The dim illumination of twilight cast the room in an ethereal glow.
Through the only window the last light of the sun streamed in, assisted only by a single dancing candle in its endeavor to chase the oppressive evening shadows from the corners of the room.
Kasamir sat at the small desk beside his bed, hunched over the only sheet of parchment upon its surface that hadn’t been crumbled up and tossed aside haphazardly, of which there were many. A quill pen rested in his hand as his forest-green eyes stared down at what few lines he’d managed to put upon the sheet.
“…never suspected as you appeared, that I was worthy of your…” He muttered, re-reading aloud the same line he’d be stuck on the past several minutes. “Of her what? Schaiss...
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Drowning
It was one of the first warm days of winter, or really spring. You couldn’t tell just yet. The snow was turning into slush and the slush, water which was good for the flora of the city. Mel’odic was tired from days of sleepless nights and the thoughts that plagued her.
She had cracked about a week before in front of her best friends, Cule and Esse. Throwing her box of matches into the water. Watching the matches sink in. She cracked jumping in also. But quickly her two friends acted and getting her out of the water. Knocking her out in the process.
Shaking that thought from her mind, that was weeks ago. But she was here now heading to her favorite spot in the city. The lake, right behind the coliseum and next to petal...
I was challenged to writing a “peasant’s perspective” of a world event. I have chosen a progression piece - written by @MonMarty - for its status as an epic ‘capstone’ battle and its sprinkling of draconic deus ex machina (ft. the “Imperial Dragon”).
God in the Wings
In the Northlands, there is a grassy plain dotted with the cookfires of a company on the move. Banners flutter in the whistling winds of an open field. Mercenaries. They sat in an unnamed grassland, near an irrelevant village, fighting a title war that would be forgotten in a generation.
On the outskirts of their camp, near the edge of the sentries’ range, sits a small host of soldiers around a bloom of light. Their little fire sputters and spits, cooking over it a...
◤━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◥
◣━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━◢
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Vengeance is only as
sweet as you make it.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
It was hard to remember exactly what occurred. At first, it was twilight and a distance unstopping ringing noise condensed throughout her skull. She begging in her mind for it to stop, however, it continued its little tune continuously in her head. This is what made her stir, she didn’t recall much, as she stumbled forth, falling from the platform she’d been on onto the dust of the floor. It was all burning in agony, to move was to feel a sharp sense of discomfort run between her muscles. She felt her lips part to gasp for air as if this was her first time inhaling ever.
Clanking of metal on...
The old wooden door slowly creaked open, and on the otherside was the older Euan de Santigo who slowly dragged himself toward the leather-bound book that rested on the driftwood table. Beside the journal there was a quill, and ink- as well as a dimly lit candle.
Captain Euan of the Hammeren - January 15th, 307 A.C
I don't know what to write about. The doctors said this could help my... 'motor' functions whatever that means. I didn't want to go to the doctors, but I can barely hold a fork without shaking like one of them slag-heads down in Old Town. Doc's say I should stop fighting, and that is just his hifaltun opinion, isn't nothing but gibberish. What man gets killed from getting hit in the head here and there, eh? Regalian...
Pitter patter, the water dripped from the cracks covering the ancient ruin as the snow bled into the crumbling hallways of the monolith forgotten for millennia. Runes carved into the rock walls, an extinct script spoke of stories of the greatest warriors from the beginning to the end to be undermined by the babbling of a silenced language hypothesizing the true reality of their future and finally, their inevitable extinction. One by one, thesis after thesis were diminished like the friends of those aboard, alongside their families and finally, enemies. Nobody left unscarred from the horrors that had befallen them, yet a glimmer of silence was in order.
A naive Altalar who followed her mothers footsteps in the marvels of the modern...
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I’ll Be Good
He was tired. This was clear from the touch of red that lingered seemingly forever under his weary gaze, and the rings that layer the darken
skin under his bloodshot emerald gaze. He was tired of restless nights, standing on his balcony gloved hands cupped around a steaming mug. Tired of running endless scenarios over in his head, trying to justify if he was in the right or if he was in the wrong. Trying to justify if he himself could have changed the outcome, could there have been a path he missed? Was it the day? Was it the time? Was it something wrong with him, deep down that he might overlook because of his own foolish self-pride. Would he ever admit that he was in the...
