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Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Jul 27 15:53:30 2026
To Xenophon Cayenna Tritoch All IMM RP
Subject Spira Aversa II: The Silent Interval - Selection
The Library had offered Ezekyle no agreement on the precise instant of
death.
Some physicians declared it the final breath. Others wrote that the soul
lingered while warmth yet remained in the flesh. Priests claimed departure
came only after the heart's final labor. An executioner from an empire long
forgotten insisted a man was truly dead only when his name could no longer
be recalled by those standing nearby. The latter Ezekyle dismissed
immediately. It was poetry masquerading as observation.
Yet beneath the contradictions he found something curious.
Those who had witnessed peaceful deaths described an almost imperceptible
fading, as though something withdrew of its own accord. Accounts of violent
executions suggested something altogether different. Decapitations,
impalements, and crushing blows produced descriptions of sudden absence.
The body remained, but whatever had inhabited it was said to depart with
startling haste. Even among the superstitious there existed an unspoken
distinction between a life extinguished and a life exhausted.
The writings never named it, so Ezekyle decided on his own name for it.
The Silent Interval
The distance between dying and death.
If such an interval existed, then every manner of dying would possess its
own measure. A sword might leave only an instant. Poison perhaps several
moments longer. Fever, starvation, drowning... Each promised its own
peculiar path toward the same destination.
His findings in the library could offer no certainty thus far.
Books had carried him this far, the remainder would require men.
________________________________________________________________________
The first subjects died too quickly.
A condemned murderer lost his head before Ezekyle could perceive anything of
value beyond the abrupt stillness that followed. A soldier with a punctured
lung spent nearly an hour struggling for breath, though the final passage
appeared no clearer for its length. A woman consumed by plague drifted
between sleep and delirium until she ceased responding altogether. Her
decline was measured in days rather than minutes, leaving the boundary
impossible to identify.
Each death erased one possibility while revealing another.
He abandoned executions that shattered the body too suddenly. They produced
endings without transitions. Disease proved no better, obscuring the mind
long before life surrendered it. If the soul departed by discernible
stages, the body itself could not be allowed to fail unpredictably.
His next subject would, Ezekyle believed, be the purest experiment yet.
Writer: Ezekyle
Date Mon Jul 27 15:58:19 2026
To Xenophone Cayenna Tritoch All IMM RP
Subject Spira Aversa II: The Silent Interval - Subject
I've answered every question you've put to me. Whatever crime you think
I've committed, I'd rather face the gallows than another week in this place.
A condemned man is at least given a meal.
Ezekyle looked up from his notes.
You are mistaken on two counts.
The prisoner frowned.
You are not condemned. You have committed no crime that interests me.
... Then why am I here?
To answer a question.
The prisoner gave a tired laugh.
Then answer mine. When do I eat?
Ezekyle closed the notebook.
You won't.
The prisoner smiled despite himself, waiting for the explanation that never
came.
Enough of that.
Ezekyle remained silent.
The smile slowly disappeared.
... You're serious.
Yes.
The prisoner's eyes searched his face for anger, mockery, anything that
might suggest cruelty for its own sake.
There was nothing. Only patience.
You're going to let me starve.
I believe it is the most reliable method.
The prisoner took an involuntary step backward.
Method?
Steel is too sudden. Disease is too erratic. Hunger is slower. Easier to
observe.
Youre... Watching me.. Die?
Ezekyle closed his notes and stood up. Ill return in another two days.
Youll have progressed considerably then.
That night was the first night the rattling of the cell could be heard
faintly beneath the Black Tower.
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Tue Jul 28 13:26:04 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Tue Jul 28 13:27:56 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Jul 28 19:59:43 2026
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:03:48 2026
To Piknim Geirhart Joat Tritoch All IMM RP
Subject The Queen's Justice I
By the time the bells of Verminasia had finished their summons,
Guillotine Square had become a city unto itself. Citizens crowded beneath
the long porticoes and along the broad granite avenues that fed into the
octagonal heart of the capital, speaking in hushed voices that rarely
carried beyond the shoulders of those nearest them. The great statue of
Drakkara watched over them All from its jet-black dais, while below it the
restored guillotine stood upon its dreadwood platform with the patient
stillness of an old instrument returned to faithful service. Time had
stripped it of neither its purpose nor its reputation. If anything, the
years had sharpened both.
The Royal Army had transformed the square long before the first spectator
arrived. Files of soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder around the platform,
their discipline creating a safe perimeter around the platform and todays
showing. Archers watched from balconies overlooking the square, mounted
patrols drifted along the outer roads without urgency, and every entrance
into the square narrowed beneath the quiet scrutiny of mailed eyes. The
arrangement possessed none of the nervous haste of a kingdom expecting
violence. It was measured, deliberate, almost practiced, as though every
shield, every spear, and every pair of boots occupied precisely the place
they had been intended to occupy since dawn.
Lord Joat Tenneal alone commanded the platform.
The Death Skald leaned lightly upon his elegant cane as though he had
wandered there by chance, his bent frame and weathered appearance disguising
the certainty with which he occupied the center of every eye. Beside him
knelt the day's condemned: a lone pilgrim taken from the roads of Arkania,
his wrists bound, his travel cloak stained by dust gathered over many
leagues. Whatever words he had offered in his own defense had long since
been swallowed by Verminasian law. Whether he had come as missionary, fool,
or wanderer no longer mattered. Today he served a different purpose.
General Zhul had left the platform to Lord Tenneal.
The General stood beyond the ring of soldiers with an unobstructed view of
the square, where the faces of the crowd stretched together into a shifting
mosaic of curiosity, unease, resentment, and fear. He had walked those same
streets before dawn with his captains, placing each company himself,
assigning every rooftop, every alley, every avenue of approach. The
scaffold had never been the center of his plans. It was the bait.
The crowd had come believing they would witness an execution. Zhul had
assembled them in the hope that they would reveal something else.
Above him, the wind stirred Verminasia's banners until they cracked sharply
against their poles, and the murmurs throughout the square gradually faded
beneath the commanding cadence of Joat's voice. The Death Skald stepped
forward with the measured confidence of a man who was used to swaying whole
crowds at once. His cane found the dreadwood platform with a quiet tap as
he surveyed the hundreds gathered before him, allowing the silence to deepen
until even the restless shifting of the crowd gave way to expectation.
Joat let the silence linger a heartbeat longer before opening his arms to
the assembled city.
My people, he began, his voice carrying effortlessly across Guillotine
Square, today is not a day of vengeance.
He turned slowly toward the bound pilgrim.
It is a day of remembrance. A reminder that Verminasia has always endured
because she has never mistaken mercy for wisdom...
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:06:58 2026
To Piknim Geirhart Joat Tritoch All IMM RP
Subject The Queen's Justice II
... Because she has never mistaken mercy for wisdom.
Lord Tenneal allowed the silence to linger after the final words, neither
hurried nor theatrical, but with the confidence of a man who knew that
anticipation could command an audience as surely as any speech. His gaze
passed once more over the assembled citizens before settling upon the
pilgrim kneeling at his side. The man had walked the roads of Arkania
carrying the banners of another cause, believing that peaceful intent would
be enough to shield him from every kingdom through which he passed.
Verminasia had never recognized such distinctions, and today, before the
eyes of the city, neither would anyone else.
Let every traveler who treads the roads of Arkania hear these words, Lord
Tenneal declared, his voice carrying effortlessly from one end of Guillotine
Square to the other. The Aurora stands beneath the influence of the
Witch-Queen Piknim Cracklespark and the laws of Verminasia. Those who
wander its paths without our leave, whether calling themselves pilgrims,
prophets, or humble servants of weak, pitiful gods, shall be judged no
differently than the man who kneels before you now. Carry this lesson with
you. Carry it to every campfire and every roadside shrine. TELL THOSE WHO
STILL MARCH THAT THE ROAD TO THE AURORA ENDS HERE, BENEATH THE QUEEN'S
JUSTICE!
With those words spoken, he reached for the heavy execution rope and drew it
firmly toward himself. The restored mechanism answered at once, releasing
the great blade from its catch, and the sharp report of steel striking home
rolled through the square before rebounding from the surrounding stone. For
a heartbeat the city seemed to hold its breath, the only movement the slow
stirring of Verminasia's banners overhead and the uneasy shifting of those
who had come expecting to witness only a single sentence carried out.
It was in that silence that General Zhul finally saw what he had been
waiting for.
His attention never drifted toward the scaffold. Instead, his eyes remained
fixed upon the crowd, where grief proved more difficult to conceal than
guilt. A hand reached instinctively toward the platform before its owner
thought better of it. A hooded traveler lowered his head into whispered
prayer. Near the eastern portico another voice, too quiet for most to hear,
condemned the execution beneath its breath. They were small things when
taken alone, the sort of gestures easily overlooked amidst so many gathered
souls, but Zhul had spent the better part of the morning arranging his
soldiers precisely so that none of them would be overlooked.
The first arrests began almost quietly. Soldiers stepped from the crowd
instead of into it, laying firm hands upon shoulders and wrists before the
accused had time to understand why they had been singled out. Confusion
spread more quickly than panic as one prisoner protested his innocence,
another demanded to know the charge against him, and a third struggled hard
enough to draw the attention of everyone nearby. Only then did the wider
gathering begin to realize that the execution they had assembled to witness
had never been the only purpose of the day, and that General Zhul had been
watching them far more closely than any of them had been watching Lord
Tenneal.
Writer: Zhul
Date Wed Jul 29 11:21:23 2026
To Piknim Geirhart Joat Tritoch All IMM RP
Subject The Queen's Justice III
The prisoners were led from the crowd beneath a ring of steel, their
wrists bound behind their backs as Verminasian soldiers marched them toward
the scaffold without haste or ceremony. Whatever protests had filled the
square only moments before grew quieter with every step, disappearing
altogether as rough sacks were drawn over their heads and nooses lowered
around their necks. Fresh barrels were rolled into place beneath their feet
while soldiers moved from one prisoner to the next, testing knots,
tightening ropes, and exchanging few words beyond those required to complete
their work. The execution that had summoned Verminasia that morning had
quietly multiplied, and before long a line of hooded figures stood waiting
upon the platform where only a single pilgrim had knelt moments earlier.
Lord Joat Tenneal regarded the scene with unmistakable satisfaction. His
weathered face brightened into an easy smile as he paced before the
condemned, leaning lightly upon his cane. A warm laugh escaped him before
he turned once more toward the gathered citizens, spreading his hands with
theatrical delight. Well now, he called, his voice carrying easily across
Guillotine Square. It would seem our guest has inspired company. I had
prepared justice for one soul today, yet Verminasia has been blessed with so
many eager volunteers. It would be terribly rude of us to disappoint such
enthusiasm.
General Zhul mounted the scaffold without so much as a glance toward the
prisoners or the crowd below. His attention belonged entirely to the
soldiers carrying out his orders, pausing only long enough to ensure each
knot had been tied correctly, each guard stood where he had been assigned,
and every rope hung as it should. Nothing escaped his notice. Only after
the preparations had been completed did his eyes settle upon the severed
head of the pilgrim beside the guillotine's frame. He struck it from the
platform with the side of his boot, and a soldier immediately dragged it
away without waiting to be told.
A strange quiet settled across Guillotine Square. Those who had watched the
General studying the crowd before the first execution understood at last
what had occupied his attention. Conversations ceased as citizens found
themselves avoiding one another's eyes, each wondering which whispered word,
passing gesture, or misplaced expression had condemned the men now standing
with ropes around their necks. The scaffold no longer seemed distant from
the crowd gathered below it.
How curious, Lord Tenneal mused, pacing slowly before the hooded prisoners
with a pleased smile. A single execution was announced this morning, yet
somewhere between sunrise and noon, our humble gathering became so much more
productive than I'd dared hope.
He paused before the first barrel, rapping it gently with his cane to test
it before turning back to the crowd.
It has often been said that the company one keeps speaks louder than any
oath upon their lips. I have always found wisdom in that saying. A
sympathizer is seldom content to remain silent forever. Given enough
time... Enough opportunity... They will always reveal themselves.
His eyes drifted over the assembled crowd before returning to the waiting
prisoners.
The Queen need not hunt every enemy beyond her borders. Sooner or later...
They gather themselves beneath her gaze.
He smiled to himself, almost contentedly.
And when they do... It would be discourteous not to receive them properly.
He smiled with quiet satisfaction before giving the waiting soldiers the
smallest nod.
The guards drove the barrels away in unison.
General Zhul did not turn toward the struggling figures behind him. His
yellow eyes swept slowly across the square, measuring the crowd with the
same patient attention they had given it before the arrests began. This
time, no one mistook the reason for his scrutiny. The execution had ended,
but his search had not.
Writer: Monaden
Date Thu Jul 30 12:44:48 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Jul 31 16:27:09 2026
To All
Subject Grit and Grace
Ezrianne had once been able to drink dwarves and men twice her size under
a gaming table, rob them blind after they passed out, and then take the
first morning watch topside -- All without anyone suspecting a thing about
the state of her faculties. It was a useful skill set to have, because it
meant no one looking at her now would know exactly how inebriated she was.
They might notice the looseness in her shoulders, the pause before she
someone supremely numb from All the blood circulating through their liquor
stream. But they would never see her stagger, because Ezrianne Scott did
not stagger. She had learned to adjust for the pitch and roll of a deck,
even when there was no deck beneath her feet.
She had spent too many years as a pirate, drinking foul spirits in fouler
ports, not to know how to be a functional drunk. Now that she owned taverns
and a distillery, the liquor was better, cheaper, and always within reach.
Misery had never tasted so refined.
All told, though there were some things even excellent liquor could not
drown. For those, Ezri preferred something more direct: fighting.
The underground pit had not changed much. It still smelled of sweat, damp
stone, cheap ale, and the kind of poor judgment that usually ended with
someone losing teeth. No magic. No weapons. Just fists until someone
tapped out.
Ezri signed her name, wrapped her knuckles, and stepped into the ring. The
first man split her lip with a spray of blood, before she put him flat on
his back. The second bruised her up in ways she'd feel for a week after,
but he lasted slightly longer. It felt good to hurt. Pain was clean,
uncomplicated, and told no lies.
Then they sent in the Minotaur. He was broad enough to block half the
lantern light, and smug enough to make her dislike him immediately.
He knocked her down with his first proper hit. 'Stay there, ' he advised,
crouching down to her level.
Ezrianne pushed up from the floor shaking, her fists ready to protect her
face.
THAT was, unfortunately, the entire problem: she absolutely did know how to
quit. Once she cared about something, she dug in and held fast long after
persistence had become self-destruction. She gave people time, loyalty,
grace, forgiveness - then ended up wounded when they failed to return any of
it in kind.
Ezrianne believed effort demanded effort. That loyalty created loyalty.
She forgot not everyone possessed a heart as understanding, stubborn and
categorically tenacious as hers -- hot-headed temper aside.
The Minotaur hit her again. This time the floor rose quickly to meet her.
Blood filled her mouth, and breathing became complicated.
She could get up. She always got up.
By the time the referee counted to 9, she understood why some didn't think
such unrivaled grit was a virtue.
At ten, the bell rang. The Minotaur offered her his hand. After a moment,
she took it.
Fine. She had to find some way to fix this, but without becoming harder.
Perhaps it meant learning that letting go, especially when she was banging
her head against a wall over and over, was not the same thing as losing.
The realization did not make her feel better, but even realizations are a
start.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sat Aug 1 10:53:14 2026
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Aug 1 22:19:27 2026
To All Chaos Waaagh Justian Ryger Geirhart ( IMM Scorn RP )
Subject The Compact: Bellows of Kharvokh (I)
It was a maelstrom. A type of hell beyond the comprehension of the most
learned scholars or theologians. One of no order and no purpose. A
disparate reflection of a million worlds' vices personified. A gullet into
which was poured the sum total of the material universe's desires for
destruction, desolation, and ecstasy. It manifested as a cacophony of bad
dreams given skin, of ideas given motive force, of perverse violence without
contest, and tranquility found in anguish. Darkness that would make the
most ancient of devils weep, and a light that would blind even the most holy
of the seraphim. It was a realm of contradiction, where the laws of the
physical and metaphysical found no purchase, and where the impossible was
made mundane.
A figure slipped through the morass as smoothly as a dagger into flesh. A
knightly traveler whose constant silhouette stood as an anomaly amidst the
whirling pandemonium. It waded through the miasma of entropy with a
careless stride, the dire confidence of one bolstered by millennia spent
subjugating the innumerable challengers of this domain. Its true form
flashed from time to time, a shadow-black transposition of writhing limbs
and thirsting laughter. It repelled the malignant sub-reality that dared
draw its attention, before returning to the mortal form it had chosen to
wear upon this perilous path.
The human husk, already preserved well beyond its natural lifespan, was a
tapestry of a thousand scars and home to the eldritch anchor of coiling
sinew and bark that marked its claim, was changing. Mutations flourished
rapidly with exposure to the warped empyrean, and the now dominant soul
welcomed them upon its stolen flesh. Hornlets grew from its scalp, and
every patch of tissue not already entwined by the vile efflorescence of its
manacle twisted and boiled.
The madness crested upon a quivering vale that overlooked a basin of ash,
parted by a sanguine river whose current fluxed with the transmogrified
matter of crystallized rage and liquified malice. Beyond that burning
valley stood the locus of the traveler's intent. A citadel of black stone
wreathed in fire. Its immensity dwarfed the greatest of mortal constructs
and rivaled the tallest peaks of worlds still touched by the gods. Gnarled,
misshapen stacks lurched skyward from its massive bulk, retching gouts of
sentient smoke that clawed at the weeping heavens like the fingers of some
corrupted titan. Deep within the fortress, soulfire screamed through
countless apertures, its prismatic glow casting poison colors across the
darkened rock.
