or moons. He sat on a boulder in the middle
of the Indigo Plunge and let the sound of water wash away his worries of the
world, but the sounds coming from this famed natural reflecting pool would not
bring him any peace today. His roots dangled over the edge of the boulder and
stroked the surface of the water, acting as a tether between his thoughts and
Algoron. He fed on the sun and stream of Algoron while lost in his worries.
Few calamities are as dire as the defacing of a moon, but to shear a piece of
the moon away and thrust it to Algoron was beyond anyone's expectations. The
Priest shifted his roots a little, feeling the coolness and pressure change
as he did so. The lunite is a corrupting presence, I have heard, but does it
corrupt because it is warped by Chaos or does it corrupt because it is magick
unbridled.
Agarwood looked upwards at the periwinkle blue of the sky and furrowed his
mossy brow. The trailings of the Red Moon, its wound agape and weeping, was
in full view of the Sebatite priest. As if ashamed, he grumbled and looked to
the plunge again. No one thinks of embers as dangerous until they are left
alone. The realm enjoys the rain of magick from the moons as most would enjoy
a fire, but should we get too close, there would be consequences. Perhaps that
is how we ought to think of the lunite. It is an unwelcome presence, yet with
all else that occurs on Algoron, its people will need to learn to adapt. Gen-
erations forward, there may be a time when no one will be able to recall the
Red Moon as whole.
What a disappointing time to walk this world. For as wonderful and boundless
as magick is, it can be easy to forget the damage it can cause in the wrong
hands. Throughout All of this destruction and worry, Agarwood wondered: where
in All of this was Sebatis? Where had he gone?
Writer: Mau'thulakh
Date Thu Jul 17 03:18:24 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Jul 17 17:32:33 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jul 17 20:33:01 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Jul 18 22:45:29 2025
Writer: Symantha
Date Sat Jul 19 02:28:49 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Jul 19 15:40:17 2025
Writer: Waaagh
Date Sun Jul 20 00:30:05 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Sun Jul 20 15:17:14 2025
To All Crelius Chaos [ IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon ]
Subject The Meridian Heresy I (1 of 2)
"You have walked farther than most..." Justians voice was low and even,
the kind of tone that carried not urgency, but gravity. "I need your
counsel. Not in theory. Not in scripture. I need what you know... From
mud, from blood, from ruin. There is a path we must take. One few should
see. Such a path cannot be led blind."
Then Crelius spoke.
The Revenants voice, like cracked ice sliding down iron, broke the silence
with unhurried precision. "What path, Word Bearer?"
Justian stepped closer. No preamble. No courtesy for the silence they were
intruding upon. "There is talk of Lunite. Of where the piece of the Red
Moon fell... If any of it remains. I would see it for myself, but the Warp
whispers that others may have found it already."
Crelius tilted his head, the torchlight catching on the curled scar tissue
at his neck. "A worthy cause under any banner. But if the Everchosen and
his Warpsmith have already uncovered the site, then the truth may be buried
as swiftly as the stone itself."
Justians brow furrowed. "You heard this from them?"
"No," Crelius replied, "No words or scrolls. But in these days, rumor holds
its own weight."
The Word Bearers voice turned quiet, but wry. "Then perhaps it saves a
voyage..." And quieter still, "... And a ships crew their fate." A pause.
"Still... It may warrant a look. Truth waits in the places others
overlook."
Crelius nodded. "Then we must gaze beyond the veil. Not the paths of maps
and compasses, but those that twist sideways, outside the frame of mortal
knowing. If you wish to see, you must first *be seen. *"
Justians eyes narrowed, not with suspicion... But with readiness. "What
would you offer, to open such a gate?"
Crelius didnt hesitate. "The Warp is duality, not madness. It answers only
to meaning. To call it forth, one must offer not just death, but *story. *
Souls with shape. Wounds that have not healed clean. The greater the pain,
the more the Warp listens."
He stepped forward then, slow and deliberate, his dragonhide armor rasping
with the brittle sound of old frost cracking beneath a hunters tread. The
flickering brazier light slid across the scaled cuirass like fire chasing
memory.
Writer: Justian
Date Sun Jul 20 15:18:30 2025
To All Crelius Chaos [ IMM RP Cayenna Xenophon ]
Subject The Meridian Heresy I (2 of 2)
"Bring them," he intoned, his single crimson-ringed eye fixed on Justian.
"The marked. The shamed. Those who have bled beneath banners that no
longer claim them. Gather the forsaken and let their stories spill into the
soil."
He paused. The room seemed to tighten around the words.
"Only then," he murmured, "might the Warp open its eye."
Justian stood still, drawing a single breath as if measuring the weight of
what had just been spoken. The braziers low flame cast a dull amber glow
across him, the silksteel of his robes catching the light like water
catching moonlightfluid, immaculate, otherworldly. But it was not the robe
that stirred unease.
Where the fabric parted at his collar and sleeves, the skin beneath was
etched with jagged, overlapping scars... Twisting, intersecting marks that
formed no script known to priest or scholar. They shimmered faintly in the
half-light, glyphs without language, as though carved by a hand not meant
for mortal flesh. The marks pulsed, almost imperceptibly, like something
beneath them still remembered.
Then he inclined his head.
They stood together like statues of different eras... One, a relic of blood
and ruin; the other, a vessel of unspoken prophecy. Around them, the room
did not stir.
But the Warp listened.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Mon Jul 21 10:47:32 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Jul 22 11:46:45 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Immortal RP )
Subject Immovable Objects and Unstoppable Forces
Ezri stared out the window of her study, fingers slack around the stem of
a half-full brandy snifter, as she saw to updating the account ledgers and
business details for the Tipsy Imp. She'd been considering expansion for
months, considering bringing the brand to wider audience, perhaps something
less aimed at the riff raff and the pirates and something more smooth and
noble. She sees the numbers and the columns and the gross product figures
on the pages of the balance register, and her mind absorbs almost none of it.
The question, when it leaves her lips, isn't rhetorical - not really.
There's a bone-deep craving for an answer.
"How many times, " she murmurs to herself, voice almost too quiet to carry,
"before this is just madness? Before its no longer stubbornness, or
tenacity, or grit, and it's just me grinding my own skull into the same
damn immovable stone, expecting it to give? "
Every time the situation circles back, she finds the same cold wall waiting.
The same bruises blooming. The same wounds festering.
Wasn't she smarter than this? Wasn't she supposed to know better?
She drained the glass and let her head tip back against the carved wood of
her chair, the crown of her skull pressing into it as if to test the theory
of how hard her noggin really was, again.
Maybe lunacy wasn't screaming or spiraling. Maybe it was this tired resolve
to keep trying, when she suspects she already knows it'll get her nowhere.
But the worst part? She knows she'll do it over and over. She'll fight
tooth, and nail, and claw, and vengence, because what if ONE time....?
And that, that hope, might be the most damning madness of all.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Jul 23 08:08:35 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose I
Ostrim had begun to move in the direction the compass pointed when the
forms around him shifted and began to shamble in the direction of the trio.
An ooze like thing was thrown from one of the shadowed figures and to
Ostrim's disgust, a face seemed to quiver within it. He had but a moment to
spare as he dropped the compass to bring up the shield from his back and
deflect a blast of hellfire. However when the smoked cleared, there was an
odd aura that emanated from the amulets that Ostrim, Kirkland, and Taeborlin
wore. So too did the runic shield of black magic resonate in response to
the hellfire. Again, fire rained down on them but it was deflected.
The jelly like demon moved forward and was going to cut Ostrim off from
Archal when Taeborlin threw a gourd that cracked like thunder across the
basilica. The deafening sound caused ripples across the demon's surface and
every fresco showed an image of Apostus crying out in pain. As if they were
connected to their infernal master, the acolytes also staggered briefly.
This allowed Ostrim and the team to push in towards the now slumped over
figure of Archal. However, in All the fighting, the soul gem had been
broken and the compass was now unusable. Ostrim decided this was where the
back-up plan would be used.
Disconnecting the chain from his waste, he wrapped it quickly around
Archal's. Dragging him from the pew, he pulled three times on the chain
letting the guardians on the other side of the gate know to begin pulling.
As the vibrations from the thunder died down, Apostus' forces renewed their
attacks upon the Supplicants. Taking positions around Archal's body, they
fended off the onslaught of acolytes while the body of the High Mystic was
slowly pulled down the aisle towards the end of the pews. However, Apostus
would not let his prize go easily, this was his domain and he would not be
denied.
'CRACK! ' went stone as two gargoyles broke free from the columns above
them and jumped down. Ostrim had to think fast as these two new adversaries
launched themselves at the trio.
'Kirkland, protect the High Mystic on his exit! Taeborlin, I hope you have
something for these two! ' ordered Ostrim as he parried a stone punch with
his shield.
As Archal's body was dragged slowly towards the basilica doors, Kirkland
hovered over him defending his prone form from the apostates that sought to
reclaim him. While up the aisle, Taeborlin and Ostrim faced off against the
stone gargoyles who's entranced had broken some of the stone pews and a
couple unlucky clerics. From his satchel, Taeborlin threw a gourd and a
pair of vipers lashed out at one with little effect.
'Well, not that one! ' cried out the warlock as he reached in and threw
another gourd.
*POOF*
There are few things that surprise Knights of Storm or even demons, however
where once stood a stone abyssal gargoyle was now a frog that croaked
angrily. There was a pause for a moment as everyone looked at this toad now
trapped within the demonic manse of Apostus. Not questioning his luck,
Ostrim gave the gargoyle in front of him a shield strike to the head then a
strike to the midsection causing large cracks in the stonework of the beast.
Roaring like a lion, the gargoyle swiped at Ostrim but his claw was too
slow.
'Follow Kirland! I'll cover our escape! ' ordered Ostrim. Taeborlin's
brief amazement was interrupted as he nodded and threw a few stakes at those
who would try and get within range. Turning back to his opponent, he
realized that Apostus hadn't really thought about movement when he had
created these beings. Their legs did very little to hold up their larger
body and using this to his advantage, Ostrim struck out with his shield in
order to trip the demonic gargoyle. His strike was true, and the creature
toppled over sprawled out on the ground like some angry turtle.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Jul 23 14:11:06 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ezrianne Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose II
Ostrim smiled and looked back, the path was clear as the Supplicants
picked up Archal and ran towards the awaiting portal home. He turned to
check any threats and as he did the ooze like form of Apostus lept at him.
There was only Darkness.
-------------------
He was falling but unsure for how long. It felt as though things were
grasping for him, like branches or webs. He was falling because they could
find no purchase. Yet something tickled at his mind, a probing thought,
"Where?" The word was repeated as Ostrim continued to fall.
'Where? '
'{uLevanox'
Ostrim thought about Levanox, the Mountain he had visited as part of his
Novice tasks. He remembered climbing it's rocky trails and reaching the
battlefield above.
'Where? '
He remembered the vision he was given of a great ursine figure with purple
runes of the Mistriss within it's fur and upon it's face. He remembered the
wolves that attacked it...
'{uRemember! '
He remembered the war to come, the war between the wolves.. He remembered
the fury of the bear as it fought the pack. Their teeth and claws tried to
tear it down but the bear would not bend, would not submit, it was fury....
It was Her fury.
'WHERE? '
As the visions came to him, Ostrim stopped falling. His feet found the
support he needed, as though the memories were his anchor. From out of the
darkness came that same runic bear, it's eyes blazing purple fury and from
its mouth a feminine voice rang out, '{uDo you not recall My anger then
Ostrim? I told you there would be challenges, that you would have to fight
but here you have fallen. Archal gave you the key but you have yet to
realize it. Telthian reminded you but still you forget. You came to ME for
answers, and I gave them to you. So tell me, Ostrim Ulvarde, what HAVE YOU
LEARNED? '
Another voice screamed at him, 'WHERE?! ', it was the voice of Apostus. He
was looking for something... No, Apostus was looking for something IN him.
The tendrils of the demon reached and grasped but could find nothing to grab
onto. Ostrim wondered why Apostus couldn't latch on or drain him. Was this
why Archal had chosen him? Why was he immune? Why was he special? He had
no powers, no magics, no mental abilities. He remembered his talk with the
Dark Lord on the irony of a barbarian who served Drakkara.
'{uWhat use is arcane power, of clerical grace, without the fist to wield it?
Strength comes in many forms, I showed you this. NOW REMEMBER! '
------------------------------- Ithelim's Manor
'So, this rune. What exactly am I carving into your back, Supplicant? '
asked Eustace in a monotone voice.
'Strength. I think if All goes to 'ell, I'm gonna need a bit of a boost. '
replied Ostrim.
------------------------------
Ostrim realized that it was the very lack of power that made him dangerous
to the demon. There was nothing for Apostus to drain, nothing to feed
himself upon. Had Ostrim been devoted to Necrucifer, there might have been
something for the demon but even that was denied him. As Ostrim knelt in
the darkness, his soul assaulted, he responded with a war cry that echoed
from his very soul.
'HERE! '
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Jul 23 15:29:30 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ostrim Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy:Purpose III
The signal came without fanfare, just a sharp tugging motion, and Ezri
moved instantly. The chain looped around her shoulders and the bodies of
several fellow supplicants strained under the weight of whatever lay at the
far end. She planted her feet shoulder-width apart, at the front of the
pack, spine stiffening as she grabbed hold and pulled. Her arm muscles
protested and her pectoral muscles clenched.
The first jolt nearly took her clean off her feet.
She staggered and caught herself, gritting her teeth hard enough to hear her
jaw pop. Her chain and leather gloves were the only thing saving her from
losing skin from the vicious drag of metal through her fingers and palms.
The iron bit into her grip with cruel tension, and the weight on the other
end wasn't passive; it fought, like some unwilling beast refusing to be
dragged from its den.
Ezri leaned back with All the might in her little body, thighs shaking,
every muscle flaring in her stocky frame as it was pulled to its limit.
Four feet and eleven inches of /anything/ just weren't built for this kind
of brute, muscular labor but gods, she was tenacious. Her knees locked.
Her arms shook, the tendons in her elbows screamed. The line between effort
and agony blurred.
Another sharp tug from the other side yanked her forward a full foot, her
boots scraping against the stone with a noisy clatter of prostesing
chainmail links. She gasped and cried out harshly, her breath punched from
her chest. Still she didn't let go.
A strangled curse tore from her lips in Draconic - half-guttural,
half-liturgical, All ages-old, and she spat each word with the force of her
hot-headed anger. She swore again in Elvish, and then again in Dwarvish,
and doubled down. Desperation clawed at her ribs, but so did fury.
She NEEDED to hold. The stakes were too high, too much depended on this
chain working, too many people she cared about were on the other end. She
NEEDED to hold: and, gods damn it, SHE WOULD.
The chain groaned as it was worked from both ends. Metal scraped stone.
Somewhere behind her, one of the others cried out and fell, leaving Ezri to
bear more of the load. Her shoulders dipped with the added weight, eyes
wild, teeth now bared in a snarl of blinding pain and effort.
Still, she shoved her entire (inconsiderable) weight backward, and pulled
against the force tugging foward.
Whether by command of Drakkara, sheer stubborn will, or hard-headed refusal
to fail, she hung on.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Jul 23 15:52:16 2025
To Shadow All Archal ( Tritoch Imm Telthian Symantha Kirkland Ostrim Aothien Taeborlin Melchaleve)
Subject Cult of the True Prophecy: Purpose VI
She didn't hear anyone approach, not over the clang of chain and the
blood pounding in her ears - but suddenly, he was there.
Maccus.
He moved like a shadow cast by some mountain, sudden and overwhelming. One
moment Ezri was alone with the impossible burden in her hands, and the next,
he was wrapped around her, massive and immovable.
His chest pressed to her back first, a wall of heat and power that swallowed
her trembling form. Then came his arms, huge and sure, his giant hands
closing over hers with a force that threatened to crush her fingers if it
hadn't been so exquisitely measured. His palms enveloped hers, pressing her
smaller hands flush to the chain, absorbing the jarring weight that
threatened to tear her arms clean from their sockets.
He didn't shove her aside. He anchored her.
His biceps flexed around her arms, hardening into steel bands that caged her
against him. One of his thighs slid between hers, bracing her stance
without question, adjusting her posture with a subtle press that brought her
center of gravity back into alignment. His other leg flanked hers solidly,
locking her in the perfect position to withstand the tension now redirected
through his monstrous frame.
His stomach pressed to the curve of her spine, hard as armor. He bent at
the knees just enough to match her height, to mirror her angle, to wrap her
in his strength completely. His breath was warm against her ear, controlled
and close, but he said nothing -- only grunted low in his throat as he took
on the full force of the chain.
The momentum changed in an instant.
With Maccus' bulk added behind her, the chain no longer yanked inward. It
gave. Just a little, then more - sliding outward, groaning as it moved
against the stone. A shift in gravity, a shift in power. Ezri felt it like
lightning through her bones. Her own strength trembled inside his greater
one, dwarfed and cradled All at once. Her knuckles ached. Her body still
burned. But now, now she wasn't breaking. She was held.
Fast, tightly, firm.
With Maccus behind her like a force of nature, they pulled.
Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Jul 23 16:23:55 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Jul 23 16:35:46 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Jul 23 19:42:03 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Wed Jul 23 19:59:46 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery VIII
Ulyssus took the last few steps into the Observatory, his boots barely
making a sound against the crystal floor. The evening was unusually clear
as Icewall's brooding clouds had parted, unveiling a crisp expanse of stars,
and most important of all, the luminous White Moon, full and glowing high
above. Its light bathed through the magical dome of the observatory in a
ghostly sheen, painting the floor with a silvery web of reflected starlight.
The great telescope, polished and humming faintly with divinely blessed
enchantments, pointed squarely toward it, the White Eye of Kantilles.
A circle of monks and initiates stood around the base of the device, robes
pale in the moonlight, heads tilted skyward. At their center, a senior
monk, a middle-aged elf with a silver-stitched hood and eyes like polished
opal, spoke softly but clearly, his voice calm and resonant. Every word he
offered seemed to vibrate in the crystalline air, as though even the silence
respected the gravity of the lesson.
"Though our divine magic is untouched by the waxing and waning of the moons,
unlike our arcane brethren," he began, "we read the heavens not for
strength, but for wisdom. The White Moon is His Eye, Kantilles watches
always Its light is steady, even in its absence. "
The group listened in solemn silence as the monk spoke of the White Moon not
as a font of fluctuating power, but as a symbol of constancy, clarity, and
divine truth. There was no grandeur in his tone, no oratory flourish, only
reverence. Astrology, he said, was not merely a mage's tool, but a cleric's
scripture written in the stars. In their slow revolutions, the faithful
found parables, in the rare eclipses, omens of humility and vigilance.
Charts were passed among them, inked diagrams of constellations, cycles of
eclipses, and theological annotations on past miracles that had occurred
during moonlit rituals. They were old, some rendered on parchment so thin
it had to be handled with gloves. Ulyssus traced the lines with interest,
his gloved fingers pausing on familiar signs, the Chained Staff, the
Watchful Flame. He made small notes in his worn leather journal, the one
always nestled in his satchel. Yet his gaze kept straying upward, past the
charts, through the magical dome, to that pale, unwavering disc above.
The White Moon, ever steady, seemed to stare directly into the chamber, as
if Kantilles Himself peered through it. Ulyssus felt its gaze not as
scrutiny, but as invitation.
As the lesson concluded, the monk motioned for quiet. His hands lifted in a
gesture of invocation. "Now, we offer a prayer beneath His gaze. Not for
strength, but for guidance. "
Each monk raised their palms skyward. Ulyssus followed suit, hands cold but
steady, voice quiet but resolute.
"O Kantilles, White Loight en tha sky,
Guide our steps aes stars guide tha sea.
Let nae darkness bend our path,
Nor pride blind us te Thy claritae.
Wae walk nae te conquer, but te understand.
Mae Yer Moon shine e'er on our thoughts,
And en ets gaze, mae wae find tha wisdom te act rightlae."
A long silence followed. The moonlight softened on their robes like falling
snow. A breeze stirred the candle flames along the ledge, but none of the
monks moved. The moment was whole.
One by one, the monks filed out in quiet reverence, their footfalls muffled
by felted soles. The echo of prayer still lingered in the domed chamber
like incense not yet dispersed. Ulyssus lingered for a moment longer,
glancing once more at the telescope, the charts, the stars... And the Eye
above.
He bowed his head once more in reverence as a servant of Kantilles.
Then he turned, steps quiet but sure, and headed back into the still halls
of the Monastery.
Writer: Pomacanthus
Date Thu Jul 24 10:05:18 2025
To All clanners ( IMM RP Raije )
Subject Does Kurundu dream of wooden sheep?
It began with a spark.
The littlest lightning elemental drifted to the ground, flickered - and then
all but went out. Despite the reputation of its kind, it slept as soundly
as any other, dreaming dreams of batteries and cell phones and other
anachronisms not yet invented.
A lava beast followed suit, utterly unaware that its dripping, molten flesh
was causing a nearby snow elemental to metamorph into a waterdrop elemental.
The newly re-minted elemental failed to notice as well: for it, too, was
fast asleep.
From the ruler of flames to the master of winds, one by one the elementals
took to the knee, and then the floor. One by one, they dropped to sleep
chaotic and fitful - awakening only to find slumber once more beneath
r{oainbo{uw {upatte{orn skies.
In the distance, a repetitive sound could be heard, as regular as any
clock:
*CLINK* *CLANK* *CLUNK*
And now and again, a whispered word, "Arise." and a grumbled "ZUG ZUG" in
reply.
And that, as they say, was that.
Writer: Zecnys
Date Thu Jul 24 10:08:27 2025
Writer: Pomacanthus
Date Thu Jul 24 22:54:07 2025
To All clanners ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject The True Unending Void of Chaos
In the sinister silence of the shadowed swamplands, the sibilant susurrus
that rose from the crafting forge was discordant - if yet shy of
sacrilegious. Flames crackled, hammer rang. A quiet, sorrowful voice
chanted a litany of curses with each piece of metal transmuted from raw ore
to polished bar. Half invocation, half verbal assault, it was arguably just
as important as the heating and hammering of the metal.
Bar after bar was cast to the corner; thrown with unnatural force into the
depths of the shadows. With each one, the shadows would swell and shift -
replacing the finished product with yet more cold, unforgiving iron ore,
waiting to be melded and shaped.
Thusly, the process would begin again.
And again. And again. And again.
And again.
Writer: Tief
Date Fri Jul 25 20:21:53 2025
To All imm religion moon tortoise
Subject First Steps Into Moonfall
Tracking red-dusted footprints, the gnome and tortoise plodded up the
road. The Southlands of Arkania - at least, the plains unaffected by the
impact of the Red Moon, very slowly receded behind them.
The first expedition was discouraging. The gnome was only able to travel so
far, hiking through blasted terrain. Forests lay flattened and coated in
the inescapable red dust. On the outskirts, a few brave animals made forays
back into the area, only to leave without finding food or fresh water. The
gnome tallied in a notebook anything he say moving... Or not moving.
Somewhere more distant, beyond where a tortoise could travel swiftly, would
be more signs of impact. As they walked home through familiar landscape,
unscathed from the disaster, the gnome planned for the next excursion. A
larger mount may take him further. Or he could simple go on foot by himself
or with a handful of like-minded companions. He hadn't decided yet.
There was something to be found. Something unlike anything he had seen
before. What it would be, the gnome could only guess. What he did know was
that his robes were going to take a good long time to clean, and he'd be
tasting dust for days.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Fri Jul 25 23:05:05 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Xenophon Cayenna
Subject Seeking the {uDark Mistress - The Witchlock.
There are questions a mortal mind cannot voice, not for lack of language,
but because the asking tears something loose.
Last eve, I stood in the sanctum beneath the Vein, where the rock sings in
forgotten tongues and the shadows coil in curious spirals. I had prepared
an invocation, not with blood or binding glyph, but with memory. With the
ash of old plans and the breath of unanswered hopes. I sought Her.
Not as priest. Not as worshiper. As architect. As servant who builds what
he does not yet comprehend.
What is Your will, I asked, for the Ebony Tower?
Is our charge containment, or elevation? Are we to scour this realm of
magicks that disobey, or are we to become the very disobedience that births
new gods?
The vision that followed was not fire or word. No voice thundered from the
veil. Instead, a silence so heavy it distorted my heartbeat.
I saw the Tower, not as stone, but as a spine, broken in places, regrown in
others, arching toward some unseen sky. At its base, still unfinished, its
limbs reaching like roots toward the marrow of the world. And Her gaze, not
fixed on us, but through us. As if we were the veil, not the key.
I awoke with no answer. And yet I understand less.
This Tower must press forward while waiting for instruction, it must become
worthy of revelation. We are not just keepers of lore. We are more than
librarians.
We are the ink.
We are the parchment.
We are the spell yet being written.
I pave the way to bring forth our wildest workings. Let no discipline
remain stagnant. Necromancy must bleed into summoning. Witchcraft must
learn the laws it once rejected. The Witchlock is not a cage. It is the
sound of Her breath, paused mid-word.
Is this for us to finish or another, the tower shall reflect her moon and
her will, time will tell.
Thindyss, of the Infinite Thread
Writer: Pomacanthus
Date Sat Jul 26 10:23:38 2025
To All clanners ( imm RP Raije )
Subject A Modest Proposal For Preventing The Children of Poor Dwarves In The Dwarven Kingdom
"And it's go boys, go. They'll time your every breath," the first one intoned, voice deep and rhythmic.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"And every day you're in this place," the next chimed in, keeping imperfectly in the range of key.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"You're two days nearer death." the third enjoined, his bass voice echoing through the tunnels.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"But you go..." The company as a whole continued, joining in one gruff, deep resonance.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
The septuplets hefted their pickaxes eagerly. With each strike, more singing, more drinking, more mined coal. On the whole, they were happy. It was a rare event, that - being malformed degenerates, the twisted freaks of natures were rarely aligned on any given day. Sausage-thick fingers clenched at wooden shafts, not minding the splinters and the dry rub of wood on calloused flesh. Teeth clenched, and blood trailed along dirt and dust-sotted beards, right alongside drool and debris.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
It was a good day. A happy day. There was mining to be done, and an icy blue woman to mine for.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
The seven dwarves glanced back at the pale woman, sitting regally upon a throne of dead and decaying waste - other malformations, as ugly as the septuplets themselves - and smiled in simping wonder, eyes glazed over with sheer pleasure from her indifferent attentions.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"We got much more where that came from!" one reassured.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"Don't you fret, Missus, we'll make sure to wipe the coal clean when we're done."
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"Yeah, wouldn't want it smellin' o' stale beer'n'staler'piss" another agreed.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
And thus, once more, their ragged voices rang, filling the mines.
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"What do you do with a drunken dwarf, drunken dwarf? What do you do with a drunken dwarf?"
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
"Early in the morn-ing."
*CHINK* *CHANK* *CHUNK*
For the life of her, the elf couldn't believe she hadn't thought of this earlier.
Perhaps dwarves did have their uses, after all.
Even if their flesh tasted horrid.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Jul 26 22:22:33 2025
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Jul 27 14:51:58 2025
Writer: Andreyna
Date Mon Jul 28 01:13:03 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Zandreya Xenophon Cayenna Imm RP Religion
Subject {nThe Earth Altar
The land still whispered of sorrow.
Though the great curse of Chaos had been held at bay, it remained like a
smoke in the soil- hanting the roots, dimming the blooms, and silencing the
birdsong in places where once the forst sang. Zandreya's essence, drawn
from the land during the time of the blood tree's curse upon Her lands, had
left the groves hollow, aching.
The elves had built altars to hold the curse at bay, and still they stood.
Eight of them- devoted to the Seasons and the Elements- circled the borders
of the kingdom like ancient sentries. They held back the curse, barely,
with prayers and memory alone.
It was not enough.
And so it was that the Queen-Priestess summoned druids and clerics of the
Vallens. The call went out through the groves: Gather. Bring seed and
stone. Bring faith and will. Zandreya's breath must return.
First, they turned to the Earth Altar, nestled near the moon tree. It had
always been a place of planting, where children once placed seeds and
whispered wishes into the soil. But now, it needed more. Strength.
Structure. Reverence.
Stone masons from the outer stretches of the Vallens brought white-veined
granite, pulled from riverbeds sacred to Zandreya. Artisans came bearing
bundles of vine-carved lumber, etched with blessings. The druids of
Shalonesti laid hands upon them, whispering in the words of seeds and roots,
sealing them with the pulse of life.
Slowly, but assuredly, the statue of Earth's blessings began being shaped
and blessed beneath the boughs of the moon tree.
Writer: Morsril
Date Mon Jul 28 08:59:07 2025
To All Drakkara ( Shadow imm rp )
Subject {uThe shadows I tread: prologue
I hate the sea. Don't get wrong - I love the coast, with its rocky
crags, fishing villages, port towns and their houses and warehouses built
proof against incursion from the salt spray, and light.
No, I love the coast, with its sailors and merchants and people of the
night, All coming and going familiar strangers unmissed in their absences,
but I hate the sea, and I'm soon embarking upon it. It's much easier to
mesmerize some churl from the credulous masses on land. At sea, the life of
a sailor tends to produce a shrewd and disciplined type, those who cannot
adapt long being pruned from the tree of life before they advance far past
cabin boy. These are not creatures who follow every whim or believe every
notion which surfaces in their mind, though no shortage of the same can be
found ashore.
Ships are leaky things. Few places are truly safe from the sun, and so it's
necessary to travel in cargo. Or worse the bilge, though unseen presences
tend nonetheless to be noticed when they emanate the stench of the deepest
dregs, and so this was always a last resort, for the bilge-faring vampire
was confined there, in All practical senses, day or night.
And I am indeed a vampire. A shadow within the shadows - seeking Shadow.
But this isn't the story of how I became a vampire, became afflicted, joined
the gifted if you wish. Not is it the story of why I left a life of comfort
as an Archmagus of the Ebony Tower, or the life of casual murder within the
Dungeon, though in a way perhaps this story contains the why within it after
all, because this journey across the sea is driven by a need to fill a void
within me, a void that opened when I incinerated my childhood, a void that
has expanded to encompass every new experience my brother would never enjoy.
But the sun is retreating, and darkness is falling, and this is a journal of
my travels, not my innermost travails, and I must prepare for the evening,
to feast one last time before embarking upon the sea.
I long for the Infinite Night.
Writer: Rorra
Date Mon Jul 28 15:10:09 2025
To Chaos All ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - The Journey Begins Part 1
Deep beneath the earth, beyond the hidden entrance within the Warp, a
solitary feline figure slips into a massive blackened metal structure. A
large cauldron emits steam, despite lacking a visible heat source. A closer
inspection reveals the Warpsmith herself taking some measure of time to
rest, relax, and recover for herself. Huddled within the structure, steam
wafts from the surface of the clear water with only a few stray crimson
petals floating within. Looking down through the water, Rorra can still see
the lingering effects of her own deeds in the fur that had regrown, scorched
by reprisal. A quiet sniffle breaks through her uncaring demeanor as she
waves a hand to disturb the water, making it harder to see through. Though
when the ripples settle again, she can see her reflection within the steamy
waters.
"What have you done...? "
"What I had to. "
"For what purpose? "
A soft, if brief, sob echoes out within the darkened chamber beyond the
cauldron. She then brings her arms up, crossing them over her chest as she
dips her head down. Her expression remains hardened, yet it is her
reflection in the water that seems to be the remorseful one.
"Is this what She would have wanted? "
"Do not... " The voice comes again, softer, quivering.
"She who gave us life... She who-"
"Abandoned us. "
"Is that what you think?! Where would we be without-"
"Without the rain? The storms? The Life Giver? What did they do but give
us suffering? "
"She gave us the gift of life. To see us born beneath the full crimson
moon. A gift you-"
"She... Cursed... Us. " Her words seethe with a building anger, the water
growing hotter in tandem, as she tries to rise out of the cauldron. The
reflection seems to split from its owners movements, lunging and wrapping
its arms around Rorras waist. Yet the water itself seemed to move to
accommodate this strange occurrence. What little of the reflection
maintained structure seemed to cry, screaming out for the white tiger
striped felar to stay. A split second later, subtle fissures appeared
across her right hand as she raked her claws through the errant watery
grasp. In her fury of the moment, flames erupted from around her,
splintering and sending the metal surrounding her scattering All throughout
the chamber.
A moment later, as she donned the black and red robes, a human stepped
through the entryway, guided by her elven caretaker. Though she still drips
with water, she turns her head to look toward the cultist. "Speak. "
"The metal you requested is already running low, Warpsmith. If you need
more, just say the word and the beasts will collect it. "
Rorra paused a moment, contemplating substantial metal acquisition. Several
locations spring to mind, though she tilts her head, closing her eyes in
thought for a moment while she wraps the robe around her dripping wet form.
"It does not matter what state it is in. Refined, shaped, raw ore Any will
do. Take from any who you see fit. If they resist, kill them. More flesh
for the forges either way. If they prove troublesome to yousend word. I
will deal with it myself.
