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...
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Ghost eyes followed ‘round the vacant room, the only sounds being that of the bustling spiders keeping the
extra film of grime off the ancient tomes, and Mirabella’s thoughts. Internal voices jabbed in the left ear, then the right, resulting in perpetual warfare between logic and sympathy, predestination and propitiousness, fortitude and pusillanimity, what might have been and what has been all points to one outcome, which is always our ultimate demise. Just as the sand made everything round, so will our bodies return to the ground from whence we first came. The day will come when you will cry for help, and will not receive an answer in return, and Mira knew this all too well.
Resounding shelves of long-forgotten words moaned and...
Mentions of [Blood] and [Death]
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Village of Vlissinghelm
Mid-July 308 AC.
“You owe me fifty regals, Andro.”
At the sudden voice, Andro Ruisch turned in his seat and allowed his flirtatious attention towards one particular young woman to be broken. He was met with the grinning face of his closest friend, the man slapping one palm down against the Ruisch’s table. As usual, he looked as if he had just crawled out of bed, his hair sticking up like a rooster and nothing neat about his attire. Whether his friend had just gotten up to something with a woman or in fact just woken up, Andro couldn’t be sure. Instead, he opted to consider the statement at hand as one of his blond brows rose curiously.
“And why in Aloria would I owe you...
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Inspired by, and a companion to, this progression.
All dialogue is in Alt-Regalisch, specifically the Calemberger dialect. All characters aside from the Typhonuses are NPCs for the sake of the story. Cowritten by @Epsilyon.
Any New Regalian characters involved with the military can contact me over DMs to have some sort of personal stake/relationship with the characters in this story for added oomph/arc building.
〚 ◈┇...
Theme
Through the hazardous waves a fleet of ships continued to glide through the waters with ease, carrying with them a prisoner, trade goods and even a few treasure chests.
The smell of salt and sweat continued to linger through the air. Aboard the ship there would be men at various stations, fixing the masts and mopping the floors. A single glance at the ship and one could tell that a mixture of blood and time had been put into ensuring the ship remained in pristine condition as it became obvious that owner had no desire to be looked down upon whilst his craft so gallantly sailed across the seas. All its crew seemed to be male except for one- a closer look would reveal the presence of a bounded elven lass who’s legs remained...
Old Habits:
The ship creaked in the waves of the Ustyeurt Straits. Athalon Elfessi sat in the captain’s office; a large map sat on his desk, being held down by an assortment of astronomy equipment and a half-empty bottle of rum with a set of shot glasses to the side. He let out a low sigh “In the outskirts of the Archipelago an Altalar serves an Ailor in a war that isn’t his own..” He poured himself a shot, setting the bottle down to watch the rum sway in the motion of the ship. He closed his eyes for a moment from the hypnotic sway of the spirit.
A rush of images flooded his mind. A young Altalar walked along the docks in the Suvial islands, playing with the lid of a barrel as if it were a shield. An older Suvial worked a tavern...
Featuring Kasamir Arcleht and Alzena Olsen
◆◆◆
"What did I do to deserve you, Kas?"
"Well, for one, you didn't tell me to piss off when I kept bugging you to spar."
"I'm glad I didn't. Plus, it was fun to kick your ass all the time. Always looked so sad when I won. It was kinda cute."
"Oh, 'all the time'? I won plenty of times, you just pack a wallop when you hit."
◆◆◆
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The ringing of steel resounded upon the walls of the training courtyard. The dark sky, just barely touched by the faintest orange splash of dawn, loomed overhead.
Metal clashed with metal, then the ringing ceased.
“As you can see, with but a well-timed feint, you need only move enough outside your opponent’s cut to offset it.” The instructor, clad in...
There was nothing, but the sound of rain
A man fell to his knees in front of 2 graves
*Lighting Struck*
A sob could be heard
A sob of sadness of desperation
The man would begin to talk to himself
"How did this happen, Why did this happen" He muttered
"How could they be taking away from me in a Blazing inferno" He yelled
The sob would continue
As the rain continued to pour
...................................................................................
Awake.
In the sanguine halflight, the cloying heat. Illumination cuts through only where it grows to a fever pitch, and the earth itself boils. Her own glow long since loured, something inexorably wrong seeping into the tone at the edges, a sickly corruption eating away at her body and mind, whispering the formless concept of its hatred into the edges of her psyche.
The ground rumbles and shifts, warping and writhing beneath her feet. How long has she been here?
