The basement was lit only by dim candlelight, but that was more than enough to see what was happening.
It was a bare room, with stone walls and a stone floor. No furnishing adorned it except, hanging from the ceiling, a heavy punching bag. Along the wall, training dummies. Some sort of makeshift training room, or perhaps an armory that had been totally gutted. In the center of the room, though, stood Amari.
The sound of her fists against the bag echoed through the small room, along with the sounds of her rage. She attacked it brutally, her slender form still running with blood. She didn't care, even as the blood ran down her back. She barely felt it. She didn't care, as the slash along her arm screamed in pain. She barely felt it...
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The woman stood on the bridge, her fists raised to the foe that approached. She was... Powerful. Yes, divine. Why was she hiding her might like this? Why was she hiding her strength? This wouldn't do... No. Before her enemy reached her, she had to show him.
She closed her eyes, focusing--Drawing on her inner power. She didn't know how she drew on this might, only that she did. Only that it was powerful--Many called it horrifying. But she didn't care--She would Ascend to greater heights than anything. Anyone... Even if she died. Even if she lost limbs, even if she went mad. No matter what it took, she would reach the top. And her journey wasn't going to end, not here.
Her hopes. Her dreams. They rested on her succeeding right now...
"Take this as a message to all those who stand in the way of progress.
Who stands in the way of the Empire we will create."
Crimson Craiasa - 28 August, 309 AC.
A tale of four unchanging vices spoke in its many faces: a cherub's smiling ignorance, a demon's incensed grin, a lunatic's maddened laughter, and an expressionless' bereaved silence. What countenance would it suit, in this very moment, as each step they took was them nearing the famously blood-stained guillotines? A night of bleeding out from a skewering wound, a night of mockery, and a night of humiliation had left it determining the stairs nigh interminable... unending even. They were all too debilitated and exhausted, forcefully pulled along in their shackles regardless...
[This instance takes place before the current sanguine occupation of Regalia]
The early morning sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the greenery-filled kitchen, illuminating Ryllae Daxalim humming away as they slid a tray of cinnamon buns into an oven. Though it was hardly half an hour past dawn, the scent of baking bread and sweet confections was already filling the small cafe and spilling out onto the paths of Petal Court. The Cielothar knew it wouldn’t be long until the rest of the community slowly began to rise, and they weren’t about to let their kinfolk face the new day on an empty stomach. As they slipped from the kitchen out onto the steps of Ever-Verdant to sit in the cool morning air, Ryllae couldn’t help but...
As the Knight’s eyes creaked open upon the landscape, he found himself on the path of a rugged trail. It’s road was a barren dirt path, waving downwards through the woodline. “A forest.” The knight remarked, staring out at the blackened sky above him. Not a glimmer of light shined down upon him or the path he must follow. As he craned his head back towards the trail, he found it’s visage concealed. Covered by a deep fog. “Where am I? Hello!” the Knight called into the abyss, with an echo to be the only reply. He let out an unamused hum before he stepped off into the forest.
As his first step touched the bound, his eyes adjusted to a scorch of light before the echo of children filled his ears. “Come on, come play with us!” called a...
The Fruit of Soldigurd
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
----------------------------------------------------------------
It was late in the summer, at the time when many trees held fast to their verdant plumage, and only those weakest of constitution were early to gain their orange tint. Storms had become a common sight, and with them came flooding from the muddy hills and into the valleys below.
Birger was respected among his neighbors. A veteran of many battles, he had been awarded by his Graff a plot of land among the rich soil of the valley. His plot was blessed with bounty, and he chose to grow an orchard there of apples, cultivated for...
Recollections of Wilvamair’s past, scrawled into a journal.
ENTRY I - 12th August, 309AC
People tell me I should keep a journal. It was an idea I’d always dismissed out of hand. Didn’t think I needed one. But there are times when it is best to listen. Maybe this is one of them.
̶I̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ I had always hated boats. From my earliest childhood memories of the winds and turns of the Schön, to memories more recent of seas darker than dark. When I was young, it was the incessant rocking and churning that drew my ire. When I was a little older, but no more the wiser, it was the knowing that my fate was in the hands of a force far greater than what I could repel.
A box of wood between me and certain doom. An understanding that fate...
┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
"What are you going to call them?"
He tossed crumbled pieces of bread into the pond. Soaked, drenched, and disappearing behind the eager beaks of the three or so ducks paddling near the shore. His scales seemed lackluster in the shade, dull and almost vacant of any shine. His gaze was much the same--distant, anchored only by their conversation.
