Change is expected.
It is a core part of the Void, after all. Entropy, chaos… All that which creates havoc, causes change. Upsets balance and order. It’s natural, desired even. The way things should be.
But that does not mean she has to like it.
Xaphaal hovered in front of two slitted windows in its master’s mindscape, peering out at the dim scenery of grimy corridors and sewage-tainted water. Norrvaron was on a hunt it seemed- though for a quarry that Xaphaal cared not for. It supposed she could allow this at the least- fauna hunts had been more and more frequent since the introduction of Morkhaar to the Kathar’s arsenal... Even though there was little in the way of challenging creatures on the ecologically bland island. The demon...
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The library of Forgotten Pleasures stood still and empty until it didn't. A breeze ran it's way down below floral court, a wail and a sob mixed together as it blew through the cavern that was root court, moving through the open doors of the library and forming with a swirl into the form of a tall, muscular man with dark skin, short tusks, and feathers running down his arms. More unusually for him, his hands were currently made of stone, and a continuous stream of glowing blue tears ran down his face.
Running over to the large mirror, he stared with anger and sadness into his own reflection. Angry he was cursed, upset with himself for attacking the Maraya-especially as she wanted to help him. Was this who he was now? Xobek was right...
Plates of gilded metal jiggled across the tunnels of the Sewers. The warrior within bled profoundly from beneath the mass of gold, coloring the petals in between the armor's gaps an even more intense red.
To Naravan, this was no unusual thing. As the Roseborn, his was the duty to make bleed, and bleed for it. All in a relentless chase towards perfection, and the unachievable standards that were pressed- no, demanded of him. And so, though his fractured shoulders cackled with weight, and his legs threatened to snap at every step, Naravan marched on from one bloodshed to the next- Imbued with the grace characteristic of all Teledden.
His companion, however, cared not one bit for any of that.
"Are we there yet?" Chimed Mirror Mirror...
Alessandra sat at home in her empty apartment, fingers drumming against the wooden desk she kept on the third floor. A glance to the right showed the old apartment she used to live in when she first arrived here, and the basement that she used to call her home. She was glad to get away from that place, even if it was only a block away. Finally, with a breath and a sigh, she unfurled the letter sent to her three days ago.
To the Recipient of this Letter,
I hope you find yourself in good health, we at [name illegible] pride ourselves in our work. As discussed on December 1st, 310, you wished for us to look into the disappearance of a Teledden named Arazoth. With the description to match and payment plans discussed on that day, we have...
[!]
Found selectively across Regalia are copies of this poet's second official released piece. Each page's edges, headers, and free bottom sections are lined with swirling gold ink lines. Each word reads in fine colored print:
Hapless Halcyon:
Expel reason within your acts of treason.
Saints do not flutter the feathers of white doves.
A candle to its flame.
Reasons turned to blame.
Who's to say if their face is the same.
Look to your people if not those on the pews
"None of blasphemy, seethe in your sins."
You were not told to stand so sit.
Your illness, your sick.
To our spark they are quick to kick.
Who's to quell the unwell of heavy crowns and down trodden fellows.
Power is seen as a facade to the fallen.
You find no...
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The stars shone brightly as Asteria gazed upon them, the Isldar letting out a steadying breath as she paced in the chilly Regalian night. She could hear a string quartet playing somewhere off in the distance as she waited for her cue, still absorbing sustenance from the starlight. Soon enough her brother came to greet her with a nod and he quickly hurried back to the ceremony to take his place. The Archon adjusted her silk Woven Belt one last time and took to the skies to land at the end of the aisle. It seemed that the decorators she and Senira hired outdid themselves, the Isldar taking a moment to admire the combination of Sihai and Bene Vixit cultures. Her admiration was short lived as soon as she laid eyes...
Yes I am posting another Lore Story about Naviri.
CW: Family Issues
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“Naviri! Naviri get back here!”
Naviri could hear his father’s voice call out behind him as he raced out of the precipice of the house where much of his clan lived. His ears were flat against his skull and he was blinking tears ferociously from his eyes, his heartbeat racing, pounding against his ribs as though his heart itself was likewise trying to break out.