Has she ever been anywhere else, or was it all a dream, some tormenting illusion of a place that never was, a life that never could have been, all to pain her for the amusement of the hating, hungry thing that surrounded her?
Step by step, one foot ahead of the other. No...
┏━━━━•❃°•°•°❃•━━━━┓
“I felt for the tormented whirlwinds, damned for their cardinal sins, committed when they let their passions rule their reason.” - Dante Aligieri.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The sounds of the soft rainfall pattering against cobbled roads was all the Saivale could force herself to hear. How many hours had it been? How many days had it been? She supposed it didn’t matter. Drip. Drip. Drip. A rhythmic thing, drilling at the forefront of her mind as the Kathar’s thoughts went rapid. How could she have been so foolish? Her emotions had guided what was left of her mind far too many times and now she sat in the reapings of her actions; Hungry, cold, and lonely all while sitting under some stone bridge as she watched the storm...
With a crack like thunder and a blow like lightning his horn was taken. The Url knelt blow after blow after blow hailing down shattering his bones one by one. Yet admist the storm the Url’s form merely emptied, no fear, no anger, no sorrow, no shame...
His body was a mere shell cracking more and more with every blow of the hammer, yet it couldn’t make a dent upon his will. His eyes opened within the familiar void of his mind where he would hide away during the curings, during the darker days of his past, during the moments when emptiness was better then emotion.
The Url stepped into the light,hearing the familiar (clink) (clink) (clink) of chains padding across the darkened stone of the emptiness. The Url turned to the sound...
theme
I awoke to the million caws of crows surrounding me. How did I get here? I thought to myself, as I counted my fingers and other extremities to make sure I was all there. I wasn't even sure where there was. All I could see was black, I couldn't even locate the bird cries.
My stomach gurgled from the stress and lack of food. When had I last eaten? Trying to push the memories of before my tumble into this pit was hard, and it seemed to only make the memories dart away like cockroaches underneath an upturned barrel.
While I was on my hands and feet I crawled out to where the edge of the pit was. Curiously enough, a little glass bottle appeared with a tag attached to it. The tag shimmered as I tried to read it, the word shifting and...
╔══════════════════════【♥】══════════════════════╗
╚══════════════════════【♥】══════════════════════╝
The summer breeze was a warm welcome in the mercenary keep. What was once a fighting pit had been set up to host several rows of chairs with deep cyan streamers stretching across the old crackling wall. Lining the walls were various foods and drinks for guests to take, the soft murmur of talking from those who were standing around or those who had chosen to take a seat.
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To Ilmadia there was no need for a fancy white dress, no long flowing gown to show off her supposed innocence, her tainted gray skin would surely prove that to be false from the start. Staring in front of the mirror, she gave a sigh as...
Chapter 1
___The rocks within his hands fell, sliding from his forlorn grasp.
. . .
___The rhythmic ticking of gears and cogs turning filled the otherwise silent room.
. . .
___The waters coursing through the canals of the sewer moved steady; an unbroken path. Voices of malice had reached his fallen body, yet were muffled by the pained thoughts within his head. Pulsed veins, and strained muscles. The Qadir's head continued to push against the knees brought all the way up to his chest. Even then, Khayri managed to take breathes in from a garette that he longed for. Despite the wars that had stained lives, both from nations and private affairs, people continued to strive for animosity.
___Were dreams hopeless? As it stood, even...
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Chores, Chores, And More Chores
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Everything had become a chore in recent weeks for the elder Reverend. As he grew more infirm, so did he seclude himself within the halls of the Harhold estate or the offices of the Church. He could not find the will to preach on the streets nor could he muster up the strength to move there. He could not sleep for the pains of his ailments were too much, instead finding himself staring blankly at the ceiling in the bouts of his arthritis, his yellowed teeth gritting...
Judging by the slowly brightening navy sky, it was early morning. The Burdigalan Dame had set alight her third candle stub of the night with not an ounce of sleep.
The footsteps of a worried housemaid grew closer until her head poked around the corner into the office, a weary gaze upon her features.
“Dame Latimer, perhaps it’s time you retired to your room. It’s almost daw-”
“-I will sleep when I’ve finished this.”
“But Dame, you look exhausted maybe it’ll do you good to have some rest-”
Fleur caught the maid off with a swipe of her hand in the air, pushing her palms against her desk to stand. The quick motion caused her to sink forward slightly as dizziness overwhelmed her field of vision and balance, her palm squeezing the...
A place she called home, was no longer that.
