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The woman stared into her reflection, drawing in a slow and steady breath. She'd awaken with a start that morning, cold for a moment with sweat from the terror that interrupted her dreams. The nightmares by these years were beginning to lessen, luckily. Her hand lifted to gently brush back a long bang from her eyes, reflection showing her pale skin was no longer such, beginning to tan again despite the cold months to come.
For years, since the birth of her daughter, Juliette had suffered. She'd closed herself off from the world and seen herself as someone just barely above the current, struggling to stay afloat. Her husband had held her hand, lead her forward and she knew, deep down, that she wasn't going to give up in the end. The...
Dear Hengest. I was found in the supply closet, drunk and spouting off nonsense about shields. Anton said to write you a letter. What happened is what follows.
I didn’t know it would lead to this. I had been sitting in my house, drinking some cider that Susan had given me out of the kindness of her own heart, when a thought jumped out at me. My shield was all alone, all by himself. He shouldn’t have to be alone every night, should he? I had decided then and there I should visit the Black Tower. Maybe I could ask Hengest to take it home? I don’t know, I was drunk.
I had managed to fool the people on duty that I was there to begin my patrols, but alas I hunkered down in the supply room, right next to my shield. I had taken it down at...
Her feet carried her senselessly through the slums, having a mind of their own as hers had wandered off into places long since forgotten. The masked woman's hands were still at her sides even as she tripped and fell into the earth, senses far too lost in her head to notice any of it. The Etosian squeezed her eyes closed and pulled her branded hand up to cover them even while they were already shielded. The air about her smelled of liquor and smoke, hinting to the cause of her situation.
The woman in her own mind was not lying on the ground, drunk out of her mind, but rather wander the lone and dark halls of her mind. Her feet continued to carry her forward when she hit a wall.
It wasn't a brick or stone wall, though it was sturdy. She...
MOTHER AND SON: PART ONE
Thorlad: 16 + 4 (age in story) = 20
Cerridynn: 36 - 16 (years she has had him) = 20
Wearing a robe and her hair full of knots, Cerridynn padded down the hallway to the main hearth of her home. A glow of coals from the hearth, located at the center of the room, illuminated the spacious area.
Drying herbs hung from a rack at the ceiling which was attached by lengths of cord to the rafters arching across as support beams for the roof. Logs held said rafters in place and were decorated with fabrics of reds and blues, runic carvings ran the length of some logs to bring flare to the room. Few wolf furs piled neatly across seats surrounding the hearth which made way for eating at the fire itself or at the grand oak...
The woman was anything but what one might call okay.
In the current moment, she was curled up on her bed on her left side, face closed in pain as she fought off the returning ache in her injured shoulder. The Claith recalled the expedition that caused the wound, flinching lightly as she though about how stupid she had been to even try going to a warfront, even as someone with such a mundane reason as 'translator'. She shifted slightly under the covers, wincing a bit as she tried to rest as easily as she could on her back- staring upwards at the ceiling in the sunlit room.
The sky was bright outside the small, corner home. The beams of the sun invading the copper-haired woman's room and telling her that she shouldn't be lazying about...
Why her? She is an interesting case to say the least. Not particularly one to grow fond over, nor even enjoy the pleasures of in the simplest forms. Yet I chose her. My own daughter. She was alone, a curious girl. Perhaps her curiosity was the intrigue. She was lost, alone, nothing. In my own benevolence she has blossomed. She has been reformed within my own image. At first I regretted not selling the girl off. Her body was not broken, she was more than capable, yet I kept her for my own. Not for my own inner desires and lustful intentions, no. The sins of the body were not meant to befall this creature. She is my own. A monster formed from my other desires, an unexplainable longing. Yes. She is my daughter as I have made her what she...
He'd grown up too fast.
He knew it. His family knew it. Everyone around him knew it. But there were times, when he wished he could've been a child for a bit longer, made it last just a little more time.
Times like now.
