A Flurry of Feathers
When most people hear a loud hissing noise, many would believe that it’s just a slizzar having a fit. In this case, it’s an annoyed hiss coming from one of the many rooms within the Eroth household. Now many would think the slizzar was arguing with someone however that is not the case this time.
A hard stare towards two beady eyes, a flick of her forked tongue before Farrah moved to lunge at the small nuisance in front of her. A loud bawk would be heard as well as some sort of noise that sounded like a hiss of its own. The chicken, which had been in a stare down with the snake moved out of the lunging slizzar’s way. Unfortunately she realized that too late and ended up slamming straight into the...
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A New Start
Ryan stared at himself in the mirror, huffing as he buttoned his vest. Something he never really did before now was to become a normality. He thought to himself. He was about to go through a drastic change. His new life meant something extremely different from the disgusting caves he traveled. He adjusted himself, placing his weight upon his wooden leg, the old and frail wooden floor boards creaking as his weight shifted. He looked to himself once more in the mirror, his arms slipping through the black cloth of the silk coat he spent much of his savings on. Ryan rolled his shoulders a bit, taking in the strange feeling of the silk coat he wore. Sighing, he finally grasped the goggles which were oh so familiar...
With shaking hands she slowly sets her satchel down onto the adjacent table. Within a few moments she feels as if her knees are ready to buckle. Iminye takes deep breaths, in an attempt to fight back at the emotions which she had not felt so intensely in years. Fear, anger, and love, and all because of some little girl. Staggering forth and letting herself fall into her cushioned seat. A pallid restlessness creeps into her expression at the thought of what could have happened to Pandora. What he had said to her,-- Damn, Pandora doesn't need to know about slavery at such a young age. Weakness forces her to let her head droop down into her palms. With a slow, trembling exhale Iminye slips further down into her seat.
Allowing her body to...
The voices, they don't stop. Whispering filthy insults.
“Behind my back, you traitors.” She thought to herself.
Celyreos trailed through the ice white snow; her battered and bloody Lo Guardsmen plate leaving a red trail behind her back to the prison-like tunnels that provided freedom for those oppressed by the false queen. Her sword dragged a line behind her, stained red with the blood of another man; a necessary compromise for her goal. She was abandoned by what she thought were her brothers and sisters in arms, left to rot in that corrupt city she once called home. She kept herself warm with a fire raging internally; a final wish that she could get revenge on those who betrayed her. Sadly, the whispers continued. The traitorous lies...
Shuffling his bare feet in the warm sand, Oberyn readjusted his position for what seemed like the umpteenth time. Although the young boy had a knack for sitting still, half an hour was starting to test his patience. He surveyed the beach with eyes narrowed in scrutiny, awaiting the right moment to strike.
The wait wasn't easy. Although the low tangle of leaves disguised his small form from prying eyes, Oberyn was anything but impervious to the honed senses of those pesky forest insects. A stream of ants marched across his forearm, scurrying across the oddly shaped obstacle in a hurry to return to their nest. A caterpillar soon appeared on his shoulder, curiously poking at the collar of Oberyn's jerkin. While to some, the sudden...
She stared at her hands, clean hands save for the dirt under her nails that would never get out and dark marks in the lines of her skin from years of smoking. It was easy to imagine that no blood had ever touched them, easy to imagine that the woman had not committed sin. Yet, despite the light tan on her palms and soap scrubbed skin, she still remembered stabbing the sewer harlot. Her fingers remembered the slight shakiness they held as blood dropped onto them before she'd spun herself around and taken off.
Her husband, her old lover, had gone into a mad fury finding that she'd killed his secret. He'd thrown his pitiful amount of things into a satchel and escaped into the night of Regalian rain. The woman had sat upon the wooden...
The young noble would pace back and forth in front of his bedroom window, the look of confusion and worry in his eyes. He'd then stop to look out of his window, leaning against it slightly as he'd mutter to himself; "Why? Why must these choices always be so confusing?" He'd then begin to pace once more, pondering his choices and the past conversation with his sister Violetta. 'What if she doesn't choose me?' he'd think, still pacing. After a while he'd sit himself down on the edge of his bed, his focus remaining on the window. Suddenly a knock on his door would disrupt his focus. As he opened the door, Violetta would come in to reassure him that everything would be okay. But how could he know? He's just so young, why is he even worrying...