"Consider it done, Warpsmith. " The cultist turned away and left with haste
to relay the orders given. Rorra, however, looked at her caretaker as the
countless shards of metal scattered around the room slithered toward the
felar, reforming into a singular, shapeless blob of metal. With the
creature recovered again, Rorra knelt down, and with a gentle touch, reached
out to pet the gunmetal ooze. "Apologies... " With that spoken in soft
tones to the living metal that comprises her armor, she casts a glance
toward the elf.
"I saw it again. It spoke as though it knew. It tried to stop me from
leaving. "
Writer: Rorra
Date Mon Jul 28 15:17:39 2025
To Chaos All Thistleigh ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - The Journey Begins Part 2
The elven caretaker could only wave a dismissive hand as their
half-masked visage softened in response. Without a proper answer to ease
the burden these events present, Rorra turned to leave the chamber, heading
down a hallway toward the darkened resting room. "I will spend some time
away to harvest a new set of these rabbit creatures. Hopefully, with no
need to sacrifice them this time. "
Rorra's chambers are very sparse in furnishings, containing nothing more
than a simple stone slab adorned with a variety of animal pelts for bedding
and little else. A few scraps of errant metal, some of which seem to
liquify and reach for its creator. Following in tow, the current ooze form
of her armor slurches after her in a slow, yet steady advance. Even after
Rorra had settled into her meager bedding, she couldn't find the sleep she
needed with her mind left wandering about what could have been.
Yet after lying there for several hours, never once catching more than mere
minutes of sleep at a time, she groaned, arising once again.
"This will never do. "
Rather than make any attempt to allow slumber's embrace to grip her, she
plucked from the far edge of the stone slab a white robe adorned with green
leaf markings. Even the ooze that followed her every movement seemed to
alight at her movements in an instant. With sluggish movements, she
stripped free from the black and red robes her figure cast a lithe shadow
from the solitary flickering ever-burning flame in the room. In short
order, the white robe graced her form, allowing herself a moment of thought
as she cinched the garment tight around her body. Without further reason
for waiting, she made her way back out of the Warp itself, with several
cultists only recognizing Rorra thanks to the ooze that followed her until
it could latch on and slink its way up beneath the robe to conceal itself
from onlookers.
Late at night, there would only be a handful of passengers aboard the ship
that carried travelers of All walks between Tropica and Arkania. In her
approach, she pulled the hood of the robe up to better conceal her identity
and offered the dock hand a small measure of extra gold to dissuade asking
too many questions. All the while, she lingered above deck, staying clear
of the other guests and crew. Her mind wandered to the loss of those
rabbits in a moment of relative peace.
The first set, which was extracted from their burrows hidden below the earth
of Arkania, were impeccable specimens. Both of them being of the female
persuasion blamed each other for this fate. Regardless of the
circumstances, they belonged to Rorra, and the experimentation involving
living metal. In having little recourse but to use the closest captive
slaves as sacrifices, those two found themselves among the masses. The tree
of pain demanded an eternal stream of sacrifices to slake its thirst, even
now, to be certain.
Passing the few days required to travel in relative secrecy amid the
passengers of the common folk took a small toll on Rorras mind. She found
it hard to conceal her true identity amongst those who desired the warplings
incineration or a worse fate. It was a rare enough event that she rose to
walk the lands without her armor to begin with, so an unfamiliar felar was
nothing for anyone to fret over. One more day on the open waters was all
that remained between her and beginning her search. Rorra spent most of the
journey sequestered within the lodgings below deck, yet even in relative
silence, her mind would not give her peace.
It started with a shimmer just beyond the edges of her vision that then
turned to a whisper, which she was All too familiar with.
"Isnt this nice? The open water, the very source of so much life... " The
voice trailed off, almost happy to have another moment alone.
Writer: Rorra
Date Mon Jul 28 15:23:32 2025
To Chaos All Thistleigh ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - The Journey Begins Part 3
She did her best to ignore it, yet it refused to silence itself. "Oh!
Dont be like that. I know you love this! The time spent catching fish from
the river back home. Does it not speak to you? "
She gripped her head, pulling the hood of her white cloak up and over the
top of her head. She needed to stay calm and in one piece until they made
landfall.
"... Shut up. "
Her voice trembled as even the slightest glimpse of memories long forgotten
and shattered returned to her. It felt as though she was being observed by
a playful demon.
"Now, now. That will not do! Rest that pretty little head of ours instead."
The lack of sleep in the never-ending work Rorra performed routinely
presented itself as negligence and the occasional lost project. Regardless
of her condition, she carried on, as though possessed by an unnatural vigor.
Between the rocking of the ship and her weary state, including being haunted
yet again by a specter of herself, she collapses on the wooden floor. Her
arms served as a pillow. Amid the unwelcome rest, there were no dreams, no
nightmares, merely a void within which she could find solace. Within this
void, however, was a reflection of herself, on whose lap she rested her
head. Like a mother to a newborn, the reflection stroked the side of
Rorra's face, yet with each touch, a splintering spider webbed fracture
settled into her form.
The moment seemed to drag on forever. The distant sound of a heartbeat
resonated through the void-like expanse, where it beat twice before settling
into a faster rhythm. In this moment, the reflection allowed a smile to
spread across those feline lips. One final, gentle stroke across Rorras
cheek, and at last, Rorra herself became faded as the reflection absorbed
the full hue of colors.
"My turn. "
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Mon Jul 28 16:05:36 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Mon Jul 28 19:52:47 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery IX
The great library of the Crystal Monastery was a cathedral of silence and
ink, where the whispers of turning pages rose like incense to the arched
ceiling. Magical lights, evergentle and unwavering, bathed the sprawling
shelves in a holy glow, and Ulyssus found a corner tucked between two high
rows of ivory tomes. The chair was plush and yielding, perfectly suited for
long hours of study. Across from him sat a small table with his journal
laid open beside a stack of pale scrolls and threadbare hymnals.
His hand moved slowly, deliberately, copying an old refrain from one of the
monastery's older songbooks: The Breathe of the Moon Shall Cleanse the
World. It was an older hymn, written in dialects long faded from common
speech, but its cadence still carried the gentle rhythm of Lord Kantilles'
guiding light.
O moon of Ivory, thou art the lens
through which wisdom flows from Light to men.
May mine own thoughts be still and pure,
and in thy glow, my steps secure...
He paused, the quill resting between his fingers, then exhaled through his
nose. A gentle hoot came from his snowy owl perched on the top of the
nearby shelf, ruffling its feathers as it watched him in thoughtful silence.
Ulyssus reached absently for his cup, sipping the steeped tea he'd steeped
an hour before. The taste had grown cold, but the ritual mattered more than
the warmth.
As the hour deepened, the old librarian at the desk across the room slumped
lower in his chair, spectacles on the verge of tumbling from his nose.
Ulyssus afforded himself a soft smile. Here, among the fireproofed lore and
dustless tomes, time slowed.
His next task was deeper, to begin drafting his own hymnal verses, meant not
for ancient choir halls but for future initiates of the monastery and young
disciples of Kantilles. He turned to a blank page in his journal and began
writing, speaking aloud in a soft cadence:
"Child o' moon, step nae blind,
But seek tha path o' truth tue find.
Loight ne'er falters, wisdom guides,
Kantilles walks where Love abides."
The ink shimmered faintly as it dried, a reaction, perhaps, to the ambient
arcana in the room or simply the Wizard's own subtle transmutations. Either
way, the words felt alive. He would spend hours more here collecting,
composing, refining. Each word a step, each verse a path. And as the
moonlight filtered faintly through high arched windows beyond the shelves,
Ulyssus knew this, too, was worship.
Writer: Evard
Date Tue Jul 29 20:22:26 2025
Writer: Kirkland
Date Wed Jul 30 13:17:46 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jul 31 02:17:38 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jul 31 02:20:31 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Thu Jul 31 09:17:37 2025
Writer: Aothien
Date Thu Jul 31 14:49:09 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Jul 31 17:32:52 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Thu Jul 31 19:34:48 2025
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Fri Aug 1 23:23:45 2025
To All ( Fatale RP Immortal )
Subject The Minting of Priest - Fatale Gains a Gnome. 1 of 3
In the soot-choked depths beneath Gahboom, where furnaces roar like
beasts and invention kills more gnomes than famine or war, there walked a
strange contradiction - young, bright-eyed, and spotless. Among the
grease-streaked alchemists and soot-faced tinkers of the lower city, the boy
was easy to spot: three feet tall, robed in blinding white, stepping
carefully through puddles of acid and blood with a curious smile and a
leather-bound prayerbook clutched in both hands.
He was born in the cavern boroughs far below the grinding gears of upper
Gahboom, where light is a luxury and silence a warning. Down there, the
only gods are accident and entropy. But Zixlapix... Yes, that Zixlapix...
Saw something different. While his kin prayed only to physics and
probability, he listened for the pauses between heartbeats. He watched the
last breaths of inventors who died smiling, whispering to someone no one
else could see. He began to believe that death wasnt failure-it was
culmination.
It was the Reavers from the Horde of Bloodlust who changed everything.
Blood-slick and laughing, they returned from battle and told stories not of
victory, but of meaning found in dying, and killing, well. Zixlapix
listened. He asked questions. He understood. And when they laughed at his
robes, he laughed too.
He wasn't a priest yet-not officially. But he had already begun to chant
Fatale's verses when he saw a corpse. He already blessed fallen rats before
dissecting them. He fumbled his rites, forgot his lines, dropped his censer
more than once-but he tried. Earnestly. Joyfully.
Soon, he would climb the bone altars of Fatale. Soon, he would wear the
white not just for faith, but for war. A killing priest in service to the
god of ends.
And All the while, he would smile.
Writer: Vaelsenathox
Date Sat Aug 2 13:52:17 2025
To Verminasia Abaddon All ( Tief Sebatis Imm Dragoth)
Subject Moonfall:Vultures of the Moonstones
Arkania, a continent who's name evokes Arcana. How fortunate for the
Moonstones to have fallen upon its soil. However with the Chaos taint
lingering with soil and ash, would these stones be a blessing or a curse
upon these shores?
Vaelsenathox mused as he flew over Arkania's southlands and the plains east
of Ironclad. Movements from the sky showed few adventurous souls wished to
brave the wilds to seek out the meteors.
While young to the realm, the Green had studied history and language within
the Vale. Knowledge were the baubles he sought, not the gems or other
treasure dragons may covet. Power comes in many forms and it was to his
advantage to study this advent while it was new.
Moonstone, Red Lunite, or Spellstone, no name yet defines this power.
Though Chaos had perhaps contaminated it. How annoying.
The dragon continued his flight, casting a draconic shadow on the land
below. How he hated Chaos. They would seek to claim Dragoth's ruin and
pestilence as tools for their own gain. Even now the spores of their
toppled towers clung to air and earth. They defiled his Lord's power.
Now, his mind must be clear and concise if he was to learn what he could.
Vengeance would be Lord's in time. All things rot and decay, All will be
claimed. Chaos was no different. For now he would wait... And watch.
From his vantage in the sky, the dragon known as Blightwing, caught sight of
a small figure riding a turtle. How very odd.
Now then little gnome, what are you up to?
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sat Aug 2 14:35:36 2025
To All ( Fatale RP Priest Immortal )
Subject The Minting of a Priest - Fatale Gains a Gnome. 2 of 3
The Room of Worship breathed dust and silence. Zixlapix knelt in the
dim, white robes gleaming like spilled milk in the gloom. He scrubbed a
cracked tibia with quiet care, humming a half-remembered hymn to Fatale.
"Still your tongue," came the orc priest's voice, low and gravel-thick.
"Dead don't need noise."
Zixlapix lowered his head. He understood. But as his brush circled the
brow of a pitted skull, a whisper brushed the edge of his mind.
"Don't forget us."
He blinked. The orc hadn't moved, hadn't spoken.
Another voice, softer. "Say our names."
His hands slowed. Was it... Imagination? He swallowed hard. The bones
didn't speak. That wasn't doctrine. That wasn't...
"... We died.. For something?"
Then: clunk, clunk, clunk. Boots on stone penetrated the silence.
A squat stockmaster named Jack Wildsprung stomped into view, grinning around
with his gold teeth.
"Oi! Preachy git! Crates of meat need blessin' 'fore the raid. Bring yer
murder-god and hurry up, yah?"
Zixlapix stood slowly. His hands trembled-not from fear, but doubt.
He glanced once more at the skull, now clean and silent, dead silent.
It hadn't spoken. Had it?
Writer: Rinern
Date Sat Aug 2 17:16:35 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Aug 2 18:40:44 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Aug 2 18:41:00 2025
Writer: Morsril
Date Sun Aug 3 13:29:24 2025
To All Drakkara ( Shadow Imm RP )
Subject {uThe shadows I tread: (I) last night on land
I need to feed. I have not drunk of the essence of life in days, and I
feel my control slipping. I cannot afford to board the ship in the throes
of the hunger. A dead crew cannot sail..
In a port city, feeding is easy. Pubs and taverns service strangers by the
hundreds. Barmaids and barmen and other creatures of the night are always
waiting to service familiar faces, and foreign ones. Tonight I'll feed at
leisure, among the masses of servants eager for a glimpse of wealth.
***
I'm doomed. Scarcely did I find myself returned to my crates as dawn
crested the horizon. There was no opportunity to delay my passage or find
another ship. More fool me, to imagine myself the only hunter in the night.
She looked every bit the part. A midnight mistress seeking company,
offering comfort. She was suspicious of me at first, or so I thought, and I
worked to win her over. Mesmerized her, the natural control of demonic
charisma, planting notions within the minds of others. The inception of an
idea so eagerly taken up by most. Yet it was an act, a lure, and I the
prey, stalking my own trap.
As the late hours of night became the early hours of morning, she suggested
an inn not far from the wharf where I was due in those few short hours, to
bind myself away in this crate where I now write, but All that awaited me
there was banditry. The difficulty was not in overcoming my assailants, but
just how many I needed to overcome, for the entire inn seemed to be a
fronted den for their criminal enterprises. Even as the last one fell and
I, at last, began to sip from a vein, the cries of the constabulary rang out
from the cobblestone outside. With dawn approaching..
I have bolted myself within my box. My trunk. My cage, my bed, my prison
for this passage. The few sips of blood that passed my mouth were only
enough to taunt my need for more. The hunger will grow, and I will lose
control. No crew will survive this trip, and I'll be adrift on the ocean,
hiding from the sun for gods know how long.
Unless I do not wait. The ship is lurching beneath me, while sailors cry
out above. I am cargo on the SeaQuest, and I will feed tonight.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Aug 3 17:15:30 2025
Writer: Elldrya
Date Sun Aug 3 23:18:31 2025
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Mon Aug 4 00:41:28 2025
To All ( Fatale RP Immortal )
Subject The Minting of a Priest - Fatale Gains a Gnome. 3 of 3
The corpse didn't feel dead enough.
Squee Grinblade lay on a slab of cracked stone, arms folded unnaturally
across a chest that had once split men open barehanded. His skin was slack
but still flushed from the fight, spattered with the blood of others. His
lips were peeled back in a rictus grin-his namesake, Zixlapix supposed.
Even death hadnt shut him up.
The chamber was small. Low ceiling. One lantern. A bowl of black salt. A
prayerbook so heavy it looked like it could break his wrist. Zixlapix stood
alone, robes bright and white against the blood-slick floor, the only clean
thing in the room.
He cleared his throat. "May the stillness of Fatale descend upon-
No. Wrong start. That was for children. Or plague victims. He flipped
hurriedly through brittle pages.
"Squee Grinblade, who has been returned to-
No, not returned. That suggested peace. Squee had died with a curse on his
tongue and steel in his hands. There was nothing peaceful here.
Zixlapix glanced at the skull shelf in the corner, half-hoping one of them
might whisper advice. None did.
He stepped closer. The smell hit him: hot iron, butchers leavings. This
wasnt like brushing old bones. This was fresh. It was present.
His voice faltered. The words in the book felt like strangers. He wanted
to run. He wanted-
A cold calm settled over him. He looked at the corpse. He looked past it,
into the dark, closing the prayer book and spoke from somewhere deep
inside:
"Squee Grinblade," he said, voice steady now, each word ringing like iron.
"You who dealt death without hesitation, who painted the ground with the
blood of the weak and strong alike. Fatale sees you. Fatale weighs you.
There is no forgiveness in these halls, only truth," his voice no longer
small, "you took death for your own-shaped it in your hands, wore it like a
cloak. You did not run from it, nor pretend it was noble. You made it what
it is: final."
He lifted the black salt, scattered it over Grinblades chest in a slow
spiral.
"May you stand before the Lord of Ends with eyes unflinching, and may your
soul's measure be taken without mercy."
He raised his chin, heart hammering, and let the silence close around the
words.
It felt, for the first time, like the right kind of quiet.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Mon Aug 4 17:26:47 2025
To Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom All ( Imm RP Xenophon Rhelic )
Subject An Elvish Diary Entry
Skalpon sat with his back against an old willow, the roots rising around
him like gentle arms. The river murmured nearby, its steady voice one of
the few sounds that didnt set his nerves on edge. Across the water, Aletha
stalked through the shallows, wings half-spread for balance, her golden eyes
fixed on the flash of darting fish. He watched her for a long while,
grateful for the simplicity of her purpose. No schemes, no councils, no
burden of magic. Just movement, instinct, and hunger. His hand drifted to
the journal beside him. He hadn't planned to write; but the shifting in his
wound had returned, more deliberate than before, and the anger was rising
again, unbidden. He opened the journal, pressed it to his knee, and began
to write.
It moved again.
Not a twitch or a flare of pain; no, this was movement. Intentional. Like
something shifting position beneath the layers of who I am. I could feel it
in the base of my spine, then in my jaw, then behind my eyes. It's never
the same twice. But always the pulsating presence... The reminder that it
is not done with me yet.
And then came the anger. Sudden. White-hot. I knew it wasn't proportional
to the moment--I knew--but I couldn't stop it. My voice cracked like a
whip, and the air around me felt too thin to breathe. For a few seconds, I
wasn't sure if I was going to weep or strike something. Perhaps both.
This wound--this thing left in me after the strike from the Chaos beast--it
is not healing... But it is changing. I don't speak of the changes. I'm
not even sure that I could. The words they rot in my mouth. Every time I
think I might offer it, that maybe naming it aloud would loosen its hold, I
hear the whisper at the edge of my thoughts: Don't.
So I write instead. I write because if I don't get this out, even in ink,
I'm afraid of what else might try to get out through me. I fear the hold
that it takes on me. It is almost as though...
SPLASH!!!
Water erupted just beyond the riverbank as Aletha lunged, wings flaring and
talons slicing through the current. A startled cry tore from her beak as
she sprang backward: empty-clawed, soaked, and furious. Skalpon blinked,
the thread of his thoughts snapping clean in the sudden burst of motion.
Aletha shook herself off with All the indignity of a drenched cat, feathers
fluffed, tail lashing. Then she looked at him across the water, wide-eyed
and indignant, as if to say, "Did you see that? That fish cheated!"
He exhaled through a crooked smile. The anger had retreated, just slightly.
The movement in his wound was quiet, for now. But not gone. Never gone.
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Tue Aug 5 11:14:21 2025
Writer: Scaur
Date Tue Aug 5 17:49:23 2025
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Aug 5 19:25:47 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 6 18:25:10 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 6 18:34:32 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject {uThe Witchlock - Soot and Silence
There comes a point in every inquiry, arcane or divine, where the veil
refuses to part.
The Cauldron, once brimming with vision and promise, now churns with
silence. Its surface reflects not insight but my own bewilderment. In this
stagnation, I have done what most Magi refuse: I have ceased experimenting.
Not from fear, but from reverence. The silence may itself be Her answer.
Today, while leafing through the Tower's deeper archives, I found the name
of one long forgotten by most, Alexandre, Wizard of the Ebony Tower some two
or three decades past. He, too, studied the Cauldron. His name appears
briefly in the Codices of Oblique Praxis, footnoted in a spellwork margin,
and once more in a damaged roster of Tower experiments titled Efforts
Unfinished.
No results. No failures. No conclusions. Only that he "withdrew from
study."
What haunts me is not that he failed, but that the record ends in silence,
just as my own work does now. Did he choose to stop, or was he made to?
Were the findings lost... Or taken?
I knelt in my sanctum today, hands blackened with soot and failure, notes
strewn like broken scripture. I could no longer separate Witchlock from
Worship, nor scholarship from supplication. So I burned a lock of my own
hair in the Cauldron's flame, offered no words, only the echo of my
yearning, and watched the smoke rise in patterns too symmetrical to be
chance, yet too fractured to be message.
Drakkara, Mother of the Infinite Night, Weaver of Threads, I ask not for
power, but for alignment. Have I wandered from the strand You laid before
me? Or is it Your will that the Cauldron go silent before it speaks anew?
Alexandre practiced the art freely in the Towers. Piknim walks another path
but holds keys I lack. And still, my own vision, blurred. A thread pulled
wrong? Or was I never meant to weave this alone?
Perhaps I follow Alexandre's shadow unknowingly. Perhaps I, too, am meant
to vanish into the quiet.
I will retreat deeper into Witchlock, not in isolation, but in obedience.
The Cauldron no longer accepts idle inquiry. It demands purpose, perhaps
penance. I invite those who would join, not to fix the work, but to witness
it.
I await Her answer in soot and silence.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Aug 7 15:00:35 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Thu Aug 7 18:54:49 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery X
The third bell of the morning echoed through the halls of the Crystal
Monastery, a clear and reverent tone that stirred Ulyssus from quiet
reflection at his desk. He tucked his journal back into his satchel,
straightened his sheets, and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the
neatness of his space. The quarters, with its whitewashed walls and orderly
rows of beds, carried a quiet discipline. Every surface bore the touch of
care with beds made tight, floors swept clean, and scrolls carefully stowed.
He wrapped his white cloak tighter against the lingering chill that clung
even inside the monastery's walls and stepped out into the hallway. He
could already see the light bending strangely above the garden, where the
shimmering magical dome held back the worst of Icewall's weather. That
would be today's destination, not for another class on healing or chanting,
but for something far different.
Martial instruction.
Though many years had passed since he'd last rode into battle, Ulyssus was
no stranger to combat. As a young man he had walked the wilds as a ranger,
and later served in the Nordmaar Marines, as a Knight of Nordmaar, and a
member of the Black Claymores. His time at the Ivory Tower, both before and
after that chapter of his life, had been devoted to magical studies.
The shift from cold stone to warm earth was immediate as he stepped into the
lush gardens. The scent of herbs and flowering trees enveloped him, a rich
bouquet of jasmine, sage, and blossoms from across the continents. Sunlight
filtered through a roofless sky, where snowflakes dissolved before touching
leaf or skin.
At the edge of the garden, beyond a circular bed of moonflowers, a dozen
initiates were already gathered. Some held wooden staves or blunted flails.
A monk in loose gray robes, a burly man named Brother Vaerin, stood at the
front, barefoot on the soft grass.
"You are not here to learn war," Vaerin said "You are here to learn
defense. The foot that moves swiftly, the hand that turns aside the blow,
these are not acts of aggression, but of preservation."
The lesson began with simple stances. Balance. Weight centered, knees
loose. Ulyssus mirrored the monk's posture with familiar ease. The old
muscle memory stirred beneath the surface, movements he had not practiced in
years returned with quiet grace. Then came the first technique: the kick.
Not a brawling, brutish strike, but a calculated motion, a tool to create
space, to end danger quickly and cleanly.
They moved on to basic dodges and deflections. Ulyssus trained with a small
shield strapped to his arm, its crystal edge dulled for safety. Vaerin
instructed him in how to absorb impact, how to rotate with a strike rather
than against it. While the years had worn away some of his strength, they
had replaced it with refinement. His form was practiced and timing precise.
Sweat gathered at his brow despite the pleasant warmth. The drills
continued with practice weapons, staves, flails, and maces. The staff, in
particular, felt natural in his hands: balanced, direct, more an extension
of the body than a tool of violence. He took to it with quiet intensity,
adjusting grip and rhythm.
"You need not master these arts, " Vaerin said as the sun passed its zenith,
"but you must respect them. Magic is your gift, yes, but when that is not
enough, it is your will and discipline that must endure."
As the lesson concluded, the initiates gathered near a stone bench where
pitchers of cool water and fruit had been placed. Ulyssus sat beneath a
willow tree, muscles sore but his spirit centered. The martial arts of the
clergy weren't meant to replace magic, but to complement it and to provide
balance.
Later, when he returned to his quarters and picked up his journal, he
recorded not just techniques but reflections. Even the gentlest light must
learn to cast a shadow in defense of what it loves.
And in that thought, he felt the grace of Kantilles settle quietly over him.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 22:52:30 2025
To All Chaos Shadow Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles
The broken streets festered in the reeking filth of vagrants, awash in
the contagious misery of the oppressed and desperate. Shoals of malcontent
urchins and skulking ne'er-do-wells ebbed and surged through shadow-choked
alleys and the gaping thresholds of dilapidated hovels, sanctuaries where
their ill-content could be committed away from prying eyes. A clammy, humid
rain blended All into a morass of shifting gloom and chiding jeers. It was
precisely as disgusting and repellant as I remembered.
This nightly bazaar stood as a singular haven, a waypoint for Algoron's most
unrepentant rogues and gangers, openly celebrating the spirit of larcenous
enterprise. An unscrupulous hive, a pit of vipers whose only law rested in
the grip of the strong. Order was enforced by those whose lethal
reputations commanded respect. In full view, scores were settled by blade
and garrote, fenced goods traded hands with casual nonchalance amid the
violent murmurs of gambling circles, their fortunes reversed in a heartbeat.
From east to west, glimpses of trench coats opened to reveal illicit wares
mingled naturally with the beckoning limbs of courtesans offering
transactional pleasures. All was made privy on the banquet table of this
criminal feast.
As I cross the twitching glow of an oil lantern on what passed for a street
corner, I notice a shadow behind me move with a grace a bit too
predetermined. Amateurs, I had assumed my size would deter any encounters
with these miscreants, even beneath the thin cloak and without my armor, I
stood tall above these rats. It seems in this place even the vermin grow
courageous.
I allowed the figure to approach from behind without breaking my stride. It
lingered slightly too long at the edge of the lamplight. I sensed the
little creature's hesitation as his silhouette was momentarily revealed in
the passing glow. A faint smirk nearly crossed my lips, but I maintained my
pace as my stalker made his move. Trailing the periphery of the lamplight's
circumference, the shadow dashed toward me as the glow began to dim at my
back. A quick wretch, I'll grant him that, but not quick enough. As he
reached for the small sack secured to my belt, my hand shot out, catching
his wrist and snapping it with casual ease. With his broken limb still
firmly gripped, I yanked him forward to face me. His eyes met mine, and the
sudden wave of panic washing over his features almost made this pitiful
encounter worthwhile.
He was a greasy-skinned rodent of a man, thin and malnourished. A human who
had certainly known better days. I allowed him a moment to fully absorb the
sight beneath my hood, and the real terror set in. In desperation, his free
hand scrambled toward the dagger at his belt, but my hand was swifter. I
snatched the blade and tossed it away like a child's discarded toy.
Briefly, I considered breaking his other wrist, but I was no monster.
Instead, I opted for his leg. Adjusting my grip, I positioned him upright
just enough to deliver a hard, weighted kick to his knee, bending it
sideways until it yielded with an audible pop. Let him live with a useless
wrist and a limp.
Dragging him by his still cracking wrist, I hauled him toward a cluster of
shadows. The other carrion figures lurking there watched eagerly, hungry
for scraps from the altercation. I paused before them, towering like a
monolith among the dregs. Countless hidden eyes observed silently from
every direction, not seen but certainly felt. As a not so subtle warning, I
flung the broken man like a ragged doll into the waiting shadows, then
continued on my way.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:00:04 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
I knew I would be chastised by the others for this once I arrived, not
that I particularly cared. I could hear their admonishments clearly
already. The Seer, with her haughty wisdom, would remind me that these were
perilous times, that my actions might draw unwanted eyes and jeopardize
their carefully positioned agents. And the Wolf, he would snarl and snap,
insisting that it was only by the First Knight's tenuous blessing that I
still draw breath - and that I best mind my step, lest I meet a cloaked
dagger when I least expected it.
They were cowards, skulking in the shadows, forever weaving webs of
intrigue. Though sharing the same room with both at once would be a novel
occurrence, I had reluctantly come to know my fellow commanders All too
well. Their desperation must be cresting now, after all, Atennim forbade
any more than two of the First Circle to gather physically, and not without
reason. That even the Yaenni and the exiled maiden of Storm Keep would cast
off their caution spoke volumes. Not of courage but of fear dressed in
urgency. Still, I take a sliver of comfort in it. Perhaps when the blade
finally drops, theyll flail with enough conviction to be of use before they
break like All the rest.
Naturally, what I had to reveal about the First Knight's disappearance would
send their tempers into a fresh frenzy. Let them rage. I hadn't agreed to
this little summit out of some feint loyalty. To them or even to Crelius,
despite All I owed him. No, I agreed because the cracks in our so-called
order have withered long enough. The time for subterfuge and whispered
schemes is over. Atennim once told me this moment would come. When I would
need to rise above the rest, to seize the reins of our cause and drive it
forward with an iron hand. That time has arrived.
The First Knight had a way with words, but more often, gestures. In the
beginning, when I was nothing but a slave, bent beneath the yoke of stone
and lash, his presence was there. Always there. I recall nothing of my
mother or father, only hunger and pain, and the shadow of something else. A
bowl of rations that shouldn't have existed found its way to me while others
starved and rotted. Other slaves who conspired against me died choking on
their own bile, their blood curdled by poisons no overseer could trace. But
it was the blade that sealed it. The dagger, bound in filthy cloth and
buried beneath the hay and gravel I slept on. A gift before a slave master
could slit my throat for making him appear weak. The man bled in the dust
like an animal, and I made sure the others watched. That was the day I knew
for certain that I was not alone, and that I was no longer prey.
It was from there that the others took notice, having no skill beyond
strength and vigor, the tenacity that blended the two piqued the interest of
those seeking a wholly new form of servitude. One that was a natural fit
for one of my demeanor and physique. Thus began my journey upon a ship,
away from those accursed badlands and towards an icy shore. Such a frigid
locale I was not used to, but where I go the chilling frosts were
meaningless against the quickening bloodlust of the gladiator pits of a
place called Darkonin. It was here that I learned of the art of murder,
honed in savage experience against All oncomers. The shadow followed me
here as well. As I slew in front of the masses and learned of new
implements of war, a stranger often sat amongst the roaring and raucous
crowds of goblinkin. A hooded figure, always silent and out of place amidst
the riotous spectators, ever gazing as I hacked and cleaved for survival.
Something about this obscure man bit at my instincts, it was not until much
later that I learned that it was Crelius himself.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:05:41 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
When the corpse-heap beneath my feet grew too high for even the wretched
pit masters to ignore, I was sold like refuse scraped from a butchers floor.
The news came with chains and mockery. My worth spent, my slaughter no
longer amusing. Enraged, I crushed a pit lords throat with my hands. It
changed nothing. They beat me bloody and bound me like a dog, but pain had
long ceased to matter. What wounded me was the loss. The void left behind
by the promise of fresh blood and glory, stolen from me like so much else.
They marched me to the mountains edge, wrapped in the stink of flayed
warg-hide. The cold greeted me with howling wind and biting ice. Amid the
blizzard, a figure materialized, dark and nearly spectral, on horseback. He
held the reins of a second steed, war-bred and armored, its breath fogging
like smoke from a chimney. His voice split the storm. "At last we meet,
warrior. The pit was your womb, but the world beyond is your arena now. I
am Crelius... And it is time you learned of war without walls."
The memories of old days rose uninvited as I trudged through rain-soaked
alleys and crumbling streets, the citys filth clinging to my boots like the
past to my thoughts. I was close now, near the place arranged for our
gathering. I stayed to the shadows, not out of fear, but simply to avoid
another meaningless run-in. I had already left my mark. There would be
murmurs, warnings, and perhaps some eager fool thinking themselves equal to
the hunt. Let them come if they must.
Turning into a narrow ghetto of an alley, I spotted a rusted metal threshold
beneath an awning that spilled equal parts grime and rainwater. I paused,
checked both ends of the alley, more out of instinct than concern, and let
out a quiet chuckle at my own wariness. Then, raising a clenched fist, I
struck the door with three hard raps. The invitation had mentioned a
rhythm, some pitiful code, but I hadn't bothered with the specifics.
The door groaned open, rusted hinges screeching like something in a death
throw. Beyond the threshold thick darkness waited, until a furred, clawed,
hand slipped from the gloom and beckoned me forward. I stepped inside.
A low growl ghosted the air, meant to be heard. The wolf was already
simmering. The door shut with a heavy clunk, the latch clicking into place
just before he spoke.
"Did you at least wear your talisman?" Came the gravel-thick voice of the
Yaenni, cutting through the dark. I heard him pass by, and began to follow
the faint taps of his padded steps deeper into the structure.