Yet the question sparked something in him. A smile spread along his face. Familiar. Each tug, either corner of the lips finding their usual placement. Warm.
"I haven't thought up names for them yet. I'm going to start feeding them, though. Everyday. They deserve a place to visit often."
He peeked back at her, and she knew...
“Nope, start again,” he spoke to himself, tossing the sheet of paper into the campfire in front of him. Eloi watched as it bounced from the charred logs into the heart of the fire. Within seconds, his second attempt at writing a letter was gone. One with the fire.
The campsite was eerily still, beside the crackling of the campfire, there was nothing else. It was unlike the bustle of the streets of Daenlock, the Playero Home, not like the rowdiness of the Scorpion, or the Emporium of New Crookback. For once, this man was left with his own thoughts and one, very simple job to do.
He put pencil to paper, but unlike his political statements, grandiose manifestos or cries of oppression, it did not come naturally to him. Because, far...
The thick snow of Ellador collects like blankets on the ground. Two travellers wander to the entrance of a Isldarrin hold. One of which is a red headed Ailor with a bushy moustache and a big hat. The other is a young Isldar, his identity concealed by fake Moon Vault tattoos and clothes new to those who knew him. This is Theo. Theo has a history in this hold. It was his home where he was disgraced for his beliefs, his rejection of Dragon Worship. Where he was forced to run and hunted down. But all this is in the past. He’s here for closure. Whatever the result of this visit, it’s better than knowing nothing.
They stop at the hold’s entrance, knowing well that only the Isldar can pass through. Theo turns to the Ailor.
“Wait here. I’ll be...
In a chamber most dim did a candle flicker, the room’s only beacon of hope save for the soft glow which came from tired orbs across the room. Sitting at a desk was the Archblood known as Nazareth, staring down upon blank parchment scattered across her escritoire in disarray much akin to her lifestyle. The only thing to lay in what could perhaps be perfection was an inkpot, a pitch-black well that had yet to be disturbed. That evening however was deemed its downfall from perfection as she dipped her quill within, corrupting its tip with the liquid night. There she got to writing, hunched over in the dark with her violet gaze aglow flicking to and fro over her words as they spilled on parchment.
It did occur to me in the early hours of...
A note among a bush, overgrown and concealing a crate made for parchment collecting. The scent of chocolate is long gone, but to one, still faintly detectable. With a heavily folded dog-ear, this note awaits, hastily written, almost crammed into the crate.
7.8.309 AC
Dear C.C.,
I cannot say when the trouble really began.
This one hour, the hour before it, or if it came
a long while ago and simply never surfaced
before, like it did today.
"Doing this on your cousin's grave. This is low."
"I had no choice."
An indignant gleam, far off yet point-blank, rested in the eyes.
A look seen before, in the moment of cunning in an animal.
Before the fighting or fleeing.
Sometimes, I can feel myself clawing from
the inside, hoping for something...
Sav'ilar had finished his mask. His masterpiece, it was perfection, it was him. He knew deep down this is the beginning of something perfect, something... grand. His stage was soon to be elevated, but how could he make it rise?
"Must I do it this way? Harming them all, drinking from countless victims. There must be a way more proper."
He thought this to himself, pondering deeply on the implications. What would be the path he takes? Would he find a way to feed on countless others? Or would he secure a discreet way. This brought him an odd, sadistic joy to think of, one he never would have felt before.
"No, that would make me a savage, I am above that. I am above them all."
His thoughts entered his mind more forcefully now. He realized...
Sav'ilar was alone, cold, and knew what was coming, he consumed that animals blood but three days ago, he just, never expected it to come so soon, so violently, he felt the cravings and realized if he didn't go somewhere safe, with someone safe, it would all be over. He would have done this all for nothing, he would be imperfect again. Just another man to cast aside, another animal to the slaughter.
He found an old friend... One he knew had seen this before, he found her, Ana, He knew he had no choice but to at least for a moment, see her as something else. A meal. He asked her for medical help, saying he felt ill, she took him to his home, and he was unsure if she knew or not, but, he knew one thing, it was close. He began shivering...
The biting cold felt so warm.
As the ship began to move itself towards a port, his arms remained over his chest. A part of him wanted to repent. It was a wonderful embrace to some inner nature that wanted him to deny the sinful brick of the city, but part of him also wanted him to stay in Regalia... Yet not enough told him he should remain.
He recalled the point where Einherjar threw himself into the port, (@bahmGe ) where he finally seemed to feel free, as opposed to fill himself into cement that was cracking himself into a new ideal that did not truly fit his head. He wished he wouldn't feel so free in such a way yet at the same token, the biting cold was a warming feeling and had none of the weak ideals of the Ailor.