Baldur Fenross walks across the floor, lumbering with each step, "May the Old God's curse you this day Grand Duchess, your transgressions against my House shall be remembered!"
The hulking tribesman, turned to face the table. His boots leaving muffled thumps as he proceeds on his current path, finding a seat at one of the benches. He makes no eye contact with his guests, rather lowering his head in silent prayer. He must decided upon which God to enact his curse. At first he considers the Union of Fire. To curse the Ithanian with loneliness or barrenness. But the Gods of Ellea and Lanarra have not been properly sacrificed to by Baldur. Surely they would not answer his prayer. Next is the Union of Air. Bashtur is the God favored by his...
She rested her temple on her knee, arms resting around her ankle as she stared out into the rain outside the window. The girl had taken refuge inside an abandoned home following her arrest and torture. The thought of what had happened made her shudder and suddenly the appearance of the rain was no longer peaceful to her.
The Claith turned her attention away from the window and into the broken room she'd snuck into, nothing catching in attention in the near darkness. The sun would rise in an hour or two yet she wished it wouldn't. She closed her eyes and wished it could all stay a flat darkness rather than the sun rise and her be the only darkness in it. That's what she felt like, a subtle, forgettable darkness. Her grief felt heavy on...
The man stood on the deck of the ship, the Crown City fading smaller and smaller into the horizon. He remembered the first time he'd seen this city, and his thoughts moved to his life at that time. It had been so many years. A new name, a new wife, a new family, a new job, he was a new man. Whether he would stay the same man, that was the question. She laid her head on his shoulder. The man who brought her to where she is today. The man whose life she changed and saved in the same moment. The man who did the same for her. Now, he was taking her home again. She looked into the same city her husband did, but she didn't see what he saw. The woman looked behind her, and she saw her daughter. She was positioned similarly, but her husband was...
POV: Marra Ladveer, Ft. Conf Ladveer
Warning for edgy sad and blood. Set in January/February roughly, of 305AC.
She waved to Koura, shaking her head with a faint smile. She had really gotten to know her while on the ship, oddly. She always came off as a bit... aggressive- which she certainly still was at times, but she cared a lot about the crew. Except maybe for Conf... She sighed again, it was going to take a lot to keep the Captain from stabbing him. Maybe she could talk her down to just punching him...
Her boots echoed down the road, it was fairly quiet on this side of town. All the 'action' was along the main street and in the market. And the tavern of course, which was where Koura was headed. She pursed her lips, thinking 'I...
Following the defeat of Rigvald Norrvakt at the stronghold of Nastrond the young leader, Einarr Norrvakt had rallied his bannermen for a final assault against the usurper Vilhelm. While the previous battle had resulted in the deaths of all of Einarr's men, losses were also sustained on the defenders of Nastrond. The rightful heir knew that a head on assault would be the best solution as it would not allow Vilhelm to call forth new defenses in time. Einarr also was aware that if such a rush would succeed they would need to capture various checkpoints along the outskirts of Nastrond in which to station reserves. The first of such checkpoints was Jern Høyde, a ruined fortress along the forest lines.
The ruins had only a portion of...
The circumstance which led up to this moment were unsatisfactory. The young Berhednar lay beside his fire. He had been hunting the woodlands of Drixagh when Helerians from Anglia had come from a neighboring town. The local baron had converted to Unionism and thus a reverend had been summoned to assist the spread over the lieges. Now back to the Berhednar. He was not voluntarily laying beside his fire mind you, the Helerians, three to be precise, had him pinned down. Two at each side, with a third holding a horse shoe against the burning embers. They spat at him, insulted him for his heritage, for what he was, a Northerner. The Helerian at the fire rises and steps over the young man, only in his twenties. A sinister grin on his face as...
And there she sat, and sat alone. A single room, the candles casting an eerie faint glow around her. She said nothing, felt little more than sorrow, yet not a shred of remorse...
It was her choice, but it wasn't.
