Under the rocky hills of the outer countryside, buried deep beneath the peaceful green soil that spanned over miles upon miles of forests and homage to fauna, lied a dark cistern, shrouded in shadows and long forgotten by those who unwittingly tread upon it. Well beyond hundreds of years, this wretched cave housed all manner of abominations, freaks of nature, those tainted by the Void and transmutated beyond all recognition, but it had never before been blighted by a Demon; a foul creation of carnage and destruction.
The local village had felt the effects of lingering evil. At night, the sons and daughters of townfolk would inescapably vanish. Sometimes, their parents would find their gored remains, but most were not so fortunate. They...
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Silence. The world that Metylda Arya Saye was born into, one of silence. While others heard the birds chirp and wind blowing through leaves, the young ginger heard silence. Silence that tore apart the quaint Saye family within Maudberg. Silence that taught the young ginger to fear the bright crimson from the man who walked out into black and never returned. Silence that weighed heavy on a mother whose cries fell on deaf ears. Eight years of silence that were shattered by a last breath, the only world that the young ginger had known broken apart as her mother’s cries ceased.
The young ginger was sent forward into the bustling world alone. Ranging from grays and crimson, the familiar peaceful greens and yellows were long lost, home...
Ill-Essóllo'en, as one. Shortened to be as one with one another, yet treated as if one is to be alone, always.
It was no secret within House Valloaan that Laerilas was a failure, though the extent of his failure that they would permit was something that varied between each sibling who had allowed his reign to continue for so long. Fifty years and the man had accomplished nothing but ticking off names amongst a long list of enemies, old and new. Fifty years and the man had led the family from success to stagnancy. Would his generation of brothers and sisters wager amongst each other the time in which it would take for him to lead them to ruin? Some of them, but not all.
“What are you doing?” Finelor asked after watching the contents...
FOR WHOM THE DEATH KNELL RINGS
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Twilight in Old Kievan Rus - Joseph Feely
⫷‒══════════════════════════════{⛞}══════════════════════════════‒⫸
⫷=-THEMATIC-=⫸
“Moral law is an invention of mankind for the disenfranchisement of the powerful in favor of the weak."
⫷‒═══════════════════════════════{⛞}═══════════════════════════════‒⫸
The sound of footsteps could be heard in the dark. ~Click, click, click~ “Hello? Can someone help me?” The man yells out in fear, attempting to move even under duress. A hand grabs his throat, pulling his head up suddenly. Only air escapes his throat as he stands there, tied to a wooden pole. He can feel a presence behind him… A large one...
Her Departure was Bittersweet
The sun was a wretched beauty--....
The rumors filled the streets more swiftly than a drunkard's tankard with the sweet poison of ale. Soft tale ushered was that of a ginger-haired bastard of the Sol, leaving forevermore from the citadel of Regalia. Throughout the evening glimpses of her would be seen donned in elaborate attire and gems, parading alongside another Altalar dressed in similar finery. Through the bustles of layered skirts and glistening gems one thing remained consistent during the frenzy of sporadic purchases: her smile. It was soon that fragmented pieces of these whispers pieced together to reveal the truth of her sudden visit, that she readied herself for a final departure, for she...
OOC NOTE - Has violence.
This is me test-running aesthetics on the forums and writing the start of my character! :)
I'm new to the server, so any kind of lore that I got wrong or anything- contact me on discord and I'll fix it asap!
══- ‹ •◦ THEMATIC ◦• › -══
In the distant northern frontiers of the Empire, there did Riftan Dragic begin. Born in Krainivaya- the city of Kyizamok, Riftan’s early life was defined by his family’s warrior lineage. House Dragic, forged in the Skagger Wars and through that earned; Riftan had a mantle of the sword that he must live up to. Cousin to Aleksandra, he was of lesser distinct notability within the family. The mantle would fall to the head of Household, and the next. Thus, he had to make a name...
