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Player Written Story Note Archive

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

Valdarion
Symantha
Ithelim
Elathan
Rasavadi
Tamaska
Keintikead
Rasavadi
Vyasa
Zola
Lilya
Khare
Tamaska
Jonathen
Tigly
Stevron
Stevron
Stevron
Rasavadi
Rasavadi
Desidaryldun
Desidaryldun
Desidaryldun
Renna
Renna
Scribpog
Stevron
Stevron
Stevron
Graaz
Denth
Zola
Stevron
Khare
Cailene
Cailene
Stevron
Rasavadi
Desidaryldun
Desidaryldun
Desidaryldun
Khare
Khare
Khare
Khare
Kaija
Kaija
Clarissia
Clarissia
Aionden
Wyltte
Wyltte
Thrakhath
Wyltte
Rasavadi
Wyltte
Telthian
Telthian
Telthian
Wyltte
Desdinova
Desdinova
Desdinova
Desdinova
Desdinova
Desdinova
Desdinova
Gabriela
Gabriela
Gabriela
Renna
Renna
Renna
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Talrenvor
Rasavadi
Mercerion
Talyariel
Talyariel





Writer: Valdarion
Date Tue Dec 26 00:14:04 2017




Writer: Symantha
Date Tue Dec 26 17:02:35 2017




Writer: Ithelim
Date Wed Dec 27 13:11:09 2017




Writer: Elathan
Date Wed Dec 27 22:03:24 2017




Writer: Rasavadi
Date Sat Dec 30 21:22:03 2017




Writer: Tamaska
Date Tue Jan 2 16:24:41 2018




Writer: Keintikead
Date Wed Jan 3 15:09:08 2018




Writer: Rasavadi
Date Fri Jan 5 18:01:51 2018

To Tamaska Eclipse Verminasia All Cayenna Imm RP

Subject The river turns red



Rasavadi spent more and more time amongst the ruins of Skull Keep.

His bat, Toxvah, an escapee from the research labs, had been gone for a
couple days. An oddly long time for such a simple mission and he had begun
to worry.

Deep into meditation, he heard a high pitched, familiar, chittering.
Opening an eye, he turned his head to the west and saw her struggling in the
winds, trying to carry some roundish object. "What the heck is that thing
lugging around now?" He asked himself aloud.

Slightly enjoying watching the struggle, and imagining the bat was cursing
his name, Rasavadi snickered out loud. Apparently, he was heard, as the
chitters turned into obvious curses in whatever language magical bats spoke.


In an obvious form of retribution Toxvah worked her non-existent tail off to
gain altitude. Finally reaching the highest point she could gain while
exhausted, she dropped her payload.

Twenty feet or so the circular object plummeted towards Rasavadi. Shortly
before impact, the cork fell out, and its contents disgorged. Showering
Rasavadi in some foul smelling, reddish, alcoholic liquid. Just before the
clay flask shattered over his rarely bared head.

Rasavadi hurled a string of curses that would have made only Devion proud,
and maybe even offended him. "For the love of All that is unholy, is this
fermented mastodon urine!"

In the midst of All the swearing, and Toxvah's now obvious roaring laughter,
a young, female, yinn could be seen down the road rolling in the street
laughing with tears in her eyes.




Writer: Vyasa
Date Sat Jan 6 10:09:39 2018




Writer: Zola
Date Sat Jan 6 16:43:26 2018

To All Abaddon Bloodlust Verminasia Shadow Darkonin Immortals Fatale Kyri

Subject X Unfettered X


So, it had come to this. Exile. Again. An amused snort came from
behind his masked visage as Zola recalled how well that had worked for Vyasa
last time. This time, however, he would not indulge his foolish brother by
returning. No, he was adamant in his resolve not to return to Abaddon until
this foolishness had finally ended. He would not support a man incapable of
supporting himself. Not with the future of the Blood Lands at stake.


So... Exile.

The Deathscythe retreated to the Grand Temple of Fatale then, to ponder his
options. By rights, he should have been furious, but he felt oddly calm.
He took it as a sign that All was as it should be. This was perhaps part of
Fatale's grand plan, allowing the weak to perish in what was sure to be the
catastrophe to follow. If it meant Abaddon burned, so be it. He would
return and later rebuild from the ashes. It had happened before, after all.
It could happen again.


But now, at the very least, Zola no longer had any need to hold himself back
for the sake of others. He was done restraining himself for the sake of
Vyasa, Sierus, or Catroina. Done with his false shows of humility and
respect to those who had done nothing to earn it. He was unchained,
unfettered, and unleashed. Algoron would come to fear his name again, as
they had once before.


Idly he glanced at his wrist, noting the puresilver manacle still there, all
but forged into his flesh. Though it still burned and steamed, he had long
since forgotten the pain. It had become a part from him. Forged of the
purest silver, blessed by the Elder Arreana, consecrated by goodness, it was
a self-inflicted punishment he'd willingly endured as penance for his sins,
unwilling to let it be removed until his punishment was concluded. Or else
risking being buried with it when it came time to return to the grave
permanently.


Yet now...

Struck by a whim, he reached down, dug in his hand, and ripped the metal off
as if it was tin, tossing it aside. It clattered against the ground, the
holy aura fading as he held up his blackened and broken wrist, and watched
as the bones and flesh re-knit in mere moments. Flexing the fingers of his
left hand, he felt whole again. And indeed, even stronger than before.


Yes, he decided. A sign that was All was as it should be.




Writer: Lilya

Date Sat Jan 6 19:19:35 2018




Writer: Khare

Date Sun Jan 7 18:44:14 2018




Writer: Tamaska

Date Sun Jan 7 23:06:17 2018

To Rasavadi Eclipse Verminasia All Necrucifer Cayenna Imm Rp

Subject The river flows, darkness rises.



Following the bat hadn't truly been needed, Tamaska could easily replace
the flask but once her irritation had worn off her curiosity had taken over.
So she continued to follow the bat, watching it struggle with the flask had
become quite amusing. She could have tried to coax the bat down on the
agreement that she'd still follow if it returned the flask but the trip was
otherwise boring and the bat had it coming.

In order to maintain a height that was out of Tam's reach, the bat couldn't
fly as fast as normal so the trip was not overly difficult. So instead her
mind wandered a lot. The letter had said it was time to join her family.
It had never been a secret to Tam that there were others though she did not
know details about any of them. She had simply been told that someday she'd
be needed but until then her training was her only focus.

The ship they rode, well mostly Tamaska rode and the bat used it as a chance
to rest its wings, was fairly quiet despite the crew members moving about.
The rocking of the ship lulled her into an almost sleep like daze until she
was lost in it. The sea and ship shifted to lands that were unfamiliar to
her. There were figures around her though she could not see them clearly
but she could smell blood, the air was thick with it.