In reply, I gave the chain around my neck a short rattle, the gem at its end
tapping cold against my chest. A milky quartz, lifeless and dull. One of
the trinkets issued by the First Knight, meant to foil scryers and wandering
minds. I still wore it, though I had nearly tossed the thing into the sea
days ago. A lingering respect, perhaps.
A weak light bled through the far end of the mildewed corridor, casting a
faint highlight on the warped planks and the black rot creeping up the
walls. It seeped from a crooked doorway ahead. Beyond it, a chamber
slouched in shadows, lit only by the flicker of guttering wax stubs perched
on crates and broken stone.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:12:35 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
At the center, a makeshift table, little more than a splintered plank
balanced on scavenged refuse. Behind it waited the Seer. The old witch
wore her polished darksteel cuirass like a priestess of her dead god, robes
clean and pressed despite the reek of decay clinging to the walls. Her
narrow face was half-hidden in candlelight, sharp bones made harsher by age
and stress. The thick braid of raven hair that hung over one shoulder had
silvered further since Id last seen her, and the blood-stained cloth tied
over her eyes told me her affliction had not been kind. A charm like mine,
dull quartz on a silver chain, hung around her neck. It was joined by a
nest of talismans carved with esoteric runes and fetishes of bone, cloth,
and silver.
The wolf joined to her right, as expected. His fur was more thin than I
remembered, mottled black streaked with ash and wiry grey. A fresh scar
split the wolfen line of his jaw beneath the hood... Another wound for the
collection. I caught the faintest curl at my lips, what served as a smile
from my less than emotive features. The rest of him was unchanged.
Tight-fitting leathers, matted with alchemical treatment, belts
crisscrossing his chest and waist, a maze of blades and vials. His amulet
hung low over his heart, the stone just as dead as mine.
"Here we are, " the Seer spoke, her voice a chilled tenor edged with a faint
rasp. She retrieved a tightly rolled vellum from her belt, methodically
unfurling it upon the makeshift table and securing its corners with the
waxen candles. Their guttering light illuminated the hard outlines of a
map. Algoron, sketched with semi-artistic and precise lines. Marked
clearly across its surface were black 'X's, stretching from distant Dojia to
familiar Althainia, spanning every continent depicted.
I quickly counted at least twenty such marks, each one clearly indicative of
a failed inquiry, a cold trail, or a spent resource. The meaning was not
hard to decipher.
"Every known, and unknown, location has been investigated. Every lead,
every asset, thoroughly questioned and tried, " the Yinn interjected, his
voice firm but underscored by brittle tension. "We have exhausted all
avenues. The First Knight is either dead, or taken captive," he concluded,
the upper lip of his canine maw twitching with suppressed agitation.
"Is that so? " I finally spoke, my voice low and blunt, devoid of false
pleasantries, echoing flat against the damp walls. These fools and their
trivial games. The endless pursuit of half-truths through cloak and
subterfuge. Always pointless.
"It is indeed," the Seer said, her voice the familiar blend of barbed wire
wrapped in silk. "We have confirmed every rumor, inspected every safehouse,
and gazed deeply into the Ether itself. He appeared upon the battlefield of
Arkane amidst the first tumult. And now he is no more. "
"And we must decide the path forward," the Wolf added, his eyes fixed
steadily upon mine, bristling with a tempered ferocity. "He made clear
contingencies in his absence, I am to act as our commander. Out of respect,
I chose to include you. You shall have your voice, Huntsman. "
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:18:47 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
At last, a glimmer of steel from the beast. A pleasing change, but one I
couldn't help but answer with harsh laughter.
The Yinn lowered his hood slowly, yellow bestial eyes narrowing into thin
slits and lupine ears flattening against his skull. "The Reliquary is no
more. Sunk beneath a bog, leaving only a corrupt stain behind. If that
does not convince you, then we have no further need of your services, Orc.
"
"Perhaps, " I replied dryly, meeting his savage stare, "if you two spent
less time reading bones and whispering secrets between princes' sheets,
you'd know your assurances mean nothing. He lives - I have seen him myself.
" I held the Yinns gaze steadily, daring him to act on the murderous glint
that danced behind his eyes. A part of me longed for him to try, if only
for the satisfaction of breaking his yelping neck.
The pair tensed visibly, uncertainty splintering their self-important
facades. I almost turned to leave, tempted to abandon them to their hollow
schemes and let them fade into forgotten dust.
"Explain, " the Seer finally spoke, her voice taut, fingers clutching the
dull talisman at her throat as though seeking reassurance it still hung
there.
"I took to the field those weeks, and was there when the chaos erupted. " I
began reluctantly, disdain lacing my tone. "Serving within a mercenary band
flying Verminasia's colors, I saw him clearly. " And so, begrudgingly, I
recounted what I knew.
The skies above churned with the wrath of a vengeful deity. From within the
maelstrom emerged the silhouettes of dragons, their vast wings cutting
through the storm, accompanied by the wizened ranks of elves astride their
armored gryphon mounts, like fables upon the winds they soared. Argent
lightning tore violently across the heavens, illuminating the defiant spires
below. Towering monoliths forged from the anguished souls of the faithful
in their final throes of hope.
Beneath this tempestuous firmament, the battlefield spiraled into madness.
A fevered whirlpool of shattered steel, splintered bone, and mangled sinew.
Monstrous aberrations, malformed amalgams of raw flesh and unnatural
viscera, surged forth from putrid pools welling up from the corrupted earth,
screaming their vile births into existence. Unleashing blind fury, they
smashed headlong into the defensive lines, cleaving plate and mail with the
wild strength of distilled depravity.
The defenders' vanguard collapsed into a frenzy of severed limbs and
fractured sanity. Discipline shattered instantly, and only after an
agonizing delay did reinforcements surge from the rear. Vicious killers of
the horde, stalwart regiments of Storm Keep, and the ancient blades of
Shalonesti advancing with steely determination to halt the tide of horrors
pouring forth, and rally the line back to fighting order.
My contingent had been positioned along Arkane's eastern flank. I broke
from their ranks, seeking higher ground to better assess the battlefield,
even as my fellow riders struggled desperately to calm their steeds,
suddenly unhinged with a primal terror. My own mount, bred and trained
meticulously under a dressage taught by the First Knight, stood firm beneath
me. From every side, ravening beasts of warp-born nightmares bounded forth.
Curiously, they seemed to ignore my presence entirely, as if restrained by
some hidden decree. Still, I drove my halberd through several of their
twisted forms as they thundered past for good measure.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:28:49 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
From the eastern treeline, I spotted a small band of soldiers emerge,
assuming a fighting march and moving with a tenure and speed that set them
apart from most Id seen that day. The warped abominations assailed them
from All fronts, yet they cut the creatures down one by one, showing no need
for respite. At first, I saw no recognizable heraldry among them, not until
they drew nearer to the front lines and crossed my vantage from the east.
One among them caught my eye. His skillful use of both sword and whip was
peculiar, but effective, a stance I vowed in that moment to study, and one I
recalled Crelius describing in our long hours of conversation about the
martial histories of old and the adaptations of modern war. Then I glimpsed
the sigil at his left hip, clan Eclipse. I saw, too, the scar that marred
his left eye. It was Maccus Kesepton, striding forward to meet the maw of
the Everwar with scant regard for the enemy's scale or ferocity. The First
Knight had spoken of the man before, citing a rare potential in him, even
confessing that Kesepton reminded him of himself in earlier days.
Then something occurred that rattled even my hardened core. A sound, not of
a man but of a steed. It pierced the chaos, ringing out over the carnage
with a clarion keening. The shapeless horrors of the warp froze, if only
for an instant, upon hearing the cry, then redoubled their savagery. From
the shadowed woods I saw the silhouette of a rider cloaked in darkness. My
attention locked onto the source of the call, and it became clear. It was
him, the First Knight, Crelius Atennim. And he had changed.
His voice rang out, broken and wrathful, a bellow that seemed to curdle the
air with an etheric resonance, "Stormbound! There is a murderous rage in
your heart, and secrets still. Come, let us carve their truths upon your
flesh." The words were mangled, almost inhuman, as he charged headlong into
Keseptons company.
I had never witnessed the First Knight move as he did in that instant. The
inexorable motions of his fire-eyed steed and the clenched fists upon the
reins seemed out of joint with the natural world, as though the tenuous
strands of reality shuddered at his passage. It was like some eldritch
force within or beyond him chafed against the slow tide of trivial time,
seeking to impress its violent will upon existence. Crelius crashed
through Keseptons flank like a bolt of cursed lightning, his ebon warglaive
threshing in his grasp with a discordant haze of unlight. Cutting down
several men in a single, blurring arc, their bodies cast aside as if riven
by gravity. I watched as the knight of Storm reacted, slipping the initial
onslaught with a masters alacrity. His swords spinning with a adder's guile
as he circled back to meet the First Knight upon the next furious pass.
It was as Crelius circled back for his next assault that I finally beheld
his face. And it was not the man I had once known. His eyepatch was gone,
revealing a mass of octagonal scar tissue in the unmistakable shape of that
damnable eight-pointed star. Worse still, some root-like tendril had seized
his throat, crawling up the back of his skull and burrowing into flesh and
bone, a premonition of the warp if there ever was one. His features
twisted with a frenzy I could scarcely recognize, a mingling of zealotry and
agony. He vaulted from his steed in a charging dismount, warglaive whirling
in dragon-mailed palms, intent on meeting Maccus Kesepton blade-to-blade.
The horse did not halt but circled like an extension of him, while a
cacophony of laughter, a dozen voices in guttural and ethereal pitches,
clamored from Crelius as he bore down on his old comrade.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:34:16 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
Their collision was a maelstrom of sparks and clashing metal, the knight
of Storm matching Crelius step for step. Maccus, cunning and pressed,
slipped a dagger free and risked All in a feint - abandoning one sword to
drive the blade up between Crelius' ribs. For an instant they locked,
Crelius stitching a rictus grin as he seized the younger man's wrist, before
hurling him away with venomous force, blood splattering from the wound and
down Jormungander's scales. The laughter only intensified, and as his
blood struck the earth, the chaos spawn seemed drawn to him, pouring from
the mire like wasps to a flame. In moments, the front was overwhelmed,
forcing Kesepton and his dwindling men to shift their focus as the chaos
beasts mobbed the field.
All changed in the span of a breath. Crelius, bloodied but unbroken, hauled
himself back into the saddle and tore southward toward Fort Ironclad like a
maniacal wraith across the killing fields. I followed at a distance as he
waded through waves of challengers. Warlords, champions, dragons - each
lured to him as ravens to fresh meat. Blade and flame struck him again and
again, but he pressed on, faster than pursuit, roaring for blood with wounds
that should have ended any man. He wasn't just fighting. He was searching,
dragging the battlefield into turmoil in hopes of summoning something or
someone. It was suicidal madness.
And when at last I tracked him beyond the walls of Arkane, to the veiled
outskirts near the Wrath's stronghold, I saw what I would come to know as
the object of his blood-crazed pursuit. There, waiting in the murk, stood
the one they once called the Butcher. The Bakali assassin, Z'szytheis, who
had turned from the Everwar, seeking absolution in the name of Raije, god of
conflict. He and Crelius shared a past, tangled and sanguinary, and there
were rumors that Raije himself had commanded the assassin to strike down the
First Knight as the price of redemption. A task left unfinished.
I knew this killer well. His reputation, his talents and his flaws. And
when I beheld Crelius now, a ruin of metal and flesh, his horse dragging a
bloodied limb behind it, I felt a welling fury course through me. I gripped
the reins of my own mount and prepared to charge. Let this so-called
penitent face a warrior who needed no redemption, whose bare hands had
crushed enemies this serpent could only aspire to confront.
But just as I began my approach, another thing occurred that I was
ill-prepared for. Crelius slowed. His wounded steed limped to a halt. He
then turned and his gaze found my own. For a briefest second, I saw him as
he once was. Not the corrupted, blood-slaked specter, but the First Knight
I had once followed. His single eye locked with mine, and he shook his head
once. He knew I was there, perhaps All along. His notion was subtle and
quiet, and I understood. Do not interfere.
I slowed, carefully turning my mount as though nothing had passed between
us. Behind me, Crelius dismounted... Barely. It was a wonder he still
stood at all. His movements were sluggish and strained. He cast aside his
warglaive, letting it thud into the sodden earth, and drew the dragonbone
wakizashi at his side. The rain fell harder now, the sky screaming with
thunder, as he faced the assassin in silence. Lightning flashed, and the
pool of blood and muddy rainwater beneath his feet shone crimson.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:41:56 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
From the periphery I watched them. Two shadows locked in a dance of
death, each a personification of violence shaped by polar dogmas. The
assassin bore fresh wounds, no doubt carved by the horrors hed crossed south
of the Church of Stars. His motion showed no fatigue. He fought like a
warrior enthralled, his curved blades flashing imperceptibility, slipping
between offense and defense with a cruel expertise. Crelius, though
battered near to death, moved as if spurred by something far more ancient.
His form an extension of that relic blade he wielded, striking with
preternatural precision, as if the veteran steel would not be cowed by one
so juvenile.
"Is he here now?" I heard Crelius growl, his voice enervated with spite.
A distant tremor rolled through the mud beneath me. Warriors of Bloodlust,
drawn by the scent of noble slaughter, approached with heavy-footed hunger.
But neither Crelius nor the snake seemed to heed them. Their focus was
unblinking. Flesh tore, blood painted the soil, and still they fought.
Then something broke the rhythm. Crelius faltered. His head jerked
slightly, cocked as if listening to some unheard voice murmuring beyond the
skein of the prime material. In that fleeting lapse, the Bakali struck.
Both blades found their mark, plunging deep into the knight's chest, angled
with murderous intent beneath each collarbone. My teeth clenched, heart
pounding in a cadence that had me nearly trembling. Crelius collapsed, his
great frame swallowed by muck and blood.
The serpent retrieved his daggers without ceremony. He did not wait to
confirm the kill. He sensed, as I did, the coming of the never-born. From
the forests edge, warp-spawn emerged once more, their forms a riot of
twitching limbs and shrieking mouths. The assassin vanished, scaling
Arkane's walls, while the warriors of the horde crashed into the beasts with
glee and axe and iron teeth.
I dismounted without thought, slapping the flank of my steed to send it to
safety, and slipped into the cover of the trees. The rain thickened as I
moved beneath the dripping canopy, the sounds of carnage fading behind me.
I climbed a bent and sturdy tree, its limbs thick and shrouded in moss, to
get a clearer view.
It was not hard to see where Crelius had fallen, and only the impression of
his body remained. A dark stain in the trampled soil. The warband passed
by, uninterested now that the thrill had faded, leaving nothing behind but
turned earth and mangled meat. I descended quickly, boots sinking into the
muck. There was a trail, slick and red, winding westward into the empty
gloom of the woods. I crouched low, pressing on into the mist-choked
undergrowth. I would find him.
The woods pressed close as I advanced, their limbs heavy with storm-wash and
the rot of long-forgotten stumps. Though I had wandered this continent for
the better part of a year, mapping its fractured borders and unearthing what
secrets still clung to the wilds of its frontiers, nothing in those prior
months prepared me for what I would find ahead. The roar of thunder above
and the percussion of distant spells and dragons wheeling overhead were
constant companions, but beneath them a different sound began to rise.
Faint at first, but it was there. Somewhere ahead, between the hush of the
rain and the mutter of the wind, I heard voices. Not cries of battle or
commands barked from officers, but something far stranger. It was...
Chanting. Low and constant, and it crawled beneath my skin.
I followed it through a thinning of trees, where the canopy broke and the
glade beyond yawned open like a mouth hexing the heavens. The sky was a
churning cauldron of black vapor and iridescent flickers, and the air was so
thick with pressure I could feel it pulse against my ribs. At the center of
that clearing, on a pale, flat stone marked with bloodstained runes, knelt
Crelius.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:46:30 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
He was no longer the old knight I had known, nor the cold strategist that
once commanded legions with availing fortitude. He was something else
entirely now. A vessel emptied by violence and filled again with something
dreadfully foreign. His armor, hewn by the ancient storm, lay torn and
shattered across his limbs, the once-proud scale reduced to ribbons and
splinters. Patches of bloody skin showed through the breaches in his
plating. And from his sundered gorget, the thing that had grown or broken
free. And indeed, I saw it clearly then. A knotted, bark-colored root that
burst from his neck and coiled tightly around his throat, its threads
burrowing beneath the skin and crawling into his skull like veins that did
not belong.
Whatever device he held in his hands had a cord that whipped in the wet
wind, its form obscured by motion and the damp haze. The words that spilled
from his mouth were no dialect I recognized, but they held a structure.
Intonations and cadences reminiscent of some malignant prayer or invocation.
The realization came to me at that moment. The orchestrated brutality, the
invited destruction, the duel with Stormbound and the traitor of Wrath. It
had All been a design, not desperation. A ritual disguised as war. Before
I could reckon with these implications, the sky tore itself open. A bolt
of light not wrought of this world slashed across the atmosphere, its color
a sick fusion of hues that shifted too fast for discernment. Red steeped in
green, spiked with a violet that bled into a spectrum my eye could hardly
fathom. The sound that followed was not thunder. It was a dirge, a
thousand voices crying out at once, not in pain, but in adoration. Or
terror, it was impossible to tell. The tempest rippled with etheric force,
and in that moment, through the swirling chaos, I saw a shape.
Suspended above the clouds, cast in silhouette against the ruptured skies,
floated a vast, obelisk-like structure. Different then the spires that had
erupted about Aversia. It pulsed with runic misery that seemed to waver
between dimensions, impressions suffered rather than seen, and the mere
recognition of it cracked something in my thoughts.
When my vision cleared, the rock was empty. Crelius was gone, as if he had
never been there, with only a dark smear of blood left behind, pooling
outward in a formation that affirmed what I had seen. Eight blood-dark
arrows radiating from a single point. I looked upward again, instinctively,
foolishly search for a glimpse of what had passed, but there was only sky,
storm, and the lingering echo of that accursed chanting still worming its
way through my mind.
"So then, you're wrong. He's neither dead nor shackled, " I said, my words
falling like rock into a pool. No need for performance. Just the truth,
plain and cold. The wolf's gaze narrowed, his ears twitching once. The
Seer remained still, her hand resting lightly on the amulet at her neck.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:52:29 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (continued)
"That is no comfort, " the wolf replied, his voice even, though the
forlorn ire beneath it was not subtle. "But if he walks the world again in
that state... Then this is no longer a search. We pull back our agents,
all of them. Every knight, every cell. We regroup. And we prepare for
what comes next. "
I stepped forward, the damp floor creaking beneath my weight. "And who
decided that? " I asked, my voice sharpened. "He gave you the right to
call a withdrawal? "
His gaze was steely now. "He did. Long before any of us knew how deep this
would go. If Crelius fell, if Erebaal's black edicts took him fully, I was
to assume command. No debate. And if that time has come, then so be it.
We finish what he could not.
I placed my fist on the table, the old wood groaning beneath the weight.
"Curious. He told me something similar. "
The wolf's lip curled. My hand moved to the edge of the table and in one
motion I sent it crashing sideways, splintering the fragile calm. Candles
spilled and died in sputtering wax. The map was torn and flung aside.
That was when the Seer's voice cut through the room. "Enough. "
The word wasn't shouted. But it silenced both of us. The weight in her
tone was venerable, and chastening. A voice used to drawing lines in rooms
like this. The Wolf froze, his hand hovering over his side. I
straightened, saying nothing, my breath slow and tight in my chest.
"We speak of contingencies like they are settled things, " she said. "But
the truth is far from settled. And none of us here will decide it by
posturing. "
Rain ticked against the roof like rats on tin. The air tasted of mildew and
dust. None of us moved. For a moment, it wasn't clear whether the room
would erupt. Or if we'd simply wait, and let what remained of our trust
linger for one more night.
Writer: Crelius
Date Thu Aug 7 23:58:39 2025
To All Chaos Shadow [51] Justian ( IMM RP )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Broken Circles (end)
As the Seer's final word faded, something shifted. A weight settled at
my throat. The amulet, once inert, now dragged against my collarbone,
heavier than lead. A soft vibration followed, barely perceptible at first,
then rising. I felt the break before I heard it. A sharp crack filled the
room as the gem fractured violently, its splinters cascading to the damp
floor. The sound repeated once, then again from across the chamber. I saw
the shards fall from the Seer's neck and the Wolf's leathers. All three
talismans, gone in an instant.
In the next moment, a psychic voice breached my consciousness with the force
of a levee breaking. Pain blossomed behind my eyes, a stabbing ache as
words bored into my mind like barbs of some reptilian spine. Judging by the
sudden tension in the others' bodies, it was clear they too suffered the
intrusion.
"Unwise of you to gather here, " the voice spoke, imbued with contemptuous
displeasure that promised consequence. It was as calm as it was cruel,
certain of its dominance in this moment.
"Even now, the crimson roses bloom. Their petals ride the wind and will
soon rest at your feet. I suggest you not be present when they do. "
The Wolf stiffened. His mask of resolve slipped briefly. "Atennim? " he
uttered, already guiding the Seer toward a concealed exit behind the chamber
wall.
"You sound disappointed, dra'Har. " The voice replied with the twist of a
smile that never touched lips. "Survive the night, and we'll see if your
loyalty is still of value. "
Without hesitation, they vanished into the corridor beyond, the Seer's steps
unerring despite her blindness. I turned to follow, only to feel the voice
hook itself into my thoughts once more.
"Not you, K'thaal, leave them. Their path diverges now. You will come to
me. There is much you must witness. "
Writer: Thorbjorn
Date Fri Aug 8 15:26:50 2025
To All Thaxanos ( Imm RP )
Subject A bridge to Althainia: The Mountain moves (Pt 1)
The stone halls of Neuxpar echoed with the steady rhythm of pickaxes and the
distant rumble of mining carts. Thorbjorn wiped the sweat from his brow as he
made his way through the clan quarters, his boots clicking against the polished
granite floors. As a grunt in the Kexrar clan of magic users, he was accustomed
to being summoned by various Thanes, but a direct call from Kraxul of Neuxpar
was unusual.
The wealthy mining clan's chambers were a testament to their prosperity - veins
of precious metals traced through the walls like artwork, and the air itself
seemed to shimmer with an almost magical quality from the refined ores stored
within. Thorbjorn found Kraxul standing before a massive stone table, maps and
scrolls spread across its surface.
"'Thorbjorn," Kraxul's voice rumbled through the chamber, deep and resonant
like the mountain itself. "Tha Emperor wants ta restore tha path."
Thorbjorn straightened, his interest piqued. The path between kingdoms had been
a topic of whispered conversations for months.
A nice, solid, stone bridge," Kraxul continued, his weathered hands tracing
along one of the maps. "A built by tha finest Dwarven craftsmen."
The Thane's eyes gleamed with the kind of excitement that came from envisioning
a project worthy of dwarven pride. "Ahm inclined t'accept his offer. I told
'im as much ahile back, but I were just reinstated as Thane and told 'im tha
decision had t'come from th' High King."
Kraxul paused, his expression growing more serious. "But with th'High King's
approval secured, we're ready ta move forward."
The Thane moved around the table to stand closer to Thorbjorn. "Tired o' leavin
th'Emperor hangin, ye follow how I said et bae politically sensitive?"
Thorbjorn nodded slowly. Politics among the clans was always a delicate dance,
especially when it came to projects that would affect the entire mountain.
"Ye with mae s'far, lad?" Kraxul asked, his piercing gaze fixed on Thorbjorn.
"Followin'," Thorbjorn replied, though his mind was already racing with the
implications of what he was hearing.
"Ahm nae lookin ta run tha whole damn project maeself," Kraxul continued,
leaning against the stone table. "Were hopin ta delegate some o' tha overseein
to a couple o' fine folks such's yerself."
The words hit Thorbjorn like a boulder rolling down a mine shaft. Him? Overseeing
a project of this magnitude? He was just a grunt from Kexrar, barely recognized
beyond his own clan's halls.
"Way I see et, et ken bae broke up into at least two seperate projects, tha
quarryin and tha construction. Would like ta put ye in charge o' one of em."
Kraxul's voice grew more purposeful as he studied Thorbjorn's reaction. "This
ain't just about buildin' a bridge, lad. This is about showin' th'other clans
what leadership looks like. About provin' that Kexrar has more ta offer than
just cheap magic tricks."
The words carried weight that went far beyond the immediate project. Thorbjorn
felt a surge of understanding - this was about more than quarrying stone.
"aye, that project needs proper leadership," Thorbjorn said, his voice
growing stronger.
"So... now ye know wot I know. Ken I count on yer support... in both areas?"
The question hung between them like a bridge waiting to be built. Thorbjorn
looked at the maps, at the ambitious plans spread before him, and felt something
stir in his chest - not just ambition, but a vision of what the Kexrar clan
could become.
"le's git aet done," he said, his voice carrying more conviction than he'd
felt in years.
Kraxul's smile widened. "Ef et works out th'way ah think et will... et'll bae
ah good show o' yer leadership abilities. And ah'll bae needin ta put together
a Council o' Thanes."
The implications were staggering. A Council of Thanes, and Kraxul was
positioning Thorbjorn not just as a project leader, but as someone worthy of
Writer: Thorbjorn
Date Fri Aug 8 15:30:29 2025
To All Thaxanos ( Imm RP )
Subject A bridge to Althainia: The Mountain moves (Pt 2)
sitting among the clan leaders themselves.
"thenkin ah could may'aps lead tha quarryin. huntin in the mines fer tha
roight ores an such," Thorbjorn said, his practical mind already turning to
the logistics. "workin on deliveries"
"Gud'nuff then. Ah'll oversee tha construction," Kraxul agreed, extending
his hand. "Ah'll let tha Emperor know he ken count on us."
As they clasped hands, Thorbjorn felt the weight of obligation settling on his
shoulders like the weight of the mountain itself. "And if anybody else bae
willin ta help out, we'll find work for them too," Kraxul added.
The Thane's expression grew thoughtful as he looked toward the chamber's
entrance. "This project will make or break reputations, lad. But I have a
feeling it's gonna make yours."
As Thorbjorn left the chambers, his mind buzzed with possibilities that
stretched far beyond quarrying stone. The bridge project was more than just
engineering - it was a proving ground, a chance to demonstrate that the Kexrar
clan deserved a voice among the kingdom's leadership.
The mountain kingdom of Thaxanos was built on the strength of its clans, and
somehow, a grunt named Thorbjorn had found himself positioned to elevate his own
clan's standing. The path from grunt to Thane was usually a long one, but it
began with a single step - and that step was carved in stone.
The quarrying project would require careful planning, skilled workers, and the
right materials. More importantly, it would require him to think not just as a
wielder of magic, but as a leader worthy of the Kexrar name.
As he walked through the mountain corridors, Thorbjorn's thoughts turned to his
own clan. The magic users of Kexrar had always been respected for their mystical
abilities, but respect and political power were different things entirely. This
bridge could change that.
The path forward was clear, even if the destination remained shrouded in the
complex politics of dwarven clan leadership. But for the first time in his life,
Thorbjorn wasn't just following orders - he was charting a course that could
reshape the very foundations of his clan's future.
The bridge would be built, stone by stone. And with it, the strength of Kexrar
would be seen again within the Mountain.
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 8 20:36:15 2025
To Chaos All ( IMM RP )
Subject The Word Bearers Liberation (Undated)
The bells of the cathedral tolled... Not in celebration, but in warning.
Their bronze voices rolled over the harbor, mingling with gull-cries and the
tang of tar and brine. For generations the port had knelt to the God of
Honor, its streets scrubbed white by duty, its people bound by vows spoken
at birth and chains worn with pride.
Justian stood in the fish-market square before the cathedral, hooves firm on
cobbles slick with tide-scum. The banner of Chaos snapped in the sea wind,
and from his censer rose coils of dark smoke that smudged the pale sky.
"They kneel in chains," his voice rolled like the surf, "and call it
devotion."
Beside him loomed Waaagh, rusted plate over dragonhide, furnace-bright eyes
shadowed beneath a helm. His war-axe hung low, edge still wet from the
mornings work. He stared at the barred temple gates, where sun-polished
masks glimmered like false halos.
"You fear us because we are free," Justian called, voice cutting through
gull and surf alike. "You force your honor into every throat. I bring air
untainted. I bring choice."
The fisherfolk wavered, caught between the priests words, the shadow hulking
at his back, and the restless mob of cultists.
"Waaagh." It was almost gentle.
"Not yet," Justian said.
"WAAAAAGH." Iron in the syllables now.
"Words first," the Centaur warned.
"... Waaagh." Lower, drawn out... A rumble of protest that clung to the
air like a wounded growl.
The pause was brief, brittle. His grip shifted on the axe, shoulders
rolling forward as the weight of restraint fell away.
The first swing of the bugbears axe shattered the cathedral gate. The
second caved it inward. The third drowned in screams as Chaos surged into
the sanctum.
Justian followed, censer swinging, smoke meeting incense beneath the stern
gaze of Nadriks statues. Somewhere in the haze, Waaaghs final roar split
the air... And with it, the towns submission.
When the bells fell silent, the Word Bearer stood before the altar.
Survivors knelt in the smoke, trembling like nets fresh from the sea.
"You are free," he said. "Now... CHOOSE."
Behind him, Waaagh rumbled a low, satisfied, "Waaagh."
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Aug 8 20:58:32 2025
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sat Aug 9 15:11:03 2025
To Shadow Telthian Symantha ( All admin Tritoch Cayenna RP )
Subject The bridge of black wings: {uorigins (I)
Some time ago, in a Shokonese mountain estate
".. But with All the evils, Hope also escaped the box, the most insidious
trait of our foes. The smallest shred of hope can taint the best laid
plans, and its flame can flicker to life, shedding light in the darkest
corners. To this day, we hunt for hope, and when we find it.." The
grandmotherly yinn paused, peering at each of her listeners with eyebrows
raised, an exaggerated expression of the storyteller.
A few wide-eyed yinnish children leaned forward in anticipation. "When we
find it, we GOBBLE IT UP! Om nom nom!" She cried as she reached towards
the closest child. The others followed her lead and reached out with
childlike facsimiles of menace and hunger. This devolved into shrieks and
laughter and a brief ticklefight which devolved into the sort of mild
violence that inevitably leads to tears. Good, the matron thought, rough
and tumble children are what this family needs. Has always needed, and over
the years the tears will give way to competitiveness and rivalry. Strength.
"Alright, children, time for-" Their cries of dismay interrupted her. "One
more!" They said, or "just one more!" Or "But naaan it's barely even dark
out!"
With an exaggerated sigh she sternly agreed, "Alright. One more." The
children settled and moved closer again. "But just a quick one, it's too
late for the full story." They gave her enthusiastic agreement, always
happy to win over their grandmother, the matron of the Nightingale family.
"The bridge of black wings," she began.
"I thought it was the bridge of black winds!" One of them cried out, taking
a smack in the shoulder from their sibling for their trouble. "Shh-" came
the rejoinder. "Sometimes it's both, just listen!"
Nan suppressed a smile and started the tale, a much abridged version, as she
wouldn't say no to these little whelps, but it was far past their time to
sleep. "Where we came from, there was only the sun. There were no moons to
chase him off, and the days were long. But the nights were dark, the sky
filled only with the stars. Everybody worshipped the sun, because that was
the only god they could see."
"Then one night, the sky tore open, and it never closed up again. Some
people saw nothing at all, only blackness, but a few could see the moon.
Darkseers, they were called, and a rift formed between the people who could
see the black moon, and the people who could not. The people who could see
its dark light came to worship the moon, for it shone in the night, and the
night became their domain.
The moon-goddess gave them power, too, and they used this power to rule the
world. The world was orderly then, and everything was right for years and
years, and one day, the bridge of black wings was formed, and the Darkseers
were in awe of it, and they began to explore. Those who tread the bridge
spoke of wondrous sights to be seen around the edges of the moon, another
moon behind it, full of colour and always moving, but those who went All the
way across the bridge never came back.
Eventually, a great host was gathered, and went All the way through, trying
to reach the moon-goddess, but the moon-goddess was not ready for them, and
she was displeased at their coming.. She shook them off, and they fell all
the way down - here, to Algoron - telling the host that the time of their
ascension would be after Hers, not before. The host was scattered, with
many outposts across the land, and that is how we came to be on Algoron.
"Did anyone go back through the rip?" "Tell us about Dae'tok!" "Who made
the bridge?" "Was that Drakkara?" A cacophonous choir of questions leapt
out from the children and Nan raised her hands in surrender. "Bed,
children! Those are stories for another time!"
"But Naaaan" A silent, stern look from her set them off with a series of
disappointed, grumbling, and even cheerful goodnights.
*-*-*-*
In the present day, Tsacherus sits in meditation, recollecting old fables.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Aug 9 19:53:16 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Xenophon Tritoch
Subject {uThe Witchlock - A Vision, Alteration Awaits
I dreamed, though it did not feel like sleep.
The air was heavy with candle soot, and the Cauldron sat in the center of a
chamber I did not recognize, its rim lined with glyphs I have never
inscribed. Across from it stood a man I knew by instinct, though I have
never looked upon his face in life: Alexandre, Wizard of the Ebony Tower,
lost to our records. His eyes were fixed on the surface of the Cauldron,
but the liquid within did not move.
