Days had passed Silver had finally met his parents, he took time to do some shopping for those back in Regalia and spent time relaxing and getting to know his family once more. He was happy again, something he hadn’t truly had for a very long time. All the worries in his life had gone and, he was just free to be himself, be vulnerable, be emotional for around the first time in near a century.
As the moon fell and the sun rose each day it was getting close to the Warden’s needed departure. With the ship, he took gone he would have to take an alternate way to get back to Regalia with post-haste if he wanted to make it home on time. The only way to do that was to fly, and there was only one way to do that in Ellador. The Wyverns.
By this...
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Within the twilight sky, the moon shone its pearlescent light down upon the kneeling Isldar with his hands resting on the pommel of the blade he had driven into the cold earth beneath him. From his stance, the man slowly rose to a stand, eyes lingering on the crystalline tombstone for a few moments but for him, it felt like hours. Silver turned hesitantly, casting his gaze back over his shoulder to take one more glance at the resting site of his brother before trudging off toward the rest of Ellador. The wind around him picking up and throwing snow upon him fully masking his form as he disappeared.
Silver is next seen walking the trails of Ellador, meandering slowly through the frost-covered streets. His eyes wandered over the scenery...
Blood splattered the walls of this lost and dark alleyway in the middle of nowhere, and the Ash Knight slowly stepped back from their victim, someone who had been a simple drunkard a few minutes ago. But now? Now it wasn't a drunkard. Now he wasn't someone. It was something, just like the Knight himself. The armored man-thing could only wonder, would it rise as well? Maybe a Unionist Deity would pity it, and bring it back to life...
"Wouldn't that be fun?" The Knight mused to himself. They could get a companion, who could understand how they felt, and they could be called...the Drunk Knight. It wasn't funny though. Nothing seemed really funny anymore, aside from killing, and the act of that on itself wasn't funny, was it? It was more...
|| Another day for Silver was around, the cold airs of Ellador whipping against his skin as he patrolled the outer edge of his homeland with his youngest brother beside him. The scene was from an outside perspective, not from the eyes of Silver himself and as it would seem he was younger. Happier. His eyes are not blessed by the Dragons and his calm features holding a small grin upon it as the two Frost Watchers thread their path carefully. Time passed and soon the Isldars found themselves assailed by foreign threats that wished to attack Ellador and its people. The two of them quickly bared arms and started to defend themselves against the threat. Much blood was spilled on both sides and the Isldars were winning before the recoiling...
Within the sky dotted clouds barely visible through the glimpses of moonlight that illuminated the earth beneath at the late hour. Frigid winds blew through Regalia picking up snow and throwing it around and at any passing night owl that tread the streets of the Holy City. One such man was an Isldar Dragon Warden, Silver Swyftfurusat, dressed in long-sleeved clothing with a cloak billowing out behind him as he proceeds through the snow leaving trails in his wake. Within his grasp, he held a large bag a sack over his shoulder for the supplies he had pack himself for the journey he was about to venture forth upon.
He navigated through the freezing weather with little to no care of the winds blowing relentlessly against his snow-like...
Serene snow fell on the cobbles of the Regalian street that was soundless, save the crunching of fur boots upon it. The wearer of the boots was a young Qadir, no more than twenty-five, who shivered as she briskly walked the dim and lonely path, presumably to her residence to find sanctuary and sleep after a longer shift than normal. The hollow breeze sent a deadly quiver throughout the woman’s body, the type of tremble that one wouldn’t shake for the rest of the night. She seemed a little paranoid, peeking now and then over her shoulder, and around empty corners. The worn, cold and tired Qadir muttered a curse to herself, as she found herself a little turned around she’d decided to cut through the outskirts of Hangroad, an Ill-lit and...
"Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war!”
Humaira Reinard – 15 November, 308 AC
The walls were the same thick grey stone as the dwellings of the region, but instead of the pure white snow that signalled a ‘joyful’ Wintertide incoming, there were mean barred openings with thick metal bars, no glass to show freedom to the outside. How expected of a prison. In the frigid cold that had already made its descent into Regalia’s season, it let in a wicked draft and reduced the temperature to near freezing. It was no brighter inside than the gathering gloam of dusk, even at midday. The beddings were planks of wood on legs, there were no mattresses, no cushioning and only one thin blanket on each bedding. It was either suffocating-ly...
