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A declaration of war


BathRugMan
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Filibert Applefoot would be busy untying the chains of the slave messenger who had the message nailed to their flesh, because that’s a sane way to give out messages apparently.

”Wif all due respec’, lads, please reword t’is ‘n ac’ual Common ins’ead o’ t’a edgelord lingo tha’ yeh Demons ‘ave adop’ed. Jus’ ‘cause yeh’re sole purpose ‘n life is sufferin’ an harm doesn’ mean yeh go’’a talk like yeh’re ah buncha Dark Elves wif Katanas doin’ back flips all o’er t’a place.”

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The body of the Qualasheen slave which arrived at the gates of the citadel would be seen 
floating slowly towards the twisted Korvassan coastline, a crossbow bolt impaled into the man’s head.
Upon the body another note was attached, damp and barely eligible from the water crumpling the parchment’s edges.

 

“Elvenesse sends their regards lliran.”


TLDR: Come at me bro.

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A wandering ‘ame crosses paths with one of the chained slaves. Upon hearing the news, a grimace forms on his lips as his hand rests upon the pommel of his sword. Giving a grunt, the ‘ame strides homeward to defend the city of Aegrothond.

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A small ‘ame would read over the missive while relaxing on his bed with a tall glass of wine, a candle lit on his nightstand to provide light. “Perhaps I should return to training.....” He’d huff out, bringing his glass up to his lips to take a large sip. ”Maybe tomorrow......” He’d place this missive and his now empty wine glass on his nightstand, quickly blowing out his candle, causing the entire room to become dark.

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Bryldryn Grandaxe grimaces at the missive, recalling the blazing sun, sweet scent of dried dates, bustling market of Al-Faiz market square, innocent childrens’ outbursts of mirth between the streets... ”I hope da wee bird es o’roight. May Dungrimm bless us su we rid ov da filth.”  

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The High Keeper lets out a small, amused cackle, the porcelain mask covering her features giving off an eerie, echoey ring. “How very kind of him to write,” She commented in mildly amused sarcasm to the other Keepers present. “What a waste of air this so-called ‘Sultan’ is. Truly, I cannot imagine thinking this is a threat worth any seriousness. The demons send petty displays of common gore and brutality in an attempt to unnerve those of us who have spent our lives- spilled our blood and tears- looking into the face of darkness. How... Flawed their understanding of their enemy is. Such a... Disconnect between the damned and the living. To think they can sunder our spirits with hastily-written, poorly-worded threats, and to send them by such a... Painfully eyeroll-inducing method. Let the halfwit hellspawn come. We shall meet them with steel.”

 


 

Sylvia Camian paints a large pink heart on the side of a newly-bored cannon with a little, half-crazed laugh. 

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Sonna Sirame let out a long and tired sigh before her eyes steeled with determination. The priestess gathered her medical supplies and the bow from her monster hunting days before running off to find Tanyl. ”Aspects watch over me..”

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Within the prison of one of the camps, a malnourished-paladin alongside decaying corpses with chunks torn off their burnt skin. He’d laid, captured by the Inferi – his body marked by decay and feces, fresh wounds plaguing his worn skin. The man’s gaze peers above, verdant eyes searching past the steel bars for hope.

 

“May their souls consume the dark, speaking hymns of hallowed divinity.”

 

He’d hoarsely mutter, the lack of water straining his throat as the Terin spoke.

 

None garnered his call, save for the cries of his fellow prisoners. The cackling and vile laughter of the other grunts, their grotesque features stretched onto a hideous sneer as they’d peer at the pleas of the fallen-man.

 

His arms felt heavier, chained above in a cruel and languished motion. Diomedes sat crumpled in a heap, his limbs stretched as bruises and blood seeped down faintly – akin to that of dribbling rain as it’d run drown his arm.

 

”May theirs burn brighter than mine.”