"Dear Diary,
Today SUCKS. I've been in bed non-stop, I feel fine. Fine! Doctor van der Kleij says I'm running a fever and Benji says I "look like a ghost". Whatever that means. But I'm fine. It's fine! Everything is fine."
The young woman lay in a bed two sizes too big for her, she wasn't used to it. Her mind silently frolicked in the place that was her fortress of now solitude until the next patrol of guards came to check on her. Not literal guards mind you, for her own mind in a fit of boredom had spent it's days imagining Benjamin and Petra as guards, this room a prison. She hated it here. Studying the folds and creases in the bedding, she thought back on her first weeks in the city. What a nightmare. She picked up her dingy...
It was a burning, roiling light that woke the crimson Ksat.
By all accounts, she should’ve been awake already. She lay in a field of wheat, where the stalks, set ablaze at the tip like candelabras, could put her homeland's stars to shame.
Yet, she felt no pain. Her scales remained plastered to her flesh, unbothered by the licking flames. It was pleasant, if Baskoro must describe it at all. The same sensation you’d feel at a campfire, warmed up after a rainy day.
If she waited any longer, she’d sink into the soil. Fertilizer for the ashen field.
She pushed upwards and began her march.
For the walk and plains alike, there wasn’t an end in sight. Father Time broke his hourglass. Everything slowed to a crawl.
Further and further she...
[!]
Found selectively across Regalia are copies of this poet's first official released piece. Each page's edges, headers, and free bottom sections are lined with swirling gold ink lines. Each word reads in fine colored print:
Rime and Inferno
Diametrically Opposed,
One of Flame, the other of Snow.
Most know how the story goes.
Inferno, a fickle flame. Melts away the ice;
Not to take the blame.
Never to touch as their colors sway.
Though what if I said there was perhaps another telling?
A feeling deep inside two souls swelling.
Never meant to touch, they broke all odds.
In the bare moonlight their love was exposed to the gods.
In ruins of religion; wishes of sweet kiss and hearts swayed.
In a shaky breath this what he...
There was a scribble of inked quill tips on fresh paper. The office was quiet, the Solvaan woman behind the desk dour but a polite enough smile creasing her wrinkles. When each of them were finished, she took the paper from them, and turned it to face her, beginning to melt the wax required for an official stamping. Within the eyes of the Regalian State, Yngvarr and Angelica Viduggla were now married. But there was so much more to come in the week ahead…
Yngvarr Viduggla pondered how Highland weather could be so much like that found in northern Drixagh, where he’d matured and now helped rule through his role at his brother, Jarl Ardige Viduggla’s, side. Gallovia, at a similar northern disposition, rarely got snow except in winter...
Once more, with feeling, a scribbled and erratic writing:
Returned once more, reborn again, the worms fall away. Upon colorless skin I feel the wind in all directions, a canvas once more to paint as I desire, a being of my own making. I further my venture on my own path, away from the line, away from the chains, away from the worms, a harpoon I pull my impaled self along with.
Nothing kills someone faster than their mind; I hear it constantly. The wickedness of the world is not their own, but someone else’s, and their mind heeds the other before the self. It lets itself be defined by the other, so I ask you, what man can have any pride or honor if it is not their own? What woman can have grace and beauty if none of it belongs to them...
Duke Godrun Nordhjem posts a official call out the the Lady Kirana di Civita
"Dear Lady di Civita and her family, Yesterday while in the Morbus imporium I was heavily disrespected by the lady Kirana, I tried to handle this quietly with a letter to the head of house, but seeing as I was ignored I see the respect for me is none. When I was simply having a casual conversation of kind nature to the Lady Valorie di Civita, The Lady Kirana di Civita proceeded to say to not listen to this teel, when referencing me, and upon myself asking what that meant many times she refused to speak to me on it, and also had not once referenced my dukal title, Only after asking the Baroness Revna, a fellow Urlan did I know what the word teel meant. One...