The hunt was always better on an empty stomach, and so dinner had been left in the kitchen that night, though perhaps the anticipation of this supposed 'experiment' might as well have stolen Quin's apatite. The trip to Hostess had been, as it always had been, uneventful. Past the slummier parts of town with their loud and vibrant bustle into the late hours of the night, the drunkards by the three horseshoe tavern on the way to the Imperial Stables, and beyond to the Three Sisters Waterfalls, roaring the molten snow water from Mount Agatha down to the Imperial River that ran through the capital. No armor or tools were needed, or so he thought, and so Quin went with as minimal as hunting gear as possible. After all, this was supposed to...
The daggers sank into Tomas, his body crashing against the deck. As four men charged into his ship cabin.
The first pierced his back with a dagger, “For Alexander, my comrade in arms whom your creations butchered and for his body which you desecrated with your heretical practice,” dictated the man his voice awash in frigid judgement.
The second rammed a knife through his chest, “For Lilly O’ Valley, my daughter whose ascension and whose Body you desecrated!” cried the second man.
He stabbed the Qadir over and over the blade punctuating each word of heart broken fury. Only stopping as the third man held him back. Allowing Tomás to cumple to the floor the last flames of tortured life still glowing in his pilot light eyes. Handing the...
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A malya tel-ámintaal¹,
I pray that you are well. Of course, it is the truth that I do not know how well you are, for it is unlikely that we have crossed paths before. Or indeed, that if we did, that it was for a length of time greater than for a few passing moments. The circumstances which have kept us from being previously acquainted may however be put aside, because it is those same circumstances which through their progression now bring us together, or possibly so, should you and others wish it as much as I do. Certainly my desire is profound. You might think this a curiosity, because it is not often that one feels strongly about a matter they have...
(Courtesy of @Deusphage, a Lore-Story stemming from IC events.)
Credit to @Bellarmina, @ZiggyStarDusted, @Yurs, @Katiesc, @SorryNari, @Mad_Gadfly, @Wumpatron, @AtticCat, @Deusphage, @_GoldWolf_, @canaaa, @Sozzer and @MippyMoo for some of the little rhetoric Easter-Eggs dropped in. If you read through 'em, there'll be a few unique lines that you'd be able to recognize. These are mostly just references to IC events.
DM me if you want the full reasoning behind the story, but some details will remain a Find Out IC.
≫┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈| ☩ |┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈≪
Tendrils. Tendrils, warping around the poor soldier who had found himself prey to something much greater than he- something unknown and unknowable. A motiveless crime, a motiveless stunt and a...
The ramshackle cart jerked to a sudden halt. It was beautiful yes, but undoubtedly antiquated. Something that spoke of old wealth: the sort of thing that looked like it might have been expensive several decades ago before the curtains faded, the varnish peeled and the structural frame was left to rot underneath the unforgiving elements. Now, it was shabby, broken and wobbled on an uneven wheel.
There was a glint from somewhere within the grimy windows as the curtain was yanked to the side, and a bitter face stared out.
Mr Herman scowled out at Regalia through his small dark spectacles, or perhaps he didn't scowl at all, and that dismal expression was just the man's face- after all it was the sort of thing that was hard to discern from...
|| Music ||
“I have a black mirror. It Never shows my reflection, but it still blinks back at me.”
A dark bedroom, illuminated only by candles and a dying fire. Two figures resided within, conversing back and forth with each other.
“A feeling akin to that of a flower trapped in constant winter.. A prayer to call forth spring in order to free their petals is met with deafened ears. How does a flower feel when it is wilting? When it is dying?” The softened voice spoke as it’s delicate hands embraced the bushel of flowers that rested within a vase. Their fingers tracing against a single unbloomed bud, it’s petals brittle to the touch for the flowers were long dead.. It kept them there.. For they held a memory, one that they were not...
