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Joltastik

C̶̲̙̟̤̱͙̞͕̠̞̻̭̊́͊͊̒̓̇͜ó̸̢̪̪̬͈̱̩̖͔̖͎̃l̸̛̙̣̥̝̣̇͊̈̌͌̅̋̀͌̓̓d̵̗̟̖̗͉̼͙̪̬̥̭͇̅͂̐̅̀͛̾͘.̷̨̣̖͎̟͓̟̦̠̰͕̦̜̭͒̓̀̍̋̀

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T̫̟͠o̢̝̞̼̜ͅ ̵̞͚͙̻͔i̫̠̪͙̱͓ṇ͈v͎̝̣̟̻o̭̘̣̼͙k̺e̙͙͎̝ ̣̖̦͖̝ͅt̩̯̘h̝e̲͖͖̫̩͘ͅ ͈̘͔̥̬ͅh̛̞͚̦̙i̻̺̱̞̞̲v̺͇e͔̼̥-̡͚͓͈̮̭̼m̝̩i̺̼͍͞n͇̙̝̫̞̱ḑ͇͉͍ ̯̭́r̺̘̻èp̷r̨ḛ̥̞̖̤͍̙s̱e͈̼̫͍̹̕nt͘i̧̭͕̖̗̭n͏̯͕̭g͇̼̥̝̣̮ ̯͎̫͚̗͖̩C҉̱͖̜̹ͅh̙̦a͇̦̯̤̻̻o͉̬s̮͍̘̱̩.̯̖͙
Ị̱n̷̗͈v̢͉͇̱o̗̙̳̘ͅk̲̱͈̩̗̘͜i̲̮̠̹͙̟n̠͕g̡͈͙̳̬͈ ̺͔̠ͅt̟̠̟̤̤͇h҉̹̱͚̜̗e̷͓̫ ̞̣̙̬̤͟ͅf̸̼͙e͕̘̜̩͙̼͡e͚̩̫l̝͔̝̯͔̪i̟͕̹̗ͅn̢g̟̫̠̝ ̫̣̹̳̭͉ǫ̫͓̬̘f̢̪͎̰ ̞͙̟͈̮Ch̕a̱̝o̺̜͕̜͓͈̬s̢ͅ.͏̹̼̯͚̙ͅ
͈͔͙̠Wi̬͖̘̙͎̱t̢̹ḩ͎̺͍ ̝͎ò̜̪ut̶̼̣͇͕ o̩̞̤̫r̺͈̖̟̻̟ͅḍ̜̙̪̤̙̯ẹ͇̲r̛ͅ.҉
̩̣T̠͇h̵̻̳̱͓e̮ ̧̭̱e̵͕̼̦̦̠͖͙ç̦̤̼̗̹͈ṳ̥͘m͙̦̝̼̘e̻͙̟n̗̞̼̗̻i̷̮̦̣̝̖̞̦c͉̞̘a͉̝l҉̥͎ ͅḥ͜i̩͘v̞e̗̙͈̬-̹̗̭̠̥m̬͕͚̫̯͞ͅi҉̮̼̣̩ͅn̤͓d҉͚͚͙̞̘̖ ̤͕̯̟o̰͎̗̹̣͙f̨̗͎ͅ ̱̗̺c҉͎̤̪̬̣̘͍h͈̦͢ͅà͍̪̱̫ọ̫̠̱̀s.̷͎͓
͙̖̫̘̜͢H̰e͙̠͖̞̰̞͜ ̶͖̭̰̭̞̤w̱̝͘h͚͓̘͝ơ͚̦̭ ̛̙̟̻̩ͅW̲͎̜͍͎̻a̤̫͔̥͔̱i̘̟̯͙͝ͅt͎̥͈̘͖̗ͅs̵̻̥͎̜̭ ͚̥̞̳B͙̪͙͡e̫̗͈̫̱h̖̣͚͙͓̠ͅi̭̠̘͚̼̯͢n̵͉͔d҉̬͇̞̭̱̦̝ ̭T̖͝h͙̜͍̣̝̟́é͙͍͚̥̝ ͉̺̫͚v̥̮̼͢e̠̫̜̠̘͕i̬̟̼̹͔͙l̛̘͓͎̣͍͚͖.̣̦̹̩̝͟ͅ
̫Ṱ̖͢h̻̗͖̥̜̲͓e̦͕̗͉͍͙͡ ̻̝̰̣͉̦G̖̜̟̹͉̻̕a̸͙̘̫̮̭̮͉r͕̹̠d͉̱̟͔̜̜̀ę̣͖ͅn̠̯̣̼̠er̸̗̭ ̟̮͍̰͔o͇f̧̻̞ ̝M̯̳̜̭̺̺̰ḛ͙n͡ͅ.̶͍͉̙̭
W̟̲̯͎̼͍a̘͍͇͕̻̤͠ͅk̖͚̖e̼̞͖ ̧ͅu̟̩̩̤͈̯̰p̢͎̙͔̠̻̟͎.
̝
̰̭͚̥͞N̫̼͡ọ̴ ̼͎̟͚͢h̗͓̦͙̪͟o̙͚͇͙̭̬p̜̳̥͟e̪̣̪̞.̧̣͚͉̰͎