When I stepped closer, the surface shimmered, not with reflection, but with
erasures. Shapes of words, diagrams, entire pages swam beneath, blurred and
then torn away by some unseen hand. Alexandre reached in, not to stir, but
to pull something out. His fingers returned empty, dripping only shadows.
He looked at me, not pleading, not warning, but knowing.
Then the floor cracked like old bone, and the Cauldron sank into a black
fissure. Alexandre stepped after it, swallowed without a sound. I called
to him, but my voice scattered like ashes in a wind I could not feel.
I awoke on the floor of my sanctum, ink dried across my hands, quills
snapped under my weight. My mind told me it was my own hunger for answers,
shaping the dream. Yet when I opened my notes, I found an unfamiliar line
in the margin: "The knot cannot be cut, only unmade."
The various body parts, cold corpses, and depths of the Shadowrealm no
longer serve this work. Their silence matches the Cauldron's. If I cannot
find the answers in the depths of the night, then I will turn to another
discipline entirely.
The Arcane Books of Alteration wait, sealed in the upper library. If the
past hides what I seek, then I will bend the weave of history itself, unpick
its stitches, and remake the tapestry until Alexandres silence is broken.
If the knot will not yield to patience, it will yield to will.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Aug 9 20:38:29 2025
To All Conclave Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject The Codex of All Tounges {u(I{u)
It was not until I had learned every tongue of Algoron that I understood
the futility of the chase.
For years I scoured the libraries of the world, Death Garden, Shalonesti,
the Dragon Towers, even the frost-bitten vaults of Frostania, and always I
found the same anomaly: a single word, written in a language foreign to the
surrounding text. It was deliberate, placed with care, yet scattered across
so many volumes and continents that it defied sense. I thought fluency
would be the key.
It was not.
Even with mastery of every language spoken under the moons, the words still
resisted meaning. They were fragments of a greater whole, each in place but
beyond my grasp.
It was only after I took up the discipline of Alteration that the final lock
turned. The incantation of Know Languages, a spell so simple it is
overlooked by most, did not merely translate, it aligned. The scattered
words unfolded into sentences, the sentences into paragraphs, until at last
the puzzle resolved itself into a single, blasphemously elegant text.
I have begun to compile it into a single volume, The Codex of All Tongues.
It speaks of secrets the Conclave has hidden from even its most loyal
servants, of a repository of scrolls and grimoires stored far from our
towers. Some passages name Shokono. Others describe an island I do not
recognize, perhaps one not yet discovered, or hidden by the weave itself.
If these documents exist, they may hold the means to unlock the Conclaves
true potential... Or spells so new that even the gods have yet to see them
cast.
I will find them. And when I do, the weave will no longer bind us, we will
bind it.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Aug 9 20:49:09 2025
To All Conclave Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Threads in Old Ink {u(II{u)
The Codex does not read like a single book. It is more akin to a web of
marginalia, scraps of script, and the ghosts of annotations, the kind left
behind when a scribe changes their mind but does not erase the ink fully.
And yet, as I traced each fragment back to the library from which I took it,
patterns began to surface.
Not of new magicks... But of unfinished ones.
What we now call Frost Shroud in Alteration was not intended merely as a
block of ice. In the Codex's structure, its original form wove temperature
manipulation with reflective enchantments. Perhaps it the ability to blind
with the reflective glare of the sun, or perhaps confuse ones foe to not
know where to flee. It seems though half the lattice is missing from the
modern spell.
Bind Golem, the Invocation taught in its rigid, fixed sequence, appears in
the Codex as a fluid binding, one adaptable to a golem's composition,
allowing constructs of bone, shadow, or even pure energy. Our version is
but a lockpick carved for one door, theirs fit any.
The Battlemagic of Alter Beast was clearly meant as more than battlefield
transformation. The Codex diagrams show branching morphologies, temporary
bestial traits that could be summoned in precise combinations rather than
full shapeshifts. Why this modular version was abandoned is not recorded.
And Wind Breath... Even its name seems incomplete now. The Codex renders
it as Breath of Storms, a force that could carry sound, scent, and even
thought upon the wind. In the modern form, All that remains is the blunt
impact.
These are not simply lost variations. They are spells the Conclave itself
chose to cut, dilute, or reframe. Whether out of safety, secrecy, or
sabotage, I cannot yet say.
The Codex is not showing me spells to invent, it is showing me spells to
restore. And if these four have survived in our ranks even as husks, I must
wonder... How many others were buried so deep they never resurfaced at all?
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Aug 10 19:12:50 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Margins of the Suppressed {u(III{u)
I have read the fragments again by candlelight, letting the glyphs swim
before my eyes until I could almost hear the quills scratching them into
being. There is a rhythm to the omissions, a deliberate cadence to what was
erased. This was not the work of time or decay. It was an act of choice.
The Codex does not shout its reasons. It only hints, in half-faded warnings
and veiled analogies, that these magicks were stilled. Perhaps they bent
too far toward imbalance, their lattice too fragile to hold, or perhaps they
were too perfect, too tempting for those who would twist them into conquest.
Yet the thought gnaws at me if, the Conclave struck them from common
teaching to keep them safe, safe for whom? For the realm, or for
themselves?
Frost Shroud's missing lattice could blind as well as defend. Bind Golem's
adaptable binding could forge soldiers from any matter. Alter Beast's
modular morphologies would give a mage the instincts of a hawk, the
endurance of a wolf, and the senses of a shark, even adapting to rideable
forms. And Breath of Storms... I can only imagine the reach of a thought
carried across leagues on a whispering gale.
Such power, if restored, would tilt the balance of every school. No wonder
the ink was broken. I will not rush this work. I will isolate the smallest
viable fragment of Frost Shroud's reflective weave and see if it can be
sustained without collapse. If the Codex is to be believed, even a sliver
will reveal the whole.
Still, before I take brush to parchment or will to weave, I must kneel in
the dark and ask the Mother if these were silenced by mortal fear, or by Her
will.
Writer: Narash
Date Mon Aug 11 21:50:31 2025
To All ( Imm RP )
Subject A perfect moment
Narash sat seiza in the stillness of the garden. His back was ramrod
straight, yet without stiffness in his posture. His eyes were closed and
his muzzle was relaxed. His hands rested palm down on his thighs,
completely unmoving. He breathed in from his diaphragm, taking slow, deep,
relaxed breaths. He wore a formal Yukata, the lightweight Kimono favored
for Shokonese summers belted with a proper Obi. To his left, his long
bladed war-sword lay on the ground beside him, within easy reach.
To the uninitiated observer, he might be mistaken as completely unaware of
his surroundings, completely subsumed in his meditations. Yet his canid
ears were pricked up attentively and every breath was drawn through his nose
and analyzed by his keen sense of smell. He was seeking after that perfect
balance of complete relaxation and focused awareness of his surroundings.
He pursued the complete peace of being entirely one with the moment, without
past or future.
His moment of Zen stretched out from one minute to a quarter of an hour,
then half an hour, then a full hour without the slightest stir of movement.
Finally, the air in his garden shifted slightly. A single blossoming flower
from one of his trees fell gently from its place in the miniscule breeze,
drifting through the warm stillness.
There was no decision to act, no conscious engagement of Narash's mind, only
an instinctual grasp of a perfect moment and then action. In a single,
explosive movement Narash was on his feet, his blade naked in his hand and
moving with a blinding combination of surgical precision and vast physical
power. The blade moved smoothly through the three, rolled tatami mats
positioned in a spread triangle around him, passing through each one without
the slightest impedance before perfectly bisecting the falling blossom.
Narash was left in a perfect hasso-no-kamae position at the movement's end,
balanced and ready to act.
He smiled and relaxed his stance as the slight movement of the air in the
wake of his lightning fast strike shifted the tatami mats just enough that
they fell into pieces where his blade had passed through them. He retrieved
his scabbard, sheathed his blade and slid the weapon through his Obi to
where it belonged at his side.
It had been a good afternoon's meditation, but now there was work to be
done.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Aug 11 22:56:32 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject In the Hand of the Suppressed {u(IV{u)
The Codex's web is wider than I thought.
Frost Shroud, Bind Golem, Alter Beast, Breath of Storms, these were only the
obvious husks, their bones jutting from the sand for any patient eye to see.
But in the margins, buried in layered glosses and ciphered substitutions,
there are deeper grafts of thought, works left nameless, their titles
swallowed by the ink, their diagrams scattered like ribs after a feast.
One fragment shows an arrangement of limbs and skulls, the runes for
"binding" and "leeching" scorched half away. It is not a construct in the
golem-sense, nor a summoned minion. It reads more like the Thindle Weave I
have been imagining, a short-lived weapon born from the corpse itself,
drinking life as it strikes. The Conclave must have seen its potential. To
give such a weapon to any magus, even one outside Necromancy... I can see
why they hid it.
Another sketch, half dissolved in mildew, recalls the torn diagrams I drew
for Bone Storm, the swirling, part-guided cyclone of flesh and bone,
striking in patterns according to its composition. Arms for a thousand
cuts, skulls for concussive shock, entrails for mind-sapping poisons. The
Codex fragment is more elegant than my early trials, but the heart of the
art is the same: to weaponize anatomy itself as a flowing, adaptable spell.
And there, a gloss on a forgotten charm variant, annotated only with "for
those without pulse." It matches the theory I began under the title Charm
Undead. To tether beguiling threads into what already binds the dead, not
to create, but to claim. If my calculations are correct, such a weave would
allow a Necromancer to gather an army of another variant.
The more I read, the more I see that Black Curse, as we know it, is only the
shadow of its intended malediction. In the Codex's lattice, it was not
merely a wound to the body's ability to heal, it was a prison to the spirit,
sealing off every escape, anchoring the victim to the field until judgment
was done.
And still, the Conclave teaches their safe shapes, their blunted edges.
They did not destroy these works. They locked them away, perhaps hoping no
one would notice the cracks in the door. Perhaps forgotten as time passed
and their secrets never passed on.
But I notice.
And I will test the hinges.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Aug 11 23:15:20 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject The Tounges of the Suppressed {u(V{u)
The Codex is no mere grimoire. It is a listener's map, a way to hear
words spoken centuries apart, in tongues no scribe would ever mix, and
understand that they belong to each other.
Within the aisles of six libraries, the same anomaly: a single word written
in a language that should not be there. A Pan-Toll herbal record written in
High Arkanian, but one line holding the dwarvish, "hinge." A military
ledger from Lador's Castle, scribed in Leonine, yet one notation scratched
in goblin, "flight."
At the Restricted Library of the Azure Tower, I found a celestial chart in
pure Old Thalosian, save for one Yinnish glyph for "veil." In Haven's
Library, a children's bestiary, Common from cover to cover, yet the fox
entry bore a single Minotaur word for "sever." The Enchantress Tower's
poetry contained a lone Kender term for "meld." In the mildew-ridden vaults
of Loodvich's Dungeon, a torture ledger in Verminasian slipped once into
Elvish with "dual."
Individually, curiosities. Together, once each was restored to its proper
tongue and matched to its siblings through the Codex's lattice, the words
shaped meanings too deliberate to be coincidence.
The Pan-Toll "hinge" and Lador "flight" aligned with a fragment in the
Codex's Bind Golem section, suggesting constructs not fixed to the ground,
forms with articulated joints to bear weight in motion, even in the air.
The Azure Tower's "veil" tied to a suppressed Darkness weave in the Codex,
one not shrouding a single form, but folding an entire space into a communal
cloak where allies moved unseen.
Haven's "sever," the Enchantress Towers "meld," and Loodvich's "dual" all
aligned to the Alter Beast lattice. Not the clumsy whole-body
transformations taught today, but a precise blending of traits, a beast's
senses without losing a mage's speech, a predator's claws without
surrendering to its mind.
The words are not in the wrong tongue by accident. They are breadcrumbs
left for those willing to walk across All Algoron, with enough languages in
their head to notice them. Without the Codex, they are a collection of
strange vocabulary. With it, they are the key to what the Conclave cut
away.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Mon Aug 11 23:22:46 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Whispers across centuries {u(VI{u)
The pattern is too deliberate to be accident.
Every foreign word I've uncovered, from Pan-Toll to Loodvich's castle,
whether it was Gantha or the Crystal Library, hidden in forest trapped in
the Enchantress Tower, or as open as New Thalos Library, it was not merely
inserted, but placed. Placed where it would draw the eye of one who knew it
did not belong. Yet without the Codex, they are like isolated stars in a
cloudy sky. Only by mapping them together do they form constellations, each
pointing to a shape the Conclave buried.
Was this scattering an act of concealment... Or of preservation?
If concealment, then the architects of this deception believed destruction
too risky. The knowledge was too deeply rooted, too bound into other works
to be erased entirely without raising suspicion. So they severed it, hid it
in languages where only the learned could spot the intrusion, trusting that
without the Codex, no one could draw the lines.
But if preservation, then some among them wanted this to be found. Not now,
perhaps, but someday. Perhaps they feared the spells would be erased
utterly, so they wove their bones into the body of the libraries themselves,
each keeper unwittingly guarding a fragment. The Codex, then, would not be
just a key, but a covenant between the past and whoever could piece the
covenant together again.
The bindings point to power, aerial golems with articulated movement,
Darkness as a room-wide shroud for an entire cadre, Alter Beast's mingling
of human and bestial traits without full surrender. Yet it is not the power
that unsettles me. It is the intent.
If this is concealment, I trespass into forbidden ground, and the Mother of
Magicks may weigh me for arrogance. If this is preservation, then I am the
intended hand, the one meant to fit these words together and bring the
shapes they describe back into the weave.
I cannot yet decide which truth is more dangerous.
Writer: Fenna
Date Tue Aug 12 01:43:16 2025
To Arkane Raphiel Jochi All ( Imm RP )
Subject A Gift of Four Seeds
As soon as her boots hit the marble floor of Arkane's temple, Fenna was
moving. She walked as quickly as she could without running as she followed
the streets out of the city. It was too risky to run. If she tripped she
might drop the precious cargo she kept clasped in both hands close to her
body. So she walked.
The dirt path leading out of the kingdom was still busy enough with other
travelers that even if she'd decided to risk running she wouldn't have had a
clear path. She willed the excitement down. Patience... Patience. A few
more moments in the trip home would make or break her trip. She tried to
focus on how the sun felt on her face instead and how it warmed her skin,
and how it felt somehow different to the sun from the field of reeds just a
little while ago. Still warm, still comforting, but maybe not as fully
either of those things.
She turned off the main path onto a smaller one and followed it through the
trees to where it opened to a shallow valley and the fields where her family
and a handful of others lived. The farm houses sparsely dotted the
landscape but one of the nearest ones was home.
One of her brothers met her at the gate and dragged her into a rough hug.
When she didn't the embrace he peered at her hands suspiciously. She
grinned almost stupidly at him in return.
'Can you get everyone to come out to the trench at the edge of the field?
I've got something that's going to help.' She asked him. The look he gave
her was obviously torn between the urge to assert his sibling dominance and
understanding that his sister was being serious. He finally nodded.
'Yeah, okay Fen. We'll meet you there. Da's already out there clearing the
near side again.' He said as he walked away.
Fenna trailed through the near fields between rows of potatoes, summer
squash, and finally their lessened plot of wheat. At the far edge were her
father and younger sister, both busy clearing the trench that separated the
field from an up-seep of the muck that crept from around Arkane. A new
chore that had to be tended to daily to prevent the foul, silty stuff from
invading further into the field where it would destroy the rest of the crop.
Her father had greeted her with a loving (and very sweaty) hug which left
her protesting and her sister commenting that she probably deserved it for
some reason or other. They both asked after the reason she was home so
soon, if it was good news, if she was alright, but Fenna didn't want to tell
it twice and risk dropping any detail for her family.
When the rest of her family joined them, Fenna recounted the month's and
day's events. She started with the conversations she'd had about the awful
muck, about maybe trying to grow rice in it (even if they couldn't eat the
rice) to try to dry the ground. That lead her to telling them with wonder
in her eyes at meeting an actual angel, about discussing the same ideas with
him. About being lead to a field of golden reeds and a church with the
tallest doors that she'd ever seen. About the golden seeds that had been
anointed and gifted to her.
When she finally opened her hands to show her family the four small seeds
she cradled there, her mother gasped and her older brother tried to close
her hands again.
'It's not just for us. This could help the whole valley.' she said,
excitement refusing to let her smile fade again.
Her father picked one seed from her hands and held it between two fingers.
'Better go give those other three to the neighbors then.' Was All he
said. Then he turned to plant the tiny little seed in the center of the
long trench where the muck seeped ever in.
A seed each to three siblings and then they were off to three neighbors.
They All knew how to harvest seeds. In a season these four could become
hundreds. In two seasons they might have a golden wall of protection for
their little farming valley. In three... in three, who knew?
Writer: Tash'a
Date Tue Aug 12 05:21:11 2025
To All dark_elves drakkara fatale Imshael Philyra Tifara
Subject Dark Pact (Sanguine Promise)
The stake had pierced the flesh with unceremonious strength. Ruthless,
merciless. Pain erupted through the body, dark powers draining along with
the precious vitae bound to them. It burned like pure fire in the chest,
an agony even as darkness took the senses.
The sudden jerk of limbs tormented and awakened, possibly by the distant
sensation of the staking, the acknowledgment of what had happened and what
was continuing to transpire, was only mildly interrupted at first by the
reinforced box that bound the faculties to a confined darkness.
Confusion. Where had the box come from? Tentative exploration confirmed a
wicked truth: There was no way out. Metal and chains shifted on the
outside. Betrayal.
One could only scream in rage as certainty set in. They were still what
they were but trapped, a prisoner in a box within their own flesh. Flesh
and power that would wither the longer it was held in stasis. It would be
more than torture, cut off as their mind was from the dark bloodline, and
denied sustenance.
Time passed, immeasurable. They underestimated the will within. Longevity
was the strength of an elf. Bolstered by a dark source, an existence that
had known great torment before it had taken root in the body, he dug deep
and embraced torpor before true insanity could overcome.
There would be a time for hunting the truth, for vengeance. For a red wake.
It wasn't sleep she awoke from but a deep meditation. Elevated above
demonic symbols filled and empowered with cooled blood, the sanguine gift
had also levitated to form complicated symbols in the air around her and
once again the power of the pact rushed through her veins.
She could sense the other, quiescent but aware. Much like a sifting through
the mind, a quickening in the blood, and it drew her thoughts to the Queens.
To a conversation had most recently around the ancient bloodlines.
If one could reach into blood memories, tap into any of what had been, then
what more could her own creator do? Were her own limits generationally
broad? Did she dare reach into the black wellspring of her makers, who
assuredly had to hail from the origin of the Accursed if not before.
How delicious the thoughts.
Drawn into the rumination of this deeper truth, she let the cruel experience
that Sha'katas had been forced to endure centuries ago, even before the
creation of the Accursed, roil beneath the quiet surface. She had harbored
hatred for the Shalonost, for Shalonesti, for long years before this moment.
More fuel for that endless, ever-burning fire was always welcome whether the
memory was clear or not.
The ages were always tricky to pick at, as her own exploration through the
memories of shades had revealed.
She had deeper to go here. Much deeper, but first..
A thread to follow, to pull on, and a thirst to quench.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Aug 12 08:07:08 2025
Writer: Rorra
Date Tue Aug 12 08:16:09 2025
To Chaos All Thistleigh ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - Landfall part 1
The slow creep of sunlight through the ships porthole window illuminated
the white-robed form of the unconscious felar. Several hours had gone by
since she had collapsed, remaining still through most of it, exhausted as
she was. As the light graced her white-furred visage, Rorras eyes shot
open, pupils already thin slits. She was slow to move at first, shuffling
her arms out from beneath her head, and then, at last, pushing herself up
into a sitting position. Though she was quick to let loose a grumbling
groan, her arms were further lifted, hands clasping together, in a languid
stretch high above. Even her tail joined in the movement, lifting itself
into the air with a heavy arch of her back.
"Oh...I needed that. How long has it been, I wonder? Five seasons? Six?"
The white tigress of a felar took a moment to shed the top half of the robe,
inspecting her body for those spots that had still yet to grow back to their
former glory. Though her expression shifted to disappointment, it was not
long before her features lit up with a smile again.
"Still in one piece... Might need to eat a little more, hmm... "
With that thought in mind, she took care while getting to her feet, bracing
herself on the nearby bed. Once upright, the felar stood before a small
mirror with a single crack running through the middle of it from the top
left to the bottom right. Her gaze immediately fixed upon those eyes, black
sclera engulfing the yellow slit pupils. A brief frown appeared on her
feline lips just before she opened her mouth, tilting her head one way then
the other. She made a slight sound on a happier note after seeing the
dutiful care of those sharp teeth. Satisfied for now, she slipped the top
of the white robe back into place, leaving the hood down to expose the
crimson hair often concealed within the gunmetal carapace. The long braid
pooled within the hood itself. With her garments back in order, she opens
the door to her room and emerges into the warm sunlight of the new day on
the deck of the ship. The sailors were busy keeping everything in working
order, following the shouts from the captain, with only a handful of
passengers lingering above deck.
"Ah, to feel the warmth of the sun again! "
Rorra threw her arms open wide, casting her gaze toward the sky to accompany
the attention-grabbing shout. She was far too enraptured by the sensations
to care much about keeping a low profile anymore. Quite a few members of
the crew gave the felar an awkward glance, grumbling about strays and
tourists alike. This did not escape her notice, however, as she seemed
unbothered by it. She scurried over to the port side of the ship, leaning
pretty far over the edge to which many of the crew were hoping for the best
result of going overboard.
"Ooohh! The water is a lot clearer than I thought! Look at the fish! "
In her newfound excitement over even mundane things, the felar's control
over the metallic elements seeps out, gripping the anchor and lifting it
enough to let it slam back against the hull. That drew several of the crew
toward the anchor to inspect it. Nothing out of the ordinary beyond a bit
of extra sway to the metal anchor. She never paid attention to their
inspection as she remained fixated on the fish in the water. By this point,
she has folded her arms to rest her head on them, fascinated by every little
thing.
"To be so free..."
Writer: Rorra
Date Tue Aug 12 08:23:37 2025
To Chaos All Thistleigh ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - Landfall part 2
The lingering thought finds itself shunted out of her mind as near the
shoreline of her destination lurked a massive darkened set of clouds. The
mere sight of it is enough to make her ears droop, knowing All too well the
curse afflicted upon her. Nothing distracted her from thinking about it as
she spent the next several hours staring off into the distance. It may have
been some quirk of divine punishment or an unfortunate direction of the
wind, but the storm closed in on the ship. Even as the deckhands prepared
for the storm, trying to coax the passengers below deck for their safety,
she would not budge. By the time the first of the raindrops graced the deck
of the ship, Rorra had overcome the brief wave of sadness.
"If you want to play, then let's play! "
The storm held heavier rains than she expected, yet it would not matter.
Her senses were forever closed to the sounds she once loved. With a
drenched form, she lifted her head to look into the storm, the living metal
ooze lingering along the back of her form becoming somewhat visible beneath
the robe. Those cat-like slits for pupils dilated dramatically as she
lifted a hand and swung it from one side to the other along with a wide
arcing movement from her tail, including a subtle step in the same
direction. In tandem with this, one anchor again smashes against the side
of the ship. The impact was hard enough to knock the vessel a few inches
off course. She turned her head to look toward the captain, who was
attempting to fight against the sudden and unexpected movement. Several
slivers of the living ooze slip out of the sleeves of her robe to latch onto
the wheel of the ship. In short order, the wheel found itself overtaken,
controlled by the mind of a misfit.
"A duet to remember! "
Her focus shifted again toward the darkened sky overhead. Along with the
change in direction, so too is the ship steered directly into the storm.
Moments later, the anchor unraveled from its resting place, plunging into
the water. Just as the white tigress of a felar swung an arm, leaping into
the air and twisting, the lengthy chain moved along with her movements and
wrapped around the underside of the ship until the anchor crashed onto the
deck on the opposite side. The storm seemed to rage with greater fury as
though it knew precisely who taunted it. Though many of the crew were
scrambling to understand what was happening, and resolve the issue, none of
them seemed to care much for the playful felar.
"And the finale! "
As she shouts that into the silent storm, the ooze itself launches several
spikes into the deck of the ship to keep its master upright. Moments later,
the ship lifted from the water and slammed back down into the dark waters.
As the wheel and the heavy chains were being manipulated, the ship itself
was not too far from the shoreline, even if a short distance from the dock.
Rorra shifted her body and slid her foot toward the waiting shore. With the
sounds of wood splintering and metal scraping against the rocks, the ship
ran aground. Even with the lanced metal in the deck, the impact nearly
toppled her, though several of the crew and the one lone passenger who
witnessed Rorra's work ended up thrown from the ship.
"Hm! So eager to play but so fleeting All the same! Speak a little louder
next time, will you? "
Writer: Rorra
Date Tue Aug 12 08:26:04 2025
To Chaos All Thistleigh ( Current RP Malachive Imm Scorn Xenophon )
Subject A New Harvest - Landfall part 3
Unceremoniously, Rorra made her way from the ship itself, making use of
the somewhat concealed ooze under the robe to create footholds to disembark
from the ship. An unearthly smile crept across her face as one of the crew
groaned out in her direction a pained set of spoken words.
"What... What are you!? "
"Me? Oh, please, I am your guest. A mere passenger. A maiden who only
wished to see beyond! "
Her reply was almost said in a lilting manner, though she tossed a few extra
gold coins near the still-recoiling man.
"Good luck! "
Without another word, she calmly walked away from the wreckage as though
nothing strange had happened at all. There was a moment when Rorra stopped
to look toward the darkened clouds above with a smile before continuing on
her merry way. With several eyewitnesses to what had happened, it would not
be long before word got out about the incident.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Tue Aug 12 18:27:25 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Anatomy of the Unspoken {u(VII{u)
The lattice for Alter Beast was never meant to be a blunt key, unlocking
one door to one form. The Codex makes that plain, the word "sever" from
Havens bestiary, "meld" from the Enchantress Tower's poetry, "dual" from
Loodvichs ledger, they are not instructions for replacement, but for
combination.
Xaerik's notes, which I pried from they dusty rows of research, now read
differently in the Codex's light. His diagrams of Gnarths, fel-gnarth,
pi-gnarth, ba-gnarth, were meticulous matched with ledgers, notes, and
diagrams of their unique anatomy spent from hours of my own research and
dissection. He saw their potential but he did not see what I now see, each
anatomical trait is a modular thread that could be woven and bent to form
without the surrender or sarifice.
My work at the dissection tables as a Necromancer proved useful, it served
more as mapping than cutting. The wing-bone of a ba-gnarth, hollow yet
strong enough to bear its bulk in flight, rests beside the jaw of a
wol-gnarth, its bite anchored by dense hinge muscles. The musculature of a
be-gnarth's forelimb, perfect for disarming prey, lies under the lamp next
to the delicate ear-structures of a fo-gnarth, tuned to pick locks of sound
rather than steel.
Through theory of Alteriation and Alter Self, and Alter Beast forms of the
creatures, there lay a path to bend the weave to a Battlemages will. The
Codex suggests a path where the caster is both their own mind and body, yet
with selected traits grafted to beasts whose essence they have studied in
the weave.
Gnarths are the perfect foundation. They are already hybrids of natural
form and latent magick, the weave clings to them in death as much as life.
The Codex's scattered words, Xaerik's research and theories, my notes on
anatomy, together whisper of something greater: a catalogue of traits, not
just bodies, from which the caster may choose, as a scribe chooses ink.
If this is concealment, the Conclave feared more than vanity shapeshifts.
If preservation, then someone wanted this art, the art of selective
enhancement, to outlive their time. In either case, the Gnarth corpses in
my keeping may yet prove to be the ink with which I write the next page.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 13 16:27:36 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows
In the deep stillness of the fading hour, when day was neither wholly
present nor yet fully departed, a hush fell upon Storm Keep, vast and
ancient. Its walls, etched by the passage of time and war alike, drank in
the silence as though it were wine from a long-forgotten chalice. The air
was heavy with the scent of soot and iron and old memory.
Zorreau de la Vega sat alone in his manor - not as a warrior girded for
battle, but as a man steeped in reflection. His form, cloaked in black
cloth, was still as stone, and his eyes, sharp beneath a brow creased by
long service, beheld not the flickering firelight but something far beyond
it - something deep, and distant, and near to sorrow.
A sheaf of parchment lay open upon the table before him - inked with the
accounts and final rites of the Cult of the True Prophecy. Names, words,
deeds. He had read them not once, but many times over, each pass carving
deeper into the granite of his thoughts.
Faith rekindled. Shadows reshaped. Her name spoken not in fear, but in
reverence.
The servants of Drakkara had stirred. Some had been bold in their belief,
stepping forward into the blackened light of Her regard, and been seen.
Accepted. Chosen.
And he, Zorreau - whose blade had drunk deep for Necrucifer, whose soul had
not wavered in the wake of the great sundering - he had remained unseen.
No fault of Hers. No slight, save his own.
He did not doubt Her dominion, nor question Her right. The Queen of Shadows
had claimed what was once His, and rightly so. But the wound of silence
lingered in his heart like a dagger made of ice, a familiar feeling, not
because he was denied, but because he was forgotten.
A faint creak stirred behind him - not in the air, but in memory.
Turning from the firelight, he crossed the chamber, past the relics of old
wars and banners now furled. There, beneath a heavy oaken chest, hidden in
the corner of the room as if the shadows themselves sought to forget it, he
knelt. With care, as one might unearth the bones of a king, he unlocked the
chest and drew forth a bundle wrapped in black cloth and bound in sigils of
the old tongue.
He unwrapped it.
A blackened sash, frayed at the edges with a silvery crest, caught the
firelight like a watchful eye. Upon it a sigil long thought broken: the
insignia of the Shadow Guard - the silent sword, the closed eye, the serpent
wound in eternal oath.
This had been his. El Capitan, they had called him in the old days, when
the Keep rang with war and the enemies of Shadow trembled at the whisper of
his name. He had led the Guard, not merely in strength, but in purity of
purpose: to root out the unfaithful, to destroy the betrayers of the Master,
to carry the wrath of the Pantheon where others faltered.
Not only for Necrucifer. For All who ruled in darkness.
Even now, the words returned to him, as from a page lost to fire:
"The Shadow Guard shall serve the Keep as enforcers of fidelity. Their
purpose, therefore, shall be to seek out and lead the destruction of
traitors to the Master and the Keep. And when directed, to strike down
those who blaspheme against the other Gods of Darkness. "
His hands tightened upon the sash. How many of those ancient oaths still
lived? How many of those beasts and disciples - forged in Necrucifers
forge, but never sworn anew - still stalked the forgotten corners of the
world?
It was not only faith that needed proving. It was fidelity. There were
still those who called themselves creatures of shadow, and yet served no
true god - monsters that bore the trappings of the old faith but none of its
weight. Apostates wrapped in forgotten rites, rebels garbed in robes of
dust.
And no Guard remained to face them.
Zorreau rose.
He did not don the sash. Not yet. But he placed it upon the mantle - high,
where the flame could catch the silver once more. A sign, perhaps, for any
who entered. Or a warning. Or a promise.
He would not beg for purpose. He would become it.
If She would not yet call him by name, then let his deeds speak louder.
There was still a task unfinished.
The hour was late. The night long. But even in the depth of the
abyss, even the faintest flame could cast the longest shadow.
And the shadow had begun to move.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 13 17:19:01 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows II
"Chains forged from death may bind the flesh,
but chains forged in shadow bind the soul."
The wind spoke in whispers along the tall, arched windows of the chamber
- a high stone room, half-eaten by time and ivy, where moonlight filtered in
like spilled milk across the worn banners of a kingdom long bowed. Zorreau
de la Vega sat alone, unmoving in his high-backed chair of black oak, its
arms scarred by the fingers of memory and fire.
Before him, on a table of cold iron, lay the reports.
Parchments creased at the corners, their ink warped by the weight of rain
and time - each one a herald of unrest, of shadows refusing the suns
dominion. Threads of knowledge woven from the words of the faithful: Storm,
Verminasia, Abaddon, Dungeon, Black Robes. From across the fractured
dominions of the world, the Dark Pantheon stirred - not in rebellion, but in
reformation.
In the aftermath of Necrucifers fall - the death of the god he had once bled
for, prayed to, and slain in the name of - Zorreau had remained still. Not
in cowardice, nor doubt, but in silence. A silence born of watching, of
weighing the tide.
Now that silence had turned to guilt.
Drakkara ruled now. Shadow bent its knee to Her, though not All bent
willingly. Zorreau had served - he had wielded the sword when others
clutched their scriptures. As Dark Lord, as El Capitan, he had bled the
heretics, burned the traitors, and carved the will of the Keep into the
flesh of the world. His name had once caused hearts to seize in their
rhythm.
But now? Now he was a relic.