Rain had drenched the foliage and vegetation, tossing the scents of dew and fresh pine into the air. The sharp scent of the pine caused her nose to crinkle as she sat, perched in one of the tree branches. With quiver and bow slung across her body, she glanced idly upwards to the large bird that was seated above her on another branch. Turning her eyes back downwards, she listened and waited.
The forest was soon alive again, the various creatures stepping and trotting from their dens and homes to see what the rain had brought them. The call and response of birds and chipmunks began to sound as she began her slow descent to the grassy floor. Dusting herself off, she unhooked her bow and...
|Beyond our Mountain Home|
Composed by
Amory Edgar Kreiburg.
My time in Anglia was as I had dreamed it would be, the warm air, the gentle breeze forcing the vibrant, golden wheat-filled fields to sway like sunkissed waves against the pitted and uneven gravel roads that connected small farms, hamlets and the larger; more robust towns within the foreign lured landscape. What must’ve seemed an eternity at the time was in reality only a three hour ride through the countryside, tall golden stalks, towering windmills, stray cattle and large orchards being the only thing to catch my eye during my travels.
Watching the heat beat down onto the coachman of my carriage, I ordered him to pull over not seven villages into our journey and I...
|The Long Night|
Composed by
Amory Edgar Kreiburg.
I was restless, my mind racing as I gazed out from beneath my sheets. The wind howled and rattled the shutters on my bedroom window, the pattering of rain falling upon the glass only accompanying it in a composition from the Spirit itself. The gentle rumbling of thunder in the distance and the lightning that momentarily lit the room every few minutes were settling somewhat, the storm that seemed to have lasted for hours was now settling and I gazed towards the window to see dust swirling in the faint moonlight that made it past a small gap in the curtains. I found solace in the silence that came from the town below the estate, though still the thought of her lingered at the forefront...
|Love, Lost at Sea|
Composed by
Amory Edgar Kreiburg.
Rarely had I believed I would ever see such suffering in my lifetime, as our own dead rose against us and invaded our homes; people fled even as we were promised no harm. Never before had I seen such a mass of people move and suffer together, rich rubbed shoulders with the poor and the rout of my homeland had begun. I clung to Emilia for dear life, fearing I would lose her if I ever let go; perhaps with the knowledge it would be for the last time. We weaved and shoved through the crowds of people, through the stampede so gigantic and terrible; one without order and unprovisioned. We trailed across the now muddy landscape that so easily devoured our boots and for three days our march...
The following is the scribblings of a troubled Nelfin locked within the confines of Krakenburg.
It would not see the light of day, nor would it come into contact with others, so it is most fittingly placed here. Each line represents a line on a typical sheet of paper, and the superficially leaked thoughts of the Cielothar.
"The Void, The Exist, The Nobles."
"The Arken and The Rich"
"Magic, something I treasure..."
"Abelhard, my friend. My protector?"
"How can I make a decision if my decisions are cut short from protection?"
"Am I protected from my own will, the dangers ahead or both?"
"Is my will a danger to myself and others, and if it is, then should my priority be obedience to those who know better?"
"Magic. Something I treasure...
They were always there
The whispers and the mutterings
never did they cease
never did they slow
Never would they fade
He could hear them in the comfort of his bed, reading to his daughter, fighting in battle, the voices would remain. For some ritualists the voices are simply a bi-product what happens when one accepts which ever god or gods they dedicate their service to, but he...he was different. Every day and every night he could hear them the faint words of the dead...every now and then he heard his own ghosts. Ever Doughall his family slew, ever sanguine he put to the blade, and once in a dark day he heard the muffled screams of the curings that would end with a single gasp. The Gasp before the river of blood that would pour from...
Ooc note: As I said in the first part, I'm not making this a big series and that I'm focusing on the backstory of some of Connak's items he carries with him. Again, the events from the stories of the "Priceless Items" story arc all happen at different times on the same day. One last thing, I highly recommend that you read the Priceless Items: The Locket first if you haven't already.
Intruder alert! There's a Kathar spy in the base!
Priceless Items: The Dagger
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Moments after leaving his house at dawn, Connak would be the first of many on the streets of Regalia. The streets would be empty with Connak being one of the few that are up and about, with the exception of the guards who are on patrol. The first...
‘With a smile and a wink, the masked man ran off into the night, leaving the fair maiden. Her face still crimson. She could do nothing, but wait near the garden, watching his departure. No wit or thought in her occurred until it was too late and not a shred of his form remained in her sight. Not even the tiniest shadows…’
A red ribbon swept across the halves of the book, nestling in as it shut. The holder of it hugged it to her chest. The novel held no sentimentality in and of itself. Rather, the time was now such. Sentimental, sensitive, soft.