A little Disclaimer:
If you're sensitive to anything that touches on prejudice, assault or any of those darker themes, please steer clear of this story. Everyone has their own tastes, and that's wonderful! If this is more to your style, then do read on, but excuse the poor writing! This is my first attempt at a Lore Story, feedback is always wonderful too!
People will often find themselves relishing in the storybooks of fiction, aggrandising a hero for saving a chaste maiden from the clutches of forces less than savoury or divine, conquering all that stood in his path and wielding with him a blade of holy light. Children are taught to seek out the light. To bathe themselves in opinions of black and white, light and dark, questions of...
-x-
-x-
[The book was falling apart at the seams. It was battered, old, stained by ink - though the pages inside were fresh and new, if not a tad cheap. The journal was refurbished, passed from one hand into another - the outside had seen signifigant wear, though the inside was new. On the front cover, scratched by knife and stained by black ink, read a single word. 'Gawainne'.]
--< OOC >--
Gawainne has gotten a new journal after her old became unsalvagable. As with any journal thread, the contents and existence of this journal would not be known by any but the writer, or any who happened to come to know of any entries through IC interaction.
In in the light of the full moon,
a shadowy figure walked across the streets.
She walks on her six-inch heels like she was nobody's business,
yet she was anyone's business.
As pretty as she is,
as monstrous and manipulating she can be.
She won't hurt you...
...if you're able to resist her charms.
NOTE: This going to be a new character of mine. I'm very excited. I hope it'll work out!
The 20th day of January started like any other day in the city of Regalia. Unionists went to Sunday Mass and heard sermons and liturgy from the High Reverend and Synod, while Old Gods followers went to their mountainside temple to make offerings to their Unions. Even the Faith of Estel practitioners made their weekend journey to their Temple to worship their Pantheon. The recent traveler to the holy city would view such comings and going without much afterthought. It was a seemingly normal day.
However, activity to the southeast of the city was not the usual run of the mill. The Knight's Complex, housing the military offices of the Admiralty and Viridian Order, had an anticipated surprise this afternoon. The odd knight or officer (and...
I don’t really know where to start but my brother said start when I think I should, whatever that really means. Personally, I wanted to start at the beginning of the day, so I’m gonna start there. Honestly, I don’t know why I wanted to start there, but it makes sense I guess because that’s when it really started. My name’s Enzo Celso, by the way, and I’m brother to Nico Celso if you have ever met him. I personally sometimes hang out at the big tavern on the main road if you ever seen me there and not that one with the red and yellow look. The drinks there kind of suck and you always get an odd feeling there.
But anyway, this happened about two weeks ago in the beginning of January. I was sleeping over at my brother Nico’s house when...
A thumbtack's delight.
The half elf was busy at work, hands flying between jagged and dulled pieces of dirtied glass shards, their grime being scrubbed at by the filthy rag she had in her calloused hands. Cuts and scrapes lined the palms and inner webbing of her hands and as she worked, they doubled in number. Piles littered her wooden floor, miniscule pieces threatening to dig into her heel as she stepped around like a drunken ballerina. Half was correct. She had the drunken part downpat but lacked any and all traces of grace that she once had. Her fingers were no longer trained in the meticulous nitpicking of inner clockwork but instead much more accustomed to the hard and dulled wood of an ale mug. For now, she was busy smearing...
TRIGGER WARNING:
This story contains harsh themes that may cause discomfort/ offend someone. read at your own discretion.
Blond and skinny- Just barely sixteen. Innocence yet still in his ocean eyes, his lips tugged up into a genuine smile. His soft, pure skin glowing like snow, even now, twenty years after it was put on canvas. It was a masterpiece, a nostalgic look into the summerdays of his youth.
Leopolds gaze raised off the old painting, to gaze in the mirror. His visage was hardly recognizable. Long, and damaged blonde hair hung down along his face hardly doing anything to mask his horrid visage. Chapped lips parted in a permanent frown, seemingly incapable of upturning into a smile. His face bearing the permanent mark of...