They were her mistakes, but they weren't.
She was not to blame, or was she?
Her peace of mind now in conflict.
Her friends now her foes.
Everything had turned on it's head, upside down, flipped, distorted- and part of her knew it was all her fault. Every. Last. Shred.
Her reality had shattered.
Her dreams had been crushed,
Yet she just sat there, her gaze fixated singularly upon the wall before her. Her brown hair failed to retain it's natural shimmer, and now fell to her shoulders as rats' tails, thus resembling her...
-----He paused, turning. "What makes you think, that I give even a single f*ck?" the man's mouth sat open for a moment as his tiny little brain tried to think of how to continue. C raised an eyebrow, as if to say ' I'm waiting.' but the man failed to produce a vocal response. He snorted "Thats what I thought." He turned again, pulling his scarf back up over his face and walking off, the sound of his boots reverbing down the long tunnels.
-----By now the man must have swallowed quite a few bugs he though, with how often he left his mouth open like that. He sighed, there wasn't much he could do about it, there were always people like that, just speaking to feel important. He winced as his back started to burn again, a timely reminder...
Seafare
The strong smell of the ocean tickled the male’s nose as his shoes hit the docks once stepping off of the ship he had been on. He’d crinkle up his nose as the smell hit him, a putrid odor as well as he took a wary glance at the box of fish he had ended up standing near. His eyes would narrow albeit only slightly before he’d glance around towards the buildings of the holy city. Adjusting the grip he had on the bag in his right hand he’d began to pace towards one of the many streets of the city.
The light thump of his boots hitting the cobblestone reached his ears as he managed to block out the sounds of other people talking. He flicked his eyes down to the letter he had received only a couple of weeks ago after...
The waves crashed against the stone stacked sides of the Crown Isle's docks. The tide seemingly more active than per usual, but nothing which prevented the ships docking in to unload their cargo. All was typical as the clouds gave a cast of shade to the dockhands below. The wind flapped against the banners and sails which lined the edge of the harbor. Standing at the front end of one of these docks, Ingvarr Norrvakt. The man looked out to sea, grin on his face as a ship with blue banners rolled over the horizon. The wind rustled the fur which adorned his shoulder as he brought out his leather cased flask, drawing it to his mouth for a drink.
The ship inevitably docks as ropes are thrown to secure the vessel to the docks. It was not a...
The loud bang shook the deck, along with other cannons firing, the boy manned his cannon, reloading it automatically after it was fired to fire another. Every Time the cannon hit the opposing ship the boy's heart dropped with constant questions, asking himself if he killed someone or if this was even the right thing, but he kept going. Load, fire, load, fire, was the only action the boy could do.
“We’re hittin’! Good keep on ‘em!” one of the men shouted from afar
Tanoro was lost, his hands started to violently shake as he grabbed for another cannon, he dropped it and it rolled around the ship as one of the crewmen started to shout at him he couldn’t hear a word. He was deep in thought as he loaded the cannon again and shot, this...
Fear was her only friend in these days. It took her hand and guided her along the roads of the unknown, telling her to fear every shadow and every figure and every soul that crossed her path. It kept her sheltered and safe and alive. It help her see through the day, and held her hand in the fog, and listen for any breath or whisper of misfortune that would forsake her. In the moments she were afraid - it held open its dark, twisting arms and held her close till it felt as if she were no long in a safe embrace, but a suffocating mask.
Fear was what brought her up, helped her survive and live and see the next morning sunrise. Yet one day, she knew, fear would bring her crashing down.
It built her up and would break her back to the dirt...
The woman leaned on the arm of the couch, staring thoughtfully into the flames of the fire before her. She lifted the teacup in her left hand, taking a sip from it with a slight hum before lowering it to rest on the arm. The quiet crackling of the fire was her only company as she thought of small things; the bill from Sawbones would be easy enough to cover, helping at the grand opening would be easy money to replace that she paid, her captaincy would be nice despite the rough first day from Garret. The Countess sighed, handing her nearly empty cup off to the Varran servant and then resting her left palm against her forehead in silence.
Her attention turned slowly to the window besides the fireplace, her gaze caught on the tree outside...