The cold air of the night hit him like a wave as he stepped from carved stone onto the snow-covered earth. The half-robes covering his body fluttered, pulled and yanked by threads of magic as his vestments seamlessly transmuted themselves into a coat and a scarf slung around his neck...
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”When you are lost, Naviri, close your eyes and breathe. It will come to you.”
His father’s voice chided softly into his mind as Naviri sat on somebody else’s balcony, the home abandoned and himself alone. It was a quiet evening, a rain having just fallen with the sky still soaked in the clouds that had carried the downpour. The Silontaar’s fur smelled of rainwater, and wherever he looked to the world below he saw the city’s light bouncing off the cresting pools and puddles in the streets. The sky was absent of stars, covered twice by the clouds and by the city’s bleeding light from down below.
He had been here many times. Maybe not this exact home, or this exact part of the city, he knew clearly that he had...
The scene is set within a decrypted, two-story home in the heart of crookback. Just aside from the Emporium, a glittering flicker of candlelight leaks through the upstairs windows. A faint silhouette shines through the stained glass. Within this fort of wood and stone resides a throne of oak and bark, refined and worn through as if a mountain had sat upon it for an eternity. Comfortably situated atop it was an armored figure of black and gold, helmet upon the scratched desk upon him. His head was that of a Bison, platinum grey snout to boot.
With the wind chasing the light that continued to press across the window sill and out into the barren alley below he began to read his final goodbye aloud.
"Dearest all. From my friends and...
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A garden sits in the middle of a beautiful forest. A gentle waterfall pours into a small river that circled it before flowing away into the rest of the woods. A man, cloaked in blue, tending to the flowers.
Each one a different color, and each one taken care of equally and for just as long. A Lily of the Valley. A blue Orchid. A Lady’s Shine blossom. A fiery red rose. A violet cleome. A spring snowflake. Each one beautiful in their own way and cared for lovingly with the man’s gentle hands.
His steps were light as he moved across the grass of the garden. Quiet, and gentle as a morning breeze.
Soon, the steps of another approached...
OOC: @BeetrootSalad and I wrote this because Erwin needs medicine for his terrible burn wounds. It is the anime filler episode written by the deranged intern. But we think it has some nice insights anyway.
It is difficult to get to the Sihai part of the capital city of Regalia. Even as one considers their struggle with the zoning laws that keep them from building their own district on the main road, it is a series of winding alleyways behind the Isldar District - in the shadow of the burgeoning Dragon District’s construction site - that one may find where the capital’s Sihai presently live. Representing many of the cultures of both Dexai and the Four Kingdoms, their space is a chaotic mash of small wooden buildings with banners and...
TW: Teeth, Blood, Family Issues
Blood trickled down her lips as she retreated into the garden. Palms slick with crimson and sweat, she felt the jagged end of her torn-out fang. The hole where it was once rooted gushed until all she could taste was sickeningly bitter iron. Tears pushed at the edges of Kirashi’s tear ducts but never trickled down her cheeks. Her brain wanted to break out of her skull like an egg. No thoughts filled her panging mind, drowned in the adrenaline of a fight only just finished - the rapturous sound of child laughter still echoing in the flower patches behind her.
Slumping down into the Autumn vegetable garden - hidden in the quiet back of the family’s villa, only visited by servants - Kirashi let the world...
This is a collection of some RP things I will be posting out of context.
Tunes
News of the Countess returning spread like fire and as she stepped into her childhood home a group some of whom had known Enheduanna since she was a little girl greeted her. One notable face was the family cook, who was always fussing at the Countess in her youth for overeating and spending too much coin on sugary sweets. After a moment of idle chatting, the Countess inquired about the whereabouts of her parents and after getting her answer she headed off.
It was roughly midday when the ship had arrived and the Countess should have known where they were at this hour, though there was a possibility that they were sharing lunch, something her parents often did as part of their ritual aiming to spend a little bit of their...
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To Forget.
"Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing."
AMBIENCE
“We will find each other in the next life.” Spoke the child of Fury, tone laced in the thick sound of rasped sickness.