This was not unfamiliar to Tamaska, many times over the years she had
experienced visions, both in dreams and waking moments. They were often
somewhat different and yet somewhat the same. One thing that was present in
every one was the strong smell of blood, it surrounded Tam and drowned out
everything else. She would hear the sound of a river, see the clear water.
Then the streaks of red would appear and they would grow larger, the color
darker until the river was that of blood flowing. The light in the vision
would start to fade, like that of an eclipse. It would slowly fade from
sight until All was dark.

The sound of the port master snapped Tamaska back to the present moment and
her eyes quickly found the bat again. She clenched a fist and flexed both
it and her arm, causing the muscles underneath a patch of furless skin to
ripple. The words 'Flumina facti sanguis' were carved into the furless
section of her arm, her eyes briefly found the words but there was not time
to linger for now. The bat had taken flight again and she was once again
following.

Watching the bat struggle and chitter had not yet lost its amusement but Tam
still watched her surroundings closely due to the unfamiliarity. They seem
to be heading in the direction of what appeared to be the ruins of a keep.
As they got closer Tamaska thought she could make out a figure and obviously
the bat could as well. It started to chitter louder and pick up speed,
though not much as it was obviously exhausted.

Do bats curse? This one certainly seemed to be as it tried like hell to
gain altitude. Tamaska had stopped walking and was merely enjoying the site
of this apparently angry bat flapping its wings as hard as it could towards
what appeared to be another yinn. But... Where was his fur? That was but
a fleeting thought which was quickly forgotten as the bat dropped the flask
above the figure. The site of the liquid raining down on the yinn and the
flask breaking on his head, combined with the cursing was the best thing she
had seen in months.

She roared with laughter as she doubled over. The site of the bat also
laughing sent her to her knees. She just might let the bat live after all.
It had spunk and she liked that. When she could finally pick herself up off
the ground, she stood up, wiped the tears from her eyes and made her way
closer to the ruins. The furless yinn was still ranting about the smell
when Tam approached and leaned against a section of a still intact wall.

'That happens to be some of my better stuff but you are supposed to drink
it... Not wear it. It's strong... But not strong enough to regrow your
fur.. ' Tamaska could barely get the statement out with a straight face.




Writer: Jonathen

Date Mon Jan 8 10:25:22 2018

To All Abaddon

Subject Down in the Swamp



Sat around, wondering, staving off sobriety. It's a decent enough time
of year. Humidity don't quite get ya till ya take a good ten steps 'sted of
one out the door.

No mosquitoes. Praise sweet baby Fatale.

Starting running out of excuses to not do anything.

Figured no one would mind, so I grabbed my chisel. Without the little
winged bloodsuckers I aught be able to focus. Had one of the kids haul up
some stone from the shed at the Mansion.

Screw it, just drop it in the middle of the road. Right next to that pretty
fountain on Good Intensions. Couple hours passed. It was a good start, and
a good time to stop. I almost broke a sweat.

Next few days, just kept chipping away. Things started to take shape.
Chisel held up, managed not to hammer any fingers, never thought I'd suit
the nick name stubby.

Got it done pretty quick, considering the scale, I mean, it's a fairly large
alligator. Looked pretty good, too. Plus, it made fun of Mercerion, always
a good bonus.

Hell, I can't leave my new gator friend thirsty. Gave him a little mug of
beer in one of his claws. Perfect.

Hm... Hope my chair didn't float away in the Fall while I were gone...




Writer: Tigly

Date Sat Jan 13 10:46:36 2018




Writer: Stevron

Date Mon Jan 15 18:47:26 2018




Writer: Stevron

Date Mon Jan 15 18:51:36 2018




Writer: Stevron

Date Mon Jan 15 18:53:56 2018




Writer: Rasavadi
Date Tue Jan 16 08:44:29 2018

To All Conclave Xenophon Kyri Imm RP

Subject Aftermath



Rasavadi quietly paced the hallway of the holding cells. The sleeping
form of the apprentice Zedlar shifted from twitches and wimpers of
nightmares to sighs and smiles.

An apprentice tried to kill his teacher. Not exactly uncommon in the black
robes. The "Archmagister" had it coming. He was obviously an abusive,
narcissist, and suspected heretic. Zedlar would have to be put to the
question it seemed. There were questions that needed to be answered, and
the condition of the common areas was deteriorating despite Stevron's best
attempts to locate the remaining element of Morcendu.

Rasavadi ascended the Ebony stepping into the portal to the Common tower,
and entered the laboratory. Toxvah chittered away nervously. "Worry not
little one, I have not come to return you.
" He reassured the little black
bat that had been his companion since shortly after he had been abducted by
the Aspects of Sin.

Looking around Rasavadi saw seemingly hordes of transmuters, and their
apprentices, studying samples of slime and the chronologue. There were no
tables available as the magi performed their work. Normally Rasavadi would
of been content to study elsewhere, or simply meditate on his future,
somewhere else, but not today. Standing behind a small, mixed robe group at
one of the larger tables Rasavadi growled, "Move. " The black robes ran off
without even looking, the red robed Archmagus and white robes however did
not. They stood, yammering in protest. "This was not a recommendation,
move or I will pitch you out a window,
" he roared, slamming his polearm
hard enough on the deck that he cracked a tile and they scurried.

Sitting at the table, Rasavadi pulled a roiling flask of neon green slime,
and a piece of amber with some sort of larvae in it he had just found in the
vault room amongst some new carnage of books and slime.

"Guess it's time to figure out what is coming to eat us this time..." He
muttered to himself.




Writer: Rasavadi

Date Sat Jan 20 16:49:04 2018




Writer: Desidaryldun

Date Sat Jan 20 21:18:47 2018




Writer: Desidaryldun
Date Sat Jan 20 21:21:32 2018




Writer: Desidaryldun
Date Sat Jan 20 21:23:14 2018




Writer: Renna
Date Sun Jan 21 17:27:11 2018




Writer: Renna
Date Sun Jan 21 17:33:28 2018




Writer: Scribpog
Date Tue Jan 23 09:51:00 2018




Writer: Stevron
Date Tue Jan 23 13:08:26 2018

To Conclave Rasavadi All ( Xenophon RP )

Subject Foreboding Research Pt. 1/3



The Triune Towers were in disarray in the days following the Chronologue
Debacle. Within the walls of an institution dedicated to esoteric schools
of knowledge and arcane research there was no shortage of bizarre
occurrences. Even raw apprentices were soon exposed to sufficient oddities
to make such things as living embodiments of arcane energy attacking the
very building blocks of the tower seem mundane. The odd bit of academic
sabotage and intellectual theft was not entirely unheard of either- though
it was usually kept quiet and performed with rather less collateral damage.