As the board...
The once clear air of the district of Altalaan is polluted with the thick gray miasma which curled around the heels and gown of an impostor. Cold, it rolled over the pavement behind the entity's step like an encroaching natural disaster.
Aredeth stood within his home, snipping off the bandages which shielded a bruised jaw. He beams artificially into the mirror of his bedroom, if only to turn his head and exhibit the wiring upon his teeth which kept them firmly clenched together. All in the name of recovery.
Through the rolling wind, the imposter makes its entrance, bypassing its front door entirely. Its voice rung strongly to be heard in fine Modern Altalar; Aredeth heard his own voice, “We ought to be home this hour!”
Brought in...
~~~~~~~~~
Amongst the deafening rain, whimpering breaths and faint wheezes of agony could be heard from the center of the room. The agonizing sounds leaking from the Nelfin and slithering from her bed, corrupting the pleasant atmosphere of the home that Aiyana tried so hard to create. Her small home was almost completely covered in different types of grass, flowers, vines, and leaves. They thrived within her household, craving the company of their Nelfin and the purity that rolled off of her in waves. Their Nelfin was now in a fetal position in the middle of her bed that was woven from more vines and flowers. The same vines and blossoms whispered amongst each other and into her ears in an attempt to console her.
Aiyana’s...
"THE LONG ROAD ENDS"
Hacking sounded from the Reverend’s bedchambers in the Palatial Estate of Milais, Aelfric cloistered to those secluded confines, the ailing octogenarian away from the eyes of others as per his choosing. His boney hand, that of his right side, gripped at his pained chest as heaving coughs escaped from betwixt his lips and unto his left hand, it’s palm occupied by a handkerchief. To that cloth he stared, it’s surface stained not only with the mucus which so oft came to pass but too, blood entrapped in it’s clear confines. As if words were written by each sputtering cough, that blood spelled death and to this, Aelfric was overcome by a solemn joy.
Weeks had passed since that first mark of blood speckled those...
Within the Throng of the Highlands a Ailor rushes before a congregation of url and Ailor praying in unity. The local unionists having come to join a morning of celebration quickly going silent as the news is read...The High Reverend has died.
A Url sits between his children surrounded by the masked followers of Delu, the Ainman, Splechdman, the Seinnma, the Dìonma, and the Eìstma. Their revelry turned to total silence as the news of the events was read out. James Larkson ross before his congreagation.
"A light upon the world has gone dim, the High Reverend was a unionist yes but one of the most Honorable I have ever meet. His death shall send ripples across Aloria even if he is not one of us. I shall record his name myself and...
Soft Soil to Hardened Stone
A ship sailed along the waters away from the Kingdom of Regalia. Silent, dreary, the crew seemingly lifeless zombies mulling around the deck performing their errands dutifully but lethargic. The crew unknowingly suffering in their own eerie silence and mulling in their own dullness all because of the absence of a young Elven woman.
Flashes of greens, pinks, and yellows reflect off of the wide, curious green eyes of a grinning Elf that is currently pressed against the window of a carriage, trying to absorb the new world around her in bulk. Colors that were similar but oh so different from the hues originating from her homeland. On the other side of the carriage, her anxious familiar sat. Keen eyes...
I never like how faucets sound when you close them. It's very annoying to hear but luckily the one I get to close doesn’t make a sound. The faucet is a shiny steel color and the sink itself is quite white and looks brand new. Shaking my hands to dry over the sink before patting them on my pants to dry off the lasting water. It felt good to clean off and get that layer of dirt off your hands, and thankfully these apartments had hot water unlike some of the places we’ve been to today. From behind me I can hear Altan’s lighter snap and click back to close. Looking up in the mirror I can see him lounging on a brown couch with a red waffle pattern. The room has a light blue paint on it’s wall with plenty of rugs and paintings on the walls...
“You can’t decide which side remains, Triss. You love people along with their flaws, not in spite of them.”
Those words... How true were they? Life presents you with the best and the worst of someone, a side so loveable and a side one can only hate. How can you not decide?
And- why else would two exist? Months of trying to save him... Months of begging him to get help. Months of trying - and failing - to mold him into a shape he simply would not fit into.
Now, all of a sudden, the side I prayed every night existed comes to life. Shows me what I had hoped for wasn’t all in vain. Surely that had to be a sign, no?