He reached to the side of his chair, unlocking the small iron chest long
buried beneath layers of dust and forgotten cloth. From within, he drew a
symbol - a jagged ring of blackened steel, shaped like a serpent devouring
its tail. The mark of the Shadow Guards highest rank. Captain. Enforcer.
Executioner.
He turned it over in his hand. It felt heavier than he remembered.
"Once, " he whispered to the quiet chamber, "we hunted those who betrayed
the Master. Now I wonder have we betrayed Him by surviving? "
He did not expect an answer - and none came.
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Wed Aug 13 19:54:35 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XI
The bells of the Crystal Monastery tolled softly through the morning air,
their echoes weaving between the halls like a gentle summons. Ulyssus had
been in the gardens moments before, exchanging a respectful nod with a group
of monks returning from their dawn meditations. His snowy owl flew down to
his shoulder as he walked through the halls, the faint scent of burning
incense guiding him toward the chapel. This was not an obligatory summons
but a deliberate choice. The tenets of Kantilles were not mere words to
Ulyssus, they were a living standard, and the promise of hearing a discourse
on the second tenet had stirred his anticipation. Passing beneath the
arched stone doorway, he felt the warmth of candlelight embrace him, and the
quiet murmurs of the faithful giving way as he entered the chapel.
Morning sunlight spilled into the chapel through high, arched windows,
casting slender beams that danced upon the white marble floor. Outside, the
Icewall sky swirled with its endless winter, but within these crystal walls
the air was warm, scented faintly with cedar and the faint tang of old
incense.
Ulyssus sat near the front, his white cloak draped neatly about his
shoulders, hood drawn back. A small gathering of monks and initiates filled
the benches around him, their quiet murmurs fading as the Abbot of the
Crystal Monastery stepped forward to the altar. The man's robe shimmered
faintly in the light, his presence calm yet unyielding.
"In the light we serve, " the Abbot began, voice deep and steady, "is the
second of our Lord's tenets. To follow Kantilles is not to hoard our gifts,
nor to wield them for vanity or dominance. It is to place them in the
service of others, without hesitation, without expectation of reward."
He paced slowly along the dais, hands folded. "A follower of Kantilles may
turn aside a storm threatening a caravan. He may ward a village against the
shadow of hostile magic. He may carry light into places where no torch can
endure. These acts, small or great, are service. They are the living proof
that we walk in the light."
The Abbot spoke of days long past, when Kantilles himself walked the streets
of distant cities, giving aid in both mighty works and simple kindnesses.
Of times when the smallest gesture, a lantern lit, a road cleared, a
frightened child comforted, meant more than the grandest spell.
Ulyssus listened in silence, thoughts wandering back to his own years. He
remembered long nights guiding wounded to safety in the highland wilds.
Times when, in the Ivory Tower, he had shielded fellow mages from spells
cast in malice. Even moments when his service had been a silent watch from
the shadows, ensuring no blade found his comrades unguarded.
The Abbot's gaze swept the chapel. "To serve is not merely to act when it
suits us. It is to be ready at All times, to see need where others see
nothing, to answer without delay. This is the way of the white moon."
The congregation bowed their heads as the Abbot raised his hands in
blessing. His voice lowered to a final prayer: "Let your magic be the hand
that steadies, the shield that guards, the light that never fails. In the
light, we serve, now and always."
When the sermon drew to a close, the congregation rose in reverent silence,
the soft creak of benches echoing through the high-vaulted space. Ulyssus
lingered a moment longer, letting the last words of the Abbot settle deep
within his heart like the final embers of a fire. His gaze drifted toward
the altar, its white marble bathed in the gentle glow of hovering light
orbs, before he turned and made his way to the arched doorway at the rear of
the chapel. Beyond lay the quiet, stone-floored corridors of the lower
level. The faint scent of beeswax and parchment guided him toward the
library, where he intended to spend the remainder of the day in study, his
mind still dwelling on the call to serve in the Light.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 13 21:17:33 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Hindges of the Forgotten {u(VIII{u)
The Codex has begun to speak more clearly on Bind Golem, though not in
the voice of any one library. Each word, as always, is a trespass, a
foreign tongue embedded in a text that would never otherwise know it, but
together they form the skeletal framework of a craft long stripped from our
teachings.
Pan-Toll's herbal record yielded the first, the dwarvish word for, "hinge,"
written in High Arkanian margin-work beside an illustration of seedpods.
Lador's Castle ledger, All Leonine script, contained a goblin word for
"flight," tucked into the notes on horse tack. The Azure Tower's Restricted
collection offered a Yinnish, "veil," but unlike the Darkness fragments,
here it was marked with a sigil of anchoring, a clue that the concealment
was meant not for people, but for the inner workings of a construct.
From Haven's Library came a Common sea-chart marred by a single Minotaur
term, "balance," wedged into a compass rose. The Enchantress Tower's poetry
offered Kender, "joint," hidden in a rhyme about lovers' hands. Loodvich's
Dungeon ledger, Verminasian through and through, faltered once into Elvish
with, "brace."
The new sites added their own teeth to the gearwork. The Hellmouths' basalt
archives, brittle scrolls fused to the rock by centuries of heat, held a
word in Althainian, "hollow," describing the lung of some beast. Old
Thalos' ruined temple library gave a fragment in Leonine, "keel," in the
margin of a shipwright's hymn. Baaren Gaer's ocean vaults contained a
solitary Ogre term, "reinforce," jammed between two lines of a siege
chronicle.
Individually, these are curiosities. Together, through the Codex, they
assemble into instruction: Hinge and joint for articulated movement.
Flight, balance, and keel for stability in air or water. Veil and hollow
for protective housings and weight reduction. Brace and reinforce for
structural endurance under strain. One phrase, the Hellmouths' "hollow",
bore a marginal rune that I recognized only from a rare Shokono trade codex,
a symbol denoting rare reagents. Many were known for channeling magick into
form without splintering the host material. If true, this would explain why
the mounted designs in the lattice were never replicated, Shokono controls
these regents, and the Conclave may have chosen secrecy over dependency.
Bind Golem, as we are taught, is a lockpick made for one door, rigid in
form, predictable in result. The Codex shows it was once a workshop of
infinite variety, able to shape a guardian or mount from whatever material
was at hand, the binding adapted to purpose. I can see golems striding on
ivory legs, gliding on wings of obsidian lattice, or swimming with
kelp-wrapped joints, each born from the same core magick, merely tuned to
the matter and motion it was given.
This art was cut from us for a reason. Perhaps the Conclave feared the
autonomy such creations could achieve, or the political danger of mounts and
war-machines answering to a single caster. But now, piece by piece, the
lattice is almost whole again. The words are no longer isolated, they are
hinges in the same mechanism, waiting only for the right hand to open the
door.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Wed Aug 13 22:26:24 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Regents of the Eastern Currents {u(IX{u)
From the scattered phrases hidden in Pan-Toll's annotated ledgers to the
cryptic symbols half-inked into the margins of Loodvichs spell-rot
parchments, the Codex reveals a path that is neither linear nor merciful to
the impatient mind. Today, its stitched-together whisper spoke of a "regent
who sways the tides of Shokono." The phrase itself could not be read in any
single tongue, it had to be pulled apart, its pieces matched to the proper
language, then pressed through the Codex's lattice of meaning until
something sharper emerged.
Shokono is not unknown to the Tower, yet our archives treat it more as a
footnote in maritime trade than a center of magical power. This clue
challenges that. The "regent" is not crowned in gold or silk, but in the
current and the wind, a master whose authority is anchored in the ocean's
will. The Hellmouth cartographies of Baaren Gaer hint at ley fractures
beneath the eastern straits, a possible source of their strength. One of
the Azure Tower's restricted charts even marks an "unmoored throne" adrift
somewhere in the Kuroshi Sea, a phrase I had assumed poetic until now.
If the regent's influence stems from these tidal forces, then their seat is
not bound to the land. This presents a dangerous possibility: a sovereign
whose dominion can drift beyond borders, carrying with them magicks that
warp wind, wave, and even the minds of those who sail too near. The Codex
gives me one further nudge, an unfamiliar glyph, rendered in Old Thalosian
script but phonetically Shokonan, meaning "to beckon the storm." I will
need to cross-reference this with Pan-Toll's forgotten lexicon of elemental
summons before I can be certain, but I suspect we may be chasing a living
nexus between maritime sovereignty and conjured tempest.
What chills me most is the realization that such a regent, if persuaded, or
provoked, could bend these currents to serve the Conclave's designs. If we
could locate their drifting seat, bind their tempestive arts to our will,
the very seas would be as a second lattice of ley-lines for the Tower. Yet,
the Codex warns through omission: no clue is given on whether the regents
loyalty can be won by pact, purchase, or blood. Even more troubling is the
faint, persistent undertone in the text, a rhythmic cadence, as if the Codex
itself were echoing the slow pulse of the tides, reminding me that some
powers cannot be commanded, only courted at great cost.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Aug 14 10:16:13 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu Aug 14 11:23:54 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Thu Aug 14 11:37:01 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 13:02:02 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Regent of Feather, Tusk, and Tide {u(X{u)
The Codex's scattered words have led me far from the marble halls of the
Conclave to the whispering shores of Shokono. There, in temple shadows
scented with salt and incense, stands a priestess whose name the Codex will
not give. She does not wear her relic openly, yet the few who have glimpsed
it speak of its power in hushed tones, a creation that can swim through the
abyssal dark as though born to it, gliding past currents that would crush
mortal lungs.
In the Codex, the words for breath, depth, and bond are drawn from six
languages, each one hidden in a separate library: Pan-Toll, Lador's Castle,
the Azure Tower's restricted stacks, Haven's archives, the Enchantress
Tower's ledger, and even the damp, iron-stained records of Loodvich's
Dungeon. Each fragment was deliberately placed, its language chosen to
confound casual readers, only the Codex's latticework can realign them into
meaning.
Yet the priestess's relic is only the first of three. In the archives of
Pan-Toll, a single misplaced Yinnish word nestled within a ledger of trade
tithes hinted at the Wingbone of the Eastern Winds, a white feather carved
of horn, impossibly light yet unyielding. The Codex marks it as the heart
of a flying golem swift enough to carry a rider aloft, though its
enchantment is bound to inland airs, unable to cross the roiling, salt-heavy
storms of the outer seas. The horn feather's binding glyphs suggest an
intentional limitation, as though the skies above the oceans were meant to
remain free of such craft.
From Loodvichs rust-stained prison records, another clue emerged, an ivory
tusk cataloged not as treasure but as "evidence," seized from a fallen
conjurer whose name was struck from every other scroll. The tusk bears the
enchantment to summon a landbound golem of monumental endurance, its frame
vast enough to carry the largest of mages, armored in thick plates of
earthen magic. The Codex suggests that the tusk's creation drew from the
same disciplines as Alter Beast, its shaping spells keyed not to
transformation of the caster, but to the steady embodiment of strength in
another vessel.
Why these three regents, sea, sky, and land, were sundered remains
unrecorded. The Codex's syntax implies they were never meant to be wielded
together, indeed, some of the paired word structures appear to reject each
other when brought into proximity in the lattice. Still, the thought
lingers: if they could be gathered and the magicks harmonized, their
constructs might offer passage across every boundary Algoron holds. The
implications are intoxicating, but the balance they could shatter is one the
Conclave may never forgive me for disturbing. And so I must ask myself, do
I seek them for knowledge, for mastery, or simply because the Codex has set
me upon their trail?
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 13:47:09 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Cartography of What Does Not Appear {u(XI{u)
The regents, feather, tusk, and tide, came to me through the Codex in
broken syllables scattered across Pan-Toll's Library, Lador's Castle,
Haven's ledgers, and the Azure Tower's restricted shelves. They were never
written together, and yet, when aligned in the correct tongues, they formed
a sequence that felt less like an incantation and more like a map. Not of
coasts or mountains, but of absence, an uncharted geography that resisted
even the notion of being fixed to parchment. The Codex's lattice seemed to
hum when the words were placed side by side, as if recognizing a truth it
was never meant to yield.
Shokono's shores alter as the currents will, erasing paths as easily as they
grant them. Between the ivory's trade records in Haven and the feather's
fleeting mention in Lador's hunting ledgers, I began to trace alignments in
both date and tide. These correspondences were too precise to be
coincidence, patterns stitched into the loom of time itself. More than
once, I saw references vanish between my first reading and my return, as if
the archives themselves sought to erase their complicity in my work.
It is said that a reef appears west of the fishing wards only under rare
moons, revealed not by sight but by the sudden stillness of the water. No
bird circles there, no wave disturbs it. The Codex speaks obliquely of this
place, yet the words for origin, taken, and elsewhere nest within its
lattice like thorns among petals. From these, I began to suspect that the
priestess's relic, the regent of tide, did not originate within her temple,
but was carried there from a site far removed from any known chart.
The priestess dwells within the Shrine, a sanctum built where the sea
presses against the stone heart of Shokono. Her regent is a glowing sphere
of water, self-contained and yet impossibly deep, its surface swirling with
currents that mimic the pull of unseen tides. Those who have glimpsed it
claim it pulses in time with the ocean itself, as if it drinks from every
current that touches the world. In the Codex, the words for breath, depth,
and bond are drawn from six disparate languages. Only the Codex's structure
could realign these into a singular meaning: a construct capable of moving
through the abyssal dark as though it were open sky.
Yet the regent of tide is only one part of a triad. In Pan-Toll's archives,
a lone Yinnish word embedded within a page of grain tariffs led me to the
Wingbone of the Eastern Winds. A white feather carved of horn, impossibly
light, its enchantment bound to inland airs and unable to cross the roaring
storms of the outer seas. In Loodvich's rust-streaked records, I uncovered
the ivory tusk of a landbound golem, forged for endurance and burden, its
magic drawn from the same roots as Alter Beast but fixed into a vessel of
unyielding strength.
Why these regents, sea, sky, and land, were divided and hidden remains
unwritten. The Codex's syntax resists combining them, as though each word
turns to ash when set beside the others. Still, in my mind's eye, I see the
invisible lines they form, pointing beyond Shokono's known waters to a place
the maps refuse to hold. If the glowing sphere was taken from there, then
the land and sky regents may share the same lost birthplace. And if that
place was removed from sight by will rather than by chance, then finding it
will require more than navigation. It will require understanding why the
world itself does not wish it to be found.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Thu Aug 14 14:25:22 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Breath of the Tempest {u(XII{u)
The Codex speaks rarely of the winds, and when it does, it is never in a
single tongue. A syllable of Old Arkanian buried in a Pan-Toll war journal.
A Leonine phrase smuggled into a verminasian ballad. A minotaur glyph
pressed into a Wujen treatise where it does not belong. Each word alone is
inert, but when I set them together, the lattice reveals a truth older than
the Conclave itself, Wind Breath was never born in the east. It was Breath
of the Tempest, a battlemagick forged in the age when spells were not
taught, but wrested from the raw pulse of the world.
The Tempest breath was no art of precision. Its caster would draw in the
fury of the skies and exhale it in a single burst, a shearing wall of air
and pressure that could crack stone, rupture sails, and hurl whole
battalions from the field. The Codex's earliest diagrams show no schools,
no arcane staves or inked sigils, only the posture of the body and the
alignment of the lungs with the horizon. These early wielders were not
mages as we know them, but warriors bound to storms, their magic inseparable
from the battlefield's chaos.
It was the Wujen who took this primal force and honed it. In the archives
of the Azure Tower, a restricted scroll details the transformation: Tempest
became Wind, chaos became rhythm, destruction became discipline. By shaping
the exhalation through a ritualized kata, they preserved the art's strength
while tempering its reach, so it could be used without tearing apart the
caster's own ranks. Yet the Codex's structure makes clear that in this
refinement, something was surrendered, some resonance between mage and storm
that only the original wielders knew.
This loss is not spoken of in Wujen records, yet the Codex hints at it with
deliberate omission. In certain alignments of the lattice, the words for
wind, breath, and horizon dissolve into a fourth, unrecorded glyph, one I
have found only twice, in the charred remnants of a Haven scroll, and in a
single sea-salted scrap from a merchant ledger that should never have
carried such a mark. That glyph, when isolated, draws the lattice toward a
coordinate that the maps of Algoron cannot resolve.
If this place exists, it lies in a land uncharted by Conclave eyes. The
Codex frames it as the "source-breath," the place where the first Tempest
was inhaled, where air and magic are still bound as they were in the age
before our towers. I cannot yet tell whether this is a physical shore, a
storm that never ceases, or something else entirely, an intersection of sky
and spell outside the reach of our world. But I know this: if the Breath of
the Tempest can be found there, whole and unbroken, it would not merely
strengthen a battlemage. It might awaken something in the Conclave we have
long forgottena unity of art and fury that could change the balance of our
age.
And so I must decide whether to keep chasing these scattered words, knowing
they may lead me beyond the bounds of Algoron itself. For the wind does not
ask permission to cross borders, and the Codex is not patient with those who
ignore its calling.
Writer: Merira
Date Thu Aug 14 20:14:34 2025
Writer: Elldrya
Date Thu Aug 14 23:47:21 2025
To All Arkane (Imm RP)
Subject Gemstones on Offal (1)
Elldrya fought back the urge to cough. She was never very good at
containing it, but she tried. She held herself as still and silent as she
could against the tide of scattering rats and the stench wafting up from the
channel. She was wisp-thin and sunken-eyed. Messy brown hair pulled into a
bun to keep it off the walls and tucked into her helmet still poked out
around the edges, refusing to be contained. Elldrya was not a strong elf,
or a lithe huntress. The Shalonesti-Elf looked like the rats running around
her feet, should they knock her over, would break her bones with their
weight, but she held herself close, so very close to the stinking wet wall
of the channel. Willing herself to be silent, willing her cough to still,
holding her breath, All with a tense grip around the dagger Relbag and Cyrte
had given her.
Whatever had been making a ruckus in the sewers yesterday was down here with
her, right now. She was no closer to finding out, from its claw marks and
leavings, what it was, but she had the distinct opportunity to discover it
up close and personal, and her blood was pumping hot in her veins at the
thought. The rats were running away from it, and by the size of its claw
marks, it might be big enough that it needed to use the main channels and
not any of the smaller side tunnels. If she was still and quiet, it might
pass her by, giving her the perfect glimpse of whatever was causing these
disturbances. She shrunk into whatever shadows she could find.
Silence. Blessedly, she did not break it with her incessant coughing. She
thought, for a moment, that maybe it had gone some other way, when a noise
and a smell assaulted her from accross the channel. From within a narrow
tunnel! A surprise. So much for its size limiting it to the larger
channels.
Without hesitation she slipped accross the channel as silent as she could
and into the narrow tunnel, uncertain what would be here. Surely whatever
lived in the sewers and made such noises was a vile and sickening beast...
The elk carcass came as a surprise. One did not expect to see a dead and
mangled elk crammed into the narrow tunnel of a sewer. If the massive teeth
and claw marks had not severed much of the flesh from it, it might not have
fit easily. Elk were rigid ungulates, less flexible than deer, and here it
was, twisted on the floor of the corridor. Elldrya scanned the northern and
southeastern curve of the narrow tunnel but saw not evidence of whatever had
dragged it here. But this, this was kill by the beast. This was no
discarded butcher's offal, tossed in the sewer because it was gangrenous.
This was hunted and dragged here. Elldrya was no ranger, but she would bet
an egg on that.
Whisper quiet, she placed her feet on stable ground around the corpse of the
elk. Maybe she had made some noise and spooked the beast as it was dragging
its kill here. How it got an elk into the city she did no know. To her
knowledge, there were no exits from the sewer into the world outside of
Arkane, none that she could fit through by pass door or dextrous maneuver,
anyway. She needed to see what it was... She was, by All rights, being
reckless. But she was not without reason for her actions. She sent her
Voice to All the citizens of the kingdom, who confirmed they heard the
movements of the beast, even from high in the mage's guild tower. She kept
them apprised of her movements. She circled around the outer channels of
the sewer as quickly and silently as she could move, keeping an eye on the
panicking rats, trying to discern where the creature had run off to. But
the rodent panick was generalized and effusive, infecting whole swarms of
them so the normally fearless creatures instead panicked and scattered at
every noise. The rats normally ruled the sewers, but whatever was down here
had put the fear of the gods into the vermin.
Writer: Elldrya
Date Thu Aug 14 23:54:28 2025
To All Arkane (Imm RP)
Subject Gemstones in Offal (2)
Running the circuit she had planned out while mapping the sewer paths,
she made her way to the sewage pool. It had been her suspicion, if
something could hide in the sewers, it would likely be able to hide in the
sewage pool. There was no telling what was on the bottom of that, besides
the obvious detritious, and if it liked the sewers perhaps the pool was a
cozy home for it. She checked the area, but saw no signs of disturbance.
She dropped a ration bar on the cleanest rock she could find, just in case.
She moved to finish her circuit back at the elk.
Which was missing. As she left, perhaps the beast had doubled back to
reclaim what was left of its kill? And dragged it, with no evidence, off
into the rest of the sewer? Or perhaps consumed it All here, bones and
antlers. Confused, Elldrya crouched in a dark corner and considered her
options.
She wanted to know, very very badly, whatever this thing was. Curiousity
burned in her like a fever. The rats were still in a panic... It may still
be here. If things got dicey, she was confident in her ability to escape
danger long enough to cast her recently mastered Teleport spell and get far
enough away that she would be unharmed. If only she could lay eyes on this
beast! It would All be worth it if she could report to Arkane what was
causing them such trouble. Whether chaos born or some more mundane
monstrosity, solid answers would put a lot of worried minds to rest, or set
them to the proper task of a solution.
She started moving. She had to try, before it slipped away from her like it
had Jochi and Relbag the day before. Swiftness was key, and with Fly she
floated over the stinking detritous of the sewer speedily and silently. She
worked to, as methodically as possible, clear All the rooms she could. She
had not yet completed her map, had only her roughest notes to utilize, but
she made her best effort. Room by room, All except the brightest room under
the town square, she flew through, looking for some evidence, a shadow or a
sillhouette, anything besides that it had claws and teeth, anything real and
measurable about its presence.
Nothing. As if it, and its elk dinner, had never been. The rats even went
back to their normal glaring, sizing up the toothpick of an elf as if
determining whether she was worth eating. Whatever had spooked them, it was
gone, and they were comfortable in their domain again.
Elldrya sighed, and let herslef descend into a fit of coughing. She shook
her head and made her way back to the room under the town square. She felt
drained and exhausted, adrenaline running out of her system to give her a
whole body ache from All she had just put her frail body through. As she
climbed to exit the sewers in the town square, she paused. Her jeweler's
gaze cought the distinct glimmer of gems. She plopped back down to the
ground, crouching low where the glimpse of light had flashed purple.
There, in the rubbish on the floor, were many discarded gems. Not gems...
These had come from no jeweler's cutting tools. They were flat and ovular,
thin. Almost like..
A vision flashed in her head, a memory, clear and bright as day. Mighty
wings outstretched, lighting filtering through thin brass and bronze,
reflecting and refracting. Layers and layers of fine and gleaming scales.
A sight to fill one with awe and amazement and a sense of smallness. An
overwhelming presence.
These were not ordinary gems. These were scales. Beautiful pink and purple
crystalline scales. She gathered up All she could find, rinsing hands and
gems in a stream from her decanter. She sent out her voice to report the
find to the kingdom. Oh, the mages in Arkane were going to get a kick out
of this.
Writer: Jhaken
Date Fri Aug 15 18:21:12 2025
To All Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject A Pilgrimage
Jhaken Talespinner knelt on his heels among the rubble as he so often did
when he returned to the devastation that was the once proud city of
Balifore. It was a pilgrimage he'd taken many times over the years, to see
the ruin the God-Son left of Jhaken's birthplace. To see the place where
his father and so many other brave Kender fell before Malachive's forces.
He'd been so young when Balifore fell that he could barely remember the
happiness that had pervaded the place. The joyful love of life that had
permeated the walls of the lost Kenderhome now only existed in the vague
memories of those who'd lived through its doom. Jhaken's generation had
grown up as lost children. Refugees and Orphans who never really had a
proper home. Their home had been a sacrifice to the forces of Chaos. A
sacrifice the other kingdoms were willing to make because it cost them so
little in the long run and rallied their people against the Warp. Such a
small price to pay. They were only Kender after all, not really a loss at
all to the likes of Gareth Keep and the Althainian Empire. To those great
champions of the Light, Kender were just a bunch of chaotic children. They
had no real value. No greater purpose in the balance of the world. No
champion would rise up to serve their heartless master's plan from among
such a race, so why protect them?
Jhaken had once heard a story that Kwainin had been prepared to end
Malachive when he was naught but a babe. To stop the Warp before it ever
rose and that in his infinite hubris, Austinian interfered and saved the
God-Son. And in so doing, he doomed the Kender of Balifore and countless
others to misery and death and war. At the time, Jhaken hadn't wanted to
believe it was truth. He'd wanted to believe the forces of good were better
than that. Now, however? Now he did believe it. In All the years since
Balifore fell, the so called Light spent more time and effort aggrandizing
itself and proclaiming its own greatness than it ever had rebuilding what
was lost or giving the displaced a true place to belong.
They accused him of not understanding, treated him and other Kender like
ignorant children. Conquered cities and expanded the great sphere of Human
influence as though that were All that really mattered to the so-called good
gods.
And so Jhaken came back here when he could. He came back to remember that
in the years since Balifore's destruction the Light hadn't replaced a single
brick. Hadn't replanted a single plant. Hadn't actually cared one whit for
the destruction of the Kenderhome.
Jhaken would not forget. He would not forget the losses his people had
suffered. Nor the passive contempt of the Pantheons of Light and Balance
toward his people's homeland. Someday, somehow, he would make sure they
paid for their treatment of Kenderkind.
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 19:18:37 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 19:23:59 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 22:02:38 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Fri Aug 15 22:35:29 2025
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sat Aug 16 17:08:41 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Veil of Perennial Winter {u(XIII{u)
The Codex does not speak of frost as a simple season, nor of cold as an
enemy to be warded. Instead, it whispers of a veil, thin yet unyielding,
that settles over All who step into its domain. "Shroud" is the closest
word I can render, but even that feels incomplete, for what it describes is
not merely protection, it is concealment, endurance, and stillness woven
together.
The first traces of this spell surfaced in the Death Garden's Library, in a
ledger half-decayed by damp earth and time. The ink spoke of "white
silence" drawn across a battlefield, not snow nor ice, but a stillness so
profound that even sound faltered. A second fragment emerged in Dylan's
Library, where marginal notes described experiments with temperature that
could suspend blood flow without killing, a threshold between life and
death, preserved in chill.
Further west, in the towers of the Dragon Tower's Library, I found a hymn
disguised as a warding charm. Its verses spoke of winter as covenant rather
than curse, where one bound themselves to the patience of glaciers, the
inevitability of ice reclaiming stone. The same symbols surfaced again in
the Shalonesti's Library, carved into an oak lectern where no frost should
cling. And finally, the University of Althainia's Library contained
diagrams of layered glyphs, spirals of ice and breath designed not to lash
outward, but to encircle, enfold, and preserve.
Each library treated these fragments as curiosities, their contexts
fractured, their meanings ignored. But the Codex braided them into a single
lattice. It is not simply a ward against cold or a mantle of protection it
is a spell that cloaks the body and soul alike in perennial winter. To cast
it is to embrace stillness, to become the ice that resists decay, the snow
that muffles pursuit, the storm that hides armies in its veil.
And yet, there is unease. The Codex draws faint parallels between this
shroud and the spells of alteration that redefine the self. If Alter Beast
is transformation in motion, then the Veil of Perennial Winter is
transformation in stillness, where identity does not shift outward, but
freezes inward, unchanged and unyielding. Such permanence can protect, but
it can also entomb.
The final lattice line speaks of an undiscovered land, one where ice does
not melt and silence is worshiped as a language. The hint is faint, but it
suggests that the spell's truest form may have been born beyond Algoron,
carried here by echoes we have mistaken for invention. If so, the shroud we
wield now is but a pale reflection of a power buried in a place yet unseen,
awaiting the Conclave's boldest to seek it.
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:07:28 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:12:54 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:35:41 2025
Writer: Nephelae
Date Sat Aug 16 18:38:11 2025
Writer: Zorreau
Date Sat Aug 16 18:45:32 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows III
The fire in the hearth was low, crackling like a voice unsure of itself.
Zorreau leaned forward, casting the reports into its belly. One by one, the
names curled into ash. Not in disregard - but in respect. They had begun
their work. It was his turn to begin his.
They were seeking redemption. Seeking audience. He? He would seek
atonement through action.
A thought had taken root, as bitter and unshakable as old blood in snow: the
monsters of Necrucifer - those forgotten beasts who had basked in His
darkness, not as servants, but as gluttons - they still lived.
Some crawled beneath mountains. Some nested in the bowels of forsaken
cities. Some had taken new names, new shapes, twisting themselves to avoid
Her sight. But Zorreau remembered them. He knew them.
They had once called him brother.
And he would hunt them.
Not to destroy them - no. That would be too kind. To kill them would be to
grant them the same fate as Necrucifer: final, reverent, absolute. No - he
would do what no cleric or cultist could.
He would bind them.
A heresy of thought, to be sure. But Zorreau had long ceased fearing
heresy. Let the priests whisper. Let the apostles glare. He had never
needed their blessing.
Still... How? That was the question.
To preserve life without mercy. To hold will without consent. A task for
necromancers... Or worse. He would need to seek one. A shadowmage of the
old days - someone who still whispered to the bones beneath the earth, and
who remembered the tongue of transmutation and death.
Perhaps in the deathly mazes of the Spirit World. Perhaps beneath the
crypst of the Church of Stars, languishing in the Realm of Terror.
Somewhere, someone knew how to do this. How to take what remained and chain
it not to stone or steel, but to memory.
As the last paper curled into flame, Zorreau rose from his chair. He placed
the old Captains sigil back into its chest - but did not lock it.
Not this time.
He turned toward the great doors of his hall, drawing his cloak about his
shoulders like a shadow reclaimed.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Aug 17 22:25:47 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject The Shroud of Unlight {u(XIV{u)
The Codex does not speak of Darkness as a simple absence of sight, but as
a lattice of negations, a structure that once bound the perception of many
into a single, coordinated blindness. The modern spell known as Darkness is
but a shadow of that design, conjured in single rooms or over narrow
circles, localized veils where one caster's will pulls the light away. Yet
the original fragments whisper of a communal spell, a shroud woven not by
one hand but by many, descending over entire fields of battle like the
drawing of a curtain across the world.
The first fragments I uncovered were in the Death Garden's Library, written
in ink so faded it was nearly bone-white upon the page. The scribes there
recorded the "Song of the Hollow Sky," a chant meant to synchronize a
company's breaths until the air itself thickened with unseen threads. In
Shalonesti's Library, the echoes were different, rituals of warbands who
cloaked their movements in forests by summoning unlight, not to blind their
foes, but to erase themselves from the memory of beasts and spirits alike.
These accounts contradict, but together they show the breadth of what the
shroud once was: not illusion, not shadow, but a true rewriting of
perception.
The Dragon Tower's Library preserved the most explicit warning. A single
page, heavily sealed and nearly burned through, described how armies
vanished in their own spell, finding themselves unable to orient when the
shroud persisted beyond its intended span. Generals called it treachery,
yet the margins note in a hand not matching the main text: "Not treachery,
but overreach. The shroud has no edges when sung too long." I cannot
decide if this was warning or temptation.
The High Tower's Library framed it in religious tones. Priests of light
once condemned the Shroud of Unlight as a perversion of balance, a
deliberate severing of the bond between Algoron's creatures and the eyes of
their gods. They argued that such concealment was not a mortal right, that
to walk unseen even before the divine would unravel covenants binding sky to
soil. Yet the Codex implies this may have been precisely the intent, to
discover if the world could endure without those watching gazes.
At the Lost Catacombs, the fragments became mathematical. Etchings upon
stone described arrays of angles and coordinates that, when traced, echoed
constellations no longer visible in Algoron's night sky. I lingered long
over these, tracing the patterns against my own charts, and realized that
the geometry of the shroud aligned with stars that have not been seen for
centuries. The implication is chilling: perhaps the spell was not merely to
cloak mortals, but to unbind Algoron itself from celestial perception.
And so the spell persists only in shards. My own attempts at aligning
fragments suggest the shroud cannot be cast by one voice, it yearns for
chorus, for harmony among casters, and falters when borne by a single will.
In the Ebony Tower's halls, I have rehearsed whispers with students, brief
experiments where syllables overlap. Always the edges blur, always the
sense of direction slips away faster than sight. There is a sensation,
fleeting but undeniable, that the world itself inhales when the fragments
align.
The Codex continues to suggest that these fragments are not accidents but
markers. Each broken page is less a spell than a coordinate, a pointer
toward something not merely hidden but excised. The shroud may not have
been crafted to veil armies alone, it may have been practice, rehearsal, for
veiling a land itself. A land no map records, no chart dares sketch, one
cut from perception so completely that Algoron's own history passed it by.
If such a place exists, it is not merely hidden, it has been taught out of
memory.
