[The book is well worn from what could be guessed as many months of use - it's about halfway filled already with many sketches and journal entries. Everything, seemingly, is written both in cheap charcoal and daendroque. The first entry listed here, however, seems to have some significance attached. The start of a new adventure, a new direction in life.]
>-- OOC --<
I've done diaries for characters in the past, and I find them enjoyable. As a fun little project, I'm going to be keeping up with this journal for my character Gawainne. Although I am sharing this publicly on the forums, I ask that people don't meta the information. The only way one would reasonably know any information here is if they stole Gawa's book, read from it, or...
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Morning broke through the oversized windows of the Yang-tzu bath house and crested the stack of papers that Alderik had dragged into the humid room with him. Though they weren’t wet, damp, or moist, they had gained the quality one could attribute to a piece of paper than is not yet wet and also not yet dry. The paper seemed to be existing in a anomalous state where it was neither one nor the other, but existed as a combination yet not at the same time. Though the purpose of interrupting his routine for a bath house excursion had been to relax and take his focus away from the work at hand, though he could not comprehend a state of relaxation that did not include some kind of reading or something to spur along his mind. In truth, the...
The Destruction of One Home
The sound of hooves stomping against the ground of the plains Daendroc, and the heavy breathing of a man would be heard as a large and powerful Stallion that was a Chestnut Color who was being ridden by a large Avanthar with Dark Chestnut hair and muscular and would be wearing a Gray shirt with brown pants and leather boots with a Recurve Bow over his back ushering his horse to go faster as they tore through the plains heading back to his shack but once he got there he found his shack in shambles and the culprit was a group of around five orcs thought he Avanthar had no time to count before he took an arrow from his quiver and would take aim at one of the orcs hitting its mark peircing the orcs heart...
- ♪-
A gust of air pushed through the dense thicket of the lower depths within the deep green. The howls of monkeys whine off in the distance. Chirping calls for mates in the early edge of spring by the rainbow themed avian life which darted the overgrown vegetation of the upper canopy. Droplets of water ever so slightly slip off the petals of a lily upon the bush, white, dusted with yellow pollen. With a sudden burst of motion the viridian bush is scattered and the lily claters to the ground underneath an unimpressive clawed foot.
The youngling gave off a mighty roar followed by an innocent chortle. His teal scales painted with white pigmented, prints which matched the size of his infant hand. Ochre eyes dart about the jungle, then...
"You were supposed to protect them!"
"How could you have been so stupid!?"
"They should have taken you instead!"
"You let them suffer!"
"They died because of you!"
"Monster! Monster! Monster!"
Like an orchestra of madness, the endless crying, the tormented souls clawing upon her frame never stopped to rest for even a moment. Her body becoming the vessel of blame, and guilt for a crime she didn't commit. As the cradles remained empty continuing to rock against the harsh winds the forever echoing and fading sounds of a babies coo now becoming a forgotten memory, as the room meant for joy now began to dust in the harsh winter nights. There she laid her body wrapped in a bundle of white cloth...
Theme
It hadn’t been immediate. A little tiny itch upon her arm and then her side. She had waved it off believing it to have been still healing skin from her injuries. And then she awoke, stretched out over her book and letter covered desk. There it was again.
An itch.
A frown creased over her exhausted and scarred features as she shifted her left hand to her right arm. Scrapping her nails over the skin, she scratched hard.
Scratch, scratch, SCRATCH SCRATCH.
So damned itchy… Maybe it’s the sh- “O-ouch.” The pained noise escaped her as she tore her nails from the reddening skin. She had scratched her skin raw, small droplets of blood dripping from the scratch marks.
Slowly she breathed in and then released it, laughing quietly to...
OOC Disclaimer: Only those tagged in the spoiler below have any IC knowledge of this wedding. It is also only those tagged who would have received an invitation to the wedding.
It was a beautiful sunny morning, as the towners of Regalia made their entrance to the wedding. The chirping of birds mixed with the sounds of the peoples low murmuring as they slowly found their seats. The venue was decorated elegantly to the standards of the Riviere patriarch; rich purples and silks adorning each seat, the rows of chairs each with their name placards set for the guests. Judas Riviere stood at the end of the aisle, stone-faced as he usually was; while he stared down the rows of chairs and the faces that appeared on them. His usual outfit...
