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...
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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...
"It is not the sun rising, but our sins."
OOC WARNING - EDGY STORY
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THEME
Riftan couldn't sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, sweat beading across his face. It was oily, thick, and heavy. No one was there to calm him, no one except the shadows. Red shadows; red fangs, red eyes, red claws. When his loved ones were not there, his friends went home, and his battle brothers and sisters left to fight their own fights; Riftan was left alone with the shadows, never leaving his side. Like demons, they attached to his soul and slowly drained the life away like a dark poison—the Sanguine. They were never truly there physically, but they were always there in Riftan's mind. It started when he first...
As the chilly morning sunrise peaked over the horizon, Yala was fast asleep. Troubled by Baker’s words and actions, she tossed and turned within her bed, her emotions and current problems affecting her dreams.
In her dream, a nameless and faceless man was sitting in a forest with her, on the mossy oak stump. She sat nearby, watching the man with interest. He produced a brownie, but not just any brownie, this one had mushrooms growing from it, short stubby ones with a red and white dotted cap. Some words were spoken about something, something when she woke up, she didn’t remember, but soon panned to the man feeding the brownie to a large spider, a spider larger than what she guessed spiders could grow. She watched with fascination as...
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Somewhere in the outskirts of Crookback…
An Altalar, of light, walks down the secluded woods. Rainfall battering against his navy-blue cloak, aged and worn as his soul. A kind, loving soul, stricken by guilt and pain. Chains that would never leave him. Invisible, yet unyielding. What was this man seeking? Solace? Peace? Relief? Even he did not know. The absence of that warmth he once held onto, that glimmer of hope had been extinguished as the last embers in Floral Court had burned out. Now, he wanders the ancient woods for now. Lost, and desperate.
As with all light, there must come shadows. And that was certainly the case tonight.
A Kathar, a shadow, follows the Altalar down into the...
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Theme: The Last Flame
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In a cold night, the garden of Floral court is almost invisible. The only light produced is the dim glow
shining down from the pale moon looming up above.
Soon, the foot of the Great tree brightens as a Yanar slumps back to rest their torn body against it's roots.
Beneath the flesh of her chest lays a burning core, twisting and twining as it ached a searing essence through out her body. It produced a small candle light, glowing faintly from beneath her skin.
She writhes in pain, slumped up against the root of the tree. She had only her thoughts to accompany her.
"I see now. The light of the brightest candle is blinding." Smoke bellows out of her maw as she speaks, this was no...
A few stressful breaths came up from the skeletal jaw of Remus after having just returned to Regalia. Grasping at his long almost sabretooth like fangs that stuck out greatly from his jaw, he'd continue slowly wondering up the mountain, listening around in his exhausted travelling.
Remus appeared as a lively skeletal vampire with bright crimson eyes and a slim purple robe wrapped around his torso. He seemed to be tired as if he had a fight or workout session..
Whispers most certainly unknown came upon the ears of Remus. He knew not what the words had said but continued up the mountain path anyways. A strange banner seemingly the colors of a coven or sanguine group is what he saw. Hope drifted into his eyes for he picked up the pace...
A story from the Bralona occupation, from the perspective of lady Allynna Mecatl, struggling with a vampire's dreadful illusions.
Warm sunshine, a breeze on my skin. It could only be described as a calm, beautiful day, standing out in its serenity. I am taking a walk with my sister, whose friendly smile I remember even now. She was always so kind to me, whether deserved or not. We're taking a walk, talking casually, much like all those months ago, before the invaders. At the time it felt like one of the nicest moments I've had in forever.
Of course, like how things usually tend to go with my life, it's not pleasant for long. I hear a whisper right by my ear:
"Monster."
I look around, and see no one. The voice is now in front of me...
Yala is stuck at her job, scrubbing the deck of The Copper Maiden as her co-workers argue. The cook, an old geezer of a man, and the other cook, a lady who’s sanity was slipping since the loss of her son, had been fighting all morning. Already having a growing headache on her temples, the woman sighed, and kept on scrubbing the deck. She thought about what happened, the firm shutting down. Miguel, an old man, going to fight demons? Enlistment? That didn’t concern her, she knew Miguel was loyal to the Empire, but joining the army was a whole other ballgame. Why should she join an army that chipped people it didn’t like? Why was Miguel so stupid? It frustrated her to no end that he was launching himself into a war. The other issue - pay...
