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"Brother..." murmured an old Oyashiman, "Treading in the footsteps of Hahaoya are we?" she'd smile briefly, but it was quickly cut short "Curse you."

The atmosphere in the West of Braevos this evening brimmed with the exuberance of the Koyo-Kuni festival. Revelers admired elegant dresses, savored Chicken Katsu from the Grub Bucket, and engaged in spirited sumo challenges. Little did they anticipate the impending cataclysm that would shatter their merriment. As the night unfolded, the eastern sky blazed with infernal fury, unleashing chaos upon the unsuspecting city. From the depths of Hell itself, an army emerged, plunging the village into a nightmarish battle between the living and the damned. At the heart of the conflict loomed the dread Gashadokuro, orchestrating the mayhem with sinister intent. By dawn, the valiant efforts of the city's defenders had faltered, yielding to the relentless onslaught. Forced to retreat, the heroes left behind a cityscape reduced to smoldering ruins, overrun by grotesque horrors emerging from the ashes. The once serene Cursed Forests now served as the domain of the Lich-King, his relentless siege marking the beginning of his reign of terror. With Sakuragakurai in ruins, the sinister ruler moved to fortify his newfound stronghold, casting a fiery pentacle over the land. A few scraps of flesh spread throughout the realm by some unknown means, carrying bloody chicken scratch which spoke an ominous warning, “I… COME…”

An imp stirred around in ire within the writhing the pits of the horrific realm, his home, the Moz. After having been slain he wouldn’t remember his slayer but couldn’t help but feel as if his death was unique and that whatever killed him hopefully remembered his face or if he died by falling down the impossibly long stairs “DAAL WILL FREE HIMSELF IN MONTHS MONTHS! GASHADOOKIEKURO WAIT FOR MEEEEEE!”

There is shouting in the dungeon. Deia stands by the door, amidst the blood and muck, and watches as it stains her shoes, stains her. The breeze brushes past to the cells and back out against her spine and she’s so very cold. Everything is cold without the Queen. In the shadow of her death, they call her the White Flame. They call her venerated and a Queen of the people (what is left of the people) and they speak of her kindness, her generosity, her love, as a mistake to learn from. Red pools at her feet like water and she feels the brush of fingertips against her ankle, the first of a trail of corpses that will lead her to her sister. She doesn’t have to look to know their wounds, nor that they will ever flow, an endless fountain from a slit throat, a pierced heart, a skewered eye. She doesn’t have to look to know there are dozens. For her. For them. For love. The gruesome sound of a glaive against flesh makes her open her eyes. When she turns towards the wail that follows, the dungeon door is stainless, there is no weight in her hands, and Amaya is still dead. Look, a voice demands, at what she has wrought.

Bor of Hazum began to fortify Mugmar's Circle against the infernal invaders as the Hill Giant Spiritual Leader worked to calm and keep his herd of absolutely horrified mammoths in check, less they run rampant in the forests and escape elsewhere. . . "Bor realleh wish Buddeh Dur wahs nae away roight now!" he said with a grumble, offering many prayers to MUGMAR: THE TITAN OF HAZUM as his chosen Voice lumbered about busy.

Dhen looked at the missive, simply saying “John’s insulting poem must of been too good. She is taking the ones he loves because she can’t make a better song. I must pen one for John to join the cause.” The thing then turned around and set to work writing down the next big Balian hit