Slate upon metal there lied the slow rings of metal that constantly shook upon an endless, ceaseless movement of the Varran’s feet. Static being the only communication between the neurons pulsating and writhing inside the gray flesh behind a skull as thick as the stone it walked upon. Optical lenses, yellows orbs blanking in the moment of sheer bewilderment, the faces mere inches away appearing to lack any description possible, nothing but the mere fuzz of emptiness. Bronchitis slowly bringing upon the lining of the lungs as the water barely came forth from his throat, each finger flexing and aspanning as fists formed with each twist and turn of muscle that churned like a factory for the simplest movement of a look over the shoulder...
He could have sworn it looked at him. Right at him.
In the northern edge of Ithania, nearing the Three Skags, there lies a pile of rubble, wind-blasted, broken apart by cold and ice, unrecognisable in comparison to the modest fortification of the past. Around three hundred years ago, nearing the fall of the old Elven Empire, a battle occurred here, spelling the end of the true Empire, and witnessing the birth of the Dark Banshee herself, or so the stories say. Old records on the actual events are vague; a mixture of Imperial Elven verbosity and Imperial Altalar patriotism make the true details of the event’s proceedings hard to discern. Fact and fiction mix well and do not separate easily once ingrained. However, for a Silven who can...
-=-
Felt like writing another backstory piece after some recent character development.
Another mission had gone sour. Such a simple assignment turned complicated so quickly. It’s as if the world knows just when to toss a marble under your foot to send you spiraling down a set of stairs. The life of a rogue…
-=-
Strands of white hair rested in the familiar Shenath’s face whose head was hung in defeat. Dried blood stuck to the side of his face causing his right eye to remain closed as if it was glued shut. He was stripped down to have only his trousers on, revealing the severe bruising and gashes to his torso, particularly to his ribs which were without a doubt broken. His wrists were bound above his head to the cold stone wall behind...
A random thought, for @SupremeCripple . Or maybe it's not random ; D
From the moment he opened his eyes, Tristan knew that he was dreaming again, because this landscape was not something he would just visit every day. Beneath his feet, the snow crunched as he tried to get his bearing. The icy wind beat against his face, and the snowflakes started getting stuck in his beard. He was definitely in some sort of glacial area, it was very dark and difficult to make out, but the moon gave just enough light to see the snow for as far as the eye could see. Before him stood a familiar object, the Opiraz, a machine he had not seen in a long time, but a machine that had continued to haunt him for years.
Around the machine were the familiar...
-=-
“She closed her eyes and tried not to think about how she had nearly died, waiting for someone to come along and save her. She shivered. 'I'll never do that again,' she thought. 'Next time I'll save myself.'"
-Liam Tanner, Museum of Thieves
-=-
Azra laid across her back, breathing hard from the floor as her hands pressed against her chest. She looked blank in expression, as pale as her tanned skin seemed to be able to get, save for if she were dead. Though the stillness of her almost appeared as if she'd done such, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress as if she were trying to keep herself together a moment. Her eyes flickered around before suddenly the Songaskia's face appeared over her, leaning over her fallen...
There was something almost amusing about rain on a wedding day, that being exactly what Elizabeth Black mused over as she peeked outside of the cathedral. Her fingers trailed briefly over the smooth white fabric of the wedding dress. Extravagance was a guilty pleasure of the once spoilt brat. Perhaps the confidence had always been there, or maybe she felt more up to the performance in the gown. No matter the reason, Elizabeth wanted to walk with purpose. The lateness of her father was nothing unusual. She had grown used to that.
Briefly shot her aunt and uncle a warm smile and a nod. Elizabeth owed that to them in the very least, for without their blessing, this day might have never come. She briefly dismissed the fearful thought of...
It was later in the afternoon as a wooden carriage dressed in green and purple banners made its way up a dirt path, to a small Cathedral. Tonight a quick, and hasty marriage would be held, with surprisingly few attendees to support the couple in their venture.
Fearful, his green gaze flickered about the rumbling cabinet of the carriage as they made their way to the older cathedral in the Regalian countryside. Thoughts scrambled through the man's head as he tried to pull himself together with a deep exhale, his right hand reached up toward the roofing of the inner-carriage as he wrapped a few knocks off the wood, speaking out, “How close?” in a straightforward tone, one that almost sounded guttural.
The carriage soon came to a stop...
The hot, dense air of the final days of summer’s heat lingered suffocatingly in the Almshouse chapel. The multicolored beams of light flooded the room, bouncing off the floorboards and grazing the walls. Eliza knelt between the pews: her back straight, legs tucked neatly beneath the layers of skirts, her head dipped respectfully in prayer, and her fingers interlaced into a tight clasp. The dizzying feeling pulsated throughout the room, the silent room. Faint voices of those floors below her floated with a disconnected manner as midday stretched onwards at a prolonged stillness. Whispers slipped from Elizabeth’s lips in fervent piety, her hands trembled as her pleading prayers for guidance, for forgiveness, for assistance carried forth...