>><<
>><<
Even though it was practically the middle of the day, the Slizzar celebrated with great fires, drink, and dance for hours upon hours, well into the evening. The various members of the Ophid Union were spread out along these beaches, all worshiping and celebrating in their own unique ways.
Henric had a mission. A plan brought to him in a vision from one of the Sseptson, and so he put into action. He was confident and ready as he approached a group milling about near a preparing band. He moved to a position between the band and the group, clutching his flute as he regarded the audience. A few nearest to him turned and looked with curiosity, thus beginning his music. It was an overall simple and practiced a tune, Slizzar in...
>><<
>><<
Their boat was not the only one, but it was perhaps one of the largest. All around them along this sandbar-like island were Slizzar. Many had already shifted into non-Human forms, their colored showing itself and making up a discolored rainbow. On other nearby islands, other Slizzar also existed in the same state of talk, meeting, making fires and preparing. Henric ensured that their ship was secured before turning to them all. He told them all to be merry and joyous, as was the time, but reminded them that tomorrow morning he expected them all to be back at their vessel so they could proceed back to their transportation home. He then continued to enter into his natural form after a brief disrobement, his full length and...
>><<
>><<
The ship had been paid exceptionally well for the simple task it had been given. Any moral quandaries the captain and his crew possessed had likely been silenced by that bit of extra Regals in their pockets, though it was most certainly not a bribe. It had all merely been an incentive, a way to demonstrate the serious intent of the passengers to the Ailor aboard this ship and to make them more comfortable with transporting so many Naylar to Hadar.
Indeed, over a dozen Mu-Allar now strode the upper and lower decks of this passenger vessel, now sailing down the Schön River toward the open sea. Mainly below its deck though rested the orchestrators of all this, that being a group of Slizzar. Unheard of, the friends of the...
Regalia houses only the finest knights that it can hold. While the definition of 'fine' does not always extend to the morals it should include, one can always assume rightly that any man wearing plate has truly earned his right to it. From the ashes of ruin come the greatest avengers: ones who can topple entire armies solely in the name of the handful of souls lost to a somber tragedy. From the most magnanimous halls, the most heroic knights: they can prove themselves to be more than just a heavy wallet, for the poor shall share in their good deeds as much as their deity. From the hottest armories, the mightiest mercenaries: they can break down any shield, whether it be in standard or in steel, and cannot be bested by the muscularity of...
January 10th, 307 AC.
The sun began to set as Malruthiia entered the Golden Willow, ears perking at strange words. Some Ailor woman was professing that she’d been kept captive as a slave by Maraya for a year, and vowed to kill them all. Confused, Mal confronted her, but received only insults and false claims. Fed up, and ready for a tussle, Malruthiia offered a duel. The Longsae accepted, claiming herself to be some sort of Oak Knight. Despite accepting, Marina wished for the duel to take place on the morrow instead. Claiming her to be a coward and a liar, Mal egged her on, finally securing the deal that very night.
The Maraya followed the blue blood to Greygate, so that she might fetch her weapons. The Knight returned, with a...
The cold morning of the 10th of January saw a selective crowd at the Agathe Tournament Grounds, somewhat out in the forest of Regalia. Normally, knightly duels were to be held in private or in the more usually used tournament grounds directly in the city, but this particular location was chosen because of its widen open dirt field that was incidentally also not very well maintained. Only a limited crowd had chosen to show up, neatly packed into the viewer stands where a contrast of sorts came to be when House Delmotte occupied one end, while House Letoirneau occupied another. In the middle were but few servants and commoners who happened to not have any business this particular morning, for it was still quite frigid even if most of the...
____________________________________________________________________________
The boat sat in the port at around 7:00 pm, going up and down slowly as the calm waves splashing against the hull. As it sat their travellers of all kind moved aboard to go elsewhere, paying their dues to the workers aboard the ship. The passenger's destinations were different from each one, but each at least had a purpose to leave, something to do elsewhere.
The first to step on was Lyal'amna Moliria, the Maraya, and a former guard of the Vigilant Shield. She was ready to head out of Regalia and move back home to Daendroq, and start a new life there, willing even to give up her hard work in the guard. She gave a brief look back to the city, before smiling...