In Gallovia, when the summer dies, there is held a feast. A feast of food, and family, and friendship, where boys become men and girls become women, where the first leaves that fall are made into a crown. In Gallovia, when the summer dies, the little towns of Ambreich and Willaeden hold a feast, where the first leaves that fall are made into a crown, and boys become men, whether they want to or not.
~~~
“Why are you whisperin’?”
“Shut up. Look. It’s startin’.”
“I canny see.”
“Heh. Shortie. Ow.”
“Don’t call me short.”
“Ye are. And shut up, it’s startin’.”
“Wha-”
“Shhh.”
~~~
This love, it is a distant star… guiding us home, wherever we are.
~~~
“What’s your name, anyways?”
“Ceciladen. Cecil. What’s yours?”
“Joridh.”...
OOC note: First things first, sorry if this took a very long time to come out, I was experiencing major writers block and kind of forgot about this project. Second thing, this is the last installment of the Priceless Items series. Third thing, the music I used for this story are from the Nintendo Famicom version of Castlevania 3: Dracula's Curse. Last thing, there is some violence in this. Anyway, without any delay and any ado what-so-ever, here's the story you may have been waiting for.
Music
Priceless Items: The Whip
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Previously, in Priceless Items…
"It took you long enough."
"I ran into some trouble."
"So, where's the money?"
"I got it right here." Connak would say with a slight smirk as he reached...
A little bit of ambiance music to listen to while reading.
In the deepest pits of one's mind they tend to find a darkness, a voice that will call to them when they are completely and utterly alone.
It was so clear, yet so empty. A vast black emptiness that seemed to go on until the end of times. The only thing to be met there, was a small fragment. It glowed with a purple hue, twisted and wrapped in brambles and thorns. And in this vast emptiness of nothing it called out, called out to those who were abandoned.
Na'vos felt himself drift through this nothingness, though without a body, without any sense of self. He felt compelled to follow the call, to hear what it had to say. And so he did. The fragment spoke of the All-Mother and...
Upon travelling North with her husband to visit her parents at their family fiber mill, Sivrid Kensley fell very sick. The illness was unexpected, and incapacitating. For days she was locked into fever dreams, confined to a bedroll, and cared for by her loved ones. On the final day, as her body fought for life, she experienced this dream.
For an endless day and night, with no sun and no moon, Sivrid found herself wading through a shallow bog. There were no trees, and no creatures. No sky, and no clouds. Only a grey fog, reflected in grey water. The cold feeling of Alu's fingertips trailed across her ankles as she walked, never quite grabbing hold, but slowing her steps. When finally, for the first time since entering the mist, she saw...
In the cold evening light, her arms outstretched like a child as harsh reality kissed her cheek: this is where she recognized her qualm. Every mistake was written on her face, pressed in by a hard heavy truth with lips that fall apart in a delicate, yet sharp, work of art. Her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth, words surpassing verbal expression at the threshold, now only able to whirl around her mind. Such dangerous storms are a thing to be careful and cautious around. One wrong move and your whole temple could come crumbling down. As the crumbling continued, such words riddled with maladies rang in her ears, only causing an internal conflicting battle to ensue further than it had been for the past three centuries.
“I am not a...
Ailwin knelt at the altar, a mosaic of a young blue-clad woman above him. He tried to focus, but to no avail, So much had happened, after that one night out... Was he lucky that he wasn't caught in the fire with the rest of them, or unlucky that he had to live without them? All these thoughts coursed through his head, and he grit his teeth. "Damn Ulley, damn Vallea, damn all of them." He never thought an Altalar like him would be right in the middle of an Old Gods temple, yet here he was. The Pantheon had forsaken his family, so why not him? It was better to start fresh, with another group. But he just couldn't focus. The same three images kept appearing in his mind's eye: fire, smoke, ashes. "Ughhh... What's wrong with me...
The Speech
The whiskey flowed quick and the Mead went down strong as Sons of the Gallovian Highlands battled the Daughter and Sons of the North in drinking contest after drinking contest, wild story after wild story, sober then drunk song after song. It was a celebration unseen in centuries, as ancestral rivals and old enemies buried Familial hatreds in common contest and a jovial comradery all because of one order. A summons from an old Comrade, who now sat at the head of the Great Lodge’s table.