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Music: Rises the Moon
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Drops of pure essence drip from the sky to land in a pool of silver light. The silver pool releases drops of pure essence into a puddle of silver light bellow, this goes on as far down and up as one could comprehend.
Bright, brighter yet brightest. The view of the endless horizon is empty, yet unimaginably cluttered.
Somewhere, between nothingness and all, stood a lonesome, tall Yanar with long red hair and a well kept dress.
Her eyes opened to the sea of everything, yet so little was there. She saw what was and what will be, she saw every material, she heard every secret, tasted every delicacy, smelled every scent and felt every touch. The silver sea which she stood atop of was an...
❦
The dead were put to rest. Their bodies were sealed and left in the Helbowen with its Staargir. Their souls were saved from an eternal wake in the Mirror World, as it was meant to be. By the time the second body was preserved, the sun was well on its way to reaching the horizon. Mere minutes after that the treeline would swallow its light, replacing its shining glory with the night's favorite palette. Purples, pinks, then blues, then black as midnight.
Only the Staargir ever humored prayers--whispers and songs--for their chosen god. For their souls to truly be saved. But if salvation ever really came with so much as a whisper, it would only be the deceased who would know it, and perhaps the pious men and women who were ready to...
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TW: Themes of Abuse
January 278 A.C.
Smiles spread across unknowing faces. Turned, watching as the bride made her way down the aisle, toward a life she couldn’t escape after. Emerald eyes, dazzling unnaturally from behind her veil. Perhaps it was some sick joke she thought, to be married to a Purist man who hated her, hated who she truly was. She would smile and hide her true self to keep her new husband placated and happy, for she could live in secret if it meant a place in history, a place for her name to be...
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-[ « Q U O T E » ]-
"How lucky I am having something that makes saying goodbye
so hard."
HOME. A simple, pleasant word. One only made beautiful by the meaning people apply to it. A home of great stature, with crystal panels and stonework entrances. A home with laughter echoing about, filling loved ones' lungs and tugging their lips into toothy grins. There are many definitions for the word, but...
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Shadows clung to the cavern's walls. They clawed tooth and nail against the floating wisps of red and purple light. They were winding their way across the pillars. Tightening, pressing in against the unconcerned crowds. Bodies leaned against one another, delighting in the sweet burn of their drinks as the cave closed in. A murmur fighting back against the pulsing music. Something was dripping. Dripping from the ceiling onto the oblivious humans below.
Conversations blended with idle sprites' chittering. Individual voices filtered through the din for a mere moment before being swallowed whole again. A...
Walking to New Brallona’s bridge, the red-head Fin’ullen stopped, seeing Leskenisa, Gyr, and Lockwood, the very same people she had asked for help. More relieved to see Leskenisa alive and well, she made her way forward.
“Miss Leskenisa, you’re ok!” She said brightly “Did everything go ok?”
Instead of the usual look Leskenisa gave, which was a grumpy look, instead she got a very blank stare back. “What?”
“....You know, after what happened yesterday?”
The Cahal paused, “I’m sorry, who are you?”
She felt her eyes widen, it was impossible, surely, that they just had a bad day? “Yala, the Fin’ullen you healed at the clinic? I was with you when you got your spine repaired.”
“I only work part-time at the clinic - well, /did/, and no...
“Cmon-!” The red headed shouted, dragging the silver beast away from the crowd, as the heavy seven-foot tall creature slumped over her shoulder, putting its weight on her.
Earlier that morning, Yala was thinking about the new dress she ordered, sitting in the Temple of The Sisters, listening to the Priestess talk about Estel, the Holy Woman. It was there that the Priestess had discussed options with Yala, including the God-born Naarfi, on how to worship and abandon the Void. She had also run into Finn, a younger man that followed Naarfi around like a puppy. She had waved her goodbyes to the Priestess and Naarfi, and headed to Crookback with Finn, joking on how she was ‘switching sides’ so often it must make people’s heads spin...
