She'd decided that maybe it was time to take it slow and read a book for once after collapsing onto her bed and wishing for death. The girl had switched into a shift to sleep in despite knowing that would take a bit. She'd never felt like this before; worn to the bone and sore all over. The maid she'd requested to help her dress had been rather shocked by the large bruise that covered her side, put there by the hit from the Orc in the tavern.
She still shuddered at the thought, especially the aftermath of Valbrand’s blade find its way through her attacker’s chest. Worms had come creeping out from the bloody wound and she hadn't decided whether they had actually been there or if it had been an illusion. The reminder that Britta had...
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Carthas sat alone in his chamber. He was perplexed to say the least. How could this happen? What is this that is happening? This is a feeling that is both foreign and familiar. That girl, there was something about her. Almost as if he knew her as well as he knew himself. Carthas continued to think on it more. Is this what love feels like? The eunuch had difficulties grasping if this was truly the emotion he felt. Without any sexual longings it veiled the identity of this emotion. Still, it feels like love. Or at least a vague concept of what love is. The heretic thought further on this emotion. It certainly is one that was reserved only for himself. Yet, there it is, existing in this... girl. She couldn't be that much older than his...
This takes place about this time this morning.
@AntonVoron @Tiber_ @PonyoWantHam
Mud sprung into the air as sturdy hooves connected with the half-cobbled road, the wet, soggy dirt flinging to either side of the path, painting the flora and heathland canvas synonymously, causing a line of abstract paintings to trail behind the party of horses and riders as they traversed the beaten path. In the early morning like this, grey, misty fog hung with moisture low above the ground, clouding the grazing sheep and making it a challenge for even the best of eyes to see what lies ahead. The sun could barely peek over the clouds today, no more than they could the dense fog that permeated around the travelers. Adversely, it did little to...
On the Isle of Eriu-Innis, a young woman set her baby daughter in her cradle, humming softly a moment as the light of her candle bounced off the uneven stone walls of her home. Her husband was away in a town, maybe buying things like he had said he was planning to do or maybe sleeping with some unwed Claith, like many lonely men do. The woman, her ginger hair pulled back in a knot at her head, sat down at her desk and lifted the necklace she wore over her head, holding it by the small charm on it; a clay bumblebee, beautifully crafted like many things from Crown Isle. She studied the charm a minute more before carefully setting it down besides her as she set an inkwell, quill, and cheap piece of parchment on the desk she sat at. Slowly...
The taste of blood filled his mouth, a bitter and harsh taste that he was all too familiar with. His gaze whizzed over the letter once more, and again, and again. His eyes began watering, as his clutch tightened around the parchment. Blood dripped down from his lip, yet he continued chewing, perhaps subconsciously. Once more, he read it over,
“We’re sending this letter to inform you of the untimely passing of House Silevon’s former Matriarch, Larasviel Silevon. She passed on, leaving her daughter and grandson behind to prepare the funeral services. Soon after, Breon Johanna Hölzer Silevon left her young boy, Ahlwin Hölzer in our care, and went away. The boy is safe.
- Guro Ulfdöttir Silevon”
It couldn’t be, the Isldar clutched down...
Ambiance.
Damn the Northman. Damn him for what he caused.
That is what the Nelfin thought to herself while she stepped off the carriage, now in the territory of Rothburg. Her steps, usually styled with grace and weightless elegance, were now riddled with wobbles -- tripping here and there right off the bat. With an empty bottle in hand, the former Silveirall trudged not for the palace, but for the off-path that led into the village. The carriage driver seemed to pay no mind to Seris's given state. She was a knife ear, after all.
Seris could not help but recollect all of what happened throughout the months. The arrest, the wait, the week in the shabby, window-less cell, the interrogation, and everything after. Was it all really...