 

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Naught endured. Naught but the glaciers, whose tips leaned to a side, as if to gaze upon what was left. Yet naught was left, and the wind wept because of it. Its howls battered against the waning snow, as if to push it aside, desperately searching for the relics of an age bygone. It found nothing. The snow ran too deep.

 

The glaciers, greedy, told the wind nothing of what they grasped. They held the frozen relics close to their hearts, encased beneath the mounds of ice. Protected, in a way, though inaccessible to the outside world. Not that there was much of a world outside, anyway. Among the frozen relics, of which they were many, resided one item in particular. A journal. Once dust-ridden and forgotten, this journal now laid glazed, encased beneath a lonely glacier’s unwavering chunks. Nobody could know of this journal, as nobody was alive to care of it. Nobody could recite its one passage, written in the form of a letter. A letter meant for a different outcome. A letter written by one naive young man whose heart, though hidden, still sparked of idealism.

.

.

.

 

“Dear Vicelin,

 

If you’re reading this, you have succeeded. You’ve prepared me. By now, I must be gone, ready to face the worst they have to offer. I tell ya’, those sops at the Hexicanum don’t know what they’re expecting, having me and Bart train alongside them snot-faced Initiates who’ve never seen ‘nary a vodnik, before! Them Sparrows will be surprised. I don’t doubt me and pretty-boy’ will ace the trials.

 

Would’ve addressed this to Renuald too, you know, but i know him enough to reckon he’ll dismiss it. In truth, this letter’s purpose is to thank you, ‘fore anything. I’ve only heard tales of how men come out of there-- cold, harsh, and barren of wordly bonds. If that is, in fact, the truth, this’ll be the only piece of proper gratitude you’ll ever get out of me. A last ******* ode to the good days, just in case I don’t return the same.

 

I was lost ‘fore i met you bunch. The Initiative gave me purpose, a home, and men worthy of sharing it with. You, Renuald, Eddard, Jentos, Bart, Alfred-- hell, even that blasted bloodsucker we took in. That twig-hugging elf, Veidan, too. I look upon each of our bounties and escapades, and find myself both lucky to be alive, and lucky to have been among yous’. Remember our first trek in Adelburg’s sewers, or when we had to rescue those midgets from being eaten by Quotpedes in ol’ Oak a short while ago? Annoying *****, that one Frostbeard, was this close to cutting off that blabbing tongue of his!

 

 

Don’t think me nostalgic, Vic. I’m looking forward to what’s ahead. In fact, upon return, I’ll have already set eyes upon my very first contract! There’s this odd abandoned city north-west of ol’ Johannesburg i came upon in my travels once -- before meeting yous’ all, in fact – that’s got quite the ghoul problem. Some strange man clad in plate lives there, blabbin’ of a giant that loomed over the city one night.. ‘Size of a Mountain!’, he said. What ******* hogwash

 

Don't think there’s much else to say, except thank you. For all of this. Thank you.

 

 

See you when I see you,

Sighard.

 

 P.S: Tell Bart I wrote this prissy bullshit, and i’ll throw you off Winterhall’s pallisades.”

 

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Feremyr only keeps shrieking, as his distorted frame is cast between realms, torn and ever-burning. He would find no peace.

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A mali'ame carved away at a piece of lumber, seated on a stump in forestry beyond the mortal plane. His careful work over the course of many, many years gave way to the intricately detailed shape of a certain elven woman with a staff and long flowing hair.

 

Once finished, he set it beside a completed wooden effigy of a Highlander with a short beard, stern eyes, and crossed arms donning light armor and twin blades on his back. And he stood next to a carved depiction of a gruff half-elf standing resolute with two sheathed swords on his back, as well.

 

The sculptor picked up another log and contemplated his next subject.

Edited by Ford

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In a faraway land, within a faraway era, a sordid sellsword sits amidst the remains of a barren battlefield. In his palm, he fondles an old medallion, and through the sooty shimmer of the trinket’s metal, glimpses of a forgotten, painstaking past show themselves.

 

And as the sellsword reminisces those golden days of yore, he realizes how terrifyingly alone he really is.

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