“Do ya’ really think so?” Sempronia panned up for Mordrael, his once bright golden eyes dimmed, complimenting his pale features. The machine was failing him. He was very well a walking corpse, and it was this fact alone that the Greed-born dreaded all too well.
“We found each other in this life, right? I’m sure we will come together again, perhaps we’ll find Alviem, or even Carmine along the way.”
A bitter silence dragged on from her, features wrinkled together in a looming sense of...
Her mental, serene lake rippled with the plink, plink, plinking of dripping, intrusive thoughts: like listening to the surface before a storm. Sitting in the nearby park, not a single voice interrupting her focus on the world and its channels, there was no one to blame but herself for this lack of focus. Her lack of balance. Junillerenn let out a deep exhale as she began to stabilize her mind once more. Starting at her feet, she focused on relaxing each muscle, letting the need for sensation go.
“Your grasp on the channels is too lax, Juni,” spoke a familiar, deep voice, “What is bothering you?”
The silken hairs on her head bristled as though fingers were being raked through them once more like smooth combs. She would not...
OOC: This is Mordrael's final thoughts as he slips into death. Thank you to everyone who facilitated Roleplay with the character, it was all unfathomably fantastic.
Here's some music as well:
(Take your pick either work IMO)
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What was that? What is this? . . .
. . . I remember.
Whenever my brother stripped me of my flesh. When he filled me with metal. I remember it so vividly, the feeling of breath. It was weak but I could taste the cool breeze. I could feel the cool breeze. Then it became laborsome, painful. Like something was in the way, and I have no control. No say. It is this or death so I endure. “Move your...
With some creative liberties, this is written to be a fable among NPCs in Gallovia, in locations once traveled by the late-Katriane and Osric Howlester. It's a story in a poetry motif, with some exaggerations as word-of-mouth travels between people about Osric and the "spirit" he carries with him. It can be labeled a bit "AU" given Osric probably did some things a lot differently. This is written for @MonMarty and his character, Osric, who I adore very much. Thank you for always inspiring me.
A HIGHLAND TALE
A mongering whisper runs the town,
a rumor, a children's tale turned dark
of a man-made-beast, and a dame forever lost
or so the Iron Castle thought.
Travelers ask every which way, "What could possibly be true?
Is this not some...
What kind of person did she want to be?
The question slowly re-filled her mind as she stared at the mirror, thinking things over. Being a Unionist was an absolute no, and as the Crown Witch had said, it was nearly impossible to be an Archon unless you were devoted to the dragons to an almost insane degree. Was she trying to appease Haqet? The other Dragon members? No, she couldn’t do that anymore, they launched raid after raid on the denizens of the Sewers, murdering both her friends and others. Could she be a warrior like Gyr? No, she reflected, she still had plenty of friends who were Vampires, going down the route of ‘woman who beats up vampires’ while being hated by the Archon’s didn’t prove useful.
She reflected on what the...
Within the quiet stone hallways of the Grove did Yalaune settle, within those halls a Cahal looked up at her, gesturing to her with a claw.
“It is time to rip off the veil, whether you are ready or not, you will be.”
She moved forward to the white furred Nepilitch beast, a little nervous, a little prideful, and a little worried. She was used to changes due to spells like Altered Self and Soulrend, but wasn’t sure how it was going to go. She felt the beast move to her side, a claw that rested on her head, a deep tugging within her soul and being itself, every fiber of her body choked in resistance, frozen solid, even her voice, which she had been singing, grew to a silence. She felt something…stir, move, being ripped out, a sharp flash...
It’s cold.
Llewyn’s mind defaulted to that as soon as he felt the needle pierce & soon, the sedative pulse through his system; the warm & tingling sensation definitely being an invader in the midst of a crisis. It weighed him down. The embers of his Arkensire’s blood pulsated through him - the lone feeling he held onto - though it was snuffed out in an instant. It was that easy. His whole world spun, and he tried desperately to combat the overpowering burden that was the drug.
Fight.
