Dark & Shattered Lands

Writer: Anelli
Date Thu Feb 27 11:52:26 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Thu Feb 27 12:24:56 2025

Writer: Carmyne
Date Thu Feb 27 13:13:41 2025
To Nordmaar All (Imm RP Tarabella Kwainin)
Subject A Curse (Part 8)

At first, Carmyne couldn't say what woke her up from the heavy weight of
cursed sleep. She initially thought it was the nightmare: fire burning,
abrasive ropes cutting into her wrists, chanting...

"Cast a spell, Queen Carmyne, " a voice, dark and guttural, sounded in her
head. She remembered its timbre All too well, and hearing it now sent a
chill down her spine.

How long had they been putting thoughts in her mind while she slept? Her
fingers itched to work magic, her mind reaching toward the corrupted,
decaying light of power within. She hadn't even realized how close she was
to touching the very thing that would hasten her death.

Quickly, she reeled herself in, desperately praying to Lord Kwainin for a
calm centeredness.

The voice cackled in amusement. "I must say, you have shown impressive
restraint. Casting might take more effort, but you are more than capable,
Heart of Nordmaar. Will you continue to rot and decay? Do you not wish
this to be over? Think of what you do to your people in this state. "

As if the thought of what this was doing to those closest to her didn't
occur to her multiple times a day. The 'should haves' and 'what ifs'
plagued each of them. In fact, sometimes the far reaching effects of the
Magebane curse was All she thought about for hours on end.

Carmyne almost replied before she remembered that speaking across the realms
was its own form of magic. Others could speak to her, but she could not
reply without repercussion.

"Cast a spell, Queen Carmyne, " the voice repeated. "Would you not feel
better, safer, if you could detect danger? Do you not itch to unbind
yourself of the curse, to end it? Use your magics. I will keep talking to
you whether you reply or not. "

She reached for Malcomn, but the space next to her was empty. A glance
toward the windows showed she had slept well into the day once again. She'd
been sleeping more and more.

"You could make yourself more useful in your last days, enchanting armor and
weaponry for your people. I am certain they would appreciate it. "

Carmyne rose, more unsteady than yesterday. The room spun and blurred, her
vision fuzzy at the edges. Were these her last days?

Palace staff had to assist her with every part of her morning routine, and
she thanked them repeatedly for going above and beyond anything she would
have outright asked them to do.

All the while, the voice periodically injected itself into her mind,
taunting and urging her to use her magic. She could and would not reply.
This was a new form of torture.

Just yesterday Ulyssus had given them hope in the information he'd found at
the Tower. It was the first concrete sign that she might live past this,
that she might survive.

She would survive. She would.

When she finally sat on the couch in the library, Carmyne was already worn
out even though she'd just risen not long ago. She opened a new book, the
pages almost abrasive against her charcoal fingertips. The words on the
page blurred and sharpened several times before the finally held their
focus.

"Is this how you would have them remember you? A decaying husk, invalid,
useless, and without power? Cast a spell, Queen Carmyne, " the voice
continued. "Or we could converse about the freshly fallen snow if you would
but reply. "

Carmyne swallowed past a lump of emotion that formed in her throat, but her
darkened eyes were hard as steel as she studied the pages of the book in her
lap.

While she didn't respond to the voice, she thought one singular word with
all her might: NO.

Writer: Anelli
Date Fri Feb 28 07:37:15 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Feb 28 22:57:53 2025
To Nordmaar Imm All RP Tarabella
Subject Plans and Promises: Searching the Continent part 1

The wind howled across the crag, tugging at Roseleyn's cloak as she
carefully hauled the cases up to the summit before unpacking the largest
maps of Icewall she could find. Perched atop the jagged heights, the land
stretched in every direction, the valley below with the river cutting and
twisting through it, the thick Blackwoods crowding in below, All unfolding
before her.

She knelt upon the frostbitten stone, preparing the ground with practiced
precision. The elements played their natural role in the ritual, the open
air making her feel connected to the very forces she sought to guide her.
At each of the four cardinal directions, she placed a candle, their flames
flickering defiantly against the gusts. The light danced over the maps,
their shifting forms merging with the natural landscape below her perch.
The maps lay before her, ancient and worn, their edges curling from years of
exposure and use, corners weighted down with small stones to keep them from
being claimed by the relentless wind.

One detailed the Blackwood, its twisting paths and shadowed clearings inked
with meticulous care. Another displayed Nordmaar itself, vast and
sprawling, the mountain ranges and glacial expanses marked with runic
symbols of danger and refuge. The frozen ice plains were sketched in muted
whites and blues, jagged icebergs and treacherous crevasses noted with
careful strokes. Jovar, an ominous presence on its own map, was marked with
sigils of the giants, its fortress-like structures etched with thick,
purposeful lines that spoke of those within. There were countless maps,
every area of Icewall, each line and mark told a story. They were more than
mere representations they carried the weight of history, of lives lived and
lost, of paths carved into the very bones of the land and she would search
them all.

The cold mountain air burned in her lungs with each breath, a crisp, biting
reminder of the heights she had just climbed. The wind carried with it not
just ice and snow, but whispers, low moans of the disturbed dead from the
moors below. They curled around her ears like unseen hands grasping for
recognition, their sorrowful wails carried away as swiftly as they came,
lost in the howling fury of the winds. Yet, she felt them, as she always
did in places such as this, their presence an unshakable shadow against the
backdrop of her work. They were replaced on occasion with the songs of the
bagpipes, as much of the land here as anything else, before those too were
ripped away to rise and then die on the surrounding winds.

With the setting prepared, Roseleyn reached into a small velvet pouch and
carefully unrolled a point of clear crystal, fastening it to a delicate
chain of gold. The pendulum gleamed in the dimming light, its surface
smooth and polished, honed for one purpose. She took a moment to steady
herself, then placed a frayed rope on her right side, the very ropes that
had bound Queen Carmyne.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Feb 28 23:15:11 2025
To Nordmaar Imm All RP Tarabella
Subject Plans and Promises: Searching the Continent part 2

She had shed her gloves for the ritual, and now the coarse fibers bit
into her palms as she ran her fingers over them. The strands felt rough,
their edges hardened and brittle from the cold, but beneath that, there was
something deeper - a lingering energy, a whisper of the torment they had
carried. They caught against the ridges of her fingertips, digging in as if
they, too, demanded recognition. Each frayed strand seemed to press into
her skin like old scars, telling their own story of captivity, of suffering,
of a question still unanswered.

Exhaling softly, she focused on the first map before her, the parchment
crackling as it was jostled in the wind. Her fingers wrapped gently around
the chain, and let it dangle freely, the crystal point hovering just above
center on the first map. With a final deep breath, she closed her eyes,
clearing her mind of everything but the burning question within her.

Where?

There were three of them, they could be anywhere in fact, if they were even
still together at All but something told her that they at least remained on
Icewall, watching, as if waiting wolves stalking dying prey from the
dark.... And they were

The pendulum swayed, the air around her thick with expectation. The wind
surged, whipping at her hair, the world itself seeming to hold its breath.
The candles flickered wildly, reacting to both the wind and unseen forces.
She remained still, listening, not with her ears, but with something deeper.
She waited for the answer, for the pendulum to settle, to guide her hand
where sight alone could not.

The fibers whispered against her touch, carrying the memory of their cruel
purpose, and she let their presence anchor her intent, steadying her breath,
and focused - listening, feeling, waiting - for the magic to guide her to
the truth.

The world outside the map began to fade. The wind remained, an ever-present
force whispering against her skin, but everything beyond the candlelit
circle blurred into nothingness. Her senses honed to the weight in her
hands, the chain, the crystal, the rope. She felt the energy thrumming
through them, unseen forces tugging in multiple directions but refusing at
first to move.

Frustration coiled in her chest, but she pushed it down. This was not a
simple search there was interference, something tangled and unresolved. The
rope burned against her palm, a sharp reminder of the stakes at hand. She
adjusted her grip, exhaling through her nose, and waited - waited for the
magic to speak, for the pendulum to cease its circling and tell her where to
look.

This was no simple incantation, no trick of the mages. It was something
older, something woven into the fabric of existence itself. It was tied to
the natural rhythms of the world, the pull of the tides, the whisper of the
wind through the peaks, the pulse of the land beneath her knees. It was
magic steeped in the strength of her people, a thing neither wholly divine
nor entirely mortal. It was a knowing, a calling, an attunement that
stretched beyond sight or sound. The pendulum swayed, then pulled, twisting
in hesitant circles, uncertain, resisting. Competing tugs warred in
different directions, spiraling outward rather than settling over one fixed
point. The weight of it was palpable, the tension a force unto itself, as
if the land itself was unwilling to surrender its secrets.

The wind howled, the mountains watched, and Roseleyn pressed forward,
seeking the answers hidden within the pull of magic and fate. On to the
next map.

Writer: Anelli
Date Sat Mar 1 09:33:52 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Sun Mar 2 11:33:02 2025
To Nordmaar ( Imm All Rp Tarabella )
Subject The ropes that Bind

In the bustling market of Nordmaar, Hadleigh made her way through the
crowd, followed closely by her tiger and two guards. Her destination was
clear in her mind. She clutched the concealed bag tightly, her heart
pounding with anticipation. Among the vibrant shops, the brewer's shop
stood out, its enchanting aroma of herbs and potions drawing her in. As
Hadleigh entered, the gentle chime of the bell announced her presence.

Inside, the shop was a sanctuary of magic and mystery. Shelves were lined
with vials and jars, each containing ingredients and elixirs of untold
power. The brewer, a wise and skilled witch, looked up from her work and
met Hadleigh's gaze with a knowing smile. The tiger remained at the
princess's side while the two guards took their positions, one inside the
door and the other outside.

Hadleigh approached the counter, her voice steady but filled with urgency as
she began to explain the purpose of her visit. She recounted the dire curse
that had befallen her mother, the queen, and handed the concealed bag to the
brewer. With careful hands, the witch examined the ropes, her eyes
narrowing in concentration as she listened to Hadleigh's tale of the yinn's
malevolent magic.

The witch nodded thoughtfully, her fingers tracing the fibers of the ropes
with a practiced touch. She promised to do everything in her power to
uncover any hidden traces or enchantments left by the yinn. As Hadleigh
left the shop, a flicker of hope ignited within her. She knew that the
journey to save her mother was far from over, but with the brewer expertise,
her brothers' return, the Viking queen's assistance with location spells,
and her father's relentless search, Hadleigh felt a renewed sense of hope
that soon a cure would be found.

Writer: Alluin
Date Sun Mar 2 20:37:33 2025

Writer: Alluin
Date Sun Mar 2 22:11:06 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Mar 3 10:52:01 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Mar 3 11:04:18 2025

Writer: Carmyne
Date Mon Mar 3 13:39:04 2025
To All Nordmaar (Imm RP Tarabella Kwainin)
Subject A Curse (Part 9)

The mustiness of the vault room was almost stifling, but Carmyne closed
the door for the momentary solitude, leaving her guards and the world
outside. She set down the candelabra, the flames casting a dim light and
drawing long shadows.

Pulling back her hood from concealing her face, her dark eyes blearily
scanned the space of clutter, both new and old. It was toward the old she
gravitated, nothing to do with her business, magic, or trade work, but
toward the sentimental objects she'd kept throughout the years as her family
grew and evolved.

Kneeling on the hard floor, Carmyne opened a folder full of child-like
drawings, a soft smile lingering on her lips. Curse blackened fingertips
smoothed over each colorful print. She re-read letters she'd kept from both
her children and her husband, a tradition in her family, to send each other
letters and pen their thoughts and emotions for each other.

A bag held blocks and toy soldiers, wood-carved creatures and weapons,
stuffed dolls and animals. Numerous dried flowers pressed between the pages
of books: lilies, mostly. A few roses, too.

She scanned the beautiful gown she'd worn on her wedding day, a surprise
given to her by one of her dearest friends. Knickknacks lined the shelves,
special carved boxes and goblets, a few pieces of jewelry. The books
presented to her once anyone knew how much she loved to read. There were
rocks and baubles gifted from her children's explorations.

She'd kept everything Hadleigh and Riaghan had placed into her hands with
big toothy smiles and excited eyes over the years. She'd kept every lily
her husband presented her. Carmyne had kept it all.

They were All just things, of course. Just like the magic-touched armor
she'd put away, rings, and weapons. Just things.

Each one carried a memory, however, a sentimentality and love. They told
the story of a life lived, thriving and full.

She sat for some time reading, perusing the many things she'd collected over
her time. Kept. Cherished. Loved. Even a few items fraught with
unpleasantness. Only when one of the candles burned down did she put things
neatly away, packing them with utmost care.

Using a shelf to leverage herself, she slowly stood and looked around the
space once again, her vision now dark and blurred around the edges. A life
well-lived.

After pulling her hood up to cover her darkened eyes and the visible
charcoal veins, she drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders before
opening the door and smiling at her guards.

"Back tae th' palace, Majestae? " one of the guards asked.

Carmyne shook her head. "Nay, let's take a walk."

Writer: Carmyne
Date Mon Mar 3 13:47:38 2025
To Nordmaar All (Imm Rp Tarabella Kwainin)
Subject A Curse (Part 10)

Surprised, the guards followed without delay. Ony one of them protested
when she pushed open the city gates. It had been some time since she'd
stepped outside the city walls.

With a stubbornness her family new well enough, she walked on, listening to
the gates close behind her and the whispered urging of more guards to
follow. By the time she stepped out of the Highlands, she was flanked by a
small regiment.

While she wasn't sure of her strength or energy, she determinedly trekked
through the forests, then began the climb up the mountain trails toward
Darkonin. The King of the mountains had welcomed her each time she sought
his leave to visit his city, and now was no different. Nordmaarian guards
circled around her each time she had to pause to catch her breath.

With the outward signs of her curse well-hidden beneath the hooded cloak and
soft silken gloves covering her hands, she entered the mountainous city,
traversing streets she knew well enough at this point.

Exhaustion plagued her, but she pushed on toward the temples.

Finally, she sank into a pew at the back near the entrance, her eyes closed
as she let Kwainin's presence surround and comfort her with the calm balance
she sought.

She'd been sleeping more and more, and it terrified her to think that she
might go to sleep and not wake up before her husband returned from his trek
through the forests in search of new information that might save her life.
It worried her to think that each conversation with her children might be
their last.

The curse has a one hundred percent lethality, the scroll found by Ulyssus
read. And as the days ticked on, and she felt worse and worse, it was
difficult not to focus on the finality of those words.

Of course, she still held on to hope. The people of Nordmaar were resilient
and brave, a tapestry of brilliance that each played a part that made up the
whole. Together, they could accomplish anything. And Carmyne had witnessed
them working together to reach a solution for days now.

Still, the clock was ticking, the pendulum of time an ever constant force in
her mind. With each new ailment, and with each new intrusion of a thought
in her mind that did not belong to her, she knew there was the chance that
time would run out.

Carmyne prayed.

For her husband and children, her friends, and her Highland kin. She prayed
for unity and resolve among her people, as well as peace. Most of all, she
prayed for more time.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Mon Mar 3 20:59:15 2025
To Nordmaar Imm All RP Tarabella
Subject Plans and Promises: Searching the Continent part 3

Roseleyn blinked, the world snapping back into focus with a dizzying
lurch. Cold air burned in her lungs, the wind howling between the mountain
peaks, and yet, she had no idea how long she had been standing there.
Hours? Days?

She turned sharply, searching the landscape for any sign of change. The sky
was much the same, the sun still hovering near where it had been when she
first focused. That meant either mere minutes had passed, or she had lost
at least a day, if not days, enough time for the cycle to return to where
she had left it. A flicker of hope sparked in her chest, but it was quickly
drowned by a deeper unease.

Her body told her the truth.

Her movements were sluggish, her limbs heavy as though the cold had settled
into her very bones. When she flexed her fingers, the delayed response sent
a prickle of alarm through her. Too slow. Too stiff. She glanced down,
frowning at the pale, almost waxen color of her fingertips. A vein pale,
sickly blue hue clung beneath the surface.

The realization hit hard. Ice bites, they had called them as children,
though it was nothing to play with.

Too much time had passed. Even with the early spring thaw, she had been out
here far too long, without gloves, without shelter, lost in the search.

Her grip on the map tightened as she forced herself to move, every step down
the mountain feeling heavier than it should. The gnawing sense of failure
grew with every crunch of snow beneath her boots. She had scoured the
continent with her mind, reached out beyond the limits of her sight,
searching for answers, searching for anything. And yet, she had found
nothing.

A familiar weight pressed against her chest. She had meant to be careful,
had meant to leave for only a short time. But how long had Carmyne been
waiting? What had happened, was she alright?

Roseleyn exhaled sharply, frustration and guilt settling in equal measure.
She needed to leave word, to let them know where she had been, there were
those that she cared for that would worry. But even as she planned the
message in her mind, the unease remained, that endless, gnawing certainty
that she was chasing something just beyond reach, something that slipped
further away the harder she grasped.

The thought clung to her as she forced herself forward, each step a fight to
return to the world she had nearly lost inadvertently and she swore to pen a
missive, as soon as she could feel her fingers fully.

Writer: Anelli
Date Tue Mar 4 10:47:09 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Tue Mar 4 11:18:33 2025

Writer: Nytheris
Date Tue Mar 4 11:42:51 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Tue Mar 4 11:44:45 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Tue Mar 4 14:26:29 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Mar 4 21:14:18 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Mar 4 21:23:22 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Tue Mar 4 23:17:34 2025
To Nordmaar All (Imm Rp Tarabella Kwainin Austinian)
Subject The Fall of the Yinn Druid

Hadleigh jolted awake, her body drenched in cold sweat, the echoes of
shouting guards still ringing in her ears. The yinn invasion was
relentless, and now they had tracked down the Yinn Druid who had cursed her
mother. The fatigue was etched on everyones faces, and Hadleighs focus
wavered. Her healing spells faltered repeatedly, leaving her father and the
Viking queen without relief. In a desperate bid to protect her, Verita's
lunged into the fray, taking a grievous wound in the process. The sight of
her protector bleeding out shook Hadleigh to her core, and she was struck
down, momentarily stunned. Shaking off the shock, she redoubled her efforts
to heal the wounded, her resolve hardened.

As the battle raged on, Hadleigh balanced healing and attacking the yinn,
her thoughts anchored to her family. One of her loyal guards carefully
carried Verita's to the palace for treatment. The skirmish was fierce, with
the Yinn Druid proving an elusive and formidable foe. However, with the
combined might of the Viking queen, a massive dragon, and her father, they
finally vanquished the druid. The victory came at a steep cost, leaving
each of them scarred and weary. For hours, they stitched and healed,
patching up their wounds and tending to their tiger companion. Hadleighs
exhaustion weighed heavily on her, her will to stay vigilant fading.

Despite her best efforts to remain awake and watch over Verita's and her
parents, Hadleigh succumbed to a fitful sleep plagued by nightmares. Her
slumber was punctuated by haunting visions of the battle and the faces of
those she had fought to protect. A blood-curdling scream pierced the
darkness, jolting her awake. It took a moment for her to realize the scream
was her own. As her senses returned, she found herself curled beside
Verita's, with her mother and father sound asleep nearby. Every muscle in
her body ached, a testament to the toll the battle had taken.

Hadleigh sat up, wincing at the pain, and summoned a servant for a
much-needed espresso. As she sipped the strong brew, she let out a heavy
sigh, trying to gather her thoughts. The challenges ahead loomed large, and
the weight of her responsibilities pressed down on her. But despite the
exhaustion and the lingering fear, Hadleigh steeled herself for another day.
She knew she had to face whatever came next with the same determination and
courage that had carried her through the darkest moments of the battle.

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Wed Mar 5 08:38:10 2025
To Nordmaar All (Imm Rp Tarabella Kwainin Austinian)
Subject Slipping

Hadleighs morning began in a haze of tasks and distractions. She split
her time between tending to her ailing mother and visiting the palace
library, where Veritas, her loyal tiger companion, was recovering alongside
her parents. The library had always been a place of knowledge and wonder,
but seeing Veritas there, resting with subdued strength, filled Hadleigh
with a poignant ache. The local brewer's shop became a frequent stop, each
visit driven by a hope that the peculiar rope he was analyzing might yield
answers. Yet, as the day unfolded, Hadleigh felt increasingly detached from
herself. It wasnt just the exhaustion though that weighed heavily it was an
intangible pull, a gnawing sensation that something was muddling her
thoughts. Patrols, once a source of purpose, felt hollow without Veritas
prowling protectively by her side. Together, they had faced countless
challenges, and without the tigers reassuring presence, Hadleigh felt as
though she had lost a part of herself.

By midday, a relentless headache took hold, growing steadily worse with each
passing hour. Every sound and flicker of movement seemed to amplify her
discomfort, pulling her further from her tasks. The weight in her chest
became a suffocating force, as though the fortress walls were closing in
around her. The sight of her frail mother and the helplessness of Veritas
as he healed gnawed at her spirit. When the sun finally dipped below the
horizon, Hadleigh desperately sought relief. She drew herself a hot bath,
hoping the heat would ease her racing mind, but the tranquility she sought
eluded her. The turmoil lingered, unyielding, and the bath left her only
more aware of the unease.

Draped in comfort, Hadleigh returned to the library. There, in a corner
cushioned with plush blankets, Veritas lay resting, his massive form rising
and falling in rhythmic breaths. Seeking solace, Hadleigh curled up beside
him, her head nestled against his fur. The warmth of his body and the
steady sound of his breathing offered her a fragile sense of peace, and soon
exhaustion pulled her into sleep. But in her dreams, a shadowy world
unfolded. A cloaked figure emerged from the darkness, their voice weaving
an eerie chant that sent chills through Hadleighs core. She couldnt move,
her body frozen as the figure drew closer, the chant growing louder and more
commanding. Just as the figure raised a hand toward her, her heart jolted
her awake.

Hadleigh gasped, sitting up beside Veritas, her chest heaving as she
struggled to steady her breaths. Veritas stirred slightly, his bright eyes
cracking open briefly before closing again. The dream still clung to her,
its chill refusing to fade. Hadleigh pressed a hand to her chest, her
heartbeat a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Something about the dream
felt deeply wrongtoo vivid, too ominous to dismiss as mere imagination. The
night stretched on, heavy with unease, as Hadleigh sat in the library with
her guardian companion, her mind racing with questions she couldnt yet
answer.

Writer: Nytheris
Date Wed Mar 5 11:07:06 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Wed Mar 5 11:24:45 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Mar 5 11:26:45 2025

Writer: Agapitos
Date Wed Mar 5 12:09:03 2025

Writer: Khalifa
Date Wed Mar 5 15:50:35 2025
To marauders raije All imm rp derigimus
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part v)

Khalifa emerged from the cloudy brine into a putrid tunnel of slime. The
mud was shin-deep, and clung tightly to his skin. He could feel it moving
beneath him- it was full of bugs. Hard-shelled skittering creatures with
pinchers and antennae and hundreds of tiny legs, some long enough to
stretch from one side of the tunnel to the other. He pushed forward,
making room for his soldiers as they broke through the surface of the
water, one by one. There was no need for artificial light, the walls were
coated in some sort of bioluminescent film- some type of algae, he
supposed. The air was thick and foul, nearly choking. It smelled of
chemicals, sulfur, and rot.

When All his men were accounted for, they marched, silently as they could,
through the thick, crawling mud, into the depths of Arkania. The tunnel
had sloped upward for a short distance before angling back down. It was
nearly straight, with a few mild curves here and there.

The slime on the walls turned out not to be algae. One of the men had
carelessly brushed up against it and let out a loud yelp as the skin on
his wrist and forearm began to burn and bubble. The medic had to scrub
the man's arm to remove the thick, glowing sludge, and before he was
finished, the soldier's skin had melted through to the bone at his wrist,
and deep into the muscle on his forearm.

Once the wound was dressed, Khalifa had stopped to examine the goop.
Some sort of caustic jelly full of tiny little glowing balls of light.
The Captain rummaged in his deep pockets and retrieved a jeweler's loupe.
He carefully spread the goop on the back of one of the short-handled
shovels they had brought, and put the loupe to his eye. The brightly
glowing little balls peered back at him in unison. A hundred tiny
pupils of foul, glowing yellow light were looking up at him from this
teaspoon of jelly. He looked around at the walls, his face going pale.

That's when they heard it.

(---To be Continued---)

Writer: Khalifa
Date Wed Mar 5 15:52:22 2025
To Raije All Imm Rp Derigimus
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part vi)

It was a low squelching sound, as if somewhere a giant cauldron full of
noodles and thick, sticky cheese sauce was being stirred continuously. It
was far off and coming from behind them. Khalifa paused for a moment with
his head cocked, trying to determine if it was getting louder. He looked
at the soldier who had nearly lost his hand. The young man's face was pale
and strained, obviously still in some pain. His wound had been dressed with
a numbing salve and a thick bandage, but the caustic goop had done some
serious damage.

"Move!", he commanded. "Single file, stay away from the walls."
They began to march, but almost immediately, Khalifa increased the pace to
a jog. The mud sucked at their boots, and the gigantic millipedes bit at
their leggings as the men trod on them, occasionally crawling up their legs
and drawing a slap. They kept up the brisk pace for perhaps twenty minutes
before the Captain halted them.

"Silence." Khalifa stood with his head cocked, listening to the squelchy
sound. It was definitely louder now, and there was a slight breeze coming
from behind them, from the direction of the noise. "That's impossible," he
muttered to himself. The first few hundred yards had been well below water,
so the breeze could only mean- He stared back the way they had come, and
then looked at the tunnel walls.

"MOVE!", he shouted, then began to run through the mud.

(---To be Continued---)

Writer: Sesa
Date Wed Mar 5 19:12:59 2025

Writer: Lothorian
Date Thu Mar 6 15:29:27 2025

Writer: Lothorian
Date Thu Mar 6 15:31:05 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Thu Mar 6 17:50:06 2025
To Nordmaar ( Imm All Rp Tarabella )
Subject Taking a toll

As twilight embraced the kingdom of Nordmaar, Hadleighs isolation
deepened. Her spirit, once vibrant, now felt dulled by the endless whispers
that coiled around her mind. The voices tugged at her, beckoning and as the
hours passed, her resolve wavered. Tasks she attempted were soon forgotten,
her surroundings became unfamiliar, and she often found herself wandering
into shadowy corners she had never dared to visit. Her hollow eyes and
trembling hands did not escape the notice of the Viking queen, who prepared
a tea of calming herbs and urged Hadleigh to drink. The queens eyes, sharp
and knowing, reflected concern, though she spoke in comforting tones. With
a reluctant sip, Hadleigh felt her body lighten, but the insistent whispers
grew sharper, more urgent, calling her name.

Unable to resist, Hadleigh clutched the warm mug and drifted towards the
voice that seemed to echo just out of reach. Her guards, ever-vigilant,
hurried to her side, their worry evident as they guided her back to the
royal library. "You need rest, Princess," they murmured, their words
tender yet firm. Messages were dispatched to her family and chain of
command, warning of her strange behavior. The library's familiar scent of
aged parchment and leather-bound tomes wrapped around Hadleigh, but even
there, peace eluded her. Her eyes slid shut at last, exhaustion claiming
her, but sleep became another battlefield.

In her dreams, the whispers transformed into a haunting chant, layered with
meanings she could not unravel. The pull on her mind grew stronger, as if
unseen hands sought to pry open the doors of her thoughts. Hadleigh fought
valiantly, constructing mental walls to protect herself, yet the strain left
her drained. What were they seeking, and why her? The answers evaded her
grasp, lost in the relentless surge of voices. Her sleep offered no solace,
only deeper confusion and fear.

Hours later, a piercing scream shattered the stillness. Hadleigh awoke,
drenched in sweat, her heart pounding like a war drum. The guards stationed
outside her door burst in, their weapons drawn, their expressions alarmed.
"Princess, whats wrong?" One asked, his voice tight with concern. But
Hadleigh could only clutch her knees, trembling as her mind clung to the
fragments of the dream. The answers she sought seemed to hover just out of
reach, a ghostly thread she longed to grasp but dared not follow. The room
fell silent, save for her labored breaths, and a single thought echoed
within her "Hadleigh, come find me" she had to find the source of the voice.

Writer: Anelli
Date Thu Mar 6 18:30:53 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Thu Mar 6 18:48:05 2025

Writer: Khalifa
Date Thu Mar 6 20:04:51 2025
To Raije All Imm Rp Derigimus
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part vii)

They ran, single file through the tunnel. The air moved slowly past them, a
light, fetid breeze that was impossible to become accustomed to. Khalifa was
reminded of his pirating days. He had once come upon a small military vessel
drifting in the open ocean. There was blood, a lot of it, on the deck, and he
could smell death before he went belowdecks. Forty bloated corpses were piled
in the bunkrooms below, in the late stages of decomposition. The flies had
been awful, and the odor was the worst thing he had ever smelled. This was a
close second.

"SCOUTS!" His mission consisted of a pair of Blades, twelve infantrymen,
and a half dozen scouts. "Dump your gear and run ahead of us. If the tunnel
diverges, split up. If you find a way out, make sure the Fort knows what we've
found." The men, not having to be told twice, sprinted away from the group
and after a moment, disappeared into the dimly lit tunnel.

All at once, the light emanating from the walls blinked out. The reaction was
immediate, as one of the men went face-first into the muck. A millipede
clamped its strong jaws on the soldier's left eyeball, but he never felt it.
The man behind him tripped and landed knee-first on the base of his skull,
killing him instantly. Another man collided with the growing pile and was
deflected to the right. He impacted the wall at the exact moment that Khalifa
shouted "CONTINUAL LIGHT!". A ball of light appeared suddenly in front of
the Captain as another man joined the pile on the ground. The man who collided
with the wall was screaming now as his flesh began to melt and bubble. The
last man in line just barely dodged the two on the floor, but lost his balance
and went face first into the other wall.

One man was now dead, and two more were screaming- their deaths would be quick,
but not quick enough, Khalifa lamented. The soldier who had inadvertently
saved his comrade from the carnivorous bugs was already on his feet and
catching up to the pack. The man who had crashed into him and still avoided
the wall had twisted an ankle, and would be lost. He jumped up and began to
limp along, falling behind, before falling down again. They were down to
eleven.

(---To be Continued---)

Writer: Anelli
Date Fri Mar 7 04:46:54 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Fri Mar 7 05:08:49 2025

Writer: Sebez
Date Fri Mar 7 05:47:22 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 09:44:01 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 1

The fires near the city still smoldered, the scent of burning wood and
blood thick in the air. They burned what remained of the dead, not wanting
to insult the earth with burying them and not wanting to leave anything left
to be called forth again. The Yinn had attacked again, this time a
distraction at the walls, hard fought while the shaman had made it All the
way to the Palace. In the end, the Shaman was felled, by at least in no
small part due to the Princess Hadleigh and Roseleyn had fought at the side
of the King, Rhainne shifting between the two locations and lending her aid
in both.

Now, as the dawn broke over the ruined streets and the dead were counted,
and the last reports given to King Malcomn and Queen Carmyne, a viking horn
blew from the gates. Not an alarm, something else.

Roseleyn was already moving before the call had fully faded, her pulse
hammering in her throat as she crossed the bloodstained courtyard of the
palace, leaving the smear of what remained of the shaman for others to see
to as she excused herself from the Nordmaarian royals and then ran. The
gates loomed ahead, the great doors being unbarred as she approached, and
there, half-collapsed, held up by a weary rider, was Anelli.

There had been a missive just after the last strokes fell, she had not made
it back to Gaarenborg, and she had been sent at midday.

Roseleyn's stomach twisted into a knot so tight she thought she might wretch
before it hardened in an instant to steel.

Her niece's wild energy was gone, replaced by pale exhaustion, her face
streaked with dirt and dried blood. A cut lanced across her forehead and
her tunic was torn and dark with what could only be her own blood. Her soft
brown hair with the braids half undone, matted with filth.

The rider was with another, a Gunn, one of the scouts sent beyond the walls
to survey the damage. The man shook his head. "She was alone, " he said
grimly. "No sign of her guard though. We'll send out riders to look. "
Roseleyn did not expect either to know her people by sight, but Anelli had
been seen enough around the city when she came to visit that they knew
neither Roselelyn or Aodhen would have sent the girl into the passes alone.

Roseleyn barely heard him. She was already stepping forward, reaching for
Anelli's chin, tilting her face to inspect the bruises, the cuts, the torn
skin on her temple. Her fingers brushed over the girl's pulse, weak but
steady, and she exhaled sharply.

Anelli stirred at the touch, eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded with
exhaustion and pain. But then her fingers tightened suddenly in Roseleyn's
cloak, and her voice normally sweet voice, rasped, "He's dead. "

Roseleyn stilled.

"The Yinn killed him. "

The words landed like a blade to the gut, sharp and cold. Anelli's grip
trembled, her body sagging further against Roseleyn. She knew the man, had
chosen him actually, and it seems he had fulfilled his duty well, but at the
hand of mutts...

"We are going inside" Roseleyn ordered the guards that accompanied her, her
voice like steel.

The guards obeyed without hesitation, moving as Roseleyn lifted Anelli
carefully, carrying her against her chest and towards the long house in the
distance and away from the city walls. Roseleyn turned back to the scout.

"Send word to Gaaren in Gaarenborg, " she said, her voice trembling with
contained fury. "And another rider to King Malcomn of Nordmaar. No Yinn
walks between here and Gaarenborg and lives. "

Coming up the hill, Roseleyn glimpsed Hadleigh... Why was the Princess
outside the walls... But the thought crossed her mind and then fled as
Anelli shifted in her arms once more.

She turned on her heel, her blood burning hotter than the fires that ringed
the city walls with the evidence of the dead.

A cleansing was coming.