Yet, what had at first appeared to be little more than an egomaniacal
experiment gone horribly awry had become something far more unsettling. It
was the nature of experimentation and learning that one met with more
failure than success in their research. Chemical burns from a botched
alchemical reaction, a few months spent missing eyebrows after a new spell
misfired- these things were part and parcel of pursuing the advancement of
arcana. This current predicament of a sentient slime roaming the drains and
seeping through the cracks of nearly every part of the conjoined commons was
a far more extreme situation.

Stevron wound his way through the hallways of the Conclave's central tower,
his steps purposeful and careful. The slender digits of his hands carefully
held a finger vial of ink with a roll of thick papyrus and a quill that had
seen better days, the tip pared down frequently until there was scarcely
enough left to grip. With painstaking care, he worked at cataloging the
places where the slime had been- marking the order, location, frequency and
possible purpose behind each puddle of ichor and each trail of slime.

While the exact nature of the Chronologue experiment had not been revealed,
the knowledge of the living slime that now stalked the Towers had been
spread to the kingdoms beyond. Though the likelihood of the remnants of
Archmagister Morcendu Antium escaping was, in Stevron's mind, negligible,
the Conclave still bore a responsibility to warn those closest to their
towers of the potential danger. Given that the gnomish wizard's apprentice
who had facilitated the ruinous direction that the experiment had taken was
still within the holding cells of the Ebony tower and that the slime was
still actively seeking specific objects inside the towers, Stevron was
certain the danger would remain internal. For now.

Making a notation that slime had ceased to bubble in the floor of the
Commons, but that there was now a huge puddle of the vile substance in the
Apothecary where the warded remnants of the destroyed Chronologue remained,
Stevron paused to consider that the sheer amount of slime now present
throughout the towers was far greater than the initial puddle into which the
gnome had initially been disincorporated. That left the half elf with an
uncomfortable conclusion. The slime was growing. Shaking his head, Stevron
left the apothecary to continue his survey.




Writer: Stevron
Date Tue Jan 23 13:11:06 2018

To Conclave Rasavadi All ( Xenophon RP )

Subject Foreboding Research Pt. 2/3



That the slime was indeed sentient and possessed at least the greater
bulk of Morcendu's intellect was beyond question at this point. When
Stevron had left the Towers for a few days to pursue his own studies, he had
found himself distracted by lingering questions. Was the slime that had
escaped the Magi during the final conflict after the primals of arcane and
elemental energy had been released by the Chronologue's shattering truly
aware? What had the gnome intended to do with the physical condensation of
ethereal power had his experiment succeeded? What secrets did the detained
apprentice Zedlar Z'Akkarion possess about his former master and the ruined
apparatus? And perhaps most pressing of all, what was the significance of
the ominous reference to the Heretic Wizard, Seanan Stormwar?

As he labored at his research in his private Arcaneum, Stevron found his
progress mitigated by thoughts of the problems that yet plagued the Towers.
It was then that he achieved an epiphany. The less than animal intelligence
possessed by a common ooze could not facilitate searching through the
towers, visiting locations and taking very specific objects. No, the ooze
was the Archmagister and he was pursuing something, likely a means of
restoration. Quite unexpectedly, a second realization dawned upon the half
elf. While the Archmagister had operated outside of the public eye for some
time, the Conclave Registry would hold All records of his activities. The
prodigious arcane tome was the best option for finding a solution.

After drafting a missive to inform the Towers of his suspicions, Stevron had
returned as quickly as he was able. With the expected efficiency of the
venerable organization, guards had been moved into the Commons and the
Registry was being made available even before he arrived. Yet new puzzles
were also presenting themselves. A hunk of amber encasing some sort of
insect on the cusp of a metamorphosis had been located by the Master and the
slime had left more trails and more hints in the items it was taking and
places it had visited.

There was also the matter of apprentice Zedlar. While working to plot the
course of the slime, Stevron had heard that Master Rasavadi had taken the
apprentice's questioning into his own hands. Leaving the interrogation and
the study of the curious piece of amber to those of more learning and arcane
potency than himself, Stevron decided that the manner in which he could best
aid the Conclave was to make use of the Registry being brought out for
study. With that new-found purpose, he made his way to the chamber where
the volumes had been placed and sat down to scrutinize All available
information on the rogue Archmagister.




Writer: Stevron
Date Tue Jan 23 13:14:28 2018

To Conclave Rasavadi All ( Xenophon RP )

Subject Foreboding Research Pt. 3/3



Even with his fondness for books and learning and his many years spent
growing accustomed to lengthy stints leaning over various lexicons and tomes
and studying delicate manuscripts from bygone eras, Stevron was not prepared
for the sheer scope and scale of the Registry. An inconceivable number of
magi had come and gone over the course of the Conclave's ancient and storied
history. Their activities and accomplishments were detailed and cross
referenced within the compendium. But for All of the organization, finding
one particular magi out of thousands had him scouring the tomes long through
the night.

By the second day, he had managed to find the appropriate entries for
Morcendu, if in an oblique manner. A mention of animated siege golems
provided reference to another part of the Archmagister's work and had
finally led to information on the gnome himself. While reading about
Morcendu's groundbreaking work in the fields of Alteration and
Transmutation, Stevron was visited by another flash of insight.
Transmutation. Metamorphosis. The transition of a crawling insect into a
winged form was one of the grand examples of one thing becoming another
found in the natural world. Granted, he had never heard of a mage
attempting to tap into such a process, but he knew of at least one shaman
who thought there was a special form of energy found in that transitionary
state.

Scratching another entry into the notes he had been taking throughout the
course of his studies, Stevron continued reading until the subject took a
dire turn. Morcendu had last been noted as following research left behind
by the Herectic Seanan. It was with foreboding that Stevron sought the
corresponding entries regarding Stormwar. A part of him hoped that the
pages bearing that information would be warded against viewing. Some things
were better left buried, after all. Yet he found the entries without
interference and began to comb through the sizable listings, searching for
the connection between the two wizards.

The beginnings of a frown pinched Stevron's brows together and turned the
corners of his lips down as he continued to read. There was a clue hidden
somewhere within the expansive entries and the half elf felt as though he
was nearing some answer. However, a new puzzle presented itself. Someone
had tampered with the registry. Someone of considerable skill had altered
the enchanted ink to obscure certain things while in other places words
faded in and out on the pages. Whether this was intentional or a sign that
the corruption had not been entirely successful was difficult to determine.

With little more to glean at this point, Stevron rose from the table and
attempted to ease the crick that his pouring over the tomes had caused in
his neck. The final pieces of this puzzle had yet to be discovered, but his
study had given him a theory. Now it was time to make his report.




Writer: Graaz
Date Tue Jan 23 22:32:25 2018

To Bloodlust ( Imm RP Religion Fatale All )

Subject A foray into fine arts with your local bugbear craftsman.