The traveler streaked across the expanse like a blackened thunderbolt, a
shadow crisscrossing the virulent plains before appearing abruptly at the
gates of the smoldering citadel. They were a pair of colossal bronze slabs
veined with shimmering silver, their surfaces wrought with churning images
of strange and unknown prophecies. The figure stood before them, disdain
settling across the corpse like features of its pallid face, its lone eye
fixed upon the gate with contempt.
Writer: Crelius
Date Sat Aug 1 22:36:27 2026
To All Chaos Waaagh Justian Ryger Geirhart ( IMM Scorn RP )
Subject The Compact: Bellows of Kharvokh (I) (continued)
He stepped forward, an armored boot falling heavily upon the mordant
earth, then paused as the metallic barrier began to tremble. Its surface
rippled and coalesced into the vague outline of a towering humanoid, which
stepped free from the bronze as if birthed from it. The thing was a
hideous, monolithic construct, a golem of needle like teeth and pupiless
molten iron eyes. It regarded the interloper in silence before passing
judgment, uttering alien syllables that echoed through the warp and
psychically into the traveler's mind.
The rebuke came as a telekinetic storm. The knights single eye became a
furnace, and behind the borrowed skin the shadow of its native form
unfurled. It erupted outward in a violent surge of etheric force, striking
the warp forged automaton with a fury that hurled it into the threshold from
where it had formed. The psycho-kinetic onslaught shattered the construct
into a clutter of metallic detritus, its own mass transformed into a
synaptic siege weapon. It slammed into the bronze gateway with such inertia
that depressions rippled across its surface, like boulders cast into a mire.
At the moment of impact, the traveler seized the shattered remnants with its
psychic will, driving the warp hewn substance into instability. The broken
construct screamed across the immaterium before erupting in a cataclysmic
discharge. The detonation tore through the gateway, obliterating both the
barrier and any trace of its warden. The entire exchange lasted less than
the span of a mortal breath.
The traveler did not hesitate. He crossed the ruined threshold without a
backward glance, watching impassively as the remains of the gateway
disintegrated in his wake.
(to be continued)
Writer: Ainin
Date Mon Aug 3 10:02:15 2026
Writer: Eanyha
Date Mon Aug 3 12:18:34 2026
To All Riaghan Nordmaar (Imm RP Cliath Raije)
Subject A Beginning
Eanyha wound through the brightly lit halls, gloved hand resting idly on the hilt of one of her blades. Not that she expected danger within the halls of the monastery. Certainly, the man whod told her about this place would have warned her of any risk, the same way as he did the golem at the doors. Old habits died hard, however, and when faced with the unknown, Eanyha always erred on the side of extreme caution.
Each step seemed to echo too loudly, and she arched a singular brow in silent question as she twisted toward the two bulky Highland men trailing her - Beau and Theo, guardians whom her husband, the King, insisted she keep with her, now turned friends with time well spent.
Theo lifted his shoulders, his lips pulling into a slight grin. "Wha cin we say? Its noice tae be on solid ground again, MQueen."
She couldnt blame them, she supposed, not after they were forced to take the Droch out on the high seas for much of the morning. Despite Beaus motion sickness, the ever-dutiful guards rallied to join her in her task, following every command as she steered the ship. And after a successful return and docking, Beau promptly lost his breakfast over the side, followed by laughter and chiding which lasted well into the rest of the day.
Returning the sentiment with a crooked grin of her own, she whispered, "A wee bi lightah o foot, aye? Ifn there were dangah, they could hear us comin from miles awae."
"Dinnae feel there bae anae more danger aside from the golem, loike th man said," Beau replied.
Eanyha thinned her lips, huffing amusedly before muttering beneath her breath as she turned toward the hallway again. "Noice ta bea sae certain o yeself an All things, aye?"
After they passed several doors, Theo whispered her name, "Eanyha..." She turned toward them both with an arched brow, and he continued. "Wae meant nothin by it. Loight o step well bae, mae Queen."
She answered with a pinched corner of her lips, silver eyes brightening as they continued up a set of stairs. Then another. And one more.
Finally, she pushed open a heavy wooden door that creaked with age and protest. An ancient librarian peered over at her dully. Then, seeming to recognize her with little reason for why or how, he fumbled his quill and stood, dipping his head in respect.
"I was told you would come," he said.
While her guards regarded him quizzically, Eanyha asked, "By who?"
The elderly man simply shook his head, then bowed again in respect.
Offering him the same, and pushing back the anxious feeling of being known without knowing, she and her guards entered the stacks. For hours she perused the weathered spines of the ancient room, until her eyes squinted from the strain.
Pinching the bridge of her nose, she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, hoping to force them into submission. A glimmer shimmered to her left, even with her eyes shut. She immediately peered to the left just as a book fell off the topmost shelf and hit the floor with a loud thud that echoed throughout the musty room.
Both guards put their hands to the hilts of their weapons, but Eanyha stilled them with a raised palm as she neared the fallen book.
A slow, crooked grin spread on her lips as she bent to lift the heavy tome, and the title became clear.
As the trio left the monastery behind, she whispered a quiet word of thanks to her God. "Thank yea, Cliath."
"Tha wos odd th book fallin loike tha," Theo ventured.
Beau nodded, "Aye, agreed."
Eanyha knew it was odd, but she said nothing until the city came into view, familiar Highland guards patrolling the well-worn paths. "Whos readea for anothah trip on th Droch?" she asked.
Beau paled, and she and Theo dissolved into amused laughter.
Writer: Andreyna
Date Tue Aug 4 19:54:06 2026
To All Justian Chaos Xenophon Zandreya Malachive Imm Rp Religion
Subject The Weight of a Question
The storm had finally begun to fade.
Only a gentle rain remained, tapping softly against the woven roof of
Andreyna's small hut. A single lantern flickered beside her as she sat
alone, her damp cloak hanging near the doorway to dry.
The jungle was quiet again.
Almost as though nothing had happened.
The former queen slowly unbuckled the leather pouch she had taken from the
cultiest before returning him to the sea. She had not looked inside before.
She had not wanted to.
One by one she emptied its contents upon a small wooden table.
A worn waterskin. A piece of stale bread. A smooth river stone. And a
folded piece of parchment.
She frowned.
The paper was stained from the rain, its edges torn and weathered.
Carefully, she unfolded it.
There were only a few words.
Can Zandreya restore one Chaos has marked?
Andreyna stared. The room grew impossibly still. For a long while she
neither breathed nor moved.
Her fingers tightened around the fragile parchment. He had been looking for
Her. The shrine. Not the village. Not her. A shrine.
Her heart sank.
A hundred thoughts crashed together. Had he grown weary of the Warp? Had
he seen what she herself had witnessed? Had he finally looked upon Chaos
and found only emptiness?
Could he have sought forgiveness? Could Zandreya have restored him?
The Abbess closed her eyes. She wanted to believe the answer was yes. She
had spent her entire life believe no soul was beyond hope.
Her thumb traced the words upon the page. Then thunder rolled in the
distance. Not above the village. Far away. Toward Arkania. Toward the
Fort. Toward the place where Chaos still gathered. Where Raije was cursed
and the Red Moon wounded.
Her mind drifted beyond the little hut. She remembered Shalonesti, its
forests blackened by corruption. The rivers poisoned.
She remembered the reliqua, filled with imprisoned souls of priests who
cried out in anguish and despair.
She remembered Turpa. Gentle Turpa. The Mother's only Daughter. Gone
forever.
She remembered Raije. The Mother's Son. Betrayed by his own faithful. Now
broken and cursed, carried to the Red Moon by his grieving Mother.
She remembered Zandreya Herself. The Goddess forced from Her own lands
while the curse consumed the forests She loved. A Mother who lost Her only
Daughter, now caring for Her wounded Son. Their home on the Red Moon
shattered, pieces literally falling to the lands below.
Andreyna slowly folded the parchment once more and held it against her
heart. 'I hope', she whispered into the silence, 'that you truly sought
Her. ' A tear escaped despite herself. 'But hope cannot undo what Chaos
has done. '
The priestess rose and walked to the doorway. The rain had nearly stopped.
Beyond the trees, the lightning still flashed upon the distant horizon where
the Warp's fortress stood hidden within the jungle.
The storm had not ended, it had only moved on elsewhere.
Andreyna slipped the folded note into her robes. Not as a trophy, nor
justification. It would be a reminder. Every life taken carried weight.
Every choice demanded rememberance.
She would not know whether the man had come seeking redemption or whether
the note had been another deception woven by Chaos.
She would carry that uncertainty for the rest of her days. However, she
knew one truth with absolute certainty.
Continued..
Writer: Andreyna
Date Tue Aug 4 20:03:10 2026
To All Justian Chaos Xenophon Zandreya Malachive Imm RP Religion
Subject The Weight of a Question: End
Chaos had stolen too much.
Too many lives. Too many futures. Too many chances. The Balance would not
be restored, Raije would not be healed, the Red Moon would not be saved,
Zandreya would not forgive, by simple forgetting.
It would be restored by ensuring no more innocent lives were claimed. That
the Warp would never harm another soul again.
Andreyna stepped into the cool night air. The jungle breathed around her.
Somewhere, an owl began to hunt. Somewhere, new blossoms opened after the
rain. The same forest held them both and, at least, she understood.
The Balance had room for mercy, but it also had room for vigilance.
She would never stop hoping that a lost soul might find its way home, but
she would never again allow Chaos to reach those under her protection.
The healer had not died.
She had simply learned to stand beside the huntress.
Writer: Paklop
Date Tue Aug 4 21:34:22 2026
Writer: Paklop
Date Tue Aug 4 21:35:53 2026
Writer: Geirhart
Date Wed Aug 5 13:42:45 2026
To All Kingdom Clan ( Imm Religion Austinian )
Subject Pilgrimage: White Sands and Crimson Fields
Wreckage
The wreckage of the red moon spread out west of Ironclad. The Pilgrimage
had just arrived after crossing the seas from New Thalos. Within the Desert
Jewel, the Pilgrimage had been welcomed and even given places to stay within
their Gardens. Many pilgrims had enjoyed themselves even with the looming
threat of the Rip above them. The Thalosian people were truly survivors.
Even with the rip looming above and a celestial river running below, they
continued on with their lives.
Geirhart was not sure of the welcome he would get from the Marauders however
General KilCannon had worked hard to secure them a reception with the
Highlord. With his help, the Pilgrimage had been welcomed into Ironclad and
the Emperor had also restored relations to a neutrality allowing the
soldiers of the Fort a chance at redemption.
As the pilgrimage had trekked east from the port, Geirhart had spied the
Church of Light off to the south. The Church of Light was an interesting
part of the Light's history. An organization that was created out of the
reorganization of the Austinians into the Gray Church. Rather than contiue
to support it they created a separate set of temples. The Gray yet remained
and the Church of Light in Althainia was the only temple still visited. Had
the Light just supported the Gray as they had the Austinians, might things
have been different? Would we seem more welcoming rather than segregating
ourselves?
Dark Walls
The walls of Ironclad loomed behind the priest, his tent had been setup to
help block some of the wind that now blew through the desolate fields around
Ironclad. The Tempest, the Wreckage of the Moon, All of it began to
transform the landscape of southern Arkania. Large forests were now
littered as stumps, their shade replaced by the dull red dust and arid air.
"I wonder if Zandreya realized that in Her fury for Vengeance, she would
destroy and mar the Nature she professes to protect? ' thought the old man.
The Balance of the realm was broken and those factures and divisions ran
deep. The Pilgrimage was here to listen as to why these chasms were
created. Gathering up his staff and wandering into the Fort, it was time to
do just that.
'Greetings soldiers, how may I help today? '
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Aug 5 17:50:05 2026
To All Shadow
Subject The Churn - Furioso
Ever had she admired the elegance of the piano.
The way fingers moved with guided precision, caressing each ivory key as if
drifting over a lover's skin, applying just the right pressure to elevate
the musical note of their voices.
The tension of the strings would sing within the body of the grand and
stretch to the timed touch of the pedal beneath, or cut out entirely -
completely at the beck of the pianist who sat the throne of its bench.
The opposite, however, also stood true.
If the piano could encapsulate elegance, it could also engender crudeness.
Like any mortal on Algoron, she was possessed of great soaring highs and
fantastically dark lows. She had put this on display when cast before
Devion's tribunal.
The Dark Dyad had stood across from each other and raked themselves with all
the hate and merciless punishment the Dark could contain - and then she had
driven a blade into the heart of her beloved.
From passion to rage, the line could be thin - it was important to embrace
both, to express both, but to control them, to wield them. Never to the
detriment of what mattered most.
So as her fingers moved with a force of their own over the ivories, as the
sound of her furioso deafened and crashed through the room to the wild rush
of umbral powers, resonating through the Black Citadel, she threw the depth
of her wrath into a crudeness of sound that scoured and scored.
There was calm after, as her fingers stilled on the keys and the rushing of
her blood slowed, but the storm was hardly over.
Lifetimes of experience and a mortal will that had proven itself to a
Goddess stood gazing back at her in the mirror, where two Firstborn soared
and entwined in the swirling background.
She had always had this choice: to reach out, to grasp to this firmly, or to
cast it to the wind and become something lesser, baser.
You took everything from me.
There was no question as to the choice and with practiced ease and
precision, she resettled the mask that contained and shrouded a world of
dark urges.
I wonder what makes you think I won't cut your throat one evening just to
hear you gurgle.
When she turned to depart, it was the High Priestess of Drakkara who stepped
away carrying All that she had accepted and All that had been given and
taken.
I will find a way!
Writer: Paklop
Date Thu Aug 6 13:57:29 2026
Writer: Paklop
Date Thu Aug 6 14:00:39 2026
Writer: Blinx
Date Thu Aug 6 23:13:55 2026
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Fri Aug 7 03:14:43 2026
To Knighthood Geirhart All ( IMM RP Religion Austinian )
Subject A Simple Question
He looked up at the statue while taking an unneeded breath and chuckled
softly to himself. Aliera did do a stellar job with it. He always said he
didn't want a statue of himself. It was a personal thing for him. Memories
fade, new faces take the places of old ones, deeds remembered and then
forgotten through the years. His duty as it always was to protect, and he
was here to do that. He was honored though, truly.
Standing next to him was a squire that the paladin remembered being a small
page, mucking stalls and at times going with him on a light patrol. The
sprouting teen grinned while looking up at the statue then at Thasgerd.
Thas side-eyed the boy.
"Dinna thin' i', dinna saey i'. " His own little wry grin stretched across
his face. "Dinna ya's go's du'ies? " He asked, half serious, half giving
the squire a hard time. The squire nodded, saluted, Thas saluted back, and
the squire turned to leave the hall, snickering under his breath. "I 'eard
tha'! " In the stables Buttercup whinnied. Thas knew she was snickering
too.
He roamed the halls of the Keep as he often did when the pages, squires, and
knights were bunked down for the night. He walked lightly in his leather
boots, his armors were hung up at home. He did a lot of thinking while
walking, and his little tour that he had taken countless times ended at the
top of the tower that overlooked Althainia, the beacon piercing the night.
He scanned over the lands and sneered slightly while his head turned
southwards. He brought his attention back towards the city, remembering
what Geirhart asked, "What do you want to do? "
A thumb ran across his lip while he thought of the question over and over.
He knew the answer. He stood at the tower and watched the sun rise.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Fri Aug 7 16:31:31 2026
Writer: Hayoshi
Date Fri Aug 7 17:41:36 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Fri Aug 7 19:38:17 2026
Writer: Paklop
Date Fri Aug 7 21:12:13 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sat Aug 8 12:47:07 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sat Aug 8 16:00:54 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Sat Aug 8 17:10:25 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Aug 9 16:38:52 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Sun Aug 9 19:53:55 2026
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Mon Aug 10 23:35:41 2026
To All Althainia Geirhart Agapitos ( Imm RP)
Subject Death of an Inquisition, End of an Inquisitor
The sound of hard leather boots on stone echo through the halls of the
small building, tapping out a staccato beat in the now empty halls. I pause
to glance in to each room and office as I pass.
The armory, left only to dust and cobwebs, any equipment long since used,
looted or removed to locales unknown. I close my eyes, picturing it when
last I saw it. It was filled with weapons of exceptional make fitted with
silver inlays. Pegs, hooks and stands of weapons to combat vampires, chaos
and those who revel in darkness, but are now no longer to be found. Racks
of armor blessed against the machinations of the foe lay empty and laden
with cobwebs. Shelves where potions and tinctures and vials blessed by
priests lay, now stripped bare. I spare one more glance to the room before
moving on. On, past barracks and offices, mess and scriptorium until
finally the treasury came last, deepest and that too, was like a bare
cupboard, any valuables including the safe long since repatriated to
elsewhere in the Empire.
Back through the building my steps carry me, echoing sharp reminders that
what once bustled with noise is now barren. A small breeze squeaks through
the cracks between boarded up windows to flutter a bit of parchment crumpled
on the ground. The ink was smudged and smeared, but I had seen similar
recently enough to make out the words that mattered: "hereby ordered
disbanded." With those three words, the cause I had given so many years to
was ended. Lost in thought, it was not until I look out over the building
from outside do I realize again where I am. The Emperor's Inquisition had
ended... And with it the life I knew, my identity and purpose.