And the high passes would run red.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 10:16:29 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 2

The earliest hints of morning light stretched long across the settlement
of Gaarenborg, reflecting off the melting frost and pooling into the muddy
streets. The signs of spring's return were everywhere, the rivers swelled
with thaw, the fields softened for planting, and the scent of damp earth
mingled with the lingering chill of winter's grasp.

Gaaren stood at the head of the long table in his hall, shoulders squared,
jaw clenched. In his hands, the message from Roseleyn crumpled slightly
under the pressure of his grip. He had read it once. He did not need to
read it again.

Anelli lives. Einar does not. The Yinn did this. Those were the important
points. His Queen was a bit more eloquent in her writing to him, but the
points remained the same.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, but no breath could calm the storm
rising in his chest. Around him, warriors of Gaarenborg stood waiting, eyes
sharp, hands resting on sword hilts and axe handles. They had seen their
chieftain furious before, but this was different. This was colder. He
lifted his gaze, his voice a growl of command.

But when he spoke, it was not in the speech that had so heavily leaned
towards the accents of the Highlanders in the more recent generations but
the clearer speech of a people known for exploring, having been exposed to
the many cultures the Vikings had both raided and at times joined. It was
also the one that both Queen Roseleyn and her Warlord Aodhen spoke in,
something quickly becoming apparent to their people as a whole, even without
being said.

"Our Queen has given her order, and Nordmaar will meet us in the middle. "

The silence in the hall deepened, the weight of his words sinking into every
heart.

"We ride within the hour. " He lifted the crumpled parchment and slammed it
down on the table. "The Yinn have taken from us. They have spilled the
blood of our own. Einar fought and fell, and Anelli.. " He exhaled
sharply, his hands flexing at his sides. "She is ours, as much as any born
under this roof, and they dared to lay claw and fang upon her. "

His eyes swept across those gathered. "I do not ask this, as our Queen does
not ask this, we command it. And we will not fail. "

A murmur of agreement, dark and low, rumbled through the warriors like
distant thunder.

"Arm the village, " Gaaren ordered, the finality in his tone leaving no room
for doubt. "Sharpen your axes, fletch your arrows, saddle your horses. We
take what we need, and we do not return until every last one of those beasts
is dead. "

The command left no room for question. The men and women standing in the
hall, hardened fighters, hunters, seasoned raiders all, did not hesitate.
The room burst into movement, boots thudding against the wooden floor, the
scrape of steel being drawn from racks filling the space. Outside, the
horns sounded, calling the settlement to war.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 10:31:51 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 3

Gaaren remained still, his fury simmering just beneath his skin.

Einar had been a good man. A warrior worthy of the name.

He had been a warrior of Gaarenborg, a brother-in-arms, trusted beyond most.
He had been tasked with watching over Anelli, a girl too young to have seen
so much death, yet burdened with it All the same. He had been chosen,
honored, and now he was gone, his body lying somewhere in the high passes,
likely torn apart by the beasts that had dared to strike against them. And
Anelli... Restless, reckless, sharp-tongued Anelli, had been under his
protection, as surely as if she had been his own blood. She was still just
a child, and yet she had been forced to run, to watch a man die for her, to
feel the jaws of the Yinn too close to her throat.

The Yinn had made a fatal mistake.

They had left one alive.

Gaaren shoved away from the table, his great form towering over those still
arming in the hall. His voice carried with it the weight of iron and fire.

"We leave within the hour. We track these beasts through the high passes,
we find them, and we kill them. " He turned, eyes blazing.

A younger warrior, Einar's own cousin, stepped forward, jaw clenched, hand
gripping the hilt of his sword as though it were the only thing keeping him
from shattering. "And if they have already fled far? "

Gaaren met his gaze, voice a low growl.

"Then we go farther. "

The hall emptied with the flurry of the last warriors rushing to prepare.
Outside, horns sounded the call to arms. Blacksmiths hammered steel in a
frenzy, sharpening blades that would taste blood before the sun set again.
Horses were saddled, supplies hastily packed, boots stomped through mud and
slush, the entire village rising like a storm at its chieftain's command.

Gaaren stepped onto the longhouse's threshold, inhaling deeply. The air was
crisp, tinged with the scent of iron, smoke, and fury. His hand drifted to
the great axe at his back, fingers tightening around the worn leather grip.

Einar would be avenged.

Their people would be safe.

Even without the order given, the Yinn thought they would walk away from
this? Not one of them would see another nightfall.

With one last glance at his warriors, he strode from the hall, mounting his
warhorse in a single movement. He turned his gaze to the east, toward the
high passes, toward blood that waited to be spilled.

Then he spurred forward, and behind him, the warriors of Gaarenborg
followed.

The hunt had begun. And the high passes would run red.

Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Mar 7 10:39:26 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( Religion Imm ) Xenophon Cayenna Rhelic
Subject Historic Holdings: The Reunion (1/3)

In the sanctity of the Hidden Academy of Magick, Agarwood poured himself over
the newly uncovered mural fragment presented to him by the red-robed archivist
Orrysta. The smell of the magnolia trees in the commons did nothing to calm
his nerves as he stared at the artefact resting on his lap on a shale slab.
He stared at the winged, runed figure prostrated in worship before the symbol
of Drakkara and emitted a grunt of frustration. Do they have a name? Is this
figure just a symbol or concept of a movement? Why do they have wings? What
was the culture of the Shinalfolk like? Was it common for Shinalfolk to worship
Drakkara as well or was this individual an exception? Were they a champion of
Drakkara in the days long before she moved to take the seat of Dark Queen? Do
all of the Shinalfolk have wings or was this a blessing by their patron? What
is "the Origin" that Orrysta spoke of?

The arboren is typically evenminded, but the presence of Drakkara seemed to be
felt in every dark nook and crack on Algoron's surface. It frustrated him that
one creature could cause so much damage and inflict so much unrest on Algoron.
First, the secret son Malachive. Next, the killing of the primal god Necrucifer.
Then, the bloodying, etching, and rifting on Althainia. Agarwood did not have
to think too deeply to understand that Drakkara represents a greater danger to
Algoron than even Chaos, but these thoughts still felt taboo to speak in public.
Drakkara has been implicated in most destructive events on Algoron. Was she also
responsible for the death of Shinalstin- the people that loved Sebatis so?

Angst. The priest could feel it upwelling inside of him, but now was not the
time. He was expecting some guests. Three brothers, specifically. He needed the
perspective of the gnomish stakeholders and their analytical minds. Agarwood's
worldview is largely viewed through the theological lens, but now he felt that
he needed a new perspective rooted in the freshness of a scientific mind.

"I do love the smell of those flowers," said a happy voice. "We should plant
some near our home."

"We aren't here for gardening tips, grease-for-brains. He couldn't have thought
to put his church in a place less damp? These are genuine selkie-suede leather
boots," grumbled another.

Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Mar 7 10:43:29 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( Religion Imm ) Xenophon Cayenna Rhelic
Subject Historic Holdings: The Reunion (2/3)

"Shhh. He'll hear you," the first voice responded in a harsh whisper. "Hi there,
Priest! We were happy to receive your letter." The first voice was Ottograd, who
Agarwood viewed as the diplomat of the moody and less likely to yell at him. The
other he recognized as Archigrad, the cartographer and most likely to yell at
him. They approached at a brisk pace. So brisk that Agarwood didn't have much
time to step far from his bench.

"Otto. Archie. It is good to see you again," Agarwood stood from his bench with
the fragment in his hands. "Could Gerald not make it?"

"Gerald is more comfortable with lifting rocks and moving earth. He had other
responsibil-" Otto began, before Archie cut him off. "He hasn't been home in a
couple of days. I think the stress has been getting to him. I'd rather him be
out of the home where he can't break anything expensive of ours anyways."

Otto flashed an annoyed glance at Archie. With a second of recollection, Otto
clasped his hands together and excitedly cried, "Oh! Is that the one? Is that
the mural piece?" He pointed at artefact in Agarwood's hands.

"It is. Come have a look."

It was Agarwood's understanding that the Grad Brothers had never found anything
substantial related to Shinalstin before. It was their lifequest, but they were
starved for leads. Archaeological or anthropological lifequests were laughable
in Gahboom and other gnomish communities, so when they inherited this from their
father on his deathbed, they were doomed to shame. You could not fine tune a
petroglyph. You cannot grease up an ancient text. There was nothing to improve
upon. Like thirsty men lost in the desert, they hurried across the commons and
drank what they could see of the mural in Agarwood's hands as if it were the far
off shimmer of an oasis.

Writer: Agarwood
Date Fri Mar 7 10:50:23 2025
To All Sebatis Shinalstin ( Religion Imm ) Xenophon Cayenna Rhelic
Subject Historic Holdings: The Reunion (3/3)

A gnomish storm of excited whispering gathered in a cresendo as they poured over
the ancient relic:

"Aah.."
"OooOOaaAAhh.. look- lookatthis, Archie. Look atthewings!"
"My goodness, doyou thinkit grewthem itself?"
"Wedon't havethe names ofany Shinalstinhistorical figuresto comparewith."
"Thoserunes seemsignificant. Or doyouthink theyare just tattoos?"
"Ifthey aretheyseem important. Lookat this! Drakkaran symbology."

It is said that arboren do not get headaches, but the priest was not about to
put that theory to the test standing close to a storm of gnomish babbling.
After the first hour, Agarwood set the mural piece on his bench and told the
two Grad Brothers they were free to examine it to their hearts content. With an
enthusiasm that can only be described as ravenous, they glossed over the mural
piece intensely and continued their gnomish argument slurry. Over the span of
four hours, Agarwood had to intervene three times when the conversation turned
into disagreement. The two brothers came close to blows over the arrangement
of the runes on the skin of the Shinalfolk. The priest reminded them that they
are in this together and All thoughts should be heard to shine a light on even
the most fringe of ideas. Inwardly, Agarwood was relieved that Geraldgrad was
not present. He wouldn't have hesitated in the slightest.

The sun glided overhead, compounding the rosy and cream hues of the canyons
with the reds and oranges of a Thalosian sunset. The gnomes had finished their
exhaustive duel of ideas with a loud whooping, shoulder pats, and a gentleman's
handshake. Agarwood was distracted with some pruning when he was approached by
the brothers with mural fragment in hand. They passed it back to the priest and
Otto stepped forward.

"Priest, we don't know how to thank you for showing us this item. After years
of coming up with nothing, this was perhaps the first time we have got excited
over something that resembles.. well, a thing to be excited about," Otto said
in a quiet tone. His voice seemed a little tied from the long debate with his
brother. He continued, "The best we can do in the way of a thank you at this
time is to share our thoughts about it."

The two gnomes and the arboren shared a cedar bench and Agarwood nodded, "That
is enough for me. What do you think?"

Archie spoke first. "One thought is that these are symbolic art pieces. It
isn't a specific figure or figures being shown here. It might just be a piece
that shows the diversity of religion in the Shinalfolk community. Being that
there are representations of Drakkara and Sebatis here, I wouldn't be amazed
to learn there is another piece with Kantilles present. The Shinalfolk were a
highly advanced magickal race. It would make sense that they are polytheistic
in their lean for All three magick gods." Otto nodded with agreement.

"Another is that this is a representation of a moment in Shinalstin history,
minor or significant. Wings and runes were not present on the first Shinalfolk,
but they are on the one bowing in worship to Drakkara. Maybe these two were
actual people artistically rendered for future referencing. I would be willing
to bet that if Drakkara's symbology is present that this is tilting more on the
significant side of the spectrum, given that one doesn't engineer a scenario
with subtlety," said Otto as he scratched his neck.

The two took turns speaking seamlessly. They exchanged a glance, then Archie
spoke again, "Our last thought is that this might not be a mundane art piece,
but maybe a representation of the final hour of the Shinalstin people. Before,
we did not know of Drakkara's involvement with the race. This seems obvious
now given that they are a very magickal race, but the presence of Drakkaran
symbology in this second mural piece may suggest that this was a final, dark
minute. Drakkara's impulses have been consistent throughout time, eh?"

Otto adjusted his glasses and said hoarsely, "A betrayal, we mean, priest."

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 11:59:10 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 4

The wind carried the scent of damp moss and pine as it whistled through
the Blackwoods and trails before finding wings along the cobblestones of the
city and into the courtyard of the palace where the Rangers convened.
Beneath the banners of House MacCallum, the warriors moved with purpose,
their boots striking against the worn stone as they armed themselves.

The Viking Queen's message had arrived in the dead of night, urgent, grim.
It was bad enough that blood had been spilled, and the Yinn had proven bold
enough to challenge them. But yet another attack by the Yinnae on the city
and one even getting into the Palace, the high passes were also no longer
safe.

King Malcomn had given his order in response, the Highland Rangers would
ride.

Aedric Wallace pulled his heavy wool cloak over his shoulders, the bright
yellow, red and black of his clan draped over his brigandine. His hands
were steady as he strapped his sword belt into place. Across from him,
Cameron MacGregor rolled his shoulders, testing the fit of his chainmail
before reaching for his bow.

"Feels lioke we always bae huntin' somethin' in tha passes, " MacGregor
muttered, adjusting his quiver.

"This tiome, we don't leave any o' 'em standin', " Duncan Bruce said darkly,
fastening his gauntlets. "They took one o' ours. "

"Wael a Vikin' but aye... "Cameron spat back, the force of it triggering a
pause in the conversation that lasted just a beat too long to be comfortable
as the focus shifted.

"More tha' one, " added Eona MacLeod, her red braid secured beneath her
helm. "An' tha mutts dared lay claws tu a bairn, Viking or nae. " She
adjusted her grip on her axe, fingers tightening on the worn leather. "Tha'
alone earns 'em a slow dea'. "

Across the hall, Leith Gunn leaned against the great oak table, running his
hand over the fletching of his arrows. "They nae bae weak, tha Vikin's,
even if they nae one o' ours, an' they bae rioght beside us 'evry attack on
tha citae. Et bae tiome we culle' tha mutts proper. Maebee they think
we've gone soft. " His smirk held no humor.

"They bae learnin' soon enough, " said Calder MacAllen, buckling the last
strap of his armor. His family had been Rangers since the Highlands were
first settled, and he wore their crest with pride. He glanced toward the
front of the hall as the heavy doors swung open.

Commander Bhaltair MacCallum entered, his great height and broad shoulders
casting a long shadow against the stone. His armor, steel-plated and worn
from years of battle, bore the crest of the King's House, proud and
unyielding. His piercing grey eyes swept across the gathered warriors.

"King Malcomn's orders bae clear, " Bhaltair said, his voice carrying over
the room. "Tha Vikin' Queen has called her own people from the North. Tha
Yinnae h've made tha high passes a huntin' ground, but nae any longer. We
are goin' ta see 'em cleansed. " He paused, letting the weight of it
settle. "We track 'em North. Gaaren and his band bae comin' from tha
settle'ent up there. We meet 'em in the 'igh passes. " His jaw tightened.
"This bae endin' now. No mercy. "

Aedric exchanged a glance with Eona, his blood burning for battle. "We ride
fast, " Bhaltair continued. "Tha trails bae dangerous with tha' thawin',
but we know 'em better tha' any. Tha mutts think tha darkness bae theirs ta
com'and. Let 'em learn that tha 'ighlands belong to us. "

Duncan Bruce grinned, his blade already in hand. "Then what we bae waitin'
for? Yae think tha bear o' a man Gaaren bae goin' ta let us get a 'ead
start? "

A dark chuckle rippled through most of the warriors. These were not
ordinary soldiers. They were the Rangers of the Highlands, the hunters of
the wild, the Kings shadow. And now, they would be the reckoning.

Writer: Gogh
Date Fri Mar 7 12:08:57 2025

Writer: Gogh
Date Fri Mar 7 13:00:49 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 13:08:49 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 5

Outside, their horses waited, their breath steaming in the cold morning
air. The sun had barely crested the mountains as they mounted up, their
cloaks and tartans whipping in the wind, a force of warriors, each bearing
the mark of their clan, yet riding as one.

Aedric tightened his grip on the reins as Bhaltair raised his sword toward
the north.

"Ride! " The call sounded clear in the cold air and at once hooves
thundered against the earth, the force of Highland steel and fury descending
upon the high passes.

The hunt had begun, the Highlands and Vikings both would not suffer monsters
to walk their lands, they would slaughter them from both sides and they
would meet in the middle.

The wind howled through the narrow pass, a bitter song carried over the
snow-laden peaks. The Highland Rangers pressed forward from the south,
their boots crunching through the thin layer of ice atop the hard-packed
earth. To the north, the warriors of Gaarenborg descended like a gathering
storm, their fur-lined cloaks snapping behind them, their axes and swords
already wet with Yinn blood.

The creatures had claimed the high passes as their hunting ground. But
tonight, the hunters had become the hunted. As the Rangers moved cautiously
along the ridge, Aedric Wallace lifted his fist, signaling for silence. The
wind carried something unnatural, a rustling too steady to be the shifting
of trees, a low growl barely audible above the blizzards moan.

Bhaltair MacCallum met his gaze, nodding once. No words were needed. The
Rangers spread out, bows drawn, swords loosened in their scabbards. They
moved with precision, their footfalls light against the frostbitten ground.
These were men and women trained for stealth and precision, ghosts against
the pale snow.

Then the Yinn struck. They burst from the trees in a blur of claws and
teeth, their golden eyes gleaming in the darkness, their powerful, furred
limbs carrying them forward in great bounding strides. They did not howl or
snarl like mindless beasts, these creatures fought with intent, with
cunning.

Aedric barely had time to react before one was upon him. He dodged the
first strike, rolling aside as the beasts claws slashed through the air
where he had just stood. The Ranger came up with his sword already slicing,
a precise, controlled thrust to the ribs. His blade met resistance,
punching through thick hide and flesh, but the Yinn did not fall. Instead,
it bared its fangs and lashed out with unnatural speed, swiping a clawed
hand toward his throat.

Aedric jerked back just in time, the Yinn's claws raking across his chest
but failing to cut through his hardened leather armor. He pivoted, using
the momentum of his dodge to drive his blade deeper, twisting as the Yinn
snarled in fury. The beast sagged, but its hands still grasped, still
fought, even as its life drained away.

The Rangers fought like hunters, patient, quick, efficient. Their movements
were calculated, each strike meant to end a fight as swiftly as possible.
They worked in pairs, one drawing the Yinn's attention, the other moving in
for the kill. Eona MacLeod sidestepped a lunging beast, burying her axe in
its spine before pivoting away, letting Duncan Bruce's claymore finish the
job with a brutal downward swing that split the creatures skull. Calder
MacAllen fought at the rear, his spear keeping another beast at bay as Leith
Gunn's arrow took it in the eye.

But the Yinn were relentless. One leapt from the ridge above, landing on a
Ranger and tearing into him before anyone could react. His scream was
short-lived. Aedric cursed, driving his sword deep into the beast's flank,
but the damage was done. The Yinn were many, but the Rangers had the
advantage of discipline. Every step they took was measured, their movements
practiced. They did not rely on brute force, but on coordination and lethal
precision.

And at the other end, from the north, a different kind of battle cry rang
out.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Fri Mar 7 13:16:38 2025
To Shadow All ( Imm Verminasia )
Subject Old Friends and New Enemies ( V )

With a meaty fist, Ogluk sent a roundhouse punch into Ostrim's gut as he
was caught winded. While Ostrim was doubled over in pain, the half ogre
pounced on him, sending him to the ground. Fists began to connect to his
head, sides. A *crack* could be heard on a rib.

'Come on pup, fight back! ' grinned Ogluk with a yellowed tooth smile.

From somewhere in the back of his mind, Ostrim remembered a time up in the
Spire of Drakkara when the words of the Dark Lord echoed over the gathered
knights. ----The Spire of Drakkara----

'{uKnights! I beckon you now to hear the words of our forbears. Independence
breeds chaos! {uThe followers of the Lucent faiths claim that freedom is the
gift to All mortal races. Yet how has this idea rewarded them? Every war
waged has brought them death, pain, and tortuous life. They seek to break
the yoke of domination and forget that it is that bridle which brings
safety, security, and peace. They have lost dieties in this pursuit of
independence and aided in the very rise of Chaos.

Telthian's voice rose, it's deep bass resonating with the basalt stones as
his oration continued.

'Submit and be strong! {uJoin the ranks of those who stand under the Umbra
and become something greater as a whole. Drive the hubris from your soul
and derive your strength from what has come before and what is ordained to
be! There remain those who have broken from Submission because of their
hope. Yet hope is an illusion, a dream to some and a nightmare to others.
See how it has driven our former brethren to madness. All because they
would not yield and remember that we, the Knights of Storm Keep, serve the
Ebon Throne! We are the Will and Way through which it's power remains
constant upon this mortal world. A crown may pass but it's power is
forever!

'Remind them All that submission is paramount to peace, impress upon them
the strength they will find within our walls and knelt by Her throne. For
we are Storm and we are the iron hand of Darkness! Ambactus a Caligo! '

Chants rose up, 'SUBMIT! SUBMIT! ' and even Ostrim joined in the chorus as
the words of the Dark Lord echoed in his soul.

----The Present----

His hand grasped at the hilt of the Kayen blade and, finding purchase,
wrapped his fingers around it. With a mighty roar and a swing of his arm,
the arcanium cross guard slammed into Ogluk's temple with a crushing blow.
As the half ogre fell to one side, Ostrim rolled to the other. One eye was
closed shut, his breath was ragged, but something stirred within him. A
rage filled him, a purpose drove him, and bloodied whisper escaped chapped
lips, 'Submit. ' Ostrim leaped upon the half breed and now the pommel was
driven into the same temple as blood marred it's polished surface.

A fist flew at Ostrim and he sliced his blade across the tendons of it's
wrist and twisted so he could land another cross guard punch into the
opposite temple. Ogluk wavered and Ostrim seized him from behind. He
kicked out both knees as he wrapped his arm around the half ogre's throat.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Fri Mar 7 13:54:40 2025
To Nordmaar All Imm RP Tarabella
Subject Let the High Passes run Red Part 6

Where the Rangers fought like hunters, Viking warriors fought like
storm-wracked waves crashing into jagged rocks, brutal, unrelenting, without
fear.

The Yinn barely had time to register the shift before Gaaren and his warband
charged. Roseleyn had stepped through a gate in the Highlands, and with her
next stride, she was leagues away, her boots landing in the mud and snowmelt
of Nordmaar. In an instant, she was in Gaarenborg, mounting up beside
Gaaren, her own retinue at her back. More of their people had rallied to
her call, swelling their ranks, and now the full force of their combined
might bore down upon the Yinnae before them.

They did not move with the careful precision of the Highlanders. They
surged forward, weapons raised, shields locked in a thunderous formation.
Their battle cries filled the mountain pass, not the controlled silence of
hunters but the roaring fury of berserkers ready to tear their enemies
apart.

A great, gray-furred Yinn lunged toward Gaaren, its claws slashing low in an
attempt to hamstring him. Gaaren did not dodge. He met the beast's charge
head-on, his shield slamming into its body with bone-crunching force. The
impact sent the Yinn stumbling, and in that fraction of a second, Roseleyn's
hammer fell, her horse having been abandoned as they entered the valley,
this was a fight on foot.

The head smashed into the creature's collarbone, tearing downward through
flesh and bone. The Yinn howled, thrashing, but Gaaren drove a boot into
its chest as Roseleyn wrenched her hammer free, sending a spray of dark
blood across the snow.

Beside them, Orn Hakonsen wielded his spear like a war lance, driving it
straight through the throat of a snarling Yinn before jerking it free and
spinning to hack off another beast's arm with a single brutal swing of his
seax.

Where the Rangers struck with precision, Gaaren's warriors overwhelmed.
They fought like wolves in the thick of winter, packs forming and breaking
apart as they tore into the enemy without hesitation.

Halvard the Red was a whirlwind of motion, a Kyrre by clan, he fought with
the ferocity of his twin axes flashing as he buried them into a Yinn's ribs
and twisted, ripping them free in a spray of dark blood. His face was
already smeared with crimson, a grin splitting his beard as he roared and
turned for another kill.

And then there was Sigga Ironfist, standing atop a fallen beast, her
warhammer cracking another's skull with a sickening crunch. She did not
fight like a wolf or a shadow, she fought like a storm given flesh, every
swing of her hammer sending bodies reeling. Even the smaller families,
those beholden and sworn had started to pick up the call and to answer.

The Yinn were strong, fast, and vicious, but the Northmen had been forged in
war, and they refused to give ground. More Yinn fell, but the creatures did
not fight alone. The largest of them, a towering, silver-furred brute, let
out a deep, guttural roar, and suddenly the tide shifted.

The Yinn were retreating. But they were not fleeing. They were falling
back to something.

Gaaren, still gripping the handle of his embedded axe, growled, "Theyre
regrouping. We push forward! "

Further south, Bhaltair MacCallum, blood dripping from his blade, turned his
gaze back to the North. "Wae keep goin' North! "

The Rangers and Northmen both gathered, breathing heavy, their wounds fresh
but their resolve unshaken. The Yinn were running, but the hunt was not
over.

It had only just begun.

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Fri Mar 7 14:03:16 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Fri Mar 7 14:06:14 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Fri Mar 7 14:49:35 2025

Writer: Penelopina
Date Fri Mar 7 17:34:29 2025
To All Taliena
Subject Grow Grow Grow!

{pMany months had come and gone, and many times Penny had walked this
stretch of beach.

{pShe felt a smile light up her face as she {pspotted the familiar lei of red{p,
white{p, and fuschia{p flowers, {pmarking where the small banana treeling was
starting to grow. It was still rather {psmall, but she was almost positive
she saw just a little growth since her last visit.

{p'Hello little sproutling! Its so good to see you again! I hope you've been
well, I've been asking as many of my good friends to check up on you as
possible! {p'

{pHer family, her friends, contributors to the White Crusade, even gardeners
from All {pacross Algoron. Anyone who she thought could help grow her little
banana tree and {pgive it the tender loving care it deserved.

{pThankfully, today proved uneventful, so she finished their work and was {ponce
more on her way, promising to be back soon.

Writer: Sesa
Date Fri Mar 7 18:51:42 2025
To Thasgerd Rahma Rundelhous Penelopina Sebez Faeryn Bragin ( Rp Taliena All )
Subject First Crush

Sesa flounced into the room, a storm of exaggerated sighs and flailing
gestures. Her auburn hair, usually full of life, seemed bent on rebellion,
sticking out at odd angles no matter how many times she brushed it. "My
hair wont do anything right, and I have NOTHING cute to wear!" She
declared, collapsing dramatically onto her bed. Penelopina, her mother, set
aside her stitching with a knowing smile and came to sit beside her
daughter. Gently, she picked up the stubborn hairbrush and began coaxing
the tangles free. "Youre beautiful, Sesa," she murmured, her calm voice
soothing the tempest. "Instead of worrying about being perfect, why dont
you just try spending time with him? Get to know him as a person, not as
some unattainable dream." Though her teenage heart resisted for a moment,
Sesa soon found herself nodding, her mothers words kindling a small but
growing ember of confidence.

The next day, with her courage tentatively in place, Sesa sought out the boy
who had so effortlessly captured her attention. She spotted him near the
gaarenborg farm, his blue eyes shining like the sky after a storm. Heart
pounding, she approached him, her hands clasped tightly to keep them from
trembling. Hi, she said, her voice no more than a whisper. The boy
turned, his face suddenly clouded with surprise, but before she could say
more, he hesitated. His eyes darted to the ground, and without a word, he
turned and hurried off, his steps quick and uncertain. Sesa stood frozen,
her cheeks burning with a mix of confusion and embarrassment, her carefully
rehearsed words stuck in her throat.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the village in warm hues of
orange and gold, Sesa walked home in quiet thought. Her earlier confidence
had crumbled, replaced with a whirlwind of questions. Had she said
something wrong? Was he simply too shy to talk? Or perhaps her approach
had been too bold? She sighed deeply, frustration lingering as she replayed
the moment in her mind. Yet somewhere in the midst of her doubts, her
mothers words echoed gently, urging her to just be herself. With a small,
determined nod, Sesa resolved that next time, shed try again. As she
crossed the threshold of her home, her thoughts drifted to the shy boy with
the blue eyes.

Writer: Triendal
Date Sat Mar 8 13:15:35 2025
To Calithie Sesa Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject Finding a nanny

Triendal sat in the high backed vallenwood chair, his fingers drumming on
the polished surface of the large vallenwood desk. The grain of the wood
twisted and curled in elegant patterns, but his eyes were fixed on the woman
sitting across from him. The faint scent of lavender wafted through the
room, but it did nothing to calm the tension that hung thick in the air.

The woman before him, a nervous looking human in a simple but neatly pressed
gown, fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve. She was mid sentence,
explaining her experience with children in hushed, soft tones, her hands
clasped tightly in her lap.

Triendal's eyes narrowed. He had been through this a dozen times today,
each candidate more insipid than the last. They were All eager to impress,
all reciting the same lines about their patience and nurturing skills, their
qualifications and experience. None of them had the fire he was looking
for. None of them had the spine.

"I'm sorry, " he interrupted her abruptly, his deep voice cold and cutting
through her rambling. "You're not the one. "

The woman blinked, clearly caught off guard. "I-I beg your pardon, sir? "

"I said, " Triendal repeated, leaning forward slightly, his voice now hard
as stone, "You're not the one. I have twins on the way, and I need someone
who can keep up. You're too soft, too... Uncertain. "

Her eyes widened, a flush creeping up her neck. She opened her mouth to
protest, but before she could form a response, Triendal snapped his fingers,
and the door behind her swung open. "Please see her out, "he said curtly,
not looking at the servant who entered, but keeping his gaze firmly on the
woman. She looked as though she might say something more, but after a long,
awkward moment, she stood up, gathering her things and leaving with only a
few stammered words of thanks.

The door closed behind her, and Triendal slumped back into his chair with a
sigh of frustration. Another one down, but it felt like there was no end to
the parade of disappointing nannies.

He rubbed his temples, eyes closed, trying to push away the weariness of the
interview process. But before he could settle into any kind of peace, there
was another knock on the door, followed by the unmistakable creak of the
handle turning.

Writer: Triendal
Date Sat Mar 8 13:42:00 2025
To Calithie Sesa Shalonesti All Imm RP
Subject The Nanny Hunt Continues

The door swung open, and in waddled a dwarf, a stout, round woman with a
thick, braided beard that reached down to her chest, her massive feet
stomping heavily against the floor as she made her way toward him. She was
dressed in heavy leathers, a far cry from the delicacy of the previous
applicants.

Triendal blinked, staring at the new arrival. His mind raced, but he was
already reaching the limits of his patience.

"Who the hell are you? " he growled, his voice rising in irritation.

"I'm Grenda, sir. Grenda Ironsoul, at yer service! "she said, bowing
slightly, though the motion was rather clumsy given her rotund size.

Triendal didn? T even let her finish. He stood up suddenly, slamming his
palms down on the desk with such force that it rattled.

"I don't want any more of this! " he shouted, his face turning crimson with
anger. "You think I need some waddling dwarf to look after my children?
Get the hell out of my office! "

Grenda blinked, her stout face unmoving even as she felt the heat of his
anger. She took a step back, but instead of retreating, she puffed her
chest out, her voice thick with stubborn pride.

"Now, hold on just a moment, lad! I can-"

"No! " Triendal roared, his hands still clenched on the desk. "Out! Now!
"

The dwarf woman seemed to pause, calculating the situation. For a moment,
it looked like she might push back, but then her expression softened. With
a grunt, she turned and shuffled back to the door, muttering to herself
under her breath.

Triendal was still seething as the door closed behind her. He dropped back
into his chair, a deep sigh escaping his lips. This was ridiculous.
Finding the right person for the job was proving to be harder than he
thought. His temper was flaring, and the idea of raising two children, let
alone raising them with someone who might actually be able to manage them,
seemed impossible.

Triendal rubbed his eyes, already exhausted from the process. As the door
opened once again, he wondered how much longer he could keep up this
charade. The task of finding someone fit to care for his twins seemed more
daunting by the minute.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Sat Mar 8 22:10:23 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Sat Mar 8 22:10:48 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Sat Mar 8 22:10:54 2025

Writer: Sesa
Date Sat Mar 8 23:22:06 2025
To Calithie Triendal Rundelhous Penelopina Faeryn Sebez Sahlonesti All Imm Rp
Subject The Nanny Hunt, Sesa's Interview

Sesa, was thrilled when she received a missive from the Shalonesti
Speaker Calithie and her husband Triendal, seeking a nanny. Having spent
her childhood helping her grandmother at the New Thalos orphanage, Sesa
adored children and was eager to apply. She quickly wrote up her
application and sent it off. It wasn't long before she received a request
for an interview. Excited, she rushed through her morning chores and
hurried off to the little pie shop to meet the soon-to-be parents. She was
a bit surprised to learn they were expecting twins, but being a twin
herself, it didn't faze her.

During the interview, Sesa answered several questions confidently. She
explained how she would handle crying babies by checking their diapers,
feeding times, and using soothing techniques like singing or rocking. She
also shared her love for helping at the New Thalos orphanage and her
experience with babies. Calithie and Triendal were impressed with her
answers and offered her the job, paying her in advance with a generous sum
of jeweled eggs. Sesa was overjoyed and couldn't wait to tell her family
about the wonderful opportunity.

As the interview concluded, Sesa expressed her gratitude and assured the
couple that she would take great care of their precious twins. Calithie
mentioned that Sesa's cousin, Faefae, a midwife, would likely deliver the
babies. Sesa was excited at the prospect of being present for the birth and
seeing the little sprouts soon. With a smile, she left the pie shop, eager
to start her new journey as a nanny. Now, Sesa patiently waits for the
birth of the twins, feeling a sense of anticipation and joy.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Sun Mar 9 01:00:41 2025
To Nordmaar Imm All RP Tarabella
Subject Lowlander Affairs

The middle of the night split open and the world trembled, a violent
shudder that sent ripples through the land and sea alike. Across the
continents, reports came flooding in... Vile, inky substances seeping from
the earth, their rancid stench fouling the air. In Tropica, a heavy smoke
was belched into the sky and still hung over the Warp, an unnatural haze
twisting and painting the sky over Tropica with a sickly, odorous, ichor. A
voice, neither heard nor unheard, whispered through the winds, a warning and
a threat, a presence stretching across the world. Trees fell in Shalonesti,
ancient roots undone by something far more insidious than mere tremors. In
one harrowing report, the earth itself writhed as though it were vomiting
forth a sickness from its depths, corrupting All it touched.