A towering, 6.9ft Url whose tattooed form and Oorl Gifted muscles were outlined in the Leather clothes beneath his silver and Grey Kiltach, its dual parts clamped together with a Wolf’s head made of Silver. The Url kept an easy smile...
· · ─────── ·· ─────── · ·
The soft blue blanket enveloped Cerulean in a comforting warmth, one he hadn’t felt for quite a while and one he wasn’t quick or eager to move from. But as the moon rose higher in the sky, illuminating parts of the shared room he felt more restless, his body itching to move around despite how tired his eyes felt. He watched the soft light creep along the floor and walls, eventually landing on the face of the young woman in the bed across from him.
His gaze lingered on her, taking in her soft features with a quiet admiration. Wren was one of the prettiest people Ceru had ever met, and what made it better was that she was pretty not just on the outside, but the inside too. She was so kind to him, so helpful...
OOC: This Lore Story contains adult themes such as Depression, Rage, and mild graphic scenes of violence. If you are not able to handle this (or feeling squeamish), please click away. You have been warned.
~-(+)-~
"I have long since felt the pain. Now, I make it known."
Beluar had returned to the Sewers, but oddly not with the intent of finding out about what had happened with the Withered Roses-no, he wasn't an idiot and he played the part he was given. It had hurt his physical body to keep up the act, but at least it was easy enough for him to set the stage of a dramatic downfall from grace. He hated showing the man behind the masks to anyone that he may attempt to get close to but little did Alethia or anyone in the Withered Roses-or...
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Lightning and thunder danced throughout the skies. Tornados of leaves passed through the streets. A storm was at the peak of it's rage, marking the arrival of a demon, and the rebirth of another.
There was something euphoric about bathing in the blood of a fresh kill. Still warm, and pulsing with vitality. Kabili lay in the bath he drew for himself, the Bloody Bear’s corpse not far from it, the only illumination to stave off the darkness were three candles.
“I did it…” he muttered, “I did it for you, Abbagellon.”
Bubbles touched the surface of the ichor bath.
“I offer Vhoor’ahk’s body and blood, as a tribute, to you.”
Wind howled from the outside.
“I followed all the...
27/08/308 up north of Regalia
The restless wind blows across the sky as the sun began to fade into the darkness that will consume the town, just the right time for nocturnal animals to come out and play with each other. The sound of wolves howling at the skies as they chase a group of deers galloping away from them, one by one they began to catch their prey and leaving them defenseless, a hunter with a sword watches from a far through the bushes examining the wolves cooperating with each other to take down their prey.
"Guess they had their meal for the day"
The hunter simply commented on the situation ahead before letting out a soft sigh, panning over towards the setting sun and letting his gaze meet the yellow light, another sigh...
♩ ♪ ♫ ♬
From before their time and far beyond their scope - it was a relic, well over half a century old. What secrets did it hold? What horrors had it seen? What had been folded away within its crisp, wax sealed edges? Natalia asked themself this, taking a midnight stroll through Hangroad Square. They ran a finger down the ivory handle of the fan, carefully unfolding it into a crescent with an audible thwack. They saw the moonlight reflected in its deep nearly black navy blue silken sky. Embroidered with silver and pearls were the many constellations of the night - small, precious stars all at their fingertips.
Yet, there was more to this object than its beauty. It was this very fan that had sentenced their great uncle to death...
♪
There is wind and there is nothing. Birdsong which drifts away as darkness comes wild and unruly. The heat of stars; torches in the black sky.
The last night, she lost her breath in three parts. The rise of one, the lingering in her chest, and the steady exhale from her nose. There was no struggle, no gasps, or suffocating. Just peace. Her fingers locked in mine. She was never the strongest. And no matter how firmly I held her hand and hoped to tether her life to this world of the living, she could not hang on anymore. She left in peace long before she was ever meant to.
There is candlelight and warmth and perspiration on the skin. Finding the crevices and burrowing deep. Finding the blood and the veins and lingering there.
I...
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And then she told herself, “Stop being so weak. Grow up and get over it.” And then she never felt anything again.