It was just like any other morning in the Dungeon when Graaz awoke from
his bed of hay, sweat and any other litter he had manage to salvage for his
corner. He awoke cautiously, clamboring to his feet slowly, wiping the goop
from his eyes, and some snot from his nose. He let out a few grunts, and
trudged over to the commons. Graaz's mind was heavy, burdened as it were
with the responsibility of organizing a sabotage on the Vallenwoods and
getting the elves therein to fume with rage. Thus far, noone had answered
Graaz's call. So he decided to take matters into his own hands today. His
idea was brilliant he thought, what would enrage the elves in such a way
that the lords of the dungeon would consider his job well done? A tribute
to goblinkind everywhere, a monument so glorious and beautiful to behold
that the elves themselves might weep at the sight of it. In Graaz's mind -
angels might weep, and demons might laugh and All of heaven and hell would
find pure joy in it's creation.

Enthralled, Graaz set off for the Vallenwoods sneaking around to avoid
unwanted attention. He would need to find someplace quite to create his
masterpiece unnoticed. Only after it was finished would it be revealed to
the world.

Beads of sweat dripped from the forehead of the up and coming Barbarian
Craftsman as he labored on his art. He tried to muffle his grunts and
disguise his exhaustion with a physical smile. It was hard for him to
concentrate, as a small fly began to buzz around his face - eventually
landing on his nose. He swatted at it furiously trying to keep the small
insect from breaking his focus. An entire day has nearly passed, and Graaz
has done nothing but eat and labor. He tries to break the monotony of the
beginning of his task by blowing snot rockets at objects more and more
distant from his filthy - err *timeless* masterpiece.

As the sun begins to set, Graaz's foray into fine craftsmanship has only
just begun, and knowing this he buckles his trousers and slinks away from
the Vallen, making his way quietly back to the dungeon - empty, exhausted,
and excited for the days to come.

*To be Continued*




Writer: Denth
Date Wed Jan 24 00:42:46 2018

To Shalonesti Amyth'lynn ( Imm RP Religion Kantilles All )

Subject Toys Storied



The day began like any other. The sun rose, the wind blew, the cross
roads ran red with the blood of the fray. Thumbing through a thick stack of
unread missives, Denth stares at it forlornly, wondering if he will ever
finish reading through the verbose pile. Sorting the papers of sermons
about the various pantheons quickly into the bin, Denth frowns in
displeasure as he comes across a sermon praising Malachive. What a waste of
good trees
Denth whines petulantly under his breath, a clenched fist
crushing the paper and pounding it onto the oak desk.

Standing up slowly with the help of a gnarled dreadwood staff, Denth's back
creaks as if he is far older than his youthful elvish years. Tired eyes
from many late nights in the keeps show on his face, eye bags forming two
large circles like a panda bear.

Walking with a heavy pace, Denth drags his feet towards the crafting glades,
dragging a pile of hickory logs onto the enchanted sawmill and begins his
routine of milling logs into smooth wooden boards. A perfectionist at
heart, few boards are smooth or straight enough to satisfy his standards of
a well cut wooden board.

What a waste of good trees! Denth storms off into the cool shade by the
pool, looking for a willing victim to listen to him griping.

I saw up more misshapen boards than useful ones.. Quarlani.. What should I
do?
Denth blurts out, not quite giving the person a chance to find context
or respond before continuing his unsettling tirade The essence of the trees,
I am wasting what Zandreya have blessed them with
Denth tearfully exclaims
to his listener, over dramatic at times, his arms waving up and down with
the pace of his words.

Can you shape the wood scraps in cups, bowls, a horse with wheels on a rope
for the young?
Came the wise one's bemused reply Make something useful out
of the your wood scraps


Thanking her quickly, Denth suddenly perks up at the idea, and back to the
crafting glades. A renewed vigor takes ahold of Denth, possessing him to
shape the many thousands of badly cut up log scraps into a host of misshapen
cups, plates and simply looking horse figurines. The more he carve, Denth
gradually gains a slow and steady skill in shaping the wood. Till alas,
disaster strike! A scrap of a half log, bearing an unnoticed splinter stabs
Denth squarely under his thumbnail.

A very un-regentlike squeal belts forth at a pitch not usually meant for
human ears, Hounds! Dabbit Denth futilely attempts to yank the splinter
out, a large red drop of blood dripping squarely onto the figurine of a
horse.

On the eye of a half carved wooden toy horse, a red gleam glistens in the
sun before it fades to a dark brown, absorbed by the wood.




Writer: Zola

Date Wed Jan 24 16:55:29 2018

To All Bloodlust Abaddon Darkonin Verminasia Immortals Fatale Kyri

Subject X No Rest for the Wicked X


There was a certain popular phrase uttered amongst the citizens of
Algoron's kingdoms: "No Rest for the Wicked."


Back when he'd been alive, Zola had appreciated the sentiment, feeling it
appropriate. Now, it may as well have been his guiding mantra. Especially
since there was so very much work to do, and so very little time to rest.
The sheer length and depth of it was humbling at times, but he was nothing
if not ambitious.


It helped he no longer had to sleep, and his faith sustained his hunger.
Between those concerns, and his mortal wife as good as gone, nothing
remained to distract him from the bloody work. The Lord of Murder had given
him a vision. So clear at times he could see it more easily than the
reality in front of him. A world bathed in blood, where the living and the
dead murdered one another again and again and again. No fear, no hypocrisy,
no guilt.


It was glorious.

And someday, it would come to pass. Until then, he had work to do. He
could always sleep when he was dead, after all.





Writer: Stevron

Date Thu Jan 25 13:16:29 2018




Writer: Khare

Date Sat Jan 27 16:12:53 2018




Writer: Cailene
Date Sun Jan 28 16:29:07 2018

To All Arkane (RP Storyline Immortal )

Subject Searching For A Snowalker



Cailene and her group of felars traveled through the cold mountains of
Icewall in search of any sign of the Snowalker pride. She passed a few
leonine prides but none had any leads to anyone of Hania. She continued up
the mountains until they could travel no more. They found a den, built a
fire, and sat around it telling stories of their younger days as Cailene sat
there staring at the flames thinking about Malthiel's and her plans for the
future.

She finally joined in with the others telling them how she was her papa's
favorite and spoiled rotten. How much she still loved him and even admitted
that she still needed him. Meki and her may not see eye to eye but she
loved him more than words could ever express. Things seemed to quiet down
slowly as everyone fell asleep except Cailene. She looked up at the night
sky and watched the stars, "Thank you ancestors for bringing Malthiel into
my life.
" The flames of the fire grew and turned slightly blue as she
heard a voice, "You have pleased us young one. You have our blessing."
She watched as She watched as the flames returned to normal. She then found
a comfortable spot to lie down, closed her eyes, and slept.

