They say time heals all wounds. They say if you just wait it out it'll get better in the end. It hasn't. It didn't. Milo was still waiting for time to heal his wounds but they were still gaping, his heart bleeding out for the world to see.
Every slash directed towards the boys body, every stab and every bruise was still there, even if Milo couldn't see them.
There was also the mental wounds, the ones time hadn't healed for him. Sure, the pain subsided, but they still haunted his thoughts, day in, day out.
The boy didn't know that his thoughts were slowly killing him, he assumed it was normal. Normal for the voices of your demons to keep you awake at night, whispering in your ear their evil plans.
No, Milo thought that was...
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OOC: This Lore Story follows Xayn Baleck and covers the start of the "Fractured Light" storyline that begins after Andreas' death. I would like to dedicate this Lore Story to the following people:
~(+)=(+)~
"You gave me a challenge, my old friend. I swear I will finish what you started."
Xayn had been on Regalia's shores for a short time and he already faced a greater challenge than he ever known: picking up the pieces of a friend's life gone too soon. There was strength that he had command over in his body and he excelled in using his mutations in battle as well as not, but he wasn't prepared to try and piece together the remnants of Andreas' life. He had found some difficulty with his old Coven leader Lathlaeril in trying to keep...
(Another sad lore story you say? YES)
"You're a widow."
The echoing statement repeated like a loop in her head as she stumbled in the dark into the large, silent, imperial home, slamming the door shut behind her. She felt like she was walking on air, light and floaty, as if she could do anything. Liquor had seeped well into her blood, and even the room seemed to spin as she struggled her way up the wooden stairs, squinting in the dark. She could smell the rum that reeked off her own breath, which was something in itself and she might've been concerned had she cared. But she didn't. She reached the top of the stairs, passing by her desk as she trudged to the other end of the room and let herself fall face-first into her bed with...
Slow steps crunched against the snow in the forest. Only one was currently roaming in the woods, save for the occasional deer or bird. The feeling of the wind that breathed against his neck did not help soothe his nerves. Not right now. In his right hand, he dragged an eastern blade; a katana. He had sought some way to calm him, the events from earlier still clear in the Brood’s mind.
“I’ll be packing my stuff and moving out.”
Flinching some, Milo glanced up and paused his walk. A tree, rather tall and leaves flashing red, stood in the way of the wanderer. Milo did not walk into it, though he was rather close. He stared for a moment.
“She is gone,” he muttered to himself. He was trying to figure out, however, as to why she acted that...
Lina falls asleep as soon as she closes her eyes.
Oddly enough as soon as drifts off, she finds herself inside her father’s barn.
Lina twirls looking up at the beams on the ceiling.
She lets out a happy sigh as she says under her breath “mi mancava questo posto”.
Suddenly she hears a whisper “Come”.
Lina closes her eyes, “Madre? Mother is that you?”
The voice replies “mia cara”.
Lina starts looking around for the voice, “Oh, how I missed your accent” she says.
The heavily accented Dressalo voice beckons her “L-i-n-a-”.
Lina opens the barn doors going to step out, she sees the place of her childhood.
With a dazed expression she looks around. “Madre? Am I dreaming?”.
As soon as she walks on the path, suddenly she’s on a dark...
OOC: The Lore Story is the finale of the trilogy I planned to make around Andreas Myrslin. This takes place prior to his death and deals in the finality of his changing and somewhat redemption. This story will contain mature themes such as loss and finality of death. If you cannot handle such, please click away. You have been warned.
~(+)=(+)~
"It's done. They captured me."
Andreas was thinking as he woke up in Greygate, shackled to the bed that would prove to be his deathbed. He could hear their voices and especially the one who tried to add false charges to his record. She was a bitch in every sense of the word, but as they were preparing him to be cured of his vampirism, he knew he was not long for this world. They didn't understand...