As the afternoon cool sunlight filtered down on the remains of the once broken church, cobwebs hanging in the air as the floorboards creaked underneath, a certain Fin'ullen tread on once familiar lands, standing to a halt near a certain altar. Her voice calls out:
"Hello, anyone here?"
Silence, wind, and the steady crash of waves is the only thing she gets. Breathing a sigh of relief, unsure if she would have liked to see them again, she glances over to the altar, setting down a jade dragon statue.
She then clasps her hands together, in a prayer.
"Hey Nox, it's me again. I know you've left my side since what happened..especially since I'm Void-touched now, but I'm not here for me, I'm here for The Prophet, your wise-guy." She...
Yala had sunk her weary body into the bed, a pounding headache resulting in today's activities. The letter, why did she send that damned letter? She couldn't think of it much, because before she knew it, she drifted off into sleep.
She was standing at Greygate square, all alone and with nobody else around her. As she turned and looked forward, The Prophet was there, standing in his usual robe and mask. Her eyes widened.
"Prophet?"
As if on cue, the Prophet themselves began to change and morph, a ghastly figure, of twisting silver scales and large black mandibles, each with razor sharp teeth. A scream emitted from the mouth of the once former Priest, as it started to slither forward toward Yala.
Summoning her rapier at once, the...
I am the Jester, my job's to entertain,
And it seems that soon enough it too will be my job to reign.
Over all that you see, over all that you know,
As the king is slowly dying, any moment he could go.
Yes the king is slowly dying, any moment he will go.
Yala stood in the center of an enormous palace, a number of huge branches of columns reaching up high into the ceiling. In front of her mirrors spun, rotating slowly and steadily, each reflecting off their own light, which spilt into a chrism of rainbow colors. Reds, blues, greens, violets, yellow, purple, and black all spun around her, like a ballet dancer. Yala could only admire and stare, as the lights themselves didn't shine too brightly nor too darkly.
Oh! Sweet memories, come...
Because 190085 had very little opportunity to see the sun or sky, she marked the passage of time by when she was allowed to sleep, when she was woken by the Hook, and the sequential pattern of labors she was assigned to. She kept count with a small piece of solidified black tar that she continually added to by squirreling away chunks of the excess stuff when she worked in the foundry. The wall by her bed was, at this point, a sprawling mural of small black strokes dragged upon the bleak surface of her cramped chamber, impossibly tedious to count out in their entire summary. When one is forced to lie awake on their cot and endure the unending whispers of things they cannot see nor touch, though, they have no choice but to occupy their...
"What fire does not destroy, it hardens” ~ Oscar Wilde
I watch the flames grow closer to my person, almost emulating the movements of a dancer. My body feels tethered to my comfortable mattress, the heat from the fire burning into my skin is comparable to a molten chain strapping me down to endure an inescapable fate. My death is almost poetic, almost justified in some cruel, unusual way because I wish I could leave, but I can’t get up, not even if I tried.
“Build a man a fire, and he’ll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.” ~ Terry Pratchett
The voluminous flames are leading me in a dance, gripping at my wrists so tight that they turn red and flake, almost endlessly twirling me...
Very short lore story involving Avox revolving around the aftermath of a near death experience. Involves some death, blood, very slight mentions of trauma and bodily harm.
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Thump.. Snap.. Crack..
The sulfuric air burned Avox's nose and throat, keeping them just barely conscious as the beating continued. The Maquixtl's vision wavered as they lay upon their side as they struggled to focus upon to the monstrosity which loomed over them, then to the pool of crimson and black ichor they lay in. Their mind raced as the being rose a hand above it's head, before bringing it crashing down.
They desperately tried to move- To do something. To cast any assortment of spells in their arsenal...
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The cut of the stone against her skin was agony. The piercing, jagged rock left flakes embedded in her skin as her arm scraped along the stone wall of the stable side.
With each movement, new agony pierced her nerves. Beneath the stables, one leg was dragged behind her in the muck. Her bare feet lost traction on the mud-slick earth barely a foot from where she had plummeted from the stable roof. She wailed as she drowned in the flood of rain, forcing her hurting legs deeper into the mire.