Cailene awoke very early the next morning, long before the other felars, and
made her way out of the den. The scent of newly fallen snow was the first
to catch her attention, she loved the fresh crisp scent it gave off and she
ran into the snow enjoying every second of it. The moon was still in the
sky as she could see the sun starting to peek its way, bringing on the
morning. She barely gets any time alone anymore and was enjoying the peace
and quiet of the early morning.

She was quite a hunter so searching for a Snowalker was not surprising to
anyone. She walked around and noticed a high den, high above the one they
entered to rest. She was cautious and stepped silently as to not arise any
suspicion as she slowly sniffed her way into the den. The den smelled of
many types of spices and she could see a small fire in the distance. She
slowly walked in until she heard a voice, "Come in young one I have been
waiting for you."
She stood there for a few moments before walking towards
him.




Writer: Cailene

Date Sun Jan 28 16:35:50 2018

To All Arkane ( Immortal RP Storyline )

Subject Search For A Snowalker



Ethram motioned for Cailene to sit down, "You have come this far in
search of your Pride."
He looked at her sadly then turned to the fire
before looking at her. "Yes, I have come seeking any that may be left."
She looked at him. "When your father left, most of the prides moved on
except the Snowalkers. Most of those left were the elderly and perished in
their elder years."
He turned to the fire looking as though he could see
something that she couldn't. "Look into the fire Cailene, concentrate and
you will see, open your minds eye and you will know."


Time had passed unnoticed as she the prides moving on, her father gathering
the family, and even those that perished in time. Tears ran down her cheeks
as she could feel their pain, frustration, and sadness. She saw them depart
in many different directions and her heart could not take the pain any
longer. She opened her eyes and wiped her tears, took a deep breath and
released it, and looked towards Ethram. "So you are telling me that we are
the last of the Snowalkers."
Ethram nodded, "It is so."

Cailene sat there stunned for a few moments and she noticed the snowflake on
his arm. "But you are a Snowalker!" She smiled at him. "No young one, I
was a Snowalker many many years ago. I have come because you needed me.
Keep the pride alive and continue your path with your father, we are very
pleased with you. I advise you to end the hunt it will only break your
heart. You know the truth now so live your life, raise cubs, show them
right from wrong, and be a good mother. Remember, your grandfather will
always love you."
Cailene sat there for a moment and as she raised her
head to ask a question, he was gone.




Writer: Stevron

Date Tue Jan 30 16:19:08 2018




Writer: Rasavadi

Date Tue Jan 30 17:41:24 2018

To Conclave All Imm RP Xenophon Kyri

Subject A Final Stand



Things were coming to a head.

The trap designed by Omngoten and Stevron was laid with the aid of Zedlar.
Rasavadi didn't trust the apprentice, but he knowledge was too valuable to
destroy outright. Much the same could be said about the Archmagister, but
that ship has sailed. His lust for power, and association with the heretic,
made him dangerous to the Conclave at the least if not the world. He had to
die.

The red robed Magus however felt otherwise. In the niavety of youth
perhaps, but he felt as though Morcendu could be "reformed." The decision
was mostly out of Rasavadi's hands at this point. His duty to the Conclave
was almost over. One last day, one last test. Should the Archmagister or
apprentice provide justification he would execute one or both, but outside
that the matter was in the hands of those he would leave behind.




Writer: Desidaryldun
Date Wed Jan 31 18:15:40 2018




Writer: Desidaryldun
Date Wed Jan 31 18:17:27 2018




Writer: Desidaryldun
Date Wed Jan 31 18:19:01 2018




Writer: Khare
Date Wed Jan 31 20:57:59 2018




Writer: Khare
Date Wed Jan 31 20:58:44 2018




Writer: Khare
Date Wed Jan 31 20:59:18 2018




Writer: Khare
Date Wed Jan 31 20:59:54 2018




Writer: Kaija
Date Thu Feb 1 13:38:58 2018




Writer: Kaija
Date Thu Feb 1 13:42:39 2018




Writer: Clarissia
Date Wed Feb 7 09:26:56 2018




Writer: Clarissia
Date Wed Feb 7 09:27:45 2018




Writer: Aionden
Date Wed Feb 7 21:28:51 2018




Writer: Wyltte
Date Fri Feb 9 08:25:05 2018

To All Necrucifer Imm RP Religion

Subject The Storm - Part 1



The waves crashed hard against the jagged coastline, sending sprays of
sea water into the air in a fine mist. Wyltte ran along the wet sand, the
saltwater spray running down his face. A group of people followed close
behind, their labored breathing from the run being washed out by heavy
winds. Wyltte slowed down, eventually coming to a stop along the
northwestern most point of the island. Dojia had been where he had spent
most of his time in the last few years, trying to come to grips with his
reality.

The young men and women following him came to stop a few feet away from
Wyltte, most bending over or placing their hands on the back of their heads
in recovery. Wyltte took a few deep breaths, stripping off his sweat-soaked
shirt, letting it fall into the sand below. The sea breeze was blowing in
hard from the coast, thundering storm clouds over the ocean distance but
approaching. Turing to the group, Wyltte nods his head once, his long hair
falling into his face.

"You have done well, and remembered your training. Long after you feel like
you cannot go on, there are ways to push forward. Your strength is not
dependent on your limitations, its dependent on your will."


The men and women nodded once, organizing themselves into a formation on the
beach. Wyltte stood up straight, clasping his hands in front of him. The
group in front of him deeply bowed, their hands mimicking the movement.
Wyltte returned the bow and returned to a resting position. The encroaching
wind whipped his hair around haphazardly.

"Go, and may the Master blind the eyes of your enemies" he says to them.
Turning his face to the approaching storm, he spies large rain bands
starting to fall upon the water. The size of the waves increase, crashing
hard upon the beach.

One young woman stood by, her hair tied back at the nape of her neck with a
red silk ribbon. Her Dojian features were exquisite, though the strain from
the run was present from the flushness contrasting against her ivory skin.
Wyltte sits down cross-legged on the beach, his eyes shut as he appears to
be in meditation. The young woman gathered his shirt, rinsing out the salt
from the fabric with water from her canteen.

"Hitomi, why do you stay?" He asks. "The rest have returned home."
Hitomi stands behind Wyltte, her hands folded together in front of her lap.
The wind blows a few loose strands of her fine hair wildly.

Hitomi looks down at Wyltte, her voice made even more quiet from the roar of
the wind. "I stay because there is something coming. Something important.
The storm was nearly upon them, streaks of lightning painting the sky with
their etheral light. The wind picks up to a howl, the last few rays of
sunlight on the beach swallowed up by the dark clouds. Wyltte opens up his
eyes, staring at the face of the torrential squall. Hitomi stands quietly
but defiantly by, her face an expressionless mask.