He dared to slowly stand, though he had the weight of the entirety of Aloria on his body. It didn’t help that his left arm’s nerves screamed in agony whenever he tried to brace his weight on it; the limb having marks of teeth & chunks of flesh torn from...
Alone on the bridge near The Dragon Temple, a Fin'ullen named Yala turned over the necklace she had faithfully worn for years, a carved roly-poly on the face of the necklace, a reminder of her adopted brother. While couldn't recall the memories of her new brother, or remember how she met her husband, she did recall something else, a new memory.
In the dream-like world of her subconscious, a hand reached out from an unseen mirror to grab her and pull her in, she landed with a soft thump. Picking her head up, she heard a faint like crying coming from somewhere up ahead, and looking that direction yielded a small masked figure, hunched over and huddled, crying. She hesitated, moving forward toward the figure, spotting a bright green bow...
Beneath the gnarled branches of the elder tree, a young woman slept, unaware that creeping within the shadows, a beast made of light and perfection moved closer, she slumbered, unaware of the hidden threads of destiny that tugged both figures closer, as the shiny knight drew closer on the slumbering Princess, dropping a worm within her ear.
As the worm landed in her brain, he looked around in surprise. “Oh my! What a lovely home! But, it is too crowded!” The worm cried. “I must fix this mess.”
First thing the worm devoured was the knowledge of meeting a man named Zolo Baker, Owner of the Servals Den. The worm tasted from the memory, the thrill of flight from a glider, a sudden crash, a sprained ankle…all gone from the woman’s memory...
The lantern's flame danced and jumped, casting shadows along the walls of the dim room. Candles ringed the small space, aligned beneath portraits hung on the walls, whose edges were frayed with age. Various trinkets and talismans hung from the walls beside the artwork, rosary beads, medallions, and other religious paraphernalia one would expect to find in any religious site. Should one choose to focus on the portraits, the faces of the Unionist God-Emperors and Empresses would be found staring back at them, features cast into timeless depictions, showing them as one would like to remember them. Knelt in the centre of the room was a cloaked figure, a tricorne hap tilted down indicated the bowed head, and silent words left the figure's...
Wintertide was the special time of the year, wasn't it? The time where most would break out the finer wares and then shatter them all in the same hour. The sounds of merriment in scattered homes broke the silence of the night. The insides were full of life…while the outside was dead…with the only light being that of the moon, the unfortunate were forced to trudge through the snow, no real joy to be found in their hearts nor warm food in their stomachs. No fire to comfort them...and no one to embrace them but their brothers of misfortune.
Amongst these was a young Baskin, bundled up in the only 2 layers that he could scrounge up before the year’s trash was hauled away. It was like hibernation in a way, find as much as you could before...
Every shade of color could be found in the weaving tower. The clean stone walls, and the dark, carved wooden pillars were decorated with all manner of flags and bunting, gently swaying with the breeze that carried through the high windows. Wool of every staple and texture had a place among the shelves and nestled in baskets, or stretched across the carding table. The curled roving of Ceardian wooly lambs fell in ecru ringlets, while the blåfrakk goat of the North’s wool appeared in shades of indigo and modra-root blue. The faces of the Gods peered down from painted silks and woven tapestries, and felted birds lined the rafters, tied in place with wire. Sivrid’s 16-shaft loom took up much of the floorspace, though square looms leaned...
The straw at the end of the broom sticks scraped at the almost non existent dust particles of the marble staircase, the street worker let out a deep breath as the summer sun baked his skin. Turning an eye to the Kappadosian docks at the edge of the city, he took in the scenery of his home. Sixty seven years of service to the various lords, celates and militants that call the regional capital home. To gaze at the city from the highest point, the Temple of Tzarvin whose marble frame stuck proudly on the hill. Higher than the remaining flatlands of which the city was built, even higher than the castle which housed the vassals to the Emperor himself. To clean here, to properly serve here was a privilege not fit for a lowley slave or a serf...