The danger is obvious: to recover the Shroud of Unlight in its full form may
mean recovering the art of erasing. Yet the lure is undeniable.
Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Aug 17 22:54:39 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Tritoch Cayenna Xenophon Drakkara RP
Subject Toward the Unseen Land {u(XV{u)
The Codex has never yielded its secrets directly. Each fragment has been
scattered, each clue buried in contradiction, as if the book itself wished
to ensure no single hand could seize its fullness. Yet after months of
searching, tracing, and binding together scraps from libraries across
Algoron, the arc begins to take form. What seemed at first a miscellany of
spells and notes now points to a deeper thread, one that leads beyond our
maps, to a land removed from history itself.
The Regents of Feather, Tusk, and Tide revealed themselves not as trinkets
or curiosities but as markers of pattern, coordinates hidden in ledgers and
records, pointing not toward seas or coasts but toward absence. Each
fragment placed in the right tongue became a contour of a coastline never
drawn, a suggestion of a place that erases those who seek it. The glowing
sphere clutched by the priestess in the Shrine of Water, though venerated as
relic, whispers of origin elsewhere, far from any temple's foundation.
In the Breath of the Winds, the Codex spoke of heritage, the lineage of
Wujen arts refining a form of Battlemagick that once roared unbridled. The
fragments traced a continuity, a teaching passed like embers through hands
until only faint smoke remained. Yet the Codex does not mourn this dimming.
Instead, it points outward, to horizons unwalked, suggesting that the true
awakening of Conclaves strength lies not in perfecting what we hold, but in
recovering what we have forgotten.
The Veil of Perennial Winter, the Frost Shroud, carried the weight of
unyielding stillness. Libraries from Frostania to the Azure Tower hinted
that this spell was not designed merely for battle but for altering the very
rhythm of seasons. Its fragments describe ice not as an element, but as a
state of permanence: a world unmoving, held in an eternal pause. Such a
force feels less like a weapon and more like the work of a land itself,
shaping the flow of time. Perhaps the shroud we cast in our chambers is but
a mimicry of a climate that still breathes in exile.
Then came the Shroud of Unlight, a spell that was never meant to be cast by
one voice. Its nature demands chorus, weaving perception into negation
until direction and memory collapse. From Shalonesti to the Lost Catacombs,
its fragments aligned with constellations unseen, as though the shroud once
cloaked not soldiers alone, but Algoron itself from the watch of heaven. If
a land were to be veiled entire, such a spell would serve as its womb,
ensuring that no map, no bird, no star would recall it.
Through All this, my Witchlock research has become less divergence and more
convergence. At first I sought the threads of witchcraft to understand
their weaving now I see that the Codex itself is woven likewise, a tapestry
stitched in fragments across disciplines. Witchlock is not merely a binding
of magicks, it is a philosophy of interlacing, of reading absence as
presence, of finding meaning in the negative space between spells. What I
have uncovered in these libraries does not contradict the Witchlock, but
perfects its premise.
The Codex's whispers All converge upon a single truth: there is a place not
yet known to Algoron, excised from memory, veiled in unlight, locked in
frost, its entry marked only by broken syllables and relics misplaced. It
is no wonder the book scattered its pieces, such knowledge cannot be trusted
to one will alone.
And yet, it is precisely for this reason that we must act. I will gather
those willing to walk this perilous edge, to stitch together the fragments
into a chart not of seas or mountains, but of forgotten silence. Plans for
an expedition must be drawn, provisions prepared, allies called, maps
reimagined. For if the Codex speaks true, then the land unseen holds the
key not only to Conclaves awakening but to the very shape of Algoron's
future.
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 17 23:18:43 2025
To All ( IMM RP Fatale )
Subject A Gnome & A K{oende{pr - Lesson in Devotion.
The Moonlilly Fields swayed beneath Algorons pale sun, silver petals
trembling in the breeze. Zixlapix adjusted his robes, dagger ready, and
whispered: {oFatale, grant me steadiness in deaths work.
Across the field, a small, wiry figure spun forward, twin flaming shamshirs
flashing in arcs that caught the sunlight. Sarcastalust's black eyes
sparkled behind round glasses, his multicolored hair bouncing with every
acrobatic leap. "Ahhh, little priest! Bright robes, tiny dagger - planning
to poke me to death, are you? " he sang mockingly, landing a dropkick that
sent Zix sprawling. "Whooosh! Careful, dont hurt those delicate little
hands! "
Zixlapix rose, shaking off the pain. "Fatale guides my hand. Your mockery
cannot shield you from the End, " he replied evenly, voice steady despite
the bruises forming on his skin.
"All that shadow and menace, and yet you still need a stepstool to reach the
altar, dont you?" He landed another dropkick, laughing as Zix flipped
over twice backwards, slamming into the ground.
Zix raised his hands, kneeling from a smashed bed of flowers, whispering:
Holy flame of Death, Strike True! Bright fire crashed into the kender,
forcing him back. "Even now, you flail without precision. Fatale teaches
patience, not chaos. "
"Patience?! Smaesence. " Sarcastalust laughed, flipping over Zix's dagger
sweep. "If you wanted precision, you shouldve stayed in the library! Here
in the fields, little green gnome, it's called fun! Whooosh! " He lunged,
shamshirs slashing, spinning, and dropkicking with childlike savagery.
Zix murmured in prayer between movements, chaining spells, one after the
other: weaken, plague, poison, energy drain--each one lowering the kender's
defenses. Sarcastalust grimaced, still grinning. "Ooooh, trying to play
clever, priest? You think throwing spooky little spells makes you scary?
If Fatale is the god of murder, does he know hes letting you represent him?
Bold move!! "
Zix's, focused on his goal, took a deep breath before unleashing a psionic
blast that cut through the air. Sarcastalust stumbled, groaning, black eyes
widening, "Cowards and gnome tricks! " he gasped, falling to the Moonlilly
petals. "But mark my words, little green one -- next time -- things will be
different! Whooosh! "
Zix, bruised and bloody, dagger in hand, exhaled slowly. The field was
silent save for the whisper of wind through silver petals. {oFatale, may all
ends be true, he whispered. He had endured mockery, survived acrobatics and
blade, and enacted judgment in precise, prayerful measures.
Even amidst laughter and sarcasm, Zixlapix had glimpsed the weight of death
in mortal combat--and the lesson of calm devotion over chaos.
Writer: Lenore
Date Sun Aug 17 23:20:15 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM Bloodlust )
Subject {uOn the threshold
Lenore hovered in silence, robes suspended like smoke in water, before
the unfathomable dark. The Void was not absence--it was presence. Heavy,
waiting, indifferent. Even the silver currents of the Astral Plane seemed
reluctant to touch its edges.
She sat still, gazing into that abyss until her reflection of self blurred.
The more she stared, the more her mind whispered that there was nothing to
hold onto--not faith, not memory, not even the sense of her own form.
A thought drifted across her: If nothing endures, then what am I but another
shape dissolving into it?
Her fingers flexed against the weightless air. Did she mean to reach toward
the abyss, or steady herself away from it? She could not tell. Her body
felt both anchored and unanchored, as though a single thought might tip her
either into vanishing or remaining. The silence pressed against her like a
hand, and in that pressure she almost felt comfort. The Void did not judge
her, did not demand, did not answer. It simply was and in that, it seemed
truer than any prayer.
Her lips parted in a whisper, though even she could not hear it: "Perhaps
meaning is only the illusion that we matter to something larger. Perhaps
everything will one day be forgotten."
The idea did not frighten her. It did not console her either. It simply
hung there, like a star whose light no longer reached the living.
For an instant she imagined the blackness brushing her edges, drawing her
in, and wondered whether that would be an end or a beginning. The thought
lingered, then receded, like a tide withdrawing without reason. She one
pace or so forward and she could find out. Her eyes closed. When they
opened again, the Void had not moved. Neither had she, yet.
Writer: Skalpon
Date Mon Aug 18 16:07:47 2025
Writer: Skalpon
Date Mon Aug 18 16:44:00 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 18:36:16 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 1
Long Ago,
Raphiel climbed the white-gold stairs that shone with their own radiance,
rising toward his Fathers sanctum. Above him stretched the vault of
eternity, a blue-black mantle scattered with diamonds, stars wheeling in
slow, ageless order. Even he found it difficult not to pause, to lose
himself in the turning of that eternal wonder. But he did not stop. He had
begged an audience, and it had been granted. He dared not tarry.
As one of the Hundred Companions, this place was not unknown to him. Often
had he stood at his Fathers side, watching light poured into shadowed
places, hope kindled in the hearts of the faithful, and inspiration laid
like seed across the world. To be summoned here was not unusual. But this
was the first time he had ever asked to come.
He knelt before the Throne, brilliant with its aurelian blaze. Behind it
the world of Algoron turned slowly, bathed in sunlight from this vantage,
like a jewel suspended in warmth.
The voice of the formless figure of light upon the Throne suffused him
entire, touching every fibre of his being. It was like coming home, as
though the essence that had wrought his form now drew him once more into its
embrace.
"Raphiel, you come to ask of me an action" The voice was deep and warm,
resonant as creation itself.
"I have, Father. The young priest Maruf, his prayers are many. He calls
for thy aid in claiming a great artefact of the Light. The world below
still reels. Many suffer from the breaking and the new seas. Could we not
favor him? " Raphiel asked, his head bowed in reverence.
"You think him honest and true? " The question burned through Raphiels
mind, kindling warmth in his thoughts and heart.
"I do, Father. I sense no falsehood in him. His faith is pure"
"It does not seem pure to my sight, Raphiel. Indeed, I discern a trace of
something strange in this priests heart. Something new. " The voice
carried not condemnation but inquiry, curiosity laced with concern.
"But surely, Father, we can reward his faith? Mayhap such grace will
cleanse him. Many times hast Thou sent me to grant a sinner a second
chance" Raphiels words pressed forward, bold, perhaps too bold. For a
heartbeat he feared his overstep.
Silence fell. The universe itself seemed to wait, the wheeling of the
endless stars a chorus of expectancy alongside Raphiel. Yet when the voice
returned, it was not rebuke but pride and love, a fathers joy in his sons
audacious hope.
"Very well. You may go to him. Give him this service, this blessing.
Take three of the Companions with you. "
The voice receded, the Thrones light turning once more to Algoron. Raphiels
heart leapt with pride, his request granted. Yet a discordant note
lingered. Why had he been told to bring others? Was the danger such that
his light alone would not suffice?
It mattered little. He knew who he would call upon. He would go, and bring
the dawn to this priest, and help him claim the sacred artefact.
The Light would prosper. His Fathers kingdom would come.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 19:39:02 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 2
The four descended upon shafts of radiant gold, falling like stars given
form, to the world of Algoron. Each was wrought from the ageless, formless
Light into a being of unfathomable depth and power. Each was chosen from
among the Hosts of Heaven to serve as one of the Hundred Companions of the
Throne, bearers of word and deed from the Father of Goodness to His children
below, and bearers of justice to His enemies.
Their wings unfurled as they entered the air of this realm, now carried not
by heavens radiance but by the winds of the mortal world.
At Raphiels side was Tigurius, clad in gold, black hair falling about a face
severe, his eyes purest white. His wings bore the stippling of tawny
feathers like the hawks that stooped over Algorons northern cliffs.
Behind him descended Zauriel, her golden armor gleaming, her alabaster
pinions spread wide. In her hand she bore a staff of ivory, her sea-colored
eyes steady and unyielding, her long red hair bound in a golden laurel.
Flanking Raphiels other side was his closest friend, Phanuel the
Lightning-Bearer. His auric armor was worked with bolts of gold, each plate
etched with the motif of thunder given form. In his hand he carried a spear
wrought from a thunderbolt itself. His face was plain but noble, his short
curls shining the same molten gold as his eyes.
They checked their descent as the monastery in the forest of Haon Dor rose
beneath them, half-hidden by woods. Wings beat the air, holding them aloft
high above the structure.
"No one has marked our coming, " Zauriel said, her eyes sweeping the
grounds.
"Indeed. I imaginest this wilt be quite a shock, " Raphiel answered,
matching her gaze below.
"You have been one of the Companions long enough, Raphiel, " Tigurius said
with a smile, voice edged with playful reproach. "You neednt speak like the
scholars and watchers anymore"
Raphiel laughed gently, shaking his head, but his mirth faded as Phanuels
voice cut across them.
"One has seen us" The Lightning-Bearers nod drew their attention downward.
Almost at once commotion broke out below. Bells clanged from the short
tower, hurried and uneven. Shouts echoed. The four smiled knowingly in
turn, and descended.
They landed lightly in the courtyard.
The mortals gathered quickly, monks and clerics falling to their knees,
hands clasped in prayer, some weeping openly. Tigurius folded his wings and
marched forward, heedless of the awed cries, heading straight for the
library doors. Zauriel stooped to bless a child, gently touching his cheek.
Phanuel let his wings extend wide so that the bold might reach out and brush
them, smiling as he favored each supplicant with a look.
Raphiel alone searched the faces. The one they sought was not among them.
He turned as Tigurius flung wide the library doors.
There, framed in the threshold, stood a man in rich robes. The Bishop of
this place. His eyes widened, his mouth working soundlessly as he beheld
first Tigurius, then the others stepping into view, towering over the sea of
mortals.
"Great holy ones! " His voice cracked under the weight of awe. "We are
honored beyond All reckoning by your presence. How may we serve? "
The other three gave Raphiel a margin of deference as he stepped forward,
though they were his equals.
"We seekest Maruf Desellion, " Raphiel said, his voice resonant, gaze locked
upon the Bishop. "A monk and junior priest in thy care"
The Bishop stammered, hands fluttering, as though words themselves fled him.
At last he managed to recover.
"Ah yes. Right this way, holy ones"
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Mon Aug 18 21:09:57 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Mon Aug 18 21:14:35 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 3
The librarys interior was dim, lit by countless candles set behind glass
to shield the tomes and scrolls from open flame. Yet as the four seraphim
followed the Bishop, their own radiance rendered the candles meaningless,
each step casting shadows into retreat, each breath of their presence
smothering mortal light.
The place was larger than Raphiel had expected, descending through levels of
cellar and sub-cellar. Monks froze in their labors as the Companions
passed; some dropped the stacks of parchment they carried, others gaped
wordlessly, stricken by awe. Finally, they were brought to a long table
strewn with tomes and brittle, ancient scraps of vellum.
Raphiels eyes traced the open pages as he walked, his mind absorbing the
words in passing. Yet he found little of use. Zauriel did the same,
scanning with quick precision, while Tigurius and Phanuel moved like
wardens, their postures sharp, martial, wary.
At the end of the table sat a small man with ink-stained sleeves. His hair
was dark, nearly black even in the golden aura of the angels. A short
beard, unkempt at the edges, framed a face thin from neglect. Raphiel saw
the signs at once: a man too long in study, too little in care for his own
flesh.
"Ah, finally, more lamplight-" the man muttered, looking up. The words
died. The page slipped from his fingers and fell to the table. His body
trembled.
Raphiel read the mans aura, gold and bright, good and fervent. He knew the
face as well: it was the one behind the prayers, the voice that had risen
again and again to heaven. Maruf.
"Wha... This - I... I dont... " Maruf stammered, fear flickering in his
eyes. Strange, but not uncommon in those who beheld them.
"Thy prayers hath been heard, and we are with thee now, " Raphiel said,
stepping forward as the Companions closed around the table. "Tell us, Maruf
Desellion, what need drives thee to such petitions? "
It took long moments for the priest to gather himself. His hands still
shook as he rummaged through the chaos of manuscripts. At last he pulled a
single volume free.
It was old, bound in black leather, edges dry and splitting with age. On
its cover were markings. Some unknown to Raphiel. Others unmistakable:
angelic runes, the same symbols that haloed their heads in auric light.
Zauriels brow arched, and her eyes flicked toward Raphiel in silent
question.
"I believe I have found record of one of the Seven Grails, " Maruf said at
last, his hand resting on the book.
The Companions went still, exchanging glances. Concern shadowed Zauriels
face. Tigurius jaw set, his presence hardening. Phanuels expression was
calm, but his golden eyes asked questions without words.
"That cannot be, " Raphiel answered, voicing their collective thought. "The
Grails were sealed away for All time, by Armaleous, at the Fathers command"
"Yes, my lord. I know... I have read the forbidden scriptures, " Maruf
admitted, guilt flashing across his face. His voice stumbled from arrogance
to horror, then contrition. "W-what I mean is this: one of the vaults has
been broken. The Grail has been taken. "
Silence pressed upon the chamber. The only sound was the Bishops ragged
breathing, his face white with outrage and dread.
"I believe" Maruf swallowed, then forced the words out. "No. I know. From
all I have read, from the truth that burns in my heart: it was taken to
Bellus. One of the Nine Hells. "
Raphiel wanted to deny it. Yet he felt no falsehood in the mans words.
"That is Mencius' realm, " Tigurius growled. His eyes burned as he spoke
the name. "The pit of slaughter and butchery. Where the evils of war
unjust are birthed"
Maruf slid the black tome across the table. Tigurius did not move, his gaze
fixed hard on the priest. It was Phanuel, silent and steady, who reached
forth and opened the book.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 09:59:32 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 4
The tome was ancient beyond reckoning, and within its pages the
Companions found more than even Maruf himself realized he had uncovered.
Phanuel read swiftly, his angelic grace drinking in the lines until, midway,
his eyes halted. He passed the book to Zauriel. Her gaze lingered, lips
tightening. Then she handed it to Raphiel.
He saw at once what had stilled them both. Inscribed across a page was
angelic script, words veiled from mortal sight, visible only to the Host and
to the Gods themselves. It was a confession, a chronicle of failure,
written by some nameless guardian. The account spoke of his defeat at the
vault and the theft of the Grail within.
The trail was followed to the Gates of the Nine Hells. There, heretics
bearing Mencius mark had bled themselves to death before demons, sacrificing
their souls so the artefact might be delivered onward.
Raphiels jaw clenched as he passed the tome to Tigurius. The hawk-winged
angel glanced down, his face hardening, the white of his eyes burning
colder.
"Thou art blessed to have brought this to the Fathers sight, " Raphiel said
to Maruf, voice resonant as judgment. "We know what must be done"
That was all. Nothing more needed to be spoken.
The Companions turned in unison, their departure swift. Light erupted as
they left the library behind, rising from the courtyard and taking flight
toward the yawning chasm that led to Perdition itself.
"If the gods of Evil find even one good soul to wield it-" Tigurius spat the
words as they flew, as though they were poison in his mouth.
"We must prevent that, " Phanuel answered, steady, lightning glinting in his
golden eyes.
They All knew the truth: no artefact could matter more. No peril could
weigh heavier. The loss of a Grail to the Enemy would unmake the balance of
creation.
The land shifted beneath them as they passed from forest to desert, then
into the blighted wastelands. Ahead, the wound in the world yawned wide:
the Gate of Hell.
They descended.
The Companions landed in silence, surveying the ashen ground. Each readied
themselves in ritual instinct, blessings and invocations etched into their
very beings, practiced across eternity.
Phanuel braced with spear in hand, the thunderbolt-forged weapon alive with
crawling arcs of light. Lightning ran up his arm and coiled in his eyes.
Zauriel gripped her ivory staff, her sea-colored gaze steady, her face set
with solemn resolve.
Tigurius loosed his flail, its links wrought of hoarfrost, ice that could
never melt. Rime spread across his golden armor, the cold of judgment
bleeding outward.
Raphiel alone stood without a weapon. Countless times he had fought demons,
scourged evil, battled the spawn of night. But never had he set foot within
Perdition. Few among the Hundred had, perhaps only Tigurius among them, at
the defense of Lorastes, had braved that pit.
Raphiel drew breath, and fire bloomed in his palm. From it formed a blade
of living flame, bright and terrible. He raised it, the others eyes upon
him.
He was the one who had begged this mission of the Father. It was his step
that must carry them forth.
He nodded once. Then, wings low, halo dimming beneath the Gates hungering
glow, Raphiel marched forward into Hell.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 12:14:35 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 5
The halls of Hell were wrought from greasy black stone, slick with damp,
and stinking of sulfur and rot. Pools of foul liquid collected in the
cracks of the floor, and in their reflections the Companions saw twisted
visages: groaning faces that mouthed their names with obscene longing, their
expressions lurid and corrupt.
Hell was a maze. Its halls twisted back upon themselves, its passages
shifting like the guts of some monstrous beast. For days the Companions
walked, sometimes flying low when the ground broke apart into jagged rents,
and yet they found no opposition. Only silence, broken at intervals by
distant screams or the roar of some unseen beast.
What weighed most upon them was not the noise, but the absence. The sense
of loss.
Here the link to Heaven was faint. They still felt the thread of the
Fathers light binding them to their birthplace, but thin, fragile, stretched
across a chasm of blasphemy. Here their wounds would not knit as swiftly.
Their blessings would not restore with the same ease. Their strength
remained beyond mortal measure, yet with every step it lessened. And with
every step the darkness grew heavier.
It was on the fourth day that they were set upon.
They crossed a lowland of jagged earth, cavernous rents scarring the blasted
ground. They dared not take wing, flight would make them visible for
leagues. It was there that the first yowls rose: high, broken wails,
half-mad and half-sorrowful.
The Lost came stumbling from the hills. At first in threes and fours.
Then, seeing the living light within the angels, they broke into a ravenous
run. Rusted blades, axes, and broken spears waved high in skeletal hands as
they surged forward.
Raphiel met them with the sword of fire. His blade cleaved through them in
twos and threes, searing flesh and bone, but still they came on, more with
every heartbeat, their howls echoing through the broken land.
"They'll not cease! " Phanuel shouted, his voice rising over the din. "It
will only worsen. We must cut our way to the boundary of Bellus! "
The others nodded grimly.
Zauriel swept her staff in a wide arc, shattering the spine of a broken man
who carried twin hatchets and whose jaw dangled by threads of sinew. Her
body began to glow faintly, her radiance pushing back the swarm. Phanuel's
spear licked outward, piercing the skull of a leaping foe, the body
collapsing to be trampled beneath the clawing press.
Tigurius stepped into the breach. His flail of hoarfrost whirled wide, each
swing an avalanche of ruin. Wherever its links struck, the damned
shattered, frozen fragments spraying through the crowd. His wings flared as
he advanced, every blow cutting a corridor of destruction for the others to
press onward.
"There! The boundary! " Raphiel cried, driving the pommel of his flaming
sword into the chest of a hulking brute, once an ogre, now little more than
corrupted muscle and hate. He pointed with his free hand to a blackened
steel obelisk burning with ruddy orange flame, marked with the sigil of
Mencius.
The Companions pressed toward the carved stair that led to it. But as they
neared, they saw.
At the stairs summit, silhouetted against the burning boundary, a rider
awaited them. His horse was a horror, a carrion beast, its hide split open
with pustules, bone gleaming through strips of decayed flesh. The stench of
it reached even here. The rider himself was cloaked in a wet brown drape,
heavy with mildew, covering the shape of rusted chainmail beneath. In his
withered grip rested a scythe, its blade eaten with corrosion, its haft
swollen with rot.
Even at a hundred feet, his presence was unmistakable.
A Champion of Dragoth had come.
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 13:37:17 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 13:49:42 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 6
The rider came on with his scythe raised high. Heedless of the damned
swarming about him, he trampled them beneath the hooves of his rotting
steed, caring nothing for allies in his hunger for the Companions.
They met him upon the stair, a counter-charge of fury and light.
The clash was brutal. Raphiel and Phanuel were hurled aside by the wide
sweep of the scythe, its edge laying a bitter wound across Raphiel's right
wing. Zauriel slipped past the stroke, unleashing a burst of sunfire that
scorched and blinded the rider, driving him back into the waiting arc of
Tigurius' flail.
The Champion reeled, then twisted, dragging his mount into the blow, his
scythe whirling in a murderous arc. He absorbed Tigurius' strike, turning
the shattering force into the body of his decayed steed.
The Companions fought their way up the final steps, standing at last upon
the broken causeway before the boundary. But the Champion pursued, and with
him came the tide of the Lost. The angels met them, parrying the scythe's
ruinous swings, cutting down the scavenger souls that clawed and scrabbled
at their flanks.
Raphiel's gaze met Phanuel's. No words were needed. They stepped back
together, raising their hands, channeling the radiance within.
Twin suns flared to life, merging into a single wave of dawnfire. The blast
poured outward, annihilating hundreds of the Lost, sending the rest
shrieking into the wastes. The Champion staggered under the radiance, his
hands blistered, his cloak charring, his steed reeling blind beneath him.
Tigurius seized the moment. His golden armor was split, blood streaking his
face, yet his light still burned. With a cry he surged forward, his flail
shattering into the rider's shoulder, driving beast and master back. His
wings beat hard, lifting him aloft, and with All his might he brought the
weapon down again. The hoarfrost links smashed bone and armor alike, and
the carrion horse collapsed, its tormented soul spilling free at last.
The Champion fell, reeling, his body broken.
Tigurius stood over him, flail high for the final stroke.
But as the blow descended, the rider rose with a hiss like tearing steel.
The scythe lashed upward, a shriek of rust and hatred. Both weapons struck
true.
"No! " Zauriel cried, rushing forward.
Phanuel was faster. His lightning spear drove through the riders helm,
bursting through rusted steel, silencing the Champions scream. The corpse
fell still, rotted helm split, body crumpling in the dust.
Tigurius staggered. He fell to his knees, the scythe buried deep in his
chest. Then he toppled sideways, blood spilling from the wound in a dark
torrent. His breath rattled, shallow and broken, the glow of his eyes
fading with every heartbeat.
The Companions fell to him, pouring out their strength, their light, their
healing graces. But in this place, the Fathers hand could not reach. Their
power bled uselessly against the wound. This was death entire.
They knew it. And so they ceased their striving.
Instead, they placed their hands upon him, each whispering prayers of thanks
and farewell, their voices low and reverent. Words for Heaven, though
Heaven could not hear them here.
Tigurius smiled faintly through the blood upon his lips, drawing ragged
breaths that no longer found air.
And then Tigurius - Winters Herald, Defender of Lorastes, Hawk of the North
Winds - died.
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 14:10:42 2025
Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Aug 19 14:24:40 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 17:32:52 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 7
Bellus was a hellscape, even among the Hells. Unlike the blasted wastes
they had passed through, mazes of stone and despair, here lay ruined
farmland and burning villages. Souls screamed from within farmhouses that
burned without end, their voices begging release as faceless soldiers
pillaged and ravaged the fields and towns around them.
The three Companions walked on. They avoided the villages, and the horrors
within, as best they could. None spoke. The tragedy behind them was too
raw to name.
Zauriel wept openly. Her tears caught the dim light, glittering as they
rolled down her cheeks, the unguarded grief of a heart too vast with
compassion to hold it All in silence.
Phanuel walked as ever with measured steps, taciturn and vigilant, but his
eyes had grown distant. Remorse clung to him like shadows. He carried
Tigurius' flail in his hand, a silent vow to see their brother's mission
through.
Raphiel had shed his tears. Now he walked in silence, bowed beneath the
weight of guilt heavier than any wound. His flesh still burned with half a
dozen cuts and bruises from the Champions scythe, but it was nothing beside
the thought that it had been his call, his plea to the Father, that had
brought them here. Tigurius light had been spent in Hell. A life from
among the Hundred, gone. Even knowing that no word could have dissuaded
Tigurius from joining them, that the Hawk of the North Winds would never
have turned aside from battle, the guilt gnawed deep.
"Raphiel"
He looked up at the sound of Zauriels voice. She regarded him with eyes
still brimming with compassion, her face framed by ruby tresses shaken loose
from her laurel, now falling in disarray about her shoulders. Her armor
bore the mark of battle, a deep gouge across the breastplate where the
Champions scythe had grazed her. She pointed into the distance.
Through the haze of burning trees and the sky choked with black smoke,
Raphiel saw it, a light. Small. Glittering. A single mote etched against
the endless dark. Nothing else in this place could shine so.
"That must be it, " he said, his voice low.
Phanuel stepped beside him, following Zauriel's gesture. His armor was
cracked, his flesh scored with wounds, but he still stood ready. He nodded
once, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off the ache.
Raphiel began forward, but Phanuel's hand stopped him.
"Wait"
The Lightning-Bearers eyes flicked from Zauriel to Raphiel. "We must tread
carefully. If the Lord of Vengeance finds us, he will snuff us out like
candles. We cannot burn too brightly"
Raphiels jaw tightened. Every fibre in him yearned to oppose the dark, to
shine defiantly in its face. But Phanuels words were truth. Against that
Lord, the god of wrath and slaughter, even their might would be nothing. He
could unmake them without effort.
So they dimmed their halos and kept low to the ground, shadows of what they
were, moving like hunted things in enemy land.
Any last hope of claiming the Grail without bloodshed withered as they drew
closer.
The light they sought blazed from within a city, its walls broken and
burning. The gates sagged, the ramparts blackened. Flayed men hung from
the battlements, their bodies still writhing in slow torment. From within
rose the sound of countless voices, warriors, baying and chanting. And
beneath it all, steady and terrible, came the roll of war drums.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Tue Aug 19 17:39:57 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 8
The three Companions crept to the walls of the dread city. Then, with
wings flared wide, they rose in unison, alighting upon the ramparts. No
guards waited for them. What need had this place of sentries? Raphiel
furled his wings, scanning for their path.
There it was, their target. An old fortress built into the rear wall of the
city. Once a bastion, now a ruin, desecrated a hundred times over. And
around it, pandemonium.
Warriors churned through the streets below, not the broken Lost, but chosen
killers. Men drowned in the endless Rage of Mencius. Torn banners from a
dozen dead kingdoms hung from their spears, yet here there were no sides, no
armies. Only slaughter. An orgy of violence without order.
Raphiel looked to Zauriel. To Phanuel. Both nodded grimly. Stealth had
never been theirs, and here it would be impossible. To claim the Grail,
they would have to carve their way through.
The choice was made for them. A warhorn bellowed, guttural and low. The
drums ceased. Thousands of eyes turned to the ramparts. Shouted challenges
rose like a tide.
Phanuel leapt first. His wings snapped wide, hurling him down into the
street. He landed like a thunderbolt, his spear lashing out in arcs of
lightning. Men fell smoking where he struck, limbs burning away, torsos
split. In his other hand, Tigurius' flail carved wide sweeps of frost,
shattering bone and steel alike.
Raphiel answered with fire. His sword blazed to life, and he swept down,
landing amidst the tide. He cleaved through warriors, his blade biting
through mail and bone, burning men alive within their helmets. He moved
with the speed of the Host, faster than mortal eyes could follow, but still
the numbers pressed. Blades found him. Axes rang against his armor. Every
wound slowed him.
Zauriel descended with fire of her own. Her staff blazed, sunfire pouring
in radiant waves, burning swathes through the throngs. She landed hard,
smashing skulls with thrust and sweep, unraveling the foul magics of her
enemies with a wave before caving in a screaming face with her ivory staff.
Each step forward was bought with blood. Hours of toil seemed to pass with
every foot gained. Raphiel lost count of his enemies felled, for every man
burned or sundered, two more surged forward. A spear tore into his thigh,
hot blood running down his greaves. He fought on.
He saw Zauriel, battered, armor torn, one wing bent and broken, feathers
splayed. Still she fought, light pouring from her in furious bursts, her
face streaked with blood and tears of righteous anger.
Phanuel was a storm. Raphiel could barely track him, lightning flashing,
spear licking, flail crushing. An axe caught Raphiel in the shoulder,
splitting steel, biting deep into flesh. He roared, his fire blasting the
man to ash. His silver hair hung in clotted strands, matted bronze with
blood. His armor was painted red, not with his light, but with gore.
And then silence.
The tide faltered. The three Companions stood alone, bloodied, gasping,
their weapons dripping. The square before the fortress lay open.
From its blackened doorway, shadows stirred.
Two figures stepped forth, their silhouettes monstrous. Demons, their
laughter cold and jagged, thundered across the square, worming into Raphiels
ears, into his very bones.
Writer: Lilly
Date Tue Aug 19 17:50:55 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_kingdom Zandreya Imm RP
Subject Lilly is Missing
The moon hung low over the icy waters of the Northern Reach, casting
silver light across the deck of the Black Gull, a pirate vessel infamous for
its raids along the Shalonesti coast. Bound to the mast with enchanted
rope, Lillyan elite scout of the Shalonesti Elveswatched the waves roll
beneath her, her emerald eyes burning with quiet fury.
She had been patrolling the outer rim of the forest when the pirates struck,
emerging from the mist like wraiths. They overwhelmed her with brute force
and crude magic, dragging her aboard before she could sound the alarm. Days
passed. The ship never docked, always drifting just beyond the reach of
elven arrows. The pirates jeered, boasting of ransom and war, but Lilly
said nothing. She listened. She waited.
Then came the stormless night when the crew grew drunk on stolen wine and
victory songs. They danced and brawled, their weapons discarded, their
minds dulled. Lilly felt the pulse of the sea beneath her feet and knew the
moment had come.