---------------------------------------------
The sound of a loud burp was heard through the ship. He was there again, as the night before and the night before that. He thought of the night's events, he thought of Tanoro, his son. He thought of the boy he was and the man he’d become, he was different. Tanoro was such a fragile boy he assumed, he couldn’t hurt a fly, but he hurt a lot more than a bug, the man glanced to his leg that was wrapped in a bloody old shirt. The man took yet another swig from the mug of ale as he looked up in thought. Something was bothering him, the recurring image of Tanoro’s face as the moon lit over it, he knew he hurt the boy, but then he thought of Ardige, he clenched his fists, it was him who took his boy...
(Written in response to the recent world progression. Turns out I wanted to write a story, so here it is.)
Some logistics tent in Drixagh
News of the failed smoke attempts didn't even have to reach the Lieutenant General's tent for him to find out. He witnessed first hand on the front lines as the supposed assault was easily dealt with. It didn't take long after that to hear the rumor circulate of the new revolts in the region. The Alt-Regalian paused a few moments, wondering what he did wrong. Was it not fair to show some mercy to those who were revolting? After all, didn't he feel the same way only months before.
He stood outside his tent contemplating these thoughts. He had usually attempted to deal with things diplomatically...
Hand in hand, the dark-haired beauty and her daughter made their way slowly down the main road of Regalia. Slow and steady so that the young girl, only just past being a tot, could keep in step with her mother. The mother's steps looked painfully slow, yet she didn't seem bothered, enjoying the Summer breeze that whispered past and blew a lock of her black hair across her face.
The daughter smiled her beautiful little smile that tugged at her mother's heartstrings, making her wish the little girl never grew up to face the harsh realities. The realities of where beauty sometimes took you, or war, or love. But this love was innocent and unbreaking, something the mother would never lose unlike the loves she'd had before. The soldier, the...
How dare he?
Her teeth were gritted to the point of cracking, fingers so tightly held that she felt the bones shifting in them and hoping they would not break. Her life and love had torn himself from her - it was a surprise she had held it together so well thus far.
Her brother was useless, she’d come to decide then. He had been of no help, no love had been held in his embrace when he’d tried to comfort her and repair her shattered heart with empty words. How painful it was to deal with lost love once more, it was as if a curse had been set upon her to ensure that love and happiness never fully was granted to her.
Her husband had vanished and died in a month’s time.
Her child had been murdered before its time.
Her new love abandoned her...
The pair walked the halls of the d'Eluise estate. The taller of the pair had their face in the book. The subject was of no importance as the smaller had no interest in it, yet she followed along. Nicolas hadn't cared much for the child, let alone her other siblings from the litter. As far as he was concerned Roselyne and Nicolette were the only niece he had. So he continued at his pace, face in book. Finally he stopped at a sofa in front of one of the estates many large windows, taking a seat. The small Vivienne, only four years of age at the time plopped up onto the seat beside him. The d'Eluise male looked down at the small child. Why did she insist on following him? The child smiled up at him, simply content with being in the estate...
Though the drizzle of rain washed away at the blood of lives lost and bodies dumped, the battlefield always seemed to remain the same - or so a once young man realised. Though having truly wandered to the front lines of seemingly constant conflict only months prior, there was a nostalgia to it. The sight of the dead, with their bloated bellies and bulging, belligerent, broken poses, caked in marshland mud; it was almost nostalgic, but not the sight.
No, it was instead the scent. The scent of death, of a cadaver having been freshly carved open. Be it by scalpel or sword, the scent was always the same.
Whispers of months past told of a certain man with exceptional skill and tactical insight traveling amongst the ready to die and...
Five years have passed since the newly named Carthas Norrvakt left the city. The man formerly known as Nicolas Delacroix had set out to train with the Ironwolf Legion in the School of Blackmark. He had been labeled a heretic by the Church of Unionism and therefore to redeem his soul must partake in every battle the Empire will wage until his death. Upon his leave the new Norrvakt had no knowledge if he would survive the training, but survive he did. Five years pass, skirmish after skirmish fighting tribes across the three Skags. Finally a letter makes its way from the North to Eadric Norrvakt, the adopted father.