I had been told there was nothing left of my old life, but I could not bear
not seeing this place one more time. It could not be real until I had. I
could not help but consider the Emperor's charge and the words of counsel
spoken to me by the Abbott. In response to them I cannot help but utter:
"I am not one to offer others hope... No, I have no hope to give... But
perhaps the Abbott was right... Perhaps even a ... Practical man... Has
value. "
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Mon Aug 10 23:41:54 2026
To All Althainia Geirhart Agapitos ( Imm RP)
Subject A Practical Man, on the Temple Road
Travelers passed me by without a second glance as I watched from the side
of the road. Each the passed seem to haul carts full of goods off to the
city. The more heavily laden wagons churning deep ruts in the muddy road.
One seemed to get stuck and the drover looked in my direction, eyes pleading
for help but perhaps too proud to ask.
"You just going to stand there fella or will you help an old man out? " the
drover called over even as his feet lost traction in the mud.
I stepped to help the poor sod carefully. As we both leaned into the back
of the wagon a young lad who looked to be the drover's son laid on the reins
and the wheels finally found purchase in the roadway. The progress was slow
but the wagon moved on and the drover turned to me.
"You traveling too? Or another one of them mercenaries been wandering
about? " the drover asked me, eyeing my kit suspiciously.
"A mercenary? No, just a practical man with an eye out for ill intent. " I
smoothly replied as I began to turn back to where I had been waiting at the
roadside.
"Oh, a practical man is it? And I suppose he has friends everywhere" the
drover muttered half to himself as he lengthened his stride to catch up to
the wagon, clearly meaning to end the interaction.
"Not everywhere.. But perhaps still a few. " I breathed out, twisting the
corner of my mouth into a smirk at my own private joke. With that I settled
back against the roadside tree to watch the traffic. Boring is good I told
myself, I had best delight in in while I can. Soon enough this road may
become far too interesting.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Aug 11 09:32:36 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Aug 11 19:36:47 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Tue Aug 11 21:02:48 2026
Writer: Ithelim
Date Wed Aug 12 13:12:51 2026
Writer: Kayla
Date Wed Aug 12 17:45:01 2026
Writer: Kayla
Date Wed Aug 12 17:45:41 2026
Writer: Kayla
Date Wed Aug 12 17:46:11 2026
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Thu Aug 13 02:41:17 2026
To All ( IMM RP Austinian )
Subject Marble Mouth
A giant plate of bacon, eggs, and pancakes sat on the table at the diner,
the smell of breakfast, or as Thasgerd deemed it, the best meal at anytime
permeated the air. A cup of sturdy coffee accompanied his second favorite
meal, and in front of him was a book.
His eyes zeroed in on the title, "How to Speak Betterer". He cocked his
head to the side slightly, like a dog trying to figure out what was going
on. "Tha' dinna saem righ'. " He thought. He had speaking lessons before
and they didn't quite work out, but hey, he tried.
His solution was to learn the languages of All those he could, the phonetics
made him slow down some, but he opened the book and the first page listed
the author and the contents. The name of the writer was faded and couldn't
quite make it out, and he wasn't going to try. His eyes scanned over the
contents, they were All the same name but each chapter was dedicated to one
letter. The first chapter made his brow rise. 'The Letter A and You'.
Every chapter after that, each letter after the other. He was feeling very
skeptical. His brow scrunched as he eyed 'The Letter O and You' and he
turned to the page that begun the chapter. His eyes widened when he saw the
diagrams of more than poorly examples of a mouth making an double O sound,
and another making an O face using the short O sound. He saw some words
that stuck out, "Now you try."
"'ell nah I'm nah doin' thaes 'ere, o' an'whaere. " He whispered with
amusement. He remembered speaking very slow, and controlled. It didn't
feel natural, but it kept other's from their heads exploding and ears
bleeding. He always made light of folks needing to go visit Nordmaar and
spend a day there listening to the Highlanders speak. There was some jovial
seriousness underneath. He closed the book and shook his head and chuckled
softly before sipping at his coffee. "Marble mout' i' bae. Tha's mae,
tha's mae kin. Dinna li'es i', t' bad. "
The ratty book closed and he rose from the booth, leaving a blue for the
tip, because that's what you do, and left the empty and clean plate and
drained cup of coffee along with the book. He wondered who he could get to
make an O face just for the entertainment.
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:16:25 2026
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion Malachive )
Subject The Wound Remembers I: Beneath Broken Chains
The Main Gathering Hall of the Warp was built as both sanctuary and
declaration.
Paintings covered its marble walls, preserving visions of fallen gods and
orcs tearing themselves free from bondage. Stone Abhorrants guarded every
passage. At the center of the octagonal chamber, a fountain murmured
beneath a golden image of Malachive standing astride the world, His hands
triumphantly ripping chains from it.
Before that image stood the tree of horn.
Light scarred its bloody bark. At its roots lay the corpse of an Arborien,
abandoned beneath the twisted branches like a final, meager offering.
Two servants of Chaos regarded the scene.
Justian stood tall upon four powerful legs, his pure white coat marked only
by the uneven textures of wounds long healed. White silksteel armor
enclosed his upper body with austere precision. Above his piercing blue
eyes, the eight-pointed star of Chaos remained carved into his forehead, its
bloodless edges healed while its center seemed forever raw. There was
warmth in his distinguished face and restraint in every movement, though
both gave way to something colder when the conversation turned toward gods
and endings.
Across from him towered Crelius Atennim, broad-shouldered and encased in the
remains of a long-dead dragon. Once-blue scales had darkened to the color
of rotted oak, their surfaces scarred and veined like diseased bark. His
pallid flesh was stretched taut over a body charted by cuts and gouges. One
black eye, touched by a vermilion sheen, burned from his severe face. The
other was gone, its ruined socket sealed beneath scar tissue twisted into
the crude likeness of an eight-pointed star.
From the hollow of Creliuss throat rose an unnatural growth. Sinewy
branches curled around his neck and climbed the back of his skull, their
tips burrowing into flesh and bone to form a warped, inverted crown.
Justian glanced briefly toward the corpse beneath the horn tree.
"Greetings," he said, his deep voice carrying through the hall. "I see the
forest has fallen and not gotten up in some time."
Crelius followed his gaze.
"Ah, that one. I had not noticed."
Justian chuckled.
"Let him rot before the tree," Crelius continued. "Should his soul not be
worthy for this world, the ether will find use for it. As meager as it
might be."
Justian agreed.
Their attention soon turned from the dead to the wounded world beyond the
Warp. Justian spoke of the storm raging near Fort Ironclad, a curious and
confusing place whose secrets had yet to reveal themselves.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:26:11 2026
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion Malachive )
Subject The Wound Remembers II: The Bleeding Vision
Then something split open inside Justians mind.
Pain tore through his skull with such force that the hall vanished. The
fountain fell silent. The painted liberation of the orcs, the golden image
of Malachive, Crelius, and the corpse beneath the tree were All swept away.
For one fleeting moment, there was only a vision.
A gnarled tree loomed before him, ancient and twisted. Blood welled from
wounds in its bark and coursed down its trunk in dark streams. Its crooked
branches reached outward like grasping fingers while its roots sank into
something unseen. The vision held him for no longer than a heartbeat.
Yet within that heartbeat it deepened. Something vast pressed behind it, as
though the tree were not merely seen but remembered. The air around it felt
heavy with old violence, and the sense of watching eyes lingered just beyond
perception, as if the world itself had briefly turned its attention toward
him. Then it was gone.
The hall returned. The pain vanished with it, leaving neither ache nor mark
behind, as though neither had ever existed.
Justian winced and looked wonderingly toward the horn tree. For a moment,
his composure gave way to uncertainty as he regarded its Light-scarred,
bloody bark and searched for some connection between it and the vision.
The moment passed unnoticed by Crelius.
Nor did Justian yet understand what had passed through him.
When Crelius returned to Justians account of the storm, he spoke of the
storm goddesss wrath made manifest and of portents beginning to reveal
themselves. The altars there held significance, he said, though other
designs had also begun to bear fruit.
Crelius drew a dragonbone wakizashi and regarded it with his single eye.
Ochre wisps writhed across the blade, painting his pallid flesh in a
jaundiced glow.
"The remnants of that wayward realm have been given a purpose," he said,
"forged in the memory of a great betrayal upon this world. The blade will
serve as a key, or a death stroke... Or perhaps both." Justian considered
the weapon and the truth given shape within it.
"Betrayal leaves a wound, and the wound remembers," he answered. "Now that
memory has been given an edge. Whether it opens the Path or strikes dead
what bars it, I suspect Chaos will find use for both."
Crelius nodded slowly and sheathed the blade.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Fri Aug 14 12:37:22 2026
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Religion Malachive )
Subject The Wound Remembers III: The Deacon
Even as they spoke, another soul lingered at the edge. A goblin had come
seeking Chaos, claiming a pact with the gods of destruction and asking to
become a blade of ruin. Crelius judged that the goblin might be put to use,
provided his allegiance was first tested.
Justian agreed, "He will be tested in the flesh before his flesh and blood
shall feed the Cause. Regardless, your words are true. He will be put to
use."
Before the horn tree and the dead man beneath it, Justian began teaching the
goblin the Verities across the distance of the Warp, his words carried
through unseen channels rather than presence.
They were not commandments made to please distant gods, he explained. They
were truths meant to open the eyes.
"First: Suffering exists. Every creature knows the wound, though many
pretend otherwise..."
Justian continued, guiding the goblin through each of the Verities in turn.
His words carried across the distance of the Warp, revealing the Path one
truth at a time.
Crelius regarded the corpse of the Arborien.
"I see it as worthwhile," he said as He pointed toward the corpse, "lest
more unworthy souls end up as our forsaken sapling here."
Then, as Justian continued his instruction, Crelius announced his departure,
"I shall return."
Justian nodded, and the towering Knight of Ruin departed. His felbeast
faded with him, leaving the white centaur alone beneath Malachives golden
triumph.
Only then did Justian recognize that something had changed.
The pain returned only as a memory. A gnarled tree. Blood flowing from
wounded bark. The horn tree still stood nearby beneath its scars of Light,
while the dead remained sprawled at its roots.
Yet the vision had not interrupted a battle, a sacrifice, or some grand
invocation. It had come as Justian spoke with Crelius beneath the image of
broken chains. It had passed through him before he taught the first Verity
to a soul seeking the Path.
No divine voice declared its meaning. No herald announced what had been
done.
There was only the lingering vision, the truth he had spoken, and the
certainty that his place within the priesthood had changed.
Justian, Word Bearer of Chaos, had become a Deacon.
His sapphire eyes settled upon the wounded tree.
"Every creature knows the wound," he had told the goblin.
Now he understood the answer that had been given.
The wound remembered. The star carved into his brow answered with a single,
painful pulse.
And now, through the Deacon, the wound had found its voice.
Writer: Zhul
Date Fri Aug 14 13:47:12 2026
To Piknim Aothien Cayenna All IMM RP
Subject The Last Letter
Jeb finished the last line carefully, sanded the parchment, and read it
through once more before setting the quill beside the inkwell. Hed spent
months writing for the orc, and despite being held captive and starved, hed
become very good at being a scribe for his captor.
Finished, Jeb said.
Zhul took the parchment despite being unable to read a word upon it. His
yellow eyes moved over the neat lines anyway, lingering near the bottom
where Jeb had signed his name.
Good?
Yes, General.
Zhul folded the letter and tucked it beneath his armor. For several moments
he said nothing, and Jeb mistook the silence for dismissal. He began
gathering the ink and unused parchment, already considering what the General
would demand written next.
Jeb.
The elf looked up.
Zhul had grown accustomed to him. That was the irritating part. A scribe
who could accurately render his words without needing clarification twice
was useful, and finding another would take time. Yet Jeb knew the roads,
the targets, the disguises, and the name Broken Lantern. He knew enough
that capture, escape, or simple carelessness could ruin his plans.
Zhul drew one of his axes.
Jeb understood before the blade was fully clear.
General.. My family?
Still alive, he lied.
The promise brought a brief, confused relief to the elfs face.
Then Zhul killed him.
The letter remained tucked safely beneath the Generals armor, its contents
known now to only those who needed to know them. Zhul looked down at the
dead scribe for a moment, annoyed more by the inconvenience than the corpse.
He would need another elf.
Writer: Zhul
Date Fri Aug 14 14:10:09 2026
To Aothien Piknim Cayenna Verminasia Shadow Drakkara All IMM RP
Subject No Verminasian
The uniforms had been folded and stacked along the barracks wall,
replaced by clothing gathered from the poorer districts of Verminasia. Worn
leather, patched wool, old traveling cloaks and scuffed boots covered the
tables while six soldiers picked through them for anything near their size.
Their weapons had received similar attention. Decorated scabbards had been
discarded, shields left behind, and anything carrying the colors of the
Royal Army joined the uniforms against the wall.
Take the brown one, a soldier said, tossing a cloak across the table.
Black makes you look like you're trying not to be noticed.
The man caught it and examined a tear near the shoulder. And this makes me
look like what?
Poor.
I already look poor.
Then it'll suit you.
The others laughed while they packed hard bread, dried meat and waterskins
into plain saddlebags. Their orders had already been given. They knew what
sort of travelers they were looking for and what was expected when they
found them, but one detail had been deliberately withheld. None of them
knew where they were going.
The door opened while one soldier was working dirt into a pair of boots that
still looked too new. General Zhul entered alone, and conversation faded as
every man in the room noticed what rested across his shoulder.
At first it resembled some grotesque club wrapped in barbed wire. Then the
shapes became recognizable. Slender legs had been bound together beneath
coils of iron, while two arms were pinned tightly against a narrow chest.
The body had been petrified from head to foot, preserving the pointed ears
and features of an elf several of the soldiers remembered following Zhul
through the fortress with parchment beneath one arm.
Zhul rested the petrified corpse against the table with a heavy knock and
produced a small folded map. He passed it to the nearest soldier, who
opened it while the others gathered around. Their eyes followed the road
south until they recognized Arkane, then moved beyond it to several lesser
roads and a circle drawn heavily in charcoal.
The clothing suddenly made sense. So did the plain weapons, the mixed coin
and every warning they had already received.
One soldier stared at the circle. So we're supposed to make it look like-
Zhul struck him across the mouth hard enough to send him stumbling against
the table. The soldier recovered with blood already gathering across his
lip, but whatever remained of the sentence stayed behind his teeth.
You were given your orders once, Zhul said calmly. There is no reason to
repeat them aloud.
His yellow eyes moved between the six men. You will not discuss this here,
on the road, or after you return. Not over drink, not with a lover, not
with a friend, and certainly not with another soldier. You know what is
expected of you. Now you know where.
He placed one thick finger upon the charcoal circle.
Here.
The soldier folded the map and slipped it inside his coat. When do we
leave, General?
Now.
Zhul lifted the barbed, petrified remains of his former scribe onto his
shoulder and left without another word. Silence remained for several
moments after the door closed behind him.
One soldier finally looked toward it.
Wasn't that his scribe?
Another returned to packing.
Not anymore.
Writer: Hrodric
Date Sun Aug 16 08:39:47 2026
Writer: Darcell
Date Sun Aug 16 16:47:15 2026
To All ( conclave )
Subject Makers Mark I of II
Darcell kept two ledgers.
The first contained measurements, materials, and designs. He recorded the
weight of every ingot, the balance of each weapon, the cost of rare
components, and the disposition of enchantments beneath the three moons.
Nothing was entrusted to memory when ink could preserve it more accurately.
The second ledger contained names.
That one was far more valuable.
Beside each name, Darcell noted what had been given, what had been promised,
and what might eventually be requested in return. A repaired breastplate
might earn the friendship of a soldier. A sword made at cost could place
him in the good graces of an officer. The right gift, presented before
anyone thought to ask for it, might purchase the gratitude of an entire
household.
Others called such gestures generous. Darcell never corrected them.
Generosity was an admirable reputation to possess, particularly when other
people paid to spread it. Every warrior who displayed his work advertised
his skill. Every noble who praised one of his gifts increased the value of
the next. He could afford to lose coin on a commission when the finished
piece carried his name somewhere coin alone could not take him.
Nothing left his hands without purpose.
Darcell intended to become known first as dependable, then as exceptional,
and finally as indispensable. Anyone could admire a craftsman. Darcell
wanted rulers to consult him, commanders to seek him, and accomplished
warriors to measure their own importance by whether he considered them
worthy of his attention.
His work would justify every bit of that regard.
He had no interest in producing ordinary steel. A common smith could heat
metal and beat it into the rough shape of a sword. Darcell meant to treat
hatred as another material of the craft. Malice could be folded into an
edge. Resentment could be sealed beneath a plate. The arcane would give
those passions structure, allowing a weapon to express what its wielder
lacked the discipline to contain.
The process would require precision. Uncontrolled hatred was wasteful. It
flared, exhausted itself, and left little behind. Darcell wanted something
more useful: hostility that waited, anger that held its edge, and cruelty
that answered only when called upon.
His armor would not merely turn aside a blow. It would resent the hand that
struck it.
His weapons would not simply cut. They would carry something of their
makers judgment into the wound.
There would be difficulties, naturally, though Darcell considered
difficulties an inconvenience suffered by people on their way to admiring
him.
Everyone had heard of the dwarven forges of Thaxanos. The stories credited
Lord Cliath with taking up the dwarves to help forge Algoron, and some
dwarves improved the account by claiming the god had fashioned them in his
own image. Darcell found the tale useful. It demonstrated what centuries
of repetition could accomplish for a craftsmans reputation.