Sobs tore from her throat while rain blurred her vision. With each new howl that slashed her body, her heart climbed to her neck, threatening to tear free. She was alone. A trembling figure illuminated by the attic window's...
〚 ❖ ┇ ════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ◇ ◦• › - ════════════════ ┇❖ 〛
"This is reality."
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“You are nothing more than a pathetic excuse of a manchild. Never associate with me again.”
“I… think you were harsher than you needed to be. It hurts to see the two of you fight… dragging something on and on again, frustration boiling from past conversations, and then carrying into the next with no end to it all…”
These few lines continued to repeat in Briareth’s mind as they walked home from the Inquest Trial, zoned out as sentences and other situations from the past few days dug into their mind with minutes drawing out further.
“Are you happy being this way?”
“All this anger, is it ever...
Standing alone at the city Fairgrounds the woman turned her seaweed green eyes upwards at the purple banners that had been long raised, torn to shreds and tattered with time and weather. She took a difficult breath inwards, then outwards, knowing what laid ahead would be difficult. She took a few steps inward and started to walk.
The first turn, snow raised down heavily, her breath fogged as it left her mouth. She was back in the past, looking at the figure of Varis, as the purple cloaked figured strode over with a smirk, introducing himself. She felt her heart ease at his arrival.
The second turn, of them running through a maze, laughing and playing games with each other, a small smile on his face. Finally reaching the end - the...
A day like any other, one faithful step before the other. Crookback had largely run empty, at least, from the usual high-and-about loud mouths. Erwin cared not for the reason, Haqet causing trouble somewhere, or Harlow having some kind of altercation at the gate, or who knows what else trying to get attention. It made Erwin’s work all the easier, less sanctimonious aberrants in his way, save for the few addicted and destitute crawling on the side of the road or clinging to the shadows cast wide by moonlight. Every so many streets, a red pair of eyes stared back, unmoving. Erwin had learned the hard way a long time ago that these were largely harmless, so long as you didn’t enter their alleyway. Self loathing or deprived Vampires. Not...
[OOC] The Ledger from which these pages come will never be found. Lost to time or the elements; what is written is also lost and never to be discovered.
What the past does reveal, however, is the journey of man versus nature, man versus man, and man versus the beast. Some might suggest that two of these things go hand in hand. But nature, though cruel, is not so evil as to unleash something so cursed and monstrous that it would overcome the very soul of a living being as this creature does.
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[The Lost Ledger - Entry 1]
A collection of thoughts written on poor man's paper. There is no year dated.
The handwriting is juvenile and barely legible...
Isabella remembers the day she lost her best friend, the only friend in a cruel and unforgiving world that she was born in. Throughout her time spent wandering the lands of her homeland and seeing the vacant destruction, limbs and flesh being torn asunder to make way for the idea of ‘progress’, she remained in the home she was gifted by her adopted father. Her mind spun with the tragedy of it all, what could she have done differently? Perhaps she could have convinced him to not follow her down that dark corridor, with the promises of a treasure that could never be found. The sharp rumbles of their collapsing world assaulted her ears, as within a lifetime, a brief moment, she watched as he fell backwards, away from her and into the void...
art by @MrsCripple (ilusmmm)
Optional Music
It was the most familiarly unfamiliar place in the whole estate: the medical wing. Where they would stand, never sit, never tilt their head back and allow any of the cycling medics to tend to their wounds and ask them what was wrong. They never had to. Yet, every few days they would mull about on the outer edges of it. They would drag wounded allies, friends, lovers, closer than that, less than that, more confusing than that, through the halls and flop them onto the bed to be cared for. The amount of time they had spent in a room they have no need for dawned on them as the solution to some ironic riddle that only a pedant purist with an axe to grind would have come up with. Who needs a...
“Malice & Malpractice”
For how the fireplace veils its surrounding log-paneled walls in welcoming orange, your home’s atmosphere suffocates under a distinct sense of incompletion. You muse a soft, dejected sigh as you skim over what letters have piled upon your side table over the course of months. Each opened envelope tells a written story of distanced communication between your wife, Therese, and yourself, Gregory Müller.