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Anath Blackaxe of clan Grandaxe reads the message read by the sultan and the replay by his high king with anger boiling from his blackaxe blood stands in the center of urguan to make a speech “brothers and sisters of urguan I know you ‘ave read the massage from t’e s’it pile t’at is t’is “sultan ma’ga’nus” t’is black ‘eart w’o ‘as stolen our most ‘olys of relics and using to proclaim its rig’t to rule and seeking not to rule not just us but all free people everyw’ere and by the Brathmordakin and Yemekar w’o but us on t’is world to protected t’em even if they don’t believe in ‘I'm. T’is demon t’inks ‘e will walk over us and win like Hell ‘e s’all we and all races ‘ave foug’t all manner of evils from demons, linc’s, undead and dragons we s’all fig’t ‘I'm on t’e beac’es fig’t ‘I'm in t’e forest and to t’e ‘old of urguan itself we s’all reclaim urgan ‘ammer and will kill ma’ga’nus and burn ‘I'm away till not’ing remains for we are DWED and not’ing will stop us for as my bloodline creed is blackaxe justice unforgiving” as his finished his speech he yells out his bloodline creed with there sword removed from his scabbard raised high in the air.

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“Get tae the boilers! Prep teh Stations an cannons! Teh Hoards of teh damned will soon be upon us! I want a constant watch on tha shoreline.” Halvar would bark out to the various assortment of Norlandic Marines and Army troops stationed onboard the Seahelm. Soon enough the entire vessel would be bustling with activity as preparations were made for battle against the infernal host.

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[!] High Chief Karl Blackroot prepares his folk to assist the halflings.

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       One knot tied itself upon the other, a near-braid forming by the end of his polearm, however akin to a staff more so therein than a spear, or anything of the like. Little else brandished the fine measurements of the staff, save for the marks that run up and down its wood and bark in a tongue lost to time, entirely different to any pre-existing tongues spoken amongst the denizens of Arcas, appearing sanguine in runes of gibberish. What more, nor little was there to it? Sleeping Hawk heaved at several other logs with a nonchalant grunt, ceasing to express much else besides boredom in his nature and behaviour, bare feet imprinting themselves upon the mud of the bayou, scent of white sage wafting through the thick fog of the bayou.

       The Hawk’s new life was little less different to his old one; just as simple, and fitting for a hermit as himself above all else. By dawn, he’d eaten his share for the day, and by dusk he’d gone hunting for more; what more could one need than humility, of course. And then, there were the dreams, and constant ringing of crickets in his brazen ears in between such, Lyes having haunted his reveries, looming above him in the mortal form of a hawk, just as gloomy clouds did, the Apophet Realm of Ancestrals. Besides such dreams, all left to keep solace in his messy part of the bayou was the expense of his own sanity, and the alligators that chomped at vermin during midnight.

 

”And of all things, t’is war that never ceases. It is a wyvern that sleeps; at wake whenever it may so wish, and a path that hoards great fortune, and misfortune alike. It was there when the force of the world made life from the, otherwise lifeless, pores of the universe, and it will be here when it all implodes in sabbath, bloody sabbath.

 

       And, scarlet begonias run through the commonwealths here; and scarlet begonias ran through commonwealths there, only to have been brought into rhapsodic reincarnation by the charred hands of bohemians from Eos, to Aeldin. Such was only the tale of Sleeping Hawk, the chieftain merely a fraction in power to what he used to be in times of old.

 

”And, what is life? It is the flash of fireflies in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. For, they are not dead, whom live in the hearts they leave behind.”

 

       With the falling of a sun of anguish far off beyond the cool saltwater of a spring not far off, desolate in the very nature of its existence as mankind walked the weeds they were born upon, only to die in the same fields, under the same sky and clouds of baby blue. Sleeping Hawk would not tolerate any more war.

Edited by Aoxomoxoa
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The Pine Druid simply rolls his eyes as news of yet another impending attack from an unnatural force reaches his ears. He looks to the newly-reborn phoenix chick that sits idly squawking at him from the nest on his desk. ”Aye Leyu, those buggers had better sod off before I shove a shroom so far up each and every one of their arses that they’ll be pukin’ spores for a millennia.” 

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*Pratai hears of this missive, her shaking her head and collecting what few items she did have*  “seems like the demons are the only ones able to uphold promises” *her muttering in her little room and goes to leave the town* “they dont need me, they never have .. and if they do, they will come to me … im tired of going to them”

 

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