Dear Eadric,
It has been quite some time my friend. With this letter reaching you I am sure you are pleased to find that I...
The last locks of Ithanian hair fall from his head. The latest member to the House Norrvakt takes the mirror from the barber, looking at his reflection. It had been quite some time since he was bald. Hopefully it won't become too scarred during the training. His head turns so that his tattoo faces the mirror. 'I Am the Servant of My Master's House.' A servant for but a moment, a child he has become. Now a member of the Master's House. Nicolas rises from his seat, paying the barber for his services and wishing him well. The Ithanian turns back into his room, sitting at his vanity. He draws his fingers over each of the several earrings adorning his ears. He will not be needing these for the next few years. Nicolas takes a deep breath, he...
The date was the eleventh day of the fourth month in the three hundred and fifth year. Nicolas Delacroix was alone in what appeared to be a semi empty warehouse in the Regalian harbor of the capital. Various crate and barrels spread scarcely across the space. The large wooden doors, partially decaying, shut closed with cracks of light peaking through. The Delacroix sat in a lone chair in the middle of the space, before her a crate with a glass jar atop it. The hustle and bustle of the every day operations of the harbor could be heard, but the inside of the warehouse was quiet. Finally the Delacroix interrupts the silence.
"Bonjour Nicolas, you appear to be looking well today."
The Delacroix stops as though waiting for a response...
The Bull and the Snake-eyed Songaskia.
In the summer of 289 A.C., the ocean was calm. As far as the eye could see there were gentle winds and equally gentle waves that lapped against the hull of the recently careened Girobaldan fregat, Pez Globo.
The crew was lazy. They’d been at sea for two weeks without seeing a single ship. It had become increasingly clear to the young Captain that the previously escaped merchant vessel made it to it’s destination without negative instance. The past Captain had allowed the crew to flee.
In the summer of 289 A.C., the ocean was calm, but there was a growing tenseness amongst the crew - and more importantly, the Captain.
The Captain: A young and ambitious twenty year old. He was built like a bull...
If Nicolas was a colour, he would be black. Void of all emotion, all feeling, a shell of a being. Black, the shade of nothing. Lacking of any light, like a shadow spreading wide across the baron plane known as life. Such is a life without meaning. Without purpose. Nicolas Delacroix. A shadow, without purpose.
The steward sat in his chair. Looking out into the empty room. The advisors have been fired. The bureaucrats have no reason to be there any longer. And there the eunuch sits, alone. The only company is a glass jar. The steward stares at the jar, foggy and expressionless. How can such a being even exist? Without purpose. Without care. A blackness so dark that it blots out any life. The steward rises from his seat, approaching the...
The clinic had grown silent except for the soft whimpering coming from one of the cots. The noise was muffled, but slowly the whimpering halted altogether as another noise took it's place, that noise being soft humming. Seraphina sat, holding her daughter’s smaller hand in both of hers. Her own fingers were laced together as she held the smaller woman’s hand.
Esther was finally asleep after much soothing and reassuring that the older Avanthar would not be going anywhere and would remain by her side for the rest of the night. Sadly it was a disturbed sleep as she thrashed and whimpered for many moments before curling up into a ball, clasping tightly to the hands of her mother.
That was nearly two hours ago, and only now had she...
Our story starts on a warm spring day, not a harsh burning hot day no, more like a gentle warm one. The kind of warm that makes you happy to be outside, a soft breeze blowing through to cool you down just enough but not give you chills. As the night grew close the children began heading home, all that is, except for one. Little Annelie Coiro, daughter to the Paladin Marcus Coiro, a gorgeous young half Shendar child sprinting through the streets of Regalia, chasing after lost kitten they had found.
In the distance one could hear a gruff voice bellowing out not far behind the child, their tone was distraught and panicked. At first, it was too quiet to hear, but as it neared closer the words were clear, and it was obvious who it was...