Crackling fire heated the air in the Slumberwood home, fogging the windows. Aside from the fire, there were no other sources of light. On the ornate sofa, Damon sat with his glass of wine. A frown was ever present on his face, the previous days misfortunes still tainting his mood. He watched the fire dance as he sipped the wine before sitting it down on the table next to the sofa. The only sound he heard was the crackling of flames and a subtle breeze. It was almost silent but not quite. As he very nearly drifted off to sleep where he sat, he was alerted by the sound of heels clicking against the wooden floor of his home. He turned his head slightly towards the entrance of the room, positioned directly behind him.
“Eryl, is that...
Music
((OOC NOTE: This story has the dark thoughts of suicide amd depression. If you feel that the weight of this is too much to handle, please leave. For those who think they can brave Connak's pain, please continue as you have been warned.))
The Pain
Filled with only sadness, Connak can only cry as the one he loved was reduced to ash. "Why must I always be forced to suffer?" Connak would softy ask through his sobs. It's evident that the rogue has gone through a lot. First he was abandoned by his birth parents, then he is forced to kill the person he loved most and now... The one person who meant too much to him dies while he is being cured. Connak goes back to the house where he and Andreas would spend countless hours together. It's...
An Ailor is sitting in a empty field hugging his legs, his body covered in scabs and scars. The figure starts to cry, blood pouring down from his cuts. Around him, were thousands of empty faces, laughing... mocking... The figure cried loudly, his face buried in his arms. The field starts to flood, slowly becoming submerged as the water rises.
A voice shouts across the field. A man, clad in armor and a cape, stands not far from the
crying figure.
The figure does not react, his face still hidden.
The soldier sighs, and walks towards the crying Ailor, trudging through the bloodied water, the crimson streaks curving around his wake. A gentle light reflecting off his armor.
He looks down at the crying figure and puts a gentle hand on his...
Fen’nan stared at the Modern Altalar that was written across the pages, slumped down in her chair, elbow propped on the desk as she rested her head in her hand, tired blue-green eyes glaring at the texts. Pages illuminated alone by the faint, dim candle that blazed in the corner of her desk in the otherwise dark room.
She glanced to the book to see how much she’d read thus far and to her dismay, found herself only five pages into it. The Altalar let out a long groan and let her face fall into the book. She exhaled. She had hoped Leironse had forgotten about reading the texts, but it was only to her bitterness he had not.
She far preferred her literature of adventure and fiction that kept her rapt and anticipating. Fen turned her head...
It was a dark, cold night in Regalia, as was the usual. Curled in her blankets, the silhouette of an Altalar could be seen in the shadows, with her head facing the ceiling. With the heavy covers up near her chin, Amara tossed and turned before finally standing to her feet. Leaving her room, she’d silently trek to her desk and would sit in her large chair. Pulling out a few pieces of paper, she tapped her pen on the desk, occasionally bringing the feather to her mouth to nip at it. Nothing came to her. Nothing jumped out. After a few hours, she could no longer stay awake and her head slumped down to the hardwood surface below. The moment she laid her head down, the night terrors would creep in like an unwanted guest at a party.
When...
OOC: This Lore Story is the second in a trilogy dedicated to a sort of "Changing of the Guard" for my character Andreas Myrslin. This trilogy describes the personal journey he takes trying to understand himself and realign himself from the cannibalistic monster that knew only rage and hatred to the sort of Protagonist character that you'd see in a Dark Fantasy novel. Be warned that this entire trilogy contains mature themes such as depression, loss, and coping with emotions. If you are susceptible to depression and/or loss, I encourage you to click away before reading. You have been warned.
~(+)=(+)~
"What do you believe in, Andreas?"
Andreas was asking himself those questions as he traversed the second level of the Sewers, nearing the...
How long had Aq'uello been awake?
Truthfully, even he didn't know; the pages were scattered all over his desk and pinned to the wall in front of him, notes on everything he had gathered about the Clicker crisis and whatever might be connected to it. He was sure that this was driving him insane, too many nights had been spent obsessively writing up theories and trying to compare them to previous notes. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to stop and just go to bed, he was sure that he was missing something.
Aq'uello glimpsed Amara sleeping in the other room before he looked back to the disorganized mess that was his workspace. It was dark outside from what he could see through the nearby window, maybe he still had time to find out more...