Roseleyn had been in the forests logging, when the tremors struck, the
sawdust clinging to her as she came quickly back to the city. The streets
of Nordmaar lay still, quiet, undisturbed. Nearly the whole of the city was
deep in slumber, King Malcomn, Queen Carmyne, and countless others... The
only news to greet her was confirmation that, beyond the shaking, nothing
had befallen Nordmaar. The guards dismissed the disturbances as "lowlander
affairs," their indifference a stark contrast to the foreboding Roseleyn
felt knotting in her gut.

Less than an hour later, she met with Aodhen. His stance was firm, unmoved
by the unrest elsewhere. "If it does not touch our borders, it does not
touch our people, and we should not be concerned" was the general outlook as
they spoke plainly and he looked at her, unconcerned. Roseleyn knew that
her Warlord thought her too involved, and perhaps having too much grace for
the outside world. She wished she could simply turn away from the gnawing
feeling that something terrible was unfolding. But in the end, she let it
go. Their duty was to their people and their home. For now, that was
enough.

It was not until mid day that another report came . A small northern
village sent word, its priest had disappeared. The villagers were searching
for him, and in the meantime, tending to the needs of the people. The
sender noted that the priest had been old. Perhaps the gods had simply
taken him. Roseleyn was unsettled but held her concerns.

The next day, another report came. This time from Arctis Tor, a freehold
governed by the Kyrre family. Their priest was gone, too, but unlike the
first, old age was not to blame. In his Hof, the eight-pointed star had
been left behind. A symbol that sent a chill down Roseleyn's spine.

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Sun Mar 9 01:03:35 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Sun Mar 9 07:05:28 2025

Writer: Taeborlin
Date Sun Mar 9 16:32:21 2025

Writer: Sesa
Date Mon Mar 10 01:32:14 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, The {pfi{prs{pt nig{pht.

Sesa smoothed her tunic as she stepped into her cousins quarters, the
warmth of the room wrapping her like an embrace. The soft glow of
candlelight played across the faces of Calithie, Triendal, and Faeryn, their
exhaustion evident but overlaid with a glow of joy. In a gilded bassinet
lay the source of their fatigue and delight the Shalonost twins, Erindorial
Ira and Eridessa Rilyan. Sesa's breath caught as she gazed at them. She'd
anticipated their arrival with excitement, but the moment she saw their tiny
faces, her heart swelled with an overwhelming tenderness she hadnt expected.

Her careful preparations had been worth every moment. The cart in the guest
room stood ready, stocked with All the essentials a newborn could need. The
little journal she had crafted lay on top, waiting to chronicle the rhythm
of feedings, naps, and changes. As the night unfurled, Sesa found herself
thriving in her role as Nanny Sunspear. The twins stirred every two hours,
their soft cries breaking the quiet night. Sesa would gently rouse Calithie
to nurse them, watching with quiet admiration as the Speaker cradled each
baby with maternal grace. Once their bellies were full, Sesa would take
them in her arms, carefully change their diapers, and rock them back to
sleep, her voice weaving lullabies like a warm cocoon around the little
ones.

Through it all, Sesa felt a profound connection not just to the twins but to
her own familys legacy. As she cradled Eridessa in her arms, the babys tiny
hand wrapping around her finger, Sesa made a quiet vow to herself and to
them: she would always protect, love, and cherish them with every fiber of
her being, just as her own family had done for her. That promise settled
over her like a mantle of purpose, soft but unwavering.

By dawn, the household had fallen silent, save for the faint breaths of the
slumbering infants. Sesa, covered in spit-up but too tired to care, leaned
against Faeryn as the adults began to stir to start their day. Her eyelids
drooped, and with a sigh of exhaustion and satisfaction, she finally
surrendered to sleep, silently tapping out to her cousin or whoever would
take the next shift in caring for the precious twins.

Writer: Calithie
Date Mon Mar 10 08:44:37 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Triendal Sesa Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn IMM RP
Subject The birth of the Shalonost twins Erindorial Ira and Eridessa Rilyan

The time was close, she knew she'd be giving birth soon. Calithie
reached out to Faeryn. She needed to get out of the Vallenwood. Her home
had become warped and filled with slime and sickness. This was not place to
bring her new babies into the world. She graciously took Faeryn's offer of
shelter, after all, Faeryn would be delivering her twins. She lifted her
head to look at her husband, Triendal. "The time is close.. I can feel it.
Faeryn has offered her home, can you scout to see if it is safe for me to
travel?" With a quick whisper of the gate spell, Triendal was gone.
Moments later, he sent word that she could safely come to him. They made
their way to Faeryn's home.

Faeryn greeted her warmly and instructed the elven Speaker to make herself
comfortable. Calithie explained that she was experiencing some pain and the
pains were closer together. Triendal stood close to his wife, and soon to
be mother of his children. Calithie rested comfortably in a day bed,
surrounded by comfortable pillows, she still struggled to be comfortable.
The pregnancy hadn't been too rough, but she was ready to love her
children.. On the outside.. Of her body.

As time passed, conversation continued between the three of them, Faeryn
monitored Calithie closely. Watching the elven Speaker's labor slowly
progress. Triendal grasped Calithie's hand, to reassure her. A strong pain
wracked Calithie's body, she grasped her husbands hand with All of her
strength. Triendal winced, but did not retract his hand. He switched to
rubbing her back and doing everything he could to comfort his laboring wife.

The time was close. What seemed like many hours went by. Faeyrn busied
herself with preparing for the delivery. Towles, hot water and blankets
were in abundance. She tentatively monitored Calithie's progress.
Calithie's body wracked with pain. Faeryn's said one simple word. "Push!"
Calithie pushed with All of her might.

Several tries later, Calithie and Triendal's first baby was born. Her son
let out a cry, and Calithie let out a breath, she handn't known she was
holding. Relieved, she stared as her son was handed in blankets to
Triendal. Her work was not done. There was another, moments later, another
pain wracked her body. Once again, Faeryn gave Calithie an encouraging
smile and told her to push. A little easier than the first, her daughter
was born. Faeryn laid the baby girl in her arms.

She held her daughter and stared down with an adoring smile. After feeding
her twins, sleep came over her, exhausted from child birth, she slept.

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Mon Mar 10 08:54:03 2025

Writer: Hadleigh
Date Mon Mar 10 09:16:04 2025
To All Nordmaar ( Austinian Xenophon Scorn SToryline Religion )
Subject Madness of the Warp, Hadleigh's Fight pt 1

The abbey bell tolled solemnly as Hadleigh knelt beside Veritas, the
great tiger's amber eyes watching her intently. Veritas had been her
companion since she was a girl, a gift from Gerihart, who had always
believed in her destined path. The tigress's presence now, her massive form
curled protectively around Hadleigh's feet, was a reminder of both comfort
and the weight of her responsibilities.

The letters lay finished, stacked neatly on her desk, yet the restless
shadows of her dreams stirred uneasily within her. The starthe
eight-pointed starburned in her mind like a brand. It was an image she had
seen countless times in the nightmares that plagued her, but now it had
seeped into reality, carved into the earth of deserted villages, etched onto
abandoned altars.

She stroked Veritas's fur absently as she recounted the rumors to herself:
priests vanishing from their posts, holy sanctuaries defiled, the land
itself writhing as if rejecting the corruption spilling from the rictus
spire of bone near Tropica. The air carried the stench of decay, a putrid
omen that reached even the abbey walls. As the shudders beneath the earth
grew stronger, she knew time was slipping through her fingers.

"Veritas," she whispered, her voice trembling with both determination and
dread, "if this is to be my end, promise me you will guard themguard Verita
and my parents. They will need you." The tigress rumbled a low, mournful
growl, pressing her massive head against Hadleigh's hands as though
understanding every word.

Hadleigh rose, clutching the sigil of Austinian hanging around her neck.
She knew what must be done. The council would convene to discuss the Yinn
invasion, but she suspected the true enemy lay elsewherein the dark, in the
void that whispered her name in every nightmare. Whatever the source of the
corruption, she would face it head-on. The letters were her anchor, her
final act of love. The rest would be in the hands of the godsor whatever
forces remained untainted in a world teetering on the edge of ruin.

With Veritas padding silently at her side, Hadleigh stepped into the growing
storm of uncertainty, the weight of her fate pressing against her shoulders
but failing to crush her spirit. Together, they would confront the horrors
ahead.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Mon Mar 10 17:54:43 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Mon Mar 10 18:13:16 2025
To Nordmaar All IMM RP Tarabella
Subject The Roar of the North Part 2

The speaker was young, his beard barely grown, but he stood tall, his
shield strapped across his back. His voice was edged with doubt. "Why do
we fight for the Highladers? " he asked, his gaze moving over those
gathered. "They do not call us their own. They see us as raiders, wild
folk, outsiders. Why spill our blood for them? "

A few murmured in agreement, younger warriors exchanging glances. Others
stood silent, waiting for her answer.

Roseleyn did not waver. She stepped forward, meeting the young man's gaze,
and spoke with the weight of battle and wisdom behind her words. "Because
we are stronger together. And it is not just for them"

Silence settled like freshly fallen snow.

"The Yinnae will not stop with Nordmaar, " she continued. "You know this,
they attack us as well, as they have been and you can bet if they take hold
here, they will not stop with the southern lands. They will come for the
far North, for our the rest of our villages, the last freeholds, for the
places we call home. They will take what we do not defend. But more than
that, not All of Nordmaar is not as blind as it once was. There are those
who fight beside us, who see our worth. And we do not abandon those who
fight at our side. "

The young warrior stared at her, unreadable, before shifting his gaze to the
others.

Then, a sharp nod from one of the elder warriors. "Aye. She speaks truth.
" A second voice, firm. "We stand with the Queen. "

More voices rose. "Stronger together. "

The young man exhaled and gave a short, decisive nod. "Then we fight. "

Roseleyn turned to the assembled warriors, her voice lifting like a battle
cry. "The Yinnae will not expect us to strike tonight. They will not
expect us to be prepared. But we are Vikings. We do not hesitate. We do
not cower behind walls. We do not wait for the storm. "

She drew her sword, its edge catching the dying light. "We are the roar of
the North, let them any who have ears let them hear, may the mutts be deaf
and dead by the end. "

A roar erupted from the gathered warriors, shields slammed against shields,
axes raised high. Tonight, the Vikings rode to war.

Writer: Andreyna
Date Mon Mar 10 22:35:38 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Marauders Verminasia Arkane Crelius Chaos Zandreya Malachive Xenophon Imm Rp Religion
Subject Reliving the Nightmare

Andreyna sat at the stone table within the center of the Speakers'
chambers of the Shared Groves. Typically, she would come here to look over
maps to locate caves and tunnels, as well as, to consider strategy against
the Fort. However, this evening she came here to think once again on a plan
that may save the Vallens from the infiltration of the Warp. The chambers
gave her the silence she needed away from the Groves to think and quiet to
meditate to try and combat the sickness she felt from the Warp's influence
upon Zandreya's Holy Lands.

Andreyna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, attempting to calm her mind
and body, the sickness never really left her and would often roll over in
nauseating waves. It was a sickness she was All too familiar with, one that
she had hoped she would never feel again. Yet here she was parchments
strewn out before her, broken stones with sigils of ancient runes etched
upon them laying before her. Here she was, reliving the nightmare All over
again.

The priestess slowly opened her eyes and they settled upon a red crystal
lying before her. The crimson shard pulsed before her, humming, its light
dancing eerily along the chamber's walls like flickering flames. The Warp
was growing strong within the Vallens. The crystal was rarely silent since
the earthquakes, growing stronger with each passing moment.

What to do this time though? What to do differently? What did the elves
have this time that they did not have before? Andreyna's eyes scanned over
the Warp's relics before her. Stones, riddled with curses of the Warp, a
crystal infused with blood magic, and a tree.

Andreyna bit her lips as she stared into the pulsating crystal. The tree
that lived. The tree that was saved. The tree that did not die and was now
infused with the magic of the moons. Perhaps it would be key in saving the
Vallens? Quickly, the elfqueen grabbed a quill and dipped it into an ink
well.

The tree was in the center of the Vallens, infused with the power of the
moons. It had survived the curse of the Warp. It was an example of Balance
overcoming the Warp's chaos. The Queen-Priest hastily scribbled the outline
of the tree in the center of the parchment. Altars had been built to
Zandreya All about the Vallens, Andreyna thought as the began to map them
all around the kingdom. Perhaps if they could siphon power from the tree
and transfer it to the altars? The power of the moons and the Mother's
cycles? Perhaps it was worth a try.

Writer: Sesa
Date Tue Mar 11 00:35:45 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, Day {pTw{po.

The soft glow of the single lantern bathed the nursery in a warm, golden
light. Sesa rocked gently in the creaking wooden chair, her eyes fixed on
the bassinet nestled by her side. Erindorial stirred slightly, his tiny
fingers curling into a soft fist, while Eridessa let out a contented sigh,
her delicate features serene. The quiet of the night wrapped around them
like a comforting blanket, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves
outside and the twins' soft breaths.

The earlier chaos had long since been tidied away, but Sesa's damp hair and
the faint smell of lavender soap lingering in the air were evidence of the
disaster that had transpired. She chuckled softly to herself, recalling the
sheer determination it had taken to bathe both babies, change the bedding,
and restore some semblance of order. Yet now, as she watched the two
bundles of joy drift deeper into slumber, All the mess and exhaustion felt
like a distant memory.

Triendal appeared in the doorway, a knowing smile on his face as he carried
a small cup of herbal tea for Sesa. "Another blowout victory?" He teased
in a low whisper, stepping carefully to avoid waking the little ones. Sesa
took the tea with a grateful nod, her lips quirking in a tired but amused
smile. "Let's just say, Eridessa may have earned herself a nickname
tonight," she replied, her voice laced with affection.

As the first pale threads of dawn began to weave through the windows, Sesa
hummed a soft tune, one her mother had sung to her. The melody seemed to
soothe not just the twins but her own weary spirit. Erindorial stretched in
his sleep, his tiny hand brushing against Eridessa's as if seeking her
warmth. Sesa's heart swelled with quiet gratitude. Here, in this little
home filled with love, laughter, and the occasional chaos, was a world
untouched by the chaos outside. A haven where love reigned and joy bloomed,
one soft sigh at a time.

Writer: Gogh
Date Tue Mar 11 18:41:34 2025

Writer: Sebez
Date Tue Mar 11 19:58:02 2025
To Sesa Faeryn Penelopina Rundelhous Bragin ( Imm rp Taliena All )
Subject The Quest - (one)

Sebez stowed the last of his armor in his vault, said his good byes, and
headed to the tailors. He purchased simple cloth pants and shirt, and
strapped a longsword on his hip just for safety. His Cousin had asked if he
was leaving now, and he had thought of waiting, but, curse his
impulsiveness; He just left. No magic, he would walk, starting by heading
toward Shalonesti. There was no map. There was no destination. There was
no time limit. There was just where his two feet would carry him. He was
on a Quest. A Quest to find out who Sebez really was. What kind of man did
he want to be. No preasures, imaginary as they may be, of parents or
siblings. He was indesisive, wishywashy, and in the end, had no idea what
he wanted out of life.

As he passed the gates of the Elven Nation, he turned north. Through the
Great Vallenwood forests before finally reaching the sea. He made camp for
the night. A lone fire where there were no people. No lights. No sounds,
besides that of the tide beating against the rocks.

Sebez fell asleep beside the fire with no plans, no agenda, no duties, and
no worries.

Writer: Sesa
Date Wed Mar 12 09:20:55 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, Tumbling {pinto {pTodd{plerh{pood

As dawn painted the desert skys in hues of pinks and gold, Sesa, the
ever-diligent Sunspear, greeted the day with a soft melody, her voice a
familiar comfort to the twins cradled in her arms. Erindorial and Eridessa
had grown so much since their first cries filled the air. At six months,
their days were already filled with little triumphs, each a cause for
celebration in their tightly-knit family. Since Shalonesti was still
unsafe, filled with sickness and slime the twins and their parents had taken
refuge within cousin Faeryn's home.

Now that the twins were sleeping soundly through the night, Sesas transition
to a day shift. Bringing a steady rhythm to their lives. It allowed her to
establish gentle routines for the twinsmealtime chatter, nap-time lullabies,
and playful learning. With boundless patience, she introduced them to the
melodies of the elven tongue, her words weaving an ethereal tapestry of
sound that shaped their first coos and babbles. She delighted in their
burgeoning curiosity, watching their wide eyes as they began associating
colors with their favorite toys and loving the art they created with their
tiny hands, which was proudly displayed All over the home.

Calithie and Triendal, now back in the fray, found solace in knowing their
little ones thrived in Sesa's and their choosen Kyrol's care. The twins
adored their parents' evening arrivals, their faces lighting up with joyous
glee as they reached out to be scooped into warm embraces. Their cousin
Faeryn often joined, adding her own spark of youthful energy to the fold,
entertaining the twins with songs and funny faces.

By their first birthday, both Erindorial and Eridessa had taken their first
wobbly steps. Erindorial with bold determination and Eridessa with
thoughtful grace. The family erupted in cheers, a joyous chorus carried by
the desert breeze. Sesa, always the ever-watchful guide, encouraged their
curiosity, turning their toddling adventures into opportunities for
learning. She celebrated each new word, each attempt at stacking blocks,
and each small victory as though it were a triumph worthy of song.

The twins' second year was a whirlwind of exploration and milestones. Their
days were filled with laughter, learning, and love. Sesas gentle
instruction blended seamlessly with the playful encouragement of Faeryn and
the quiet strength of Calithie and Triendal. Together, this little tribe
created a nurturing haven where every step was met with support, every
challenge with patience, and every triumph with celebration.

By the time Erindorial and Eridessa tumbled into toddlerhood, they carried
with them the wisdom of Sesa's care and the love of their family. They were
bright, curious, and full of wondertestaments to the power of a devoted
circle, where love flowed as freely as the desert sands and milestones
became cherished memories.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Wed Mar 12 10:19:52 2025
To Shadow All ( Imm Verminasia )
Subject Old Friends and New Enemies ( VI )

Ogluk grabbed at Ostrim's arm still wrapped around his throat. The act
of defiance was met with another blow to the temple.

'Submit. '

The half ogre, knees now trembling, face red, frantically grasped but his
meaty fingers could find no purchase.

'Submit. ' and another pommel strike to the head.

The body went limp in his arms and yet the barbarian's hold remained firm.

'Submit! ' roared from Ostrim's lips. The heat of battle had left him
without the realization that his opponent was no longer fighting back.
Those around him stared, as they watched the life begin to seep from Ogluk.
Until a voice rang out from the crowd.

'OSTRIM ULVARDE! STAND DOWN! '

------------------- {uNames have power. -------------------

Ulvarde, that was his name. The name his mother yelled at him when he was
misbehaving. A name he hadn't heard in almost twenty years. A name that
came from the lips of his old friend Regus. The dwarf was standing out from
the crowd, his black eyes locked on Ostrim's. Immediately he let his grip
go on Ogluk as the half ogre crumpled to the ground, his chest still heaving
but unconscious.

Ostrim stepped back, his hand shaking as the realization set in. Then the
pain from the beating flared up as the adrenaline left him feeling drained
and tired. Regus rushed over to him, ignoring the body at his feet. Money
was exchanged around them but the dwarf was focused on Ostrim.

'Ye alright lad? The battle fury had ya, I saw it. I remembered once when
ye were sick.. You cried out in your sleep. ' the dwarf paused. 'Ye asked
for her, for Katrina Ulvarde, if we had seen her. So I knew yer true name.
'

Ostrim, dazed, recalled the weeks after she had left. He had been just a
lad of ten when she didn't return. He had wandered the streets calling for
her. Years had passed before he found the Black Daggers and some semblance
of family.

'I... I'm good mate. Thank ya. ' Ostrim sheathed his bloody sword. Red
fluid covered the guard and pommel but the Kayen mark seemed oddly
untarnished.

Ostrim, still slightly dazed, began walking back into the Pub as Cordane ran
up to him.

'Won five blue on ya, Ostrim! Great job! ' grinned the minstrel.

Glib patted Ostrim on the shoulder as he passed by, 'Nice one, Ost. '

Bearok watched him pass and from under his hood the rogue said, 'Perhaps
there's a Knight in there yet. '

'You ok, Ost? Want a drink? ' asked Shian.

'No.. Need to get back to the Keep and get this All looked at. I'll...
Ah... See you blokes later. All rioght? '

His mates nodded, Regus keeping a concerned eye on him as Ostrim left the
Skull and Crossbones and retraced his steps back to the Eclipsian Tower.

Writer: Sebez
Date Wed Mar 12 16:30:12 2025
To Sesa Faeryn Penelopina Rundelhous Bragin ( Imm rp Taliena All )
Subject the Quest (2)

Sebez spent a few days in the forest. Usually, he was a bundle of
nervous energy. Always had to be DOing something. He pushed that part of
himself down deep, each moment spent observing the world around him. The
mouse scurrying through the leaves and ferns of the undergrowth. The birds
singing their songs in the canopy. The eagle using beak and talon to
protect her chicks from a python twice its size. The last he watched for a
long while. Eventually he moved on, his feet taking him slowly out of the
realm of the elves and onto a lesser traveled path. The grass was growing
but not thick, as if even the animals themselves rarely used it. It was a
few hours before he stopped and listened. What was vibrant life in the
Vallenwoods had turned to quiet. Not the peacefull quiet where the wind
blew through the trees and you could here the songs of crickets, but the
unnerving quiet of utter silence from the world. Still he pushed on,
wondering where he was going to end up but not really caring. It was the
journey that was important. Soon he came upon a gate, battered and beaten
down, the walls that had once held it were crumbling. It was ruins of some
old city.

Sebez had to stamp down the boy in him, the impulsiveness the sometimes got
him in trouble. He stepped cautiously through the gates and walked the
streets, trying to imagine what these ruins would have been like in its
time. Peeking into half ruined buildings and behind crumbled walls. He was
peering behind a wall when a voice behind him nearly made him wet himself
'State your business here boy' Sebez whirled, his hand going for his sword,
his training with the vikings taking hold even before his brain caught up to
what was happening. The guard was already drawn and ready to cleave Sebez
from knee to neck. Quickly he said 'I'm on a journey, I mean no trouble'
The guard nodded and he spoke with a sadness in his voice 'You are in the
ruins of Serpantol, once a great city is not rubble. Do what you've come to
do and be gone. Without another word he turned and continued his patrol.
Sebez was left aghast. Serpantol? He'd read the name from Gareth's
library, he never thought he'd actually set foot in it. Continuing his
explorations he came to a tower, its walls still intact, but windowless. He
stepped inside to find walls of books. Most were shredded, or ruined by the
elements but as he climbed higher into the tower there were more that were
still intact. Histories of the realms, of religions, of prophets and even
the birth of Malechive himself. Pulling a book from the shelf, its title
something his mother had mentioned, the Order of the Serpent's Eye. A lost
order of monks living in a monestary right outside the city. Their ties to
Serpentol and even to Gareth's itself. Putting the book back on the shelf,
Sebez's curiosity took hold and he went in search of this lost monestary.

Writer: Sebez
Date Wed Mar 12 17:16:29 2025
To Sesa Faeryn Penelopina Rundelhous Bragin ( Imm rp Taliena All )
Subject The Quest (3)

Sebez walked around the city walls three times, looking for any sign of a
trail, a path, paving stones in the dirt, anything that would show him the
way to the monestary. He walked the grassy trail that led him here in the
first place, thinking perhaps he missed something. As he walked, a hum,
soft and alluring, warmed his insides. Not his lungs and guts, but his very
soul seemed to vibrate with it. The further he walked, the lesser it
became, so he turned around and backtracked. As he got closer, the hum got
more persistant until he stood at a curve in the path. He stepped into the
woods and walked into something. He could see forest and stones on the
ground beyond, but every time he tried to step off the path he was knocked
back.

He scanned the forest floor, for signs of anything. He had learned many
things from the Vikings, tracking was not one of them, but he did his best.
Nothing. He made camp there for the night, the hum in his soul calling out
to him as he dreamed.

Blinding light shown from the ceiling of a great chapel. Men in hooded
robes stood in a circle chanting. The words were gibberish to him, but it
was familiar somehow. As he watched one of them raised his head, removing
the hood before looking straigh at him. His hand raised Sebez woke in the
wee hours of the morning.

As the sun rose through the forest All that he had seen started to come
together in his mind. The eagle protecting against the snake wanting to eat
the weaker chicks. The mouse in search of food to sustain itself. The bear
teaching her cubs how to get honey from the hive without getting stung. The
city of Serpentol and what happens when war touches the lives of a
community.

He watched the sun peak over the ruins and realized thats who he was.

Protector of the weak.

Loving teacher.

Patient student.

Dutiful son.

Student of Serpentol.

Writer: Othorion
Date Wed Mar 12 21:09:45 2025

Writer: Othorion
Date Wed Mar 12 21:23:36 2025

Writer: Othorion
Date Wed Mar 12 22:37:21 2025

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 10:02:23 2025
To All Arkane ( Imm RP )
Subject A Meeting of Shadows

It was the early hours of the morning, the night sky was clear and the
stars shone brightly through the skylight above her throne room, but it was
the full red moon that held Nereza's gaze. She allowed herself to be lost in
it as she spoke to Sebatis in her mind "War comes to the Mystic Kingdom,
your Kingdom. I worry for the people here, but I see no other path forward.
This conflict could determine the fate of Arkania, I cannot back down. I
pray that you approve of my actions, I pray for your wisdom. Is this the
only path or is there another way?"

Arkane had been at war before and with disastrous results, it had been
conquered and left in ruins by both of its neighbors. It had taken the
combined effort of Arkanian loyalists with the support of multiple nations
to regain its sovereignty. And now she had to work with one of these
conquerors to fight the other, fate truly does have a sense of humor she
thought. History could not be allowed to repeat itself: she has the
resources, she has many powerful allies and she has the will to fight.
But more importantly, she has a plan. It was time to begin.

Movement from the shadows of the room brought her back to reality, her eyes
focusing on the familiar form of the man she had been waiting for. He said
nothing as he moved forward and knelt before her at the edge of the shadows,
his dark blue shinobi shozoku barely visible in the darkness even to her
elven eyes.

After a long moment of silence she spoke in a soft, monotone Shokonese
accent "It has become clear that the underground is compromised. It may
prove to be as much as of battleground as the fields above, we must extend
our defenses to include them as well. You will start with the sewers, have
your people search them for signs of decay. The mages of the Azure Tower
are available to you, use their magic as needed, leave no shadow unchecked."

"Next you will send additional scouts throughout our lands, have them
looking specifically for underground entrances, but they are not to enter
them. Instead, I want detailed maps of these locations and I want them
monitored, report any activity directly to me. Lastly, you will reach out
to our mercenary contacts from the homeland. We need more able warriors so
barter with them, give preference to those loyal to the cause. And find me
ronin who seek to serve, cost is of no concern."

The man nodded occasionally as he took in his orders. "As you command, so it
shall be." One of his bushy eyebrows raised as he asked in a gruff,
Shokonese accent "What of the other factions?"

Nereza tilted her head to the side slightly, her eyes squinting as annoyance
crept into her features "Agu is gone, I do not know of his fate and
whatever was the left of the Arkanian Council vanished long ago. So I will
lead the Home Guard and the Tower, protecting Arkane proper will be their
primary objective. You will continue to lead our Shadows, I need your eyes
and ears everywhere. An offensive force has also been formed, for now it
will be tasked with securing our southern border and offering additional
protection to the Church of Stars to support the Crusade."

The man bowed his head before standing and backing into the shadows in one
smooth motion, his presence vanishing the moment the darkness took him.
Nereza sat expressionless as she stared at the void where the man had been,
she knew he would perform well as he always does and so she felt
satisfaction that her Shadows were in motion. Her thoughts moved to the
other factions, more motion was needed.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 10:12:19 2025
To All Arkane ( Imm RP )
Subject A meeting of Force

Nereza was slowly walking the streets of Arkane while speaking in hushed
tones with the impressively large minotaur man at her side. His fur was as
white the snow tipped mountain peaks from her homeland and his eyes the same
icy blue of the cold northern waters she was so familiar with.

Since the disappearance of Agu she had been looking for a new commander for
the Home Guard and in a nation of mostly magi and clericals this task had
been shockingly difficult to accomplish. She had been watching this
minotaur in particular for some time, he was very skilled with a blade and
where others panicked in combat he remained cool, always making calculated
and decisive moves against his foes. She liked him, despite the horns he
was very level headed and reminded her of countless samurai she had
encountered in her past. She felt he could fill the role and so she had
offered him the position of commander which he had accepted.

"How goes the training, Commander?" She asked, no hint of accent in her
voice.

"It goes well my Queen, we continue to run daily drills and they are pressed
hard during their training. I dare say a spark has been ignited beneath
these men and women, no one wants a repeat of the past and they are willing
to fight to prevent it. There is still work to be done, but they can fight
well enough and hold a line." He said in a deep, gravelly voice with the
slightest hint of optimism sneaking through.

"Excellent, you have some time yet so keep at it. In addition to the
standard training regimen I want every guard to be acutely aware of the
quickest paths between gates, this is particularly important around our
northern gap. I also want your patrols to include the sewers from now on,
their ears will be just as important as their eyes down there. I will be
sending members of the Tower with you on these patrols moving forward. I
need their heads out of the books and back into reality. Be patient with
them and please try not to break them? As usual report any anomalies to me
immediately." She stopped walking to face the man "Thank you commander,
truly. Your work is essential to the future of Arkane."

He bowed, she smiled and they parted ways. Progress with the military had
been slower than she would have liked, but she felt more hopeful after every
conversation with her new commander. Still, outside assets would be
critical to help account for the tendency towards peace and intellectual
pursuits Arkanians often had. There was more work to be done, more motion
was needed.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 10:29:44 2025
To All Arkane ( Imm RP )
Subject A Meeting of Minds

It was early in the afternoon on a bright sunny day, the Azure Tower was
warmed by the heat the star provided. Nereza stood near the center of the
circular room, All around her were students and professors of the Tower.
She had called them here to discuss war preparations and the roles she
intended for them to play.

"Thank you All for coming here! I wish this was happening under better
circumstances, but we must discuss how you will All be helping to protect
Arkane and its people in the coming days." Many in the room shifted
uncomfortably, sighed or moved their focus to other things in the room. The
war was an uncomfortable topic, some thought that she had made a mistake in
getting them involved.

"I know, I know. But we are committed to this war and without your help we
will fail." She placed a large duffle bag on the table in the center of the
room and began pulling out many smaller bags, as she tossed them onto the
table the glittering warpstones contained within made crystalline clinking
sounds as they settled, a few of them peaked from the top of the bags.

"War is a complicated process with many angles to consider, but one very
consistent need in any war is a good logistical system. If we cannot supply
our troops, they fall. If we cannot move our people to respond to threats,
we fall."

"Half of the magi within the Tower will be assigned to our offensive troop
formations, you will of course be supporting them in combat where you can,
but your primary purpose will be to help move them to new places as needed.
The other half of the magi will remain within the walls of Arkane, some of
you will be assigned to patrols with the Home Guard, the rest of you will
become the beating heart of our logistical network. You'll be helping to
move supplies around to encampments and bring injured soldiers to where our
clericals will be tending to them."

Nereza paused to take in the reaction of her audience so far, many stared
blankly at warpstones on the table, most had faces that carried worry and
fear. She sighed softly "Its important to keep in mind that we are not alone
in this fight, an entire alliance has formed and we will be supporting them
as much as they are supporting us. There will be NO repeat of the past,
never again will Arkane be left in ruin by would be conquerors. You must
stand strong and do your part, Arkane needs you. Algoron needs you."

"That's All I have for now, expect to receive your assignments soon. I now
open the floor to questions." And many did have questions, so she sat with
them in the Tower for hours working through concerns and adding to the plan
as unconsidered elements were raised. The meeting stretched into the night,
the sunlight replaced by magical light as they finally came to an agreement.
The shock of the situation had left most of them and though there was still
worry and some fear she could also sense acceptance and determination from
them. It was a step in the right direction. But more motion was needed.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 10:55:20 2025
To All Arkane Slayers ( Imm RP )
Subject A Meeting of Hunters

Nereza sat patiently at a table in the Tavern of the Three Towers as she
waited for her guest to arrive. Arkane was bloated with taverns and
eateries, apparently its previous leadership had sought to turn the city
into some kind of entertainment destination. But at least they had the good
sense to make one themed around the Conclave and magic in general, that made
this clearly the best of the many options in Arkane she thought.

She didn't have to wait long, the wemic she was looking for had arrived. He
had snow white fur with a black mane and grayish eyes with a bloody slash
above them, she had spoken with Altacas many times over the years since she
had come to live in Arkane, but even had she not he would be easy to
recognize as the Overlord of Greystoke Manor.

Brief greetings were exchanged and then he took a seat across from her. He
didn't know it yet, but he was here to strike a deal, that was the plan at
least.

"I bring to you an offer, one that I think will greatly benefit us both. I
dont want to waste your valuable time, so allow me to lay out this deal
plainly for your consideration."

"I seek to enlist the aid of the Slayers in the coming war with the
Marauders. I want your help in clearing the tunnels below Arkane and
Ironclad of any beasts and enemy soldiers that reside within and with the
protection of Arkane itself should it come under attack by any dragons or
monstrosities."