If Zzeno was a colour, he'd be fockin' orange. Why? Because he fockin' likes bleedin' orange you Fock and he has better things to do than talk to you blokes about colors. Like finding that Chi'enji for example, or furthering his plans for that heist... But tha's enough o' that, innit. E's also got a 'ole 'osta...whatchacallim?Hypotheticals ta worry about, what with escalatin'....Everythin'.Buh the mos' worryin' thing to tha' Tigran at this moment 'as ta be whetherer not th' next pocket 'e picks is gonna be 'is last. Bu' tha's nunna yer fockin business.So scram
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This is my first lore story, and a short one at that, but I feel it's fitting.Hope you Focks-I mean...
It was nearing midnight when a quiet knock echoed from the front door of the Vauclain estate. An aging maid bustled to the door and pulled it open with a small, “Yes?” only to be greeted by one of the few Vauclains that actually lived in the city estate. Juliette gave a tired, yet bright smile to the maid as she brought herself past her and into the foyer. Despite the fact that the servant would usually scold the young noble for being home so late, she’s lessened since the girl had joined the Regalian guard and made it a habit to come home late into the night occasionally. Juliette gave a slight bob of her head, as if thanking the woman before shuffling towards the stairs and bidding her a good night.
Upon reaching the top of the...
If Nathaniel was a colour, he would be green. Green with the feeling of illness that echoed through his gut as he stared upon a fresh grave. Swinging from the headstone was a crimson necklace, its hypnotising motion luring Nathaniel into a world of regret. Many thoughts crossed his mind; could he have helped? Was there any hope? As quick as a rain drop fell, the thoughts were gone, leaving Nathaniel nothing but an empty shell. Blue eyes, red with sadness, fixed upon the flowers surrounding him.
Lonely. How lonely it must be. New feelings spread through Nathaniel, feelings of guilt, anger but most surprisingly pity. Gazing upon the soil, Nathaniel's sight seemed to travel through it. Through the dirt, through the oak of the coffin lid...
Nicolas Delacroix would storm into the doorway of what was formerly the residence of Baird Norrvakt. The servant whom had summoned the Steward was standing off to the side, with a panicked look upon their face. They just stood there, looking at the Delacroix, who had rushed into the room, slamming wardrobes and drawers open, noticing the lack of anyone residing in the room still. He turned back to the door, furiously walking toward it. The servant on the other side almost fell over as he backed away. Finally the Delacroix was at the door and without a word slammed it shut. Now that he was alone in the room, Nicolas tore off his earrings, throwing them across the room. He stormed over to the wardrobe which stood in the corner...
(@HydraLana he made me I swear)
Baird walked around the space one last time, checking if there was anything else he wanted to take with him. Empty dresser, empty closet...he sighed as he vaguely glanced at the fancy desk. Would he need paper where he was going? No, not really, he never really wrote many letters anyway. He certainly wasn’t now, he knew that much. It would be too cold, too crisp, too Imperialistic.
He grabbed the sack and slung it over his shoulder, heading to walk out the door. He nearly tripped on the carpet as he did so, a vague smile playing on his face in this tense time. It was like it wanted him to stay but then again, it had done that so many other times, maybe it got bored without people nearby. He stopped...
If Juliette was a color, she would be Crimson. Crimson with the anger boiling in her blood as she stared at the necklace in her hand, a sigil of the Laines pressed into it. It had been Loic’s, her first love and first lost, someone who she regretted ever meeting now. Gideon’s hard and cruel words hammered against her skull like someone had jammed them in and was shaking her hard. She wished someone would shake her from this utter nightmare. Gideon had abused her at Blacktower. Bruised her with his words and screams that she wished she could force him to take back but she didn't have that power. She had power of determination, something that was leaking from her and making her cold with fear and weakness at that very moment. His words...
As Peggy entered the estate, she could feel an odd sense of tension that was foreign to her home. All that could be heard were the sounds of a shoe pressing into the ground. Peggy peered around the corner to see Amelia crushing flowers under her shoe.