Writer: Darcell
Date Sun Aug 16 16:48:15 2026
To All ( conclave )
Subject Makers Mark II of II
He had no desire to argue with dwarven legends. Argument suggested the
matter deserved consideration.
The dark elves had already built furnaces of their own. Exile had taught
them to create without the approval of Shalonesti, while the history of
House Katath had given them little reason to respect the judgments of those
who called themselves good. They did not require a creator gods blessing to
master fire and metal. They required fuel, knowledge, and the will to
improve upon what others had done.
Darcell possessed All three.
He closed the ledger and inspected the empty space where his makers mark
would eventually be drawn. It needed to be recognizable at a glance and
difficult to imitate. In time, buyers would search for it before judging
the weapon itself. Counterfeiters would attempt to copy it. Rivals would
complain that the reputation attached to the mark exceeded the quality of
the work.
Rivals often said such things when excellence became expensive.
Darcell imagined his weapons passing through the realm. One might hang at
the side of a king. Another might be carried into a battle that altered the
borders of kingdoms. A breastplate might preserve the life of someone whose
gratitude proved more valuable than gold. Each piece would travel farther
than he could, enter halls where he had not yet been invited, and introduce
him before he arrived.
That was the true value of the forge.
It would manufacture more than weapons and armor. It would manufacture
expectation. By the time Darcell appeared in a foreign court, those
gathered there would already know his work, his reputation, and the cost of
securing his favor. They would have heard his name from people they
respected or feared.
They might believe they had summoned him.
Darcell smiled at the thought.
In time, greatness and Darcell would mean the same thing.
Writer: Aothien
Date Wed Aug 19 01:15:43 2026
To Piknim Geirhart Drakkara Imm All ( Zhul )
Subject One mans gifts are anothers nightmares. (Pilgrimage)
Aothien crept through the shadows, carrying long wooden stakes and coils
of rope. The eastern roads of Arkane were quiet at this time. Despite the
Temple of Siccara being near by, so was the Horde, and they were not known
for mercy. He glanced over the stock he had. Depending how thorough his
assistant was, he might need more than this, and perhaps even with extra
stakes that would just provide more of what he called 'Object Lessons'. He
continued to build up his pile of stakes, waiting for the known sign. A
whistle, in a very specific rhythm. It might call some attention, but
again, this wasn't exactly a place one would go looking for trouble.
Almost as he thought that, a three toned whistle chirped in the distance,
and the remnants of a magical portal faded. This would be whatever the
assistant brought. Aothien smiled grimly as he skulked towards the whistle,
being careful not to make too much noise through the brush. Twenty someodd
corpses were left, in various states of death or dying. The ones not fully
dead yet bound and gagged to prevent more noise. Pilgrims, the whole lot of
them, some either too curious or too careless for their own good. It was
time to get to work.
Pulling a long brutal looking dagger from his waist, the work began. Tying
the pilgrims or bodies of pilgrims into large wooden stakes, and placing
them along the eastern road. Some tied with rope, others entrails that were
still dragging upon the ground. He tried to keep the living ones breathing,
settling for rope and wounding them so they would not live past the march of
the larger group of pilgrims. It was tiring and bloody work. Not his
blood, but a mortal corpse held a surpringly large amount of it. The end
result would be worth the work. Several hundred yards of road, with the
pilgrims very friends and family butchered and displayed before their very
eyes.
Yes.. Let us see old man Sol'Canta keep their hopes now that the very fear
they only see in nightmares is directly before their eyes.
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Wed Aug 19 09:20:49 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Aug 19 09:44:59 2026
Writer: Geirhart
Date Wed Aug 19 18:15:58 2026
To All shadow althainia imm rhelic
Subject Pilgrimage: Mourning the Loss
Mourning
Geirhart lightly touched the foot of the crucified pilgrim, as though if he
applied any more pressure it would collapse upon itself. Families gathered
around him in mourning, their tears and heartbreak evident. The old priest
had seen this before, the Darkness often strung up bodies as a show of
defiance. Weither it was Boof blowing his horn to destroy Althainian
soldiers, Tobryck killing acolytes daily for a hundred days, or any of the
other multitude of dark worshipers, it was the same.
As with each time, the old priest would aid in taking the body down and
giving it the proper last rites. He would console the family and let them
know their loved one was in the arms of the Holy Family. As was always the
case, voices grew in anger as the mob of pilgrims began to turn from grief
to rage.
'Where were the Arkanian soldiers? Does Queen Nereza allow peaceful folk to
just be slaughtered on her Highways?! '
'It was too dangerous to be this close to the Horde! We should never have
come here! '
'We should march upon Verminasia! Clearly this was the threat they promised
us! They are to blame! '
Voices raised around him and Geirhart knew this moment All too well. He
heard it when Gareth fought itself over the war with Shalonesti. He heard
it within the rage of the elves over the slaughter of their people by Chaos.
He saw it in the eyes of the Thalosians who's lives were upended by the Rip
in the skies. The mob was a dangerous thing and just as before, he would
need to calm them down.
'Friends! '
'I understand you grieve and that in that sorrow there is anger but this is
not the way. We have no army, we have no forces here to counter their
attacks, we are but simple pilgrims travelling. To turn violent now is to
give into what they wish. They would use this against us or even as reason
to slaughter more of us. '
Geirhart paused as his baritone voice carried across the fields.
'There will be a time for Justice, mark my words. What you have lost shall
be avenged but it must not be through more bloodshed. This is not our way,
this is not who we are. This Pilgrimage was to find the soul of the Light
and that quest, we shall learn nothing and undo All we have strived for
should we turn to their ways. '
Geirhart raised his staff, its golden circlets catching the lingering rays
of the setting sun.
'Our strength lies not in retribution! It lies in the communal acts of
kindness, compassion, and community that binds us together. Comfort one
another, aid one another, remember that in this no one is alone. If you are
called to righteous war, seek out Gareth or the Wrath. Train yourself with
the values of those Knights and Soldiers and rise above petty hate. Be
something more! '
Geirhart's voice continues to raise, the wind catching his robes as they
float and spill around him.
'Our journey is almost at an end. That journey was never one of ease or
without sacrifice though we were fortunate over this summer time. Danger
was ever over our shoulder. Yet let our defiance be a continuation of that
quest! Let the realm know that we shall not be cowed! We shall keep to our
commitments and we will strengthen our faith! Let them know that these
sacrifices shall not be in vain but will create the momentum that will
inspire us after this pilgrimage is over. We shall be stronger, together!
'
Eyes, red from tears, seemed to lose the anger that dwelt within them.
Backs grew stiffer as children were held close by a single parent.
Something floated unseen between each individual that gave them All a
calmness.
'This is just the beginning of a new chapter and book! Let us turn that
page and welcome the future to come! '
No cheers greeted the priest just nods. Noses were wiped and backs were
patted, and the old man walked into the crowd to tend once more to the
duties of a priest.
Resolve
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Aug 19 21:02:22 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Aug 19 21:02:53 2026
Writer: Khexisth
Date Thu Aug 20 07:53:54 2026
To All Shadow Aothien Melchaleve ( Imm RP Drakkara )
Subject Eyes of White, Hands of Umbra
Khexisth stood at the threshold, his scarred head tilted, listening to
the fading echo of Aothien's words. The Inquisitor had settled beneath the
Umbrastone, his milky eyes closed, his body radiating the quiet agony of
whatever had taken root beneath his skin. The white blotches had spread,
then stabilized.
He turned his gaze toward the corridor where the golden light had vanished.
A light that flees deeper is either a lure, or a lesson.
His jaw tightened. He had spoken those words to the clan, but they had been
meant for himself. The Citadel did not offer gifts without cost. It did
not offer warnings without purpose. And whatever had struck Umbrus Caelum,
whatever had shaken its ancient foundations and left the air thick with
recognition, it was not finished.
Should any light, whether godborn or otherwise, breach the threshold of
Umbrus Caelum and approach Drakkara's seat on Algoron, that would be a gift
worth witnessing indeed.
The Citadel's shudder faded into stillness, but the weight of what had
passed lingered in the air like the echo of a bell too large to hear fully.
Reports began to filter in from the towers and the outer battlements, scouts
and sentinels who had seen the golden light streak across the sky above
Arkania, its trajectory deliberate. It had struck the Citadel with purpose,
and then, as if satisfied with its impact, it had turned and flown toward
the coast, vanishing into the haze where land met sea.
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Aug 20 09:47:44 2026
Writer: Daveigh
Date Thu Aug 20 12:14:03 2026
To All Althainia Knighthood Justice Austinian Drakkara Imm
Subject Pilgrimage: The Golden Residue I
The heavy wooden doors of the Temple of Siccara stood open as they always did,
inviting the weary into a space of peace and healing. Inside, the vaulted
ceilings caught the glorious light from the high stained glass windows,
scattering a variety of colors across the ancient flagstones. The air was filled
with a goodness of spirit that usually felt like a warm embrace, yet as Daveigh
prepared to depart, the atmosphere felt heavy still with what they had
encountered. The reports of the pilgrimage being attacked and the innocent being
slaughtered had cast a long shadow over the sanctuary. She adjusted her robes
and stepped through the carved stone archway, leaving the comfort of the golden
radiance behind to face the grim reality of the road.
As she exited out onto the small dirt road, the sounds of the distant river and
the rustling leaves of the forest filled the air. To the north, the flash of
white stone from the temple was still visible through the trees, but her focus
was on the path ahead. She had come prepared for a somber and difficult task.
Based on the reports, she expected to find again a site of absolute desecration
where the followers of Kadiya, Siccara, and Kantilles had been displayed upon
the unholy symbols of Drakkara. She had every intention of ensuring that those
who died were given the dignity they deserved.
However, as she approached the area where the bodies had been found, the
expected scent of death and the oppressive weight of malice were nowhere to be
found. A remarkable change had swept over the landscape. The streak of golden
light that had recently sailed through the skies above Arkane, and its divine
wake, had transformed the site of the tragedy. Where there should have been the
gruesome sight of the crucified, there was now only a profound sense of
consecrated holiness. The sinister icons of the Drakkaran had been wiped away
and replaced by a warmth that seemed to emanate from the very soil.
The bodies of the pilgrims were gone, and it was at that moment that Daveigh
realized they had not been taken by the hands of men. In the area where the
shadows had been deepest, several sets of golden footprints now glowed with a
soft and divine residue. These footprints trailed off toward the city of
Arkania, marking a path of promise rather than one of defeat. It became clear
that the Light had reached to claim their own. Darkness would lay no further
claim or final victory over what remained.
There were still pilgrims gathered along the road, however, and the sight of
them brought the weight of what had happened back into focus. Some stood in
silence, staring toward the place where the bodies had been. Others wept openly,
their grief made All the more painful by the knowledge that they had so recently
walked the same road as those who were now gone. More than a few kept glancing
toward the golden footprints, wondering what they meant and whether the same
fate might find them before they could return home.
Writer: Daveigh
Date Thu Aug 20 12:14:53 2026
To All Althainia Knighthood Justice Imm
Subject Pilgrimage: The Golden Residue II
Daveigh moved among them quietly, offering what comfort she could. Families were
drawn close together, mothers keeping their children near while those who had
come alone stood with an uneasiness that was difficult to hide. She reassured
those who feared for their own safety that they would not be abandoned on the
road, taking the time to speak with them and ensure that those preparing to
leave had a safe passage home. The Emperor would see to the needs of the
families who had seen loss this day, she assured them, and the Abbott and the
followers of the Light would continue to pray for the fallen, for their
families, and for every soul who had undertaken the Pilgrimage and even those
that had not.
The woman stood for a long time in the center of the road, looking at the spot
where the crosses had stood. Burial shrouds could be set aside, for they were
no longer needed. Kneeling upon the holy ground, she reached into her bag and
pulled out a bundle of fresh white flowers. She laid them gently over the spot
where each follower had been as a tribute to their sacrifice and a sign of
respect for the blessings of the Light.
She offered a quiet prayer for those who were now held in the embrace of the
Family. Though the servants of Drakkara had intended to spread fear and despair,
their cruelty had been answered by a display of divine grace. The road was quiet
again, yet the lingering warmth of the golden light remained as a declaration
that it would always protect its own.
Having finished her prayer, she stood and turned back toward the gathered
pilgrims, remaining with them for a while longer before finally making her way
back toward the city, leaving the flowers to rest upon the consecrated earth.
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Thu Aug 20 14:59:13 2026
To All Althainia Agapitos Geirhart Imm
Subject Pilgrimage: Remorse, Inner Conflict and a Wilderness of Mirrors (I)
Back and forth Erlestoke paced. Unable to get the images of the dead
pilgrims from his mind. {I have seen death before, I have wrought death
before, on battlefields and in streets, alleyways and homes, but to see such
hapless victims.. The thoughts echoed through his consciousness.
Erlestoke halted his movement looking out through the quiet garden in a
desperate attempt to find peace. But the cobblestone path nor the soft
grass or the quietly burbling fountain could offer any solace. {It was my
failure.. I could have done more.. I should have fought harder to keep the
remnants of the Order together... If we still had assets in place perhaps
something could have been done to prevent this...
Shuffle and step, shuffle and step and back to pacing Erlestoke fell into
more fluid motion. "And where was I!? " he practically shouted breaking
the calm of the garden. A moment later he froze in place quickly twisting
his head at the sound of footsteps out by the road. Only when Erlestoke saw
the liveried city guard march past paying him no more than a token glance
did Erlestoke finally relax his unexpected tension.
Erlestoke finally ended his pacing and sat down on a nearby bench. What had
his mentor called it? 'The wilderness of mirrors'... The place where
paranoia clouds judgment and truth cannot be separated from fiction. He
stared at the fountain, his eyes becoming fixated on the words engraved in
stone.
"For those that spend their lives in worship and service to these gods, may
the paths from this place bring you just a little closer to them." The
plaque read.
"Where do my paths lead? " Erlestoke whispered quietly to himself, "How
much longer can I work in shadow before I am consumed by it? "
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Thu Aug 20 15:01:07 2026
To All Althainia Agapitos Geirhart Imm
Subject Pilgrimage: Remorse, Inner Conflict and a Wilderness of Mirrors (II)
Erlestoke sat reflecting on his life, talents, faith and purpose for many
hours until he was shaken from his thought by the coming of the dawn over
the tops of the nearby buildings and with its arrival he stalked from the
garden and out into the city streets. The hint of bustle just crawling out
into the streets with early work being done in bakeries and taverns to
prepare for the day, the aromas of baking bread and savory porridges wafting
into the street.
Scent, what a deep tie it must have to memory to evoke such vivid thoughts
of his childhood. Erlestoke's thoughts were pulled back to the mystery stew
that always seemed to be bubbling away. The potatoes always a little too
overcooked, the meat unidentifiable and stringy, the vegetables were always
rough chopped and that hint of thyme, parsley and rosemary unmistakable on
the palette. Not fine cuisine, but hearty and filling and far more than a
host of war orphans and abandoned children could have scrounged on their
own.
War seemed inevitable, even his childhood had been marked by it. There
would be no escaping it now either, while he valued his mentor's teachings
and the pragmatism he was taught, and the inheritance he had received,
treated almost as an adopted son; he found himself thinking back on the
dreams he had of his life before his unorthodox education. He still
recalled the day he had been dropped off at the orphanage by those heavily
armored warriors. He recalled the swords they carried and how he wished to
be one of them.
His nostalgia was broken then for the moment as he found himself in Memorial
Circle staring up at the monuments. I had dreamt of being so much more than
what I have become...
Erlestoke found himself once again lost in thought wrestling with how he
could better prevent pilgrims, the pious, the innocent and young from being
harmed again.
War must be while dark powers strive for the destruction of the Light, of
Hope and of Good. War demands warriors, can I be that after so long having
been a spy, or inquisitor or the other roles I have filled, can I even find
hope again?
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Thu Aug 20 19:30:29 2026
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Fri Aug 21 01:56:39 2026
To All Geirhart Knighthood ( IMM RP Religion Austinian )
Subject Thasgerdian Philosophy
Sixteen men and women stood at attention with their shields strapped to
their backs, and weapons housed in their sheathes, and standing before them
was Thasgerd. He hand picked these knights, They were personable but
followed the Thasgerdian philosophy of be gentle, but don't take any crap.
He briefed them on the situation and what happened to the pilgrims his
friend Geirhart was leading. He told the knights these people will be
terrified and on edge, give them comfort and hope, be their hammer and
shield, watch each other's backs, and the pilgrim's. Work with the Shield
Knights, and he'd be there in a few days when Abbott Sol'Canta and the
pilgrims made their trek out of Arkane.
He looked over the three paladins and confessors, they always worked well
together, and if some soulless vampire was lurking, they would know. He
moved on to the four rangers, they each donned armors and hooded cloaks of
earthy greens and browns, a good team of keeping eyes All around and quiet
in the woods the trails snaked through. Clad in heavy arcanium plate were
an armsman and armswoman. Various weapons, whips, flails, large swords and
polearms and whatever else they felt they could strap to themselves were
ready to do what an armsman or woman's weapons were made to do. A team of
two wu-jen, both from Shokno and very regal looking in their silk attire
would be able to provide some diversions with the elements if needed, and
two illusionists, very much of Kantilles and very capable of confusing an
enemy with a false image and just All around fun to be around. Except if
you got charmed or electrocuted or blasted with some acid.
Thasgerd's eyes gleamed over the Knights again then asked, "Catch mae drif'?