His brothers child, asleep on his bed, himself sat in a chair, head on the desk as he slumped forwards, sighing. This was a mess. And of course he was in Regalia for it. He'd arrived only 4 days ago, and already the estate next door is spreading rumors about them. It took self-control to not throw stuff through their windows, but that was bad etiquette, so it was a no. Didn't mean he liked them- especially not that damn Nathaniel. Shoving his fat nose where it doesn't belong. Well, he'd never seen Nathan before, but...
Theme I | Theme II | Theme III
Authors: @GrandVitaMorte, @JennaLikesCoffee
The capital ship of the Krupp family creaked eerily with the passing of the day, sailors of Velheimer and Calemberg descent worked tirelessly upon the craft. Eske however was away, within the cabins of the ship he sat at his desk and wrote away within his journal, the day moving unending to him as he wrote, planned, strategized, and prepared for the inevitable battles to be won and fought. His room was unlocked and his weaponry was off to the side against the wall, the Ulfmaerr colors faded by use and time.
A young and brutish woman from the Kingdom of Hedryll had also found herself in similar circumstances. Inkeri, one of the very last of the Årud...
Jamie's joints, tight and aching from his previous desk-bound vigil, sighed in relief as the Rosendahl reached towards the sky. In awe of how Jamie's body was elongating, the patriarch's jaw soon stretched of its own volition, spreading wide in a massive yawn. An odd sense of relief burrowed its way into Jamie's chest, eventually escaping and rising into the atmosphere through a breath of air. Strangely enough, the clouds decided to mimic Jamie's sigh of relief, liberating the liquid previously incarcerated within their weightless bodies. Although Jamie had the sense to bring an extra coat in anticipation of a fall shower, it proved too weak to withstand the heavy rain.
Despite the soaking, however, Jamie seemed infinitely more at...
So I wuz playin ma gud ole wolathar Lorsany Tarate(An old tripping out on shrooms wolathar) and I decided to break up these two lovebird's date, one thing led to another, I get stranded on a boat with the girl and some weird stuff goes down fast...
It was a somber and empty night in the sewers as the wolathar emerged from the depths of the murky water. He met the eyes of a young lad on the dock who had been about to step into a boat with a beautiful young redhead. Lorsan eyed the man up and down in his weird, unkempt red outfit. The man got a little weirded out as the boat with the young lady in it drifted off. Lorsan swam out into the water and launched himself on the boat, knocking the ores overboard as they...
The shadow moved along the outer wall of the city, following the wall outside the Slums after checking the hole in the wall and discovering the entrance still covered and locked up. They turned their face up to peer at the nightly sky that they traveled under. The poet lowered their hood and smoothed their hair before unclasping the thin chain on the cloak they had worn for the many nights that their papers plagued the city of sicknesses.
They pulled the cloak off their shoulders and folded it in their arms before kneeling by the wall, pushing aside some foliage and resting the cloak inside the small space hidden half under the bricks of the barrier after making sure no snakes resided into the hole. They brushed their hand on the...
Fires in the night, along Southern Czabri Bone Shore
Riding alongside Companions and two Ulfmaerr kin, Virathus frowned as he rode past the great lodges built by the Calembergers. Scant were signs of the many tools and metals, scavenged by Velheimer raiders or towed behind the cowering raided peoples. The husks of the halls remained - gutted or collapsed.
Having sent word to his brother, weary looking bannermen lead Count Krupp to the younger Pius Krupp's burnt out estate. Furrowing a brow and suspicious of treachery, Virathus looked between the men - but all they offered was a stiff aversion of his gaze, or forlorn looks. Stopping before the estate he granted his brother, he entered the burned hall draped in dread.
Skeletons...
A sudden thump reverberated from the upstairs chambers, briefly dispelling the palpably silent air that had draped the estate in the last two days. Jamie's surge of anger and subsequent slam of his desk were both courtesies of yet another memorandum that had been delivered by a raven (amusingly enough) just minutes prior. The Rosendahl seldom fell prey to bursts of rage; this was one of those rare moments.
Electing to release his frustration through the floorboards, Jamie began marching back and forth, his back stiff with exasperation. His earlier moments of playing and laughing with little Theodore seemed centuries away. Although the Rosendahl's thoughts were preoccupied with the sudden decimation of House Bigge's levies, the...
