Breaking Down The Gates

Left unto a piece of parchment sometime later, was a relatively simple address pinned up. A lack thereof formal headers, or fancy preparations. Hot off the press by the looks of things.
​

To Cal.

It is a coward's gambit, strumming on about the 'beaten, broken and damned', in deep bold. You breed this notion that every resident of the undercity is utterly trampled, time and again without rhyme or reason. Though this is rarely ever the case without warrant, and folks can't all be cased into one body. I think we're both aware of that.
I'm not suggesting Regalia, or the empire is a utopia, or ever will be, that it owes each of us something... That is simply a fallacy. But is far from the horrid destination that you bend it into with your flyers, time and time again.

Let me be clear: There are and always people willing to help. Your musings so often tend to forget this fact, and only remember the minority of the wicked. In this instance, many of those people, myself included are some of those acting in defence of the Fae's Sepulchre. We do this not because we enjoy the violence of it but because what resides there is best kept out of the hands of any, and everyone. Because well, to be blunt, you'll have no pedestal to shout your troubles from, no foundation of the empire to scribble your name into if there ever is to be nothing. There is a reason these items are kept out of reach.

The recognition you seek, the faux constructed emancipation from those that have apparently denied you of your dreams. It won't come from this. There doesn't /have/ to be 'hell', there will only be hell because /you/ take it upon yourself to make one. And for what? Nothing.
My suggestion, not as a Bloodcast, or an advisor to the chancellor, or any position of weight I may carry. But simply as a person who has learned to take simple pleasures in a world that owes nothing to either of us. Stop now with the violence when it is within your control, take those you hold close and appreciate them before they're all wasted away for a poor cause. Their lives are not expendable. You won't feel like a winner. You'll just feel sick in the aftermath. There are better ways to rove out securing a better future for yourselves. Merely some food for thought.

But if you are to stride along and attempt to continue committing your crimes, Stop casting it as something it is not. You were never condemned by any outside of consequence due to your own spineless actions. The world won't be any more yours as it is mine or any man's, with one more powerful trinket to your pocket.

So long and goodnight
Yours hopefully,
Lazarus Lupenzi​

 

A Von Kërle would be walking through the sewers. Her Blacksteel armor now painted over with gold, donning a crimson red cape. The Ailor would currently be in Karmark Form, with snowy white hair, piercing red eyes, and a tiger-like look to her. She'd be fashioned with two tiger-like ears, light grey stripes in her hair and a long, white tiger-like tail. The Karmark would run her large, light grey claws against the wall as she slowed to a stop at the notices. They seemed to catch the beast's eye. After reading both notes that were posted, the Brass Beast would make a tiger-like chuff, a growl emerging from the back of her throat.
"Bold of you to assume we'll back off because of your fancy words of 'wisdom' about there being people willing to help us downtrodden and promises of hope. You fool believe we haven't tried? Time and time again will people only see us as monsters, nothing more. And perhaps they're right, perhaps we are monsters, but we will still fight for our freedom in any way we can. Even if it means raiding these so called 'Fae Warriors' or whatever they call themselves. We can and will win, and every life lost will be another acceptable casualty to the cause. Hey- Tech Prince! Lock! Come here and look at this fool!"
The Brass Beast would call out to her two allies after her rant that she had hoped no one had heard. Her tail lashed with amusement, tapping the side of the wall with one of her claws as she waited for them to check out what she had found.

Spoiler

@DuchBargollo @RainAxe

 

Amongst the dark depths of the Undercities, the Technonaught would be alongside his kin as the scraping metal would echo through the tunnels of rot. Machinery clicking for each step he took, and the everlasting glow of his red eyes and the large kit of clockwork he wore over the Laqorian armor, with a symbol of a gear cog etched into the chestplate. With the four Mechanical Arachnid legs sprouted out his back, he took his steps forward to read the notice. The Tech Prince muttering each word to himself as careful as he could, and having a small rhythm alongside his mutters. Cacophonous, but quiet clickings of metal emitted out from the hybrid of man and machine for every time he uttered the words of both letters. With a short pause, the Mechanical Monstrosity finally spoke.