With a whispered incantation in the ancient tongue, she summoned the latent
power of her bloodline. The ropes, woven with crude magic, hissed and fell
away. Silent as moonlight, she crept across the deck, retrieving her twin
daggers from the captains quarters. Below deck, she found the powder
storesvolatile, unguarded, perfect. She rigged the barrels with a trail of
oil and flame, then slipped into the lifeboat tethered to the stern. As she
pushed off, the fire caught. The Black Gull erupted in a thunderous bloom
of fire and splinters, casting burning debris into the sea. Lilly didnt
look back.
For three days she rowed through fog and salt, guided by the stars and the
whispering winds of her homeland. Her hands blistered, her strength waned,
but her spirit never faltered. On the fourth dawn, the green shimmer of the
Shalonesti forest broke the horizon.
She was met by her kin with awe and relief. Word of her escape spread like
wildfire, and the tale of the elf who sank a pirate ship with nothing but
cunning and courage became legend.
And Lilly? She returned to the patrols, quieter than before, but fiercer.
The sea had tried to claim herbut she had claimed it first.
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 20:50:49 2025
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 21:06:42 2025
Writer: Sedinae
Date Tue Aug 19 21:10:04 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 10:23:02 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 9
"So kind of you, " snarled one of the demons, brandishing knives as it
stalked down the steps, "to deliver yourselves All the way to our door. "
The two were alike in stature: hulking, black-scaled things, muscles coiling
beneath their oily hides. Barbed tails lashed the air. Their claws scraped
against stone with a sound like nails on chalk. One bore a serpentine face,
long fangs jutting, its slit-pupiled eyes unblinking. The other had a canid
cast, ragged ears twitching, its muzzle drawn back into a slavering grin.
The Archenemy. Born of malice. Shaped from spite.
Raphiel's skin prickled as his blade flared to life, fire licking along its
length. Phanuel was already blazing, lightning crawling across his armor,
his eyes burning with the hunger of battle. But it was Zauriel who raised
her voice, ragged though it was.
"I come to judge you in the name of the Mother! For the Heavens! " she
cried, her battered form shining, her radiance erupting despite the rents in
her armor and her torn wing.
The masses surged. The demons roared and hurled themselves forward. The
Companions raised their weapons, cried out their oaths, and met them
head-on.
Phanuel crashed into the first demon. The two grappled, snarling and
clawing, their struggle less a duel than a savage brawl. The beasts fangs
tore at his shoulder as his lightning spear punched jagged wounds into its
torso.
Raphiel swept in beside them, his flaming blade carving a burning gouge down
the demons back. Before he could finish the stroke, the horde broke upon
him, faceless warriors screaming with borrowed rage, weapons raised. His
sword swept wide, cleaving three at once, and then he detonated his dawn
light in a burst that vaporized those nearest, leaving only ashes and molten
iron.
Zauriel met the second demon with fury. She swept her staff in arcs of
searing brilliance, staggering warriors, driving white flame into the demon
that hunted her. Yet it pressed her, relentless, belching torrents of black
fire into the crowd, heedless of its own allies.
Phanuel struggled, bleeding, as claws raked his chest. Raphiel lashed out
with a savage kick, driving the beast from him. Phanuel surged back to his
feet, his spear lancing forward to leave a sparking wound in its chest,
while Raphiel guarded his flank, blade flashing, holding back the press of
screaming warriors that clawed to reach them.
Then Raphiel saw.
Zauriel. Her wing, broken, nearly torn free, hanging by sinew and blood.
She was being dragged down, smothered beneath the mob. The demon loomed
above her, vomiting a jet of hateful fire, black and searing, engulfing
friend and foe alike.
Raphiel bent his knees. Blood soaked his feathers, but still his wings
caught the air. He hurled himself forward, his charge tearing through
bodies, shattering men into ruin. His flaming sword jutted before him like
a lance, cutting a corridor of fire through the swarm.
He landed at Zauriel's side and burst outward in pure radiance. Sunfire
engulfed the square, burning the mob to ash, blinding the demon and driving
it shrieking to its knees.
He reached for her. Their hands met.
Her grip was weak, trembling. Her body broken. Her armor shredded. Her
other wing dangled uselessly, and from the rips in her flesh bled her very
essence, bright auric light spilling out like fire from cracked stone.
Her sea-colored eyes found his. She smiled faintly. Not with joy, but with
certainty.
"The mission, Raphiel" she whispered, every word torn from her ragged lungs.
"You must complete the mission. I know you understand... Now let go of my
hand"
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 10:30:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 10
Raphiel let her hand fall away.
Zauriel sank to her knees on the broken stones, her glow swelling from
within. White-gold radiance poured from her eyes and mouth, seeping through
every rent in her armor until her whole form blazed. The warriors shrank
back, their faces blistering in its heat.
Even the demons faltered, raising clawed hands against the growing light.
The radiance swelled until the courtyard was drowned in brilliance. No
walls. No sky. No ground, only a burning wash of white-gold.
Then she screamed. A cry torn from the very core of her being, raw and
defiant, a note that silenced All others. And then there was only fire.
The blast consumed everything. Raphiel was hurled onto his back, blinded,
deafened, though the sunfire did not burn him. When the light dimmed, he
and Phanuel lay in a vast crater. All was ash. The demons reduced to
drifting dust. The warriors obliterated. The city itself unmade, its bones
scattered into motes of molten ruin that still floated in the air.
Zauriel - Protector of the Innocent, Glorious Voice of the Dawn Choir - was
gone. Her song silenced forever.
"No... No, no! " Raphiel's cry tore from his throat as he dragged himself
to his knees. His wounds bled freely. His wings hung in tatters. His
shoulder throbbed, his hand a mangled claw that barely closed.
Phanuels hand steadied him. Raphiel turned, and grief twisted into horror.
The Lightning-Bearer was wrecked. Demon fire had melted his breastplate,
leaving only molten fragments clinging to raw, blistered flesh. His right
arm hung broken in two places. His wings were ragged lengths of feathers
and blood. But worst was his face, half torn away, jaw shattered, teeth
bared through a ruin of red. His right eye was gone, the socket burning
only with the faint light of grace.
"We must finish the mission, and go, " Phanuel rasped through torn lips.
"The Lord of Rage will have noticed that"
Raphiel forced himself upright, bones grinding, eyes burning with tears and
exhaustion. There, in the dust of the ruin, lay the prize. A plain cup of
gold, perfect and untarnished. No makers mark, no tool-scar, as though
poured from creation itself.
He reached down with his broken hand, fingers cracking further as they
closed around it. He knew they would not open again until the mission was
done.
Then the sound came. Not heard at first, felt. A groan of pure wrath
rising through the earth, swelling into a bellow that shook the air.
"Fly! " Raphiel roared.
They launched themselves skyward on shattered wings, burning the last of
their grace to climb. The ground writhed beneath them, enemies howling,
arrows loosed, spells cast. Bolts of fire and iron lanced through the air;
some found their mark, but there was no time for pain. Only speed.
The wastelands blurred beneath them. What had taken days they crossed in
moments, pushing beyond All endurance. Through Hells mazes they smashed,
breaking stone, shattering walls, blood streaming from every wound. Raphiel
felt bones snap in his wrist as he drove through, but still he beat his
wings, refusing to fall.
And then, the Gates.
Without hesitation, Raphiel hurled himself through, Phanuel beside him.
Behind them the Hells roared, the endless bellows of the Lord of Rage
echoing into eternity.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 14:34:22 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 11
On Algoron it was early morning, the hour just before dawn.
As they broke through the skies, the change struck them at once. Grace
flowed back into their forms, fragile but real. Raphiel felt his magic
strengthen, his bones begin to knit, bleeding wounds closing by degrees.
Torn feathers sprouted anew along his battered wings. Behind him, Phanuel
too was mending, his light slowly rekindling.
They gasped fuller breaths of clean air as they turned toward the monastery
they had left what felt like an age ago. Yet every beat of their wings was
agony, every motion wracked with pain. Their forms were ruin, and only
Heavens grace kept them aloft.
Their landing in the courtyard was heavy, stone cracking beneath Raphiel's
feet as he staggered. He limped toward the library doors, Phanuel following
with even greater struggle.
The few monks already awake froze where they stood. Horror spread across
their faces at the sight of blood-soaked angels. They fell to their knees,
some weeping, some whispering frantic prayers of mercy and deliverance.
None barred their path.
The library within was near empty, save for a few scholars who looked up,
beheld them, and dropped likewise into reverence. The Companions descended
the stairs, down to the alcove where they had first found Maruf.
He was still there. Collapsed at his desk, asleep upon parchment and books,
exhaustion having claimed him.
"Awaken" Raphiel said, his voice echoing aloud and threading into the
priests mind. "We return with the artefact thou hast sought"
Maruf stirred, blinking into the half-light. Confusion clouded his eyes at
first. Then came recognition, followed by shock... And something darker.
Horror, yes, but tinged with something Raphiel could not name.
With effort, he lifted his shattered arm and laid the Grail upon the table.
The golden cup struck the wood with a heavy thunk. It took All his strength
to peel his broken fingers from its rim.
"By the holy... " Marufs voice shook. "What... Happened to you? "
"Our journey was difficult" Phanuel rasped, before his strength failed and
he slid down against a bookcase, broken and bleeding.
"Take this" Raphiel said, forcing reverence into his voice as his gaze
lingered on the Grail. "A token of the Fathers love for thee, and for all
creation"
But Marufs eyes were already lost to it. His aura flared gold as he lifted
the cup, gazing upon it with trembling hands, as though it were the greatest
treasure the world had ever seen. For indeed it might have been.
"Yes... " he murmured. "Unprecedented. With this tool, success is
assured. No other outcome is possible"
Raphiel frowned. The words rang strange. He leaned heavily upon the table,
studying Marufs back. The priests aura gleamed with light, but not
Austinians mark. That sign, the Fathers claim, was gone. And yet only days
before, Raphiel had seen it burn brightly within him.
Phanuel raised his eyes weakly as Maruf moved toward him, but said nothing.
Raphiels unease sharpened to dread.
"Maruf Desellion, " he asked, voice low, "to whom dost thou pray? "
The priest turned.
A knife of blackened bone jutted from Phanuels chest. His light flickered,
then went out. Blood ran down Marufs hand, bright against the Grail he
still clutched.
Raphiels breath caught. His brother lay dead.
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 15:00:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread 12
Raphiel's sword blazed to life in an instant, fire rippling along its
edge, and he lurched forward to bring judgment upon the priest. Every fibre
in him cried for retribution, for Maruf's blood to spill upon the stones in
answer for Phanuel's.
But he could not.
The law of Heaven bound him. His golden aura forbade it, written into his
very being as immutable as breath. To strike the faithful, no matter their
corruption, was denied him. His arms locked, his body rebelled, and though
his heart thundered with fury he stood frozen, incapable.
Maruf grinned, lips stretched too wide, teeth glistening red. A rictus of
insane joy. He lifted the Grail in both hands, daubed Phanuels fresh blood
into its rim, and stepped back, reveling in the act.
"This is beyond even you, Angel of the Father" he said, voice thick with
triumph.
Raphiel's mind reeled. He reached for the threads of faith that bound this
man to the Light, the golden cords of prayer and devotion he had seen woven
into his spirit. If he could sever them, render him powerless, this madness
might yet be undone. But what he touched was wrong. The cords did not run
to the White Moon, nor to Austinian's throne. They vanished into some
hollow emptiness. They sang not of creation, but of void.
Maruf's gaze flicked to Phanuel's body. His eyes lingered upon the dagger's
hilt still lodged in the angel's chest. His hand twitched, but whatever
thought he entertained he dismissed.
Instead he uttered words Raphiel had never heard before. Harsh, guttural
syllables, like the sound of stone cracking, or bone splintering under
strain. The air tore apart. A gateway ripped open, its edges seething with
black light.
Maruf cast one last wild glance back at him, a look of deranged exultation,
and stepped through. The portal sealed with a hiss, and he was gone.
The silence left behind was wrong. No lingering trace of moon or god. Only
a void where the magic had been, as though the world itself wanted to forget
what had just transpired.
Raphiel sank to his knees beside Phanuel. His hand closed around the dagger
that had ended his brothers life. It was impossibly cold, a chill that
burned as though it did not belong to this realm. As he touched it, the
blade began to unravel. Shards flaked away, then dissolved into fine dust,
until even those grains came apart into atoms, into nothing. Forgotten.
Phanuel's face was still. Not twisted in shock or pain. Just empty.
Utterly still.
The rage within Raphiel broke. His fire guttered. His breath came in
shuddering sobs as he wept.
He wept for the Lightning Bearer.
For the Watcher of the Throne.
For the Golden Champion, his brother.
The blood pooled cold upon the stones, his own tears falling to join it.
There was nothing more he could do. No miracle to summon. No grace to
give. Only grief.
And then came the weight, the inexorable pull of Heaven, calling him back.
He could not resist it, but his spirit trembled. What was he returning
with? Not victory. Not triumph. Not even a shard of hope. Only failure.
Only sorrow.
They had been deceived. Used. He could not even name the power that had
stolen Maruf from them. Void-born sorcery with no mark of moon or god.
He thought of Zauriels sacrifice. Of Tigurius fall. Of Phanuels death
beneath a priests hand.
What ends had All of this served? What power now held the Grail?
Raphiel lowered his head, clutching Phanuel's lifeless hand as the world
around him dimmed. His heart was a chasm of grief, and within it questions
that shook his very understanding of reality.
He could not imagine the answers.
Writer: Seyzule
Date Wed Aug 20 15:08:03 2025
Writer: Raphiel
Date Wed Aug 20 15:12:27 2025
To All Austinian Religion Imm RP
Subject Fear to Tread Epilogue
Time had passed, if time could be said to pass in the High Heavens.
Raphiel did not know how long. He only knew that he was whole again, his
wounds knit, his form restored. Yet the weight in his heart remained.
He stood on the banks of a river whose waters ran crystal and clear, singing
over smooth stones. The banks were soft and golden, with lush greenery
spilling up around them, swaying gently in an eternal breeze. A short
distance away, an old man played with children, tossing them a brightly
colored ball that rolled from hand to hand, their musical laughter mingling
with the sound of the lazy current. The peace of the place was absolute,
untouchable.
As Raphiel approached, the man stepped away from the children, who continued
their game without pause. He turned, and his eyes, deep, sympathetic, and
infinite with sorrow, met Raphiel's.
"Hello, Raphiel" the old man said. His voice was rich, resonant, and filled
with such warmth that it lit the angel's spirit with awe.
"My King" Raphiel whispered, falling to one knee. His wings spread wide in
abject abasement, the gesture of one consumed by guilt. "I have failed
Thee. I am unworthy of Thy grace. "
The old man was silent for a moment. Then he placed a hand upon Raphiels
brow.
"It is true that you failed" He said gently. "But it is not true that you
are unworthy" His sigh was soft, heavy with compassion. "I know your pain,
for it is My own. What you mourn, I mourn also"
Raphiel dared to look up. In the face of the Father he saw sorrow beyond
reckoning, yet not anger, not blame. Only compassion untainted, love
untouched by judgment.
"I too mourn the loss of your companions" The old man said, and His voice
seemed to ripple through the waters and trees alike. "Zauriel, Tigurius,
Phanuel... They were wonders to behold, lights of My choir. Their
sacrifice weighs upon us all" For a moment He looked into the distance, as
though seeing them still, and a smile touched His lips, tender, grieving,
proud.
"How did the priest do this, my King? " Raphiel asked. His voice broke
with anguish. "How is such a thing possible? "
"I do not know" The old man said, His eyes grave. "And that troubles me.
It lies outside of the natural craft" He paused, His gaze falling deep into
mysteries even He could not pierce.
"Then it was not born of evil? " Raphiel pressed, his voice barely more
than a whisper. The admission itself shamed him, that he could not even
comprehend what had stolen so much.
"No" said the Father. "It was something else. Something new... Or perhaps
something very old. "
Raphiel bowed his head, lost in confusion. If even the Father could not
name it, then what hope had he of understanding?
The old mans hand rested upon his shoulder. "We must not linger on what
might come. We must tend to what is. The sacrifice of three of the Hundred
is no small loss. Their deaths must carry meaning. The Grail must not
remain in strangers hands. You must go, Raphiel. Find it, and return with
it"
"I will send others to guard the remaining six. But this task, this
redemption, is yours. "
Raphiel rose to his feet, the words heavy in his chest. He lowered his
head, and with solemn reverence gave his vow:
"Thy will be done, Father. Thy Kingdom come"
He turned from the riverbank, wings lifting once more. The weight of grief
still pressed upon him, but now it was joined by purpose. A mission not
only of duty, but of redemption.
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 20 16:27:34 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows IV
The manor stood silent beneath a low and brooding sky, its high windows
casting pale reflections upon the stone floors below. Outside, a wind
stirred the trees into whispered speech, but within, All was still. Zorreau
de la Vega stood alone in the central hall, shrouded in the deep folds of
his cloak, the hearth-light dancing across the burnished edges of his old
armour, long unworn.
He raised his hand, fingers curled in a sigil from the old tongue. The air
split with a soundless pulse. A shimmer like heat upon stone grew before
him, warping the very fabric of the world.
And then came the light - cold, colourless, yet powerful in its bearing.
Without a word, he stepped forward, crossing the threshold of the summoned
gate.
He emerged within a strange and sacred place.
It was as though the world itself had been peeled back and he now stood in a
place behind the sky - a hollow of clarity framed by walls that stretched
endlessly into the heavens, black and unyielding as if carved from the void.
The sun shone above, though it seemed neither warm nor real. Beneath its
light flowed a gentle waterfall, its sound soft as memory. A brook
meandered through green grass, and for a moment, the air held the peace of a
time before war.
And there - amidst the serenity - stood the Crossover.
It was not man, nor beast, nor even truly spirit, but something other. Its
form shimmered with translucent golds and pale flame, ever-shifting,
ungraspable - as if it stood both within and beyond the world. Eyes, if it
had them, did not rest upon Zorreau. And yet he knew he was seen.
There was no voice exchanged. None was needed.
Zorreau bowed his head in solemn deference. "I seek that which lies across
the veil - the realm of the faded, the forgotten, and the unending. Grant
me passage. "
The Crossover moved not, but the air around it bent, and the world behind it
peeled open - a gate of mist and shadow, shaped like a tear in the fabric of
life itself.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
The world dissolved.
There was no sensation but silence - no threshold crossed, no pull upon the
flesh, only the sudden vanishing of All things known.
When sight returned, it brought with it fog - thick, churning, eternal. It
clung not only to the skin but to the soul, pressing inwards with the weight
of things long buried. The air was cold without bite. The silence was deep
without peace. This was the Spirit World - the place between breaths, where
memory dwelt and the dead whispered not in voice, but in feeling.
There were no stars above. No horizon. No path. Only the endless pall of
grey and white, folding in upon itself like a shroud.
And yet, Zorreau walked.
He moved not by sight but by instinct - by the pull of his purpose, dark and
unrelenting. Each footfall left no mark, but he felt the air shift with
every step, as if the very world stirred to watch.
Fleeting bursts of light broke the fog in distant flashes - not visions, but
impressions. A scream. A blade. A girls laughter, long dead. His own
voice, once raised in war. Images of things done, and undone.
He pressed forward.
He had not come for absolution. Nor redemption. But for knowledge -
ancient, forbidden, veiled in shadow. The beasts that yet roamed Algoron,
forged in the crucible of Necrucifers will, had no place in the new order.
And yet, to merely destroy them would be to discard their worth.
He had seen too much death to believe it noble.
He would bind them.
To do so, he would need the means - a way to sustain life through
domination, to hold not just body but essence. Necromancy alone would not
suffice. Nor transmutation. What he sought was the convergence of both:
the art of preserving through corruption, of reshaping through mastery of
soul and spell alike.
Somewhere, in the folds of this world between worlds, that knowledge
endured.
He would find it.
And so he vanished into the fog, his form swallowed whole - a single black
thread weaving through the grey, drawn onward by purpose, and the promise of
power hidden deep in the places the living dared not tread.
Writer: Ehlwynna
Date Thu Aug 21 13:50:34 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Thu Aug 21 14:16:17 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Imm Rp
Subject Building Bridges (-part one-)
It had barely been a month since they had begun to plan this project,
and the first shipment of stone had arrived, ahead of schedule. The
first stones to arrive were rectangular, twice as wide as he was tall
in two dimensions, and twice that in the third. These were to be the
foundations of the massive arches. They had been delivered to a
freshly cleared staging area at the base of the mountain, near the
sinkhole. The trees had been harvested and milled into lumber that
would be used to form the arches, and eventually removed as the arches
were completed.
Kraxul inspected the finely chiseled boulders, searching for
imperfections. They appeared flawless to the Thane, but he awaited the
arrival of his engineers, who he expected would confirm that the
dimensions were true.
They had been quarried from low on the mountain, and the granite in that
area was far lighter in color than the stone that made of the walls of
the city of Thaxanos. There were four of these huge white slabs, with
many more to come. The Thane imagined he would need to expand the size
of the staging area, in anticipation of the usual construction delays.
He scribbled notes in his ledger to that effect, then looked up to mark
the arrival of a pair of identical Dwarves.
The twins were short, even by Dwarven standards, their white beards
reaching to the top of their boots. They both wore identical overalls,
black boots, and clean white cotton shirts. They each wore brass-
rimmed spectacles, dangling so low on their noses, they appeard to be
on the verge of falling off. Their appearances were so alike that few
even bothered to call them by their names. They were simply 'The
Engineers', or 'The Twins'.
Kraxul gave them a nod, which was not returned as they immediately went
to work with their measuring strings and grease pencils.
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Aug 22 08:16:14 2025
Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Fri Aug 22 18:24:44 2025
Writer: Pholos
Date Sat Aug 23 09:26:35 2025
Writer: Blinx
Date Sat Aug 23 09:42:51 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief I
The night hung thick over the forest. Wet and swollen with old rain and
the earthy smell of petrichor filled the senses . Crickets dared not chirp.
No wolves howled. Even the trees stood silent, their limbs taut and still,
as though they too feared to draw the wrong kind of attention.
At the heart of a cleared glade, a camp glowed in the gloom, its fires
flickering low. Men moved in pairs along the perimeter, patrols weaving
careful circles through the dark. Armor chinked softly with each step steel
caught faint glints of firelight before vanishing back into shadow. Their
voices stayed hushed, their eyes sharp. Here, they kept their discipline.
Here, they stood vigilant against what the night might hold.
Blinx floated just beyond the edge of the torchlight, a shriveled thing
hidden in the mist and umbra. He was little more than a shadow, brittle,
emaciated, hunger-bound. His skin was the color of grave wax, his ribs a
ridged cage around a hollow chest. His wings beat with erratic pulse.
He tilted his skeletal head, feeling the vertebrae in his host body shifting
softly.
A fragile flame, so young, so slight,
They've left a child to the night.
The tender ones are quickest claimed,
Their dreams the richest, mine, their claimed.
His eyes, deep wells of crimson fixed on a lone figure by the
fire: a young man seated in silent watch, his face still touched with the
softness of youth.
Writer: Arrdyn
Date Sat Aug 23 17:21:02 2025
To All ( Yinn IMMS RP )
Subject Field Observer Report #1
*A missive written in an archaic Yaenni dialect*
Greetings and Glory to the Keeper of Words and the Path of Enlightenment,
May your light lead the People into a prosperous future.
By the will of the Keeper's council, I have embarked on the assigned mission
and made my way into the nominally civilized reaches of the Althainian
Continent, embedding myself within one of the secondary kingdoms therein,
a dry and dusty city named New Thalos. I have mastered the native tongue of
this city and established myself as a full citizen. When other citizens
have commented on the oddity of a lone Yaenni female operating openly in
non-Yaenni controlled territory, I have been honest: informing them I have
to come to watch and learn and try to understand the rest of Algoron. This
explanation is sufficient for most, particularly when they begin to realize
how different the People are from the other races of this world in both
attitude and temperament.
My initial comprehension has undergone a number of fundamental shifts in
understanding. The situation outside of Shokono and our own hidden lands is
far more volatile than we believed. The mindset of these people is baffling
to me. The Warp threatens the continued existence of everything they
believe in, and they do nothing to unite and throw it back from this world
except offer empty platitudes and arguments. Their clans spend ridiculous
amounts of effort in slaying one another for pride and prestige, while their
true enemy largely walks unmolested. When a servant of Chaos rears his
head, they do not call a hunt and hound them to the grave... They busily
backstab and sabotage each other instead. They show no willingness to work
together for a greater good, in obvious defiance of the historical precedent
that suggests otherwise.
Gone is the era when an invasion of the People was sufficient to focus the
whole of Algoron on stopping us from conquering them. They have no heroes
left to rally and inspire them to the greater benefit of the whole world.
They have fallen into a weakness they may never be able to recover from.
I fear the outcome when the God-Son's forces stir once more if nothing
changes. They stand divided and a divided shield will not protect this
world from disaster.
My mission, however, continues. I will do what must be done to observe,
record and pass on my understanding to the Keeper and his Council, for the
good of the People.
Your devoted Observatrix,
Arrdyn Malyx,
Watcher in the Dark
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Aug 23 22:16:43 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Sun Aug 24 10:00:06 2025
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sun Aug 24 16:16:07 2025
To Shadow Telthian Symantha ( Yylara Tesirtheok Suzero Nikayk All admin Tritoch Cayenna RP )
Subject The bridge of black wings: {uearly resistance (II)
"Then why did you vote for me to try? " The family was gathered for a
weekly meal, and an elder Uncle was causing some frustration for Tsacherus.
"I didn't think you'd be damn fool enough to succeed, " the elder growled,
"but now it seems you may. "
"And, you'd have me stop? I won't. It's the right path. "
"The yinn race is strong. " -pound- "Proud. " -pound- "Independent!
Unperturbable. Unchanging. Unyiel-"
"Uncle! " the pounding on the table ceased. "The point. "
"Eh? " his uncle glowered and waved away the interjection, but did not
resume the rant. "The humans count their adaptability as their strength.
Not fixity. Purists, now they're not purists. They worship Necrucifer, now
they worship Drakkara. They're not rising with the tide, they're tumbling
in the waves! "
"That's not-"
"I'm not finished! " his uncle snarled, asserting his right as an elder to
be heard. Tsacherus bowed his head and exhaled his objections as breath,
obedient but not chastened. His uncle continued. "We have worshipped the
black moon since it tore a hole in our sky and declared itself to us.
Worshipped Drakkara since before we knew Her name. Nephew, you cannot place
yourself in the human hierarchy. At the bottom of it. They are weak. "
"Weak, " Tsacherus repeated, head still bowed, but now he looked up at his
uncle. "Weak is a race that scattered to the wind. Weak is hiding in the
wilderness, uncle. We are strong individually but as yinn we are nothing!
" He stood abruptly, gesturing broadly around. "Our people are nothing,
uncle. They live in refugee camps. Take work as mercenaries and assassins!
I can change that, Uncle. The Witch-Queen will grant us an estate, there,
on Arkania. We will house our people. Give them purpose again. And yes,
the strength of the humans is their adaptability. Let us mix our strength
with their! Fold it together. Beat out the impurities and wield the
keenest edge. "
There was a pause, and his uncle said quietly, "No. I forbid-"
"You forbid? " Tsacherus hissed into silence and stillness in the great
hall of the Nightingale clan. All eyes were on him, on his hand that
gripped the hilt of the sword at his side. He looked down at it himself.
He had not twisted his hand, not unlocked the sword from its scabbard, nor
exposed the four fingers of blade which, in this home, would have signalled
ruin. Proximity to calamity brought calm, and Tsacherus made a show of
relaxing, allowing his hands to fall to his sides.
"No Uncle, I'm sorry. This you cannot forbid. The family had already
decided - you have already agreed, and I will not go back on what I have
begun. This is right for us. " Tsacherus sat back down and bowed his head
respectfully.
His uncle nodded, and broke bread. Still glowering, he made a wisecrack
about taxation from Shokono city, and the Nightingale clan broke out in
laughter and debate about local empire while they sat down to eat.
Tsacherus wondered if that was the last he'd hear from this particular uncle
on the matter.
Writer: Sidorinath
Date Sun Aug 24 16:36:10 2025
Writer: Ulyssus
Date Sun Aug 24 18:37:30 2025
To All ( Imm RP Kantilles )
Subject The Crystal Monastery XII
Ulyssus closed the tome he had been leafing through, a study on moonlit
hymns and their origins, and set it gently back on the oaken table. The
Crystal Monastery's library seemed to hum with quiet knowledge, the faint
magical lights reflecting in rows upon rows of glassy shelves. Around him,
the silence was broken only by the occasional shifting of parchment and the
soft, rhythmic breathing of the dozing librarian behind his desk.
He adjusted his white cloak and made his way toward the southwest exit, the
polished crystal floors cool beneath his boots. Down the corridor, the
faint scent of incense gave way to something sharper with the smell of burnt
herbs, alchemical reagents, and the clean tang of magic at work.
The laboratory was starkly different from the warmth of the library with the
thick stone walls blackened in places by old scorch marks, stone tables
rising seamlessly from the ground, the very air shimmering faintly with
protective wards. A few novices and monks were already seated on heavy
stools, while at the front stood Brother Calmar, an older monk with stooped
shoulders and a long braid streaked white. His eyes, however, gleamed with
sharp intensity.
"Today, " Calmar said, his voice gravelly but steady, "we turn our attention
not to healing the wounded, but to sanctifying the ordinary. A cup, a
candle, a staff, too, may carry the Light of Kantilles when blessed with
intention.' Do not mistake the simplicity of the object for the smallness of
the act."
Each novice was given a plain object from the table before them: a stone, a
cup, or a small taper candle. Ulyssus received a smooth river stone, gray
and unremarkable. Calmar instructed them to begin not with words, but with
focus, channeling their will through steady breathing, envisioning the Light
of Kantilles filling the space between their hands.
Ulyssus cradled the stone in both palms, closing his eyes. He thought of
the monastery bells at dawn, of the golden warmth in the chapel, of the
second tenet: In the Light we serve. His breath slowed, his thoughts
quieted, until the weight of the stone seemed to change, no longer cold, but
faintly warm, pulsing as though in rhythm with his own heart.
"Now speak, " Calmar prompted, "not to the stone, but through it. "
Ulyssus whispered a blessing, words simple and steady. When he opened his
eyes, the stone bore a faint shimmer, its surface catching the glow of the
laboratory wards like starlight on water. Calmar passed behind him and gave
a small nod.
Around the room, candles flickered brighter, cups seemed to carry a subtle
warmth, and even the plain stones took on a quiet radiance. The lesson was
not about power, Ulyssus realized, but about intent, that holiness could
dwell not only in sacred halls, but in the simplest of things, if carried
with care.
When the exercise concluded, the novices placed their newly blessed items
back upon the central table. Calmar dismissed them with a reminder:
"Remember, children of the Light, when you bless, you do not change the
object. You change its purpose. "
Ulyssus lingered a moment longer, his fingers brushing over the stone before
setting it down. As he stepped back into the hall, he felt the echo of the
blessing still in his hands. Even the most unremarkable object, like the
most unremarkable act, could carry the Light into the world.
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 24 22:20:25 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM RP Mencius )
Subject "The Old Vengeance." (I of II)
The mountain air was thin and sharp, smelling of stone and pine resin.
Zixlapix's white robes were dust-streaked, but he moved with the quick,
deliberate steps of a deep-gnome who had long since learned how to tread
dangerous paths. His belt chimed softly with each step--dagger, censer,
Fatale's scripture--tools of a novice priest with an appetite for more than
prayer.
When the shrine came into view, it wasn't what he expected. No crumbling
altar, no ghosts, no rusted weapons. Instead, there were
people--half-starved men and women in scavenged armor, eyes ringed with
exhaustion but burning with purpose. They stood among piles of stones
carved with the symbol of Mencius: two crescents, locked like jaws.
The eldest stepped forward, his face lined like cracked granite. "You come
for the shrine, " he said, voice flat. "You carry the mark of the
Dread-Brother. Are you here to finish what was begun? "
Zix adjusted his grip on his parrying dagger, though he did not raise it.
"I come for my Lord's work. This shrine is forgotten. It belongs to the
Black Moon once more. "
A murmur rippled through the group. Some drew blades; one spat. "Mencius
is not forgotten, " the elder said. "His vengeance burns in us still. We
have debts to settle, blood yet unpaid. We thought you were sent to lead
us. "
The young priest tilted his head, curiosity flaring. Here were not ghosts
but living faith, brittle and desperate. He could almost feel Fatale's
amusement pressing at the edges of his mind. To take the shrine by force
would be simple. To wield these remnants? That would be a greater murder.
"Your debts, " Zix said, letting the words fall like coins on stone, "can be
sharpened. But not for a dead god. His rope has frayed; his hand is dust.
The Black Moon is full and Fatale's blade is bright. Swear your vengeance
to Him, and I will see your purpose rekindled."
The silence stretched seconds before becoming minutes. Zix quietly casting
a spell of blessing and frenzy on the mass of emaciated Mencianites. Then,
slowly, one knelt. Another followed. The elder hesitated, then let his
sword fall point-first into the soil.