(An advertisement posted towards the bottom of the notice board at your favorite watering hole) Are you exhausted by your ordinary, slow-moving, everyday life? Looking for a new hobby and an exciting way to spend your time and money? Do you have a need for speed? Welcome to the Babblebrook Railmeister's Club! We're a motley crew of minecart enthusiasts, drawn together by our love of the rails and the rush of high-speed minecart racing. What started as an efficient way for Halflings to move grain to the coast, was quickly co-opted by thrill-seeking Musin youth who took to riding the empty grain carts just "to see how fast they could go". This dangerous pastime was later formalized into the Babblebrook Railmeister’s Club. But we're more than just a club; we're a family, bonded by our shared love of minecarts and the freedom of the rails. As a member of the Babblebrook Railmeister's Club, enjoy these exciting amenities: Customize and decorate your own minecart to reflect your unique personality and style. Add souped up wheels and imported goose-grease. Experiment in our minecart garage and clubhouse. Participate in high-speed races and challenges on the area’s meticulously crafted minecart tracks. Explore the stunning landscapes and hidden gems around Babblebrook and Dunwen from the comfort of your individual minecart. Travel on group outings for a chance to ride some of the best minecart tracks (industrial and otherwise) in Aevos. The Babblebrook Railmeister's Club is seeking brave and adventurous souls from all races to join our minecart enthusiast club. Whether you're a seasoned rail veteran or a newcomer looking for your first big thrill, there's a place for you among the Railmeisters! All aboard for the ride of a lifetime!

Viktoria continues to squint through her confusion, unable to read her own name on the parchment.

[!] The missive was reprinted and re-distributed. (Apologies, it got messy in the copy + paste and I was being lazy)

Holly Galbraith sent a letter to Irene, her words filled with nothing but fury and determination .

Viktoria, a colorblind Ruthern, squinted at the missive in silence. "Var? Jest that what that says?"

The man lounged in his desk chair as he read the letter, before staring at the name for a moment. He'd take a minute to re-read it, before saying - loud enough for the Druid in the house to hear, "Oh **** off, you're alive?"

Ember The blind seer squints her closed eyes (Ooc: please fix the formatting much love)

A holly-adorned medic squinted as she read the missive. "Why would someone write with the same color ink as the paper? This isn't scary, this is illegible!"

John had found his husband's hat on the road - he picked it up, hoping to return it to him with a little lecture on 'how hard it is to make these', 'someone could have stolen it, you know', and the like. He got upon his metal steed and rode for the forests of Nevaehlen, the cap nestled upon its head, and settled down for a night's slumber in the trees. When he awoke, a bird pecked at him with a letter. He could do nothing but stare. The days in that month passed hazily. Rage triumphed over anything else, and when he had finally drawn out of it, his knuckles were bruised, nose broken, and much of his belongings pawned off or stolen. He could feel the familiar sting of orkish Light Dust burn his nostrils. Slowly, painfully, he shambled up. Beneath the missive that'd been nailed to the board, was another - bearing the man's handwriting and a single, bloody handprint as though it were some form of signature. "Do you know what nemesis means, Irene? I will teach it to you in blade and knuckle."

+1

Peregrine locks the **** in.

Peregrine sat upon a stool in the corner of their shared space, her head bowed and hands clasped upon her knees. Her wide eyes stared at nothing as she learned of the demise of her one and only student; the fallen Prince she uncovered from the ashes. He had risen like a phoenix, his flame snuffed out too soon. "I'm ready to see them bleed." Her fists tightened, the sapphire scars marring her skin sparking with lightning. There was no sadness in the heart of the Martyr Undying, but a rage that could only be cooled with blood.

Thinking. . . Thinking. . . "Diagnostic complete chance of reta-" BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ- HULL FAILURE: 10% ALERT- ALERT- ALERT DEPLOYING RECOVERY NOISE BEACON . . . . . . . . . | 𝚂̇𝚃̇𝙾̞𝙼͐𝙿 𝚂̇𝚃̩𝙾̞𝙼̞𝙿 𝚂͕𝚃̩𝙾̞𝙼̍𝙿 | "𝚃͐𝚑̍𝚎 𝚏̩𝚒͕𝚛̇𝚜̇𝚝 𝚘͕𝚏 𝚖̩𝚊͐𝚗̞𝚢̍. . ." A great evil held the heart of the once intelligence unit, HAL. . . . . . . Thinking . . . Updated all commands, repairs have been completed. "Welcome, Administrator, Gashadokuro."