-==+==-
“You know the life you have committed yourself to often ends in death.
All life does."
-The Valiant
-==+==-
Her world did not end in a bang, or a whisper; but rather one scream at a time.
The dunes of sand across the Eazim desert shifted ever so slightly with the gentle breath across them, coming in from the distance ocean that those within the Qadir party had never seen saw one. A fire made of burning paper from food packaging and the rare pieces of gathered wood crackled lightly in the empty night while figures were scattered about the shadows of the bonfire on mats and blankets. Two identical children were asleep upon a bed of blankets, one holding the other in her arms, chin resting on her sister’s shoulder as they both...
-=-
Another backstory piece, hope those who take the time enjoy it.
It was as if a bomb had gone off in the distance, waves of what felt like endless thunder washing over the city. The sun had fallen hours ago and even still the black cloud covered sky overtook the darkness, making even night feel bright in comparison, only being broken up by the stray lightning bolt way off in the distance. The wind whipped which alluded to the storm passing quickly but the down pouring rain was relentless and water rushed off the sides of buildings and the roofs of homes. The Daen city was quiet aside from the aforementioned noise, the majority of the population retreating to their homes until the storm passed. Despite the inconvenience of the...
Theme
Even with the recent political unrest and uncertainty of the future of her home, along with worrying after her military driven husband, Darcie had still found time to well, spend time with her daughter. But truly, time was all she had at that point. Time to think, to plan and to teach her daughter.
At nearly a year old, Marianne Amsel, or Annie as she was often called, had the mischievous spirit of her mother and the curiosity of her father. And the curly locks and green eyes of her namesake. Currently, she was holding firmly to her mother’s hand as she, her mother and her mother’s ever-present secretary and her unofficial nanny, Patrick, made their way into the countryside just outside of the city’s walls.
Along with holding...
[Art by @JoyShake ]
Co-Written by me and SnugglyKittens
The Proposal of Oskaar Irvainvik af Sorenvik and Elsa Sundenn.
OOC Note: These two are Unionist Converted Velheimers.
It was a late evening, the two velheimers were just resting after a days hunt for their evening meal. The sun had finally set and their only light source was the burning golden embers of the fire in the middle of their makeshift camp, the caught rabbits roasting on a spit hovering above the flames. The large towering fur trees swayed gently in the nights breeze.
Oskaar stood from the refuge of the log, stretching his arms above his head. Offering a jovial smile down towards his lover. Holding his arms out wide as he dramatically pointed to himself, a light...
How The Void Do You Fight Mist?
The drizzling rain had subsided for some precious moments and the sunshine brought a welcomed warmth, despite the autumn season approaching the Archipelago. Christopher Black was standing on a weathered path that wound its way to the top of a cliff edge. He'd stopped along the path, and was leaning his elbows on the railing. He looked out over the harbour below him, formed by the coastline. The land was foreign to him, but not unfamiliar. He was in Gallovia. The black-sailed Armada was peacefully anchored in the harbour's waters. The waters lapped at the ships' sides, as gulls circled overhead.
It was an Armada with presently nowhere to go. Ideas pulsed through Christopher's mind. Perhaps it...
==+==
The snow kicked up around the feet of the fair-haired Velheimer as she trudged along the path towards her home. Her childhood home, real home unlike the towering estates of Regalia that were decorated in cheaply killed furs rather than those that hunters hid in the shadows of winter to obtain. Small tendrils of smoke curled through the lightly falling snow from the fire pits within the small Drixagh village, Kopvagr. Homely abodes rested here instead of the stone and marble apartments that lined the streets of Regalia, welcoming in the traveling woman, whose face brightened considerably as she crossed into the village.
Her hands rose from her belt, where her gloved palms had been resting atop the handle, ready just in case she...
John Claudio sighed while he was riding to his childhood home in Anglia. It was a small fort, something only the rich could afford, just as his father had been. He had been long awaiting the visit with the Claudios, yet, he could not find them wherever he may go.
Clip Clop Clip Clop
The repetitiveness of the horses footsteps were starting to annoy John, especially on this humid August morning. His trusty Crysteel blade was sheathed on the side of the horse, just incase some unlucky bandit decided to pick on the Viridian. He could see it in the distance, as well as the massive farmlands that surrounded it. He payed local farmers to take care of the fort in exchange for fertile farming ground, a rather successful business for the...