"Amelia, are you alright?"
"N-nothing..."
Her older cousin stood to leave the lounge as she put a hand on Amelias shoulder. She felt Amelia rise and fall from her crying. Peggy knew how to comfort the gentle girl, but even after many tries, Amelia refused to explain, only saying,
"Ask the others upstairs."
Up the oak stairs, Peggy approached Marias room. Even with the doors held open, she felt as if she wouldn't be wanted. Peggy knocked on the door sill before entering and taking a...
Nicolas Delacroix sat in the Norrvakt estate. She had been entrusted to carry out the House's operations until her Lord Einarr returned. The Northerne artist was still hard at work, needle in hand, pressing it against the eunuch's temple. Ithanian hair lay scattered about the floor of the chamber. A series of advisors and overseers paired with bureaucrats all trying to speak louder than the other for a word with the Delacroix. The artist finishes his work and leans back, reaching for a mirror. The Delacroix sits upright in her seat, beckoning the crowd before her away, not saying a word. She would take care of these matters at a later time. The artist held up the mirror to allow for the Delacroix to inspect the finished work. 'I Am the...
The Delacroix stood alone in a warehouse. The morning light peaked over the tops of the masts of ships docked in the port, unloading their cargo for the day. Inside the warehouse, boxes turned splinters. Shards of wood scattered about and spots of blood forming small puddles overlapping the shards in places. Yet there the Delacroix stood, hands bloodied. Fingers hard to distinguish beneath the gorish flesh and blood. Pap, pap, pap. The blood dripped down on the floor. The only company for the Delacroix, a lone glass jar, blurry and reeking of preservatives. The Delacroix looks up to the jar, as though defeated. Nicolas Delacroix finally steps over to the jar. She lifts it up, tucking it beneath her cape as she turns, leaving the...
Juliette stood in the center of the doorway to the top lounge of the Golden Willow Tavern. All the others that had occupied the room earlier had migrated - as Jamie had said before he'd ruffled her hair and called her a bird - once more to another room. Separate rooms really, as all of them had separated to go their own ways. Only one had stayed in that room - all by himself as he claimed he needed to find something. Juliette had only gone past the landing when she'd heard the sound of breaking porcelain and when she returned to the room where Tanoro insisted he remain alone, he was knocking back a chair.
Julie didn't make a sound or a move to give herself away, not like the Viduggla would notice in his desperate rage. He'd kicked...
~ Love is Lost, Love is Found ~
A Story from the past of Matthias Heinrich
This is a story that I have not told anyone else. Many people know the outcome, but not the story behind it. I trust that you will tell no one of what I am telling you today and that you will respect the privacy of the subject, releasing no information to any one, not even your closest of friends. Do you understand? Then we'll start.
I'll start from the beginning. I have not told you as of yet but I have had a wife previously, as well as a daughter. Katelyn Heinrich and Isabelle Heinrich... I loved them with all...
The crack seemed to grow the longer he stared. It was strange; despite its length and color, the man had never noticed its presence. Relentlessly clawing at its surroundings, what was once a small nick in the plaster had spread like a disease. Outstretching ink black tendrils across the ceiling, the plague had crawled across the walls, spreading and sprea—
A distant thump interrupted Jamie’s thoughts. He swung his gaze to the door as a flash of worry struck his features. Not a moment later was his caution rewarded with Alderic’s hesitant reply, sounding from his room located on the floor below.
“Sorry.”
Returning his neck to the ceramic perimeter of the tub, the Rosendahl gently swished his arms around, surprised at the change in...
Just a note that all contents of the following story happened many years ago.
She was a fool. Her skin pale and soaked with sweat. It was done, but she still felt like a fool. A fool who had made so many mistakes. This one being the largest as of late. Or at least that's how she felt. The midwife, a middle aged northern woman, stepped over, going to dab gently at the young woman’s forehead. The young woman grimaced and closed her eyes. The midwife tutted softly.