It wasn't long before news of the Ravenstad's invasion on Peirgarten holdings touched the Rosendahl's ears. As soon as Jamie released the revealing letter it retreated to its original curl, almost as though it wished to shield the public from its harrowing contents. Despite the consternation festering deep within his gut, Jamie managed to maintain his composure, simply meandering on upstairs towards his desk in the fashion with which he typically concluded his evenings. Easing his compact frame onto his favored oaken chair, Jamie reached for a quill, drenching it in ink before scratching out a message with preternatural vigor.
The missive was short and concise, giving no hint as to the fury and anxiety swimming through the patriarch's...
Further than the eye could see, peaks sprung from the mountaintop as men marched through the misty and treacherous lands.
Labyrinthine was the river the men followed, flanked by steep cliffs. Virathus lost himself for many moments as he took in what he saw, soon recognizing the men he marched with; Hengest Harhold, Reddulf Ruyter - all men dressed in the Bastion black and white. They followed Charles Montagaard and Johann Eschevard, who rode ahead of the men slowly as they conversed. As they carried on, the Krupp wondered if this was a dreamscape - he became confused at the sight of his dead mentors.
Tendrils of darkness seems to form from the mist, making it difficult to see ahead of his Undercrown and Kommandant. Suddenly, their...
He sits in the dirty attic of a good friend, his belongings sorted into loose piles. Strewn about him were about a dozen of his prized, dearest. . . only, possessions, all of which he ignores as he crouches, staring at the grimy floor where he sleeps. His finger traces the groves in the wood, pausing at the indentations that his ridges and spikes made in the once-smooth wood. “This is being a temporary thing,” he had said. “I am having plans! The Sun will be accepting fresh men soon, and I will be staying at the mercenary keep, so I will be paying you back.”...
Well, he had been half-right. It was definitely a ‘temporary thing’, as he had said. He’d never get to pay Tisi back though.
He sighs, a dull pain in his chest had been...
The strong scent of cinnamon and rose scented candles filed the dark attic up, it’s flickering light was the only thing that illuminated the little space. Its light bounced off the contour of a well dressed young man, sitting by what seemed like a grand oak piano. The instrument was beautiful, decorated with the golden roses of House Talurêffe along its legs, and lid.
The man, upon closer inspection, was the heir to the Talurêffe fortunes; Jêan-Gaston. Jêan ran his fingers along the keys of the instrument, humming lightly to himself as the soft tunes slowed his heart-rhythms, and calmed him. His expertise with the instrument was made more impressive once one saw his eyes. Where most of the Talurêffe children had sea-green eyes, Jêan’s...
Deep within the halls of Midgal, Eske and the rest of the Ulfmaerr slept soundly within their bunks, on tables, floors, and generally anywhere they fell unconscious from a drunken stupor. That night the winds blew a bitter cold breeze as the moon hung high in the sky, illuminating the land with an eery blue glow. Yet all of a sudden, in a violent eruption of sound came a large explosion from the western walls of the city. Splintered wood and fire rose up into the sky and changed the lands hue from blue to orange in a near instant. Eske and the Ulfmaerrs awoke, hearing the screams and sounds of battle commencing outside they readied their equipment and dawned their armoring. Eske picked up his spear and shield and took with him a box of...
The Bloodhound laid on the navy colored carpet of the bedroom, staring at the woman who was resting on the bed. Her gaze was pinned on the empty wall across from her, the sadness that filled his lady nearly so strong that the mutt could smell it. The young yet nearly fully grown canine crawled forward on his paws, lifting himself up once he reached the bed to look into the eyes of his owner.
While their noses nearly touched, the woman's gaze seemed not to notice her beloved Ceardian Bloodhound. A small tear escaped her eyes and the dog licked her cheek to try and ease her sadness. The woman's eyes snapped suddenly to focus on the dog, a sniff escaping her and her hand lifted weakly to pat the bed. With the invitation, the dog gingerly...
It was a depressingly dark night that evening. The air was thick with the smells of Velheim merriment as the celebrations of Ivars return commenced amongst his village. Yet as he sat awake at night with charcoal pencil in hand and journal ready to be written within he gave a heavy exhale to the breeze, flickering the candle below him with his breathe.