"During this conflict you may encounter forces you would normally engage in
combat with. You are NOT to engage with any of them if at All possible and
you are to stay entirely clear of the Church of Stars for the duration. I
understand that if they attack you a defense will naturally follow, but
please avoid unnecessary squabbles and remain focused on the given task."

As she continued on laying out the conditions of his side of this deal the
wemic slowly began raising to his full seated height, his fingers
occasionally tapping against the surface of the table as he listened. He
was intrigued she thought, or deeply distressed. It was no small thing she
was asking, it was time to add the sweetener.

"If you agree to this you will be forging a bond with Arkane and helping to
protect Algoron from the forces of Chaos. Such actions will not be
forgotten and will come with ample reward."

"Should my conditions be met I offer you permission to construct an outpost
in the southern lands of Arkane and I will personally pay the cost of its
construction as well provide some eggs to help furnish it. In addition,
should you agree, effective immediately the Slayers will become welcomed
within Arkane which will provide your hunters some special privileges within
Arkane. So long as I reign over Arkane these privileges will remain in
place."

Altacas inhaled deeply, his finger tapping becoming more frequent as he
considered the deal. She knew it appeared to favor his side heavily, it had
been designed that way, though in the end it would be Arkane that gained the
most from it.

"The Manor will stand against Chaos, that we can be certain of and the boon
of reward and incentive you offer is great, far greater than I would have
anticipated if I am to be truthful."

"I believe this is a great opportunity, a way to move Greystoke in a new
way... Towards the same purpose but with a renewed vigor, purpose the same
yet a new directive."

Nereza nodded along as he spoke "There is no need to answer right now. You
can give it some thought, talk it over with your people if you like. But
soon I will need an answer."

They then parted ways and while no answer was given that day, she did not
have to wait long. The next day a missive arrived from Greystoke, the deal
had been accepted. Her machinations were beginning to coalesce, her motions
were beginning to cause ripples in the fate of Arkania. But more motion was
needed.

Writer: Ostrim
Date Fri Mar 14 11:16:46 2025
To Shadow All ( Imm Verminasia )
Subject Old Friends and New Enemies ( Fin )

Ostrim walked and as he did, the pain grew. Each breath, each step,
angered his bruised ribs. His head ached and his knuckles had bled. Even
the muscles of his arms hurt from holding Ogluk so tightly. Yet he could
not shake the feeling he was changed somehow. His journey to Storm had been
one of exploration. To seek something greater, a true purpose than just a
bit of coin. He had not realized what Shadow was forging him into.

He limped his way to the Tower and at the portcullis, the guards allowed him
entry with slightly raised eyebrows. Stepping through the portal into Storm
Keep proper, he was almost at the healer when a shadowy form stepped out
from behind a column.

'Bearhide, I understand it may have been a while since I last had command of
the legion but I do not expect my soldiers to return from leave worse than
they left. ' spoke the High Mystic, Archal Kayen. ;

Ostrim had not known the High Mystic well when he became his new mentor but
he had begun to trust the man. Archal's countenance exuded a command for
order and discipline but his gray eyes gave a slight hint of concern.

'Just a tussle in a pub, ser. Nothing I couldn't handle. Gotta show the
boys that Storm Keep ain't anything to trifle with, aye? ' replied the
Supplicant.

'I expect that a Dark Knight knows how to keep their composure in public and
when to exact retribution per the Way. Will further lessons be required,
Supplicant? ' asked Archal, the Kayen tabard showing prominently in the
torch light.

'No, ser. I understand, Ser. ' whispered Ostrim.

'Good. One who follows the heart finds it will bleed. ' recited the High
Mystic. As he turned to leave a question floated over his shoulder. 'Did
they submit, Supplicant? ';

Ostrim raised his head and with a note of pride clearly answered, 'Aye. '

With a slight nod, and a twitch at the corner of his mouth, Archal walked
back into the shadows of the Keep.

Sighing as the tension left him, Ostrim found his way to the infirmary and
was seen to by the healers. As one cleric recited prayers of healing over
him, he recalled how he came to Storm to be a shield for Drakkara. To place
himself before the dangers of his fellow soldiers as he did for his old
mates. Yet day after day, the Knights of Shadow have been hammering and
forging something new out of the man. The shield that was Ostrim the
Bearhide had been changed and remade into something sharper, something that
cuts deeper. Perhaps as the quenching process continues to harden the man
named Ostrim Ulvarde, it will be a Sword for the Legion that rises anew...
Only time and tempering will make that possibility a reality. That was his
last thought as the darkness of sleep over took him.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 11:20:14 2025
To All Arkane Bloodlust ( Imm RP )
Subject A Meeting of Killers

Once again Nereza sat at a table at the Tavern of the Three Towers as she
waited for her guest to arrive. She hoped for results similar to her
previous meeting here, but the Horde could be unpredictable even at the best
of times and she had barely spoken to this new Warlord that had won his
place through combat. Unpredictable they may be, but there were a couple of
constants she knew of: Avarice was a vise they rested comfortably within and
they loved killing. She did not know if they had chosen Fatale or if he had
chosen them, but it was a match made in the heavens. This she could work
with.

The gnome that greeted her was a striking figure, Orutix was his name. His
flesh nearly the same blue hue as her own but with bright reddish-orange
hair that had been formed into long dreadlocks, it reminded her of little
streams of lava. His stormy gray eyes carried the look of a serious man,
she appreciated that.

"It's good to see you and thank you for meeting with me."

"Aye, us blue folk have to stay in communication these days."

She smiled at that "Oh I agree, I have several blue gnomes in my employ and I
do very much enjoy them."

"Let us get straight to business. I bring to you an offer, one that I think
will greatly benefit us both. I dont want to waste your valuable time, so
allow me to lay out this deal plainly for your consideration. I seek to
enlist the aid of your Horde in the coming war with the Marauders. I want
your help in fighting back the Marauder army and assaulting Ironclad itself."

"During this conflict you may encounter forces you would normally engage in
combat with. You are NOT to engage with any of them if at All possible and
you are to stay entirely clear of the Church of Stars for the duration. I
understand that if they attack you a defense will naturally follow, but
please avoid unnecessary squabbles and remain focused on the given task."

The gnome had chosen to stand and smoked constantly throughout the
conversation, occasionally tapping out his pipe and blowing smoke. Nereza
had always found smoking to be a terrible habit and did not care for the
smell, but she ignored it and moved on to lay out the terms of the deal.

"If you agree to this you will be forging a bond with Arkane and helping to
protect Arkania from the forces of Chaos. Such actions will not be
forgotten and will come with ample reward."

"Should my conditions be met I offer you a sum of 1000 jeweled eggs for your
efforts. In addition, should you agree, effective immediately Bloodlust
will become welcomed within Arkane which will provide your killers some
special privileges within Arkane. So long as I reign over Arkane these
privileges will remain in place."

"I don't expect an answer now. Take time to mull it over and speak with your
people. But I will need an answer soon."

No clan could ever match the might of a kingdom, but in her eyes their skill
and experience made up for being a smaller force. They could have a massive
impact if they were positioned correctly and she had no doubt that their
cunning would bring them to find such pressure points.

"The Marauders are given no quarter, then, by the alliance?

"The Marauders refuse to back down, it would be an insult to Raije to do so
or so they claim. There is no choice, we must destroy them. The pay is
good and you forge bonds with Arkane and perhaps the world as a whole. You
also help to protect the Dungeon. It's a win win win really."

"The terms are more than agreeable. I need not consult with any, my word is
law in the Dungeon. To curry favor with our host kingdom, and to earn that
very generous bounty, I do hope we can be of service and strike hard and
first."

And with that another deal had been struck, Bloodlust would fight for
Arkane. Ripples were turning into waves, their force could change the fate
of Arkania forever. It wouldn't be long now, but there were still a few
things to put in motion.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 11:28:39 2025
To All ( Imm RP )
Subject The Blue Girl with a Thousand Faces (Part 1)

Along the coastlines of Shokono a collection of wagons, carts and what
could be considered small houses on wheels would occasionally be found
traveling from town to town. They always seemed to be in motion, traveling
from one place to another and beyond their brief stops at the towns they
encountered along the way no one had ever seen them be stationary. The
members of this group seemed to come from nearly All the races of the world
and their faces changed often, yet they rejected any who attempted to join
them on their journey and none that were apart of it ever left, at least not
for long. This group was known as The Roaming Village.

The Village was run by a council of elders, this council saw to it that
every person in their care took up a profession that was useful to the
collective. By laws of the Village when children reached the age of 10
their training began, often this would start with learning the same trades
their parents had been tasked with and then expanded as they grew older.
With so many skilled people on hand, the Village could endure and even
thrive nearly anywhere despite its ever-moving nature.

Over 100 years ago an elven girl with sea blue skin and hair as black as the
starless night was born in this Village, her name was Nereza Inelis. She
was born to the only sea elven couple in the collective making her a rare
and welcomed addition. Her father was a gemsmith and her mother was a
tailor, together they had lived the village for hundreds of years. As it
turned out, Nereza was a bit of an overachiever and had taken interest in
the work of her parents by the age of 5 and by the time her 10th birthday
came she was already well on her way towards mastery of her parents skills.

On her 20th birthday she was approached by an elven girl slightly older than
herself and was led into a large wagon that was by far the most mysterious
of the bunch, Nereza had never been inside it until now. It was lined with
mirrors and racks of clothing, there was an entire wall with little cubbies
cut out each one containing a very life-like mask, there was even a display
case with dozens of wigs.

Then there was the well-lit vanity at the center of it all, it contained
drawer after drawer full of makeup of every color imaginable. They had
foundations, concealers, highlighters, blushes, powders and All the tools
need to properly apply them. It was at this vanity that Nereza was sat down
and taught the art of proper makeup application and though her blue nature
prevented her from ever being able to change herself at the level the others
of the Village could, what she learned in that wagon over the course of
several months allowed her to become a girl with thousand faces, All of them
blue.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 11:31:49 2025
To All ( Imm RP )
Subject The Blue Girl with a Thousand Faces (Part 2)

On her 30th birthday Nereza was called to meet the elders and told the
true nature of the Village. It was not a village at all, it was a clan of
shinobi that functioned as a mobile group of mercenaries. They traveled to
places where they had a contract, those of the Village with the needed
skills to complete a given job would slowly integrate into their new
environment and those skills they had worked to master for so long were put
to use the sake of the clan.

When the contract was complete, the Village moved on. From that point
onward Nereza began filling roles for the Village. Sometimes she was an
accountant, sometimes a hostess, sometimes a merchant, sometimes a dancer,
the roles were ever changing but she always succeeded in playing her part in
the grand masquerade.

However, by her 100th birthday the contracts had begun to dry up and the
Village was experiencing a slow, seemingly unavoidable death. The future of
the Village was a bleak one if nothing changed, so the Elders decided to
take drastic measures: They would send one of their own away from the
Village, away from Shokono, to Arkania. There this person would be tasked
with establishing new business connections for the Village, the elders
decided it must be a merchant role that was played and they picked the best
person they had for the job, Nereza.

It was scary to have to leave the only home she had ever known, but Nereza
accepted her task. She took one last trip to that special wagon and
prepared for the role of a lifetime. She chose silver as the dominant color
this time, so she dyed her hair white with silver highlights, put on the
prettiest silver dress she could find and found the most comfortable sandals
available. She wanted to seem friendly and approachable, the silver would
make her shine in a crowd like a brilliant sapphire in the sun. It was
perfect for drawing attention.

And so, after saying her goodbyes she took her dolphin form and swam to the
western shores of Arkania to begin her work. This is the true tale of how
Nereza Inelis began her greatest role ever: Savior of the Village and
perhaps one of the greatest merchants the world had ever seen.

Writer: Nereza
Date Fri Mar 14 11:44:24 2025
To All ( Imm RP )
Subject The Choice of Black or Red

Nereza quietly sat on her favorite bench near the cloth vendors in
Arkane, her mind raced as she considered All that had transpired up until
now. She came here to save her people and that goal had been accomplished
years ago, but she could never return home. She had allowed herself to get
caught up in the politics of Arkania and accidentally earned herself a
crown. Her face had been seen by too many people and could no longer be
easily hidden, she would be a threat to the Village if she ever returned.
Instead, they had come to her.

Though she had been made Queen of Arkane she had never truly embraced the
role, in fact she had resented it to some degree. Yet another role she had
to play for the sake of her people, it had been so very long since she was
allowed to simply be herself. She sighed deeply and whispered to herself
"It is time for a change."

In one hand she held a spool of black thread, in other hand a spool of red
thread. It was time to cast aside the Merchant and truly become the Queen
she now was. She wasn't going to hide anymore, this time she would simply be
herself. A new look was needed, but the question was: Black or Red?

She tried to imagine what a queen should look like and her mind immediately
gravitated towards the kimonos she had seen nobles and royalty wear around
Shokono. Yes, that is what she needed and tabi to go with it, though they
would need to accommodate her webbed toes. A new shawl would be nice too
and this crown had to go, it was awkward and ugly she thought. She would
have a silver tiara made for her with a large sapphire centerpiece held up
by crashing waves.

Her hair needed to change too, she would dye it to her natural color and cut
down to a more manageable length, she hated having long hair and the braid
she currently had was a nightmare at times with its constant flopping about
as she moved around so this time she would go with straight hair. She would
then paint her nails and lips to match her attire, maybe add some eye liner
and eye shadow to complete the look. This was it she though, a clear vision
of her future self was in her minds eye now.

As she stared at the spools in her hand the choice was clear, the red thread
was tucked away in one of her bags and with the black spool in hand she
began the work of creating her new garments.

Nereza Inelis would be born anew, playing her own role from now on.

Writer: Kemo
Date Fri Mar 14 16:51:09 2025
To All ( Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Operation Nightborn: Kemo's First Mission

Kemo cloaked himself in darkness as he had thousands of times in the
past. Though this time, he was not seeking victims and sustenance. The
Warlord had given him a task of the utmost importance. Scout the Marauder's
fort, ensure you're not seen, and report your findings. Failure would
mean... Probably something bad, Kemo wasn't really paying attention because
he'd been buzzing around the room in excitement.

Enveloped by the darkness, Kemo silently flew around the walls little by
little, writing on some parchment as he did so. His face was stern, his
eyes focused on his mission. After an hour of scouting he examined his
notes and found mostly some child-like drawings of guards with overly large
heads stabbing each other and blood spraying everywhere.

Fuming mad, the creature that inhabited the pixie's body cursed aloud,
looked around annoyed at making such a racket, and grimaced looking at the
notes. Despite his best efforts, he had trouble with the body's high levels
of energy and inability to focus. Try as he might, he often got distracted.
Pixie's by nature are useful for luring in unsuspecting victims, but using
their body often leads to frustration when it comes to matters of
importance, like this mission.

Recalling what he had seen earlier, he wrote his observations. Satisfied,
he managed to enter the through the gates. Unfamiliar with the fort, Kemo
slipped around silently, observing the guards. Most were very attentive,
only occasionally chatting about things that didn't interest Kemo.

Disappointed in their excessive vigilance, he moved on. Noting the guards
were unconcerned with the beggars, even when they rested in the guard tower.
Mercenaries were frequently walking around and there were some rowdy bars
with drunken sailors and other miscreants. Kemo, with every ounce of focus
he could muster, managed to write it All down. Thankfully, he wasn't
tempted by the music or ale, as such things were of no use to him.
Normally, he would have preyed upon such people but he thought ahead and
dined on the blood of another before the mission.

Two unguarded wells caught Kemo's attention, but in his excitement, his
notes on them turned into a drawing of a geyser of blood gushing from a
hillside. Annoyed, but not daring to make noise within the fort, he made a
quick note of the wells and their location.

Searching All night, he could not find any secret passages, weaknesses in
the walls, or other notable issues to exploit. He drew a rough map, with
the guards in their various positions around the walls and towers. Though
he attempted to draw them in earnest, he couldn't help putting some violent
and bloody scenes on there for his own amusement. He also drew Tobryck
clubbing people to death where the tavern was located.

With his map complete and daylight approaching. Kemo went back to the
Dungeon and wrote on some fresh parchment. This time, they were purely
notes with no drawings. His original notes he stuffed into a small pack
where he kept his other drawings. He pushed the map and the new set of
notes on his scouting mission underneath the door to the Warlord's office.

Humming to himself in satisfaction, Kemo flexed his muscles and yelled,
"MISSION COMPLETE!" Used to his random outbursts, others within the Dungeon
ignored him. Kemo darted off to a dark, quiet part of the Dungeon where he
rested.

Writer: Sesa
Date Sat Mar 15 14:38:10 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, Toddlers an{pd Ti{paras

Life with Erindorial and Eridessa has grown into a beautiful blend of
chaos and wonder. Toddlerhood has unlocked a world of curiosity for them,
and every day is an adventure. Erindorials boldness keeps Sesa on her toes,
whether hes attempting to conquer the furniture like a Kyrol or leading an
exploration into drawers he knows are off-limits. Eridessa, on the other
hand, fills the room with creativity. She loves to bake alongside Sesa,
stirring flour and sugar with such concentration youd think shes preparing a
royal feast. Her imagination knows no bounds, just last eve, she served tea
using a lollipop as stirring spoon and crowned Skalpon with a saucer plate
as if was the finest of tiaras. Watching her delight in her world is
nothing short of magical.

Each day, their personalities shine brighter. Erindorials adventurous
spirit often sparks challenges, but his giggles when mishaps are turned into
games make it All worth it. Eridessa's joy in discovery, whether its
baking, drawing, or simply inventing stories, fills the world with laughter
and warmth. Of course, there are moments when their determination leads to
meltdowns, when Erindorials climbing is met with a firm no or when its time
to peel Eridessa away from her activates for a bath. Even in those moments,
Sesa handles them with patience and love, reminding herself that these
little struggles are part of their growth. And yes, a timeout here and
there has become part of the routine, but even then, Sesa watches them
learning and understanding boundaries, which makes it All worthwhile even if
it can really test the young womans patience at times.

The daily outings continue to be a highlight, not just for the twins but for
Sesa as well. They adore the fresh air, and I love planning adventures to
keep their boundless energy in check. Whether its a stroll through the
meadow or a playful scavenger hunt in the woods, these outings are filled
with laughter, discovery, and plenty of running. The Kyrol, always
watchful, ensures the twins safety, giving their parents peace of mind as
the twins explore their world.

As the twins begin to meet others in their familys circle, I find myself
learning and growing alongside them. Balancing my roleoffering support and
care while respecting boundarieshas shaped me in ways I hadnt anticipated.
Watching Erindorial and Eridessa thrive has been the most rewarding
experience, and in some ways, I feel as though Im growing up right alongside
them. Their laughter, their milestones, and even their mischief have become
reminders of how precious these fleeting moments are. Its a privilege to be
a part of their journey, and Im constantly amazed at how much theyve taught
me about patience, grace, and the beauty of seeing the world through fresh
eyes.

Writer: Sesa
Date Sat Mar 15 18:32:51 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Othorion Shalonesti All IMM RP Zandreya
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, The Tw{pins Firs{pt Sermon

Sesa stood before her mirror, the early afternoon light casting a soft
glow over the room. She carefully smoothed the delicate blue floral fabric
of her dress, her fingers lingering over the intricate patterns for a moment
before reaching for the golden bead. A gift from the Angel Raphiel, it was
not just an accessory but a token of divine grace and protection. She wove
it gently into one of her half-up locks, its glowing surface catching the
light like a tiny ember of warmth, the engraved symbols aglow . Her
sandals, matching the soft tones of her dress, were slipped on as the final
touch to her own look. But her morning was far from complete, her attention
quickly shifted to the energetic twins who giggled in their bath, splashing
water everywhere with joyous abandon. She washed their tiny toes and unruly
hair with care, her laughter mingling with theirs as they chattered on about
the excitement of the day ahead.

After the twins were dried and dressed in coordinating outfits, neat and
playful for the sermon, Sesa began packing a small, practical bag. Inside
went an assortment of snacks, quiet activities to keep their hands busy
during the sermon, and an extra set of clothes (just in case toddler chaos
ensued). She ensured that every detail was tended to, from their shoes to
the curls in their hair. As she gathered them up, their little hands
reaching for hers, she felt a swell of determination and love. Today was
more than just an outing it was an opportunity for the toddlers to hear
about Zandreya, Novitiate Othorion Sha'evlas first sermon. With a pair of
Kyrol flanking behind the trio headed off to support a dear friend.

Writer: Morsril
Date Sun Mar 16 09:16:54 2025
To All Bloodlust Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti Marauders Drakkara ( Storyline Imm RP )
Subject The Siege of Fort Ironclad: Operation Nightborn: Morsril's Movements I

The mostly-elven figure was perched comfortably on the ceiling of the
darkened den, deep beneath the Dungeon of Bloodlust. The floor was blood--
which is to say, the vampires of Fatale's clan were not well known for their
style, etiquette, cleanliness, or grooming standards, and so this place was
flooded with the blood and bones of victims, recent and past.

Though the pile of discarded victims neared the ceiling in some places, in
Morsril's favoured corner, if he closed his eyes he could almost envision
the manor home of his upbringing-- or his host's upbringing, at any rate,
though he found the two sets of memories and realities increasingly
difficult to separate.

He was pouring over Kemo's notes and maps, the first of their darkly dynamic
duo to make the scouting run of Fort Ironclad. They were thorough and had
obvious attention to detail. Morsril would find little, he was sure. But
he was also certain that no armor lacked its gap, be it chainmail or stone.

As dusk approached Arkania, he first impostered a peasant, the sort to go
unnoticed on an empty road or a crowded street, and made his way across the
southlands to the walls of Fort Ironclad. The stench carried for leagues,
and assaulted him as he approached.

Outside Fort Ironclad, he very nearly faltered, as he traversed a dark
crimson tar-like bubbling puddle of rancid blood, and he was attacked with a
sort of deep revulsion, an assault against the instincts of the vampire who
knows only destruction at the taste of such rot.

Passing within the walls, past this vile defilement, he immediately found
symbols of good and evil, bloody ritual symbols throbbing on the cobblestone
walkway that restored his calm and composure, All while a scarred expanse of
blazing light cast another form of fear and trepidation into his red eyes.
Drawing close the hood of his peasant garb, he quickly disapperaed into the
orderly corridors of the fort.

Surveying the scene, it was just as he imagined - Kemo's notes were quite
accurate. He pressed on further, beyond the inner corridor, across the
drawbridge to the heart of the fort. There, beyond an expansive lawn, rose
the seeming-impenetrable stone precipice of the Stronghold.

Out of view, Morsril dropped the pretence of the peasantry and melded with
the night, moving unseen in the terrible truth of his darkness. Floating
and flying All about the stronghold, he witnessed flawless guard rotations
upon the battlements, perfect masonry with no cracks or footholds. Taking
ethereal form he passed through a loop hole and found no happy surprise
weaknesses from the inside of the Stronghold, either, though he knew that
skilled or unnatural individuals might make similar passages as his, making
one-off assassination attempts possible.

And, with dismay, he found what he was looking for. Internal privy chambers
that must empty into a cesspit below. He returned outside, his thoughts
turned now to the moat he had crossed on the drawbridge, before approaching
the Stronghold.

A few moments later, still moving unseen in the waning dark of the late,
late night, he slipped from the drawbridge down into moat, and invoked the
magic of illusion again to take the form of a moatfish he could sense in the
vicinity. A terrible mistake which had him passing the sewage-filled
moatwater through his mouth and gills before he suppressed the ichthyoid
impulse to breathe, as he had long ago learned to do in his elven form.

Reliving the indignity of his own dungeon's vampire den, enhanced to the nth
degree here in this wastewater moat of Fort Ironclad, he found what he was
looking for. Outlets from the fort's internal cesspit were navigable, as
were the underground channels that allowed moatwater to drain downstream, to
prevent the moat overflowing from the constant inflow.

Writer: Morsril
Date Sun Mar 16 09:21:40 2025
To All Bloodlust Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti Marauders Drakkara ( Storyline Imm RP )
Subject The Siege of Fort Ironclad: Operation Nightborn: Morsril's Movements II

To whit, Morsril made his exit thus, and ended up in a wooded stream in
the lightly forested southlands of Arkania, where he washed the filth from
himself, and raced the coming dawn back to the darkness of the Dungeon.
There, he roughly sketched his discovery, a drawing more than a map which
showed the place where the underground channel could be found. Those who
could not imposter the form of a fish could not swim straight up this
channel - there would have to be work done to remove grating along the way,
and it would be necessary to generate a convincing illusion from the vantage
point of the Keep, for them not to be observed gathering at the outflow, for
while it was some distance from the keep, it was still within line of sight
of sentries.

All the same, these were challenges that could be overcome, and Morsril made
his report.

Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Mar 16 11:08:51 2025

Writer: Tamello
Date Sun Mar 16 11:29:47 2025

Writer: Sesa
Date Sun Mar 16 15:36:37 2025
To Calithie Triendal Tephysea Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, Vi{psiti{png Aunty Te{pphysea

The early morning sunlight seeped into the temporary guest area as Sesa
prepared for another bustling day. The twins, filled with boundless energy,
giggled as Sesa bathed them in a wooden tub, her soothing voice spinning
tales of mythical creatures to keep them entertained. After wrapping them
snugly in soft towels, she dressed them in hand-stitched tunics and tiny
slippers, her hands moving with gentle precision. She packed their travel
bag with care, folding soft cloth diapers, tucking in their favorite cloth
rabbit and carved wooden horse, adding a pouch of dried fruits, a loaf of
bread, and a set of well-loved story books. When Aunty Tephysea arrived,
her warm demeanor lighting the room, Sesa handed over the toddlers with
kisses on their foreheads and a fond farewell, watching them toddle off
toward a day of joyful adventures.

With the home was finally quiet, Sesa allowed herself a rare moment of
indulgence. She filled the tub with steaming water, adding sprigs of
lavender and vanilla oil, and let herself sink into the soothing warmth.
Feeling refreshed, she set to work restoring order to the play area, tidying
wooden blocks and small garments while humming a soft tune. By midday, Sesa
ventured to the lively village market, her wicker basket soon brimming with
fresh herbs, goats milk, sturdy cloth, and small hand-carved toys she knew
the twins would cherish. She treated herself to a honey-glazed pastry and a
steaming cup of herbal tea, enjoying the village's hum of life as she sat
beneath a blooming tree. Inspired by the artisan stalls, she selected an
embroidered shawl for herself and a set of tiny wooden animal carvings for
her little charges.

Returning home, Sesa spent the late afternoon in quiet serenity. She worked
on an enchanting project by the hearth, the rhythmic motion bringing her
peace. As the sun began its descent, she prepared a hearty stew with fresh
vegetables and warm bread, the home glowing with warmth and tranquility. By
the time the day came to a close, Sesa had not only rejuvenated her own
spirit but also prepared the house for the twins' return. With their new
toys waiting and everything in place, she sat by the hearth, imagining the
bright smiles and endless giggles that would fill the cottage once more.

Writer: Andreyna
Date Sun Mar 16 19:59:04 2025
To All shalonesti shalonesti_kingdom chaos marauders verminasia arkane new thalos fredrik othorion erebaal crelius zandreya malachive xenophon imm rp religion
Subject The Nightmare Continues

Sludge, sickeness, and roots infilitrated the Vallens everywhere. The
Queen-Priest's heart and soul were full of worry for the Vallens, the Holy
Lands that she had thought she had saved years ago from the influence of the
Warp.

Her days had been kept busy studying the sludge and the roots, reaching out
to others for thoughts and aid in surveying the lands of Algoron for other
places of infiltration. She had even been speaking with Fredrik, the new
High Lord of the Marauders in order to share information and even aid the
Fort in anyway that she could to keep the disease from spreading.

Zandreya still raged upon the Fort, Her storms and waves crashing into its
walls, but ridding the infiltration was always the primary goal. Andreyna
had no issue at All with helping the Marauders, even teaming up with them if
needed, to end the infiltration. However, should it come to it, the Vallens
had no issue in leveling the Marauders with their allies should Zandreya
deem it the only choice to be had.

Fredrik had so far been quite cordial to the elfqueen and she to him. He
stated that Skoden was now in hiding due to his fear that the Everchosen may
use him through the mark he had chosen to take. However, Fredrik still
blamed Barol and focused the faults upon the former High Lord rather than
accepting the blame that the Marauders and Skoden himself had made choices
as well.

Andreyna had suggested that Skoden perhaps seek the usage of the lights to
help heal the mark. The lights were clearly very powerful and sought out
the disease of the Warp to purify it, but what would happen to Skoden
himself, considering the mark infiltrated his very soul. He would have to
admit this. He would have to redeem himself in order to save his soul.
Andreyna did not believe the lights heal his soul without destroying it.

The Queen-Priest now squatted in front of the moon tree, examining the
miracle before her. Years ago, the tree was cursed by the Warp, bleeding
and writhing, oozing its diseased sap throughout the Vallens. Andreyna had
thoughts of using the tree to heal the Vallens. Zandreya would not be able
to help them, just as She had not been able to help in the past. The
Vallens was sick and therefore, Zandreya was sick and weak.

The moon tree was filled with the power of the moons and the Vallens was
surrounded by altars built to honor Zandreya and had effectively stopped the
lights from spreading. Could there be a way to siphon the power from the
tree and transfer them to the altars. The altars were of Zandreya's cycles-
Her elements and Her seasons. Zandreya's cycles needed to be restored in
the Vallens, but would need the help of another power source to do so.

Andreyna peered her eyes closely at the tree. The roots growing within the
Vallens did worry her. Where were they coming from? Was it the roots of
the Warp tree reaching the Vallens from Tropica? Was it roots within the
Vallens, infiltrated by the disease? Or was it the roots of the moontree
still sickened by the curse Erebaal had brought upon it.

The Cardinal did not feel entirely safe calling upon the power of the
moontree until she knew for certain.

Writer: Khalifa
Date Sun Mar 16 20:47:02 2025
To Raije All Imm Rp Derigimus Marauders
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part viii)

Khalifa le Kraken, Captain of the Pirates, Raije's Navy, ran through the
tunnel followed by ten men. The mud sucked at their boots, slowing them
down. The were All keenly aware of the squelching sound of whatever pursued
them getting closer. The stink was getting thicker, as the air flowed past
them, pushed by some unseen foe. Khalifa preferred that it remain unseen,
but didn't think they would be so lucky.

Khalifa was thankful for the many hours he spent training each week. His
men should have been in even better shape, but he could hear one- or was it
two of them- falling slowly behind, their breathing getting ragged.

"BLADES!", he shouted, "Scout up ahead, but stay close, be prepared to
return to report anything-", he was about to say unusual, but none of this
was exactly in the realm of the ordinary, "Anything new." The two
sprinted neatly up the tunnel and disappeared into the dim.

The two infantrymen in the rear kept falling further behind, and Khalifa knew
they would be lost. He turned his head, praying it wouldn't be his undoing,
and saw the two already thirty paces behind the pack. Then he saw it- the dim
yellow glow approaching from behind. He turned back forward and picked up the
pace a half a notch.

They continued like this, the Captain refusing to take another peek behind him
until he'd counted to 600. Ten minutes, give or take. He turned and took
another look, just in time to see the two slower men being absorbed into the
oozing mass of glowing yellow slime, perhaps fifty yards back. Their screams
were brief, as they were immediately swallowed up by the goop.

"MOVE!", he shouted, again.

(---To be Continued---)

Writer: Khalifa
Date Sun Mar 16 20:49:41 2025
To Raije All Imm Rp Derigimus Marauders
Subject (---Reconnaissance---) (part ix)

"MOVE!", he had shouted, again, but there was no moving any faster through
this muck. Khalifa realized he could hear sounds ahead of them. Fighting, he
recognized the sounds at once.

The tunnel had flattened out, he suddenly realized, and was steadily getting
wider. The squelching mass behind them made a belching sound and the entirety
of the goop-covered tunnel began to glow again, and brighter than before.

They spilled out into an immense cavern, still covered in the same glowing
slime. There were two men fighting each other up ahead, with Blades-issued
swords, but these men were both green, scaly beasts. Behind them, some sort
of circle of light loomed, swirling with a mottled combination of colors,
like boiling paint. He assumed it was some sort of portal, to gods knew
where.

He was still puzzling this out when some snarling beast tackled him from
behind. The surprised wizard shouted something unintelligible, and his
attacker shot six feet in the air, landing off to his side. Khalifa stared
as the beast and five others descended on him- six snarling yinn All dressed
in the uniform of the Highlord.

"It's a trick, you fools!", he shouted, snap-rolling to his left as they
lunged toward him. The glowing acidic goop that had filled the tunnel they
came from now emerged and seemed to liquify, running directly toward them.

Khalifa jumped to his feet and dove head first into the chaotic portal as the
snarling men were overcome. He fell.

(---To be Continued---)

Writer: Sesa
Date Mon Mar 17 10:19:20 2025
To Calithie Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Tathaln Faeryn Shalonesti All IMM RP
Subject From The Desk Of Nanny {oSunspear, Off To A{pcade{pmy

The morning sun peeked over the rooftops of New Thalos, casting soft,
golden light across the sandstone courtyard of Sesas home. The twins, full
of eager excitement, stood by the door with their travel satchels ready.
Sesa knelt beside them, gently brushing stray curls from their faces as she
tucked a folded letter into each bag. These letters were small tokens of
her heart, filled with words of love and encouragement she hoped would
comfort them when the homesickness set in. She held them close for a long
moment, her mind swirling with memories of sleepless nights, laughter-filled
days, and the endless joy of watching them grow. Their parents, standing
nearby, spoke softly of their gratitude, reminding Sesa of the deep trust
they had placed in her since the twins first days. Sesa watched the twins
and their parents walk off, her hand rising in a quiet goodbye as her heart
whispered promises to hold them close, no matter how far they went.