A Flurry Of Petals
Ambience
A strange experience has shaken her to the very core, her emotions a jumbled mess within just a couple of days of returning.
The young lady let a slight huff past her lips as she slowly stepped around her new room within the Wodenstaff Estate. Letting her fingertips lightly skim over the fur of her Long Fluff Ithanian named Lady Adelaide, she had brought back with her. She let her gaze flick throughout the room before her eyes stilled on the books that were still packed away. She’d push herself up from her bed where she was lazing about simply moments ago. Once near the books, she’d begin to unpack them to put the books away however one caught her eye. It was an old romance novel she had begun to...
Rain. It was always rain that brought change. Or some form of water falling from the sky.
It had rained when she and Catalina had met. A downpour as she had stepped into the tailor shop and looked into the emerald eyes she grew to love. Fine, beautiful, emerald eyes.
And it had rained, gently, when she laid Hecate to rest. Alone in the muddy graveyard, watching as the rain rolled down the newly placed tombstone, she did not cry. She simply stared, holding her umbrella aloft.
Snow had dusted the ground when she had seen Hecate again. Freshly risen from the grave, but deathly beautiful in a dress, she was changed and the other knew it. Chocolate eyes turned icy blue.
It had rained when Catalina had returned to her. Poured down upon...
He arrived home later than usual that night. His horse's footsteps signaling his return to the estate. Though waiting before him stood that familiar figure. A figure symbolizing stability and authority, unyielding to whim or complaint, ever demanding.
He rode into the stables, dismounted, and returned to the pathway leading to the door, where the figure stood.
"You are late this evening. I would not expect the likes of you to be tardy in curfew."
"Apologies Your Grace. It shan't happen again."
"See to it that it will remain as such, now get washed up. Supper is still out for you, though by now it's lost it's warmth. When your done, see me in my study; I want to know the reason for your late arrival."
"Understood."
. . .
There he...
One day, in her Bakery, Ke'wince was cleaning and a
poem came to her, though nothing written. It came
from her mind, her words came out fluidly and with passion and
filled with creativity. Anyone passing by could hear her words through
the quiet and warm evening.
When I was younger, a child of three, my dear mother came to me
"Be nice, be kind." she prayed and preached, her voice in my head would often repeat
As a naïve child, I did not understand, why she worried, her reasons bland
She rubbed my head, and hugged me tight. "You'll understand, when the time is right."
I shrugged and left, off to play, with my sister, a sunny day
I grew older, how time flies. In morals and magic, I grew wise
As I changed, so did times, most with...
"I'm sorry."
The words were given no reply, the thin ginger that had spoken them leaning her head back against the wall with a sigh. She closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly. Void, she made a lot of mistakes recently- mistakes she can't reverse. The Claith lifted her hand to her cheek, touching her fingers to it lightly only to hiss in pain once more as she had every other time she'd checked to see if the bruise on her face was real. Honestly, she wasn't shocked that she got hit, she practically was asking for it with her mocking.
She did regret not punching him back though, she regretted going for the childish kick. He would've never expected her to punch him with her history. He deserved to be punched as much as she did. They...
After the events of Faded Home
Fog surrounded the road leading to a large decorated estate, the mist seemed as it it was engulfing the building, the beach behind the structure lost in the grey clouds. Garret traveled, his red-shirt stuck to him as he passed through the humidity approaching the large wooden after a long trip. With a tired sigh he'd knock, being met with skeptical glares from the retainers. Should be used to it, he was a commoner with no special qualities approaching an estate of wealth he only dreamed of, but still- it felt bad, being looked down upon without even a word. Then again he'd have disappointed them anyways, though pass that thought along as he tucked the painting into his armpit. "I'm here to visit with...
It was raining in Mountumbria. As the rain poured down, Wulfric sat in an enclosed forest, sharpening his two blades. The rain drops slid down the Bastian steel, as the whetstone slid across it. Wulfric was dressed in his normal attire, with chainmail covering his torso under his tunic. Wulfric had been praying and sharpening his sword for hours, perhaps his faith in the spirit was too strong...