The letter preceded a storm, both literal and metaphorical. The rain poured down upon the Kaeppler family estate as she sat within a large armchair before the fireplace. There were no more tears to be shed as her fingers curled tighter around the thin parchment paper. Inhaling a sharp breath, she pushed herself upwards; the room swam and spun around her as she swayed. Attempting to gather herself and what little strength that remained within her...
[The History of Langthal’s Chosen]
Composed by
Madam Sofia Kreiburg.
In the beginning, Diepold brought us into the light; he rooted us in Allenberg, west of Zahlenzweitel and slapped in the centre of Langthal. The name Kreiburg, as my studies indicate, comes from the two words ‘Krei’ meaning Circle and ‘Burg’ meaning castle. This is noted to have been a nod to the now ruined castle of Allenberg, a large circular structure with various fallen towers to the West. Our home was grand, even if it was but a small, humble town. To the North were the mines, hosting the riches that rose our family to power and to the East our pastures; standing even now. Our earliest history was the herds we tended on the hills of Allenberg, Diepold was known...
An Altalar's Morning Constitutional
For as long as Cieli could remember, her mornings had almost always started the same way. The only exception had started with the sound of feet on her roof at an unholy hour, and led to her stumbling to Greygate in her pajamas with mismatched boots on her feet. Some arcane fiends had decided that the crack of dawn was the best time to duke out a duel, and they decided to pull in the Url and a dragon to boot. So of course, the guard was needed to try to put a stop to that nonsense. Joy. Of course, at the time, it was downright terrifying to the Altalar, but now she looked at it with a sense of ambivalence. At least she had gotten out of it relatively unscathed.
Other than that one exception...
It was a quiet evening in the streets of Regalia. The normal chitter chatter at the Old Town checkpoint, an occasional runaway criminal here or there. But it wasn't for Natalie. She was on high alert, terrified of peeking around any corner.
Terrified of her Mother.
She never wanted it to come to this, having to stop her cookie and flower sales, lock herself up in her room and not leave until her Aunt knew it was safe. But one night, Natalie decided to take a stupid risk. She went out, just to go down to the Wunderbar, down the street, to get some tea. She was fifteen, after all.
On the stroll to the Wunderbar, Natalie had zoned out of her typical 'awareness' she kept for the past few days. Passing through New Town with ease, she felt...
The nights cool winds flew past her cheeks, her legs flying under her as her boots slammed against the hard streets of Regalia, the few nighttime travelers nearly barreled over. For too long had she been threatened by fear. Too long was she scared of one man and one man alone. No more. There was only one thought in her head, replaying over and over in her head.
She had to find Milo.
Milo.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Joy
There was a redhead shrieking in the Nestled Nook Inn, and for once, to Fen'nan's amusement, it wasn't her. She watched the Ailor redhead reel her hand back, throwing another piece of stale bread for whomever took cover behind the other end of the couch. She glimpsed a head of dark brown hair.
"Murderer! He's a killer!" the...
⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙
⋘ ──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ──── ⋙
The streets were filled with the usual citizens, traveling merchants, and patrolling guards. They kept to what they were doing, paying not much mind to anything other than their own business. One could practically say the same thing for a particular Estalar Brood, roaming the streets of Old Town, a crimson red scarf pulled up to cover the lower half of his face. Those around him paid him no mind, save for a few glances of suspicion, but the Brood kept to himself as he walked along, hands kept to his side.
He had no real set destination. He simply just followed along where the gentle breeze of today pushed him, his half-blind gaze only focused ahead of him, occasionally looking around for...
As the Url sat before the ever burning flame of the Fire Union, amidst the fading ruin of the Fire Union Temple. He touched a hand to the dark black tattoo on his right shoulder, it hurt him to remember but this time he would not shrink back from his sin. His eyes closed and his body seemed to almost burn as he began to remember...
His eyes opened to a world grayed by memory, once more he was back in the cottage awaking in the rickety wooden bed with fur sheets and a smiling women by his side. She was like a dream, her light smile and welcoming eyes reminding him to see the beauty in things. He felt weak, his memories heightening to remind him of what he'd truly felt when he saw her face...gratitude but not much more. He remembered...