————————————————————————
VERWEESD OF VLISSINGHELM
"View of La Crescenza" by Claude Lorrain
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The carriage rattled as it bumbled its way along the countryside roads, wheels steadily turning in the thin gouges made from decades of similar carts coming and going along the same path. The farmlands stretching out on either side of the lane were empty and black, burned already after the harvest was made. It was somewhat of a relief to know that such a burning was out of normal tradition, rather than fear of something destroying all that grew there.
The Blight had long since been fought off, without ever scarring the Lokkenland farmlands underneath the van Hal banner. Their people had, perhaps, been blessed...
"Wasa, would you please stop trying to steal my food?" Taeron asked, annoyed. "What do you mean, your food? She made this for both of us. Stop being selfish!" Wasa responded as he reached for another chicken leg. "The only one being selfish is here, are you. You're taking everything!"
"I prepare some food for you two, and all you do is bicker like children," a distinctly female voice said with a chuckle. Juane appeared behind the counter. Taeron and Wasa immediately fell silent. Wasa lowered his face, perhaps a tad ashamed? Juane shook her head. "If you both wanted roasted chicken leg for yourselves, you could've just asked me. Now, be kind to each other. It's been a long day, and I didn't bring you guys here to bicker." Taeron and...
{OOC Note: Content Warning - Writing depicting gore!}
(Artwork by Suzanne Roach: Echoes of Madness)
[!] A woman with lacerations over her body weeps alone, her face bruised, her clothes bloody, talking to her inner-voice.
Life is such a complex thing, the more I look around the more I realise that I have nothing to lose in the grand scheme of things, I will outlive all those I keep close to me and despite that when I let people in they fear me, calling me a "snake" or "manipulator." Even if I sacrifice myself, put my pride to the side and tell the whole truth people still don't believe me, not even my lovers! I've been battered, near death, putting my body on the line, and because of who I am people don't take me for anything more...
it was never terribly complicated, how she gave praise to the Lady of Shadow. at least, not to her. her prayer room was a little place, off to the side of the main cavern; a little room, but warmer than some of the other spaces in their home. she had decorated it nicely, with navy and blue cloth sweeping across the ceiling and over the walls and little pillows set around the empty space in the middle, around which laid a circle’s worth of smooth wooden poles, rising about to her knee in height.
the first step was to enter her sacred sanctuary. the priestess pinched her fingers to her left, more on familiar instinct than anything else, and withdrew them upwards as a candle burned to life underneath them. she didn’t quite need its...
The Kathar sat within the temple-like chamber deep below the ground looking out from iron bars. Looking at the Url performing the rite yet as the chant began, so did the screams…
“Witch, monstrous shrew, vile whore you dare!” It screamed within her mind, “You a coward, a flightful woman who begged me, begged me to stop her morals, doubts, and fears!”
“How dare you try to expel me out of submission to a existling that doesn’t even love you! You are her tool, her toy to be used and discarded!!”
Her pointed ears rang as the pain of her migraine amplified tenfold.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Zara hissed into the air.
The Url looked upon her eyes filled with concern, confusion but he still continued the ritual.
She began to answer...
╾╼
HE IS GUILT
Reading Tunes
╾╼
“And are you happy now?”
The monotone question that Kardryn had asked them slowly after a long lapse of silence was met with a similar unsettling quietness. Hy’riss’ glowing blue gaze dragged slowly over the ridge of the Crookback walls, the sun glinting just barely past it’s cobbled ridges. The light brought from it’s rays flooded through the eyes of the stilled Voltalar pausing every illuminated speck of dust around them. Engulfing them into an internal vision that the frozen Kathar next to them couldn’t perceive. The harsh red scales on one half of their face blurred into a line of soft blues and purples, one glowing eye flashing a vibrant violet. Matching the glimmer of hope that lay on the horizon...
Those in the Abansaddi estate heard the most awful bickering and shouting from the kitchen. The head cook for the household had once again opened the house pantry to find it stocked with ingredients mostly aimed at making sugary pastries. Everything one could imagine would have been stuffed in the pantry instead of the needed ingredients needed to feed the family.
The head chef could be heard shouting in Vasar as he pulled the ingredients from the family pantry.