A few weeks ago, Johnathan Birkwood unboarded a small ship, he had an eyepatch on, he held a cane, and he shaved his beard. The disguise was good. He met Alfons Birkwood in a Forrest, where he was betrayed. Wulfric could picture it in his head, every detail according to what he was told; Frenzimar telling Alfons to Kill Birkwood. The...
Dim lamplight lit up the cobblestone path Garret walked, the brightness seeming to promise warmth though the promises was quickly shattered by the chill given off by the night sky. Sipping from his cold metal flask as he always did when chilled, relying on the warmth of liquor to keep him warm, though he knew that too was a facade. Liquor would settle and he'd be left feeling cold, but that didn't matter now, all that mattered was he felt warm for the time being as he traveled. And he did travel, reaching the destination of a house, the house was common, bland, and could easily be lost in the sea of homes surrounding it. With another swig from his flask, he sighed and entered.
Inside was simple, everything you'd expect from a common...
"...Regalia. Prestigious and regnant; Humanum's most alluring and venerable jewel of power. As if it were a beacon on an overcast eve's gloomy horizon, it brings illumination to our path on the Great Way..."
Seated on a vintage oaken couch deep within aforementioned capital, the Field Commander silently thought to herself; Unmoving, speechless, tranquil to the naked eye: A living example of discipline. Lids kept loosely shut, facial expression closely clinging to stoic nature. Bruises, long-lasting wounds and cuts, charred portions of skin adorn her visage. Alongside the many, lasting, wounds can be found wrinkles and skin discolourations. Her chestnut blonde hair also bear a few starlight-kin locks; she's close to losing her youth...
Porangi had stowed away on an Imperial Frigate for at least...3 days! Well, I say stowed away but actually he just swam near the ship, popping up for air very rarely and coiling himself around the rudder when he needed to rest.
You see, Porangi was not exactly pleased about the current emperors decisions, and every time he complained a bunch of angry men came at him with swords. So he decided wherever that boat was going was a better home then regalia, and it was therefore an obvious choice to just start following the ship when he heard it was preparing to depart.
He had been a bit peckish one morning out at sea, so he swam a short distance off to catch some fish. Unfortunately, when he completed his submerged hunt, he turned to find...
Apologies for the brevity of this. We didn't want to do a wedding event and I wanted to get the point across this happened, rather than making a drawn out detail-fest like my usual writing.
The carriages rolled along the cobbled Hinterlandish road, from Chärlz House towards Castle Machellon, pulled along by the duel strength of Pure Black Calembergers at the helm. Rain had begun to dribble down from the dark overcast above, threatening to storm, yet vigilantly refrained from pouring down yet. They pulled into the courtyard of the ancient castle, a number of servants having had lain down tarps and holding out the same material overhead, to shield the to-be-wed pair of nobles from the drizzling rain and mud. Xavier stepped out of...
“Do well to recall this young one; you are descended from men who struck the face of a mountain, and settled in its wounds. The blood of great men flows through you, but have you the heart to match theirs?”
Cassius Krupp to his heir Crispin, 187
The Stoney Coast of Opper Calem
Preamble
Disregarding the hinterlands of civilization is a long held tradition by those who live safely away from the reach of war and treachery. It is not oft that the people of Opper Calem are given much regard beyond their impressive siegeworks and excellent metallurgy, despite championing a history of conquest and settlement unparalleled by most lands today.
Quite a number of oral traditions have been maintained, and in recording them, I pray that my...
Drip… Drip… Drip…
The Rashaq stared at the rusted over and leaky pipe for a few moments, before bending over, and shooting out an arm to scoop up a long and narrow stick. “Why did this thing have to clog right up before dinner, of all times. Yeesh.” Whined Rokh’Pokka, as he straightened his back, and stopped kneeling before the pipe, popping into a standing position and leering down into the metal basin that was used as a sink in the Pride Den. Rokh’Pokka raised the stick as he grumbled a few more times, before lining it up with the small hole at the bottom of the basin, and started to ram it down into the pipe, water sloshing up and splashing him in the face occasionally, smearing the red warpaint, and occasionally dripping...
(This story has a lot of symbolism, so you might need to read it more then once to fully understand its meaning.)