<N> "Dear journal, I grow conflicted. Will my ancestors forsake me for my decision? Will the God's turn their backs or embrace me with open arms?"
The books only reply was a silent crinkling of it's page turning from a breeze.
<N> "Of course... I suppose you are right in that regard dear journal. I must walk my own path and forge a new trail for those who come after myself. Maybe then...
Dear Journal,
The boats were delayed yet another few days. I grow tired of this endless waiting. I had been on the passage back to Regalia from the front originally but the bastards and their scheduling failures decided to forget my name on the roster, delaying me an extra week. However! All this plague talk has got people worked up about "health and wellness". Now bugs are getting pregnant as well? I know the strength of science are endless but is there ever a point where it is going to far? To massacre one to ressurect another? Dakkar were useful. Never really saw much from the Circci, hopefully they make themselves useful to the military of the Empire.
Anyway dear journal, how are you today? Your pages feel damp, are you also...
We have not spoken in quite some time, you and I. Your skin coarse to the touch and your clothes a binding. As my quill touches your pages I grow concerned.. what will I write today for you? An ode or tale? An oddessy or something like an oddity...I am curious, my Journal. How do you fare? The winds of fall bring the leaves around our home down in great bundles and the God's know I am not yet tired of the scent of the trees. Yet, I am struck ever still, the blood of comrades left upon the sand of Farahdeen burdens my core ever so dear journal. I have had to kill an enemy that only wished to defend it's home. Not that I am really bothered by it, it is simply war and battle, the Emperor and the Generals and the Lord Commander called for...
No decent folk walked the streets of the Slums. Certainly not at that hour, nor with weapons bared. Yet young Elros strode through the alley, cleaning his blade as he went. This job had been necessary to eat, to continue his mission in the City. It hadn't proved fatal, and no job would if he had his say. Still, beating a man senseless had challenged him. He had moved too slowly and had needed to engage in this work to survive. But when would it all-
And then the man in rags threw his mud-covered arms around him, tackling him to the ground and shaking him. The young man scrambled, his blade had fallen far away. His cryostim smashed to bits under him, as the muddied beggar pummeled his face. With skin rashed and inflated, his frenzy...
The leaves fell, crimson autumn colored like the sunset, crimson like his mane gently dancing in the wind, crimson like the blood seeping from his mouth, and crimson like the dying of the light reflecting on his eyes. There was fiery passion in his eyes, but also restraint. Power in the way he walked, yet he also moved with poise. Strength in the breath escaping his lungs, forming clouds of warm breath visible in the cooling temperatures, yet it was rhythmic and controlled. This was a hunt that Magnus has never witnessed before. The Horned Throng gave nothing of the sorts, they were wild, barbaric even. The hunt to them was a violent orchestra of claws and fangs and horns. Splatters of blood sprayed onto the fresh snow giving eagle...
Caoess'alloa laid in her small, cramped bed with wool blankets surrounding her wounded and now fragile body as the rain poured through the open windows, into the slum's home and onto the red carpets. The thunder echoed in Caoess'alloa's pounding skull while she flinched and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears stung her closed eyes, and tingled her nose in the most unpleasant of ways as she sniffled and hiccupped from the previous sessions of sulking.
While the Avanthar waited for her "knight in shining armor", known as Averil to send word for help, all she could do was lie in her bed and hope to the Old Gods she didn't pass in her sleep if she happened to fall unconscious. She continued to fall into her thoughts of what was after death, what...
Eugh...
Defeated she slipped the key in, a tiny clink sounding followed by the thunk of the door closing swiftly behind. Her mask was first to come off; a gaunt expression revealing itself before the last wafts of vinegar escaped her nose. Trudging on over to the stairwell she would then take to removing her boots, bare footed she plodded softly upstairs. Tired hands came up to loosen her ribbons, threads of hair fell loose in a mess over her shoulders. At the foot of her bed she simply slumped, eventually curling on up sniffling. The tiniest of smiles graced her lips as she felt a familiar hand threading through her hair, curling itself around several of her locks. Raising her own hand on up to meet it she would guide it on down to...