Each letter starts the same, with apologies for something that no longer needs to be pardoned (you’ve always told her that she’s too harsh on herself). Then, she tries to reassure you that she’s safe in the daemon’s nest that is ironically the Holy City, and that she’d rather think nothing of the Capital and...
(OOC Content Warning: Depictions of horror imagery and gore are used.)
(OOC: Thank you for reading this short story!)
{Ineradicable}
Atmospheric Music:
Beneath the catacombs of a sewage system, laid the spindling silhouette of a perched vulture. The vulture's wings spread themselves apart, unveiling into what was actually that of a crooked down figure, with their bulbously mechanical eyes searing down into the finicky waters along the ruinous coast of an ancient Crookback from before. The moon hung itself over, singing with the breeze as each note of its luminescence bled down into the wafting sea beyond. The chorus of haunting hymns sunk deep into the fogs of the maritime winds, proclaiming of what foundations were lost much...
Art Credit
[ OOC ]
Simply put, this is the first of my deep-dives into the background of Rhenauld. Read if you want, rate if you like, I just ask you enjoy.
The armored man huffed a sigh as he followed the riverbed. Pausing in his stride, Rhenauld tilted his head back, turning his tired gaze upwards towards the waning sun. "Maudits bandits," the Villiers snapped out, grumbling some choice words under his breath while he walked. The locals of the village had told the Knights that the bandits had floated their stolen cargo down the river, and Rhenauld being the newest graduate from the Cloister, he was the one delegated to trudging through the muddy bank. Doing his best to avoid slipping on the slick rocks and taking an unwanted dip in...
Not For Anyone, But Yourself.
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A full head of horns must adorn their mistakes made.
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Eerie. The moon casts its light onto a familiar, crimson-marred Silven. Llewyn’s breathing was labored, coming in wheezes, as he tightly grasped the railing of a balcony of the Bralona’s campsite. His lips purse, and unpurse, before a ragged, foggy exhale parts from him. His visage cranes upwards, viewing the star-littered sky as if it was a former, lost love - And that was such, as his infernal sights settle onto the moon. Though, instead of relief - A familiar fury quickly washes over the demi-fiend.
He glances away, surveying the encampment for any stragglers...
[ OOC ]
RP story over Riftan's journey in Regalia. A continuation of Beginnings of a Bloodcast
"I hope you realize how poor a decision you made when you did that, and what dishonor you have brought yourself. Not only yourself but your house. Pray and find solace in redemption, Lord Dragic."
- Duke Elector Howland von Schwarzkrau
The Knight of Bloodcast, whose armor glinted with black steel, rushed forwards- swinging his blade horizontally from right to left. Yet, this swing would be easily dodged by Haqet- from where the legendary blade of Coraveau clashed against his helmet. It ground against the steel, bypassing its defense to drag across Riftan's face. Causing him to let out a cry of pain, before stumbling back. Order through...
2 - Elderly Arrival
Part 1 and 3 to arrive at some point. Hopefully along with some thread decoration.
Himalia is handed over to the Dominion
White and blue sails flap in the bay as the Cressidan galley sits in port, the sounds of the bustling city drown out the rustling cloth. The Deldrimor city guard stands watch, arms at the ready as an ancient Qadir man stumbles from the gangplank, impatiently waving his nervous aides aside, a Qadir girl awaits him on the docks.
“Grand Suzerain, It’s an honour to be receiving you.” She speaks up, projecting her voice over the din. “Allow me to help.” stepping forward she holds an arm out for the elderly man which he graciously takes, tapping his walking cane on the stone, an expression...
Under the rocky hills of the outer countryside, buried deep beneath the peaceful green soil that spanned over miles upon miles of forests and homage to fauna, lied a dark cistern, shrouded in shadows and long forgotten by those who unwittingly tread upon it. Well beyond hundreds of years, this wretched cave housed all manner of abominations, freaks of nature, those tainted by the Void and transmutated beyond all recognition, but it had never before been blighted by a Demon; a foul creation of carnage and destruction.
The local village had felt the effects of lingering evil. At night, the sons and daughters of townfolk would inescapably vanish. Sometimes, their parents would find their gored remains, but most were not so fortunate. They...