“<Vas> I swear to Giru that girl is going to make the rest of us starve. Everytime I turn round she’s stuffed this thing with nothing but sugar and chocolate. What in Aloria am I supposed to cook for the family? They cannot live off of cookies and pies!”
Shortly after the...
____The horizon screamed with the colored conflagration of the sun’s setting, captivating eye and mind as it bathed the cityscape below in burning reds, pinks, oranges. Despite all of its beauty, a part of us wondered if the star’s prophecy would ever come to pass. As the image smoldered throughout our thoughts, a shift in the wind’s tide shifted, tearing us from our reverie with chilled hands. The sudden influx of sensation was jarring as our ears washed in the bow of the crickets’ harp, the low drone of the cicadas’ song. Our nostrils flooded with the sweet floral musk, earthen scents intermingled with the haunting scent of after-rain that rose from dampened soil. With the return of sense came a realization; darkness was falling upon...
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There has been a time for all of us when we had devouted ourselves to positions of lesser value than we wished to occupy. There has been a time where we were humbled by our masters, when we bled into the background holding a simple title of little importance. For some of us, myself included, it seems as though we may find ourselves trapped into such positions, donning the name of servant, of staff, of a title that feels as though you hold not a drop of personal poweress. Of course, this is not true of all servants or staff, as some may find gratification from fillling these roles, but, for those of us who wish to be...
A pale woman drifted through the streets of the city, not in the dead of night, nay, but in the bright and shining daylight. Wraithlike, she floated through the pedestrian crowd, subsumed by the vastness of the urban structure, of that great unwashed mass. Of the tall blockhouses. Any sound of her step drowned out by the grinding of wooden wheels over the brick paved roads. The folk about her were varied, a few knife-ears, a sorcerer here or there. She paused at an alcove along the road to observe the crowd. That flood, she panned over it for any sign of gold. The initial motivated panning turned into a trancelike and empty gaze over an hour’s course. The numb buzzing, brought on by the tabacca which she so readily consumed, turned the...
Sensation cannot be being, essence does not precede existence, and thus, my dear, most foul, there is nothing to you intrinsically. Everything of you came to be, not was. Think of the gods of love, they cannot, or do not, or exist not as the love they grant. Love is merely attributed to them, but they themselves are not love; they can only give others love, without experiencing it themselves. Even if they did, it takes another to give it to them. You and I, my comrade, enemy abroad, we are not gods, and infinitude is for the deluded. If we cannot give ourselves our essence, we must find it, gods of love seeking love. Let others find it in you, attribute it to you, your existence, but it is not the essence of you; these feelings cannot...
To Commit Oneself
Often, I have reflected and considered the validity of my life and my past associations, whether I should change my ways in any way others might find meaningful. I have, and likely will continue to do so, but there is a nagging in my mind every time, considerations to be made, the underlying problem of change.
Change is natural and let none illude you otherwise, but we civilized peoples are above nature in many ways. While improvements of the mind and adaptation certainly find their origin in the animals around us, they lack the abstract concepts of currency, culture, politics, laws, religion, and effects of more critical thinking; we damn those that reject these as brutes, savages, animals. One might make the...
✿ February 8th, or maybe.. It was beginning to be the 9th.
The large, bulbous form of Sibyllad entered the empty, Polon styled home. Glancing over the base floor as she trudged towards the large couch to slump upon. She had stayed at Greygate, shuffling through files and paperwork for hours before leaving. Sib didn’t need to, but she did. Being one of the last to leave the government building, giving the poor night shift guards a pat.
Sib continued to stare out the door of her home, the wind whistling as it passed through the open aired windows and stone structured pillars. Her strong, usually boisterous features were- almost sorrowful in appearance as she merely listened to the sound. Waiting for something to break the silence...