Was it a selfish desire? Maybe? But... It’s for the greater good of all, too. And, maybe.. even the best for himself. After...
“The Lord? He’s gone North to visit family. He’ll return soon.” Ardige Viduggla offered a warm smile as he said such to a passing guest amidst warm halls and a late Wintertide ball. The absence was dismissed and the party carried on..
The cool sea breeze sprayed in the face of Garth, who was found situated on the railing of the small vessel. It had been days of sailing so far, the ship moving across the long stretching coast of western Drixagh now situated in the waters of House Viduggla as it moved northeast. It was late January of 309 AC, and the crew hoped to land in the Vidugglan home province by the beginning of the coming month. Ardige was right on one thing: He had gone North to visit family. But he was wrong on...
A clearing of the throat, and due to usage of a spell, the charcoal slowly levitated -- Shaky hands sprawling out, and cerulean orbs admired a ring on their finger. Rain pelted the window, yet everything was quiet, too quiet, though the parchment was ready, and...
"… Right, is-- Is this fucking thing on? Oh-- Okay, it is…"
A surprised trailing off as the charcoal piece began to write, and a clearing of their throat once more, a shaky breath leaving them as the Altalar slowly embraced themselves, before they'd speak, a strained voice devoid of anything but grief.
"To Ayas,"
It began writing.
"I hate the fact I can’t write to you anymore. At least --" A strained intake of breath. "You won’t be able to read them. This is my last...
The day was as sunny as ever with summer around the corner, there was barely a cloud in the sky. Elena was doing her usual shopping, she was wearing her summer dress as she overlooked a batch of fresh strawberries, when a man, rocking a similar platinum blonde hair just like herself.
"Are you an 'Elena Aduro' i have been searching for?"
As Elena turned to the strangers voice, looking at the stranger with a confused look as she readjusted her glasses.
"Y-yeah? Do i know you?" She asked like she didn't already have an idea."
The tall and rather thin male lifted his hand to brush through his hair, he looked down at her with eyes covered by a thin pair of glasses.
"I guess i have a lot to explain, but you are definitely the right...
It was a place he always found himself in, when he dreamt. Cool sheets and idle winds giving way to still air and rough ground underfoot was nothing new to him, by now.
Some details changed, and others remained constant. Sometimes he would be on a darkened stony shoreline, mountains looming like gods in the background. Other times it would be a ground of sleek black glass, with stormy clouds far above him. Sometimes it would be a cave. Invariably, silence reigned, and water would snake beneath his feet, or linger in the distance.
This time it pooled beneath his boots, holding him to the earth like chains as he gained his bearings with a turn of the head. To describe the place he found himself in as a simple cavern would have demeaned...
A heavy breath huffed from the Asha's snout as his thin, soft furred arms brought up the belt-shot and fired.
Ping
The quicksilver ball launched forward but Atum didn’t watch it strike. Ducking down, his pawed feet shifted him to the right as, sheltered behind a stone wall, his tail swatted the next belt shot down from the wall. It fell into soft paws that worn by exhaustion remained steady as the grave. The next step was instinctive ramming another ball of quicksilver down the barrel, priming the purestone base, and in one quick rise firing into his target.
Down, move, load, rise and fire
Down, move, load, rise and fire
Down, move, load, rise and fire
Down, move, load, rise and fire
The lew clade asha grit his sharp canine-like...
The Auld-Kin looked out into the district living and breathing outside his second story window, the culmination of so many stories and memories gracefully walking by every now and again. Yet, his focus was on alone the thoughts that had plagued him as of late. He shut his eyes tight, clasping his calloused hands onto the pendant of Estel that was attached to a simple wooden necklace. "Glory Almighty, Glory Estel. Glory Almighty, Glory Estel. Glory-." He paused in his prayer, opening his eyes. Something did not feel right anymore. There was something off with his prayers as of late, something that felt as if a hole was ever precariously there - waiting to plunge him into the deep.
Bel-Gyarbrin retreated from the window, heading to a...
Spirit, how many are my foes?
How many more men, more women, must I cut?
How many more must I deliver before my trial is over?
A personalised verse of the Holy Faith.
Remembrance of tumultuous terrors transpiring in his wake oft called for guidance from a higher power. Mayhaps the Spirit was simply absent from the walds of Opper Calemberg. Such would have certainly explained why an affront to Ailorkind was deemed necessary. Why, though praise was given from higher rank, many of its perpetrators left the order. Why many more under the regiment never woke after.
Screams, shouts, shrieks echoed about the village. One’s home village. Figures clad in dirt-hampered cloaks and tricorne hats closed in from alley to square. Families of...