Drip. Drop. Drip. The sound of a rushing river surrounded him. Soon, he was swimming. That dripping sound was overwhelmed by the rushing river he was now floating in. There seemed to be nothing to worry about, it felt like all his worries were relieved. Finn let out a sigh as he moved with the water’s current. The creaking of a frigate caught his ear. He treaded the water to watch it pass by. It was far off, he saw the boat in its entirety. The newly sewn canvas sails flapped in the breeze.
Finn smiled as he watched it, thinking about sailing and his crew. Suddenly, the frigate cracked in half and sank to the bottom of the river. His breath shortened as he saw it quickly sink down. He tried to close his eyes, but another ship floated...
The flickering firelight’s glow illuminated the musty, perfume-scented room and its two inhabitants. A child was asleep upstairs in her bedroom, tucked away so lovingly with a stuffed lamb and a glass of water on the happily painted bedside table.
Snow was gingerly flaking downwards from the heavens, as far as a certain strikingly dwarfy-proportioned woman could see past her pinkish curtained windows. Her kitten, given to her by Catalina de Grizio, rested its orange head on her knee as she re-folded, delicately, a piece of old and inky paper to slide back into its given spot. The words she had just read were written to her at a time when her decisions had gotten more impulsive and chaotic, and they didn’t exactly flatter her. No, those...
Having made it down the darkened street there was one house lit from the inside with candles. Looking inside he saw his niece and Slizzar surrogate of a daughter. All he had to do now was knock...
Deciding to leave his wife at home he started to pack to visit his children and niece. Stories of their adventures and time in the Regalian archipelago having reached their family home within their native continent. He figured he would surprise the younglings.
The Daendroquin packed his luggage and set out of the house. Taking passage on one of the company merchant ships heading off for Regalia.
The journey for him was long and uncomfortable, his aging bones not taking the rocking of the ship like they use to.
It was uneventful, tiring...
Marina stumbled into her house, horrendous flashbacks flooding her mind with no relent. Her own mind had become her greatest source of emotional pain. She curled into her bed and let it all unfold, all of the horrors the Chrysant War played out in her head for that single unfathomable year.
Fourteen yeah old Marina was thrown into the pit, barely fully trained she was now fighting for her life against friends she had made in her cell. She donned two axes, tears streaming down her eyes as she went to attack other unlucky prisoners that had been scavenged by the Maraya. And they fought back. This surprised Marina, for whatever reason she expected them not to fight back but she was wrong.
The Allar’s blade came apron her, the allars name...
It was one of the many nights Rodrigo spent deep in the night, all by himself in one of the many studies of the estate of Peirgarten, standing infront of a make-shift war table, the map of the archipelago laid out, hand-carved puppets of the noble houses of Aloria scattered on it, placed upon their respective lands. The former Reverend sat in deep thought as he looked over the map, drawing lines from land to land and planning the future the way he imagined it, in his mind. He had never been raised to become a soldier, nor a military general, but that did not mean that Rodrigo did not desire it, or did not have the mind for it.
He gave a yawn, and then brought his pocket watch out to check the time, noticing how late it had become...
A glass half empty. A glass half full.
The clinking of bottles was eminent, and the chiming of those half empty and half full rung throughout the small space. With a gust of air behind her foot, Taj struck the cabinet shut with a hard slam. A bottle in hand was soon uncapped and brought up to her mouth, to its inevitable draining. This was her third today and it wouldn’t be her last. Nothing drove her to drink other than the feeling that she needed to, the feeling she was hiding from with a bottle of whiskey in hand. Even as an alcoholic, the caustic taste still burned her throat. A shiver ran up her spine and into her neck as the taste hit the back of her mouth and slid down. Her eyesight wavered and her speech was slurred, just...
===
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| E x i s t e n c e |
-
===
The Qadir felt like she was walking on air the majority of her life; from the days of floating across shifting sands to her days now, sweeping across cobble roads. No matter how heavy her feet fell, or how she stomped, there was this ease within her that told her the moment she needed to escape and be the air, she could. Of course, the feelings were more than just an internal lightness- which Azra ironically lacked with her habit of grudges and negativity. Though it general went unnoticed, the Qadir was a shadowy little thing- blending into the darkness around her as she picked the dark corners to travel around; nevertheless, they did not shift or change around her. Perhaps she was just one of them...