Calder had suffered a lot of damage-so much he thought he would die, but that wasn't what it was. Death would not come for the last surviving male heir to the Myrslin Clan just yet as there were other key factors at play.
For there was more to his story that was lead to be believed.
His father perished before he was born, but there was something more to the last surviving male Myrslin than what met the eye. Calder was born to a mother of non-Katharic origins and his father was a full-blood Kathar, but the genes of a Cannibal are not easily extinguished. Not when Fate and the Void have not yet called him to eternal rest.
Blood seeped from his wounds, but he did not die. A doctor healed his wounds, but he thought the darkness called to...
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Tiray hummed and whispered to no one in particular as she worked on closing her shop. It was a standard procedure- there was a pattern to it, she handled closing time at the Diviner’s Deck the same way every day with very little of a break in the pattern. She liked it like this. It was a sense of familiarity that calmed her down in the face of how unpredictable living in Regalia could be. She almost never got customers at the actual shop anyways- she usually had to transport her goods to the stall in the market hall and make sales there because almost nobody ever ventured all the...
She watched the ink dry.
The morning linens were washed and sorted, the breakfast made, eaten, and cleaned up. There was even time to polish the silver candelabra, scrub the foyer's floors, and tackle that behemoth of a task: the office. Her husband insist it to be his office, but as far as she could tell, an office of his was merely a space to enjoy a night's wine. The smell of the dust and aged walls could only be stomached for so long, hence why her husband only ever seemed to be in there long enough to make a mess. If it were not to be his office, then it must be hers.
She coughed on the dust. She wasn't done with the office--really, she was not even a third way through the labor. Thinking of her husband just then made her focus...
The old Arak orc stood in his home in the bustling Regalian Polorc, the trade of goods usually partake during this time, but the winds had been unfavorable, the streets were mostly quiet. That was if you ignore the Arak children playing with eachother and the Nothera in the back alley beating some poor Helocanc mercilessly. Nonetheless, it was a quiet day… unusually quiet for the old Arak. For once in forty-six years of repeatedly doing the same thing over and over again without complaint, he grew relaxed.
During the old man’s time, there were always strong competitors in his field, that being blacksmithing. Other Arak companies are trying to win the Kontōn Polorc’s cash cow, or Regalian smiths trying to beat him at his own game in...
“The surgical procedure where one’s ears are clipped in the shape of an ailors.”
[Accompaniment]
________-✧ ☼ ✧-________
The City of Mayonne, Northern Vixhall 294ac
____________
It was a dimly lit sky over the illustrious Mayonne, the clouds greying as an impending shower awaited the Burdigalan city. A fierce stricken mother wearing conservative attire and tightly pinned back brunette curls, tugged a small pointed ear child by the wrist huffing and swearing vulgarness under her breath.
“I will not have a child with ears like those, I refuse. They’re growing out the more you age, I put up with the slander and comments all these years but now you’re old enough, they’re being cut off! Imperialised!” She hissed at her screeching...
Of verdurous grass and distinct aroma of fetid earth, two figures encroached upon the thicket of the Regalian woodlands. They paused in eventuality; with the sound of their footfalls becoming silent, all that could be heard was the soft susurration of leaves in the gusty wind. Not a chirp of a jovial bird, nor the squeaks of small critter could be heard amidst these lonesome woods.
It was much of a curiousity between the two strangers; one clad in the metallic rustling of armour and soft fabrics of Tyrian purple — the other simply wearing tattered rags of cloth for pants and a swine's skull masking their face.
—— Crrk!
Whether purposeful or not, the latter stepped on forth into a clearing, scrunching up the twig under trodden hooves...
308 a.c in the small village of Cornuaille in northern Kintyr
I remember when the troops marched through, regular men and mercenaries together.
I remember the joy that went with them, as though they were off on a merry adventure.
I remember the commander, young Coen Hood, so full of life and vigor. Excited he was.
I remember when they made camp, they drank and told stories through the night.
I remember hosting Coen in my own home, I talked strategy with the mercenary captain.
I remember when they departed; the young women of the village throwing flowers in their path.
A few days passed, and I waited for word.
I remember their return.
Beaten, battered and broken.
I remember the smiles wiped clean.
The joy...