The Altalar's body rolled down the murky water of the sewer canal. He had only been gently pushed forth, though his out of place arm made it difficult to swim, near impossible really. Father reached out with his available hand, taking hold of broken beams rising out from the murky depths. In time he climbed out, taking hold of a neighboring ladder and reaching the surface. His free hand no longer held a cloth to cease his bleeding mouth. To hold his filthy hand there would be the most repulsive thing the Alta-Altalar had experienced.
The elf walked down the narrow streets and passages, still maintaining his high posture and poise as best as possible. He sought medical attention. A foreign and uncommon concept to one of his affliction...
The woman sat in the dead center of her bed, legs crossed and the blankets of the large bed pulled over and around her like a thick winter coat. Her glum gaze sat on the door, waiting for anyone to appear. Lautaro had excused himself several hours after Mathurine had been welcomed into the world and since then he'd been kept quite busy- when he wasn't in such a state the man tended to drift after his daughter, keeping eye on the nurses and nannies as to make sure his kin was in the best of care.
While it was understandable to fret after your newborn, he'd mistakenly began to fall back into his habit of not being quite social with his wife except the few moments before they slept in which they were in the same room and had no jobs to...
The two sisters walked through the Regalian park, their smiles bright as the late Summer sun that had only just rose to it’s highest of the day. The younger of the two women was shorter but no longer thin as her day to become a mother neared ever quicker, her clothing was that of an elegant dress with garden green skirts and a gold trim about the sleeves and collar. The elder of the two wore the clothing of a commoner as that was what she’d deemed herself months ago following the death of their third sister, her child’s first breath matching her last.
As the two women continued on, the youngest pitched forward suddenly, grabbing hold of the closest thing to her- the arm of her sister, who managed to keep them both from tumbling to the...
The young lady rushed up the stairs of the Ruyter estate after she heard of the news.
"An arranged marriage? To a Kade?!"
she'd say as she rushed into her room making her way over to the vanity. As she slid herself into her vanity chair, she placed her elbows upon the vanity desk and rested her head on her palms. Staring herself down in the mirror, she would continue to mutter to herself;
"What if he doesn't like me? What if I'm not what he hoped for?"
Viegifu suddenly stopped herself as she caught a glimpse of her wedding dress in the mirror. Her heart would drop and her stomach would turn as she thought about the wedding. Which was the day after tomorrow. It didn't leave her mind after she found out,
"A Kade? I mean, this isn't...
The cold, early-autumn air nipped at Percival’s face as his horse whipped across the muddy plains, two retainers trotting quickly behind him. Riding had become a commonplace hobby among the former-king, who had begun to use it as almost a way to cleanse his head of his frequent troubles. His titular dismissals and falling out with Cedromar had not gone over well for him. The former king seemed to, in only a few months, look more aged, dark rings grew under his dull-blue eyes, and his beard and hair had been grown out more than usual. As the trio passed by a local Ravenstad holdfast, Percival gave a rueful grunt, almost finding it unbearable to even be reminded of his family. “Traitors. Usurpers.” He’d shout with dismay and frustration...
Petrov had seen better days. He found himself hiding like a creature of his stature should; In the dark, far from those he hurt. Those he could hurt. Those- Those innocents. The first image brought to the front of his mind was of a rose. He could imagine it in his bear-like hands, cradling it. It held his attention for a mere moment, until he lifted up his head. In his grand vision, he saw the sunlight, shining off her dark hair. Her green eyes gave a slight glimmer, and her smile held their secret.
“Treasure it.” She’d said, placing herself down next to him. “It’s a gift, from me.” She was tiny, compared to him. He could break her with a gentle squeeze, and he constantly held himself back for her. Even if this lady was stronger than...
The snow fell hard on the streets of Regalia, and Saelihn An'Kaynan limped forward, awkwardly tugging at her new collar, which was filled with lapis- though luckily not achates, she noted. The past few weeks has been the worst of her life. Normally she'd have enjoyed the pain, but she didn't enjoy walking around Regalia with six fingers and a wooden leg. The Azure Order had done the kindness of sawing off her one good leg, and she gulped upon remembering that it could have been much worse. She'd seen so many terrible things within those halls.. Why, it scared her to think about it.