After the family disappeared from view, Sesa lingered at the garden gate,
adjusting to the stillness left behind. It wasnt long before she noticed
Tathaln, waiting just outside the courtyard. They had met a few weeks ago
there was a warmth to his presence that made her smile. He gave a small
wave, stepping closer as Sesa joined him. Together, they wandered through
the shaded streets, the noise of the bustling market softening into the
distance. Their conversation flowed easily, filled with curiosity and
discovery as they traded stories of their studies in magic. Tathaln spoke
of his interest in enchantments, while Sesa described the intricate wards
she had been experimenting with. It was uncharted territory, this tentative
connection, and Sesa found herself stealing glances at his animated
expressions, wondering what paths this budding friendship might lead them
down.

As they reached a quiet alcove under the shade of a flowering date palm,
Tathaln asked about her family with an earnestness that caught her off
guard. Sesa hesitated, her mind flicking to thoughts of her tightly knit
circle. There was something endearing in the way Tathaln asked genuine, yet
unassuming and she felt a flicker of trust that surprised her. It wasnt
love, not yet, but it was something new and tender, like the first sprout of
a seed buried deep in the sand. The thought brought a shy smile to her lips
as they continued their walk, their voices blending into the rhythm of the
city.

Writer: Calithie
Date Mon Mar 17 10:29:33 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Triendal Erindorial Eridessa Faeryn IMM RP
Subject The Shalonost Twins and The Academy

Calithie and Triendal stood at the grand gates of the Academy, her heart
heavy with both pride and sorrow. Her twin children, Erindorial and
Eridessa, stood beside their parents, their eyes wide with wonder at the
towering spires and shimmering banners of the most prestigious school in the
realm. It had been her dream to see them receive an education worthy of
their lineage, yet the thought of parting with them, even for a time, was a
weight upon her soul.

"Remember what I have taught you," Calithie said, kneeling to meet their
gazes. "Strength is not just in the sword or the spell but in wisdom and
kindness. Learn well, and make me proud."

Erindorial, ever the bold one, grinned. "We will, Mother. I promise."

Eridessa, more reserved, clutched her mother's hand a moment longer. "Will
you visit?"

Calithie smiled, brushing a strand of silver hair from her daughter's face.
"Whenever I can. And when I cannot, trust that I am always with you."

The Academy's head mistress, a tall elf with robes of midnight blue,
approached with a courteous bow of her head. "Speaker Calithie, it is time.
Your children are about to embark on a great journey. Fear not, for they
will be in the best hands."

Calithie exhaled, straightening herself. She had fought battles, negotiated
with kings, and faced creatures of shadow, but nothing had prepared her for
this, letting go.

As the twins took their first steps through the grand gates, they turned one
last time, waving. Calithie held her ground, standing proud, even as her
heart ached. This was their destiny, and she would see them flourish.

Calithie turned to her husband, lifting her head to gaze into Triendal's
eyes. Her eyes threatening to spill tears.

Triendal touched Calithie's cheek and smiled. "Do not worry so, they will
be just fine."

Writer: Harelagin
Date Mon Mar 17 13:48:41 2025
To All Nereza Altacas Arkane Slayers Raije ( Imm RP Storyline )
Subject Hunting in the dark: tenebrous tunnels I

You never notice the background scents of home until you've been away.
This wasn't exactly home, but Harelagin was back in the earthen tunnels of
Arkania, and the rich, earthy aroma of loamy clay assaulted her with
memories and longing of home.

She blinked back the sentiments that assailed her and retreated into the
stoicism that was taught alongside ninjato, the overworld martial sphere
that had elevated her own natural talents.

Beneath the melange of scents she hadn't known she'd missed, was another--
hard to define and impossible to miss, a sickly sweet wrongness distinct
from rot that might unhelpfully be labeled corruption, or defilement.
Chaos.

Her exact location was a closely guarded secret known to her Overlord, and
certain of Queen Nereza's planners for deconfliction purposes, but a map
would show her somewhere in the marches between Arkane and the Marauders.
Somewhere below, more properly. Somewhere, regrettably, Arkane-side of the
line held by the Twilight Alliance with their siege camps above.

Issuing from the dark ahead, a wet giggle gurgled towards her. She placed
her hand on the hilt of her sword and crept forward, and from the dark
emerged the hunched form of a youth, or kender, but there was something
wrong with the silhouette - she'd been briefed to expect otherworldly
outgrowths, wild facsimiles of life that seethed and pulsed with unguided
ambition of simply being more.

As she approached, she could see this wasn't quite it, either. The figure
was bent, crouched, its hunched back to her but with its kenderish face
turned towards her. She saw the pulsing tumorous outgrowths as she'd been
warned, but everywhere were fungal growths, fruiting mushrooms releasing
fine clouds of spores, mycellial networks like roots criss-crossing the
figure, binding it into its crouch.

It giggled again, the wet gurgles crystal clear now in their growing
proximity, and tensed to lunge at Harelagin. Simultaneously, a faint red
glow illuminated Harelagin from her midsection as she twisted the hilt of
her flaming shamshir to release it from its sheath.

She halted, however, as the warped kender failed to launch, bound in place
instead by the fungal growths which seemed to pulse with its own ethereal
glow wherever it resisted the movements of its captive. Distracted by this
sight, Harelagin failed to sense the approach of another corrupted kender,
which lunged now from her left.

Her motion was practiced, drilled first with wood, then steel, then
unsharpened arcanium, then All the various configuration of sword. Slow is
smooth and smooth is fast, and her motion was smooth as glass as she
withdrew the flaming shamshir from its sheath in a plasmid arc that ended
with her torchlike weapon held up, ahead of her, not quite touching the
tunnel roof.

At her feet, two cauterized halves of the abomination still twitched and
struggled to move towards her, seemingly unaware of its new disambulatory
state of being. Her thoughts rapidly caught up with her reactions, and her
heart rate spiked even as the immediate danger seemed to have passed. After
a few deep breaths of processing, she examined the two chaos critters before
her, and noted that her attacker seemed to be in earlier stages of fungal
infestation.

Was this Zandreya's influence? Dragoth's? She didn't know who had the
stronger claim over fungus. She served Raije, she mused, but in this
struggle for existence and survival, she thought All three might find common
cause.

In an abundance of caution, she destroyed the brains of both creatures and
sheathed her shamshir, leaving the fungus to finish the process it had
begun. She crept deeper into the dark.

Writer: Carmyne
Date Mon Mar 17 20:11:05 2025
To Nordmaar All (Imm RP Tarabella Kwainin)
Subject The Fine Art of Healing

With only her light piercing through the blanket of darkness, Carmyne
traipsed along the winding path through the thick brush of the Blackwood.
The path laid bare, frequented by both wanderers and wildlife alike. A
frigid breeze rustled through the towering trees and she gripped the edge of
her hood to keep it firmly in place upon her head.

Nightmares roused her once again, as they had each night since the Magebane
curse began. Now that it was over, those nightly terrors remained, ghostly
remnants of horror and torture.

It was difficult to explain, the way the curse had eaten at her, taken
pieces of her and destroyed them, and sorely wounded what was left behind.
After the last of the trio was defeated, she put on a brave face almost
immediately, pretending All could return to normal as simple as that.

Physically, she was fine. She was alive and healthy, in love and loved.
She had family and friends looking out for her in every respect. The people
of Nordmaar repeatedly spoke of their relief that she had survived such
darkness, and Carmyne shared the sentiment.

In the recesses of her mind, however, deep within, where no one could see,
she remained terrorized. Hyperaware, she noticed everything around her,
which was a good thing. She had trouble falling asleep and couldn't sleep
the night through, which was a bad thing. Often, she got up and paced,
worked, or found something to occupy her time. And sometimes, Carmyne went
for a walk that brought her here.

Her heartbeat anxiously skittered sideways as she neared the site where
she'd lost and left some of herself behind.

She hadn't been fully conscious, but she remembered glimpses of being
dragged through the forest, the scrape of rock and fallen limbs like a
million blades against her skin. She fully recalled waking to the bonfire
and the chanting, a full panic that would change her forever.

Pushing aside some thick foliage, she entered the small clearing. It had
rained and snowed since the event, making the area look so normal and
peaceful, as if an absolute nightmare hadn't occurred here.

The ground was no longer disturbed by battle. The charred wood of what
remained of the bonfire lay dormant. An owl nearby hooted, it's large eyes
momentarily shining in the reflection of her light.

Malcomn doubled her guard to ensure her safety, and her guardians were no
fools. They knew of her sleepless nights and her habits. So, while it
might seem as if she were alone out here, she wasn't. Protective and
watchful, two figures stood quietly in the dark brush close by.

They never asked questions, seeming to empathize with her need to see it now
that she was on the other side of the curse. She needed to see that it was
over, that the area was just an ordinary and familiar place deep within the
Blackwood through which she'd traveled so often she knew it as well as she
knew anything.

She deftly touched the forever scarred claw marks at her shoulder,
remembering the vicious swipe. Her wrists held reminders of the rough ropes
used to bind her, markings she now wore with pride.

"Where ye be, mae love? " her husband's voice reached her.

He worried about her, especially recently. So she quickly replied with an
evasive, "On me way back. "

Before leaving, she cast a light spell, a piece of magic left in the place
where they'd stolen her power. This wasn't the first time she'd been here
to do this, and it wouldn't be the last as she gradually worked through a
wound meant to hurt her home and the people within, a wound she now worked
to heal internally.

"Ye dinnae win, " she whispered to no one. "I live. Nordmaar thrives. Ye
dinnae win. "

After a moment, she drew a deep, cleansing breath and turned toward the two
shadows in the brush. Her guards respectfully dipped their heads, and she
returned the gesture before offering a gracious smile for their infinite
patience.

"Back tae Nordmaar, Queen Carmyne? " they asked, and Carmyne nodded in
agreement, adding, "Let's gae 'ome. "

Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Mar 17 22:34:39 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Path to Ruin: Transcendence

The blistering light slashed through the chamber like a sanctified blade.
It offered its torment to the cult incessantly - a blinding agony that bled
forth in weeping torrents from what were perceived as anathema. It gleamed
through the unblessed halls, tendrils of arrogant luminescence writhing with
zealous purpose, seeking to scour, to purify, to impose its imperious will
upon All it touched. Yet, for All its hunger, it recoiled, unable to breach
the presence that stood against it.

There, at the heart of the malignant citadel, stood the great tree of cursed
fates - a blasphemous thing of rigid sinew and gnarled flesh. It existed as
an abominable monument, a fell reminder that the death of gods was
meaningless before the eternal paradox of the Warp. Its roots twisted
through the very bones of the fortress, drinking deep of the corruption that
sustained it, its form a defiance to the order of creation itself.

For years now, these two metaphysical forces had waged their silent war
within the depths of the citadel. One an emissary of pitiless, torrid
divinity, the other a reflection of entropy's perilous grasp. Neither could
claim true dominion, neither could be wholly undone. The conflict had
become a constant, stagnant dance, an unbroken deadlock of primordial will.

The knight stood witness to this unending struggle, his thoughts ever
solicitous of the implications that lay before him. To see the divine hand
outstretched, yet shackled. To behold the luminous wrath of the heavens
held at bay by a mere echo of the cursed tree's unfathomable blight. This
was to glimpse the terrible truth of its existence. That there were things
even the gods could not unmake.

His reverie was shattered by the loathsome intrusion of a presence most
foul, a thing whose essence corroded even these accursed halls. The motes
of light that hung in the stagnant air quivered, recoiling as though in
silent trauma at the Warpspeaker's arrival. Why Crelius had been compelled
to return at this precise moment, when so many undertakings were already in
motion, could be nothing less than a strike upon the ever-shifting cords
fate.

The knight felt this omen keenly, a dreadful certainty blooming in his
subconscious. The entity that lurked within his mind, that adversarial
passenger, surged forth with unprecedented ferocity, assaulting his form
with convulsions so violent that his muscles threatened to tear asunder.
His vision blurred, streaked with rivulets of crimson seeping from his
nostrils and eyes. Words failed him, his breath reduced to a ragged,
gasping thing, as the Warpspeaker joined the onslaught. Its psychic
tentacles snaked through the cracks of his tormented psyche, sinking their
barbed talons into the depths of his mind with cruel delight.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the wretched thing withdrew, vanishing
into the corridors of the stronghold, its malign purpose known only to the
madness that bore it. Gritting his teeth against the searing distress that
still afflicted his limbs, the knight seized upon this small reprieve,
wrenching himself from the citadel's confines. Staggering, half-blind and
wracked with torment, he fled - seeking the one place that still offered him
sanctuary. The Reliquary. There, in the lingering embrace of
half-forgotten sanctity, lay the last fragile tether that anchored him to
reason, the lone bastion against the ever present pull of the Warp.

Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Mar 17 22:39:58 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Path to Ruin: Transcendence (continued)

He stumbled through the lower corridors of the tower in a fugue of
exhaustion, his movement driven less by will than by the dim inertia of
recollection. The world swam at the edges of his vision, reduced to a
shifting haze of cracked stone and lurking shadow. The air thickened as he
descended, oppressive and cloying, as though he waded through the pressing
weight of forgotten epochs. The deeper he went, the more the darkness
pooled in the corners of his mind, whispering in the tongues of perished
gods.

When at last he reached the threshold of the Reliquary, his knees buckled,
and he collapsed, the breath shuddering from his lungs. A tremor passed
through him, though whether from weariness or some more ineffable burden, he
did not know. He knelt there in silence, head bowed, feeling the stagnant
hush of the cavern settle over him. It was an old thing, this place. Old
in the way that bones are old, their marrow long since hollowed, yet still
bearing the imprint of what once flowed through them.

This had been a place of power once. A black rubicon before the test of the
devout, a conduit to something endless and unequivocal, an appendage of his
fallen lord's domain. But now it was little more than a desiccated husk, a
remnant gnawed at by the slow, unceasing erosion of millennia. And yet,
even in its dwindling, it was still sanctuary. Here, beneath the teeming
world above, he could feel, if only faintly, the echo of what had been. The
memory of power, clinging like a vestigial limb to a body long since
abandoned.

His relief was temporary, splintered by the return of that wretched presence
- its arrival an affront so brazen, that for a moment, Crelius could only
reel in disbelief. There it stood, a quivering mass of mutating filth, its
gibbering eyes twitching in obscene mockery, planted upon what he had long
held as sacred ground. The impossibility of it cut at his sanity. How
could this putrescent horror trespass even here, within the last sanctuary
of the old dominion?

A strangled laugh almost escaped his lips as his free hand drifted
instinctively toward the jeweled dragonbone hilt at his side, a futile
gesture. But the Warpspeaker had not come for battle, nor for parley. It
had no need. Its will surged forth in an instant, invisible but undeniable,
as its psychic nails stabbed into his mind with the precision of a virtuosic
torturer.

The assault struck in harmony with the other entity that dwelled within him,
a thing half-dormant yet ever tearing at the edges of his inner-self. The
convergence was immediate, overwhelming - a tidal collision of warring
forces within the fragile vessel of his flesh. He convulsed, limbs seizing
in violent rebellion, his faculties no longer his own, his consciousness
sinking beneath the crushing pressure of their discordant will.

Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Mar 17 22:48:48 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Path to Ruin: Transcendence (continued)

It began as a searing spasm, an unbearable raking of fiery embers through
the hollows of his throat, as though some stygian furnace had been stoked
within his very cells. His flesh, in aggressive upheaval, blistering from
within, warped under an abhorrent force that sought to remake him in its own
appalling image.

Then came the rupture. A paroxysm beyond mortal suffering captured him as
something took root within the cavity of his being - some repugnant,
burgeoning aberration that clawed its way into existence. Blood, thick and
arterial, gouted from his mouth in glistening torrents, washing over the
ancient scales of his armor and pooling in viscous ribbons across the
blackened lava stone. Yet this was no simple hemorrhage of the physique, no
wound of corpus and tendon alone. Something else was emerging.

A hardened, plant-like growth, unnatural and pulsating with malicious
sentience, tore through the ruined canal of his throat, slithering forth
like the throes of a thing unborn. A tangle of fibrous abomination, its
texture somewhere between corrupted bark and cadaverous tissue, roiled
outward - an extension, an excretion of the accursed tree itself. The thing
twisted around his throat in a symbiotic embrace, its questing limbs
reaching upward toward the base of his skull.

Then, with a slow and dreadful inevitability, its lesser vestiges burrowed
into his skin, writhing blindly beneath the derma like seeking worms. They
coiled through the tatters of his nerves, threading themselves through
decayed vessels and absconded veins. Spreading like the roots of some
otherworldly parasite, they wove their embrace around his skull, their grasp
tightening as they reached his temples, his forehead, and the edges of his
jaw - a warped crown of grasping filaments.

Amidst the ruinous agony that bedeviled his form, a fleeting chime of
lucidity tolled within the crumbling corridors of his mind - a final
reverberation of a voice since silenced, the words of the Sarsen monk whose
life he had cursed upon the desecrated flagstone of the Serpent's Eye.

"Hubris will be your downfall, Atennim." The ghostly utterance coiled
through his unraveling consciousness, a whisper carried upon the ethereal,
just as the onslaught of visions overtook him.

His psyche shattered - flung beyond the pale of sane comprehension, cast
adrift across the infinite gulfs of warring realities. He beheld the
ill-fated eight-pointed sigil, wreathed in enervating fire, seared into the
corpse-flesh of a million dying worlds. He gazed upon heaving oceans of
etheric malevolence, tides of luminous madness where primeval and amorphous
horrors turned their cyclopean regard upon him. He was seen.

And within him, where two fractured souls had long waged their unabating
battle for dominance, the profane force that now rived his body and spirit
bound them together in impossible synthesis. As metals smelted into a
singular alloy, so too were they fused - an entity of eldritch atrocity,
steeped in the malefic essence of the Warp, forged in the crucible of
heretical becoming.

*///**\\\*

Writer: Crelius
Date Mon Mar 17 22:51:35 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject The Path to Ruin: Transcendence (end)

****************************************************

Beyond the tower, the cacophony of jungle life fell into a still silence.
The swamp that sprawled at its foundations began to seethe and roil, its
stagnant waters boiling with corruption. The towering fronds and gnarled
vines, once vibrant with primal life, withered into blackened husks, their
decay creeping outward like a plague upon the land.

Then, the earth trembled. A tremor, deep and titanic, rippled through the
mire, setting the ancient stones of the tower to groan and shift. From the
diseased depths of the bog, monstrous tendrils burst forth - colossal,
pulsing masses of meat and sodden earth, erupting in a cyclonic fury. They
surged upward, coiling about the tower's base, wrapping up its length like
the limbs of some prehistoric leviathan.

The foul appendages constricted, their odious embrace swallowing the tower
within a heaving mass of mortified plant matter and rotting sinew. And
then, with a final, wrenching convulsion, the nightmare form dragged its
prize into the mire. The tower, as storied as it was ancient, was wrested
from existence, vanished beneath the churning mass. Leaving nothing behind
but a blighted stain upon Algoron - a wound that would fester long after
memory of its ruin had faded.

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Mar 18 17:49:31 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Mar 18 18:10:35 2025

Writer: Roseleyn
Date Tue Mar 18 18:27:09 2025

Writer: Fredrik
Date Tue Mar 18 20:48:45 2025
To All Marauders Thistleigh ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Dwarf Fortress - Miasma and Blood

Fredrik reviewed the walls and side passages with satisfaction as he descended
the central stairwell with Chief Engineer Bannok. Construction was progressing
at a good pace, and Fredrik imagined the great garrison that could be stored
here, underground, and what other hidden work might be achieved below. If they
could endure long enough to see those plans come to fruition, at least.

Fredrik was explaining the foul stench that had appeared across Ironclad, and
a few days later the thick blood which began bubbing up from the ground. All
indications were that some warp corruption was rising beneath them, and he
feared that the excavations may have been impacted: 'So, has the ground been
bleeding at all? Are you continuing to dig deeper, Chief?' he finished.

'Aye' the dwarf spat 'might as well call this place the Bloodstone Keep. Gods,
ah've never had a build where the walls are slick with blood BEFORE the battle
has even arrived. Bit of stink down deep, so we stopped digging for now. Still
no connection to any tunnel networks, Highlord.'

With some luck, their renewed activity below ground had stirred the foul things
below to take some action against the Marauders. Otherwise, the timing was mere
coincidence and they were spreading their forces right before an attack at the
safest conceivable point in their kingdom. Still, Fredrik had resolved not to
let the threat of hostility deter him any longer.

'Well done. No further digging down until we know where we can connect to the
tunnels. Focus on building out the upper levels, and smoothing some of these
walls may be good for morale. Short shifts though, don't breath the stink for
too long, and be wary of the blood. Lastly, send a group of laborers with an
engineer back to Ironclad. They will have orders when they arrive. I am off
to inspect our progress in the north. Maybe then we will get some direction.'

Fredrik filled his pipe with a fragrant tobacco as he returned to the surface,
seeking to envelope himself in the smoke. The foul stench poisoning the air
was getting harder to escape from...

Writer: Fredrik
Date Tue Mar 18 21:46:55 2025
To All Marauders ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Filling the Cracks

Fredrik stared at the entrance to the tunnel with a growing sense of unease and
disappointment. The mysterious door within Ironclad which no one knew how to
open, and All investigations had yielded no means to open the door. Perhaps
some secret passed down from Highlord to Highlord, but a chain of information
broken at some point, maybe even before Mezlak's time. For years, a riddle they
tried to solve from time to time. Until the warnings of an enemy and a spy had
revealed that others knew about the Marauder's secret door, and that something
had been placed inside...

And now, desperation had resulted in brute force to finally solve the riddle.
The bleak world still held a few allies. But the answer after so much buildup
was hardly worth the wait. An escape tunnel, the rumors had been true. A short
and simple tunnel, one way, that led outside. Worse yet, some foul ooze of the
Warp was now covering the tunnel, giving rise to a terrible stink within Fort
Ironclad. Nothing but a liability. One already exploited by the Warp somehow,
and by that exploitation revealing itself to All Ironclad's enemies.

As the tunnel offered almost zero utility to the Marauders within Ironclad, and
the ways that it could be used to undermine the Fort, what to do seemed clear.
Fredrik was giving orders to an officer who would direct an influx of workers
being requested from their nearby excavations. The tunnel needed to be sealed
for now and denied to their enemies. Perhaps it was fortune that the Warp had
exposed this crack before the great battle.

'Dirt and stone, use the refuse which has been excavated elsewhere. Start from
the end of the tunnel and fill backwards, as completely as you can, until you
get to the ladder here at the entrance. Dirt only for this final bit, we will
want to clear it out again when our enemies cannot simply fly over our walls
and walk about the Fort at whim.' he said, glancing daggers at nearby guards.
'Take care not to touch the ooze. Be discreet, keep reinforcements nearby.'

Fredrik narrowly avoided stepping in a pile of blood as he turned to leave.
It was of little use, for there was so much blood and so many soldiers moving
around that most of the hallways and corridors were turning red with blood
caking everyone's boots. And the stench....ever on the wind now. He sighed...

Writer: Kraxul
Date Tue Mar 18 22:54:04 2025
To Thaxanos Wargar ( All Croatoan Imm Rp)
Subject {nComing Home

"Git up! GIT... UP!" The voice was accompanied by a savage bashing
with a broomstick. Kraxul pried one eye open, and saw a dirty floor, a
couple dozen table legs, and a thick pair of ankles.

The bar wench poked him in the back with the broomstick again, and
repeated the only two words he'd heard from her. "Ah'm awake, hold
yer damn horses, would ye?"

He groaned and attempted to stand, but something in his back protested,
and he settled for rolling over onto it. He peered up at the bar wench,
a sour little gnome with as much hair sprouting from her ears as was on
her head. "Wot's tha rush?"

"This is a tavern, not an inn. It's morning, and your tab is due."
Kraxul attempted to recall what he'd put on his tab and found that he
didn't remember where he was or even what day it was. "Ah've got ta
slow down," he muttered under his breath.

He dragged himself mostly upright, and leaned on the short end of the bar.
Pulling out a heavy coinpurse, he raised an eyebrow at the wench, who
slammed a heavy binder on the bar. Having blacked out, and with no true
idea of how long he'd been drinking here, he was unable to refute the
charges. He dropped the coinpurse on the bar and staggered to the door,
turning around before he reached it. "Where tha hell am I anyway?"

"Ganth is just a bit up the road to yer left, Nordmaar to the right."
Kraxul nodded, and turned back around to head home. Home... was that
Thaxanos, or Wargar? He thought for a few minutes, scratched his rear,
and headed home to Thaxanos.

Writer: Draios
Date Wed Mar 19 10:45:54 2025

Writer: Erindor
Date Thu Mar 20 01:42:02 2025
To All Calithie Triendal Eridessa
Subject Erindorial Ira: Lessons of Ullfe Dorei

The halls of the Ullfe Dorei, the Academy for Advanced Sword and Magic,
shimmered with arcane energy, their grand spires stretching toward the
silver-lit sky. Within these sacred walls, young elves trained in sword-
play, spellcraft, and the artistry of their people. Among them was one,
Erindor Ira, a young boy of noble Shalonost blood, known for his quiet
diligence and sharp mind.

Though still young, Erindor possessed a natural affinity for the arcane.
Magic came to him with ease, his incantations were steady, his control
precise, and his understanding of celestial energies far beyond his years.
His instructors often marveled at his ability to grasp complex spellwork,
the way he wove lunar magics into protective barriers and minor illusions.
For one so young, his talent was undeniable.

But where the arcane arts flourished in his hands, the sword did not.

His movements were slow, his grip uncertain. No matter how many hours he
spent practicing forms, his strikes lacked the fluid grace that came so
naturally to others. His peers excelled in steel, their blades dancing in
perfect harmony. Erindor, however, was often left struggling to parry even
the simplest strikes.

Sparring days were the hardest. Against Syravel, a cousin trained from
childhood, Erindor rarely lasted more than a few exchanges. The sting of
wooden training blades and bruised pride had become familiar. He was never
reckless, never a sore loser, but frustration lingered in his chest after
every defeat.

One evening, after yet another difficult session, Master Vaelith found
him sitting alone in the academys garden, a book of celestial runes open
in his lap.

"You're too hard no yourself, Young Lord." the instructor said,
settling beside him.

Erindor kept his gaze on the pages. "I train. I study. But it is not
enough."

Vaelith chuckled. "Enough for what? To best those whose lives are bound
to the blade? That is not your path, Young Lord."

The boy frowned. "But it should be."

The master shook his head. "Your path is your own. Your magic is strong
not yet great, but growing. And more than that, you have a mind and a
patience rare for your age." He gestured to the book in Erindors hands.
"Others may win their battles with steel, but in time, you will shape the
world with wisdom and spellwork. Let that be enough."

Erindor sat quietly for a long moment, watching the moonlight dance along
the silvered runes on the page. He was still young, still learning. There
was time yet to grow.

When he finally looked up, there was no frustration in his eyes, only quiet
determination.

Writer: Eridessa
Date Thu Mar 20 01:54:25 2025
To All Calithie Triendal Erindor
Subject Eridessa Rilyan: Lessons of Ullfe Dorei

The grand towers of Ullfe Dorei, the Academy for Advanced Sword and
Magic, loomed over Eridessa and her twin brother, Erindor, as they
approached the stone gates. Sunlight reflected off the silver filigree
woven through the archway, casting swirling patterns over the pathway. It
was a place of prestige, where noble children and those of extraordinary
talent came to master the arts of war and magic.

They had bid their parents goodbye, their mother looking near tears and made
their way inside, to where everything changed. Eridessa had dreamed of this
moment for years, but she did not expect the frustration that would come
with it.

"Young Lady Eridessa, " the instructor at the entrance announced, bowing
slightly as he read from a parchment, "and Young Lord Erindor, welcome to
Ullfe Dorei. " Eridessa felt like her eye twitched. Young Lady. It had
been the first thing out of his mouth. She loathed the title, with All its
implications. It meant that she was expected to take up delicate spells,
embroidery-like runes, and the healing arts while the boys trained in war.

She had other plans.

As the days passed, she threw herself into the martial studies, much to the
dismay of her teachers. While the other noble girls practiced graceful
spellcasting with wands and whispered incantations, Eridessa was in the
sparring grounds, gripping a staff that felt more natural in her hands than
a quill ever had.

"Young Lady Eridessa, " Instructor Vael sighed as he approached her on the
practice field one afternoon. "Surely you would be more suited to the
school of enchantment or divination? "

She spun the staff once before striking at the training dummy's side,
sending it spinning wildly on its post. "Why? Because I'm a girl? "

Vael cleared his throat. "Because you are a noble young lady.... And
because we have traditions. "

"And I have talent, " she countered quietly, not meaning to be heard.

Her twin, Erindor, was the very image of her, a mirror in every physical
way, from their sharp violet-lavender eyes to their moonlight hair. But
where Eridessa was fire and movement, Erindor was calm calculation, his
hands always glowing with arcane energy.

While she trained in combat, he mastered magic effortlessly, bending raw
mana to his will with a flick of his wrist. Professors whispered that he
was one of the most gifted sorcerers the school had seen in a generation.
Unlike the noble-born boys in their shining armor, Erindor didn't care for
the blade. It was too crude, too slow, when a well-placed spell could end a
fight before it began. He was measured where Eridessa was reckless, his
words flowed freely, and her own were more typically reserved, but that only
made them stronger together, two halves of the same coin.

Between her combat lessons, Eridessa secretly studied herbs with the
academy's apothecary. Unlike the gentle flower arrangements the noble girls
pressed into books, she wanted to know which plants could heal and which
could poison. It was a skill often overlooked in war, but to her, it was
just as vital as wielding a weapon.

Their instructors were exasperated by the twins, but neither cared.

One day, they would see that true strength was not in a name, but in choice.
And twins had already made theirs.

Writer: Tamello
Date Thu Mar 20 21:12:48 2025

Writer: Lothorian
Date Thu Mar 20 23:07:14 2025

Writer: Lothorian
Date Thu Mar 20 23:10:51 2025

Writer: Amex
Date Fri Mar 21 10:49:39 2025
To All Verminasia (IMM DRAKKARA RP)
Subject Life is full of choices.

Amex treaded softly across the cold, stone floor of the ancient temple,
his breath visible in the dim light that filtered through towering
stained-glass windows. The temple of the Dark Mother, Drakkara, loomed
around him, its walls carved with shadows of serpents and symbols of the
forbidden. An eerie quiet pervaded the sanctuary, broken only by the faint
rustle of his cloak. At the center stood the altar, an obsidian monolith
adorned with darkened offerings left by those who had come before. Amex
paused, staring at the flickering black flame atop the altar, his heart
trembling as he approached. He sank to his knees, the weight of his dormant
faith pressing heavily on his shoulders.

"O Revered Mother of Darkness, Eternal Drakkara," he began, his voice low
and reverent, echoing softly. Each word carried his penitence, his renewed
fervor. He poured out his soul, weaving his apology for his long slumber
and pledging his life anew to spreading Her truth. As he spoke, the
flickering flame grew stronger, the shadows dancing around him in rhythm
with his words. The weight lifted from his chest as he promised to remind
the world of the Dark Mothers powernot of fear, but of awe and reverence for
Her mysterious embrace. His prayer complete, Amex rose, his resolve
unshaken. Leaving behind the lingering warmth of the sanctuary, he turned
and exited the temple.

The path home to Verminasia was long, yet his stride was firm. The chill of
the night crept around him, but the renewed fire in his soul guided his way.
Amex knew that the road ahead would be one of trials, but with the Dark
Mother's shadows wrapped around him, he no longer walked in uncertainty.
The world would remember Drakkara, and he would ensure Her call echoed
through the lands once more.

Writer: Draios
Date Fri Mar 21 11:23:34 2025

Writer: Piknim
Date Fri Mar 21 13:54:12 2025
To All Verminasia Arkane Shalonesti_Kingdom Marauders Tamello ( storyline imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject The War Below - Vexation

"And how, pray tell, did a bunch of Marauders slip through our
circumvallation of Fort Ironclad?" Piknim demanded with a promise of
punishment creeping into her tone. The Witch-Queen pursed her lips into an
exaggerated scowl. "Somebody is to blame for this vexation!"

"A system of tunnels left by the sand-wurm or dug by engineers, perhaps. We
cannot discount the possibility that some force elements were operating
beyond the walls beforehand, such as Mruz's ogre battalion, and eluded
discovery by alliance scouts," a human tactician posited adroitly.
"Regardless, Marauders made no effort to hide a series of new camps in their
northern territory - here, here, and here - erected to safeguard and supply
operations beneath the surface."

"Push them back! Surround the camps one by one and crush them!" Piknim
ordered in reply, striking the flat of her hand upon the table with a rattle
and toppling of wooden figurines. She composed herself before affecting a
wide smile. "I want whomever survives the tunnels to receive a warm
Verminasian welcome."

"By your command, my Queen. I suggest night assaults by Shalonesti infantry
or Verminasian goblins. They fight well in the dark. Alliance cavalry will
screen reinforcements from the south and sever supply lines."

A uniformed courier slipped through the door, handing off a parcel of
dispatches before leaving as discreetly as he entered. "Word from Captain
Tamello," an aide declared, spreading open a parchment scroll, "His
exploration of the underground proceeds apace." Murmurs of approval filled
the room in response.

Piknim tapped a sharp fingernail to her chin thoughtfully. "Ironclad is a
filthy mess. Leadership largely absent, but for Fred and Khal. Morale's
gotta be in baaad shape. Here, in the northern territory, they're
overextended and outnumbered," she mused aloud, walking paired fingertips
across the map of Arkania. "We hold every advantage. Let's attack Ironclad
sooner than later, shall we? Wouldn't want the defenders to grow bored!"

"A most benevolent judgment, my Queen."

In the subterannean reaches of Arkania, a solitary Lepori continued his Long
Patrol in search of clues to the machinations of Chaos on an existential
path to discovering the Darkness within himself.