Benjamin Journey: April 1rst, 276 AC-April 1rst, 306 AC
The Bards Thesis
With what used to be an invincible spirited man, was now a bard of puzzled and incomplete pieces. Within this dark and lonely cell, he awaited death.
He was burned and wounded, yet, completely unphased by his injuries. He had lost his foot, his love, and now, soon to be his life. With one final inviting smile, he motioned to stand, awaiting at the cells heavy and harsh door.
As Wyland entered his dark and gloomy cell, he looked him up and down, his features faltered to that of a blank expression. He nodded, signaling that he understood.
Following Wyland with Urijah in tow, the faces he passed were all too familiar to his gaze. Ironically, all were friends to...
The only thing that comprised her thoughts, was the mist. It rolled in, constricting around her vision and her focus until her view of the world around her was but a pinprick of color in the eye of a vast tornado. And then, it too winked out of existence.
The mists clung to her body, suffusing every breath, and every pore, with a thick smothering. Words came to her letters at a breadth, her mind struggling for air-rich blood with every shuddering inhale of the liquid that permeated everything that was her. Her arm erected, and she stared with a blank expression towards her hand: no, the mist forbade it. She bent her arm halfway, and found it still invisible. She drew her hand close to her face then, the long digits finally visible...
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The monochrome, waning moon illuminated the bleached walls of the Balfort. Nadina Haaven sat erect in the estate’s study, a wax-stamped parchment held loosely within one hand, and a blunted quill grasped within the other. Under the faint glow of the stars blanketed against an indigo sky, the room--once lively and green during the day--seemed muted. She glanced sideways to the open window and spotted her husband snoring in the adjacent room, just a mere ink splash away from the desk at which she sat. He would find out in the morning of course, but he didn’t have to know right now.
The Yanar gradually unfolded her moss-bitten leg...
-=-
Was inspired and decided to write some vague backstory piece. I feel my writing has come a long way. Hope whoever takes the time enjoys the read.
Blistering muggy air filled the evening atmosphere as water dribbled from damp shingles overhead, landing in puddles within the broken cobbles. Clouds cleared to reveal the orange bursts that the falling sun left upon the world. Birds scattered to the rooftops as beggars, vendors, and all sorts of other folk traversed the city’s streets. A rapid shadow passed below, high pitched shrieks and angry shouts being heard as the figure burst through the crowds stumbling and struggling to keep its footing. Boxes and crates which littered a back alley to the side went crashing as the figure cut...
The Howlester Night
A bitter night outside the Howlester Castle, threatening to snow curiously enough as autumn began to rear its head. However, the inside of the castle was toasty, an illuminating light of a fireplace flickered against the shadows of the poorly lit room, relying on the flame alone. Mordred sat in the lounge hall of the castle, listening to a piece of music from the gramophone while he looked down upon his little cousin (once removed), the infant gurgled and laughed in his arms and he looked down at him and being cast back to his youth, his years as an infant and playing in the fields and marshes of Gallovia. The baby gurgled and babbled out incoherent noises strung out like sentences and Mordred chuckled, nodding his...
fffA cacophony of slurred words and muffled utters emerged from down the dim hallway, voices bouncing off of stone walls and catching the ears of no one, as such was vacant as vacant can be. Emptiness was the decoration here, and warm bodies, servants, and people were evicted by a owner with diametrically different tastes in decorating. Rather than a grandiose hallway like the ones of the Loiree river palaces, this one was small, cramped, and lonely. Save for some voices, one would imagine the place was abandoned, what with its upturned tables and strewn about trinkets. A lone reverend made his way down this long, narrow, choking tunnel of a hallway, his robes seeming to never catch on any of the mess upon the floor, but rather flowing...
The Howlester entourage sent by Rodderick Howlester and his close allies finally arrived in Jorrhildr the day after their meeting with the Urls. Magnus was excited to be back but hid his composure, while Othmar seemed more positive outwardly. Magnus and Othmar had talked over the night and agreed that the cage was unfit, as Othmar had resigned himself to the idea that Magnus’s demands had won out. He was released from the cage, and the entire group including the two Url, Genevieve and Rodderick Howlester, Jared Kade, and a number of Howlester Guards trekked into the frozen expanse to follow the trail of the Maw Throngs.
Before long, Othmar and Magnus started calling out to the wind, beastly howls which were returned from afar. Othmar...
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The pattering of bare feet, smacking against the broken and old slabs of weathered stone. The grass between their toes and only the sounds of the forest to be heard, the streams, the wind, the birds and the creaking of those few trees. The laughter of children is a merry thing, it can warm the hearts of all who hear it and none are merrier than the Cielothar. They chased after a horse-drawn carriage with soft giggles and a skip in either of their steps.