OOC: This Lore Story is meant to act as a sort of changing of the guard for my character's personal story arc from a sort of cannibalistic monster to the eventual Protagonist I have envisioned for him. Be warned that mature themes such as depression, loss, and coping with these emotions are present within the story elements. If you are susceptible to depression and/or loss, I encourage you to click away before reading any farther. You have been warned.
~(+)=(+)~
Andreas had been suffering greatly these last few days, struggling to understand the changes that were so rapid and unexpected that not even he foresaw such. He had believed for years that he was the only one of his family still standing amidst the ashes of his world, but he...
The following lore story is a diary account from Helena Guillote of Gamsby, a small colony along the coasts of Fendarfelle. The time is shortly after the meteors rained down on Aloria during the start of the Bone Horror Crisis. The journal account is as follows.
| Lady in Waiting Vol I | ♬ THEME ♬
Gramsby had been without hardship until the incident. I have not slept, my sons have not slept. My husband, Alain, who I set out on the fourth day following the incident to the neighboring colony of Bitterstead, has not slept. He has set out in search for a doctor. Yet with the disappearances of the Philbert families son and father, I fear for him.
- Helena
| Lady in Waiting Vol II |
Four days prior, the stars of the spirit...
【Power】
I. The Seed
How it all begins. Whispers, ideas, and visions of what could be, what is promised, what is foretold. An image which transpires in the mind and settles among the soil of thought. A spark. Life-water. A curtain which draws away and reveals... what? A stage, a platform, a path, a single staircase. A tower, lonesome and tall, sat atop a hill long forgotten and abandoned. The stage of one individual. Hushed voices enter the ear. Power. Let it fester. Let it grow. Let it stay burrowed in the dirt. Plant it again, and again, and again. Power.
Power.
Power.
How enticing. How acquainted and comforting the voice became, like a mantra that lifted the morale of the innermost spirits. She called it friend. She called it...
~[x]~
NADIR
~[x]~
Snows usually came quick this time of year. It was as he’d said to Aesling; going to sleep on a perfectly dry, albeit cold evening, and waking up to six inches of powdery snow in the morning was not an uncommon occurrence in the City of Light. He found that he preferred the city most when it was like that, smothered in a thick blanket of white. It was almost like Regalia was as new; like the events of the past year were gone.
That wasn’t the truth, of course.
A fresh coating of snow wouldn’t magically return Rhoen to life, nor Alicientella to the form she was born in. It wouldn’t un-burgle his home, and neither would it grant him back his arm or his Magic. He considered the snows to be moreso a convenient facade-...
My dear son Selim,
I know that we haven't spoken in a very long time, and I wouldn't blame you if your first instinct is to toss this letter into a nearby fireplace. I beg you to at least hear me out before doing so, to at least give me the chance to talk to you for what may be the last time. There are forces gathering beyond comprehension; in the few months that I've been in Regalia, I have found full reasoning to believe that we may be in danger. I beg you to stay in Guneysehir or at least away from Regalia, for if the potential future is to pass, Sendras may be the only safe haven. Probably not a great way to start a letter, so perhaps now it's best I finally try to mend things.
The past few years have been difficult for both of...
Inside her home, in a room surrounded by darkness yet lightened by candles, dressed in red, sat a female.
Her hair was on fire, but it was not hot,
out of her forehead came two black horns,
her eyes were closed.
Cross-legged, Juane sat in the middle.
Her hands were on her knees.
The room smelled like incense.
She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth.
In front of her sat a male, with the same skin color as her, two black horns out of his forehead and his hair burning so elegant.
"What is happening to me?"
The woman asked, speaking in Sofaal.
"I feel powerful, but at the same time, I don't.
I'm young, but I feel old.
I know my power, but I don't know if it is strong enough.
Am I..."
She stopped, unable to finish her...
╒═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╕
A companion piece to Icy Touch.
╘═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╛
Theme
“Girl, with an accent of blood who speaks in foreign tongues whose vowels are the sound of metal clashing.
Warrior, with fire in her veins and armor beneath her skin, who crushes the earth beneath her feet.