"It baffles me how naive one could be to believe that we will ever gain a chance to freedom with the likes of him. We've only lost more and more because we've been merely casted aside. But what I hold, Is something no one else has. Being brought within Regalia, I had never had help from the pathetic surface dwellers that believe they're on top. Nay, I took the scraps of the damned to forge something they never could replicate. And they will never get it. But, I will have what I want. For my collection yearns for a new piece. A new opening is made, and I must fill such opening with something most memorable. Whether I get what I want through diplomatic means, or by force, I will have what I want. Freedom has been off the table, for it is evident that no simple man such as he could give us what we have yearned over for several years. Nay, just like how I had to use scraps to create, we will have to take to earn. That is how Aloria was built to be. And that is all it'll ever be."

With his Red Tattered Cloak fluttering from the short winds of the ruins of Crookback bay on the outside of The Undercities, The Technonaught took his leave. As a large figure behind him would take follow. Emitting the similar clicks as its master.

 

A plume of smoke ascended from the scratched nostrils of Andrathath as he drew upon the sigg between his fingertips. His legs, folded at the ankles, hinged along the perimeter of a poker table. In his hands, a four-of-a-kind. He peered across to scan his opponents.
“What’s this about Cal I’m hearing?”

One of the patrons responded, his poker face flashing away in excited distraction. Mistakenly, the man barely revealed their hand as a consequence to this excitement. “They say Cals planning an assault on the Regalian Sepulchre! Everyone’s talking about it. You’ve gotta be a dead man to want to help them.”

“Well I’ll be damned. That or an idiot.” Andrew replied, peeking over the mans hand. “They say cards are war, disguised as sport. Read them and weep boys.” He lowered his hand, revealing the four-of-a-kind, two of his opponents frowning from across the table.

Gleefully, Andrathath reached out to gather his earnings, however he hesitated as a hand from a third opponent reached out, gripping his shoulder before revealing a royal flush.

“Looks like you’re the idiot.” Said the deep familiar voice.

One could say the kathar went home empty handed that night, and such may have been the case if it were not for that gated flier clutched in his palm.

 

A small Von Kërle leapt from house to house in New Crookback, claws digging themselves into the sides of each one before she finally flung herself down to the ground, rolling to a stand. She perked a brow at a new piece of parchment as her tail wrapped around her arm. As she read, a fanged grin spread wider and wider.

She turned on her foot, sprinting away toward the Pandemonium Circuit as she screamed, "CECIL! WE'RE STEALING THE FUNNY HAT!"

@latewinterdude

 

Mirabella took a drag from a certain garette, perhaps being for the first time in well over a century since she had last indulged in such addictions past blessed affliction. Hues of promising spectrums glazed over the paper with a tired droop, before casting it aside. “What is now brewing is inevitable. The only questions are, can we handle it, and is attaining this item for the Kathar really worth our suffering?” She knew the answer to both of those questions. And yet, in spite of tired aching bones and a lingering famine for one such absence of the three Divinities, she busied herself with writing the third letter of the day — less pleasant than past words of flowering qualities and niceties —with a wend for destruction. Snapping maws of hungry, suffering Sanguine bubbled beneath the surface all the while, a strong desire for satiation and a greater deserved reward most prominent in the forms of wretches. It was from the pits of hell, and it smelled like smoke.

 

A cursory glance over the missive and noticing the words “Yo... lets fucking go,” was enough for Markus Delmotte to not take the proclamation seriously.

 

Silent footfalls disturbed the dirt beneath laced-up, leather boots in the dark. Steps slowed as steely hues caught unto just one of the many fliers around New Crookback, and the crimson-haired Altalar extended her pale, slender, calloused fingers to grasp it. She read it once, then twice more. With a brief, mournful glance upwards to the shimmering stars, Fen’nan pocketed the flier, her steps dragging as she made off further into the night, mulling over the path she’d not further traveled.

 

A Fae Knight again had to have a notice read to him, after a minute or two of pointless squinting. He asked kindly if someone could pen something verbatim for him. Thankfully he was obliged by someone for a sum of five regals.
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Hey Cal,

Man. You seem angry. I don't know why you have it in your head to attack a tomb, but that seems like an issue. I'd appreciate it if you didn't for the sake of us not coming to blows. You want to talk about it? If so, leave a letter around Arena Court. Preferably in Modern Altalar. Or just put a nifty symbol on it!
Sincerely,
Cadwyn
Man-at-Arms of the Wards of Fae