For the young lady, these quiet moments were hardest. Her gaze looked about the large expanse of the bedroom. Such openness would have originally been a trait so beloved by her, but...
The Skinwalker stared Jack in the eyes. Ready for his fate to meet him as he knew what he was reaching for. As from his coat slid a puretek.
"Will you do it? Can you bring yourself to shoot the man who wishes to live the life that was taken from him?"
He thought in his head, that he most certainly would, he knew this man. This man had shot him in his desperate attempt to escape before. He knew his fate now as he stood infront of his ex enemy. Now trying to prove what he has done, what he has changed to be. As jack stood silent. Shaking his hand, now cocking back the hammer.
"Will you Jack, you know I am changing, I am here now to bring a smile to those who deserve it. Will you take me down?"
Jack remained silent. And he knew his...
There was silence, the only sound was the pattering rain outside.
Jack had his Puretek loaded with a Silverbolt aimed right at the man's heart.
The man blinked, looking at him back, his eyes did not show fear for Jack but acceptance.
"I know who I am, I know what you think is right"
Jack steadied his grip his finger on the trigger as he cocked back the gun.
The silence continued......
"I can't be cured, I am a curse to society, just do it"
Jack would look at the skinwalker in front of him, he looked the man dead in the eye.
Jacks mind was racing
'I am trained to this, just shoot'
'He is a curse, he can't be cured'
'You will save lives if you pull the trigger'
Sweat would be dripping down Jack's face
The man in front of him...
Music
The Slumberwood and al Ramoran Wedding
((This event ICly occurred on the 5th of June))
With the end of the clicker crisis, there was finally peace in Regalia. The world seemed calm for once, and for the Slumberwood’s and al Ramoran’s, today was a day for love and coming together. The Wedding of Damon Slumberwood and Fathiyaa al Ramoran. There was no cathedral to be wed in after the destruction of Regalia’s grand cathedral. Even the park of Regalia had been destroyed. With this in mind, the couple’s wedding took place just outside of the city in a small clearing of the forest. It was beautiful and the cool breeze gave the air a pleasant feeling, despite the usual heat of this time of year.
The peerage of Regalia were the...
-=IMPORTANT=-
Hello y'all, I am back with more Lore Stories! This new series/small stories with be about the Isldar I play, Celaeth. As always, if you ever feel like it is too much in any way, please do not continue reading. Hope you enjoy!
'Celaeth? - Celaeth!'
Those certain ways of saying his name replayed in the Isldar's mind, staring off into the water in Crookback Bay. The dampened docks rested beneath his person, right hand feeling along the cold wood, picking at any loose chips off and flicking them away. He was exhausted, eyes half lidded as darkened circles held onto the bottom of his eye sockets, it had looked like he had not slept in days, but that was not the case. Too many feedings from the creatures in Regalia were...
Ooc note: So, this is kind of a bit of backstory behind Connak and three of his items. This is not at all a big series and I only plan to make two more after this one. Also, the events from the stories of the "Priceless Items" story arc all happen at different times on the same day. There is no obligatory 'read at your own risk' warning here. One last thing, whenever Connak speaks, try to read it in a light Irish accent. It's how he actually spoke before coming to Regalia and losing the accent all together.
Music
Priceless Items: The Locket
It was like any other night for Connak. Come home after a long day, talk to the wife, chat with the kids, have a light dinner and then go to sleep. But this time, he didn't fall asleep right away...
Chengis sat in the heart of the Rift, his eyes focused on the bomb, the Yanar knowing these are his final moments. 'I have no more sins to confess, I have nothing more to be ashamed of. But.. regardless of everything. I'm glad all my friends and fellow Guardsmen made it out. I'm happy for all the friends and enemies that I made over the years. And I hope they will all live long happy lives doing what they love.' Chengis would mutter some words allowed, his final words being, "I'm sorry I couldn't say good bye.." He'd raise his hand with the trigger in hand, staring at it for a second, then close his eyes. 'William, my best friend. Be happy for me. Don't let my death tear you apart. Everyone be happy for me.' Click.
It was three weeks spent away from Regalia and all of its chaos, as Cieli had enough of the city. The bruised and battered Est’alorn put a halt on the things requiring her attention, packed her bags, and returned to her homeland of Unta’alsur.