(*Disclaimer* This is a lore story about one of my characters being under the influence of the Curls of death vampire mutation.)
~
The aged wooden floorboards creaked as the wind and storm outside moved the poorly built old town house. A musky smell of damp mould and blood lingered in the air and invaded the noses of whomever stepped into the abode. The whole structure of the home rattled and shook as thunder rumbled in the horizon.
Claudia remained curled up upon the rug in her room, the only light source coming from an ember of a candle soon to burn out. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her head, fresh bite wounds were dotted upon her forearms and neck, clotting a dark maroon. Her dark brunette locks stuck to her bare...
---
“I don't pay attention to the world ending.
It had ended for me,
Many times,
And began again in the morning.”
- Nayyirah Waheed
---
She had been the age of one and a half when her world ended the first time, just barely seen life when hers shifted. There had been a crashes of screaming and thrown blankets. Sobs of her brother besides her curled through the air while their curly haired mother wrapped them in blankets. The cold air whipped across her face from where it peeked out beneath the blankets their mother stole away. Their mother held one of them to each shoulder as she marched away and through the city, trudging until the ground underfoot became soft with Old Town mud. Regardless of the dirt that stuck to her shoes, the...
Good Men Fall
The smell of rotting food and booze-filled the young Reverend’s nostrils as he sat in the watering-hole as he did so many years ago. The sporadic clomping of feet and music played together to create an upward vibe that most would stand too, the laughs bellowed through the tavern as the dei Marchesi mercenaries danced with the common ladies. Though, the Reverend sat, giving off a few laughs and claps as his men pranced drunkenly about the bar.
In the midsts of drinking and dancing the doors of the tavern doors opened and in came a boy who ran up to Franco, and his brother Angelo and began calling for them hastily “Master Franco, Master Angeloㅡ your presence has been requested back at the estate immediately.” said the...
It was a brand new journal, freshly sewn and tanned with care. Filled with a thick pallet of pure creamy parchment, a tobacco colored leather cover and spine and a shiny new brass buckle to lock it all together. Stamped firmly on its front was.
“Markolf Malte Siegward”
~ {OOC} ~
Of course no one would know of these interactions or writings unless being apart of them through in character interactions or being in character to actually obtain the knowledge within both by word or by more literal means.
Lil's Tales: The Highlander and the Bear
Culture Edition
"It all started with tha' hunter and tha' hunted."
-
It all started with the hunter and the hunted, being an Ailor man tied to no particular culture and a bear. The Ailor had small, puny hands compared to the massive paws of the majestic beast and unfortunately, the man lost his axe a while back on a previously unsuccessful hunt. The man looks the bear in the eye and they start to brawl, grappling each other like feral beasts and ended up fighting for hours and hours. The fight goes back and forth until the Ailor comes out victorious with the bear laying against the muddy soils.
"With ah' low rumble deep within tha' bears moighty chest, he says, 'Yew win, pal. I'll give yew...
Carrick could still feel on his cheek, the hand. The power he felt with the hit, he had never felt before. It scared the boy down to his soul. The large mirror he stared into had a large crack in it. It went down the middle, but nevertheless, Carrick could see how much of a mess he was.
His ginger hair, while normally wild and course, was messier than usual. Dirt was intertwined into his hair. The boy lifted up his hand and picked out a grain of dirt from a strand of his hair. He dropped it and then proceed to the same to another strand of hair. He knew it was pointless, this repeated act of trying to clean his hair, but he did it anyway. It gave him time to observe himself. His dull green eyes were bloodshot, and a tiny tear rolled...
Breath in, breath out.
The biting chill of winter burned his lungs.
Breath in, breath out.
He closed his eyes, taking comfort in the voluntary blindness, where he could see nothing and feel everything. He opened them again after only a moment. It was too much. The world needed to be seen, as it distracted him from his thoughts.
The training yard had all but already cleared, word of the fight having traveled as quickly and as efficiently as it tended to amongst a populace of adolescents all trapped together in a fortress as dull and unexciting as Castle Duurwalis.
They crowded about the perimeter of the yard, speaking in hushed voices amongst themselves as their gazes flitted between themselves and the young man standing alone in...