His once frequent visits to the Dragon Temple had now grown arbitrary, ever since the wielder of Coraveau made their unexpected debut within the Conclave. Although his once great nemesis had swiftly found acceptance in the cradle of his allies, the Peirgarten was, as he always were, slower to trust. The environment had been a stranger to him since the departure of his creator, the Matron of the Central Spire. He would have said that ever since Cordenia traveled to Anglia with no intentions of returning, an unforgiving rift between himself and the loyalists of the Dragons had painstakingly developed.
After a heated exchange in the heart of the worship site, the Peirgarten trekked through snow past the forests of the countryside...
“Sold it all?”
“Yeah,” Ana said, dragging on a garette.
“Could have made a fortune laundering money.”
“Never said I didn’t.”
“He knew about it?”
“It was for the kids.”
The night life echoes of wasted men and women dancing arm in arm rolled down Daenshore’s slanted, brick buildings. Ana and Juanita shared tabacca smokes on the barnacle-crusted docks as salt water sprayed the swaying Daen Tartanes at sea.
“Took it and ran?”
“Could’ve. Should’ve." Ana shrugged. "Paid for their schooling.”
“Your idea?”
“Ours. It was holding us back.”
“Shouldn’t have married.”
“Better than sleeping with blue bloods.”
“Thought he was one.”
“Was. He turned his back to it.”
Juanita tapped the molten ashes off the tip of her paper-rolled tabacca...
The cold and dusty night air washed over the streets of Crookback. The daily’s wash of blood on the street pavement began to dry. Perched above the stone fairway was the second floor of a rotted, wooden structure. The faint illumination of candle lights came from the open windows.
Inside was a man, leant over his gas-lit desk. Stacks of papers remained on the periphery of his vision. He pulled another sheet in front of him, his pen poised for action. A cursive, and barely literate signature was written: CLOVIS. Another sheet replaced the signed one. The process continued yet again.
The next two items that required his attention were letters. Clovis reached for the first one, resting it in front of him. It rattled as it was thunked...
Yalaune had never been a part of faith her entire life, from childhood she had trouble understanding why she would worship something people feared. When she had to bury her first husband after the attack that left her scarred, she vowed to never have faith again. Surely, if the Gods were content on letting her be cursed by her own brother, then they never had a place in her life? They never cared, nor cared to, a mortal who’s problems were far below their own.
But then she met Arazoth, the Teledden who stepped into her life and offered her a new direction. A faith that wasn’t quite a faith, but rather a practice. Tarot cards, herbs, brews, poppets, spells for hair growth and spells to seek revenge. At first she declined in his...
A thick gust of wind billows out over the sandy shores of the frosty isle. It's arid touch biting at my nose and hands, like a rabid wolf. Out before me lay the stones I meticulously layed out, praying for the gods to see my call for aid.. Alas, the only answer I had recieved was Nidda's Wrath.
Captains log.. Day 63
Two months I spent on those shores.. Two months doesn't seem like a long time but once you live through
the worst of what life can give ya, you'll agree that two months is longer than any god's been around. At
the very least you'll sympathize with what I mean. I thought they'd be alive too ya know. Each and every
one of them looked fresh as can be. Some even with drunken smiles plastered onto their faces as I...
Boom. Boom. Boom.
-=x=-
"Why do you delay? Why do you not heed my warning? What do you fear? Was it not you that took me into your grasp? My whispers called to you, and you replied."
The voice echoed throughout Saleera's mind as she looked for the source. Nothing. All was dark. She stepped forward, boots sloshing through black liquid, green wisps evaporating into the air with each movement.
"Who are you?!" she asked, spinning about in bewilderment.
"Who am I? You know who I am. You saw my name. I am your inevitability, as you are mine. You walk the same path as I once did. Though my history is lost to me, this I know: we both serve Her will, and no other. So I ask again. Why do you delay, Child of Ice? Do you revel in watching...
“Come on Baskin! You gotta do it!”
“No fockin’ way! ‘Av you gone batty??” the little boy shouted his objections to his companions, who all had gathered at the mouth of the alleyway for the big day. Julius sighed and rubbed his forehead in frustration as Janith came forward to speak
“Baskin, it’s the Law! Everyone had to do it at some point” she explained, trying to get him to understand, though he wasn’t having it. The Law wasn’t really understood by anyone though It was likely created by some guy or girl who lived in some alleyway in some far gone time before any of us were born. But regardless of that being the hypothesized cause, everyone respected the Law and everybody knew it.