Her first week home was spent recovering. She hardly left her father's apartment that week, spending the first few days resting and healing while her father watched over her. The Altalar was also visited by a stream of close friends during her first week in Unta’alsur. Many of them were people who held a special place in her life, and so she welcomed them while she healed. There was the healer who had watched over her throughout her childhood, a childhood friend she had remained close to, and...
Enki Ningishzida came home to his library that day livid, horribly angry at his situation, he had lost everything. His stall was ripped away from him by an unfair, criminal even, Isldar who had no right to mess with his business. He thought. The audacity of those guards! To publicly humiliate him in front of all those people, they had treated him unfairly, he thought. How was he to recover? The Rakhon had booted him from his clan and disgraced his name. How could he! Enki had done nothing wrong, Enki never does anything wrong, he’s honorable and just. Well, at least that’s what Enki thought. The big Arak limped down to his forge in the basement, throwing a plant into the fire in pure rage before letting out a mighty roar!
At this point...
It was a quiet morning. Almost too quiet, especially compared to what he was used to.
Companied merely by the chirping of the birds out in the trees nearby, and the distant humming of a woman, a familiar woman. Damn, it was comfortable in that bed. Definitely better than what he would usually sleep in- the bench at the park, the corner of the Crookback boats, the filthy cots on the upper levels of the Mercenary Keep at best. After all, Altalaan households were more often than not decorated with Elven furniture, and Elven furniture always outdid what the Ailor could muster.
It had been a couple of weeks now, since the end of the Clicker Crisis. Since the clash at Typhonunburg, he had been bedridden. The knees and down below had been...
This takes place five years in the future, February 23, 313 A.C, where a longstanding rouge has settled away from his life of crime within Regalia. Though his past has inevitably haunted him, causing him to settle, now older, and with a family within the forests of Osteiermark. All dues were settled on this day.
↔
The children ran rampant with their imaginations by the creek, clashing sticks together as they embodied the fantasy-driven knights of old. Though, their amusement was short-lived as the trotting of horses clouded the atmosphere, stomping through the muddy surroundings that enveloped the rich soil. Soon, they were running home, through the fields of wheat and broken trails that stemmed from their cabin-like home, soft...
It's ironic how a familiar sight can hold so much uncertainty. For one Michael James Brett, it was a feeling he encountered at every turn. Even the port his ship approached was on the very fringes of his mind, yet the exact memory continued to evade him. It was strange, very strange, indeed. The Elf felt a very deep connection to a place he couldn't even remember the name of. This bothered him to no end.
Michael only remembered Travanara and Myr. Two places he'd spent the last ten years in. But beyond that... There was nothing. His closest friend, Jake, couldn't tell him, either. As far as he knew, Michael had appeared in a tavern beside Jake, after nearly seven years of Michael's searches for him. It started with clues of Jake's...
Hide and Seek
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“It's the memories that count, rright?.."
╰─────────────────╯
“Mouse?” Inquired a young, meek looking Stout Furling. Nearby her was a proud, rough looking Sihai who would simply stare down towards her with the faintest of smiles. Though no words were given, he’d quirk his brow in curiosity at what she had to say. “Can we play hide and seek in the park?”
“Aye, kitten, yeah.” A blunt, short answer. That was how most things were said, other than the stories the Sihai told the Stout Furling. Without hesitation from either parties, they took each other, hand in hand, and made ways for the park.
As always, who was “it” for the game was settled the same way each time. “Shears, parchment...
He had not wanted it to go like this.
He was exploring the city in the skin of a dog, a silver furred beast not unlike the other skins he used; but this one was not one of his own. It was borrowed, from the Exist. A skill the witches had taught him when he returned to the deep lands of his homeland. In this form, he could speak - it was new to him. His other skins could not speak, they were beast.
He saw someone, stabbing and jabbing at a tree with her spear and a towering shield in the other hand. He approached, curious. It was her. The Silven, but different. Changed. Corrupted. He was disappointed, but she did not recognize the dog. So he changed, into a skin she did know. He asked why she had abandoned her people, the Exist. Why...
Optional Music
Most people had turned her away, she had said. How could anyone blame them? Such a rough, brusque northern woman, with enough of a canted, appraising way of looking at you that nobody would return the glare. Slow spoken, though, and if you had any tolerance for it her broken common was charming in its jagged edges. No-one appreciates a stranger in Kintyr. She was adamant about that. Spirit protected those towns and wits better than ours. For without vigilance, we let it into our home with open arms.
---
Suffocating. These were forests that reached down with their limbs held close to the ground, thin trunks and plumes of leaves, cast shadows strangling the air out of her chest and leaving no room in between. Warmer...