“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...
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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...
"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...
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••
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...
╔⏤⏤⏤╝⚜╚⏤⏤⏤╗
Theme: The Last Flame
╚⏤⏤⏤╗⚜╔⏤⏤⏤╝
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...
╔⏤⏤⏤╝❀╚⏤⏤⏤╗
Music: Rises the Moon
╚⏤⏤⏤╗⚜╔⏤⏤⏤╝
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.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————
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...
━━━━━━━━━▲━━━━━━━━━
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."
〚 ❖ ┇ ════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ◇ ◦• › - ════════════════ ┇❖ 〛
“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...