Zix stepped forward, censer swinging, the smoke rising like a coiled
serpent. "Then let us begin, " he said, his smile almost kind, his eyes
edged with fervor. "The shrine will bleed again. "
Writer: Zixlapix
Date Sun Aug 24 22:30:21 2025
To All ( Fatale IMM RP Mencius )
Subject "The Old Vengeance." (II of II)
The smoke of the censer lingered like a living thing, curling over the
carved stones and the kneeling figures. Zixlapix stepped back, letting the
silence press in. The shrine's air had changed; the bitter tang of old
devotion was gone, replaced by something sharper, hungrier, darker.
The elder's eyes met Zix's, wide with awe and fear. "It... It feels
different. We--" He stopped, his voice faltering.
"Different, yes, " Zix said softly, sheathing his dagger. "The debt you
thought owed to the dead god is nothing. It has been claimed by the Black
Moon. Your vengeance is no longer scattered--it is Fatale's to temper, ...
To wield. You are old blades, now pointed true and given back their edge.
"
The group stirred, unsure how to respond. Some bowed lower, some whispered
prayers that were not Mencius's, but the words carried weight, power, and
the chill of inevitability. Zix lifted his censer once more, letting the
last coils of smoke drift skyward, curling like fingers reaching for unseen
stars.
Zixlapix smiled at his work, flush with Fatale's divinity spreading His
blessing throughout the old shrine. The stones underneath began to stir,
the air sung, and unholy vigor rekindled.
He walked the length of the shrine, noting the subtle changes: a dagger
embedded in stone now glowed faintly red in the torchlight, a sigil faintly
carved in black where none had been before. The shrine would bleed again,
but on Fatale's terms.
As he stepped outside, the mountain wind bit through his robes, but he did
not shiver. A smile flickered across his face, one of patience,
calculation, and quiet triumph. The novice priest had learned something
tonight--not the raw thrill of murder, nor the fire of immediate vengeance,
but the deeper, slower art of control. The shrine behind him whispered with
new life. Somewhere in the shadows, Fatale's amusement brushed against his
mind like a velvet blade. Zix walked down the stone path, his white robes
streaked with ash and smoke, each step measured, each breath a promise.
The Black Moon hung low above and the world was better, brighter.
Writer: Tamello
Date Mon Aug 25 12:36:47 2025
To Piknim Verminasia Abaddon Darkonin All ( Imm Religion RP Raije Drakkara )
Subject {nCleansing of Spirit : {oPathfinder{n V
Tam slunk through the shadows as best he could as he retraced the step
through the tunnel that lead him from his current destination. The dirt
tunnel had collapsed partially here and there since he'd last traversed it,
but that was to be expected considering a war was waged nearby and parts of
the moon had crashed down not too much further from his warren. Not to
mention whatever warpbeasts or other denizens that had come through here
since.
A short time later the tunnel opened up into a large cultivated cavern. It
was made even larger by the fact that a gaping hole at the top opened up
into pure darkness. Far below that hole, was a large crater. Scorch marks
and bits of metal, bent and twisted, scattered across the ground. Where his
family's den had been was just a mound of dirt now. It had collapsed that
day with the explosions, burying his grandparents as one snuffs out a
candle.
Frowning, he turned from the mound and looked around, searching for
something but not knowing. He came here to find his reasons for what he
sought. Why the path lead him to where it was leading him. He had passed
the reliqua to the Darkfinder, conviced that he didn't know what to do with
it next. That he was powerless to change it's corruption. And powerless to
ask the Goddess for help with it.
He sat down on an old crate and nudged the ground with his toes, digging
them into the soil that he and his family had grown and tilled and loved.
{oLoved. His eyebrows furrowed in thought. Was that what was holding him
back? Love? Love of who? Of what? And that's when it hit him. His love
of a land where things made sense. Of simplicity and purity. A land that
will never happen and was a mirage against the going on of the surface
world.
Sooner or later it would have come for them. The Chaos beasts would have
came and torn through them. Not that everything happens for a reason or
that there was a divine plan, but there was a reason this happened to his
family. A reason this happened to him. To set him on a path. Every great
adventure his grandparents had told him started with a catalyst. This was
his.
He bent down and picked up some of the soil and breathed it in deep, holding
those earthy tones in his lungs before he breathed outward, blowing the dirt
and dust away. In that breath he realized he could not continue to dwell on
the past if he were to continue forward. That if he where to get where he
was going, he had to leave the Love behind. Not forget. Never forget. But
he could not hold onto a past that would never change.
One who followed the heart would find it bled.
With a few hops he was in front of a broken down shed. It took him a moment
of wrenching the door open before it finally came free and his prize was
inside. Taking the gardening hoe in hand he slipped back out into the
tunnels. A lightness in his feet carrying him forward faster than they had
brought him to this place.
Writer: Maccus
Date Mon Aug 25 13:48:42 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:00:32 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth
The Main Gathering Hall of the Warp did not echo with sound. It echoed
with meaning.
The marble walls, once proud and silent, now bore paintings so dense and
vivid they seemed to pulse with life. Images of gods cast down, of orcs
rising unshackled, of mortals drowning in the light they were told to
worship, All surrounded a golden statue of Malachive, triumphant fists
pulling shattered chains from the very globe beneath his feet. Below, the
Tree of Horn wept blood in slow, deliberate tears.
Around the fountain and bleeding bark, the faithful gathered.
They were many, and they were not the same.
A woman known only as a Lament-Scribe stood silently, her eyelids tattooed
shut, ink trails seeping from the corners of her eyes. Bound pages
fluttered around her shoulders like wings, each page bearing the same line
rewritten in a hundred hands: "I remember."
A Glassling, faceless and hollow, stood wrapped in mirrored plates.
Reflections twisted in impossible ways, showing other times, other wounds,
other betrayals. The cultist did not speak, but when others blinked, they
sometimes saw their own deaths in its chest.
There were Chainbearers who whispered prayers through rusted manacles,
Emberbound who smeared coal across their cheeks in the shape of
eight-pointed stars, and even a child-like shape with hair made of leeches,
sucking truths from the air.
Towering above All of them was Justian.
His form gleamed white, not with holiness but with purpose. A centaur
carved in living flesh, armored in sigil-less silksteel. He bore no
allegiance but one: the wound. A Chaos star carved into his forehead, which
did not bleed; it pulsed. His sapphire eyes were warm, yes... But only
until they caught the light of dogma... Then they fractured into slivers of
something older, something primordial.
Justian acknowledged the mob of cultists, but noted the lack of familiar
faces, save Waaagh and Crelius among those present. He smiled warmly at
both in greeting.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:04:06 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
Beside him, a creature stirred. Waaagh, a living monument to brutality,
shifted his colossal frame with predatory grace. His armor, seemingly
cobbled together from dragonhide, blood-forged plates, and the salvaged
trophies of annihilated champions, moved with soundless precision. His bare
arms flexed as he worked, cords of shadow-black muscle rippling beneath skin
that drank in the light like fresh pitch. From his belt hung relics of
conquest... A shattered angel wing, tusks and knucklebones, scalps and
teeth... All tokens of a history written in ruin. Behind him rose a battle
standard hammered into the shape of a Chaos star, its garish center scrawled
with his name in letters the size of a scream: "WAAAGH!" . His dreadlocks,
bound with razors and rune-inscribed bones, clattered softly as he leaned
forward to scratch something in chalk upon a stone tablet: "It is for us to
wake them." The strokes were deliberate, scar-like, as though writing hurt.
Then he nodded, the dreadlocks rattled like bones in a priests censer and
whispered the word that is his name... His answer.
Justian smiled.
"I considered many topics for this, but the one thing that continued to
plague my mind... Is Why."
Crelius did not move. He did not even blink.
The Knight-turned-aberration, once a man of title and crusade, now stood as
a testament to the Warps cruel patience. His armor, once royal blue, had
darkened to a hue like rotted oak and split bark, mottled and fibrous as if
the beast it had once armored still clung to it in spirit. Fissures
spidered across each plate, black veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface
like roots burrowed too deep. Above the torn collar of his wolf-pelt cloak
rose the pale, glistening dome of his skull. Where once there had been
flesh, now lay the bloom of corruption... A grotesque lattice of sinew and
root clawing up from his throat and burrowing into the bone behind his ears.
These growths, gnarled and hardened like warped antlers, formed a crown not
of rulership but of ruinparasitic digits grasping for permanence. One eye
remained, raven-black and ringed in vermilion... Always watching, never
still. The other socket was sealed by a mass of scar tissue, pitted and
puckered like burnt wax molded into a crude Chaos star... And damp, still
healing... Still open in its own way.
He was not dead. He was a wound that had learned to walk.
"It is of little consequence, Word Bearer," Crelius said, voice like cloth
drawn over iron. "Speak your edicts, that your words might travel through
the fragile skein between this world and the ether. There is potency still,
in bearing witness to your litany by even so few."
Justian nodded.
He did not need to ask for silence. He simply said, "Then... Let us
begin." The hall obeyed.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:14:38 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"We speak often of 'what' we do."
"Victories shouted on the battlefield. Betrayals whispered where faith once
stood. Heresies carved into flesh and chanted in defiance. Truths
whispered through screaming scars. Chains broken with bloodied hands and
reshaped into meaning."
He flexed a single hand. Dried blood flaked away like old snow. Beneath
the skin, runes stirred... Faint, flickering, as if trying to remember how
to be seen.
"We speak less of 'how'... And never of the Truth the wound carries."
His hoofsteps began to sound against the stone, not loud, but resonant. A
ritual begun.
"Through rites written in scars, not scripture."
"Through words that turn loyalty to honest heresy."
"Through pain alchemized into purpose and sacrifice made willingly."
"Through silence sharper than steel, through meaning conjured from ruin."
"Through patience that keeps the blade steady. Through poison that finds
the vein. Through design that leaves a mark that cannot be healed."
He walked, slowly, and the air bent with him. Not heat. Not magic. Just
gravity shifting its allegiance.
"The Wound remembers."
Crelius smiled beneath his hood. Sardonic. Not amused, but reminded.
"Rarely... Rarely... Do we speak of why."
The Tree bled. The wind held its breath. Justian stood still. Then his
voice rolled out, low and resonant.
"Why... Because the wound is where the lie fails, and we are done living
inside it."
"Why does Chaos persist... Unbound, unbroken, unrepentant?"
"Why do we turn from comfort, and walk into the storm?"
He looked up, toward painted gods falling from painted heavens... And
smiled.
"That is not faith. It is the scream beneath obedience."
"If you do not know your why, then you are not a blade. You are noise!"
Waaagh whispered again, soft and guttural. "Waaagh..."
Justian continued, his voice steel, "You echo only madness..."
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening for a rebuttal the gods were
too afraid to voice.
"Then you are nothing but a mirror of the false gods... Blind, deaf, and
obedient."
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:17:52 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"Speak your why... If it has not broken you."
"Bleed until it speaks for you."
"... Or remain silent... And let the Warp remind you."
Waaagh stepped forward.
He did not roar. He did not strike. He simply drew the Three Moons -
white, black, and red - on a tablet of chalk, and then thrust it in the
stream of blood. It dissolved instantly, atoms fleeing from meaning.
The beast wiped the blood across his face, then smeared it on Justians
flank. The centaur did not flinch.
"Waaagh," the creature said.
Justian smiled. Glyphs on his body scurried under his skin, repelled by
Waaaghs mark.
Then came Crelius.
He lowered his hood. The light recoiled. The growths at his throat pulsed
with anticipation, wrapping his skull in thorn and marrow. As he stepped
toward the Tree, his silhouette merged with it. For a moment, they were
one.
"Where once stood a man of certainty," he said, "hath a spirit been
reforged. My course realigned, awakened to a new perception. I have walked
the forbidden paths and gazed into the fathomless oceans of discord. They
name it the Warp, but such a paltry word formed from the ignorant cannot
contain its infinite potential."
Waaagh seethed in agreement. The Lament-Scribe wept. The Glassling
fractured.
"Each of us came to this path for our own reasons," Crelius continued. "Yet
one thing binds us. The condemnation of the overseers, the false divine,
who cling to this insignificant sphere like locusts to a field. Their
anguish, their extinction, will feed the timeless hunger of the ether. This
is my purpose. My lance will pierce the hearts of the omnipotent."
The hall absorbed his words like soil taking blood. Around them, no one
stirred. Even the mad ones... Those who wept at stone, who whispered to
the walls, held their tongues. For a heartbeat too long, the Warp itself
seemed to listen, the light dimming not from shadow, but reverence. All
eyes turned to Justian, not in challenge, but in anticipation. The wound
had been named. Now came the truth of its birth.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:21:07 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"Chaos was not born in violence," Justian said, once the silence allowed
him breath. "It was born in betrayal."
"A child of gods saw the Truth of this world... And chose mortals instead."
"I follow the path of Chaos because it offers no salvation, only the right
to refuse a false one."
"We are not the end. We are the unmaking that allows something honest to
begin."
He turned to the cultists, his eyes glimmering not with hope, but with
demand.
"The Wound remembers."
"It is not enough to believe."
"The how is the scar that proves the faith... The shape our purpose takes
in this world."
"Our scars are deeds remembered, not wounds sought... A proof of action,
not ornament."
"Chaos is not a scream in the dark. It is a whisper that reaches the
throne."
Each word cut deeper than the last.
"We do not burn just to watch it All fall... We burn to light what lies
beneath the ash."
"Some wield swords. We wield questions... With edges sharper than steel."
"We infiltrate their rites. Corrupt their rituals. We take their sacred
and make it profane."
And with quiet finality:
"We do not flail. We do not hope. We CHOOSE."
He struck his chest with a closed fist. Not devotion. Declaration.
"This is how Chaos endures..."
The echo of the strike lingered like a drumbeat in the bones of every
listener. It was not applause, not ritual... It was summons. The air grew
still, as if the hall itself awaited instruction. Justians gaze swept the
gathered faithful, not with pity or pride, but with the expectation of fire
answering fire.
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 15:23:57 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion )
Subject The Meridian Heresy: Woundborne Truth (Cont)
"What do we do?"
"We sow doubt in sacred places. We unwrite their stories. We make Truth
bleed."
Crelius offered a ravenous grin at the mention of "stories," his scarred
features contorting into a mask of grotesque agony and delight.
"We build nothing... But we forge the tools for others to tear down their
chains."
"Chaos is not your weapon. You are It's voice... It's fire... It's hand."
He looked them in the eyes, one by one.
"If your hand moves without purpose, then your blade was never for Chaos to
begin with."
He turned to the statue of Malachive.
"The false gods taught our knees to love the stone."
"We rose to end that lesson."
"Go do what Chaos demands..."
"Action."
"And if you falter..."
Waaaghs grip tightened.
"Remember... You are the wound in the world the false gods cannot close."
"You are the proof that their order has failed."
"The false gods are watching... Make them afraid."
He touched his scarred brow, turned toward the bleeding Tree, and let
silence take him.
"The Wound remembers."
His final gesture was no blessing. A clawed hand curled around nothing.
Around everything.
"Suffer well."
The sermon ended. But the Wound remained.
And it bled for All of them. It always had.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:44:27 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief II
Armor polished, yet unscarred by fight,
A tabard stiff, still starched and bright.
The crest of Greystroke, proud and clear,
But youth still clings, smelling of fear.
Seventeen, perhaps-so raw, so new,
A soldier sworn, yet fragile too.
A soldier of righteousness, sworn to the fray,
A soldier of Greystroke, soon led astray.
The boy's blade lay across his lap, its edge untouched by gore. His jaw was tight,
but his eyes betrayed a flicker of self-doubt. He stared into the dark as though
it might answer him.
And the dark did.
Blinx slipped past the eyes of the patrol, drifting like smoke between their circling routes.
The air dropped ten degrees. The grass yellowed beneath him.
Greystroke's pup, bright-eyed and bold,
Still thinks the world is carved in gold.
They gave him steel and sent him here,
To feed the thing he should fear.
He whispered words that dissolved into the air, like ash into water.
The boy's head lolled. His sword fell from his lap with a dull thunk.
Blinx fluttered down to the sleeping soldier. His crimson eyes looking over
the body in hunger. He lowers his gaunt face, just before he made contact with
his victim. Blinx inhaled deeply, drinking in the scent of the boy's dreamscape.
He was full of hope, righteousness and courage. And Blinx began to salivate.
The soldier stood upon a broken cliff, the battlefield stretching for miles below him.
Smoke and lightning danced across the sky. His tabard snapped in the storm winds as he
lifted the banner of Greystroke high, its sigil blazing with golden fire.
And before him, a monster of legend reared from the earthan ancient blue dragon, its
scales like storm-forged sapphire, its wings eclipsing the storm clouds. Lightning cascaded
from its maw, scorching the battlefield into glass. Its roar shattered boulders, its claws
carved canyons into the dirt.
The boy did not falter. He was radiant, as if prophecy itself had clothed him in sunlight.
In righteousness we doth judge and make war!
He charged, sword gleaming. The ground split with each of the dragon's steps, yet the
youth climbed its massive body, leaping from scale to scale with impossible grace. His
blade, once so polished and unused, now bit deep into the creature's hide. Sparks flew.
Blood like molten sapphire poured down its flank.
The azure wyrm shrieked and fell, its bulk crashing through mountainside and battlefield alike.
When it struck the earth, the sky split with light, and the boy--Greystroke's child, Algoron's
champion plunged his sword into its vast throat. The beast spasmed, then stilled.
But the cheering warped. The voices cracked into static, like bones snapping in a fire.
The banners curled to ash midair, drifting down as black snow that clung wetly to his skin.
The gods who had crowned him in glory turned their faces away, leaving only yawning sky.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:51:23 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief III
The dragon's corpse twitched. A sound like wet ropes straining split the
silence. Its sapphire scales dulled to a brittle gray, cracking, peeling,
dropping from its body like shards of old glass. A rancid stench rolled
from the woundsa mix of scorched copper, rotting marrow, and something
sweet, like spoiled fruit left to liquefy.
Its eyes snapped open, pupils burst into oozing voids. Thick tears of black
tar leaked down its face, hissing as they touched the battlefield soil.
Then its chest split wide, ribs cracking outward like jagged ivory gates.
From within, darkness pulsed--a heart that was not a heart, thudding like a
war drum clogged with mud.
The battlefield itself writhed. Soldiers who had cheered bent backwards,
spines snapping like kindling. Their mouths split at the corners until
their jaws hung in permanent grins. Flesh peeled away in strips that
slapped wetly against the ground, leaving skeletal forms that clapped in
hollow rhythm, their palms clattering like dry sticks.
The boy tried to flee, but his boots sank ankle-deep into a mire of ash that
squirmed as though alive. Each step pulled at his flesh--warm, sticky
tendrils coiling around his calves, pulsing like veins. His sword corroded
in his hands, the metal pitting and bubbling as though doused in acid. The
tang of iron filled his mouth. He gagged, tasting rust and bile.
The azure's ruined body spoke. Its voice was wet and cavernous, like a
thousand throats choking at once. Every word reverberated in his bones,
shaking his teeth loose in their sockets.
You bled and swore, you dreamed and tried,
But you are ash when hope has died.
Your name is dust, your banner torn,
No purpose holds to one so worn.
The boy covered his ears, but the voice slithered through his fingers, slick
and cold as worms. The colossal wyrm's jaw unhinged. Strings of black saliva
snapped and fell in ropes that steamed as they hit the ground. Its tongue
lolled out, bloated and tar-black, sliding across the battlefield toward him.
The stench hit him full--ozone, carrion, and the sharp, sour tang of vomit.
His stomach heaved. He could taste it in the back of his throat.
The voice thundered again, louder, crueler:
No song will keep, no stone will mark,
Your soul dissolves into the dark.
The steel you raised, the pride you gave
All vanish quick into the grave.
His scream tore free but no sound came. Only a cloud of dry ash poured from his mouth,
bitter and choking, coating his tongue with grit. He clawed at his lips, gagging,
more poured out. His chest burned. His lungs scraped raw. His body convulsed as
though vomiting dust.
Writer: Blinx
Date Mon Aug 25 15:59:30 2025
To All ( Conclave Slayers IMM RP )
Subject {uBlinx, The Dreamthief IV
The carcass moaned its final rhyme, dripping shadow with each syllable:
The dead will rise, and the hero dies,
And All his dreams become my prize.
Outside the dreaming, the soldier's body shook. From his mouth, silver mist curled
like steam from a fresh wound. From his nostrils, threads of orien unfurled. His
eyes wept thin streams of shimmering vapor. Even his ears leaked dreamstuff.
Blinx hovered above him, trembling, and crooned:
Now I lay you down to sleep,
Your soul to mine, mine to keep.
I'll drink your light, your hope, your love
And take you where no heroes rove.
He inhaled. The dreamstuff twisted into his chest like smoke into a shattered
lantern. His ribs flared with sudden heat. Cracks split across his waxen skin,
glowing red beneath, as though hell itself breathed through him. The boy's body
convulsed. He tasted copper as blood leaked from his gums. His tongue went dry,
shriveling like fruit left in the sun. His skin tightened to parchment, each pore
weeping a faint trace of warmth before collapsing into dust. His eyes streamed
thick fluid down his cheeks, burning as though his very memories had been liquefied.
A soldier young, and full of light
Now shrivels on this very night.
He'll bear no songs, no name, no grave
Just empty skin for worms to crave.
The boy gave one final shudder and went still. His cheeks sank inward. His limbs folded
like cloth. His eyes, once wide with purpose, stared blank and hollow into the sky. He /
was nothing now but a shell.
Blinx lowered his hand, twitching with gluttony and reverence. With a flick of his wings,
he vanished into the night. And above, the Black Moon gleamed. Full. Watching. Waiting.
Writer: Tanja
Date Mon Aug 25 16:02:39 2025
Writer: Justian
Date Mon Aug 25 16:05:55 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject We Remember the Wound: A Cultists Witness
We remember. (We remember?)
No eyes left, not real ones. Only seeing.
The Hall was breathing. The Tree was screaming without sound.
The marble was wet, yes, and the bowl never full
Never. Full.
It smelled like teeth.
The hoof came down.
Not thunder, not war.
A beginning noise. The sound of silence folding in on itself.
White. White. White.
(But not clean. Never clean.)
His name was Justian and the star was carved. It moved.
Then...the Fell-Handed.
Waaagh. WAAAGH. WAAAAGH!
Not a voice. A direction.
He didnt say. He scraped. Chalk. Bone. Moons. Blood. Meaning.
The symbols...were they always there?
The blood knew where to go. It found the white.
The third was shadow-wrapped. Root-wrapped. Voice-wrapped.
Crelius. Half here. Half thorn.
Tree loved him. Tree bent toward him. Or did he pull the Tree?
They stood. The three. The white. The black. The between.
Malachive watched. (We dont say that. We dont say that.)
The centaur said pain was the scripture.
He said the wound was the only truth.
He said bleed, and we bled. (Wasnt told to. Just did.)
We looked at each other and forgot names.
We tore sleeves. Tore skin. Bit cloth. Bit words. Bit down on silence.
Waaagh marked Justian. Blood answered blood.
Crelius whispered knives. Into the ear. Into the bone.
We didnt understand. We said yes anyway.
Justian said: "The false gods are watching. Make them afraid."
We did.
We were.
We became.
Something turned. Maybe the statue. Maybe us.
The Tree blinked. (Trees dont blink.)
The star opened. (Foreheads dont bloom.)
Doesnt matter.
The wound remembers.
The wound remembers.
(Say it, say it!, SAY IT!!)
We suffer well.
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Aug 25 19:04:32 2025
Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Aug 25 19:07:15 2025
Writer: Blinx
Date Tue Aug 26 22:35:58 2025
To All ( Conclave Piknim IMM RP )
Subject The dreaming
The candle before him was a thing of dread and precision. Its body was
thick, poured from blackened wax that seemed to drink the light instead of
giving it. Driven into its sides were crooked nails, iron scavenged from a
coffin hinge, a lock from a pauper's grave, and the bent spine of a
horseshoe. Each nail was pressed in by Blinx's own hand, slicked with his
blood until the wax hardened around them. They jutted out, like domino's
waiting to fall.
The nails were more than macabre ornament. They were his failsafe. For all
his mastery of somnomancy, even Blinx knew the Dreamscape was not his to
command. It was a realm without day or night, where minutes could
masquerade as hours or centuries, where a dreamer could wander until their
body in the waking world starved or stiffened in death. Worse still, there
were places and presences within the Dreamscape that could trap him, fold
him into their nightmares and take his essence like a trophy.
He whispered his chant, voice nothing but breath, and the world thinned.
His body grew heavy, yet his thoughts lifted, carried away on unseen
currents. Then came the drift, the falling, until the Dreamscape unfolded
around him, spreading like ink dumped in water.
Fog rolled in strange tides, gleaming silver and violet, stars tumbled far
too close to the ground. Shapes stirred in the distance half-formed
dreamers, memories bleeding into each other, fears stitched into shadows.
Blinx spread his wings, gliding on currents that belonged to no sky, and
smiled with sharp delight. Each dream was a feast, and the air was thick
with sweetness.
But then--something unusual. At the far edge of the mists, a shimmer, a
pattern repeating too perfectly, like a thought not born of mortal sleep.
He narrowed his eyes. Dreams always twisted and scattered, but this was
deliberate. Designed. He drifted closer, tasting the air-stranger than
sugar, heavier than iron. A presence. Watching. Sleep cushion
His grinned sharpened, "Now what are you, dream or clue?"
Plink!
A nail dropped free. It hissed through wax and salt before striking the
iron plate with a cold metallic tink. The sound rang out like a hammer to
his skull, splitting dream from body.
The Dreamscape convulsed. The shimmer dissolved, the fog ripped apart, and
the watching presence swelled wide and vast, almost close enough to touch.
Then everything shattered. Blinx's eyes flew open. His chest heaved,
throat raw, as though he had been yanked out by a hook through the ribs.
The candle still burned, guttering low, and one nail now lay gleaming in the
dish. The iron still hummed with the echo of that violent call. He licked
his teeth, smirk curling though unease clung to him.
"Next time," he whispered to the flame.
Next time I'll see the fog more through
And learn at last just what are you
Writer: Zorreau
Date Wed Aug 27 07:41:05 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Necrucifer Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject The Crucible of the Abyss: Twilight of Shadows IV
The Spirit World stretched endlessly before him - a pallid void where the
edges of reality bled into shadow, and memory itself dissolved into formless
streams of thought. Each step Zorreau took disturbed the pale mist beneath
his boots, and yet no sound carried here, no echo returned. The silence
hung vast and suffocating, as though the world itself waited for his resolve
to falter.
For a time, there was nothing. And then - something stirred.
From the abyssal haze ahead, a shape began to coalesce: a hunched figure of
fractured silhouettes, as though reality could not decide what shape it
should wear. Its face, if face it was, seemed carved from the memories of
the dying, shifting from mortal to beast to nightmare with each passing
breath. When it spoke, the sound was not heard but remembered, threading
directly into Zorreau's mind like a voice buried in dream:
"You tread where few dare, Malus Lupus. Few who come so far leave...
Unchanged. "
Zorreau's hand rested lightly upon the hilt at his side, but he did not
draw. His gaze narrowed beneath the shadowed hood of his helm. "I seek
knowledge, " he said, his voice steady, sharp. "There are beings in this
world whose souls I seek to bind. I would learn how. "
The figure trembled, as though suppressing a laugh - or a sob.
"Such deeds are not taught here, " it murmured. "This place... The Spirit
World... It is but a crossing, a place where whispers gather, not where
power is forged. To bind another is to carve their will from the tapestry
itself - an act forbidden to most... And understood by fewer still. "
Zorreau stepped closer, boots silent upon the endless mist. "Then where?
"
The figure shifted again, becoming taller, sharper, its form splintering
into something monstrous - wings, claws, spines flashing for an instant
before dissolving. Its voice deepened, the weight of ages threading through
each syllable:
"A place where few venture, and even fewer return. The Realm of Terror. "
The words were cold iron, heavy with implication.
"There lies the knowledge you seek - the echoes of power forgotten even by
the Magisters, by the Templars, by false god who claimed dominion over life
and death. But know this, Shadowknight: each chain you forge carries the
scream of the bound. Their voices, their writhing souls, clawing eternally
at the walls of your mind. It is not pain of the flesh. It is remembrance.
The cries will haunt your every step. To command them, you must become deaf
to their pleas."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the slow,
rippling tremor of unseen forces passing beneath the mists.
Zorreau's jaw tightened, his eyes like burning coals beneath his hood.
"Then let them scream, " he said at last, voice low, resolute. "I will hear
their wailing as a hymn to Her glory. "
The shifting being regarded him in silence, its many faces melting into one
- a single, hollow mask that betrayed neither approval nor condemnation.
"Then you are ready to pay the price. Go, Malus Lupus. The path will open
when the will is stronger than the weight. "
And with that, the figure unraveled into motes of grey light, swallowed by
the mist.
Zorreau stood alone once more, but not unchanged. The next step would carry
him deeper than shadow - into a place where terror itself was a weapon...
And only the unbroken would leave with their mind intact.
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Aug 27 13:44:15 2025
Writer: Maccus
Date Wed Aug 27 14:13:08 2025
Writer: Telthian
Date Wed Aug 27 21:35:38 2025
To All Shadow Verminasia ( Imm RP Drakkara Cayenna Storyline Tritoch Religion )
Subject {uUmbrawake
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u- -=--_{u--=--
{u
Dark wings lifted him high above the sea without sun.
The waves of living night crashed upon the firmament,
and the black sand heaved with their silent weight.
No brine, no moisture, yet crushing as judgment itself.
This was no sea, but pure umbra
and the womb of dark desires.
Twisted clouds streamed against the tide,
and the crystals of the earth rose as broken pillars.
Each marked the shelter of the fallen.
Knights and Dragons alike lay scattered,
their arms abandoned, their scales dissolved,
their souls pulled screaming into the current.
Their cries became the hymn of the tide,
and the tide became their tomb.
Thus the past was stripped,
thus the old was consumed,
thus the dead were to make the foundation for the living.
Far ahead, a pale light flickered
the first star upon a shore unmade.
It pulsed beyond the final marker,
a promise, a herald, a beginning.
But no gentle descent could reach it,
only the plunge through storm and silence.
So the Maw rose high above the torrent,
He steeled his heart, folded his wings, and thundered down.
Into the umbratide he fell,
barbs of arcana tearing scale and sinew.
The wyrm pressed on,
membranes of his wings shredded to tatters.
And emerged on the other side
where a Black Citadel waited,
its ghastly ruin long abandoned.
{u--=--_{u--=--_{u- -=--_{u--=--
Writer: Terri
Date Fri Aug 29 05:47:07 2025
Writer: Kraxul
Date Sat Aug 30 14:09:55 2025
To All Thaxanos Althainia Agapitos Imm Rp
Subject Building Bridges (-part two-)
The sinkhole was massive in All dimensions, and the Thane stood at its
precipice, peering into its depths. The bottom was indiscernable, the
walls steep and cavernous, and its contents shrouded in shadow. As
the collossal foundation stones began filling the staging area, Kraxul
had ordered the scattered remnants of the Xoxx, the leaderless clan
of Hill Dwarves, into service. They were not strictly under his
charge, but recognizing the singular point of leadership within the
kingdom, they more or less begrudgingly answered the call.
"Wot ah great stinkin hole", one commented, while a second was quick
to retort "Aye, but we're nae here ta talk about yer m-"
"Enough, lads."
There were a few chuckles as the Thane cut the jokester off. There was
a time and place for such things, but this endeavor was frankly not it.
He stood, humorless, as he waited patiently for their full attention.
"Et's ah hazardous undertakin we find ourselves tasked wit' here, lads,
and ahm askin ye ta keep that in yer heads as we proceed."
The Thane tugged on his beard thoughtfully with his left hand as he
unconciously twirled his pickaxe with the right. A pickaxe was not
called for in the current job, but Kraxul was rarely seen without one.
"We're gonna build a bridge o'er this great an' nasty hole-"
A few soft chuckles from the crowd were silenced with a hard look.
"Tha Emp'ra wishes ta restore tha road from here t'Althainia, and 'e
wants a great and sturdy bridge wot will stand fer centuries ta come."
Kraxul paced slowly, looking from the hole back to the Dwarves in his
charge.
"Et's goin ta stand till yer gran'babbies are dead. Wars will bae
fought on this bridge. Dragons will land on this bridge and breathe
fire an' ice an' All sorts o' nastiment All over et. Thousands o'
soldiers will march across this bridge All at once, and ever damn one
of em es goin ta bae reminded o' tha magnificent craftsmanship o' tha
mighty Dwarves o' Thaxanos!"
The cheers were deafening, but a few of the Dwarves looked perplexed, or
even downright annoyed.
Kraxul grinned. "And yer job", he said, once he could be heard, "is
ta build a straight and smooth road from here to tha bottom o' tha
hole, so thousands o' tons o' granite slabs ken bae safely moved to
tha bottom."
### TO BE CONTINUED ###
|