Immortal, hair streaked with daggers and iron filling her lungs, each breath inviting toxic.
Princess, with lips made of glass and a voice cut from steel, features born from thunder and battle.
Heroine, a grin made of war and eyes flecked with ash, striding powerful, into the arms of death.”
╘════════════════╛
Once again, here she stood. The same room, the same creature of a...
“I brought your favorite,”
Fen remarked out loud as she wove her way around a few trees, holding up a bottle of rum in reference, approaching a large, but young tree by the riverbed in the forest, the sound of rushing water and the rustling of leaves with the slight breeze was her only response as she crouched by the young tree, where multiple old rum bottles of the same brand seemed to have been left, as if there for years. Fen’nan slid down to her knees, leaves crunching beneath her. She sighed before peering up to the stars above her through the holes that the branches and leaves that towered above her left before she looked back to the tree at the edge of the riverbank she sat on now. She popped open the rum bottle and raised it...
Night II
tunes
Fathiyaa had long ago stopped jogging, trying to escape the voice she’d heard. Her legs ached as she slowed to an unsteady stop before her they gave out. The metal plates covering her knees clacked against the rocks below her, Fathiyaa threw out her arms in vain trying to catch herself. The rest of her metal covered body crashed into the ground with a grinding crunch as she lay there still. The Songaski lay there, her back rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. She shut her eyes welcoming the refreshing feeling of rest behind her eyelids.
“Fathiyaa.”
A new voice spoke to her, a warm firm woman’s voice she’d never heard before.
“You know me don’t you.”
“I don’t.”
Fathiyaa pulled her head up...
A woman knelt on hallowed ground, scooping blood-stained silt and mulch into gloved fingers.
She passed her touch over each indigent grain and rock, turning them around and about before reverently replacing them beneath her. Knees unbent, carrying her upward, and then she gazed out over the open field. The low groans of the wounded carried through the night air, filling her ears and mind. She turned to depart, not for fear, but for want. Footsteps brought her closer. The heat of day left the sky, but thoughts of darkness poured into her mind, of fell days and fell deeds left unspoken. Trees and branches blew by her in pairs and triples. Green-limbused eyes tightened, their pupils slitting- a wisp of smoke blew into the beyond. The camp...
Music
((OOC NOTE: This story contains dark themes. Readers descression is advised))
"Do no harm"
Drip... Drip... Drip...
It's yet another dark night in the sewers as a hooded figure looks over body, devilishly smirking at his work. "Didn't even know what hit him." The figure thinks to himself. Still clutching his dagger, the figure flicks the blood off onto the body and sheaths the blade. The figure quickly glances around to ensure that he is alone with the body. Confiming he is alone, the figure moves over the body and pulls out a small vial. The figure collects a bit of blood from the body and covers the vial. Still kneeling over the body, the figure takes the moment to take an item as a little token. The only item the figure...
This is a dream series that popped into my head, brought on by the events of the crater and in the recent war Fathiyaa witnessed. Let’s see where this goes.
Night I
The Beach
Ambience
Fathiyaa’s eyes snapped open, amber orbs flicking around the haze surrounding her as the fog of sleep cleared replaced with panic. This wasn’t where she fell asleep the night before, where was GreyGate? Everyone within and even Regalia for that matter? It was all gone, only the rumble of waves crashing against the pebble covered beach which seemed to go on either direction for as far as the white haired woman could tell.
The Songaski was still in her armor aside from her helmet. Her white hair damp whipping around violently from the...
The boat rocked gently as it voyaged across the ocean as the dawn sky filled the horizon. The one sailing on that boat had been out at sea, on a voyage that to him came so sudden. His thoughts were put onto other things as he observed the open sea, nelfin features rather blank as he steered the boat. His journey had been set to Rikeland, a land rather unknown to him, but he had been told it'd likely be worth it, and much better than fighting in small pits in Daendroque. He tied something around the helm to keep the sloop-tier vessel from steering off course as he stepped away to stand by the rail.
The Altalar, young and usually altruistic, did not necessarily plan on taking such a trip. He didn't even want to take it. But yet, here he...