Why didn’t we leave the alley at night...
One night was enough to let the fire of self loathing and self worth snuff out. She was tired of wondering and worrying if she was ever good enough. Good enough to be a friend, a leader, a lover, and enough to be that beacon that others can rely on. She searched through herself and through her soul reaching out to the stars. Letting it paint her very being and letting it burn through her whole and whole. A spark of light filled her dull eyes with life and inspiration. With love and self finding she felt free from all the chains she had put herself into.
✰
They fell and it rattled her bones like a fresh breath in the morning of winter. It was welcomed and blossomed into guidance of self love and with that, faith. She grasped the star...
As Yalaune watched Arcuann's smoking barrel of the gun they were holding, Ellame's form collapsed, into liquidity goo, leaving behind Kelmvors shadecore, which Yala scooped up. Arcuann holstered the gun, gesturing to Yala, "You go on up head, I have something personal to settle." Yala hesitated, "Are you sure?"
"Positively, I'll meet you at Crookbacks checkpoint."
Carrying her now stolen goods, she carted it upwards, as Haqet and the others had long gone. Once reaching the surface, the orb seemed to whisper to the Fin'ullen, before falling silent. She carried it back home, setting it down on the couch table, with Arcuann in tow. What she couldn't get out of her head was Haqets snarling face in hers, if she hadn't used Illusioned...
AJAR
.
“When the gods wish to punish us, they answer our prayers.”
-Oscar Wilde
It would have been a quiet night, were it not for the hum of a thousand fireflies caught in a jar too small to hold them. The gardens were always tranquil at this late hour, but she had never known their silence. She had never known any silence. And for as long as in her veins flowed the luminescence of lightning bugs, she never would.
Some children kept the company of imaginary friends; She had found comfort in the gods. It was no different now, in the presence of her greatest confidante. She knelt at the base of Floral Court’s Great Tree, bathed in the warm glow of lanterns that swayed from its branches. It watched over her with eyes reflected only...
There was something so distinctly different about the way the sky looked, and the way the light entered the city than in the Ober Calemberg region. There was an orange haze in the morning, smoke and sulfuric fumes from Crookback and the Merchant Districts would obscure the sun. The distant roaring of the Grand Crucible, the largest forge in the Dwarven District, produced a flame so bright on the city skyline, that it was near indistinguishable from the sun behind the clouds. There was the double golden hour in the early morning, where Regalia would thus have two suns on the horizon, one obscured by, and the other created with, the fires of industrial progress.
Christopher von Henselbrücke wandered the streets of the Waldmark district...
The scene settles on Regalia's night-time festivities; people revelling in the harvest, gorging and drinking themselves into a frenzy. The sound of music and laughter filled the night sky above on this chilling night...and there, sitting atop one of the tall Bastilles that stretched into the night sky, sat the wolf-like Gereon, wstching from above. One leg was pulled up close to the mans chest, the other hanging loosely off the edge of the brick precipice he rested against. Even in the crisp, freezing air that russled at his clothes even now, the man barely felt the cold at all, and revelled in the moons glow upon his skin.
"Mmh...the moon shines bright tonight, eh Whisper?" The man spoke, as the white wolf as his side lifted its head...
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Can something be too perfect?
When the gods guide you to a perfect result, are you not meant to be happy?
.. Sometimes, it’s easier to keep hurting and treading on eggshells.
It’s easier to tell yourself you are doing something right, that your suffering had a purpose.
Instead of accepting that you are hurt.
And you are wrong.
Narla is wrong.
But there is no one left to give Narla an intervention, and that was dreadfully relieving.
·•☾ ꕥ ☽•·
Greygate played its part perfectly.
Every part of her family played their part perfectly.
It was impossible to describe her exhaustion. First, words which felt like certain death, then a dozen stings to her very core, her senses were impaled like a pin-cushion. Losses...