Upon the distant horizon, flashes of light from naval blockade cannonfire
mingled with the crash of siege projectiles as the gears of war turned
inexorably, intent on grinding Fort Ironclad into dust.

All the while, Zandreya's storm wailed and whorled about the tainted edifice
of Raije, a vortex of vengeance for nature defiled.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Fri Mar 21 16:21:16 2025

Writer: Amex
Date Sat Mar 22 02:15:28 2025
To All Verminasia (IMM DRAKKARA RP)
Subject A man with a purpose.

The dim, flickering light of a single oil lamp barely illuminated the
sprawling vaults of Verminasia. Shadows danced along the ancient stone
walls, their movements eerie and alive in the cavernous silence. Amex sat
hunched over a sturdy oak table, his calloused hands expertly working a
needle through the coarse sharkskin leather. Each stitch of the saddle he
crafted was meticulous, imbued with his unwavering devotion to Drakkara, the
Mother and Goddess of Darkness.

"Great Drakkara," Amex murmured, his voice low and reverent, almost
swallowed by the gloom. "In your infinite wisdom, you have seen fit to
guide me here, to this sacred place, where darkness cradles the soul and
blinds the eyes of the unworthy. For this, I am forever grateful."

The needle in his hand gleamed faintly as he drew it through the tough
leather, the waxed thread pulling taut with a soft hiss. He paused,
pressing the material firmly into place before continuing his prayer. "You
have blessed me with purpose and strength, oh Mother of Shadows. You have
shielded me from the empty, blinding light that seeks to consume the world.
You have given me the skill to craft, to create, to serve your will."

Writer: Erindor
Date Sat Mar 22 21:03:43 2025
To All Calithie Triendal Eridessa
Subject Erindorial Ira: Progress of Ullfe Dorei

The moon hung high over Ullfe Dorei, casting silver light upon the yard.
Erindor Ira, of house Shalonost stood alone, blade in hand, breath steady
and focused. For months, he had struggled, his swordplay lacking the grace
of his peers. Each duel had left him frustrated, his talent in magic a poor
substitute.

But he was not one to accept failure, his mind was sharp, his will unshaken.
If the sword alone eluded him, then he would forge a path that was his own.
Magic coursed through his veins, strong for his age, yet still growing.
He would not abandon steelhe would wield both, as one.

He started small, reinforcing movements with subtle bursts of arcane might.
A whisper of magic steadied his stance, a flicker quickened his strikes.
His blade, once sluggish, now moved with precision guided by careful spellwork.
Day after day, he refined his technique, blending arcane with discipline.

Months passed, and his duels grew longer, his failures, fewer.
No longer was he the struggling noble child, always a step behind.
His instructors took notice, watching as he carved his own path.
Even Syravel, his longtime rival, began to acknowledge his growth.

One evening, beneath the silver glow of the academys lanterns, they met again.
Syravel struck first, his blade moving swift, his stance practiced and sure.
Erindor countered, his movements fluid, guided by steel and spell alike.
Sparks flew as magic flickered along his blade, his steps no longer hesitant.

Their blades clashed in a fierce exchange, neither yielding ground.
Then, with a final surge of arcane-fueled speed, Erindor turned the tide.
His sword twisted in a perfect counter, disarming Syravel in a single motion.
Silence followed, broken only by their heavy breaths in the crisp night air.

Syravel stared at him, then gave a slow nod of respect. Erindor stood tall,
no longer a boy struggling with the sword. At last, after months of effort,
he had found his waysteel and magic as one.

Writer: Sesa
Date Sun Mar 23 18:33:51 2025

Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Mar 24 01:37:28 2025
To All Calithie Eridessa Triendal
Subject Changes in the Mirror

The evening air was still, the soft glow of lanterns casting warm light.
Erindor sat across from Eridessa, watching her as she braided her hair.
For as long as he could remember, she had been his reflection, his twin.
Their features had always mirrored one another, two halves of the same whole.

Yet now, he saw the changes, subtle but undeniable. The softness of her face,
the way her form had begun to shift, curves where once there were none.
She carried herself differently too, a quiet confidence settling in her form.
Erindor's gaze lingered, realization settling over him like a gentle tide.

Had her hands always been so delicate compared to his own? So slender?
And himself, were his shoulders always this broad, his frame less willowy?
The tunic that once fit loosely now pulled at his arms, his stance felt firmer.
The shift was gradual, but now, sitting here, he could finally see it.

Eridessa caught his lingering stare and tilted her head, a knowing smirk.
"Something on my face, Rin?"

He hesitated, then exhaled softly. "For as long as I can remember, Des, when
I saw you, I saw me, though it seems you've changed."

She raised a brow, amused. "And you haven't?"

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I suppose I have."

For years, they had been near reflections. Now, they were becoming themselves.

Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 12:23:24 2025

Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 14:22:43 2025

Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 14:40:53 2025

Writer: Austyn
Date Mon Mar 24 18:23:35 2025

Writer: Ghaoshen'ite
Date Wed Mar 26 09:13:42 2025
To Fredrik ( Marauders Kwainin All )
Subject The Iron comes to Court.

The doors of the Crystal Court groaned open, not from rust or disrepair,
but from reverence--a warning that something weighty approached.

Fredrik, High Lord of the Marauders, stepped through the archway and into a
sanctum unlike any he had known. No hall of kings nor war council chamber
compared to this. The moment he crossed the threshold, the silence pressed
in, not oppressive but expectant. It was as if even sound had to seek
permission to speak here.

He walked alone, his boots echoing across a floor of flawless, enchanted
ice. It reflected not only his form but the architecture above: a vaulted
ceiling glimmering with stained glass depictions of ancient myths and
history: creation, balance, ruin, redemption. The sigil of Kwainin, a pair
of scales encircled by the sun and moon, glowed steadily at the far north
wall, casting golden and silver hues down upon the courtroom. Emerald light
danced alongside it, making the frozen walls shimmer with spectral breath.

Massive mirrors and rune-carved crystals flanked the chamber, mounted in
articulated arms of ancient design. They pivoted slightly as he passed,
bending light with precision to spotlight the center aisle. Every step
Fredrik took felt marked, measured. To his left: a jet-black slab of
obsidian, reflecting his silhouette like a shadow unbound. Accusation.
Punishment. To his right: a pristine table of white Carrara marble. Truth.
Clarity. Between them stood a dark lectern of the same black glass, pulsing
with silent magic.

And beyond that...

She waited.

The Judges Perch rose like a mountain of crystalline judgment, carved from a
single block of flawless ice, its surface alive with veins of glowing
arcanium. Frost-laced stairs led up to its platform vast and regal where
Ghaoshen'ite, the Jurist of Kwainin, rested in her full, prismatic glory.

Her scales shimmered like living stained glass, refracting the multicolored
light of the chamber into countless, mesmerizing halos. Her wings, tucked
with grace and power, glimmered with light caught in endless motion. And
her eyes, those molten opals watched him not with hostility, but with the
weight of eternity.

Fredrik stopped before the lectern. His armor, heavy with history, clicked
faintly as he moved. The Court's stillness made every motion resonate like
a declaration.

He looked up at the ancient Crystal Dragon upon her judge's bench.

"You have requested a history of Ironclad," he said, his voice resonating
with the lectern's subtle magic, reaching every bench and alcove of the
grand court.

The light shifted. Mirrors adjusted. The sigil of Kwainin glowed brighter.
Ghaoshen'ite regarded him in silence. Her crystalline crests caught the dim
light and refracted it into radiant arcs above her.

Then, with a voice like cold bells and shifting glaciers, she spoke:

"Yes. Tell me everything--even the things you do not think are important."

Writer: Erindor
Date Wed Mar 26 13:53:44 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Calithie Triendal Eridessa
Subject Erindorial Ira: Secret Night training at Ullfe Dorei

The moon hung high over Ullfe Dorei, its pale light spilling over the glade.
Erindor moved with practiced silence, placing a pillow where he would lay,
placing Eridessa's hand atop before slipping past the watchful Kyorl guard.
The night belonged to him alone, these stolen hours of solitude and growth.

He reached the secluded clearing, the air humming with latent magic.
Drawing a breath, he summoned a flicker of arcane energy to his fingertips.
With a sharp motion, he sent a bolt of force toward a distant marker.
It struck true, shattering the wooden post with a quiet, satisfying crack.

But offense alone was never enough. He turned, raising his shield, bracing.
An unseen force of his own creation lashed back at him, a conjured test.
He pivoted swiftly, his movements fluid, elegant, like a dancer in the dark.
Each dodge, a blend of instinct and precision, left him just out of harm's
reach.

His sword followed, tracing arcs of silver light, parrying unseen blows.
Sweat beaded at his brow, but his mind was clear, his form steady.
Every step, every motion, wove together the grace of his lineage and his will.

In the hush of the night, beneath the watchful stars, he honed his craft.
A nobles son, an arcanist, a swordsman, walking the path he carved alone.

Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:22:35 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Part I )

---Capital City, Shalonesti Kingdom---

The owl flew through the verdant Vallenwood forest with only its night
vision and the luminescent currents to guide him. Landing on a branch it
surveyed the gates of Shalonesti. Eyes like two pale lunar orbs reflected
the hallowed gleam from below. The gates to the elven capitol, beautiful in
their weave and ancient in design, were closed as a group of Sha'falas stood
like silent sentinels before it. Taking flight once more, the owl soared
across the city to perch upon the Temple of Zandreya, the heart of the
ancient elven homeland. There it twisted its head this way and that to get
a full view of the Vallenwood tree, the Moon Tree as it was now called.
However, only a few years ago, this had been the site of something far more
twisted and demented. A tree of pain and anguish, born of elven flesh, had
been risen from the sanctified ground below. This was not the owl's final
destination however.

Grey wings with black stripes extended as the owl jumped and dived down
flying southeast towards the river. Starlight reflected off the
Shalinastra's placid waters. Yet the banks of this river were anything but
peaceful. More Sha'falas guards, dressed in the finest chainmail, patrolled
the eastern reaches of the river. Like ants moving in and out of the nest,
the guards were moving towards and from the roar of the waterfall. Coasting
on the currents of wind, the owl's form darted between rock and water into
the black depths of the cavern behind the river's curtain. There he was
greeted with a multitude of elvish figures wearing the symbols of different
houses.

Finding purchase on a rocky ledge, the owl watched the figures talking and
gesturing at a hole in the cavern floor. A noxious stench greeted the owl's
nostrils unlike anything it knew from its own home. Many of the figures
wore wrappings around their faces and a few were coming out of the entrance
to the tunnels below. Whatever was underneath Shalonesti certainly had
their attention. His mission complete, the owl again took flight out of the
cavern and into the night air. Gathering altitude, he cleared the ancient
forest canopy and headed south out of Shalonesti lands and into a secluded
valley near the mountain kingdom of Thaxanos.

Landing on the ground, the form of the owl twisted and cracked as the
feathers fell and the form of a goblin took shape in its place. Shaking off
the transformation, the green skinned figure mumbled and gestured calling
forth a portal in the space before him. His ragged form, a mix of animal
skins, bones, and other totems walked through the magical gate which closed
leaving a shimmering ripple in the air. The silence of the forest was
broken for just a moment by an owls hoot and the only witnesses to this
occurrence were the animals of the night.

---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---

Upon a throne of granite stone, covered in totemic offerings, reclined the
large form of the King of Darkonin. Drogan, Chieftain of the Bear Tribe,
looked down upon the goblin totemist with coal black eyes that burned with a
reddish hue like cooling embers. His white hair, cropped close to his head,
was clearly visible under the simple onyx circlet he wore as his crown. The
symbol of his Tribe, a bears paw, was marked in red ink upon his bare chest.
At his side, Heartpiercer, leaned upon the throne in easy reach of the
shaman king. His mood seemed neutral as Grok presented himself with respect
before his leader.

It is as the Witch Queen said, me King. Something bad is under the city.
Black ichor with an unnatural smell, something no goblin would make. Me not
know butsomething wrong in elven lands. Spirits of nature not balanced.
Them have many altars but not know why. Rivers of Light not seem to stop
the stench. That All me see.

Drogan nodded his head and said, 'Yus do gud, Grok of Raven Tribe. Me will
think on this. Tell no ones of yus flight or what yus see. Can go now,
Raven Spirit guide.'

Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:25:49 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Part II )

---Northern Desert, New Thalos---

The coyote scampered across the desert sands, its muzzle sniffing at
something unseen upon the wind. A metallic oily smell came to its senses
from over the next dune. As it crested the hill, a vision of carnage came
into view. Though old and picked over by vultures, the battle scene was
large. Bleached white bones with tatters of Thalosian uniforms laid next to
bloated bodies that not even the carrion feeders would pick at. The rank
smell coming from the Warplings was unmistakable. The coyote gave the
bodies a wide berth while taking in All she could. This task over, she
loped southwards to the city proper.

The Ishtar river was the lifeblood of the Althainian continent. Its rushing
waters ran from the far western fields and forests of the Haon Dor into the
arid desert kingdom of New Thalos where it emptied into the Arsataw Yaa
ocean. In ages past it had been a major water way but with the advent of
magical travel, it saw little use. Yet one function still remained, it
cleared the Thalosian sewers of refuse. The coyote padded along the western
riverbank towards the sewer entrance. An ancient grate secured the entrance
but a rusted bit iron was worn away enough for a small animal to enter.
Clearing the hole, the coyote found herself at the beginning of a network of
pipes and canals.

It did not take her long to pick up the odd smell from the twisting and
turning pipes of waste water. It started as a slick oily sheen and slowly
turned into a sludge and muck. It looked like viscous mud and smelled not
of the natural world. She watched as a rat ran along the opposite side, its
whiskers twitching. Catching sight of the coyote, it squeaked and in its
fear, lost its footing and fell into the sludge. The ooze acted like
quicksand and slowly the rat was consumed and vanished from view. A small
bubble rose up and popped in response. The coyote had seen enough here and
traced her trail back to the entrance.

The silent padding of the coyote in the sand changed into the sandaled feet
of a half ogress dressed in hides. The guttural sound of chanting could be
heard from under her cowl and then she vanished leaving only footprints in
the desert sand.

---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---

The half ogress kneeled before the throne of Darkonin and spoke, Hail my
chieftain. I have returned from the desert and found signs of Chaos. As
you commanded, I went to the northern dunes and did find some battle. I
then made my way to the sewers as instructed and found some sludge. While
near the city, I heard tell of more evidence in the sandworm tunnels but I
did not inspect them. The Thalosians are caught between many different
warring factions of divinity mlord. I sense the animal and land spirits
have left as the divine spirits have claimed more. Only the eldest nature
spirits remain.

Drogan appraised the totemist, her Bear paw tribal tattoo was placed clear
for All to see upon her throat. She was young but sought her heritage with
the zeal few could match. He would watch her progress.

The King grunted with approval and spoke in the ancient ogre tongue, I am
pleased in your work, Totemist Agluna. Your rise in the tribe is noted as
is your dedication to the Bear spirit. This task has ended but a new one
begins. As a tribeswoman of Bear, you went on your Spiritquest to find the
great Spirit. Now as totemist, you must become one with the Bear. Seek the
cavern on the southwest coast of Icewall. Master the Spirit within you.
Rage of Bear steel you, Agluna.

In the same ancient tongue a response was given from underneath the bearskin
cowl, Great Bear protect you, my King and Agluna left the audience chamber.

Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:28:51 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of {nDarkonin ( Part III )

---Southern Arkania---

A great moose lumbered through the green fields of the valley. Its majestic
antlers swayed from side to side as it walked through the tall grass. Soon
it reached a cavern entrance and stepped into the darkness within. There,
bubbling like a tar pit, was a pool of black ichor. Noxious fumes emanated
from it as it swirled and stewed. The moose stepped backwards as some of
the sludge splattered in front of it. Returning to the sunlit field, its
form condensed and shifted into that of an owl and flew off southward.

Winds and lightning crashed in a cacophony of sound that echoed around Fort
Ironclad making flying difficult for the owl. Swooping down it landed on a
parapet to survey the fort itself. Chaos ritual markings warred with
luminous streaks across the walls and paving stones of the Fort. From this
vantage point, the owl could see the warp beasts strung up as examples in
the courtyard below. The Marauders seemed to still be at war with some of
the Chaos beasts from the Everwar. On the flight over, the owl had noticed
bodies from the two factions strewn across the landscape like broken dolls.

Unfortunately for the owl, the winds and storms were too much for him to get
a closer inspection and so with a hoot, he flew off south towards the coast.
As he came upon the shoreline, he decided to keep his owl form and soar over
the blue waters on his way to Icewall. Spouts of water from whales sprayed
into the air. The fins of dolphins carved their way through the waves. The
owl continued as the frigid winds of Icewall welcomed him and Mount Darkonin
came into view.

---Throne Room, Mount Darkonin---

An owl flew into the forge of Darkonin where Drogan stood smelting bars of
arcanium. Each bar was stamped with the seal of the Mountain kingdom and
stacked to the side. The king worked alone, enjoying the toil of his trade.
Changing form, the owl became an orcish shaman with alabaster skin who knelt
behind the Ogre chieftain.

"Mountain King, I have returned from my scouting with a report on Arkania.
"

Drogan took a rag from the floor and wiped the sweat from his brow. No
circlet crowned him, no mantle of the Bear was upon his shoulders, the king
stood plainly in front of the orc.

"Speak Ugluk of Wolf, what have yus senses found on Arkania? " asked the
king.

"As you said, there was a pool of something within a cavern north of the
Fort. It came from far below the earth. The spirit of the land seemed
poisoned by it. I then flew to Ironclad and witnessed the war between the
sigils of Chaos and the veins of light from Nadrik. Corpses of Warbeasts
were strung up as examples within the Fort. However I could not get close
to inspect the bodies. Zandreyas winds howled as loudly as the Wolf Spirit.
It was too dangerous and I had to leave. Im sorry, my King. " and the
shaman bowed his head. As he did, his wolf tooth necklace hung in the air.

"All am gud. This is known to mes and now you confirm. Me have All the
pieces and eyes where me needed them. Yus serve well. Bear protect yus.
"

"For the Pack, Majesty. " replied the orc as he departed.

Writer: Drogan
Date Wed Mar 26 14:33:51 2025
To All Crelius
Subject The Eyes of{n Darkonin ( Finale )

---Resting Room, Mount Darkonin---

A circle of shaman sat chanting on various animal furs within the room of
rest. Their guttural cries echoed high up into the chamber. Seated upon
their heads were various animal furs, feathers, or other totems representing
their various tribes. Smoke and incense swirled in the air making it
difficult to see. In the middle of the circle sat the shaman king, his eyes
closed with focused intent. He was painted in various icons; the black
wings of Raven, the white fur of Wolf, the yellow eyes of Leopard, the red
forked tongue of Snake, and his own Bear paw tattoo upon his chest. He felt
the unusual sensation of his spirit detaching from his body. While
practiced in the art, this was no usual spiritwalk. This was the Rite of
Seeing.

His astral form drifted above him, not the image of an ogre but of an ogres
large form with a bears head and claws. Fur covered his body and flaming
red eyes rested in translucent sockets. The spirit of Drogan rose up
through the mountain itself until he was soaring above its highest peak.
There, floating like a spectral entity, he focused his will upon the isle of
Tropica. With the utmost concentration, he willed his essence across
leagues of oceans to the beaches of that sun drenched land, then further
inland to the Warps stronghold.

Before the entrance to the Warp, in the material world, a large spire made
of flesh, bone, and blood rises into the Tropican sky. An oily plume of
smoke hovers over their stronghold at All times like an infernal furnace.
However within the Spirit Realm, the image that presented itself to Drogan
was far more grotesque and tortured. What rites the Warplings had done,
what spells they wrought, created a Soul Anchor.

There before him, were the twisted and agonized souls of every cultist who
had ever died. Their forms merged together into an amalgamation of their
former selves. The apparitions were spread out in the form of a tree
including tortured faces as its roots. A black sheen rose from them and
coalesced into ichor that seeped into the soil. Here then was the truth of
it all. For while the souls of other worshipers go on to heaven, hells, or
the in between, these souls remain to fuel the engine of Chaos works. Just
as Malachive died and his latent power was used by priests and cultists,
what knowledge they had gained was turned upon their very own. So now every
Malachive follower, alive or dead, served a greater purpose.

Drogan watched the eldritch horror too intently and had not realized strands
of the aura were making their way towards him. Sensing his astral form, the
tendrils lashed out and wrapped themselves around his wrists. Slowly they
pulled him towards the multitude of maws that opened and closed in silent
anguish. Fear crept into the Kings mind and he couldnt wrench himself free.
He could only watch in horror as the mouths closed in. Yet there, within
this mass, he saw the face of an orc, then a goblin, then an ogre. His
people, his people were trapped.

Long ago the rage had awakened in his soul. The Bear Spirit could be many
things but one of its greatest aspects was its anger. This is why he had
followed Mencius, this is why he now followed Fatale. So upon seeing the
suffering of his people, the All consuming power of Hate welled up within
him. An astral roar resounded from his muzzle and his teeth tore through
the spectral bindings. The black tendrils dissipated into oily ash and once
free his large bear claws tore at the tendrils that sought to bind his legs
and chest.

Drogans rage however did not dull his wisdom, he could not fight such an
entity here in its home plane. He had to retreat but it was a bitter one.
His form took flight from Tropica as black tendrils reached far into the air
behind him but they could not extend across oceans. The astral projection
returned to the Mountain and dissolved through the rock and stone back into
the flesh and blood of a furious King.

Writer: Asreel
Date Wed Mar 26 22:09:05 2025
To All Abaddon ( IMM RP Xenophon Fatale )
Subject The Macabre of Mystery

Asreel sat back as he looked at the boards placed in front of him. He
connected the strings into the various pieces of information. He began
writing notes in his journal that put words to the graphic.

In his notebook is scribbled with a bullet list:

1. Caustus wanted to replace the Queens. 2. Blood Wars and bringing to
heel the support. 3. Queen poisoned by Slayers. 4. Queens taken away by
the Eldercoven. 5. The Grail to restore the Queen of her affliction.

Asreel Paced back and forth through his room. He reflected to himself, "Why
does it matter that the Queen is poisoned and Caustus protect her?"

Asreel couldn't shake the sequence of events. He strolled the empty streets
of Abaddon. He found solace in this. He found that the roads possessed
memories and wisdom.

"His Will"

This was a constant whisper in his head.

"Patience"

This was the word that sat with Asreel. He sought the Tenet of Patience.

"Why now Caustus?"

Asreel spoke with perplexity and understanding. Caustus waited for the
disruption in the kingdom. He waited for the drama to unfold and like that,
the Macabre of the events of Abaddon unfolded. Leaders, Citizens, Wars,
Blood spilled becomes a great distraction.

"What is next?"

Asreel spoke with gleeful uncertainty as he pondered the edge of the
unknown. He pondered his role in this Act. He... He... He wondered to
venture outside the realm of the mundane into the realm of possibility.
Outside of the box thinking. Of course to Asreel falling in line was
typical. Caustus can identify typical. Can he identify unpredictable?

Asreel closed his book, grinned, to his next part of the Macabre.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Wed Mar 26 22:43:19 2025

Writer: Zecnys
Date Wed Mar 26 22:54:45 2025

Writer: Sidorinath
Date Thu Mar 27 13:45:53 2025
To All ( Immortal RP Drakkara Piknim Maccus )
Subject In Contemplation of Jerks

Sidorinath sat at the edge of Ezrianne's orchard in Sacnoth, long,
draconic fingers idly tracing a pattern in the dirt. The apple trees were
beginning to bloom, petals of white and pink trembling in the wind. The
scent of earth, pollen, and fermenting fruit from last seasons remnants hung
thick in the air. It was a perfect day for quiet contemplation - if only
her thoughts were so peaceful.

What made mortal beings so vicious in their judgment of others? Sidorinath
had seen how quickly a whisper could turn into a brand upon someone's soul,
how the weight of the past could be used as a weapon, long after someone had
changed.

What made them so eager to tear others apart with nasty, scathing chatter?
Was it boredom? Was it a desperate need to feel superior, to seem taller
than they were in their own life, that made them sink their teeth into
someone else's name and gnaw it to the bone? They always spoke with such
certainty when they hissed their insults, as if mistakes were carved into
stone, as if no one could rise from their own ruin. As if a man were only
the sum of his worst moments, stretched out like a hide on the butcher's
block for eternity, for All to sneer at.

Some people, she supposed, needed villains to blame, and once they found
one, they clung to it, feeding the fire until nothing but ash remained.
What would it take for those ridiculed to carve a new name for themselves in
the eyes of the condemning, to become unmarred by the missteps of their
past?

Or was such redemption impossible, and every step forward always destined to
be tethered to the weight of what came before?

The aggressors forgot, however, to give credit for the battles fought in
silence, the nights spent wrestling demons that left no visible scars. They
forgot the weight of regret, the way it settled in the bones, heavier than
any blade. They forgot that change was earned in sweat and blood of battle,
at the hands of countless hours spent with mentors, in the process of
discovering who one aspired to become, and also in the realization of who
one did not want to be. They dismissed the way those they mocked stood
their ground when no one watched, the decisions made in private, away from
prying eyes.

Sidorinath had watched those who spoke the right words in gossip falter when
the world tested them, while those rejected by the masses proved truer than
Light-smothered saints to those who truly knew them. She had seen those who
wore the mask of perfection crumble, while those who endured mockery rose
stronger, rebuilding themselves better than before.

Were those underdogs not the very ones worth allying with?

Mortals may judge, but the Dark Gods were the only jury she cared about.
They did not weigh a man by the whispers of lesser creatures, or in the
ever-shifting opinions of mortals. They did not tally up the scorn of the
faithless or the jeering of the weak. They looked at will. Strength. The
capacity for self-reflection and growth, the tenacity to claw forward when
every road was blocked: even when the general public was not privvy to the
effort.

If that was enough for the gods of the Infinite Night, then why should it
not be enough for her? Mortals were fickle and foolish, but the Firstborn
had long memories. Grace was given and reserved for those who sought to
improve themselves within Drakkara and her sons.

Writer: Andreyna
Date Sat Mar 29 21:17:18 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Chaos Xenophon Cayenna Zandreya Malachive Imm RP Religion
Subject The Nightmare Must End

The Vallens had suffered twice now under the influence of the Warp's
disease. Elves had been sickened, some even losing their lives, the
Mother's blessings were unable to cleanse the lands for She was unable to
enter the Vallens, driven away by the diseased ichor that now flowed freely
from the very earth within Her Holy Lands.

They had to come up with a solution, the Vallens had to be restored and
cleansed once and for All from the remnants of the Warp's disease and curse.
Andreyna worked closely with druids, clerics, and magi of the Vallens trying
to come up with a solution. They would need not only to rely on their faith
and love for the Mother, but they would also need to power to overcome the
Warp.

Altars had been built All about Shalonesti which kept the lights at bay.
These altars were built in honor of the Mother's cycles- Her seasons and Her
elements. Perhaps empowering them further would aid in restoring the Mother
to the Vallens. How could they do so?

Andreyna thought back to the first time they battled the Warp. The Vallens
had called upon the power of the moons to aid them in destroying, or at
least crippling the curse within the lands, perhaps they could do so again.
The moon tree was filled with the power of the moons, its very leaves bore
the influence of the arcane power within.

The hope was to harness that power and send it to the altars to further
enhance the Mother's cycles across the Vallens. The question was how to do
so? Andreyna's mind kept going to crystals. Crystals were known to reflect
light in different directions. Could they reflect magic as well?

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Mar 30 20:18:47 2025
To All Marauders Crelius Piknim Andreyna Nereza ( Imm RP Kwainin )
Subject The Test

Fredrik tried to maintain his composure as he walked from The Dominion, that
place of All his nightmares, back to his quarters. He was damp with sweat and
felt as though he were floating through Ironclad, his mind in a daze from the
conversation. He had not been expecting much, and as such was wholly unprepared
for the intensity of the assault upon his mind. It was as if his enemies knew
precisely what strings to tug at to unravel him, to topple his weakened psyche
after years of stress. And now he was so spun around, reaching out to touch the
walls of Ironclad as he walked, that he could not even answer a simple question.

Had he passed the test? Did it even matter? Was he damned merely for exposure
to the question? Who would be the judge?

He waved the guards posted outside his room away dismissively as he kicked off
his bloody boots and left them outside. Blood and stench everywhere in the Fort
these days, and he had thought things couldn't get worse. Walking into the room
he could already feel the profane revelations, lies? of the test burrowing into
his mind, seeds of doubt that found fertile soil and were quickly taking root.

Heart racing, he scrawled a few quick missives thinking that he should do some
thing about what he had learned, wondering if anything could be done. He pushed
a wardrobe in front of the door, feeling countless eyes boring down on him from
the depths and the heavens, and squeezed himself under the bed. As if cradling
a small ember against the howling darkness descending upon his world, Fredrik
began to whisper the tenets of Kwainin to himself until exhaustion took him.

'In balance, you must look further than your senses to surpass illusion and
trickery....'

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sun Mar 30 22:30:04 2025

Writer: Ryzzynth
Date Mon Mar 31 00:00:30 2025
To All imm rp
Subject Entertaining the tyrant

Ryzzynth coiled his enormous body around the walls of the church, its
scales glistening like wet earth in the flickering torchlight. The air was
thick with the stench of smoke, sweat, and blood as the dragon's eyes
gleamed with anticipation.

In the center of the church, a group of combatants stood, their faces set
with determination. They were a motley crew, each with their own unique
skills and strengths. There were humans, elves, dwarves, and even a few
ogres, All gathered together for one purpose, to entertain the dragon. They
knew that the only way to appease Ryzzynth was to fight, to spill blood and
to sacrifice their own limbs and lives for the beast's amusement.

As the combat began, the church erupted into chaos. Swords clashed, axes
bit deep into flesh, and the sound of screams and grunts filled the air.
The dragon watched with rapt attention, its eyes gleaming with joy as the
fighters clashed and fell. The battle was brutal and merciless, with no
quarter asked or given. Limbs were severed, bodies were broken, and lives
were lost, but still the fighters continued to clash, driven by their desire
to entertain the dragon and claim the reward that had been promised to the
victor.

As the fight wore on, the number of combatants dwindled, until only a few
remained. Among them was an ogre, its massive body and powerful muscles
making it a formidable opponent. The ogre fought with reckless abandon, its
club smashing into its opponents with deadly precision. One by one, the
other fighters fell, until the ogre stood alone, its chest heaving with
exhaustion.

Ryzzynth laughed with joy, its thunderous roar echoing off the walls of the
church. The ogre, victorious, stood tall, its eyes fixed on the dragon as
it awaited its reward. And then, with a wave of its claw, the dragon
summoned a servant, who brought forth a chest filled with 10 jeweled eggs.
The ogre's eyes gleamed with delight as it claimed its prize, the eggs
clutched tightly in its massive fist.

As the ogre departed, the dragon's laughter faded, and the church fell
silent once more. The bodies of the fallen fighters lay scattered on the
floor, a grim reminder of the brutal contest that had taken place. Ryzzynth
sat upright and opened his maw, scooping up the corpses and swallowing them
whole. A perfect feast.

Writer: Erindor
Date Mon Mar 31 02:44:32 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Cayenna IMM RP
Subject Insult to Injury - Abandoned Twice

Erindor grips the missive, his fingers trembling, knuckles whitening.
His name, his birthright, Shalonost, forever beyond his grasp. Not stolen,
not stripped away, but refused. A royal, abandoned. Forsaken. The words
claw into his chest, sharp as daggers, twisting deeper with every breath.

His breath stutters, and his mind is wrenched back into memories long
buried. His mother, distant as the moon, standing beneath the ancient
boughs. Pale, serene, untouchable. Her eyes held him for but a moment,
then turned away.

He remembers reaching for her, tiny fingers grasping at emptiness. A
promise unspoken, broken before it ever took shape. The hollow ache left
behind, a wound never tended. How many letters had he sent? Countless,
each inked with longing, each one swallowed by silence, discarded as if
nothing more than an afterthought.

The seasons passed, hope dwindling with each unanswered missive. He buried
his sorrow in the discipline of Ullfe Dorei, where magic and steel became
his sole inheritance. Yet no spell, no blade, could carve a path back to
her.

Now, the final answer lay in his hands, cold and unyielding. The inked
decree, as merciless as fate itself, denied him his name, his place, his
blood. Not unworthy, not dishonored, simply unwanted. The last fragile
ember of hope was snuffed out with a mere stroke of a pen.

His breath quivers. The past crashes into the present, and his vision
blurs. Tears spill onto the parchment, smearing the words yet never erasing
them.

The Vallenwoods, his home, could not claim him. His lineage would never be
his own. Not because he failed, not because he strayed, but because they
had long decided he was nothing to them.

The ink smears beneath his grip, but the decree remains unchanged. Erindor
clenches the missive, shoulders taut, his body a vessel of silent agony.
Abandoned by blood, cast aside by legacy, what was left of him now?

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 13:33:29 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 13:42:12 2025

Writer: Maccus
Date Tue Apr 1 21:20:36 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 1 21:36:54 2025
To All ( Drakkara RP )
Subject Survival and Disappointment

The torchlight flickered against the stone walls of the underground
arena, casting long shadows as Ezrianne rolled her shoulders. The bruises
blooming beneath her tunic ached in ways that should probably worry her,
send her scrambling for a cleric, but she ignored them.

She had gone looking for another no-holds-barred, ruthless brawl, and she
she had found one. With her mood as foul as it was, rage had been nine
tenths of her staying power this evening, leading to yet another win. When
things got tough, Ezrianne Scott doubled down. She had the relentlessness
of a cornered beast and a spirit that refused to be broken. It was as true
in every other aspect of her life as it was standing in front of a being
three times her size and begging him to hit her with his best. Literally.