"
The sound of armor, cloaks and robes, weapons and shields shifted as boots
hit the floor and snapped against the heel of the other and in unison a
confident 'Aye, Sir! ' was belted out. Their general dismissed them and
sent them to meet up with the pilgrims. Whoever it was wanted a reaction.
They got one.
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 15:58:08 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 16:06:13 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 16:14:29 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 16:22:23 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 16:24:57 2026
Writer: Thuken
Date Fri Aug 21 18:20:34 2026
Writer: Thuken
Date Fri Aug 21 18:27:31 2026
Writer: Thuken
Date Fri Aug 21 18:33:03 2026
Writer: Rundelhous
Date Fri Aug 21 21:49:53 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:19:55 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:20:01 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:20:07 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:20:11 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:20:19 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:38:27 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:45:04 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:50:30 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 21 23:56:05 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sun Aug 23 19:48:11 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sun Aug 23 20:01:14 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sun Aug 23 20:23:41 2026
Writer: Agarwood
Date Mon Aug 24 15:19:07 2026
To All Sebatis Religion Imm
Subject The Red Moon's Quiet
The sight filled him with disgust. Lunite paved the once temperate Arkanian
countryside. Where tall grass once stood, the corrupting decay of black oil
dripped from its blades. Where the ground was once verdant and teeming with
life, the mutating influence of the fallen moonshard's pure magick rent it all
to dust. Motes of magick that might have once inspired wonder flitted in and
out of view of the irradiated vista, like fireflies mourning the destruction
of their home.
The Priest looked out over the vista and saw companies of Drakkara Knights
erecting their tents. Clad in their black armors and supported by a goddess
that believed she owned the world, flagleaders pointed and issued orders to
their acolytes, initiates, and infantry. A flank of infantrymen were locked
in their pikes against errant golems and chimeras, the leavings of a cataclysm
delivered to Algoron by Chaos.
Storm is fortunate that Chaos left something for it to conquer, thought the
Priest to himself with a tinge of acid. Inwardly, the arboren was at a loss
for what to do. In a way, he respected how quickly Storm mobilized in pursuit
of their endeavors. Like vultures, they made an attempt to leave nothing behind.
They laid their claim, picked at bones and the carrion of a celestial body, and
all in the hopes to gain an advantage or appease their Queen.
Even vultures have their place, reflected Agarwood. This devastation lies out
and beyond what is typical for the world to recover from. Magick, not unlike a
campfire, can sooth if tended to responsibly or destroy when left unattended.
The Arkanian continent was pressed against an ember fallen from a great flame,
but surely Sebatis had taken notice. That Kwainin had glanced from his books to
note the devastation.
The arboren pressed his staff into the desolate dirt in an attempt to summon a
tree, yet his magick failed him in a most grim display. The tree bolted a meter,
illuminated by a faint hue of green. Not before long, the tree began to wither
and bow before it slumped into a pile not unlike a coil of limp rope. The green
hue replaced by a sickly red before fading away completely. The earth drank deep
of his magick.
At the moment of his awakening, Agarwood looked up to see the Red Moon All of its
complete glory. It's light washed him, nourished him, and made him feel strong
and safe. Years after his awakening, the arboren stared now at a piece of what he
once considered to be a parent or guardian figure and was saddened by what it
actually seemed. The Young Master was not here. There wasn't any word from above.
Mortals need to figure this out for themselves. Balance must figure this out for
themselves.
Writer: Krazeth
Date Mon Aug 24 16:20:05 2026
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Mon Aug 24 20:17:09 2026
To Knighthood Althainia All ( IMM RP Austinian )
Subject Yummy in the Tummy
There weren't any clunky echoes of heavy armored sabatons coming from
Thas while he strolled down the main hallway of Gareth Keep. He thought his
idea of a training, communicating and small combat drill wasn't too shabby.
The pages and squires would work together on following instructions, talking
and helping each other, and then finally a mock drill of firing rotten fruit
from a trebuchet. It was a great idea, pages and squires could have some
fun, nothing could go wrong, and Thas could use it to fire waffles into
Solivar's mouth while he was flying. He might even show Azadar.
He walked past the requisition room then stopped in his tracks, backed up
slowly and quietly and peeked in. Stanley was cooking. He wasn't baking
hard and thick bricks of the most bland of bland and no joy found whatsoever
in the hard tack, or better known as traveler's bread. Ol' Stanley was
cooking cooking. The smell was amazing and made Thasgerd's mouth water.
There was a soft sizzling clapping in a pan and Stan was checking something
in the oven, then moving to stir something in a pot.
"Whaaaa' ya's doin'? " The question was genuine and Thas saw Stanley tense
up for a moment then relax.
A gruff voice answered matter of fact like, "Making dinner. " Stanley
glanced over his shoulder with a towel flung over it then grabbed the only
plate that Thas had ever seen in the supply room and witnessed the birth of
Stanley's dinner.
A crisp golden brown chicken breast that Thasgerd could only believe was the
happiest and plumpest chicken to peck at the most delicious worms was
wrapped in a lattice of two of the thickest bacon strips the paladin's eyes
had seen. Then a cloud on a wooden spoon rose from the pot, the mashed
potatoes and turnips were placed with gentleness then given a pad of butter
that melted like delicate snow on a hill. Finally, glistening carrots that
could have, must have been harvested from a god, or a really good farmer
that were glazed in honey, from a colony where the colony didn't have just a
queen, but All the bees were royalty.
"'ow ya's know 'ow t' cook li'e tha'? " Surprise and drool were prominent
on Thasgerd's face.
"No one ever asked me. " Stan cut the bacon wrapped chicken in half and
slid a plate to Thasgerd.
Thas died where he stood. He saw heaven and it was filled with bacon
wrapped chicken. He felt at complete ease. Everything was at it should be
at this moment. Then the moment passed and Thas came back to the Keep. His
head was full of an idea. He'd ask Stanley to make a few more dishes and
Thas would present them to the Lord Crown and Lady Shield and the knights.
Something full of goodness, not flavorless despair, something to share, not
something to grind into a fine powder to make mortar. The best part, if
they could get the menu changed, he could share with kids and folks he saw
on the streets of the kingdoms.
Writer: Aothien
Date Mon Aug 24 23:06:29 2026
Writer: Symantha
Date Wed Aug 26 03:41:14 2026
Writer: Rundelhous
Date Wed Aug 26 07:34:20 2026
To Knighthood Althainia ( ( Geirhart Aliera ) All Imm RP Religion Taliena )
Subject The Pilgrimage : Cold Knights and Warm Hearts
Rundelhous stood outside of the temple of Nadrik on Icewall, sipping on
some hot mixture of cardamom tea and coffee. The sun had begun to fall
behind the mountains and the crisp air began to chill in earnest. He made a
mental note to pack on warmer clothing for this leg of the pilgrimage and
took another drink. A few of the pilgrims milled about outside, talking
about the weather, the speech from the candle lighting, the steps ahead, and
the path from behind.
He pulled out a few wrapped fried katayef's from his pouch and walked over
to the group, smiling as he offered them out, then pulling out small copper
cups and pouring the hot drink out for those in the small circle.
'These are gifts of the Copper Kettle in New Thalos. Do we have any
Thalosian's here? '
One by one they looked around and shook their heads. Chuckling, Rundelhous
was about to say something when a dark eyed woman spoke up, a balaclava
wrapped around her head. 'I believe All the Thalosian's are inside staying
where it is warm. '
Rundelhous chuckled again and nodded, 'Aye. I believe they are, indeed. I
would be joining them soon, I think. But first, to enjoy this beautiful
night that we have been given. It is oft said that the night is the
Darknesses domain. That they can, and will, do what they want within it,
that there is no light in the night. '
He looked up at the clear sky and shook his head, 'No, no. You see. Even
in the night sky there are uncountable stars. There is no purity of a
voidless sky. Just as the we lit our candles and felt the Light and warmth,
the Hope passed around. So too can you find it in the stars. Each one
shining as bright as they can against the Darkness. Each one keeping the
dark at bay. '
He looked back down at those around him and smiled widely. 'So too, like
the candles and suns and stars, do we radiate that warmth and hope.
Galvanized by the Love of the Light Mother, we can stand ready against the
Darkness trusting in the others beside us. '
'Love is underrated when it comes to the Darkness and is seen as a weakness.
That is our strength. Our Love for each other and our willingness to do
what needs to be done to protect our neighbors, our friends, and our
families. So hold fast to that feeling you felt during the candle lighting.
Steel your hearts against the Darkness, not with hate, but with Love. '
He stayed with the group, chatting and sharing stories as the White Moon
rose above the skyline, full and shining. Soon enough the crowd left for
the warmer environment of the temple, but Rundelhous stayed outside and
watched the coming and goings of the road. Not out of fear for an attack,
but out of the love he had for those inside.
Love, not fear.
Smiling he took out another fried katayef and began chewing on it. Warmth
radiating through his chest.
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 10:51:54 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 10:59:27 2026
Writer: Agarwood
Date Wed Aug 26 12:21:56 2026
To All Sebatis Religion Imm
Subject Moonshard's Impact: The Wavering of Wards
Students of the Hidden Academy of Magick filed their way down the branching
wings, filling the sandstone corridors of the structure with the footsteps of
people eager to learn and be on time. At the top of sunrise every day, the
daybreak above casts down a warm amber light that illuminates the foyer. The
students enjoyed congregating in the foyer beneath the watch of Sebatis's
statue. They would jape and carry on in their games, trade ideas and thoughts
about classes they were excused from, and share stories about their families
and their upbringings. The temple attracted people of All ages and persuasions
associated with the balance. Adults and young children mingled in their studies.
The adults shared their wealth of experience, while the young brought their
unobfuscated perspective and fresh mind to challenge established thought.
In this exchange of the new and old, established and burgeoning, the academy
sought the open flow of learning and ideas. And it was received.
"Mana consciousness theorhetics begins in five minutes," a gnome's voice echoed
throughout the foyer. Professor Barth, the students called him. The gnome didn't
appreciate people's attempts at pronouncing the full length of his name, so he
begrudgingly accepted the nickname since it caused him less annoyance. He was a
short gnome man with tan skin and the faintest lick of a Thalosian accent. He
was dressed a firm and professionally tailored grey tweed suit with the faintest
hint of a hound's tooth micropattern. Slicked back brown hair exposed his pointy
ears and his middle-aged gnomish face still bore some youthful pluck. The gnome
found himself this position while on holiday from Gahboom. While less machine
inclined than typical Gahboomfolk, he was a learned mage with an appreciation for
magick as an observed phenomenon. Plus, the regional food was wonderful.
"Five minutes, stud-", Barth began to shout, but was interrupted. A tremor and a
distant, faint explosion rattled the temple underneath his feet. The foyer went
quiet and All in attendance stared up at the sky that peeked through the canyon
overhead. Dribbles of fine sandstone and dust rained down against the rattling.
The Professor looked up at the sky and stared in disbelief as the illusory ward
that blended the academy into the canyon behind the vista of the Indigo Plunge
became visible. First, it became an oil sheen curtain held suspended in the air.
It then turned a faint red as the sheen began to waver and race as if influenced
by the desert wind. With a near silent hum, the veil fell as if it were a bubble
that popped. Motes of magick floated from above and beyond the falls until the
bonds and arcane command that held them in this world faded away. With the veil
gone, a spray from the Indigo Plunge began to waft into the foyer room. The spray
soaked everyone in the foyer, causing a ruckus and making everyone retreat deeper
into the corridors and classrooms.
What the devil just happened, thought Barth to himself.
"Professor! The wards were dispelled! Something has forced them to shift out of
phase!" barked an advanced mage from the entrance to the foyer. He was soaked to
the bone.
How. "Those wards took MONTHS to synthesize and erect! Blast it all. What the
hell is happening out there?!" Barth shouted in open annoyance.
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 13:37:04 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 13:46:11 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 13:53:22 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Aug 26 13:58:05 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 09:19:12 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 16:35:15 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Thu Aug 27 16:39:54 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 16:45:27 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 16:51:03 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 16:59:40 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Thu Aug 27 17:05:58 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Thu Aug 27 17:09:18 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Thu Aug 27 17:20:35 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 28 01:02:45 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 28 02:40:49 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 28 03:02:03 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Fri Aug 28 14:00:25 2026
Writer: Symantha
Date Fri Aug 28 15:34:09 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 17:36:59 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:00 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:17 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:27 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:32 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:36 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 18:24:50 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 20:12:05 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Fri Aug 28 20:13:59 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sat Aug 29 01:02:00 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sat Aug 29 01:11:34 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sat Aug 29 01:13:02 2026
Writer: Ainin
Date Sat Aug 29 01:13:06 2026
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sat Aug 29 03:15:36 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Sat Aug 29 15:22:44 2026
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 16:50:14 2026
To All Verminasia Shadow kender ( rp imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject KRAP: "A Modest Proposal"
It began, as most problems do, with good intentions.
The Gogothath enclave was Piknim Cracklespark's initial answer to a question
nobody had bothered to ask - what does Verminasia do with its kender? The
answer, historically, had been simple and unkind. King Isadore, who had
looked at a young would-be witch, with her bright eyes and big smile, and
decided to ban their kind outright. He had once referred to her as a
cockroach, she recalled bitterly. King Marcaus had instructed the
peacekeepers to attack kender on sight, which the peacekeepers had done with
characteristic Markonian enthusiasm. The policy across most of Verminasia's
history had been, in essence, extermination by inconvenience - make the city
hostile enough and the kender will wander elsewhere.
Piknim had built something different. Gogothath, the principal county of
her Archduchy, had been cultivated deliberately into a place where kender
could belong - not as pests to be managed but as potential resources
siphoned from other kingdoms. A racial enclave. A haven with purpose. The
logic was sound and the results had been, by most measures, positive. Teven
Wifflenut of the Verminasian Queensguard was proof enough of that.
The problem, she now recognized with the particular clarity of someone who
had made a very specific kind of mistake, was that kender wander.
They had wandered into Gogothath as intended, trickling in from All corners
of Arkania. They had also wandered out of it, escaping her notice, seeping
into the city proper, the back-alleys and bridge underpasses and parks, and
into several establishments that had lodged formal complaints. They had
brought their bright eyes and their big smiles and their tendency to eye
everything within reach into a city that had spent centuries cultivating an
atmosphere of elegance, decadence, and dark menace - and they were ruining
it.
Piknim stood upon the palace balcony, her gaze tracking an occasional streak
of color that clearly did not belong, and thought about Isadore. She
thought about Marcaus. She thought about the word cockroach and how she had
carried it like a stone for years and what it had cost her to become
something that word could not stick to.
Then she went back to the throne room, where a throng of counselors were
waiting, and drafted the Kender Relocation and Accountability Plan.
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 17:13:31 2026
To All Verminasia Shadow ( rp imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject KRAP: "We'll call them Fun Camps"
The fundamental challenge of kender management, Piknim had concluded
after considerable reflection, was found in the middle. Very young kender
did not yet wander - they lacked the maturity and survival skills to do so.
Elderly kender, their wanderlust spent, had settled into something
approaching stillness. It was the middle - the bright-eyed, light-fingered,
perpetually curious middle - that caused problems. KRAP would therefore
focus its attentions precisely there.
Article I: Age Brackets. Kender below the age of wanderlust onset and above
the age of wanderlust conclusion were to be left in peace. They were not
the problem. They were, in fact, the solution - more on this presently.
Article II: The Sorting. Kender of wanderlust age arriving in Verminasia
proper were to be assessed and sorted into one of three categories.
Category A: The Afflicted. Kender displaying signs of moroseness, unusual
introspection, darkness of temperament, or what the common folk might call
being a little bit wrong were to be identified immediately and redirected to
Kendermoor Keep for further evaluation. These were Drakkara's business.
These were the Darkfinder's business. These were, in All likelihood, the
ones who had been waiting without knowing what they were waiting for.
Category B: The Compliant. A small, carefully curated number of kender
demonstrating above-average discipline, usefulness, or an unusual
willingness to do what they were told without immediately asking seventeen
questions about why - these could be retained as Camp Counselors and support
staff. There would not be many of them. This was fine.
Category C: The Remainder. One might accurately refer to them as normal
kender.
Article III: Disposition of the Remainder. Fledglings of the Moonlily
Circle were working overtime on a solution.
The cauldron had a tendency to produce magic of the most volatile sort,
whether a witch wanted it or not, that could polymorph people into frogs.
Some of the more complicated spell recipes were All but guaranteed to
produce a prodigious cloud of {ppink smoke that could polymorph several people
at once. This was, in controlled quantities, a useful property.
The Remainder would be processed in small batches through designated
chambers - cheerfully appointed, the Witch-Queen had insisted, with adequate
ventilation and light refreshments - and released thereafter into the
marshlands that dominated Gogothath, where the climate was agreeable and the
insect population robust. The transformation was temporary. Probably.
Hopefully not.
Article IV: The Resulting Culture. Gogothath would, under the auspice of
KRAP, develop a demographic profile unlike any other settlement on Algoron -
very young kender in the care of very old kender, with a sparse, curated
population of the Afflicted and the Compliant occupying the middle years.
It was, Piknim acknowledged, unusual. It was also functional, intentional,
and considerably tidier than the alternative.
She had not invented this problem. She had, however, caused it, and causing
it had put her in the uncomfortable position of implementing a solution that
Isadore and Marcaus would have recognized immediately and approved of
wholeheartedly, which was a thought she chose not to dwell on for longer
than was strictly necessary.