So not written one of these in a while. I found Memories by Maroon 5 a few days back and this is the result of my messed up mind. Yey. Also profanity warning. We all know Milo has language problems so.. F word warning.
Milo was slouched on his sofa, a bottle of whiskey in hand and his feet propped up on the coffee table. He took occasional swigs from the bottle, the liquid burning his throat.
The young man didn't know how long he had been sat there, staring out the window, drowning his sorrows in alcohol, but he had been there long enough for the tears to dry on his cheeks and for him to forget what got him here in the first place.
Here's to the ones that we got
Cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not
'Cause the...
Success From Suffering
Louie walked hastily down a back-alley, flame aglow in the distance. His poster bent and folded as he contemplated his recent actions. He couldn't help but add glee to his every expression: joy, anguish, suffering, fear. He could only think of himself, a grand human, sweeping his noble love away from the back of a golden stallion. Only when he passed a puddle was he able to draw himself back to Aloria, for he saw his abhorrent Ovirran form.
Although, he was only dissuaded for a moment, as he eagerly tried to remember what the Lich King had said. "I suggest you find a Secretary of Magi and ask if any Spirit White Mages exist" echoed throughout Louie's brain. He wasn't sure what a Secretary of...
The silence fell in the lower parts of the sewers, the dark tunnels that lead to more tunnels, what could be found in theses tunnels? in this darkness. In the corner of the dark passage sat a girl, a Kathar, alone she sat, alone and contemplating her life. The silence held many mysteries, contemplating her past, those she lost that were close to her, those important to her gone, her will empty or missing, unknown to what she wishes to accomplish, or yet just wishes something to fill the holes in her heart.
Her past was damaging, all the pain, anger, sadness, all held inside locked away, a feeling she never wanted to feel, something she wanted to overcome but when you reaching your breaking point is something you can never suppress...
Aesthetic Song
================
Through the Eyes of the Mountain
From within the Deepest Cell within Krakenberg, the Field General was surrounded by sullen, skeletons of aged men. Some eyed him from the corner of his cell whilst others simply peered around through the various cracks in the brickwork for a brief glimpse of salvation. It took only a short few moments of this before the Cell had opened and the Imperial Court Marshall (@BillyTheScroofy ) stood before him, the angered scowl of a disgruntled Commander spread across his face. After a rather short affair of scolding and berating the Field General, they both exited the small Island prison without not much of a word left from that. Though within Deo he did feel a sense of...
The drums of war do not beat in a consistent rhythm. They do not beat evenly, nor do they beat out a happy tune. The drums of war are a cacophony of the panicked heartbeats of soldiers staring down their enemies as they barrel toward one another on the war front. The drums of war are not drums at all. They are the pounding of boots upon blood dampened ground, they are the thrumming of adrenaline through harshly beating hearts, desperate to return home, to safety, where they may rest. The drums of war are the screams - anger, anguish, fear. The drums of war are not drums at all, but rather a whole orchestra.
It was with this understanding that Valarosta stood, staring down the hoard of Kathar and Wolond enemies, listening to the...
The letter that arrived was special. Everything about it was special- from the crisp envelope and the wax seal, to the name scrawled across the bottom as a signature.
She had reread the note so many times, opened and closed the letter over and over. By now it was no longer crisp, and the seal half gone, and the signature dirtied by dusty fingerprints.
“Dear Miss Lavinia Charity Serre.”
Her heart had nearly leaped out of her chest.
The Ithanian girl had packed her things, all of her earthly possessions, into a single suitcase. Two extra dresses, a pair of stockings, and a book. Her letters from her father were hesitantly added as well.
The next morning, she had taken off at dawn, a little pack of food gifted to her by her friend’s...
――――⋄――――
ARP-02.
“Weapon.”
The Phantasmal mentality is a branching tree, with ideals spawning from a single universal trait. To die is to become empty, without soul and without purpose. One must find their missing spark in this new life. Phantasma can spend decades searching for this fulfillment. Some find meaningful ways of making up for what they have lost, through piety and contribution to the community. Others find closure in empty hedonism and pleasure-seeking, or through the constant hunt against that which is abnormal. Administrators theorize that this void indicates a flaw in the Witch mentality, a deviation in the anomalous program that brought about Phantasma in the first place.