“Strong for such a youngin’. Yar babe will be just as strong. Would ya like to see her, Miss?” Agathe, the midwife, looked toward the young woman, tucked into the bed. She shook her head ‘no’ at Agathe’s question, who would tut again.
“Come now, she’s a real beauty, looks...
These events occurred over the course of ten days.
As most nights for the past few weeks, candlelight flickered in the dimly lit office, the moon’s rays shining in through a nearby window to provide slightly more light. The desk where Leonzio sat was covered in various letters and paperwork ranging from guard chapter matters to invites to events to wine shipments. He plucked up one of the letters that oddly enough sported the Vanetti seal in its usual green and purple marble wax. As most knew, he normally avoided anything to do with the Vanettis but recently he had seemed to be secretly reconnecting with his father.
Letters had been going back and forth for a week or so before he finally decided that he would visit Montania. After...
- Locked
Our adventure begins with a gathering of a couple friends. David, Wolfram, Theodore, Syles, Samon, and Oswald had set up a meeting the night before at the Golden Willow as they all wanted to take matters into their own hands. With the sewers whispering of mysterious races, Vampires, void-infested items and heresy, they couldn't possibly let that go! If the guards came or the Regalian army, they would be too late. So what was their solution? They would try to discourage the biggest source of them all, the Void-worshipping Shendar, to break the morale of the sewers and leave them vulnerable to attack. What better way than to destroy one of the things more dear to them? Their objective:
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| BURN THE...
If one were to believe they could live a life, free of their own vices, and their weaknesses, they'd be only a fool. For the man who believes he is free of all vice is the man of lies. Whilst many may argue, that Virtue is within the form of Gods, morals, and even ideals, it is most, in my opinion, closest to the man who shows humility. Admits his wrongs, and accounts for them.
Raphael was casually strolling along, until he had approached, an indeed festering crowd. The crowd seemed to be bickering, it wasn't an uncommon sight, surely; the sewers always seemed to bring conflict and the fights it was infamous for. However, what made this fight different, was the cause of it. After listening for a few minutes, the delicate Cielothar had...
He leaned back against the wall of the park, the gate sitting not far from him as he watched his beloved sit on the colorful park benches. His hair was longer than he had been, Tanoro raising his tanned hand to brush a fallen lock from his eyes as he stepped towards Elizabeth. She raised her head and smiled at him, hopping up to hug him like she always did. He fell backwards with a grin before he hit the hard deck of the ship.
Tanoro cracked his eyes open as he rubbed the back of his head, an older boy leaning over him with a twisted grin, shaking his head and muttered something of daydreaming boys that go overboard. The Viduggla rubbed his eyes with a sweaty hand and righted himself. His dreaming had fade and he went back to...
The red and grey dress that Noelle had worn more often than anything else laid across her bed while she stood wrapped in a woven blanket stolen from the couch on the floor below. Her fingers traced the thin stitches made every now in then throughout the fabric from the many times the woman had been stabbed and later went to work repairing the tears. Her eyes glanced for a moment to her right hand where the tips of three fingers were slightly more calloused than the others from constantly sewing and repairing the fabric. A light sigh escaped her lips as she found the slightly darkened fabric around a few stitches suddenly very disturbing. Her blood stained the cloth.
Noelle stepped back, still dressed in only the white shift she wore...
Prologue
I didn’t know what I had done until the bomb went off. Screams, blood, rubble. That’s all that surrounded me. Mothers grabbing their children’s hands and fleeing from the scene, shards of glass flying from the air stabbing at the ground, and even bodies, dead bodies that littered the streets. For how could I had known what I had done? I was only eighteen. I never wanted this, to put my life on the line for T̶H̶E̶M̶. Eighteen is too young to die, too young to meet death’s cruel fist. Too early to kiss your loved ones goodbye and sign your life away. However that’s what I had done once I had joined T̶H̶E̶M̶. Which reminds me, the ground was littered in not only blood but paint. Well, not exactly paint. It was more of a chalky...