Writer: Wyltte

Date Fri Feb 9 09:21:19 2018

To All Necrucifer Imm RP Religion

Subject The Storm - Part 2



The lightning crashed All around them, the thunder shattering the skies
with a force so strong the sand seemed to vibrate with its magnitude.
Hitomi braced herself with her back foot, attempting to stand tall against
the increasingly piercing winds. Wyltte sat calmly on the shore, the water
from the sea coming up to just shy of his knees.

"Hitomi, what is this we are seeing?" Hitomi doesn't look down upon
Wyltte, choosing to continue gazing upon the raging seas.

"It is a storm, Wyltte. Great and powerful. It comes from a distant land,
looking to reek havoc upon our lands."


Wyltte looks down at his own hands, the rainwater dripping onto the
saturated sands below. They were covered in battle scars and heavily
calloused. Turning the palms towards the sky, small drops of water from the
approaching rain bands splashed off of them forcefully, the water scattering
in every direction.

"The storm has no intention, it has not a mind of its own. It is but a tool
of they who wield its power."
Wyltte shifts his body weight to move from
sitting to placing one knee in the sand, kneeling with his face towards the
ocean. "The storm hurts, harms, gives and takes because of its power, not
its will."


Wyltte closes his eyes for a moment and clenches his right fist. A dark
mist starts to swirl around it. He mutters under his breath, the words of
an ancient incantation growing in strength. Soon the power of his words
drowned out the sound of the rushing wind. Hitomi takes a step back from
Wyltte, the shadow of dark magic burning in his hands. With a quick
movement, he rams his fist into the wet sand with a yell.

The stormclouds above Wyltte part violently, the storm blown away by the
power of his incantation. The sun had long since set, and above were a
shower of stars. Hitomi gasped inaudibly, but quickly gained composure.
Small pools of water still sat dormantly on the beach, the sea calm now as
if the storm was never there.

One of the pools were directly underneath Wyltte, and as he looked into it,
he was able to see his drenched locks and weathered face. His left hand
reached to the scar at his right eye, a small sigh escaping his lips.

"Age is the one thing few of us have control over, Hitomi. I have held onto
youth as much as I could, but will alone cannot change that."
Wyltte
reaches his other hand up to his hair, ringing out some of the water.
Silently, Hitomi takes a step behind him and places one hand on his
shoulder. Wyltte looks forward into the blackening seas as Hitomi reaches
behind her head to her silk ribbon. She produces a razor sharp blade and
brings it to his neck. Grabbing a handful of Wyltte's hair, she uses the
knife to cut the strands nearly to his skin.

Hitomi continued to cut, the locks of Wyltte's hair falling onto the beach.
The waterline had risen, and the strands were washed out into the ocean.
Wyltte reaches a hand to his head and runs his finger through the little bit
of hair left on the crown of his head. The silver and white strands almost
seemed irridescent in the starlight. He turns to Hitomi and offers her a
bow from his waist. The corner of her lips twitch in a smile as the bow was
returned.

"I am to return to Verminasia, and will embrace that which I have refused to
long ago. I will die at some point. There is no stopping that. There is
no controlling those of my family who have faded away with time. There is
no stemming the storm of solitude that has stricken those I came to know as
family."


Wyltte starts to walk down the beach, Hitomi following a step or two behind.
With a small backward glance towards her, Wyltte continues speaking. "Every
other storm though, is in danger. I shall embrace what time I have left,
and the Master damn that which gets in my way"





Writer: Thrakhath

Date Sun Feb 11 06:58:01 2018




Writer: Wyltte

Date Sun Feb 11 15:47:08 2018

To All Verminasia Necrucifer Imm RP Religion

Subject Digging up the Past - (Part One)


Wyltte stood under a glaring sun, the shovel in his hand caked with dirt.
Pigs squealed in delight as the farmer poured slop into their trough, the
sloshing sound quickly drowned out from the oink fest. Horses cantered out
in the pasture, annoying the lazy cows who either grazed at a leisurely pace
or chewed their cud with a look that could only be described as
contemptible.

Wyltte continued to dig a few more shovels of dirt from out of the ground,
placing it into a large mound next to the corner of the fence. A nearby
flock of geese honked loudly at the approaching ducks, seeming to scold them
for encroaching on their territory.

"Those bloody things are proof of the Master's sacrifice in Algoron" Wyltte
whispers to himself. "Only something with Necrucifer's own blood could be
so mean"
. Wyltte leaned back for a moment, looking down into the wide hole
he created. He wiped away large sweat beads from his forehead, then stuck
the shovel into the dirt. The farmers continued with their chores around
the barn as Wyltte removed his shirt, laying it over the rails of the wooden
fence used to corral the cows. A wolf whistle came from nearby barn, one of
the farmer's daughters grinning broadly. Her father was none too pleased,
and pulled her by the pigtails. In hushed whispers he talked to her. Her
face goes pale, and she quietly went about her business, not giving Wyltte
even a sidelong glance again.

As Wyltte picks up the shovel again and jumps into the hole to continue
digging, he has a chance to see the many scars across his chest. A vertical
scar left of his heart was the first he noticed. That he had gotten at the
Ice Prison, a prisoner shanking him when he was doing a short amount of time
for killing a citizen of Ganth. Barely missed his heart.

He continues to shovel, the dark brown soil flying out of the hole and into
the growing mound. He spies another scar just below his left kidney. This
one was jagged and about six inches long. He earned that scar from a
particularily nasty buccaneer in Haven wielding a cat of nine tails, and who
did not appreciate his sense of humor. In hindsight, teaching her parrot to
make fog horn sounds every time she bent over to tie her boot laces was not
the greatest of ideas.

But it sure was funny.

Wyltte had the time to revisit his thoughts and how he got to this point in
his life during the labor, each inch gained by the shovel a chance to walk
Introspection was one of the few pleasures he left himself after everything
that had happened in his life. He needed to be able to look back and pick
apart his mistakes, learn how to be better than he was the day before. He
hated stagnation.

A small gosling broke off from his flock of newly hatched brother and
sisters and walked next to the hole, peering down at Wyltte from a top the
mount. A shovel full of dirt hit the gosling right in the face, giving an
annoyed but squeaky honk back at Wyltte. Looking up from the hole, Wyltte
lets out a laugh as the gosling shakes off the dirt from its soft down
feathers, its little yellow body shaking violently with the effort to get
clean. It tumbles down the side of the mound to come almost eye-level with
Wyltte, honking at him in indignation.

"Well little guy, you need to mind your manners and don't get in the way of
business"
Wyltte says jokingly to the gosling. The gosling merely looks at
Wyltte questionably, cocking his side to while he spoke. It continued to
stand there despite the fleeting calls from its flock, watching Wyltte
almost deliberately.