Smoke hung over the corridor, lazily sprawled over the horizon peeking through the paned glass which was made into its resting place. It wrapped its blanket of sunlight taut, nestling into cushions of blue skies and white clouds. Though if one were to follow the sleepy cloud of smoke, they would find it winding down a hall and rounding the bend into a small back room of someone’s living space, and in its presence, a Kathar. They kept due diligence locked onto the flame’s life, to ensure its fulfillment. Blood boiled in incense, arising to fill the home as a lonesome tapestry draped over the scent to soak it all in. Upon it, an ever-watching eye of crimson was stitched by a careful, elderly hand long ago, which now watched Valentin as...
The Unbreakable Chain
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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Upon the bank of a wide river rested the proud home of the Jarl. The palisades of his fortress home were erected of wooden beams, sharpened to points, from which colors of his family’s pride were strewn not in ribbons or bunting, but in the crest-bearing shields of his devoted raider army. Many summer days did Liv, the Jarl’s daughter, walk hand in hand with her father along the wooden walls, and ask of him the stories that were painted on the shields.
“That is the mark of Sten Erikson,” the Jarl would explain, “whose cleverness...
◦ The Price of Surviving ◦
AMBIENCE | PROGRESSION
〚 ✧┇ ══════════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ══════════════════════ ┇✧ 〛
The silence of the room was perhaps the most deafening silence Cecil had ever heard in his short, bitter life.
Faintly, somewhere else in the estate, a clock ticked. It was a windy day outside; the pine trees rustled quietly and few birds chirped. It was the sort of winter afternoon that was startlingly clear and startlingly cold, delineated by pale sunlight and tiny, puffy clouds. The average person would have long ago gone outside to enjoy the wind and the birds and the sunshine.
Cecil sat inside, staring at his hands, eyes unfocused.
Inside his head played the same scene, in a loop.
“FASTER! FASTER...
FOUND
Disclaimer
I am not a writer at all but I felt this story was needed to clarify a loose end.
On the first day of every month Anya found herself lurking the sewers, drifting and wandering to the ruins of the Solifugae Library. She walked through the familiar tunnel towards the desolate library with her gloved hand raised, a weak blue flame admitting from her palm to light the darkness surrounding her. She came to stop at the entrance of the library, holding a sombre expression and rigid demeanor, she stood questioning why she still came to these dusty old books each month. Anya moved the flame inside a rusted metallic lantern to light it and once lit she gave her wrist a little shake extinguishing the flame from her hand and...
Deep thickets and spongy undergrowth sprang up in the cold night; bramble and bucklethorn and tangled knots of poison oak lay over the ground in heavy abundance, dank and choking. The forest's nights were unforgiving, to say the least.
For where the Allar's safely ensconced by the bonfires, all seems calm... Unstirring even.
In fact, it was the calm before the storm. The forest floors laid spectral in these witching hours, ground fog ribboning along with the earth. From somewhere far away – like a musical voice from the edge of a dream – they heard the trilling notes of flutes. A procession of flute players, it seems, as nebulous shapes warped in the mists around a focal point.
A point where a figure emerges from, like the...
A Short Story by @LumosJared, inspired by @MantaRey's writing|
The Balcony from the new Shilais Estate was not a wholly quiet place. The gentle babbling of the stream below, the sounds of far-off voices surrounding the Cathedral to the South, the everpresent sound of birds in the trees surrounding the Estate. The sun had only just set. Darkness swept over the Capital, and there was a gentle hush to all these sounds. Arahael stood there, of course, as he often did at this time of night. He sang quietly, a low bassy sound, as his mind wandered back through the many years that had taken him to this place. Behind him was a fair walk-through closet, a wardrobe that housed not only his few outfits and armors and weapons, but now a myriad...
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Like will-o'-the-wisps in the woods, the candles flicker
For all the memories shared, there was much bicker
But all in all, it was not so bitter.
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Tooth and claw, how frightful!— do not be alarmed
Gnarled of limb, long and mighty the armed
Many... many beady eyes; that which exposit charisma that charmed
┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈ ┈...
((Once more, feel free to consider these as IC writings))
Nothing is quite as droll as marriage, and the worst offenders are monogamists.