The taste of the Orc's foul blood still lingered on her lips where he'd
smashed her face into the floor and ground it with his huge, open palm. She
would scrub her teeth later, but for now, she just wanted to breathe. She
climbed the steps out of the pit, her limbs dragging as if she were wading
through something thick and suffocating. Her soul was worn, and her heart
was shattered and aching. The battle hadn't drained her into numb
exhaustion the way she was hoping it would. Sleep would be a futile effort,
again, this evening.

The air outside was cooler, crisp against her sweat-damp skin as she pushed
through the exit. Onlookers murmured as she passed, some nodding in
respect, others looking away quickly, as if sensing the storm inside her, as
if afraid they might get caught in it.

They had no idea why she really came here - to alleviate the crushing weight
of things she couldn't outrun, when things beyond her control made her feel
restless, powerless. When there was no one left to battle but herself.

Life was a war in more ways than just The Fray, the military, in units
standing off against an enemy. War was just existence itself, sometimes.
Sometimes things went according to plan and you prospered immeasurably, and
sometimes life kicked you in the ribs until you spit up blood. It was the
same for everyone - mortal, Firstborn, or otherwise.

The key to keeping the former plentiful and the latter at bay was that you
had to keep standing when you got knocked down, keep moving through the
rough current, keep fighting, even when you were beyond exhausted and you
wanted to give up. As a pirate in her former life, long ago, she knew that
when the seas got rough, you adjusted your sails.

Ezrianne was a fighter. A survivor. She didn't know how to give up, and
and when the odds were against her, it was just one more reason to keep
swinging, to keep scrapping. She leaned against the rough wooden post near
the door, watching the next fight begin. A younger competitor stepped into
the ring, clearly nervous, obviously jittery, eyes darting toward the crowd
for reassurance.

Ezri knew that look. She had seen it in the streets, in the fields, in the
faces of those who thought they were strong, thought they were fierce -
until the world chewed them up and spit them out.

Unlike her, some people weren't built to withstand hardship - not the kind
that sank its teeth into your bones and never let go. They weren't made to
claw their way through the dark, to endure when every road seemed to lead to
nothing but ruin. They stopped mining for gold long before they struck
paydirt.

If she kept assuming everyone shared her warrior's heart, one day it would
consume her, tearing her apart from the inside out. Like it was threatening
to do, right now.

Ezri turned away from the ring before the first blow landed. She didn't
need to see how this one ended. She had already learned this lesson.

Writer: Godferey
Date Wed Apr 2 19:50:52 2025
To Knighthood All Imm RP Austinian Nadrik
Subject Contrition

Spring brought light rain and dappled clouds to the Empire of Althainia.
The sun peaked through the clouds in shafts that shone down upon the city
streets in patches. Godferey wandered the streets through the Poor Alley,
handing out alms and food to the needy.

"Takest these silver pieces Good Sir, and this bread. With the blessing of
Gareth Keep" He said to the man who smelt distinctly like old brandy and an
unwashed body.

He had been wandering the poor alleys for hours, giving out what he could,
and giving minor medical assistance to any who needed it. For the last two
days he'd made a habit of spending at least three hours at a time here. It
felt like not enough.

He had asked for twenty lashes and a week of exile for his failure. The
Lance and Shield General had denied his request. Lord Pharis indeed had
deemed the best punishment to be more responsibility in fact. This was not
something Godferey understood.

In confession with the Abbott, he had asked how he could wipe clean this sin
from his soul. For there was no way to undo this harm. No matter what he
did, there was no action that could cancel out his mistake. He remembered
Geirhart nodding sadly for him as he spoke.

"There is no way to undo what has been done... " The aged priest had said
to him. "But through great effort, you may be able to put enough good back
into the world by way of Contrition"

It was a difficult thing to come to grips with. A mistake that could not be
undone, a great failure that could not be made right. No pain or punishment
would come for him so that he could bleed for his crimes. Instead, he had
to live with it. He had to work to create good in the world, knowing that
it would never be enough. Perhaps that was what true contrition was
supposed to be. The unending effort to make right, wrongs that could never
be undone?

Godferey supposed that there was more to think on this matter. But for each
drunk that threw up All over his boots, he understood that there were in
fact many kinds of suffering.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Wed Apr 2 21:03:07 2025
To All Marauders Piknim ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Meetings

Fredrik was sitting in the war room as he often did, listening to the scouting
reports and updates from those in charge of various projects, encampments,
battalions, and strongholds across the Marauder lands. The type of thing that
is quite exciting the first few times you're involved but quickly becomes as
banal as any other chore in the Fort. Fredrik, to the detriment of All perhaps,
was hardly a master strategist or tactician when it came to the minutia of each
individual conflict and warfront. Instead, he trusted to pursue a high level
strategy and left it to his subordinates to execute the finer points. As such,
much of the content of these meetings was not very interesting to his plans.
His mind was wandering, as it frequently did, to dwell upon impossible horrors
from the Warp or to brood upon the well placed barbs and contradictions that
Piknim undermined him with in conversation.

'Shall we attack then, Highlord? Try to force the lines back?' a gruff mul
was asking, breaking Fredrik's inattention to remind him of the meeting. It
seemed that in following Fredrik's orders to strike north towards the known
tunnel locations, Marauders had encamped dangerously close to the troops set
on beseiging their kingdom, with at least one group facing foes on multiple
sides where they had probed too far north. The type of tactical blunder caused
by an inattentive Warlord and over eager field commanders, spoiling for a fight.

Iodorzul.rkrftgnwteusl h hr oo tt od le ie s
tujpdera.ioeosasherrbo...opinions? e ed mn h ue i ml a
cleaiopn.sufraitavlkew a see a snd k hsf y

as he felt arms that were not his own reach for a goblet and bring liquid to
the parched lips of his body. He watched Fredrik gestured to another officer
that he knew to be more cautious, wondering whether he was actually in control
of anything at all. He gripped the table to stop the room from spinning and
scowled, trying his best to play the part of a frustrated commander while the
tactical debates continued, until he abruptly stood up to regain attention.

'You make fine points, comrades. I trust in your ability to find the middle path
path that will satisfy our goals. That is why you have made it to this room.'

Before they could object or bring up additional problems he watched himself
glide out of the room, pulled his cloak up to limit his vision, and made his
way towards Hammurabi Square.

Writer: Erindor
Date Thu Apr 3 15:57:26 2025
To Eridessa All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Cayenna IMM RP Calithie Triendal
Subject Erindorial Ira: Renewed Vigor

Erindor's hands tightened around the parchment, his violet eyes scanning
the decree over and over, as if the words might change between blinks. But
they did not. His name had not been absent this time.

Yet, for the first time, he felt his name was not beyond his grasp.

The decree was clear: he was eligible. Not disregarded. Not abandoned.
The name he had once thought forever denied to him now lay within reach, so
long as he proved himself worthy. The weight in his chest was not despair,
but something else, something steadier. Determination.

The scroll remained clenched in his fingers as he moved through the halls of
The Vallenwoods, its edges crinkling under his grip. His next lesson
awaited, Dwarvish, the rite of passage for All who would claim the Shalonost
name. He took his place before the instructor, an elder scholar with an
expression carved from stone, and stared down at the unfamiliar script.

The letters were sharp, angular, nothing like the flowing elegance of Elven.
He listened, but his thoughts swirled elsewhere. He had spent years
wondering if he would ever be acknowledged, and now he had an answer. He
would be, if he proved himself.

At last, his frustration broke the surface. "Why? " His voice was steady,
but a storm lurked beneath. "Why must we learn the language of our enemy?
"

The instructor regarded him, his gaze unreadable. Then, with the patience
of the ancient halls around them, he answered.

"Because, Lord Erindor, knowing your enemy is as important as knowing
yourself. "

The words settled within him, heavy with meaning. Knowing himself. He had
spent so long waiting for others to define him, waiting for a name to be
bestowed upon him like a gift, as if it was theirs to give. But now, it was
his to claim.

His gaze dropped back to the dwarven script before him. It was foreign,
difficult, unfamiliar. But it was something he could control. A task he
could master.

He lifted his quill, dipped it into the ink, and began to write.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Apr 4 10:51:42 2025
To All Verminasia Symantha Telthian Piknim Maccus ( Drakkara Immortal RP )
Subject Beneath the Black Moon - Conversion

The quiet of the night was profound in Ezrianne's study, the flickering
candles casting shadows against the stone walls. There was no rush in her
movements as she turned the pages of the ancient tome, each word from the
text pulling her further into Drakkara's teachings, into the teachings of
Her faithful and Her priesthood.

Drakkara had always been a presence in her life, as a powerful ally,
lingering on the edges of her reverence for Necrucifer. As a Firstborn of
the Gods, Ezrianne had been fully created and born from Necrucifer's
Darkness, had been molded by its rigid rules that demanded strict control
over every facet of her existence. She had respected Necrucifer without
question, trusting in His unyielding structure, and although she hadn't
chosen to serve in Storm Keep, she had been intimate in The Prophecy, in His
Will and His Way.

Delving into Drakkara's Vision, now, a new, deeper understanding began to
take root - one that pulsed through to the marrow of her bones. It was not
a rejection of her past, nor a sharp pivot into something unrecognizable.
It was an evolution, a recognition, a deeper resonance than she had known.

Firstly, Drakkara's Darkness was not a static thing. It was alive, magical
power that could be cultivated and harnessed to create, to transform.
Though requiring discipline and iron will, Her Darkness was not about rigid
structure. It was an expansive force that granted freedom, through the
ability to shape the world to one's will, to build something greater, and
thus elevating the Darkness from the grace of Her gifts. The Goddess spoke
of Darkness not as a thing just to be feared and respected, but as a living
force to be wielded. A force that could bring about true change, shaping
reality itself through the power of the Umbra.

Secondly, The Darkness wasn't a void. It was the space where everything
began. The shadows were not simply the absence of light - they were the
birthplace of potential, of change, of magical creation.

Each page she turned was a further step into the world redefined by
Drakkara's leadership. She required strength, ambition, and the willingness
to shape the world from the very darkness that gave birth to it.

Ezrianne paused, her fingers tracing the lines of the ancient text, her mind
harkening back through the tenets of Drakkara's faith. The Vision of
Darkness was not just a lofty ideal - it was a promise. The flesh would
perish, but the vision - the power of darkness itself - was eternal, from
beginning to end. And it was hers -- All the Darkness' children -- to
wield.

As she sat there in the flickering candlelight, Ezri uderstood something
vital: she was no longer merely a /servant/ of Darkness. She was a
co-creator of its destiny, a set of hands that made her a weaver of The
Nights tapestry, alongside All those that lived within it, believed in the
magic. Drakkara's power was not a passive thing to be followed, it was a
living, breathing force, and it was their duty to nuture it to fruition.

The Black Moon called to her, differently now. And Ezrianne, human and
dragon alike, was ready to answer.

Writer: Zecnys
Date Sat Apr 5 11:40:44 2025

Writer: Asreel
Date Sat Apr 5 22:28:57 2025
To All Abaddon Eldercoven ( IMM RP Fatale Religion )
Subject The Macabre of Mystery ( Part II )

"Start from the beginning, Asreel"

The Count often spoke to himself when he is runs into a problem. Asreel was
investigating the source of the poison. He went down into the Queens'
chamber and took a sample of the poisoned blood that dripped into the
Queens' burial vault.

He tinkered in his secret lab to originate the reagents of this poison. He
had books sprawled around his workstation with pictures of flora and its
properties spread in them. He flipped pages, made bookmarks of interest and
continue to experiment.

"The Holy Grail... The Holy Grail..."

Asreel has been keen on understanding if this artifact does, in fact,
exists. His primary concern is to have the Queen's returned. His second
concerned is how to prevent a situation like this from happening again. He
opened his personal journal and jotted some notes under the area titled "The
Ritual". His attention has been split into two paths of research.

The stage has been set. The characters have been identified, and now the
show must begin...

Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:13:44 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades: Prelude.

Broruca had just finished telling the story of how he tricked a sea hag
into giving up her treasure when the others began to spar. Orsik rolled his
eyes but smirked through his scar. Rinern muttered a prayer for patience.
Embrel just leaned on his blade, quiet as always. They werent soldiers, not
exactly. Just... Preparing. The whispers of war came too often now, and
they needed to be ready. For their people. For themselves.

Orsik took his place across from Embrel, muscles flexing as he cracked his
knuckles. You always dance around the edge, he grunted. You afraid to
strike? Embrel gave a faint smile. No. I just dont see the point in
drawing blood when words arent finished speaking. Rinern chuckled and
raised a hand. Words are wind, lads. But steels a hymn if sung true. The
torchlight danced around them. None of them noticed how the trees had gone
still.

Broruca looked off into the forest, something flickering behind his smile.
Ever feel like were being watched? He asked. No one answered. Maybe
because they All did. But the words stayed there, hanging. Heavy.
Unspoken. And far too late.

Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:56:02 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Pt 1.

The clearing pulsed with firelight, the flames casting long, twitching
shadows of the four dwarves as they sparred and laughed. Broruca's voice
rose above the rest: a thick, booming laugh that smacked of sea air and
strong ale. The pirate moved with surprising grace for someone shaped like
a keg left in the sun, bare head glistening with sweat, his perfect teeth
flashing in the dark. Laiton watched him through the trees, unmoving, every
muscle coiled like a question. The runes on his cloak pulsed like a second
heartbeat. He couldnt be sure why they were here but he couldnt afford to
be wrong.

He stepped from the tree line like a shadow peeling away from bark. The air
bent around him. There was no battle cry. No challenge. Just sudden,
perfect violence. Broruca didnt even turn, he simply stopped laughing.
Laitons blade was already sliding between his ribs when their eyes finally
met. That laugh died as a gasp, and the dwarf collapsed with a groan. Not
dead. But ruined. Laiton had turned the blade sideways, on purpose. The
wound would bleed, yes, but not kill. Not yet. Not unless he let it.

Orsik was already moving, hammer raised like thunder on a leash. He charged
like a siege engine, silent and wide-eyed. He didnt scream. Orsik never
screamed. The scar across his face was lit by torchlight, his eyes pure
storm. Laiton ducked under the first swing, his cloak curling unnaturally
behind him. Steel clanged against stone. The elf's dagger flashed once,
twice, cutting deep into the meat behind the knee and slicing across the
hammer wrist. Orsik dropped the weapon. He fell with a sound that was more
disappointment than pain. Still alive. Crippled. Judging.

Rinern, priest of the God of Creation, drew his axe with one hand and
clutched the sigil-bound book with the other. He didn't curse or threaten.
He simply said, You dont need to do this. But Laiton had already heard that
line too many times in too many languages. He parried the axe with a flick
of his wrist, spun, and slammed the hilt of his sword into the side of the
dwarfs head. A quick twist of the arm dislocated the shoulder. Rinern
dropped the book, dropped the axe, dropped to one knee, lips muttering a
prayer Laiton refused to listen to. He moved on.

And then there was Embrel. Cast out. Alone. A man without a people.
Their eyes locked across the clearing, blue and hazel, fighter to fighter.
Embrel didnt attack. He raised his sword but didnt charge. Laiton
hesitated. The cloak rippled unnaturally, as if offended. He struck fast,
but clean. A shallow cut across the ribs. A hard kick to the thigh to
knock him down. And then a blade at the throat. Do not follow me, Laiton
whispered. This is mercy. You wont find it twice.

Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 11:58:55 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Pt 2.

The elf stepped back into the tree line, blades humming with warm blood.
None had died. Not yet. But they wouldnt fight again for many moons.
Broken knees, shattered pride, cracked bones, fractured unity. The runes on
his cloak pulsed in strange rhythms, unreadable but not silent. Laiton
could almost hear them whispering: Coward. Sentinel. Fool. Judge. He
didn't answer. He just walked.

As he faded into the woods, he heard a moan behind him. Not of pain, but of
something deeper. Embrel, maybe. Or Rinern. It was hard to tell. The
night swallowed the sound as quickly as it came. In his mind, the image of
four broken bodies flickered like torchlight. Not hated enemies. Not quite
innocents. Somewhere in between. And in that grayness, Laiton lived.

Hed been told once that justice was a blade. Simple. Sharp. Merciful in
its certainty. But standing in that forest, slick with the blood of those
who never raised a weapon in threat, Laiton understood the lie. Justice
wasnt a blade. It was a wound. And like All wounds, it either healed or it
festered.

By the time dawn broke, the birds had returned. The torches were ash. The
clearing was silent again, save for the groans of the wounded. Laiton stood
at a hills edge, watching smoke rise from a distant outpost. The question
still haunted him: Were they training for war... Or peace?

He would never know. He only knew he hadnt killed them. And for the first
time in decades, that didnt feel like a victory.

Writer: Laiton
Date Sun Apr 6 12:05:27 2025
To All IMM RP
Subject The Stillness Between Blades. Aftermath.

Embrel stirred first, a sharp breath rattling in his lungs as pain
announced itself with brutal clarity. His hand drifted to the gash along
his ribs, then to the sword still buried partway in the dirt beside him.
The steel trembled faintly as he used it to push himself upright. Around
him, the clearing had dimmed, the torches long dead, the blood cooling. He
moved like an old man now, each breath a weight, each shift a test.

Rinern crouched nearby, hunched like a crumpled prayer. One hand pressed
against Orsiks knee, his fingertips glowing weakly with the last dregs of
divine light. The priests robes were slick with blood and earth, the holy
book slumped beside him like a discarded relic. Orsik himself lay still,
eyes closed, jaw clenched. Sweat glistened along his brow. His massive
frame trembled as if the battle still echoed in his muscles, and the silence
of defeat was worse than the sting of the wounds.

Broruca had not moved. His chest rose and fell shallowly, both hands
clutched tight over the wound in his side. His once gleaming teeth were now
streaked with red, and his polished scalp was streaked with dirt. Eyes
open, he stared blankly at the sky as the first gray hints of dawn crept
over the treetops. Around them, the birds had begun to sing again. And
somewhere beyond the trees, the forest had resumed its breath as if nothing
had happened, as if the clearing wasnt now a scar on the land and on the
four broken bodies left behind.

Writer: Archal
Date Sun Apr 6 12:45:23 2025
To All Shadow Telthian Symantha Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Storyline Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: {uAb fine..

The Coronation had been put off. This was the subject of discussion
between High Mystic Archal Kayen, and the force of Gray Robes and
Legionnaires tasked with destroying the cultists of the so-called True
Prophecy - or rather, the effect this had on their mission.

The trap had been set, and All indicators had suggested the bait had been
taken. Not least among them, Archal's full manatonic intuition. Some time
later, however, the event was not even on the horizon, and there was no
telling whether the bait would hold. Worse, the sole remaining cultist
known to them, who had not already been strung up in the desert as an
example to others, had gone to ground. Inevitable, in such a prolonged
surveillance operation where remaining undetected was the key priority.

To make matters worse, even as Archal reached the height of his thaumatic
powers, he had lead a brazen attack against a keep owned by the Knights of
Gareth's Keep, and in some ill-conceived attempt to bolster their chances at
survival, had put himself between their strongest defender and one of his
own Knights. The defending armsman shattered his shield and disarmed his
weaponry with seeming effortless ease, and his head left his shoulders the
same way.

Feeling blind to the cultists in more than one way, nevertheless the murders
had ceased, and he was briefing his Knights on the path forward. Ongoing
patrols, surveillance, and intelligence efforts to keep the cult at bay and
stamp out whatever resistance to Drakkara they dared muster again. Still,
it bothered Archal that they had not gotten to the head of the cult, and he
ruminated on the possibility that it could re-emerge in force, or
reincarnate in another form altogether.

After wrapping up the current situation report, Archal dismissed most of
those gathered, keeping back the "site exploitation" team of Gray Robes,
those who followed up the raids by analyizing the contents of each captured
or killed cultist, their belongings, and whatever might be found at the
location of the raid - most often their home.

The work was dull, but important. All the same, one junior member was
growing increasingly agitated, and Archal recognized the nervous energy that
possessed her. She was making a connection.

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sun Apr 6 21:49:35 2025
To All Marauders New_Thalos Grogu Andreyna ( Imm Rp Kwainin Zandreya )
Subject Dark Rituals and the Seeds of Change

Fredrik stopped at the entrance of Hammurabi Square, kneeling to examine the
symbols of Warp magick which had defiled Ironclad for nearly five years. Nothing
the Marauders had attempted could cleanse the symbols, and Fredrik had watched
as devout Priest of Raije had their blood drained to the brink of death in one
ritual to purify the Square. But the divine Light rising from the stones like
a shimmering river seemed to be fighting back. Then again, the Light had been
fighting back for quite some time now, to apparently limited effect.

But the Warp was still waxing, Fredrik now knew.

He sprinkled a mix of seeds and spores along mounds of dirt prepared near the
bloody Warp symbols and sang forgotten songs of ages past to hasten the growth.
A mix of button mushrooms quickly sprouted up with a thick covering of fragrant
herbs. Fredrik nodded with satisfaction, continuing to hum and sing to seeds as
he created a small garden in the area. Andreyna had suggested guiding the Light
towards areas of defilement, but Fredrik had little idea how to do that. He had
learned how mushrooms spread a complex web of connections underground, as seen
in faerie rings the Master had shown him.

Fredrik wondered if the plants could tap into whatever energies were being
channeled by this battle between the Light and Warp which seemed to be raging
here within Ironclad, and perhaps elsewhere. He set up a few different garden
areas and experimented with different combinations of plants, mushrooms, and
pathways of soil to perhaps tap into these energies. Maybe the Light could be
guided through the mycelium network to attack the corruption. Or perhaps at
least he could grow some herbs which only fed from the Light, and create some
type of purifying plants. Most dangerous of all, perhaps plants growing only
in contact with the Warp marks could leech the foul energies away. Or.....

After setting up a few such experiments, he stopped at the section of wall
most loathed, with the most stubborn mark of Chaos that had persisted each
type of acid, explosion, soap, and force flung against it. Around this, he
planted some aggressive vines that he hoped would dig into every nook and
cranny to dislodge or disfigure the corruption. He would have Grogu visit each
location in the coming days and add his own arcane rituals to fuel the growth
of these plants.

The final round of work was visiting a series of raised beds around the places
in Ironclad where the new stenches were wafting most noticably. Here, Fredrik
planted the most fragrant herbs and flowers he could think of, and sang to them
the most hopeful songs of strength and growth. If nothing else, he MUST achieve
his goal of making the air a bit more tolerable to breathe.

Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Apr 7 10:44:40 2025

Writer: Sidorinath
Date Mon Apr 7 11:40:12 2025

Writer: Anelli
Date Mon Apr 7 12:43:06 2025

Writer: Piknim
Date Tue Apr 8 13:54:13 2025

Writer: Othorion
Date Tue Apr 8 15:18:25 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Admin IMM Cayenna Rhelic Religion RP
Subject Aiding in the Efforts, The Crystal's gift

The moon had not yet risen when Othorion laid the small bundle upon the
altar of moss and root. The fireflies blinked slowly in the warm hush of
the Vallenwoods, the breath of the trees stirring the hem of his robes.

Wrapped in soft linen, the crystal shedding shimmered faintly, catching the
forest's ambient glow in delicate refracted patterns. Ghaoshen'ite, the
great Crystal Wyrm, had given this willingly, a token of her own growth,
sloughed in peace, not in battle. A gift without demand. A piece of a
being older and grander than memory.

Othorion regarded it in silence, the flicker of torchlight dancing across
his features. The shedding pulsed softly, as though holding echoes of the
wyrm's breath, as though still alive. He had accepted it with grace and
bowed reverence, but now in solitude, he felt the weight of it, not just the
gift, but the potential.

"What might be done? " he murmured to the grove, to no one.

He imagined the forests of Shalonesti, still bearing scars where corruption
crept like shadow through bark and root. He thought of the sewers of New
Thalos, where spiritual rot clung to the stone like mildew, damp, stubborn,
and too long ignored. Could this crystalline essence, born of balance and
light, be harnessed to push back that which festered?

A theory only. Not a calling. Not yet.

He did not know if the shedding could be distilled into something more than
beauty, if its nature would allow transmutation into magic of healing, of
purification. But the thought took root, slow and deliberate as moss on
stone.

Othorion closed his eyes, pressing one hand gently to the shedding. It was
cool to the touch, and somewhere deep in the distance, a night bird called.

"No harm done by hope, " he whispered.

He would take no action yet. The forest would speak if it was time. For
now, the crystal would remain unshaped. A whisper of possibility. A seed
of wonder in the quiet of his heart.

Writer: Godferey
Date Tue Apr 8 18:24:16 2025
To All Knighthood Imm RP
Subject Contrition II

The spring morning air was crisp, in the way that suggested a coming
afternoon heat. The blue skies were marred only by the most lazy of small
puffy clouds. If his destination hadn't been the Poor Alleys of the
Imperial City, he would have considered it a day where nothing could go
amiss. But of course, in the Poor Alleys, something was always amiss.

The denizens had grown used to his presence, which Godferey thought he'd
have been happy with. But with familiarity, came contempt. Each day they
would gather around him to take the food he brought or the coins he offered.
Those who did not want anything he had brought, would instead throw casual
insults or cruelty at him. Curiously, the next day those who had thrown
insults or roughly collided shoulders with him, would ask him for bread or
water, or worse... Wine.

It struck him, how unlike the stories life could be. Tales of Knights long
past would talk of them giving charity to the poor and All the smallfolk
being grateful and praising them. There was no praise to be had here. Once
they had taken from him what they wanted, they had only sneering offense to
give him. Laughing at the way he spoke, or spitting on his clean clothes or
armor. He wished that spit was the worst thing he'd had thrown at him in
these places. Did they not understand he was trying to help them?

But as Godferey had come to understand, this was what true compassion and
mercy was. To offer a helping hand even if it was slapped away and snarled
at yesterday. Perhaps this was what the Abbott was trying to teach him.

The cut grass surly cynicism of these people wore on him. Each day he would
return to the keep after giving out All he had and spend a little more time
in prayer, striving to collect what hope he had before riding a combat
patrol. In some ways, combat was far simpler. To draw your weapon with
certainty and ride out to drive back villains and predators. It made sense,
there was no complications beyond tactical decision making. It was a
curious concept that required more thought, when there was time... If there
was time.

Writer: Austyn
Date Thu Apr 10 10:13:17 2025

Writer: Austyn
Date Thu Apr 10 10:15:13 2025

Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Apr 11 20:12:58 2025
To All ( religion RP dragoth immortal )
Subject Sabbatical: I

The salt-laden air, thick with the cloying sweetness of unfamiliar
blooms, did little to soothe the gnawing unease within us. This island, a
supposed haven, a place of respite, had become a labyrinth of tangled vines
and suffocating humidity. We had sought a time of quiet reflection, a
shedding of the skin we wore in Verminasia, but the vibrant, teeming life
here felt wrong. A mockery of the silent, elegant decay we so cherished.
There, we stumbled upon the meadow.

Tall grasses swayed in the gentle breeze, a sea of emerald rippling under
the setting sun. And amidst this expanse, they danced. Pixies, tiny motes
of light and laughter, their wings shimmering with an iridescent sheen.
Such fragile things, brimming with a life we had long since abandoned. A
flicker of curiosity, perhaps even a sliver of regret, stirred within us.
We, a servant of His cycle, had forgotten the simple beauty of existence,
the vibrant pulse that preceded the inevitable decay.

A weakness, a failing we could not ignore.

We began our work subtly, a delicate miasma of unseen spores and whispered
incantations, woven into the very fabric of the meadow's air. The first
season, a faint dulling of their wings, a slight tremor in their laughter.
The pixies, unaware, attributed it to the changing weather, the natural ebb
and flow of life. The next, a more pronounced weariness, a brittle quality
to their shimmering light. Their dances became slower, their laughter more
strained. The meadow, once a symphony of vibrant hues, began to show
patches of brown, the tall grasses losing their luster.

Writer: Lavinah
Date Fri Apr 11 20:14:16 2025
To All ( religion RP dragoth immortal )
Subject Sabbatical: II

Seasons passed, and the meadow became a testament to His patient hand.
The pixies, once vibrant motes of light, were now frail shadows, their wings
tattered, their laughter reduced to thin, rasping coughs. Dark, fungal
growths bloomed on their delicate forms, mirroring the decay that spread
across the once-verdant grass. The air, once thick with the sweet scent of
flowers, now carried the acrid tang of rot, a subtle incense to His glory.

The pixies, their life force dwindling, began to whisper names in their
madness, guttural sounds that mirrored the ancient syllables of our Lord.
Their eyes, once bright and curious, now reflected the hollow emptiness of
absolute decay. We watched, our eyes reflecting the slow, agonizing
decline, the gradual fading of their vibrant hues. It was a cruel beauty, a
somber reflection of our own internal rot, yet a necessary one.

As the last pixie fell, their tiny light extinguished, a strange sense of
release washed over us. The vibrant life of the meadow, once so jarring,
now felt appropriate. A canvas of decay, a testament to the inescapable
cycle. We had sought to escape our nature, to shed our skin, but Dragoth's
embrace was inescapable. The island, once a place of unwelcome vibrancy,
became a place of somber reflection. We rose, the scent of dying flowers
and fungal rot filling our lungs, and turned our gaze towards the shadowed
jungle.

It was time to return. Time to embrace the decay, to wield it with renewed
purpose, a purpose refined by the slow, beautiful death of the meadow.

Writer: Archal
Date Sat Apr 12 16:19:48 2025
To All Shadow Ostrim Telthian Symantha Carrionmaw Drakkara Necrucifer ( Storyline Religion Imm RP )
Subject The Cult of the True Prophecy: {u..Novum principium

Novices and Supplicants had worked alongside Dark Knights and Officers of
Storm Keep in collecting and analyzing the reams of evidence from the
various hovels and hidey-holes the cultists had inhabited.

The highest priority and the most attention was always given to that which
gave up the location of another cultist - this is how the Gray Robes and the
Legion had swept through the lower elements of the cult with such ruthless
efficiency, often times striking more than one location in a single night,
utilizing the dark to the fullest advantage of the Shadowmages to capture or
kill those who might go to ground and never be found, if word of their
compatriot's downfall reached them before the shadows did.

Sketches and drawings, often incomplete, weren't ignored then, but things
that weren't immediately actionable were simply left until later.
Individual pages with lines and curves, fragments of symbols and sketches
that made no sense, conveyed no particular meaning, taken individually.
Spread out now, however, a full picture emerged. Or rather, many pictures.

Like a puzzle, the Gray Robes aligned the pages where lines and curves met,
where fragments of indecipherable text aligned. A ritual emerged, involving
five objects.

And the symbol of the Demon Apostus.

Writer: Justian
Date Sun Apr 13 20:23:51 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening

Pain. Sharp, relentless pain pierced the veil of unconsciousness,
dragging Justian back into awareness. He gasped sharply, breath scraping
like blades against his throat. Opening his eyes proved nearly impossible,
eyelids crusted shut with dried blood and grime. With great effort, the
centaur priest forced them open, revealing piercing blue eyes clouded with
confusion and agony.

The Warp greeted him as an alien landscape, blurred edges and shifting
shadows illuminated by flickering greenish light. Chaos symbols, etched
crudely into dark stone walls, writhed faintly with unnatural life. The
familiar stench of blood, ash, and decay lingered, mingled with a disturbing
sweetness that disoriented him further. Justians body convulsed briefly as
a hacking, gurgling cough erupted from his chest, the sound echoing harshly
off the stone walls.

Memory eluded him, offering only fragmented recollections: arcanium daggers
flashing mercilessly, venom burning through veins, and the unmistakable
reptilian gaze of Z'szytheis, his former friend turned ruthless adversary.
Justians powerful legs tensed instinctively, remembering the venomous bite
and blades savaging his muscular flanks. Another cough wracked his body,
sending sharp jolts of agony through his wounds.

Attempting to rise, Justian collapsed onto the slick, blood-soaked stone
beneath him, hooves skidding awkwardly. Nausea gripped him as deep gashes
on his torso and hindquarters reopened, fresh pain surging through him.
Despair tugged at his resolve, yet beneath the suffering lay defiance. He
slowly surveyed twisted horns and grotesque skulls decorating the chamber.
At its center, the bleeding Chaos Tree loomed, pulsating gently as if
sensing his reawakening.

Voices drifted through distant corridors, murmurs tinged with urgency and
discord. Isolation pressed heavily around him. Questions surgedhow long
had he lain here, who brought him backbut each thought blurred into the
next, unattainable. His coughing returned, violent and uncontrollable,
filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood.

Justians gaze fell upon his empty, trembling hands. The white staff he once
wielded was gone, lost in battle. Emptiness yawned within him, accentuating
his vulnerability. A grim understanding settled over him; he had returned
not as a triumphant champion, but as a broken remnant discarded by allies.

Still, the eight-pointed star carved into his forehead burned fiercely,
resonating with lingering Chaos magic. Whispers brushed his
consciousnesstwisted promises of rebirth and vengeance. A faint smile
tugged at cracked, bloodied lips. Chaos did not abandon the faithful, even
in defeat.

Yet the strength required to stand felt impossibly distant. His four legs
grew heavier, senses dulling as exhaustion overtook pain. Another coughing
fit violently wracked his frame, driving him back toward oblivion.
Comforted by the twisted truths whispered by the Warp, he drifted quietly
into unconsciousness, the gentle dripping of the bleeding Chaos Tree marking
each restless moment.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 13 23:33:53 2025

Writer: Laiton
Date Tue Apr 15 10:23:57 2025

Writer: Godferey
Date Thu Apr 17 12:29:58 2025
To All Knighthood Imm RP Austinian
Subject Contrition III

And so, a miracle had come to pass. For Godferey could see it no other
way. His great mistake, the gods had seen fit to undo. The great Giant
returned to life after his essence had been spilled onto the ground like so
much water from a too warm canteen.