"You know, you are going to need a name" Wyltte says as he continued to
shovel. "Something handsome, that matches your quiet resolve. How about...
Ryan. Ryan the Gosling. Has a certain ring to it."


"CLUNK" came the sound of shovel hitting metal.




Writer: Rasavadi

Date Sun Feb 11 16:35:19 2018




Writer: Wyltte

Date Sun Feb 11 16:50:17 2018

To All Verminasia Necrucifer Imm RP Religion

Subject Digging up the Past - (Past Two)


Ryan the Gosling looked on quizzically, or as quizzically as Wyltte
imagined a gosling could look, as he used the shovel to scrape away the dirt
from what appeared to be a large metal trunk. On the top of the lid were
two letters stamped into the sturdy metal. W. K.

Wyltte's index finger on his right hand traced the initials, kneeling down
in the hole and being completely hidden from the view of anyone above. He
heard the distant whinny of a horse which snapped him back to his present
reality. He picked up Ryan the gosling and placed him on the rim of the
hole as he cleared away the dirt from the sides of the trunk. Its size was
considerable.

Once fully excavated, Wyltte hoists himself out of the hole and walks to the
fenceline. There were a number of tools laying by one of the posts. Wyltte
finds a large woven rope, coiling it around his arm as he walks to the
corner of the fence. Securing one side, he jumps back down into the hole
and ties it around the trunk.

Hoisting himself up once more, Wyltte grabs onto the rope and has it rest on
his right shoulder. With a mighty heave, he tries to rip the object from
the ground. His legs begin to shake as he pulls on the large case, some of
the dirt cracking around the edges, but not breaking free from its earthly
hold. He tries this for nearly a half an hour before he lets the rope drop
to the ground, drenched with sweat from the effort. By this time the sun
was starting to get lower, the dinner bell from the farmhouse ringing for
the crew to come in from their labors.

Wyltte looked around to see if he could find a better solution, the little
gosling staying at his feet as he scanned the area. In the pasture was a
lone donkey. Wyltte grabbed his shirt and dried off some of the sweat as he
marched over to the pen. One straggling farmhand saw him coming and quickly
excused himself, running towards the picnic table quickly. Grabbing the
donkey's lead rop, e he lead him back to the hole after shutting the gate.


Wyltte secured the end of the rope to the yoke of the donkey, giving it a
firm pull to take out the slack. He almost stepped on Ryan the gosling
twice as he moved back and forth getting the rig correct. Once satisfied
with the rig, Wyltte gave the donkey a nod, checking once more that
everything was secure in the hole. With a small nod, he looked at the
donkey and called out "Hyah!"

The donkey didn't move.

"Hiyah, Move along little donkey!" He called again. Still nothing.

Wyltte tried various other words and phrases but to no avail. Coming face
to face with the donkey, Wyltte looked him square in the eye, his expression
a mixture of anger and annoyance.

"Listen here Donkey, I have no time to play your games. No stop being such
a stubborn ass and get your... Self, in gear."
With that, Wyltte slaps
the donkey on his hindquarters, the donkey moving ahead forward with
purpose.

Wyltte steps behind the donkey and grabs the rope. With their combined
efforts, the trunk slides up the slope, finally coming to rest upon the top.
He breaths a sigh of relief as he moves to unhitch the donkey, leading him
back to the pasture. The little gosling loses his interest, waddling
unceremoniously back to the barn. Wylttle signals for the farmhands to
assist him, each complying in silence as he has it loaded onto a cart headed
back to Verminasia.




Writer: Telthian

Date Sun Feb 11 19:22:05 2018

To All Verminasia Necrucifer Imm RP Religion Ampersand

Subject Lost City - Prologue V - The Skull



--*--

The saber cut through frozen flesh and sinew, the curve of the heavy
blade driving a wedge between vertebrae. With a twist, Telthian tore the
blade free from the deformed creature's throat in a spray of ichor. The
body thrashed, pinned by both the skald and her direwolf as the priest
kicked ghul's severed head free from its shoulders.

Careening off of the grim, ritual arrangement of severed yinn parts, the
misshapen head awkwardly rolled a few feet before it came to rest in a bank
of snow. Both priest and skald took a moment to scan their surroundings in
the event the clamor drew another creature, but at least for now, they were
alone.

Ethenu growled as his powerful jaws released the decapitated ghul, and the
direwolf sat back on his haunches as he turned to face his master. Though
she was half-elven, there was no doubt Ashtiel inherited the grace of her
mother's lineage. With a single motion she rose, cleaning her blade on the
corpse's tattered cloak before returning blade to sheath without so much as
a whisper. Casting a lopsided grin at Ethenu, she offered a few words of
praise and an affectionate scratch beneath the wolf's jaw as she spoke,
'Hah. My killers. Now what the hell was that thing? '

His brow furrowed, the priest did not reply, but fixed his gaze upon the
severed head, its jaw agape in a grotesque grin. There was something else
here. He could not quite place his finger on what, but he could feel an
icy, instinctual sensation where his shoulders joined his spine. Over a
thousand years he knew it well, it was the same unmistakable feeling that
froze his prey when those molten eyes bore down upon them. And so he
waited. And waited.

The sound of Ashtiel's boot striking the corpse, as if to punctuate her
unanswered question, drew Telthian's attention away from the ghul's head.
As quickly as it came, the feeling left him. The priest chuckled, shaking
his head to indicate his uncertainty, 'I do not know, Ash. But we are not
alone here. '

The frozen winds whipped at them as Ashtiel's mismatched eyes held
Telthian's stormy gaze, the half-elf nodding in agreement. 'I felt it too,
just a moment after we killed that thing it was as if a weight settled upon
me. Let us press on, perhaps get the drop on the next one, hm?'

Hollow, rotten sockets glowered up as the snow crunched beneath the weight
of Telthian's boots as he approached the severed head. Putrefied flesh and
fur sloughed off the deformed bone beneath his grip as Priest-king raised
the skull to eye level.

--*--




Writer: Telthian

Date Sun Feb 11 19:26:21 2018

To All Verminasia Necrucifer Imm RP Religion Ampersand

Subject Lost City - Prologue VI - The Pit


--*--

A hundred and fifty yinn went into the pit.

Down there into the black.

We didn't want to go but we had no choice. Our bellies were swollen with
hunger and we needed food. We needed supplies. We needed medicine. We
needed anything to keep us alive in the aftermath of the doom of Dae'tok.
There was a sickness within the Empire, and it was our undoing. No help was
coming for us. Not from men, not from ogres, not from the elves.

She told us we would find our salvation there. Down in the dark.