The boy's eyes slammed open, staring up at the night sky, most of which was hid by tree branches. He rolled over onto his side, before slowly rising to his feet. He looked all around him. Where was he? He was surrounded by trees, tall but skinny. How did he get there? Was anyone looking for him? The boy blinked a few times, not believing his eyes. It was raining lightly, slowly dampening his baggy red shirt. He stood there for a moment, before hearing the breaking of a twig behind him, probably from a footstep. He twirled around to see a Yanar looking back at him. She smiled warmly, reminding him very much of his mother...
The man contemplated whether to send his rant to Countess Black, he didn't rip it or burn it because this was what he needed.
'Last night, with no children around, I had got into a fight in defence of another almshouse employee. All this during a riot, now as I wondered upon the streets and found him..He was an obnoxious, ungrateful, embarrassment. While he was injured, which he claimed was avoidable, he shown no gratitude for me standing up for him. Not to mention I was also ripped apart by another man who gave me no credit at all. Claiming he was defending him, not me. And also said that I should have got a guard. If you were there during these circumstances you would know most guards were on the cobblestone, which everyone was...
Her hand twitched as her wrist locked, sliding the sharp letter opener down the top of the stained envelope as got ready to open up the Sanctum of the Black Fern. Her almost glowing green eyes narrowed as she looked off into the distance. The early morning sun had barely hit the foggy alleys of Regalia, and a wandering hound walked towards her almost completely covered legs and sat down. As the hound whined for scraps, she flipped the open sign for the sanctum before allowing the animal in.
Dropping the letter opener onto her desk, as well as the open envelope still containing the letter, she made her way over to her breakfast. After dropping a few scraps out in the alleyway for the hound, she shut the doors and finally snatched up the...
Many things can tempt a person. Whether it be love, money, a mere gaze. That enticing whisper within your mind.
The young woman sat at her desk, various piles of parchment and letters stacked neatly into miniature towers before her. Her room which had once felt so large had begun to shrink in her thoughts. Pristine walls cleaned clear of cobwebs creeping closer together until a sense of isolation lurked in the hollow air surrounding the woman’s frame. Hollow until tainted; tauntingly pressing down upon her slim shoulders and forcing the energy out of parted lips in the form of a singular exhale. Impeccable posture lost in an exhausted slouch.
Whatever curious and youthful gaze had batted away concerned glances wholly dissipated. Lost...
He could not remember much, the blood loss was effecting his thoughts, he remembered a letter, a fast paced trip to Mountumbria, a forest, A sword pushed through his stomach, and his neck being slit. He knew the forest was full of bandits, but he did not know if that is what had happened, then, he could not remember anything of his life. The slit to the neck was deep, he could breath, for a few seconds, until blood leaked into his lungs. He was being dragged, then, as he started to black out, he felt a burning heat, as his body began to burn, he looked up, to see a man in armor quickly follow somebody, he could not tell who, from under the cover of the darkness, and leaves, out of sight of the others. Blackness, darkness, what-ever...
The letter and an attached diary would reach the headquarters of the Ironwolf Legion. From there a Legionnaire would ensure that the parcel would find it's way to those of House Norrvakt. The diary is old and leather bound. Cracks adorn it's sides, but the pages inside are still legible and in tact. The letter itself would be relatively new in terms of parchment and writing. It couldn't be more than a few weeks old at most, the more likely case is that it is a week. Should the diary be open it would contain fonts written in d'Ithanie. The letter itself written in Common so naturally it would be easily discernible by any who read it in it's transfer to the addressed owner. The letter reads as follows:
Captain Norrvakt,
Father, should...
“Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
"Blackmore, hold the bloody doors!" shouted the captain, the situation growing grim by the second.
"Captain, Alexandria is dead! Northgate is on his way out!" claimed the squad medic, having to shout over the consistent banging of the boarded windows and troopers attempting to secure the house. Screaming and shouting could be heard outside, the harrowing voice of their former comrades who they couldn't retrieve in the retreat. "The door won't hold any longer! Do we have a bloody exit?!" exclaimed Blackmore, his body pressed against the boarded doorway, quickly moving out of the way when another trooper...