The kender in the streets were not cockroaches.
They were, however, somebody else's problem now.
Writer: Piknim
Date Sat Aug 29 17:18:12 2026
To All Verminasia Shadow ( rp imm Drakkara Cayenna Admin )
Subject KRAP: "My First Day at Camp"
The kender girl had gotten All dressed up for it.
That was the thing Piknim noticed first - the {ppink ribbon, the cleaned
boots, the little jacket with the brass buttons done up to the collar
despite the warmth of the afternoon. Someone had told her this was an
occasion. She had believed them and prepared accordingly, and now she stood
third in a row of six kender children recently arrived from the Great Forest
road, her smile beautifully bright and hopeful and pointed directly at the
Darkfinder moving slowly down the line.
Piknim moved the way she always moved in these moments - unhurried, affable,
a grandmother inspecting her grandchildren with fond and slightly terrifying
attention. She called them her little tadpoles. She pressed a small
trinket or tasty treat into their little hands. She straightened a collar
here. Tucked a topknot there. Inquired of a name and immediately forgot
it. The first two children passed muster for Category B - reasonably
compliant, useful-looking, already trying to pick her pocket which showed
initiative at least.
The girl was next.
Piknim looked at her. The {ppink ribbon. The bright eyes. The brass
buttons. The beautifully bright smile that had not wavered once since she'd
arrived.
She was perfect. She was exactly what a kender should be at this age. She
was comprehensively useless for a Darkfinder's purposes. Category C for
sure.
Piknim moved past her.
The boy at the end of the line was staring at the ground. Not in the way of
a shy child - in the way of a child who had found something off in the
distance worth looking at that nobody else could see. His topknot listed
slightly sideways. His delicately pointed ears twitched. When he looked up
and met Piknim's eyes there was something there that she recognized the way
you recognize your own reflection in a dark window.
She smiled. It was her widest smile, which was also her most unsettling
one.
She reached out and booped his nose with a single sharpened fingernail.
"Found you."
A cloak of raven feathers was brought forward and draped around his narrow
shoulders. He looked down at it with the expression of someone who did not
yet understand what was happening but suspected it was going to be
interesting.
His parents were compensated. The others were thanked and redirected toward
the appropriate processing facilities - cheerfully appointed, adequate
ventilation - and the afternoon's business was concluded.
The kender girl with the pink ribbon lingered at the back of the line for a
long moment, watching the gates of Kendermoor Keep close behind the boy with
the odd stare and the raven-feather cloak.
She was still smiling. But it was a smaller smile than it had been before.
She wondered what was in there.
Writer: Carrionmaw
Date Sat Aug 29 20:19:01 2026
To All ( Shadow Imm RP Drakkara )
Subject The Drawing of the Umbratide
The vast plane beyond the Rip stretched on without end, and the wyrm was
drawn onward through the pull of the Umbratide.
There was no wind here, nor current in any sense the living world would have
understood. The darkness moved beneath him and around him, bearing him
forward through a vastness that seemed to have neither direction nor end.
His wings beat against it out of instinct, but the effort was meaningless.
The Umbratide had already taken him.
And somewhere beyond it, something waited.
At first it was little more than a disturbance in the dark. A point of
pallid light, impossibly distant, appearing and vanishing as the tides of
shadow folded over one another. Too far apart to be one thing, yet too
closely bound to be two. He could not name it. Not yet, or it would slip
away again and the drawing would have to begin anew.
The wyrm angled toward the lights, but they withdrew into the distance,
remaining always beyond the reach of his sight. Each time he gained upon
them, the darkness seemed to lengthen between them. Each time he thought
them lost, they returned fainter than before, but somehow more certain.
He had known the Umbratide as a thing that consumed, and he had witnessed it
swallow armies, erase roads, strip flesh from bone and the very memory of
the dead. It had carried the remnants of the fallen into depths from which
nothing returned.
But this was different. The darkness ahead was not empty.
Around him, the currents twisted into impossible formations. Black waves
rose without breaking, folding upon themselves like great sheets of night.
Fragments of crystalline arcana drifted past, catching the distant light
before disappearing once more into the gloom. Each flash revealed something
for an instant: a ridge of unfamiliar stone, a shape moving far below, the
remnants of some ancient structure that seemed to have existed before there
had been anyone to remember building it.
Then darkness rushed past again like a riptide, and behind him, the path was
gone and there would be no returning by the way he had come.
The thought did not trouble him. The old world had already passed beneath
the tide. What remained of it was scattered behind him in broken armor,
abandoned weapons, ashes, names, and the fading cries of those who believed
themselves strong enough to withstand the Umbra's promise. Even the
threshold had become distant now, little more than a memory pressed into the
darkness.
Whatever awaited beyond the expanse could not be reached by returning to
what had been. And even if it could, why would he choose to? He followed
the flame, even though it remained impossibly far away. And though he could
not reach it, there were still distances beyond distance between his wings
and where he witnessed its becoming.
It was a thing so subtle that the wyrm almost mistook it for another
movement of the tide, a thread of pale illumination spanning the distance
between the dyad.
Writer: Symantha
Date Sat Aug 29 22:39:33 2026
Writer: Aothien
Date Sun Aug 30 13:51:43 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Aug 31 16:33:40 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Aug 31 16:33:55 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Tue Sep 1 07:39:44 2026
Writer: Geirhart
Date Tue Sep 1 16:52:00 2026
To All Kingdom Clan ( Imm Religion Raije Nadrik Austinian )
Subject Pilgrimage: Cold Winds, Cold Hearts, the End Nears
'Out of the way human. ' snorted a large red furred Minotaur
as he walked northwards to the Keep of Ganth.
Other minotaurs filed north and south rocking the old man too and fro. Some
did not even look in his direction as they went about their business. Then
a wagon passed nearly running him over as he fell into a muddy puddle on the
side of the road.
He was tired, cold, and while the Empress had welcomed them into the
kingdom, the Minotaurs looked upon the other races with little interest. As
he laid in the muck for a moment, a large furry hand came into view offering
him help to stand again.
'Let me help you up, elder. You seem to have fallen. The streets
are not friendly to those smaller than our younglings. ' offered the black
furred minotaur.
'Most kind of you, sir. I am Geirhart of Althainia making my way
to the Chapel of Nadrik to the north. Might you help me on my way? I
believe I won't be jostled so much in your company. ' smiled the old man.
They walked a bit in silence, the large form of the Minotaur kept the others
at bay so that he had a hole in the crowd he could move through. Soon they
came upon the High Temple of Ganth.
'This is where I must leave you, Elder. May Nadrik and the monks
within see to your needs. There are some of us that welcome the pilgrims
and wish them to learn about our people. '
With that, the unnamed minotaur walked out into the sea of other Ganthians.
Geirhart turned and began wiping some of the mud and snow from his robes.
He passed by a small group of elvish pilgrims that nodded to him as they
went about their business. He walked down the hallway towards the Chapel of
Nadrik and its custodian the White Cleric.
Writer: Aliera
Date Tue Sep 1 21:40:46 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Tue Sep 1 21:41:02 2026
Writer: Tsacherus
Date Wed Sep 2 06:07:56 2026
Writer: Melchaleve
Date Wed Sep 2 09:39:45 2026
Writer: Crelius
Date Wed Sep 2 19:42:24 2026
To All Chaos Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject Of Blood and Purpose - Stormheart
Atop a cliff on the outskirts of the Vallenwood, overlooking the perilous
northern seas, rose a solitary pillar. An obelisk hewn from the vengeful
breath of a goddess scorned. It was a place of power, sacred to the
ministers of the wood, whose faith had evolved from protective isolation
into something altogether more retributive. Like the deity they worshipped,
their stewardship of the natural order had been galvanized by the stormborn
wrath of a newly awakened domain.
A congregation had commenced beneath the obelisk, led by a druid-priestess,
an elven Stormseer whose exhortations tempered the uncertain hearts of the
gathered worshippers. Her sharp, aquiline features were cut in stern piety
beneath a weathered hood. Her words seemed to mingle with the wet, biting
wind that savaged the seaward cliff, carrying across those assembled before
her.
Those who had come were hardened souls of no singular creed or race, a
departure from the purist doctrine so often observed by the clergy of
Zandreya. It was a sparse gathering of humans, elves, and the wayward
bloodlines between. But a common thread bound them. Through each ran the
cold salt of the seafarer. They had come seeking the goddess's blessing and
safe passage across the tenebrous seas in these perilous times.
The tenor of the procession was broken by the rising sound of a thousand
voices crying out in torment. The source of that terrible lament drew the
immediate attention of the holy cadre before the pillar.
The air itself began to tear and rend apart, as if reality were being flayed
alive. A thin vertical line formed, extending from both ends like a scalpel
slicing through sinew. Their edges crackled with the coruscating false
light of the warp, the fabric of the material world fraying and distorting
around it. The line splayed open, widening into a gaping, circular gateway.
The portal resembled a profane vanity, roiling with raw, entropic force.
Its circumference pulsating and mutating, manifesting eight aberrant points
from the billowing non-matter.
A being emerged, cloaked in shadow and ruin. An armored boot planted upon
the sodden earth, its touch a pox upon the ground, seeding a decrepit
blackness as if the very realm rejected the figures intrusion. Its form
materialized further through the wailing portal, armor figured and wreathed
in an aura of tangible malignancy. Tendrils of fleshy roots invaded blue
dragonscale plates, interwoven like oily ropes and fused into a horrific and
symbiotic raiment. The growth began at his throat and crept upward,
gripping the pallid flesh of his face like an inverted crown. His single
baleful eye glared across those gathered, fixed upon the minister as he
advanced.
The gathered worshippers looked on in horror and parted before him, while
the priestess behind the pulpit raised a hand in defiance, clutching a crude
holy symbol of the storm goddess in her fist. The hood of her cloak was
thrown back by the rising gale as her gaze met the interloper. She wasted
no breath on admonishment or condemnation. Instead, she called upon the
tumultuous heavens, and they answered with the ire of a vengeful god.
Argent bolts of cerulean lightning tore down upon the advancing warrior,
engulfing him in a blinding concussion of thunder.
Writer: Crelius
Date Wed Sep 2 19:52:34 2026
To All Chaos Malachive ( Imm RP )
Subject Of Blood and Purpose - Stormheart (continued)
Dismay wracked the druidess countenance as she watched the summoned
lightning ground itself harmlessly against the remnants of his blue-scaled
armor. As he reached the obelisk, a figure broke suddenly from the crowd.
Cloaked and otherwise unremarkable, the flash of metal and a blur of
startling alacrity swiftly dispelled that fallacy.
The stranger struck with adder like speed, twin blades dancing with
unnatural grace as they plunged into the knights back in rapid succession.
Blackened fluid spurted from the wounds, spattering the rocky ground, where
it hissed and smoldered like spilled acid.
As the assailant swept in for another strike, something unexpected occurred.
The diseased fronds entwined about the warriors armor writhed suddenly to
life. Through some profane amalgamation, flesh and armor transmogrified
together, twisting into the semblance of a grotesque aegis wrought from
fused metal, sinew, and corrupted flesh. The knight wheeled and brought the
flesh forged shield crashing against his attacker. The impact shattered one
of the strangers blades and carried through with brutal force, striking the
cloaked warrior hard enough to hurl them sprawling into the mud, senseless.
A rictus grin crept across the knights deathmask features as he uttered a
single word, rising from his throat like tar bubbling from a pit, "Kyorl.
"
After the briefest moment of satisfaction, he returned his gaze to the
obelisk where the priestess had stood. In that same instant, she crossed
the distance between them with feline stealth, driving a dagger deep into
the mans abdomen. Before she could withdraw, a metallic fist clamped around
her wrist. The knight wrenched her close and brought the hammer of his
gauntlet down against her temple. She crumpled to the earth beside her
would be protector, bereft of consciousness.
The storm raged overhead as the Knight of Ruin gripped both elves by their
scalps and dragged their still forms across the rocks and mud. Trails of
red and black blood followed in his wake, mingling with the rainwater
pooling beneath his feet. Lightning flashed, throwing his pale features
into stark relief. The mutilated hollow of his missing eye stood plainly
revealed to those who remained. The flesh carved into an eight-pointed star
where the eye had once resided.
He hauled his captives into the wailing portal, paying little heed to those
who still dared remain. Then the warp rift folded shut behind him, and he
was gone, leaving only bloody tracks in his passing.
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Sep 2 20:03:05 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Sep 2 21:31:53 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Sep 2 21:57:15 2026
Writer: Justian
Date Thu Sep 3 23:38:07 2026
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Malachive )
Subject The Tree Made of Horn: The First Blood I
The fountains low whisper carried through the quiet hall. Nearby, the
tree made of horn stood beneath Malachives golden image. Light scarred its
bloody bark. The pale wounds crossed the horn where blood had long seeped
from within, and the stone bowl at its roots waited to receive each slow
drop.
Waaaghs declaration said the tree had begun to grow again. Blood of any
kind might feed it, though blood carrying potent energies was to be sought
above All others.
Justian came before the tree alone.
He did not immediately draw his athame. His attention remained upon the
injuries left by Light and the blood that continued to ooze around them.
The light-colored scars across the tree briefly darkened, as though the horn
beneath them were healing. Justian watched the marks closely. He had seen
them change before, but whether the wounded horn was truly mending he could
not say.
A faint warmth radiated from the tree, then vanished before he could be
certain it had been there.
He remained where he was, pondering the feeling. One hand rose slightly
before settling again at his side. For a while he did nothing.
Eventually, his thoughts returned to Waaaghs declaration and the blood he
had come to give. Before calling others to the work, he would measure his
own part in it against the Verities.
"First: Suffering exists."
Light had passed across the horn and left injury behind. The brief
darkening of the scars did not erase the blood still seeping from the bark.
Justian drew his veined hornwood-arcanium athameand placed its edge against
his palm.
"No one who calls another to bleed should place himself beyond the wound."
The blade crossed his flesh.
(continued)
Writer: Justian
Date Thu Sep 3 23:42:18 2026
To All Chaos ( IMM RP Malachive )
Subject The Tree Made of Horn: The First Blood II
Blood welled from the cut and ran between his fingers. Justian pressed
his opened palm against the bloody bark. Fresh blood spread beneath his
hand and mingled with what already flowed down the horn.
"Second: Suffering has a cause. The false gods and the order they have
made." Justian kept his hand against the tree.
"Their order calls submission peace. Whatever refuses its place must be
corrected, cleansed, or destroyed."
His gaze followed the injuries across the horn.
"Light touched you and left this behind. Here is the truth beneath their
promise of order."
To Justian, feeding the tree made of horn was a way to sustain what their
order had sought to destroy. He could not yet know what would come. He
knew why he wished to help it continue.
"Third: The End is their death."
Blood continued to gather beneath his palm.
"The shedding of blood is not the End. Neither is your growth. The
strength gathered here must be turned against those who bound this world
beneath them."
Justian withdrew his hand. His blood remained upon the tree, slowly joining
what already flowed down the horned bark.
The creatures dwelling around the Red Moons impact would be his first
quarry. Waaagh had called for blood bearing potent energies. Justian would
seek it among the things that inhabited that ruin. He would hunt them,
gather their blood, and return it to the tree made of horn.
Others within Chaos would be called to join the work. He would explain
where he intended to hunt and why he believed the offerings would further
their purpose. Each would choose whether to take up this hunt or their own.
"Fourth: The Path is Chaos."
"The Path begins when truth demands action. Today, I give what is mine.
Soon, we shall bring the wound of the Red Moon."
Justian tightly gripped his slashed palm and stepped back. His gaze
returned to the light-colored scars. Their brief darkening and the
uncertain warmth remained in his thoughts, but he claimed neither as an
answer to the offering he had made afterward.
The stone bowl received the mingled blood at its roots.
The tree bled first.
Justian answered.
Writer: Geirhart
Date Fri Sep 4 12:41:14 2026
To All Kingdom Clan ( Imm Religion Raije Nadrik Austinian )
Subject Pilgrimage: Cold Winds, Cold Hearts, the End Nears ( 2 )
'Have some tea, Abbott. It looks like you had quite the time in the
streets of the Empire. ' offered the White Cleric as Geirhart entered the
spartan office of the minotaur.
'Thank you, Elder. Your hospitality is very kind. ' smiled the old priest.
Geirhart takes a seat in a chair built for a minotaur and holds the tea with
both hands. Sitting in silence, the White Cleric begins to speak.
'Icewall has not been without loss while the other continents continued
their wars. After the War of the Black Moon, many mourned the loss of
Mencius while also rejoicing at the return of Nadrik. Was there any other
kingdom or clan that could claim such a division of faith?
When Nadrik ascended the stair, I was hopeful. Yet a third of our trinity
remained dead. Where was the hope for the Mencians? Their Rage had no
place to go. Then, recently when Raije was hurt, the faith of our people
was wounded once more. It has been a battle and a loss that no Minotaur
knows how to deal with. '
The old man listens, his grey eyes warm and compassionate as he blows softly
on his drink allowing the White Cleric to speak more.
'We are a warrior people, we face our problems with steel and grit. We yell
our war cries to our enemies to make them fear us. Yet who do we yell at to
heal a god? Who do we battle to let him know we are here? The Empire has
no reaction to being impotent. It has no method with which to react. So
our people grow closed, hardened, and I have seen in their eyes the very
shadow of defeat. With the ascent of our Empress, I am hopeful that a woman
of faith can find that way forward. '
Geirhart nods slightly taking a sip he responds, 'The Light has been much
the same. We grasp at ideas to help us move forward unsure if this is the
right way. We know we should be doing more but we walk in circles. I think
we have more in common perhaps than we think. '
The White Cleric grasps a cub and lifts it in his large hand, 'To shared
loss and shared confusion then, Abbott. '
Geirhart lifts his mug of tea in response and then, both sipping, they sit
in the warmth of the room silent and thoughtful.