Our every step unsettled the ancient earth in those crags and passages
beneath the lowest foundations. We didn't hear the first one for over an
hour. But then we heard the second, then the third. Fetid and twisted
things, starved by madness and damnation.

We started shouting in the dark, waving our makeshift torches and
brandishing our steel, trying to scare them off. One would run, but two
would come back. And then more than we could count, waiting just beyond the
glow of our fire.

And when the fire failed then the shouting stopped and the screaming would
start. Then the screaming would stop and the sounds would start.

Chewing and crunching and scraping and clawing through armor, through flesh,
through bone. It was so black down there that we couldn't see the blood.
But we could smell it. And we could smell them.

In the end, to our shame we fled. Wailing and laughing with madness through
those black passages, racing back to the surface. That was when the others
above poured down the liquid fire. Then we could see. We could see it all.

As my life ebbed and my body burnt, terrible vistas of emptiness revealed
themselves. There can be no hope in this hell, no hope at all.

One hundred and fifty yinn went down below into that that limitless chasm.

And only She came back.

--*--




Writer: Telthian

Date Sun Feb 11 19:34:31 2018

To All Verminasia Necrucifer Imm RP Religion Ampersand

Subject Lost City - Prologue VII - Preparations begin



--*--

The Black Wind left him reeling, All but blinded by the migraine burning
away at the median of Telthian's mind. They left the frozen, bitter tundra
the very same day, departing along the winding road until Ashtiel and Ethenu
could find shelter and the Priest-King could rest. There was no sense in
scouting beyond the further reaches now. Whatever remained of the Empire
and star was still buried, and the remnants of the doom of Dae'tok lingered
within its tenebrous corridors.

Something still dwelled along the snow-gripped, ancient pitted cobbles of
the old imperial road. The priest was confident that on its writhing path
they would face viciousness, violence, and some yet unknown damnably
transcendent horror.

They would need more than just a small band. They would need
infrastructure, they would need an outpost - perhaps a fortress.

This was no task for the meek, the self-interested, or the undisciplined.
Terror and madness can find cracks in the toughest of armor, the fiercest
honor, and within the most resolute of faith.

Back in Verminasia, King and Queen deliberated the course ahead from the
first steps in establishing their foothold to the retinue who would
eventually press into the heart of Dae'Tok.

Preparations begin - measured now in gold, later in blood.

--*--




Writer: Wyltte

Date Mon Feb 12 18:43:47 2018

To All Necrucifer Imm RP Religion

Subject Digging up the Past - (Part 3)


The large metal chest was washed off using the water from the moat
surrounding the castle, though one servant was drug into the calm waters by
the monster of the deep who presided over it. There was no one to mourn
him, no one to find his remains and lay them to eternal slumber. He was
simply food, a weak link in the chain. Good riddance.

Wyltte had the large metal box taken to the War Room and placed it on the
large mahogany table. Shutting and barring the door, he turned back to this
metal container, laying his hands on top of the lid. His breathing was calm
and focused, feeling the cold metal against his calloused hands. His left
hand reached up to his neckline and found the simple leather cord he wore.
Pulling it up over his head, a small iron key dangled from the strap, years
of rust present with the small brown flecks on its surface.

Wyltte fiddled with the key for a few moments, twirling it idly in his hands
and rubbing the dull brown surface with his fingertips. The oil from his
fingers stained it a darker brown. After a few moments, he took one deep
breath and placed the key within the lock, turning it to the right with a
slight *click*.

The lid came open slowly, the hinges creaking with the effort. Wyltte
placed his hands on either side of the case and peered down into its
contents. A stack of old leather-bound books, small daggers wrapped up in
oil skins and a bear hide cloak were the first items he found. He picked up
each with a type of reverence, turning it over in his hands as he laid out
each article on the massive table.

After removing the bear hide cloak, the true heart of what Wyltte was
looking for was lying inside. Wrapped up securely was a smaller cedar box,
the smell of the wood filling the war room. Wyltte picked it up and laid it
on the opposite side of the table. He undid the clasps and lifted up the
lid... And there it was, looking as pristine as the day he placed it
within.

The Uniform of the General of Deathwatch.

Wyltte picked it up by the epaulettes, looking over the old medals he earned
in service to Itamar and Harlee. So much had changed since then. He
remembered putting it away when he moved to Storm Keep in further service to
the Darkness. It was a bittersweet day, but his life was full of those
moments. He was still fairly fit, despite the age, so he decided to see if
it still fit. Removing his jacket and slipping it over his chest, the
uniform greeted him like an old friend. It was perfect.

Something sharp did stick into his chest though as he moved around.
Reaching into the inside pocket, Wyltte produced an old piece of paper, the
faintest hint of lavender hitting his nose. He unfolded the parchment
carefully, his eyes scanning the document. After a moment, he let it fall
to the floor. He stood there in silence, taking concentrated breaths.

Wyltte grabbed the cedar box, daggers, hide and other items and
unceremoniously threw them into the metal trunk. His movements had a
purposeful anger about them. He slammed down the lid and heaved the large
trunk over into the corner of the room. Wyltte paced the room back and
forth, coming once again to stop and reread the parchment. He crumpled it
up and placed it in a pouch at his side.

"I have given... Everything I am. Everything I have..." He says to
himself, walking back and forth. "Every waking moment was spent in
service... In bringing forth the greater forms of Darkness here to
Algoron".
Wyltte stops himself for a moment, the conversation with himself
raging in his head as he stood there stoically.

"My own life is slipping away slowly, the hands of time not stopping for
this bag of flesh"
he says to himself, turning towards the exit of the war
room. "If what I had given up was All for naught, I am nay going to sit
around and wait for that end to come. I will become what is inevitably
coming for me... Death"





Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:11:24 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:13:42 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:16:45 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:20:31 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:24:15 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:46:31 2018




Writer: Desdinova

Date Wed Feb 14 16:52:01 2018




Writer: Gabriela

Date Sun Feb 18 21:18:11 2018




Writer: Gabriela

Date Sun Feb 18 21:20:28 2018




Writer: Gabriela

Date Sun Feb 18 21:25:05 2018




Writer: Renna

Date Wed Feb 21 15:49:17 2018




Writer: Renna
Date Wed Feb 21 16:03:36 2018




Writer: Renna
Date Wed Feb 21 16:12:49 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 16:44:12 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 16:47:22 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 16:50:55 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 16:53:29 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 16:56:10 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 17:01:08 2018




Writer: Talrenvor
Date Thu Feb 22 17:03:04 2018




Writer: Rasavadi
Date Fri Feb 23 15:46:19 2018




Writer: Mercerion
Date Sat Feb 24 00:29:08 2018




Writer: Talyariel
Date Sat Feb 24 02:48:47 2018




Writer: Talyariel
Date Sat Feb 24 02:54:09 2018



 


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