How pretentious they are to declare everlasting love, as if nothing should ever change, but the common rhetoric is that marriage changes people; it is common enough to be fact. The initial, primal, intoxicating love of a relationship changes as soon as one is engaged, and further as one is married; the beginning of a decline.
There are three people of this world, my friend, my foe, my nemesis, and they are the lovers and the seducers and the deceivers, and the unfortunate lot fall to the latter. The lovers of the world, the few they may be, are the truest; they have no cruelty to them, no malice...
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“I came ‘soon as I heard.”
The undine washed up on the beach, carried by a wave. For the first time in decades, she set foot on the Katharic Coastline, but for a worthy cause. A thin, water-worn letter was clasped between webbed fingers - small knicks and holes in the papers where she had gripped it too tightly, holding on to the chicken-scratch writing of the Wylathar she had taught to read and write.
Zambezi sat on the shoreline, their many eyes glazed over as they stared into the sun-kissed waves...
It was a seemingly long time ever since the invasion of the city by that spiteful Lich. It was incredible what he had done in such a short time, how many lives he had changed within the span of only a few days. However, it didn't quite have the same impact as what had been done to the Url. He didn't like what he had become during the crisis, but at the same token part of him was calling; Crying for that power that he had. Attacking civilians was horrible, quite brutal, and was part of his past he tried so hard to hide on his violent quest to save Aloria through symbiosis. Though, the calling of that Arken and being able to level buildings he disliked was intoxicating. Even the most silent nights seemed to have whispers and screams that...
[A quiet evening in the Siwat district town hall, after many rounds of Songaskian drinks. By the fire sat Sakara, reclined on a couch. The mood eventually turned somber as the Songaskia continued her tale of the great wars fought.]
- = o O o = -
I stood horn-to-horn with my fellows, all in a wall of bronze and steel awaiting what was to come. We formed up soon after morning prayers in drenching rain, the sun obscured behind a curtain of clouds. The day only got worse every moment; the weather was one thing, then we learned the inbound ailor army was outnumbering us, and that they were all prepared to expel our beachhead.
There was heavy breathing when we spotted the glint of their armors in the distance.
There wasn’t a choice on...
[A tale told in the Dragon's Den, after many rounds of Songaskian drinks. By the fire sits Sakara, clad in an old bronze armor and - albeit scarless - speaking with the experience of a dozen wars.]
To half the world, it was a morning like any other. To me, it was the first time I was commanding more than a single platoon. For Regalians, including the then-arch-chancellor, it was a day they’d lament for a long, long while. It was the twenty-seventh of November, the 602nd year after hatching. I spent the night sleeping in a barn, in a village which was known as Steinberg, on the Rim Isles within the Regalian Archipelago.
We had swept into the town in a flurry of chaos which hid much order within. There was an uncanny logic, a systematic...
┍━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┑
┕━━━━ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ━━━━┙
Building and swelling. Swelling and building.
Pain and sorrow. Uncertainty and confusion.
Rage and anger. All building and swelling.
“It’s your fault. You are the reason for it.”
This was all that could run through the Isldars head as he walked
Along the street in the heavy rain that fell around his soaked form.
He walked into his home, slamming the door behind himself
Stumbling over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of heavy liquor
Any kind, he had no care as he popped the cork and drank from its contents.
“It’s your fault. You are the reason for it.”
The words kept running through his mind as he took another swig, then another.
His mind raced, his pain continued.
“It’s your fault. It’s...
The halls filled with festive music as the storm that battered against the sturdy stone walls was relented from the warmth that spread across the fortress. Members and friends of the Tempetyr family alike danced, drank, and jested amongst each other during the joyous celebration held deep within the high mountains of Kintyr. A young man stood alone, watching the dancing with a faint smile on his features. He had grown much in the past four years and made at least a couple of friends in that time. One of such came bouncing up, a bright smile on her face.
“Arntyr! Arntyr. SPARKY!" She said, grabbing onto his arm. A shock traveled down his arm to her hand, one of a very, very weak static nature. He let out a sigh as his...