“Dear Deldrax,”
It was burnt. Again, the leaky, slum home had managed to fill with gray plumes of smoke. Forcing Fen’nan to throw open her windows, watching the result of her cooking float towards the twinkling stars, and vanish. Lips upturned in some silent amusement on what her Brood partner would remark.
“Next week will mark the third month since you left,”
Swiping the crimson hair from her face, it was only when the smoke had cleared, did she look down at the plated charred fish. That she had set two plates instead of one. The home barren and silent around her, slowly her smile faded.
“I left Regalia for a little while too actually. Recently I could return.”
Fen’nan took the second plate, leaning over the kitchen counter to...
“Two little dragons, fly in the sky, one of the rain and one of the sky—”
—The small silk bundled child let out a cry.
“Oh Dragons.. Did I not sing that right? Do you not like the song little one?”
The baby sniffled. Novellia’s lips pouted, but soon returned to that sun-like performer’s glee. She tried to sing again amidst a bedroom sheltering the pair.
“Two little dragons fly in the sky, one of the rain and one of the sky.”
“Go away, dragon of the ra—”
—The piercing scream stopped any incoming lines. The young mother carried her child close, giving a gentle sway of her arms to lull her back into the tranquil realm of restfulness.
Once calmed once more, she gently caressed her infant daughter’s cheek.
“Cat, you do not like that...
(♩♫)
(ambience for sailing in a storm)
-⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽⛵︎⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻--⎽__⎽-⎻⎺⎺⎻-⎽__⎽--⎻⎺⎺⎻-
The eerie creaking and buckling of the hull wouldn't cease as violent waves crash against it from bow to port. A storm blew up north from Hadarian waters and made itself well known to the warden aboard his vessel. What was supposed to be a trip to clear his mind after recent events on warm waters became a fight to keep from capsizing past midnight.
Heavy crashes of salt and brine soaked waters splashed aboard one after another till the snapping of rope sent kegs of supplies tumbling off the starboard side. Coren, in a hopeless effort reeled in, one tight grip upon some rigging of the main mast as it...
Triss sat on the steps of her parent’s home in Talant, head resting against the wall beside her. The crisp scent of the ocean wafted around her. The ocean’s waves were calm. Soothing. She could see her yacht floating gently at the docks a bit in the distance. The sun was getting ready to set, its light dancing across the waters.
She had missed being home. Friends from the navy greeted her readily, bombarding her with questions about Regalia. Her parents did much the same while also inquiring about the ring on her finger. Letters could only do it so much justice. All in all, it was a pleasant visit. The Allorn Empire had not changed… too much about Algassai, and that was a relief to Triss.
Footsteps approached from the path up the...
Introduction: The Solisti submission for @Annie_Short 's Imperial Court Prestige Event was the synopsis of a Dressolini opera, earning the prestige of winning honorable mention in the Emperor's evaluation. The story is presented in three acts, telling of the turbulent life of politician Giove Tiano. It’s a tale of enduring tragedy while staying true to one’s principles, and learning to rely on your allies and religion to prevail in the end. You can likely identify many or all of the characters through clues on the Solisti family and knowledge of old events. If you would like confirmation on solving the identity of characters or events portrayed within, feel free to inquire in-character. Without further ado - enjoy!
Perso e Trovato...
There was so much more that I wanted to do...
The Songaski woman sat in her chair. She looked around before muttering to herself.
"This may be the very last day that I return to this place. Or the very last day that I will be alive. Whatever's going to happen to me, I will accept it."
Juane wasn't afraid of death. She has never been. As she let out a sigh and stood up. Then, she moved out of her office and closed the door.
--
In her cell, the Songaski waited for the Lord Commander.
Dear Shambala, what must he think of this? A member of the Violet Order, a medic at that, wanted for conspiring and rebelling against the state. For a mere opinion that was poorly worded and had no ill intent.
Sadly, the Lord Commander didn't...
Following Lord Etienne Dubois's public statement to the Knightly Orders, the remaining rounds of the Cycle of Growth Tournament were hosted throughout the week. While festival goers from the capital investigated the sleepy Burdigala town for the source of Saturday's sudden end of the dueling, it would not distract some of the remaining knights from going to the tournament field early in the mornings with the Dubois Lord, to complete the final qualifier rounds before the real tournament began.
While the crowds were notably smaller than they were on the scheduled date, vendors still found an opportunity to peddle their wares to those that did show up. Perhaps due to the reality of a Reinard in the Chancellery, or perhaps the...