For the world about them was safe, the woods, their home. They lived off the land...
Each piece of armor had been placed into a pile at the foot of her bed. Her fingers began to slowly unravel the braid that held back her dyed black curls. A tired hum escaped her as she dropped the various ribbons onto the floor, her sapphire eyes slowly shifting to the made up bed.
It had been empty for many weeks now. Empty of herself and… She shook her head, not daring to think of it. A huff of a breath escaped her as she padded forward, now nearly bare of any true clothing save for her underthings as she drew back the blankets and settled beneath the sheets. Slowly, easing her exhausted body back into the familiar bed, her eyes closed and the dreams began, as they often did.
Her boots crunched over the dead earth as she held her...
Oh look at how she listens
She says nothing of what she thinks
She just goes stumbling through her memories..
And she thinks... How did I come to this
I dreamed myself thousand times around the world
But I can't get out of this place
There's an emptiness inside her
And she'd do anything to fill it in
and it breaks her heart
- Grey Street, Dave Matthews Band
She had woken up restless. The second morning that she opened her eyes, consciousness slipping over her like a slow, rolling fog. Once she was awake, the unease settled in. The seemingly infinite unease that drove her to distraction. Her daily morning rides, aching as her body was, through the countryside did little to appease this fretfulness that drew her into...
The non-ginger Claith is quite the oddity: amongst the men of the Black Emerald Isle such hair colors are seen as “markings of the blood”, placed within the life of a family by some wandering elf-pixie for a mysterious, hitherto unknown purpose. Black is the sign of the pallbearer, quick in glory and just as quick in death, leaving an inkblot among their fellow villagers to write from for generations onward. Brown is the sign of the hermit, so drawn to the Earth that their lives are intimately drawn to it, forgotten by the minds of men but enshrined among their holy saviors.
Blonde is somewhat different. It’s a sign of closeness and attunement with the long-gone Nelfin, a curse of ambition and “prideful blood” that drags a Claith’s...
There goes a story of a Songaskian woman...
who could control an entire army of the Undead...
It is said that this woman wiped out an entire town...
Just from her home...
She lived in a small town, just outside Regalia.
The town was getting plagued by murder, performed by, what she believed was, a racist crime gang.
This woman had a son. He was twelve years old.
One day, he was found dead. Murdered.
The woman asked the authorities for help, but they did little to nothing.
She would soon realize that this wasn't a crime gang.
After burying her son underneath the sun in a quiet place, the woman decided to end this for once and for all.
That night, her and five Songaskians began their revenge.
Two of them were men, playing on a djembe...
I’ve been yearning to write and I love the color and energy of setting and story above all else. I present to you a slice of life from the Hadar city of Barazzt, rendered in creative prose! This is torn from the mind’s eye, and is in no way a reflection of how this city may be portrayed in official lore. Please feel very free to message me if you’ve got an idea you think is a worthy write - if you think it is, you’re probably right!
The City of Colored Glass
The city of Barazzt sits on the pitched side of a jungle volcano. Every so often, the volcano belches its protest and its sour sulfur hangs in the air as dark, angry clouds. There are hidden paths in these jungles for those that know where to look. The roads all lead to...
Steinhorst Castle
Ertaubleierwald Province, Canton of Vaud, Opper Calem.
Cascading waves veiled the stampede of hooves resounding across the trodden path. Shadows swept through the heavy morning fog, nothing could fill the aching emptiness left in their hearts. With the golden sun disappearing beneath the mountains, a looming silence arrived.
The gateman hammered ice off the windlass. Shrieking its protests, the portcullis rose as the riders entered. Piths of melancholy engulfed those that watched from the sidelines, the defining quintessence was that labels were abjured. Wonder means worry. The rules demand a show of indifference.
The gateman shouted, but there was no rush...For the Lord, himself strode out to meet those who...
Jonathan settled down in his throne, closing his eyes. "Come, my minions..." He murmured, as he felt his senses deprived from him for a brief moment... And then his eyes opened again. He looked down at himself, his hands being constructed only of bone. He no longer sat upon his throne, rather lying on the cold floor. He checked his equipment, all of it at the ready... As he stood tall. He donned his cloak, speaking to himself within his mind. "Master Erebos... Is here." He gives a grin, something skeletons are particularly proficient at, and strode off. His bones gave a soft rattling sound as he slipped out into the night, his blades slowly drawing from their sheathes. "Master Erebos... Is everywhere."