Writer: Patrovio
Date Fri Sep 4 22:27:50 2026
Writer: Patrovio
Date Sat Sep 5 02:44:19 2026
Writer: Patrovio
Date Sat Sep 5 09:54:34 2026
Writer: Qinrathaz
Date Sun Sep 6 11:37:46 2026
Writer: Qinrathaz
Date Sun Sep 6 11:45:23 2026
Writer: Aothien
Date Mon Sep 7 13:19:11 2026
To Geirhart Shadow Verminasia All ( RP Imm Drakkara )
Subject The passing of flyers ( Pilgrimage )
Aothien sat in his chair, rocking back and forth. His heavy dragonscale
helmet sat in front of him, the umbral lenses staring into his pupilless
white eyes. If All was going according to plan, everything should be
happening right now, he thought. This plan was not as flashy as the last,
and probably not as impactful, but the seeds of fear and doubt must continue
to grow. A cold smirk slowly formed on Aothiens face as he brought his
hands together.
On the continent of Icewall, things were bustling. The Pilgrims had
gathered about as Ganth prepared to receive them. Four half elves, dressed
in ragged clothing spread out, each holding a rather large stack of papers.
They jumped up and down, speaking with fiery passion as they tried to hand
the papers to any and All that would talk and receive them. They moved like
flashfire through the crowds, darting in and out of various groups,
attaching the papers to poles, buildings, anything they could. And within
minutes, perhaps 5.. At most 15, they were gone. Flyers seen everywhere,
from the trash on the ground to the peoples hands and plastered on wells.
Aothien opened his eyes after picturing what had happened, and picked up his
own copy of the flyer.
"Tired of spending days and nights in the cold? Eating gruel while the
priests, knights and lords eat hot beef and drink hot wine? Are you done
suffering being a tool for the gains of others while you struggle to stay
warm?"
"This is not Love, this is not Honor or Goodness. This is just
exploitation, as it's always been. Do not listen to the lies."
Writer: Aliera
Date Mon Sep 7 14:12:47 2026
To Geirhart Shadow Knighthood All ( RP Imm Religion Nadrik )
Subject The passing of flyers ( Pilgrimage )
Aliera noticed the papers first because there had not been papers before.
One had been fastened crookedly to a post near the well. Another had
already found its way beneath someone's boot, muddied into the snow. More
were moving hand to hand through the Pilgrims, and somewhere beyond them a
half-elven figure disappeared between bodies before she could make out more
than ragged clothing.
Her hand rose, "Let them go. " The words were meant for the nearest Knights
before anyone could decide pursuit was required.
Aliera stepped to the post and pulled the paper free. She read it quietly,
all of it. Her expression changed very little at the first lines.
*Tired of spending days and nights in the cold? Eating gruel while the
priests, knights and lords eat hot beef and drink hot wine? *
Her eyes lifted from the page, not toward where the half-elves had gone,
toward the Pilgrims. Some were reading, some talking... One paper had
already been crumpled, another was being passed between several hands. She
glanced back to the parchment in her hands.
*This is not Love, this is not Honor or Goodness. This is just
exploitation, as it's always been. Do not listen to the lies. *
For several seconds, she said nothing. Then she folded the paper once and
tucked it beneath her belt. "Do not take them from anyone. " Her gaze
moved among the Knights nearby. "And do not tell anyone they may not read
them. "
There were enough scattered over this portion of Icewall by now, that the
order would hardly contain them regardless. More importantly, trying would
accomplish precisely what whoever had sent them wanted. Aliera turned
toward the nearest gathering of Pilgrims. She had walked among them, stood
watch over them, seen their fires burn low in the night and watched tired
bodies rise again in the morning.
They -were- cold. They -were- tired. That was what made the thing clever.
A lie built entirely from lies was easy to destroy. One wrapped around
something true could be carried much farther. Her attention shifted toward
the fires, the provisions, the places where Knights and clergy had taken
their meals. "Find out what was served today, " she said quietly. "To
everyone. Pilgrims, priests, Knights and nobility. And where everyone
slept last night. "
A beat passed, and she clarified. "I want facts. Not assurances. " She
looked again toward the Pilgrims. There would be questions. Perhaps
accusations. Perhaps only glances that had not been there an hour before.
Let them come.
Tonight she had intended to speak to them of grief, of Mencius, of Raije
lying wounded, of Nadrik returned from torment with Wrath burning hotter
within Him than before. Of what happened when pain became anger, and what
happened when anger was permitted to choose its own direction. Someone had
walked into Ganth carrying tinder and discovered a people already hurting.
Aliera's fingers settled briefly against the folded paper at her belt. No,
not discovered, counted upon.
"Keep the watches as they were, " she ordered. "No one treats these people
differently because they have read a piece of paper. " Then, quieter: "And
if any of what it says is true, I want to know before I stand before them
tonight. "
She left the flyers where they were.
Writer: Mercerion
Date Mon Sep 7 15:17:22 2026
Writer: Geirhart
Date Tue Sep 8 19:59:58 2026
To All Aothien Aliera ( RP Imm Drakkara Rhelic Austinian )
Subject Pilgrimage: The Passing of Paper Judgement
WORDS
To the old man, the parchment was but words. Ink placed upon some vellum,
their importance as transitory as the wind. Yet to others this was a
challenge. The words could divide people, it could incite people, and it
would tarnish what was being done.
Geirhart pondered things silently.
'If these words divide us, then it shows the pilgrimage has no faith in
itself or it's allies. After more than four months, are our bonds broken so
easily? '
The Abbott thought of the vampire issues that the General had warned him
about. The attacks appeared right around the deaths of the pilgrims.
Clearly the Executioner of Abaddon, now in the Horde, was in league with the
Inquisitor of Storm Keep. It was very evident that All these issues were
just works of the Darkness to take resources away from the Pilgrimage and
divide it. The Knights were already split now, some factions hunting
vampires while some on Icewall. Then there was the emotional division of
these letters. It was clearly a concerted effort.
'So what do I do? The Cardinal has already spoken. If we give it more
attention then we raise it ever higher. Therefore I shall treat it as a
test. I fear no judgement of my peers, of the pilgrims, or of the Darkness.
If there are those who have not given to the poor, that is their shame to
bear. If there are those who have not held tight to their oaths, they shall
be judged by the divine. '
Summoning holy fire, the parchment burns and blackens as it is consumed.
A messenger arrived at the Temple of Ganth, his cheeks a bit red from the
cold and the vapor of his breath causing a bit of mist as he spoke.
'Abbott, the wagons are preparing for our journey in a couple of days. Did
you want to look over the list of provisions and make sure All was prepared'
asked the messenger.
Geirhart nodded, 'Lead the way to Tolbrand. I'm sure he's got things well
underway and my oversight is merely a formality. '
The messenger lead the way while the old priest hobbled behind him wrapped
in his robes.
ACTIONS SPEAK THE LOUDER
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Sep 9 00:47:44 2026
Writer: Aliera
Date Wed Sep 9 01:35:49 2026
Writer: Erlestoke
Date Wed Sep 9 17:17:30 2026
To All Althainia Knighthood Geirhart ( Imm RP Rhelic )
Subject Pilgrimage: On the March and in reflection
An unusual temperate gentle breeze blew in from the west on the road from
Ganth, nearly overshadowing the sound of soft boots landing on the path.
Here and there along the order of the march quiet voices spoke amongst the
Pilgrims. Though tired and weary from their long journeys they still
carried on, the end so near at hand.
Erlestoke varied his pace as he moved with the pilgrims, sometimes slowing
down and letting more of the column overtake him, at other times walking at
double time to move closer to the head of these pilgrims. Vigilant, perhaps
hypervigilant, his eyes roamed over the pilgrims and sides of the road
looking for irregularities or trouble. But it wasn't violence or mischief
that finally pulled his full attention, but the clatter of wood on stone
followed by a soft thud as one of the pilgrims collapsed and let go of his
walking stick.
With a slight headshake to remind himself Erlestoke muttered softly to
himself as he moved to help, "Remember, this is not a military endeavor, not
all threats are from violence, these pilgrims also suffer the travails of
the road. "
"Let's get you on your feet" he said as he helped the pilgrim up. "Come
now, just a little further lets get you dusted off and refreshed for the
last leg of the journey. "
Erlestoke uttered the word "candusima" hoping he could remove at least some
of the pilgrim's weariness as the column trudged onward. Rewarded with a
tired smile as the pilgrim once again carried on with the column and leaning
heavily on his walking stick, Erlestoke resumed his pace beside the column.
Privately, Erlestoke's mind drifted back to the sermons he heard in the
temple of Ganth as he walked. Many words on duty and honor, of discipline
and fraternity, he had much to reflect on for the first time in a long
while.
Writer: Naevera
Date Thu Sep 10 05:09:37 2026
To All Dragon Dragoth RP IMM
Subject Lurking {nPurpose
That scent..
Cloying, sickly, a swampy mold. Carrying a touch of despair, terror, a
dangerous expectancy in its purpose. Something yet to be.
Venomous black eyes opened, focused and then narrowed, a breath of sickly
green chlorine slipping out from between long sharp teeth. The cloud wafted
down along the length of her broad scaled form, her tail lifting and
settling in brief agitation at her side.
That unique scent of decay was powerful and it found her where she rested,
through obscuring layers of rotted and decaying vegetation. Found her and
roused her fully.
Vicious irritation descended but as she drew in deeper of the scent, hunger
followed and a low, reverberating growl trickled through the cavern with
ominous purpose.
A sound followed. Something familiar enough that she pushed herself up,
breaking the thick vines that had woven over her wings, to sit. Pungent
slime had gathered beneath her, flowing freely over claw and scale as she
sat among it, and searched for the source of the sound. The slime, she also
recognized.
There.
A slow grin pulled at her snout, her teeth snapping wickedly.
It wriggled through her ancient chamber, visiting the stagnant pools,
consuming the slime that it used to pull its bulk along.
The larvae was not so small anymore. What she had pulled from the basin in
Dragoth's Temple, or something akin to it, crawled through the muck toward
her and she let it. When it grazed her, as if a feline rubbing along a
favored fellow, she caressed its bulk with the backs of her talons and
rumbled softly, moved again with protective urge.
It had come a long way from its pustulent chrysalis but she sensed this was
merely a visit. It had further yet to go for the lurking God's purpose.
It rounded her massive form, consuming the diseased vegetation as well as
the slime, and then it scaled the wall as if it were not a vertical feat,
and disappeared into a hole she might not have thought it could fit into
with an exultant screech that reverberated through cavern and earth.
Naevera needed no further reminder that Dragoth's purposes roamed beneath
the feet of all, that distance and time was no factor. The pestilent and
diseased hand of the Lurking God could, and would, reach all.
Digging slow rents into the ground beneath her, the cruel Green began to
consider how best to use this reminder even as the prospect of food
scrabbled at the entry of her cavern.
Writer: Aliera
Date Thu Sep 10 13:03:00 2026
Writer: Agu
Date Thu Sep 10 21:55:13 2026
To All Arkane Leonine Zandrya RP Imm
Subject The Rescue of Agu
It was early in the morning when the vessel came.
The Arkane Ship had just seen the signs of Warp operations along the shore.
Cannon fire strafed along the borders of the Chaos encampment, and the
followers of Malachive were torn asunder. It was only by the quick work of
the crew, and the boarding parties that went ashore that the tiny little
stronghold was destroyed with few casualties. It was after the battle that
they discovered the dungeon. Filled with prisoners of All races. They wore
shackles which drained mana, meaning that no magic could be used by any of
them. An assortment of folk filled the dungeon, and most of them looked to
the new soldiers in fear. Except for one, who recognized the symbol of
Arkane.
"It is I, Commander Agu Embermane, Of the Homeguard of Arkane. " Came the
weakened voice when they unshackled the wemic.
Some of the crewmembers knew of Commander Agu, absent many moons past. But
none of them reognized him. When his identity was confirmed, he was taken
aboard the ship. The whole area was godsforsaken because of Warp heresy,
but when they were finally able to set sail, it was then that a mage
appeared aboard the ship, wearing the University emblem, and brought the
shell of the former Commander Agu back to Arkane by portal. After reporting
his situation to the Queen, he stayed in the infirmary for a few days.
What was to come next, he did not know. He was excited to be home, but
equally afraid that people would see him in this state. What would the
coming days bring? Would his beloved family and friends stll be around, or
even alive? Only time would tell.
Writer: Mercerion
Date Fri Sep 11 20:14:27 2026
Writer: Kafis
Date Sun Sep 13 12:36:34 2026
To All ( Imm RP Kwainin )
Subject The Pull I Cannot Explain
Kafis woke before the temple bells reached for dawn, the way he had every
morning for the better part of three months now, staring up at ceiling beams
he knew better than his own hands and still, for one disoriented breath,
expecting red gates instead of grey stone rafters.
He lay there a while and let the dream fade the way smoke does when you stop
chasing it. It never fully left. It hadn't, not once, since the first
night it came to him: a shoreline he had never walked, stone worn smooth by
a tide he'd never felt, red gates standing half swallowed by fog, and
somewhere behind All of it, bells. Not the Serpents Eye bells. Different.
Lower. Older, in a way he had no business recognizing.
He rose anyway, because the sun did not care what a man dreamed, and there
was work in the yard before first meal.
A hooded monk found him there some time later, wringing water from the
training wraps at the well, and did not bother pretending he hadn't noticed.
"You've the look again," he said, in the flat, unbothered way he said most
things. "Same one as always?"
"Same one."
"And?"
Kafis wrung the last of the water out before he answered, watching it darken
the packed earth at his feet. "And nothing. It doesn't fade this time. It
hasn't faded in weeks." He didn't say the rest of it: that it wasn't
fading, it was sharpening, the way a half remembered word sharpens into a
real one the longer you turn it over. That he could, if he closed his eyes
even now, count the gates in the fog. That there were five of them, and he
did not know how he knew that.
The monk in a simple cloak considered him for a moment with the particular
patience of a man twenty years further along the Path than his student, then
went back to hanging wraps on the line. "There are names for what you're
describing, you know. None of them comfortable."
"I know."
"And you've made up your mind regardless." It wasn't a question.
Kafis didn't answer that one at all, which was answer enough.
It was not a small thing, what he was turning over. He had no family east
of anywhere. No teacher, no order, no debt of blood or oath that reached
toward that part of the map. He had checked quietly, carefully, in the
handful of texts in the temple archive old enough to even acknowledge an
island called Shokono existed, and found nothing that explained why a place
he had never seen should feel, some mornings, more real to him than the
ground under his own feet. Every account agreed on one strange point at
least: no gate reached it. No nexus, no door, no shortcut a mage or a
priest could open.
Whatever pulled at him, it did not intend to make the answer easy. Only a
ship, or a swimmer with more courage than sense, would ever set foot on that
shore.
He thought of the question again as he walked the yard's perimeter
afterward, turning it over less as doubt now than as a kind of grim
amusement. Made up his mind. As if there had been much choosing in it at
all. The pull did not ask permission and did not explain itself; it simply
sat behind his ribs some mornings like a held breath he could not release,
and had, in three months, gone from curiosity to certainty to something
closer to hunger.
He did not know yet what waited on that shore, or why it seemed to know his
name before he had ever spoken it aloud in its direction. But he intended
to find out, whatever it cost him to cross a sea that, by every account he
could find, could not be reached by any gate, any nexus, any door but a hull
and the will to point it east.
If anyone in these lands has sailed those waters and returned, or knows
someone who claims to have, he would hear of it. Price is no object.
Answers are.
Writer: Ezrianne
Date Sun Sep 13 14:21:33 2026
Writer: Thasgerd
Date Sun Sep 13 17:54:19 2026
To Knighthood All ( IMM RP Religion Austinian Croatoan )
Subject Peace of Cake
Who was in need? What could he do for someone? Who's burdens and weight
could he help shoulder? Who needed him to be what they needed at the time?
Was anybody hungry, cold, hot, thirsty, or tired? Did the kids and folks
who were hungry in the cities and kingdoms get enough food? Should he get
more? Why couldn't he save Izha? Where was his family? Why can't he
sleep? Why was he so tired and sore All the time? Questions after
questions, followed by more questions of who this, how that, why then, what
now, where to start raced through his noggin. Those questions always,
always were in it.
Then his brow furrowed and his brain stopped with the questions and instead
focused on the sound of heavy breathing. He looked over to his right and
saw Buttercup rustling through a duffle bag then lifting her head up with a
large chocolate chip muffin in her lips. "Reallaey? " Buttercup stared at
him then bit the top off the muffin and let the bottom fall back into the
bag. "Ya's insuff'rable so'etimes. " Buttercup stared at Thasgerd again
then huffed in his direction.
He shook his head and looked down at the paper in his gauntlet. The word
Peace was what his eyes were focused on. The context of this Peace and his
he thought, might be completely different, but maybe in looking for this
Peace, he'd find some of his own. He realized after a moment that the
breathing was still audible and he looked around again. It wasn't Buttercup
and the visitors and clerics were gone for the day. He caught a breath that
stopped his rising and falling chest. It was him breathing hard.