The physical injuries weren't the only lasting mark it left, either. She found herself paranoid of casting, stuttering despite her growing confidence- yet...
His throat was dry. There was a great irony in this, as he was surrounded by water.
Salt Water. He didn't dare drink a drop of it. He lay on a raft, a crude bundle of drift wood that was lopsided and constantly on the verge of sinking under his weight.
Brandon Rhodes was a lost man, not just physically, but figuratively. He had been for his whole life, ever since Ceardia was destroyed at the hands of the arch demon thirty seven years ago. If he closed his eyes he could almost picture his mother, almost touch her face. Except he couldn't because he was...
Floating.
Floating in the ocean.
So far from home.
The noise of the tides, the seabirds, and bells was constant. Wait... bells?
The worn down and waterlogged Brandon struggled to...
The end of April 305 AC
It had been two years.
The Qadir woman’s eyes watched forwards, towards the shore. The old vessel did it’s best at keeping steady, but the woman couldn’t help but clench onto a handrail that windy April afternoon.
“There. Just as he said it.” She muttered to herself.
Laid on the horizon stood the famous Crown City and it’s bustling harbor, the lone sea seeming worlds away now, and the woman formed a half smile paired with a cocked head. She never knew for sure where her bandmate and ex-lover had fled to, but she could only assume the place he spoke of so often. But as the thought passed, she corrected her head upright, because no, that’s not why she was here.
As the sea captain yelled for all to depart the...
The 3rd of November 303 AC
The arid and chill november breeze of the Anglian highlands flew across the grain-fields and plains. It blew out across a settlement, and over to it’s keep. The breeze did little to put out the flames, though… The entire keep was ablaze, a raging and searing inferno ravaged the keep, killing all of those within it; the few that weren’t dead before, because the guards at the gate, within the keep and posted around the tall stone walls to the keep had their numbers thinned, corpses lay everywhere.
The hysteria and the screams of the few survivors burning up within the inferno was carried with the breeze, and to the west. Atop a steep hill, the breeze blew through a small encampment, flickering the embers of the...
He arrived. His boots made a faint tapping sound on the cobblestone floor. He looked onwards, towards the Golden Willow. He narrowed his eyes, and grinned. The grin was painful, and tired. A satisfied expression came onto his face and in his eyes you could sense he was excited, but kept it inside. He looked to his left and right, seeing people everywhere. The man then looked onwards, he passed a few shops and one caught his eye. He didn't face it but he turned his eye towards it. A map shop, perhaps helpful for his future journeys. Not useful now but on his way out he should stop by. He looked at the people, not long enough to be noticed but he noticed their rich clothes and facial features. The man himself had a stubble, and golden...
The shameful Daendroque vessel rolled over the midday tides. It was not shameful had it been utilized for it's purpose, that being for lazy sittings down rivers and lakes, but for the sake of sailing the seas of the archipelago, the vessel was bashed and beaten. Marks adorned its side, curiously looking as though arrows had pierced the wooden planks of the small boat. The waves crashed against it's sides as it docked on the shores of the Ithanian District. A figure in a rather obnoxious pink gown stepped out, their face veiled. They didn't bother to tie their boat, nor was there anyone else leaving the boat to secure it. No, the person in the pink gown was the only passenger and not a dainty one either, stumbling down the streets...
“Never had such pain consumed me in my earliest years upon this earth. Had nature not been so cruel I’d surely have stayed in order to raise my dear winged cherub. In my final hours I surely conclude that in my absence there will be no tear nor mumble for many years to come. In wake of my death, I hope to look upon those whom love me, not as a living being, but as spectre. A kind poltergeist to help guide my son through the difficult task that is existence. Though my life, slept away early amongst the midst of consumption, I abstain from weeping.
A single locket I leave to my beloved, whom often left my bedside to partake in poorly hidden affairs. To my son, my possessions, and the ring given to me as a child. Should my grave grow cold...