A flaw.
――――⋄――――
To see Dragons clash is...
╒═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╕
╘═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╛
“You convinced yourself that this was necessary, this darkness. That it was the only way to survive, to grow stronger than those who hurt you.”
╘════════════════╛
The bath stood before her like a lurking and prowling animal. An animal she was weary to approach, but not one she couldn’t conquer. Just reluctant to do so. It was a beautiful creature with four silver clawed feet and the body made of beautiful white porcelain, or so that’s what she assumed it to be made from. Or some other pricy white material, of course, her brother’s wife would spare no expense. Especially when it comes to luxury and relaxation.
Her...
OOC: This is the first Lore Story for my character Andreas Myrslin, so please understand this is meant to deliver a more in-depth feeling about the character, so some mature themes such as depression, loss, anger, and abuse may be present. You have been warned.
Drip.
Drip..
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Silence echoed down the long twisting sewer tunnels as Andreas could only hear the sound of dripping water or some other kind of liquid in the place he had kept to for nearly five entire decades. He had been wandering these old decrepit tunnels for years and all they provided him was a source to begin his repentance. The memory of his beloved children and wife dying on that fateful day of the slave rebellion haunted him akin to a...
Memories are strange things. Some stick with you, forever imprinted in your mind like a brand. But there are others, fleeting things that quickly pass into oblivion. But to most, memories are things that remain to oneself. Personal things, that can only be shared through stories. But to others, they are a bit easier to share, though it requires the use of arcane methods.
A young Altalar, hardly ten years old, perched on her knees in front of a man. This man shared the same long, dark blonde curls and light cobalt blue eyes with the child, leaving little doubt that these two were related. Perhaps even father and daughter. The man held the child's small hands in his own, gently guiding them up to his temples. “It’s alright,” He mumbled...
[Music Theme]
It was a bitter cold start to an autumnal day, the rain clouds were closing in on the bustling city of chatter and foot steps. The wind howled and the tree’s yearned and groaned against the elements, a flurry of red and orange leaves fell to the feet of a familiar ginger altalar, stepping out into her small enclosed yard, a sole withered tree grew in the centre and a mere stone bird bath sat beneath it, shimmering as the water rippled against the wind.
Approaching the bath her fingertips travelled against the circumference of the edge, peering down upon her wavy reflection “Oh Val, what would he say?” She mumbled under her breath, her nose wrinkling slightly, wafting away her reflecting with a little flicker of her...
The wind was gentle, yet there was the occasional howling breeze in the air. The sky was dark with stars dotted among the night sky, which is normally the time where most of the people in Regalia would be asleep. Only the crunching of footsteps against the snow-coated street could be heard.
Unable to sleep, Milo Shinseki sat up in his bed, his crimson eye glowing faintly in the dark bedroom. He peered to the one occupying the other bed; a female Altalar with hair that nearly matched his eye. She was currently asleep, or at least he thought. For all he knew, she could just be laying there with her eyes shut. Nonetheless, Milo stood and made his way to the open window in their shared bedroom. He looked back to be sure that the nelfin...
((The paper is crumpled and bloodstained, making a some words nearly unreadable. The penmanship is fairly well but looks a bit sloppy))
Gwel,
I don't know how long it has been since that night in the Re*l*. So much has happened, things have changed. I know that I'm being hunted but I p*omi*ed myself that I wasn't going to hide from the 'cl*c**r'. The thing is Gwel, I trust the devil inside you, Andrew inclu*ed. You show* me a pi**e of my tr*e self, so I wa*t to meet you in b***e c*u*t before da*br***, bring An**ew if he's available. I bel**ve it's time I come forw**d and tell b**h of you t** tru*h. I would've wro** it in t*is l***er but I'm ****ed that so*eo*e else m***t re*d it b***re y** get the c***c*. Pa** *f me h*p** ****-
((This...