Thas pulled out some strips of jerky and tucked one into the corner of his
mouth. He bit down on it but didn't chew, he just kept it there. He lifted
a gauntlet to his right eye and gently tapped at the facet of golden flame
that surrounded it. He tapped it again, hoping it'd turn on, or he could
see something as Nadrik let him before. He looked up at the statue of
Taliena, Kadiya and Siccara and a small soft smile crossed his lips. He
nodded, knowing he wouldn't see anything.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 17:14:51 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: An Unexpected Answer pt. 1
The desert did not answer him.
For three weeks Tiberius Caine had given it ample opportunity.
He had come stripped of nearly everything that might distinguish a Knight
from a beggar. Gone were the blackened plates and dark trappings of the
Order. Gone were the banners, the ceremonies, the familiar stones of Storm
Keep. He carried an axe because even an ascetic need not be a fool, a
waterskin because faith did little to quench thirst, and airy cloth enough
to spare his flesh the worst of the Thalosian sun.
Everything else, he had left behind - including, he increasingly suspected,
his purpose.
By day the desert burned. By night it froze. Between those extremes
stretched an infinity of sand, in which a man might walk from sunrise until
sunset and still find no evidence that Creation had noticed his passage.
Tiberius had prayed at first. He prayed as his mother had taught him when
he was a boy. He prayed as the priests had instructed him. He prayed as a
soldier: plainly, directly, without poetry. Then he prayed angrily.
Finally, he stopped.
Lord Necrucifer was dead.
No revelation had descended to correct that fact. No whisper followed upon
the wind. No black miracle rose from beneath the sands. The Master of
Darkness was dead.
Tiberius crouched beneath the meager shade of a sandstone shelf and watched
heat dance across the horizon. "What becomes of an oath, " he asked aloud,
"when the one who received it is gone?"
The desert answered as it always did: with nothing.
Tiber laughed once beneath his breath, "Thought so." He drank sparingly
and continued south.
Near dusk he found the bones.
There was nothing remarkable about finding death in the Thalosian wastes.
He had passed the remnants of animals before, and twice those of men - these
belonged to the latter. Most of the skeleton had disappeared beneath
shifting sand. A portion of bleached ribcage remained exposed alongside one
arm, the skeletal fingers curled as though their owner had died clutching at
the earth.
Tiberius nearly walked past before something caught the dying sunlight - A
small point of crimson-black gleamed beneath the skeletal hand.
He stared at it for several moments before crouching. "Still coveting your
treasures, are you?" Tiber brushed the bones aside, revealing a dagger in
the sand.
It was an old weapon, though surprisingly untouched by rust. The blade was
narrow and darkened, its leather grip dry but intact. Set within the pommel
was a many-faceted stone, scarcely larger than the end of his thumb.
Tiberius turned it toward the light. Black at first glance, red beneath.
Something deeper still when the angle changed.
He frowned, "Ugly thing..."
I have been called worse.
Tiberius dropped the dagger. His axe was in his hands before the weapon
struck the sand. Nothing moved. The desert stretched empty around him.
"Show yourself!"
No answer. His midnight-blue eyes swept the rocks, the dunes, the shallow
depression through which he had approached... Nothing.
He waited. A minute passed, then another. Tiberius looked down at the
dagger and shook his head. "No."
Silence.
He nudged it with the edge of his sandal. Nothing. Slowly, he crouched and
reached for it. His calloused fingers closed around the grip.
Better.
Tiberius hurled it away.
Laughter entered his thoughts. Not loud laughter. Not mad laughter. A
low, rasping amusement entirely too pleased with itself.
Tiberius stared at the weapon lying several paces away. "What are you?"
Thirsty...
His expression hardened. "...So am I."
Then already, we possess something in common.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 17:31:10 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: An Unexpected Answer pt. 2
Tiberius did not retrieve the dagger. Instead he sat, resting his
forearms across his knees as the sun continued its descent behind him.
"Spirit?"
Perhaps.
"Demon?"
A pause.
Would that trouble you?
"No."
This time the laughter was unmistakable.
No... I suppose it wouldn't.
Tiberius's brow furrowed. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
Nothing.
"You know something about me."
Several things.
"Such as?"
Your name is Tiberius Caine.
His hand drifted toward the axe. The voice chuckled again.
And you talk in your sleep.
Tiberius went still. "How long have you been listening?"
Longer than you have been listening to me.
The wind pushed a thin veil of sand across the blade. Tiberius rose,
crossed the intervening distance, and picked it up again. The presence
returned immediately. Not stronger, precisely, but clearer - a sensation
like another consciousness standing just beyond a door.
"You heard my prayers."
Some were difficult not to.
Tiber's jaw tightened. "Careful..."
You showed less restraint when addressing your dead god.
The fingers wrapped around the dagger tightened now, too.
"You will speak of Him with respect."
Silence followed. Then, without the earlier amusement:
Even now?
"Especially now."
Another pause.
Interesting.
Tiberius looked down at the jewel. "You've my name. What am I to call you?"
Anything you like.
"Your own name will do."
No.
"Why?"
Because names have power, Tiberius Caine.
"You have mine."
I do.
"And I don't have yours."
You are very observant.
Tiberius exhaled through his nose. "You're irritating."
So I have been told.
"Do you know why my prayers went unanswered?"
For the first time, the thing within the jewel did not answer immediately.
The last edge of the sun slipped beneath the horizon while Tiberius waited.
Yes.
One word. Tiberius's eyes narrowed upon the jewel. "Then tell me."
No.
"Why not?"
Because you already know.
Tiberius stared at the dagger. "...Necrucifer is dead."
Yes.
"That isn't what I meant."
I know.
His fingers tightened around the grip. "Then you are useless to me."
Tiberius cast the dagger back beside the bones and started walking. Ten
paces. Twenty. Thirty. He continued until darkness swallowed the corpse
behind him, then stopped and stood there for some time.
"Damn you," he spat beneath his breath.
He retraced his steps. The dagger remained where he had thrown it. When he
picked it up, the voice said nothing. That irritated him even more.
He tucked the weapon through the sash at his waist. "You will answer me eventually."
The presence seemed almost to smile.
Perhaps.
Tiberius resumed walking. Neither spoke for nearly an hour. Stars emerged
overhead by the thousands, indifferent and remote. At length the voice broke
the silence.
Where are you going?
"South."
I can see that.
The man glanced down at the dagger. "Then why ask?"
Because south is a direction, not a destination.
"I don't have one."
A pause.
Ah.
"What?"
Nothing.
Tiberius continued his aimless journey deeper into the desert.
The heavens remained silent.
The thing at his hip did not.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 20:35:10 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: A Question of Faith
The fourth morning began with an argument.
"I don't snore."
You do.
Tiber tightened the knot of his waterskin and continued south.
"I've shared barracks with enough men to know otherwise."
Perhaps they were being polite.
"Soldiers? Polite?"
A moment passed.
A fair point.
Four days had passed since Tiberius found the dagger among the bones.
Four days since solitude, which he had deliberately sought, became
considerably less solitary.
He had learned little about his new companion. The presence within the
jewel claimed no name, offered no origin, and answered questions concerning
its nature with an evasiveness that Tiber increasingly suspected was
deliberate. It spoke when it pleased and fell silent when pressed too
closely.
What it knew of him was another matter entirely.
"You've avoided my question since yesterday."
Which one?
"You know which one."
I know several you've asked since yesterday.
Tiber cast a dour glance toward the dagger tucked into his sash. "How much
did you hear before you decided to introduce yourself?"
Enough.
"Enough to know my name. Enough to know whom I served."
Serve.
His stride slowed. "What?"
You said 'served.'
He resumed walking. "He is dead."
We established that.
"Then past tense seems appropriate."
Does it?
The question followed him for several paces. He finally stopped.
"You enjoy this."
What?
"Answering questions with questions."
Only when the second is better than the first.
Tiber shook his head and continued on.
By midday, the heat had driven even the desert winds into submission. He
found shelter beneath a crooked shelf of stone and settled there to wait out
the worst of the sun. Sweat darkened the cloth between his shoulders. His
waterskin had grown troublingly light.
For some time, neither spoke. Then Tiber drew the dagger and held it before
him, turning the crimson-black jewel between thumb and forefinger.
"You know of Necrucifer."
Yes.
"More than His name?"
Yes.
Tiber waited. Nothing followed.
"And?"
You didn't ask another question.
His eyes narrowed.
You really must stop making that face. It has accomplished very little thus far.
A reluctant breath escaped Tiber's nose, something perilously near a laugh.
"What was He to you?"
For once, no answer came immediately. The stone rested dark and silent between his fingers.
Tiber waited.
That is a better question.
"Will you answer it?"
Another silence.
Not yet.
Tiber studied the jewel. "But there is an answer."
There is always an answer.
"You've spent four days proving otherwise."
No. I have spent four days declining to give them to you.
That nearly earned the dagger another flight into the sand.
Nearly.
Instead, Tiber returned it to his sash. "One day, I'm going to leave you where I found you."
No, you aren't.
The certainty of it made him look down. "You seem very sure of that."
You came into this desert seeking answers. I am the first thing you've found that possesses any.
Tiberius had no reply.
The presence, mercifully, did not laugh.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 21:13:18 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: What Endures pt. 1
By the seventh day, Tiberius had stopped throwing the dagger.
He had also stopped pretending he might.
"Water."
Yes.
Tiber lifted the waterskin and shook it beside his ear. The answer was
an unsatisfying slosh. "I'm running out."
I had noticed.
"And?"
And you are running out of water.
He stared down at the dagger.
There is that face again.
"For something so old, you're remarkably useless."
Silence.
Tiber's brow furrowed. "What?"
I don't recall telling you I was old.
That stopped him. The morning sun had only begun its climb, but heat
already shimmered above the dunes ahead. Tiber looked down at the
crimson-black stone set within the pommel.
"You didn't."
No.
"You sound old."
What does "old" sound like?
"You."
The presence laughed.
Tiber continued south. They had settled into something resembling a
routine. He walked when the heat permitted it, sheltered when it did not,
and slept when exhaustion finally overcame discomfort. The presence
accompanied All three with varying degrees of commentary.
It never slept. That much, Tiberius had determined. Whether it could not,
or simply chose not to remained another unanswered question.
"How old are you?"
Old enough.
"For what?"
Most things.
Tiberius snorted.
By midday he found the remnants of a dry wash cutting between two ridges of
sandstone. A withered tamarisk clung stubbornly to one bank, its roots
disappearing beneath cracked earth.
Tiber came to a halt. "There was water here."
Once.
He knelt beside the lowest point and scraped aside the surface with his
fingers. The earth beneath was darker. He began digging.
You have done this before.
"I've been thirsty before."
That wasn't what I meant.
His hands slowed. "Then say what you mean."
You endure discomfort remarkably well.
A humorless laugh escaped him. "Practice."
The presence went quiet. Tiber dug deeper and dampness eventually gathered
beneath his fingers. Not water, not yet, but enough promise to keep him
working.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 21:17:59 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: What Endures pt. 2
Tropica.
His hands stopped. For several seconds, the only sound was his breathing.
"What about it?"
You mentioned it in your sleep.
Tiber sat back upon his heels. "What did I say?"
Very little that made sense.
"Then forget it."
No.
He looked toward the dagger. "That wasn't a request."
I know.
His jaw worked once. "I spent two years there."
The presence said nothing.
"In chains."
Still nothing.
Perhaps it was the silence that made him continue.
"Chaos took me when I was seventeen. Put me to labor near the Warp.
When I wasn't working, sometimes they put me in a pit."
To fight?
"To entertain them."
A pause.
Did you?
"Did I what?"
Entertain them.
He stared at the damp earth between his knees. Then, despite himself, he chuckled.
"Occasionally."
The answering amusement was quieter than usual. Tiber returned to digging.
Yet afterward you became a soldier.
"I was a soldier before."
At seventeen?
"My father started earlier."
And that made it wise?
Tiber's fingers stopped again. "You ask too many questions."
So I have been told.
"By whom?"
Silence.
Again he paused to looked at the dagger. "Oh, now you have nothing to say."
I have many things to say. You simply aren't entitled to All of them.
"Convenient."
Very.
Tiberius shook his head and returned to the hole.
By late afternoon, a shallow pool of muddy water had seeped into its bottom.
He strained it through cloth, filled the waterskin, and drank only after
waiting long enough for the worst of the grit to settle. It tasted of
earth.
It was magnificent.
You survived two years in chains.
Tiber lowered the skin. "Yes."
Then escaped them. Returned home. Swore yourself to your god. Lost Him.
And walked into a desert to discover what remained.
Tiber's expression slowly hardened. "You've been assembling me."
Naturally.
"...Why?"
For several moments, there was only the dry whisper of wind through the tamarisk.
I like to know what I am traveling with.
Tiber glanced at the dagger. "And what have you decided?"
The answer came without hesitation.
You are very difficult to kill.
Tiber barked a laugh. "That's your grand conclusion?"
Thus far.
He took another drink. "I've been called worse."
A pause, then the presence laughed in turn.
Tiberius realized why a moment later. "Oh... Damn you."
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 21:41:29 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: The Other Pilgrim
On the ninth night, Tiberius caught the presence watching the stars.
At least, that is what he decided.
He lay beneath an outcropping with one arm folded behind his head, the
day's heat slowly bleeding from the stone beneath him. The dagger rested
upon his chest, its jewel reflecting nothing of the heavens overhead. For
nearly an hour, neither had spoken.
"You can see them, can't you?"
See what?
"The stars."
A pause.
Yes.
Tiber looked upward. "Through me?"
No.
That interested him. "Then you can see from the jewel."
In a manner of speaking.
"Can you hear without me holding it?"
Obviously.
"How far?"
Far enough.
Tiber smiled faintly. "You're doing it again..."
Doing what?
"Giving me the smallest answer you think will satisfy me."
And yet, you remain unsatisfied. A persistent flaw in the method.
"Maybe you're losing your touch."
The presence chuckled.
Tiber let the silence return. A thin, red moon and a half-full white one
hung low upon the horizon, while above them the stars shone in numbers
impossible to appreciate from beneath a city sky.
"Do you miss them?"
No answer.
Tiber waited.
Still nothing.
His smile returned, threatening a smirk. "That one landed somewhere."
You are becoming tiresome.
"I've had an excellent teacher."
A low rasp of amusement entered his thoughts.
"So you do."
Do what?
"Miss something."
The amusement disappeared.
The man turned the dagger between his fingers. "You know where I'm from.
You know who I served. You know where I've been... I know nothing about
you."
That arrangement has served me quite well.
"I'm sure it has."
He returned his gaze to the sky. "Were you always in this?"
The jewel remained silent.
"That's a no."
That is an assumption.
"You'd have said yes."
Another silence. Tiberius grinned.
Don't look so pleased with yourself.
"I finally got an answer."
You guessed.
"Correctly."
Perhaps.
"There you are again."
The presence gave something resembling a sigh.
For a while, Tiber was content to leave the victory there. The desert
cooled around him. Somewhere beyond the rocks came the faint skitter of
some nocturnal creature emerging to hunt.
Eventually, the voice spoke.
What do you believe I am?
Tiber considered the question. "Not a spirit."
Why?
"You would've told me."
Would I?
"You let me think demon was closer."
No answer.
"And you know too much."
About?
"Necrucifer. Me. Probably Shadow."
That silence was different. Tiberius noticed. "There it is."
There is what?
"You know the Order."
Many know of the Order of Shadow.
"Not what I said."
For once, the presence had no clever answer ready.
Tiber lifted the dagger above him, studying the dark jewel against the
stars. "Whatever you are, you've crossed Shadow's path before."
You sound very certain.
"I'm learning."
A long silence followed.
Yes.
He lowered the dagger slightly. It was the first thing the presence had given him freely.
"Friend or enemy?"
Must I have been only one?
Tiber considered that. "No."
Good.
"Which were you last?"
The presence laughed softly.
You were doing so well.
Tiberius shook his head, but there was little irritation in it now. "One day."
Perhaps.
The familiar answer drew a quiet snort from him.
He set the dagger beside his head and closed his eyes. "Good night, whatever you are."
Several moments passed.
Good night, Tiberius Caine.
His eyes opened. The presence said nothing more.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Mon Sep 14 22:22:02 2026
To All Shadow ( Joules Drakkara Imm RP )
Subject The Long Road Home: Chains Again
The tenth morning brought hoofbeats.
Tiberius heard them sometime after sunrise, distant enough at first to be
mistaken for the shifting complaint of sand beneath the wind.
He stopped in his tracks.
"Hear that?"
Yes.
Tiber climbed the nearest rise and crouched below its crest. The desert
stretched southward beneath him, broken by sandstone and scrub. Nothing
moved. The hoofbeats had stopped.
"How many?"
I couldn't say.
"Couldn't, or won't?"
Couldn't.
He frowned. The distinction did little to reassure him.
He remained there several minutes before descending the dune. His axe rode
loosely in one hand now.
"Travelers?"
Perhaps.
Tiberius snorted. "There's that answer again..."
I thought you might appreciate its versatility.
The man shook his head and continued south, though more slowly than before.
The sun climbed. No riders appeared behind him. An hour passed.
Then two.
By midday, Tiber had begun to wonder whether whoever traveled nearby had
simply turned elsewhere.
He found tracks shortly thereafter.
Several horses had crossed his trail before turning southward. Tiber knelt
beside the impressions, studying them. The edges were still sharp.
"Recent."
Very.
His gaze followed their course.
"They're circling around me."
No answer.
He rose. "You knew."
I suspected.
"And neglected to mention it?"
You had already noticed. |