He felt strange, a great weight of relief lifted from him. But also guilt
at the relief he felt. For even though a miracle he had witnessed, it did
not erase his failure. Perhaps this was the difficult lesson that Geirhart
had told him of, that what will come to be, cannot erase what has been, or
what is.

The morning had been hard, as All mornings in the Poor Alleys were. Giving
out alms and food, and as the weather was getting warmer he had begun to
give out soft white sheets to keep the sun off the backs of those in
tattered clothing. Now, back in the Keep as he oiled his mail and
considered his small treasured book of proverbs. It struck him that
whatever effort a man gave to do good, seemed to rebound ten fold towards
him with evil or derision. People often thought of him as naive, or as too
stuffy, and were confident enough to tell him so. But Godferey did not
think this was the case.

"It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is
on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to
teach your child to hate" He read this passage again from his book and
considered it carefully. Many would of course, read such a thought and
merely nod, considering it right and good to say. But Godferey feared that
too few would actually weigh the statement. To apprehend how difficult it
was to be free from hatred. To undertake the considerable task of freeing
others from it as well.

Geirhart had given him this little book. Something to read and consider.
He had read it once dutifully, but like so many others the words just seemed
right to him. Pliable comforts of good intent. But on second appraisal he
felt differently about some of the passages.

"Honesty is not merely telling the truth. It is not refuting a lie either.
Honesty is knowing that one is capable of evil, even or perhaps especially
with the best of intents. To honestly know oneself, and the capabilities of
ones own hands, and choose to continue to try to do good anyway, that is
grace." These words he wrote in the margins on one of the pages. He hoped
that the Abbott would not be cross with him, as he had started writing
little thoughts All throughout the book, some of the pages now looking like
messy scribbles of underlined text and annotations.

Closing the soft leather cover of the book, he traced his palm slowly over
the faded symbol of Austinian pressed into the dull undyed hide. A better
world. One inch at a time.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 20 00:59:48 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 20 00:59:59 2025

Writer: Godferey
Date Sun Apr 20 23:06:47 2025
To All Knighthood Geirhart Imm RP Austinian
Subject Contrition IV

"I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly
is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with
pain..."

Godferey set the small book of proverbs down and looked out over the
battlements. The wind tossed the grasses of the fields around the keep in
waves like a great green sea, and the sun crept towards the horizon like an
old man slowly falling asleep. It had been an extraordinarily long day.
Early morning patrols had turned into an extended pitched battle. On their
way back he'd stopped off in the Poor Alleys to give alms and bread, and now
promoted to a most senior position, he found he had several knights who
flanked him.

The work had gone easier with others there to assist, but somehow seemed
less personal. Now atop Croyden Tower he sat reading the book of proverbs
Geirhart had given him.

Even here, he was only alone for twenty minutes at a time or so. A knight
or junior officer would run in and ask for his signature, or fresh orders
and he would diligently assess the situation and try to give the best orders
he could. This was still new to him, and he feared that amongst All his
study and spiritual conflicts that he was underserving those who relied upon
him.

He was trying his best, and he was confident in the subject matter. He'd
learned from Knights he'd looked up to All his life, but he was no equal to
those heroes, they were legends, statues, and plaques of great deeds. He
was just a Knight, and now, a Senior Office.

Sighing to himself, he looked back at the small book. Each passage a
cryptic and beautiful examination of the devastating impact of hate, and the
difficulty of using the only tool that could confound it. Love.

"Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we
cannot live within. I use the word -love- here not merely in the personal
sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace - not in the infantile
Imperial sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of
quest and daring and growth."

Godferey wondered, and not for the first time, if he was indeed capable of
such daring, and such growth.

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 13:25:02 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 13:28:06 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:15:57 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part I.

The sanctum beneath the Horde's war keep was more tomb than temple.
Flickering violet flame licked the edges of bone-carved glyphs. The flames
cast long, twitching shadows across the stone floor. The air was thick with
burnt myrrh and old blood, the scent of sacred violence. A circle had been
etched deep into the ground, gouged by claw and ritual.

Lenore Millar Styria knelt at its center, cloaked in darkness. Her breath
was steady, and her eyes were closed. In her left hand, she held a
hellstone, a small, jagged shard no larger than a child's fist. Mined from
the deepest pits of Hell, the stone had been purchased with blood, sweat,
and the anguish of countless damned souls. Its surface gleamed like
polished obsidian. The longer she gazed into its lustrous black heart, the
more uneasy she felt. She sensed the cruelty within ita hunger, a violence.
She met it with indifference. It was not her enemy it was a tool. It
pulsed with hopelessness and hate, slick in her palm with an unnatural heat
that clung to her skin.

She remembered the first time she'd held one. When the Priest of Bloodlust
came to her in the night, robes trailing ash, and placed the vestments of
Fatale's service over her shoulders. The short ceremony had been functional
and efficient, absent of theatrics, but no less sacred. Tobryck had
witnessed it, his expression as unreadable as stone, though his presence
marked the event with quiet gravity. From Deacon to Priestess, her
elevation had not been marked by music or incense, but by blood, duty, and
the approval of the Synod's cold-eyed hierarchy. From that night on, Lenore
had felt the growing weight of expectation and duty. She was not a woman in
serviceshe was a lit candle in a hall of ash, a flicker of devotion held
against a storm of blood.

Behind her now stood Warlord Orutix. He was a deep gnome. An Ovate. A
seed-singer, a true artisan of ancient magic. He carried an intensity that
could not be faked. He projected an aura of devotion to Drakkarathe Night
Motherthat was absolute.

He needed no ornament. No symbols or titles. His mere presence shaped the
room, as if the shadows bent in deference. His skin was sapphire-toned,
catching the torchlight in dark gleams. His eyes were storm-gray, calm and
bottomless, like the mouth of a chasm. They pulled at you. Quiet. Cold.
Patient.

His fiery dreadlocked hair spilled down his back like molten iron, and
though he stood a head shorter than Lenore, he carried the weight of old
truths and forgotten faiths with silent gravity. She admired himnot just
his power, but his conviction. In a horde of murderers and zealots, he had
found a way to lead with quiet purpose. There was a stillness about him
that brought order to the chaos of the Horde.

"You will voyage the Astral Plane," he said, his voice like a blade dragged
across a shield. "Not to fight. Not yet. To witness. To measure. The
Umbra Synod must learn its shape or form."

He stepped forward, offering a sealed bone tube. "I have been researching
something known as Twilight Essence--a residue born of frayed thought and
torn reality. Others claim it is the sediment of two realities grinding
against each other in astral tectonics. If it exists, you will know it by
how it refuses to be noticed." Lenore opened her eyes and took the tube,
nodding. Orutix believed the Essence could be used in a ritual to pierce
the Veil. She knew little of the theory, but trusted him. If the Umbra
were to thrive, it would be through knowledge wrestled from silence. She
crushed the hellstone in her hand with conviction, though a flicker of
unease moved through her spine. It was not fear of the unknown, but
reverence for the boundary she was about to breach.

It shattered into light, forming a burning sigil that hovered midair. The
glyphs at her feet ignited. The air twisted. And then reality tore open
before her, violet-edged and weeping sparks. She stepped through.
Weightlessness. Silence.

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:43:58 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part II.

The Astral Plane was not just a place, but an experience. It enveloped
her senses in a disquieting quiet, a hush so complete it bordered on
violence. The silence was so deep, so absolute, it felt like it had weight,
like it might drag her downward, pull her soul into the stillness until her
thoughts drowned. The weightlessness disoriented her. Her body floated
unmoored, and her breath echoed in her skull like a scream.

She had never been here before. The void was not emptyit was full of things
that once were, or might never be. Colors shimmered without source or
logic, hues flaring and fading like forgotten dreams. Shapes bloomed and
vanished: wheels of fire, flickering towers, spinning temples.

It was beautiful. And terrifying.

Direction lost meaning. Up was will. Down was doubt.

A narrow, trembling strand of silver light stretched ahead, a tightrope
across a canvas of unknowable black. The darkness on either side of it was
not just absence. It was deep, profoundly sou, like staring into the mind
of something that had never been born. It pressed against the edges of
perception, so dense and absolute that her thoughts recoiled from it. There
were no walls, no floor, no ceiling, just a yawning chasm of unthought, of
futures that had already unraveled.

The void did not move, yet it breathed. Not with air, but with memory, with
doubt, with echoes that never quite became sound. If she fell, it would not
be into space. It would be into something worse, into meaninglessness. A
fall not of distance, but of identity.

The Strand shimmered too pale to comfort, a dare written in light.

She stepped onto it.

She walked.

Fragments of broken realms passed her: temples inverted, relics adrift. A
spear glowed from the carcass of a thought-beast. She saw it and moved on.

Then, a sound. Her own breath caught, too sharply. A Githyanki skiff,
sleek and silent, passed aboveif above could be trusted. Its hull glimmered
with cruel, angular runes. The Githyanki aboard were pale and gaunt, their
elongated skulls set with eyes like glowing coals. Their armor shimmered
with metallic hues that didn't belong to any forge of the Material Plane,
forged instead from astral steel and conquest. They carried themselves with
the poise of conquerorsdisciplined minds honed for war, psychic blades ever
at the ready. Their thoughts moved like knives in the dark, sharp and
searching. Lenore darted behind a slab of floating debris. A colossal
length of chain drifted silently nearby, each link easily a hundred and
twenty feet tall. It twisted slowly, impossibly massive, glinting with
rusted age. Whatever it had once restrained was long gone. Forgotten.
Failed. She crouched beside it, breath held tight in her throat.

The skiff slowed. It turned. It swept low.

She dove deeper behind the wreckage, sliding between torn banners, shattered
altar-stones, and chunks of drifting masonry that may have once held meaning
in other realms. The noise had drawn their attention. Psychic searchers
whispered through the plane. She held still. Her mind anchored in prayer.
The skiff passed again. One sentry paused, tilting its head. Then it moved
on. She exhaled. Not in relief, but in ritual. She drifted on.

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 22:49:45 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part III.

The silvery strand twisted sharply into what might have been 'up, ' but
in truth, orientation meant little here. Still, the incline felt steeper,
the pull more deliberate, as though the Astral was testing her intent. She
crawled hand over hand along the gleaming path until it opened into a
lattice of light, delicate, spiraling arches that resembled both a web and a
bridge, stretching in All directions.

Here, the air, or what passed for it, seemed thicker. Heavy. Each movement
dragged as though pushing through oil. The astral void pressed more tightly
against her senses, whispering doubts without voice. She stopped and looked
downor what her mind decided was downand saw nothing. Not shadow. Not
light. Just nothing.

She crouched on the strand and lowered her head, whispering a prayer for
insight. Nothing. She was reminded that direction was a construct of the
living, and that in death, there was only movement or stillness. She chose
movement.

Later still, the vastness broke. From the horizon, if such a thing could be
said to exist, loomed the grotesque shape of a fallen titan. She first
mistook it for another fragment of memory, a hallucination woven by the
planebut as she neared, the scale betrayed the truth. It was a corpse.

Not just large. Not merely ancient. This thing was vast beyond
comprehension, so massive that her mind reeled at the attempt to comprehend
it. A single limb, curling endlessly through space, could have cradled
cities. Its body coiled through the astral dark like a buried secret, too
enormous to fully see, too grotesque to forget.

It was not simply dead. It had been removed from the tapestry of existence,
as though even the concept of its life had become offensive to reality. The
space around it bent in subtle reverence or fear. A thing of godlike
proportions and alien biology. Limbs like coral, eyes like broken galaxies,
a spine that coiled endlessly into the dark.

Her first breath upon seeing it was not of fear, but of awe. Then came the
nausea. Something about its presence violated the structure of the soul.
This was not death. It was removal. Whatever had killed it had erased more
than flesh. It had blotted its purpose.

She floated closer. The silence deepened. With ritual precision, she drew
her blade and carved a chunk from its flank. It resisted, then gave with a
wet shudder. The texture was like boiled leather soaked in honey and ash.
She wrapped the pound of flesh tightly, marking it with sigils to contain
the wrongness.

Not for curiosity. For offering. Fatale would know what it meant. Still
no Essence of the Twilight. She turned from the corpse, renewed not by what
she had found, but by what she had been reminded of: All things end. Even
this. Even her. And the Void would remain. She continued onward.
Seeking. Watching.

Writer: Lenore
Date Mon Apr 21 23:08:54 2025
To Orutix and All of Bloodlust ( IMM FATALE TARABELLA )
Subject Grave Ministry: A search for Twilight Part IV.

At a narrow ledge of the silvery strand, she paused.

The silence was total. A silence that transcended stillness. There was no
echo, no breath, no memory of sound. Just her, and the great, unbroken hush
of the void. She looked out, over the edge. What surrounded the Strand was
not emptiness. It was nothing. A depth without bottom, a breadth without
boundary. Not darknessdarkness was something. This was less than that.
The hollow beyond hollows.

She stared into it, and it stared back without eyes. There was no
reflection. No distortion. No resistance. Just the certainty that nothing
she was or had ever been could matter to it. And in that moment, she began
to understand. The hunger of her Dreadlord.

Not a hunger for food or for love but for power in the form of mortal souls.
The sacred act of feelng of silence felt thick, a thickness you could stick
your hand into. Here, in this place whereo thought lingered and no name
held weight, she felt the magnitude of that yearning. The Void was not
this. It was deeper, more insatiable, and more powerful

What she looked upon now was the Astral's imitation of absence. A vast
stage for spiritual projection, for transit and echo. But the Dreadlord's
Void, his domain was something else entirely. Hacov. Consumption,
Destruction.

She placed her palm flat against the Strand.

"Dreadlord," she whispered into the silence, "I see now why your gift is
hunger,"

Her voice did not return to her. It was swallowed immediately.

"To be full would be to stop reaching. And to stop reaching would be death
before death. That is not our way."

The prayer drifted from her lips like vapor into flame.

Here in the hollow beyond reason, she did not feel despair. She felt drive.

To crave. To strive. To murder. To build altars of bone and ash so that
somethinganythingmight echo back against the nothing.

She stood. The silence did not bless her, nor curse her. It simply
watched, indifferent. But she had seen enough.

She would begin the journey home, not completely empty handed.

Writer: Imshael
Date Tue Apr 22 00:24:11 2025
To All black_robes dark_elves drakkara fatale Tash'a
Subject A Red Wake

The wood was always quiet by night.

The dark shadow of Imshael was not aimless per se, but it drifted to and fro
through the groves like a silent breeze. Hills rose and fell at regular
intervals, stately and ancient vallens rising high above like sentinels.

The whisper rose, coarse and harsh as it always was: 'We bore dark burdens,
paid their cost. A shame they tried to erase. '

The hills were uniform, and his passing disturbed the fine dew that clung to
the mosses growing atop stones cut carefully by masons a few elven lifetimes
ago. His senses ranged outward, guided by a whispered incantation.

Memory slipped through his fingers like so much sand passing through a
sieve. He could no longer place it here among the hills. The barrow he had
scratched, scraped, and crawled free from was as nondescript as any of the
others hidden amongst the hills of the emerald graves.

Hazy eyes that matched his surrounds narrowed with frustration at this
place, and himself. The icy scrape of talons pricked the chords of his
nerves. The familiar, mocking voice speaking what was unspoken: 'You should
have known. You should not have trusted. '

Imshael paused then, his wiry frame tensing as his hands made themselves
into fists. And he squeezed, driving the pointed tip of his index into the
skin enough to make the blood flow, languid and slow, until it dripped to
the ground.

The sun would rise again soon, and with it the grovekeepers would come again
to tend to the barrows and gaols. He could almost feel the animus, the hate
and vileness grazed the edges of his perception. 'Loath as you may be to
admit it. This is beyond you. You are still weak. '

The voice was right. Again, as it often was. So many of the exiled had
sunk into the comfort of defeat. Others were pleased to play as pets to the
Shalonost. His feet carried him to the top of the nearest hill, but his
arcana failed him again.

Trust had cost him dearly once. 'How many years was it buried in the box
together? ' Enough, he thought to himself as his lips pulled into a tight
smile. Enough to be certain. Enough to remember when the Shalonost could
be wounded, killed. Defiled.

'Then call your Mistress. Call upon the Pact. '

Dark rivulets dripped from his fingers, the flow slowing to a crawl as he
plucked the sanguine vitae still in his veins. He hesitated, uncertain, and
then drove a calculated feeling outward, sending a ripple into the pact.

And he waited.

Writer: Vaelsenathox
Date Tue Apr 22 06:09:37 2025
To All Dragon ( Naevera )
Subject Emerald Scales and Poisonous Intent

*chip*

*crack*

Light

A reptilian eye blinked as daylight met its gaze. Then, slowly, the eye
opened revealing a green orb surrounded by blood red sclera. The pupil
narrowed to a black slit as it looked left and right.

No danger seemed immediate and so a black talon pulled away more of the
brown and green mottled shell. Soon the head was able to protrude a take
stock of its surroundings. The frill on it's head extended to take on the
radiant heat of the temple.

With a bit of effort, the small green hatchling was able to free itself from
the confines of its shell as green fluid was expelled onto the temple
stones. He was free now. Yet with freedom came fear.

He looked around for predators or allies. With none to be seen but a
matriarchal gold dragon, he continued his exploration. Murals lined the
walls imparting their wisdom upon him. Even as he wandered, he felt
strength growing in his small form.

Instinct drove him now.

Feed

Grow

Learn

Writer: Ostrim
Date Tue Apr 22 12:41:51 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Wed Apr 23 19:14:54 2025
To All ( Drakkara Piknim Immortal RP )
Subject "Don't Forget To Write!"

Excerpt from Ezrianne Scott's personal letter to Kender-Queen Piknim,
Darkfinder of Verminasia:

"......and though my tenure within Storm is yet in its infancy, I bring
with me a mammoth accumulation of life's lesson: countless years exploring
Algoron's lands, and sampling what she has to offer; seasons spent sailing
Algoron's seas, as Verminasia's Admiral; many long, unfathomable ages
secluded away in strategic bouts of hibernation, when the world became
altogether too loud. I've raised twelve children, as you well know, each of
them now a credit to the Darkness. They are All fluent in mathematics,
eloquent in both the Common tongue and their paternal Elvish, and possessed
of a discursive comprehension of the theology of All three pantheons -- none
of which, I daresay, would draw censure even from the most starch-collared
Scholarch.

Yet, it finally occurs to me, eons later in my curious chronology, that
knowledge rarely roots itself in the mind by mere exposure. No, we come to
truly understand knowledge in the endless, ink-splattered, finger-numbing
ritual of scribbling, rephrasing, rereading, redrafting -- and then
phrasing, rereading, redrafting and rescribbling, again and again, and
again. THAT is what presses it into permanence. One must practically bleed
one's way to comprehension.

Do send liniment, I beg you - elsewise my sword hand shall be reduced to
nothing more than a decorative appendage when proper combat training
commences.

In short, you know my heart: I'm in my element and I adore it; with no hint
of complaint or sarcasm. I am having a blast."

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Thu Apr 24 12:00:19 2025

Writer: Fredrik
Date Sat Apr 26 19:41:01 2025
To All Marauders Grogu ( Imm RP Raije )
Subject Blood and Gardens

Fredrik tended the plants and experiments while he read the morning reports,
making the same rounds between the different gardens he had created around Fort
Ironclad. Investigating how each set of plants and mushrooms had developed each
day and providing more magic and water for their growth was a pleasant change
from the monotony of field reports....

Enemies hemming them in, but never moving closer.

Deadly forays below underground, seeking but not finding.

Blood and stench and corruption, never being cleared.

At least now he had something that he could control and advance, even if it
was as simple as some fragrant herbs potentially infused with Light and Warp.

After tending to the plants, he would meet Wizard Grogu to review the areas
where viscous blood was seeping up from the ground, and they would try again
to clear the grounds. Fredrik would try calling upon nature, root, and earth
to purge the blood before Grogu would evoke a fireball or electric shock that
would evaporate or destroy the day's new pools. Different combinations each
day, with some success, but each morning the blood would be bubbling up in
another assault on their home.

At night, Fredrik would visit the plants again before retiring for the evening.
He would sing them the old songs, or marching chants, a soldier's dirge. Some
nights he would recount the tales of his various friends who were dead or lost
to the ravages of Chaos. He taught the plants of valor and duty, of hope and
defeat. Endurance. Hopefully his songs and tales of the history of the Marauders
might instill some of that spirit in the plants, to grow strong and unyielding.
At least it was something to occupy his mind, and keep the voices of Crelius
and Piknim or the Justian's gurgles just a little farther from his mind.

Writer: Thindyss
Date Sun Apr 27 17:33:00 2025
To All Conclave - Imm Drakkara Cayenna Tritoch Xenophen
Subject Reflections on the Ethicacy of the Cauldron

It was with a solemn mind and a guarded heart that I called forth those
who would hear, to gather in the Library of Dark Magick under Drakkaras
ever-watchful gaze. There, amongst the countless relics of knowledge and
study, we convened to discuss a topic long shunned, often whispered, but
never truly understood: the ethicacy of the Cauldron.

I opened the floor by reminding All that the practice of brewing, Warlocks
and Witches alike, predates even the formation of the united Conclave. It
is an art as old as the fractured Towers themselves. Once, even a Warlock
held the rank of Wizard within the Ebony Tower. Yet history, shaped by fear
and betrayal, taught us to equate cauldroncraft with thievery, wildness, and
untrustworthy magicks. Gareth's disdain, born in Serpantol's dark times,
lingered like a shadow keeping the art buried in the dark.

Yet, times change. The cauldron has evolved. No longer solely the tool of
chaos, it has become, in the hands of practitioners like Grey Robes, the
Queen Piknim, and Shadowmage Corson, an instrument of precision. This new
mastery demands our attention. Ignoring it would be as dangerous as
misusing it.

I spoke not as one seeking power, but as one seeking to understand, to
protect, and to shape the flow of magick. I urged that Conclave must study
the cauldron from within our own Towers, not merely to strip our spells from
its grasp, but to comprehend the very nature of the strands it weaves. We
cannot combat what we do not understand, nor can we guide what we refuse to
touch.

Questions rose swiftly, as they should. The danger of expanding access to
forbidden knowledge. The risk of abusing power without mastering it. The
fear that this study could unravel the very Weave of Magicks we are sworn to
protect. These concerns I acknowledged without hesitation. It is because
the cauldron holds power that it must be studied under Conclave's
stewardship, not left in the wild grasp of others.

To those who asked whether I believed the cauldron part of the Weave, I
answered plainly: yes. Its apparent randomness and individualized nature
mirrors the mysteries we already navigate, enchanting, divine magicks, even
the shaping of artifacts. That it is imperfect does not exile it from the
Weave, it beckons us to understand it better.

I do not believe brewing to be below me, nor below the Conclave. It is a
branch of magick, wild perhaps, but no more so than Necromancy in its
infancy. Dismissing it out of pride would be our folly. To master it, to
safeguard it, to protect the Realms from its misuse: that is our duty.

We closed with many minds turned toward reflection. Some hearts remained
hardened, but others softened with cautious curiosity. Perhaps a few seeds
of change were planted that day. For my part, I am resolved. Whether alone
or with my brothers and sisters in magick, I will walk this path until the
truth of the Cauldron is unveiled, and through it, shape a future where
knowledge triumphs over fear.

Writer: Andreyna
Date Sun Apr 27 20:50:58 2025
To All Shalonesti Shalonesti_Kingdom Xenophon Cayenna Zandreya Imm Rp Religion
Subject The Cleansing of the Altar of Chaos: The Ancient Vow

'Three Moons, Three Paths, One Balance
White to cleanse, Red to bind, Black to shield.
Through darkness and dawn, through blood and breath,
Nature endures when the Triad stands as one.'

In the time of Blight, when Chaos crept into the heart of Shalonest once
more and poisoned Zandreya's sacred lands, the Queen of the Elves, called
upon her most trusted mages. She charged them with a sacred task- to seek
crystals of the Three Moons and return with the power to restore Balance to
their wounded kingdom.

At twilight's fall, beneath the whispering boughs of the eldest Vallenwoods,
Andreyna stood before the three mages and offered them ancient Blessings of
the Moons.

'Children of Shalonesti, bearers of our hope, she prayed over the three
mages, each wearing cloaks emblazoned with the shade of their respective
moons. 'May the White Moon guard your steps with light unyielding', she
spoke to the mage covered in an ivory cloak, planting a kiss upon her
forehead. 'May the Red Moon bind your hearts with strength unwavering', she
whispered to the second mage dressed in a crimson cloak, planting a kiss
upon his forehead. 'And may the Black Moon shield your spirits from the
hungering End', she whispered to the third mage, draped in robes of
obsidian, pressing a kiss upon her forehead. Andreyna stepped back and
smiled gently as she look upon the three mages gathered, 'Go forth with
reverance', she spoke with a reassuring nod, 'and return in triumph'

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Apr 27 23:32:37 2025

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Mon Apr 28 00:20:51 2025

Writer: Penelopina
Date Mon Apr 28 12:48:49 2025
To All Taliena
Subject Good Growing!

{pPenelopina Starflower Sunspear, better known by her friends as plain ol'
Penny, {pstepped off the Tropican beach, nearing the {plei of red{p, white{p, and
fuschia{p flowers that marked the growing banana tree. {pThe seedling was
showing signs of blooming, flourishing as the warmer weather of early spring
{pencouraged natural growth.

{pAs always, she took a moment to offer up a simple prayer, asking for it to
grow big and strong, so one day it {pwould be a source of shade, fruit, and
guidance for those seeking the nearby Cathedral of {pthe Heart. She then
sprinkled some holy water on it to nourish its roots and did a cursory
{pinspection to make sure it was free of pests, mites, and rot. It was.

{pSmiling sweetly, Penny gently placed a hand on the banana trees palm leaves,
patting it like {pshe would the hair of a small child. "Just a little more
tender loving care, and you'll someday be taller than any tree on Tropica.
{p" And then of course, it was on to the next part {pof her goals, to spread
more trees All across Algoron, showing everyone what love could {paccomplish.

Writer: Orutix
Date Mon Apr 28 15:30:30 2025
To Bloodlust All evil followers Drakkara ( Imm RP ) Xenophon Cayenna Tarabella
Subject Feed the Dream{u: The Dungeon's{u Deep Delve

The Overseers were warned, first by mind-flaying and then by time in the
electrocution helmet. In the depths of the newly dug tunnels beneath the
Dungeon they debated amongst the slaves which was worse.

The deep delve or "THA BIG DIG" as the Secretariat called it, was well
underway, beneath the black soil in the southeast corner of the Great
Forest. The warnings of the deep were more seen as invitations by the tiny
warlord, a deep gnome with skin the hue of sapphire, and eyes an ever
churning storm grey tempest. He was from the deep, he wore amulets of
warding for the deep, the light found no purchase where he hailed from.

Sleep was always brief for Orutix, his dreams were fueled by visions and
physical pain. It was normal for him to wake in agony, following any number
of horrors that haunted his sleepless nights. It had been months, the same
dream, not of battle, or conquest, but of digging.

In the dream, his fingernails were bloody stumps, his muscles burning as he
tore through endless layers of black rock. The earth itself resisted him,
whispering taunts and jeers. But he could not stop, he felt His Mistress
within the soil itself.

From within the dream, Drakkara, the Goddess of Darkness, her form a
shifting void of smoke and embered eyes, stood behind him. Her voice
slithered into his mind like a blade between ribs:

"{uDeeper, little conqueror. His blood still stains this earth. Find it.
Claim it. "

When he woke, his hands ached as if he had truly been digging. The
Warlord's chambers stank of sulfur and old iron. The miners spoke of
fissures in the deep tunnels, of a heat that did not belong.

Orutix smiled.

Writer: Ezrianne
Date Tue Apr 29 21:25:04 2025

Writer: Lenore
Date Tue Apr 29 22:33:37 2025
To All ( RAPHIEL FATALE IMM )
Subject A dreamscape of death.

It begins with sound.

A horn - a deep, celestial call - resounds across the dreamscape. Not
blaring, but resonant, mournful, and absolute. The kind of note that
announces judgment, or the end of days. It shudders through Lenores bones,
low and full of meaning too ancient for words.

Then

Silence.

Not peace, but the silence after something beautiful has been shattered.

A stillness so total it becomes a weight.

From that hush, the light blooms.

Not daylight, not flame - something holier, crueler. Light that doesn't
just reveal, but judges.

From it, the angel steps forth.

He is tall beyond reason, ten feet at least, radiant with sorrowful majesty.
His wings unfold slowly, the sound of feathers like sighs through snow. His
golden armor hums faintly, alive with sacred energy, and from the runes of
his halo drips warmth that smells of myrrh and old parchment. His face is
etched in memory - a friend who never was, a father she never mourned -
compassion incarnate.

His gaze, blue as the deepest sea, finds her.

His sword burns like divine wrath - its fire silent, yet pulsing with heat
that makes the air ripple. The tome in his other hand murmurs, pages
whispering secrets in a tongue the soul recognizes but the mind rejects.

Then, it changes.

A sound - wet and sharp: the pitch-black blade slicing through celestial
sinew.

The angel gasps, the kind of sound that does not belong in a world like
this.

A yelp of agony, raw and animal. His wings convulse violently.

Bone snaps.

Not like a twig, but like the ancient trunk of a tree splitting under divine
pressure - loud, brutal, echoing. One wing tears from his back in a spray
of light and blood, the scream that follows so shrill it feels like its
being pulled from his lungs with barbed wire.

Feathers scatter. Some burn in midair. Some simply vanish.

He collapses. The sound is thunder and cracking marble. His sword
extinguishes as it hits the ground, the flame sputtering out in a hiss of
defeat. The tome falls open, its runes bleeding out like ink into water,
unreadable now - forgotten.

The halo fractures.

Rings of light disintegrate into ash.

Lenore steps forward through the haze. Her blade - obsidian and hungry -
drips not with blood but with sanctity undone. She breathes deep. The air
tastes like copper and dying grace.

The angel's body twitches. His face, once so serene, is contorted in
disbelief and pain. His wings - one gone, one crushed - no longer lift him.
He tries to speak, to beg, perhaps to forgive. She does not listen.

She kneels.

Her fingers glide through the thick, iridescent blood pooling beneath him -
warm as fresh milk, slick as oil. She cups it, rubs it into her palms. The
scent of it is intoxicating: incense and ozone, mingled with the iron tang
of a dying celestial.

With calm purpose, she draws that blood across her face, smearing it like a
sacred unction.

Each mark a vow.

Behind her, the wind carries only silence. The horn has long since faded.
No choir rises for him now.

The dream stills. Then - blackness. A blink. She awakens.

The sheets feel coarse. Her breath is slow, deliberate. Her heart beats
not with fear - but with purpose.

There is no remorse.

Only inspiration. Only hunger. Only the memory of how quiet the world
becomes when a divine thing dies.

Writer: Skalpon
Date Wed Apr 30 14:27:49 2025

Writer: Skalpon
Date Wed Apr 30 14:49:14 2025

Writer: Justian
Date Wed Apr 30 19:27:10 2025
To All Chaos ( IMM RP )
Subject Awakening II

Pain ebbed slowly from piercing agony to a persistent throb, guiding
Justian back to consciousness. His chest heaved with effort, each breath
rattling through his lungs and escaping in a harsh, gurgling cough. Slowly,
he forced open his crusted eyelids, the blue clarity of his gaze muddied by
fatigue and lingering torment.

Justian lay on his side, feeling the gritty stone scrape painfully against
the raw, bandaged wounds stretching across his equine flank and torso.
Carefully, he tested his limbs, powerful legs twitching weakly, hooves
scraping against stone slick with dried blood. Each attempt to move brought
fresh, searing reminders of his battle with Z'szytheis' blades and
venom-infused strikes etched vividly into his battered body.

Around him, the Warp seemed to pulse with quiet malevolence. Shadows
shifted across the dark stone walls, briefly revealing twisted symbols of
Chaos. The grotesque Chaos Tree stood silent yet imposing, dark ichor
steadily dripping from horned branches, resonating softly with his pulse.
Its presence was oddly comforting, a grim reminder of the cause he had
pledged himself to.

A flood of memories trickled back to Justian in fragmented bursts.
Z'szytheis' reptilian eyes cold with betrayal, the dance of blades biting
deep into flesh, the bitter taste of defeat as darkness claimed him. His
failure weighed heavily on him, yet amidst despair, a steely resolve stirred
within.

Justian began murmuring the tenets of Chaos, each verity a grounding anchor
amid the swirling agony. Existence is suffering, he rasped weakly,
punctuated by another violent cough. "Suffering has a cause... The false
gods. He paused, breathing shallowly as dizziness threatened to overwhelm
him. It has an end... The death of the false gods. And it has a path...
He faltered momentarily, ... We must rise to kill the false gods.

Repeating these truths seemed to bolster him. He recalled vividly the words
he had recited countless times... The Age of Mortals, freed from divine
chains. Justian's battered body trembled, yet his heart surged briefly with
determination. The purpose of his suffering was clear, a necessary
sacrifice on the altar of mortal freedom.

He reached weakly to touch the carved star on his forehead, fingers brushing
tenderly over the symbol, feeling its reassuring grooves. The Chaos emblem
burned fiercely, filling him momentarily with strength and clarity. Mortals
were powerful, resourceful, boundless... The gods feared this mortal
spirit, and rightly so.

Exhaustion overtook him again, his vision wavering. The blood of the
fallen... He whispered, voice scarcely audible, nourishes the seeds of
rebellion. Another violent, hacking cough shook his frame, spattering fresh
droplets of blood onto the cold stone. Yet even as darkness reclaimed him,
Justian felt reassured, comforted by the knowledge that his struggle was
part of something greater, meaningful beyond his own mortal agony.

Justian's consciousness slipped away once more, drifting toward oblivion.
But this time, hope lingered within the dark, sustaining him, promising that
when he awoke again, he would rise stronger, ready once more to carry
forward the Great Work of Chaos.

Dark