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DENUNCIATION OF THE MURDERERS FROLICKING IN THE ELVENESSI PENINSULA


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A fair haired elf reads from the parchment, flicking it away in an arrogant flaunt, “The tree orcs are infighting once again, no surprise there.”

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"Mayhaps such accusations of my desire to watch Elvenesse burn were true," mused an elfess, scoffing some as she stood before an imposing painting. Its likeness displayed a beguiling dragonkin, endowed with flaxen coiffure — grasping a younger Eveth.

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Reflecting upon the mental image of his young niece's body collapsed and beaten upon the streets of Haelun'or, an 'aheral ponders the missive with a quiet sigh and a shake of his head, setting it aside, "He got what he was due. Though, there were certainly better ways for it."

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Aerendyl reads the missive over a smoke post mud-wrestle, shaking his head at the note. Having seen and participated in the attempted arrest of Vulen, he chuckles at the falsities in the text.

 

"This bloke is assuming that his little boy's nose was nice and clean. He's either very ignorant, or doesn't give a ****. That'd be a shame if it was the later, if he's going to be calling for blood anyway..."

 

He sets the note aside to keep for future reference and draws a circle over his chest. Hawksong would remain with Tahorran. Feather and mane, hawk and steed, sails and saddles. He settles his rapier to his side and makes his way to the Tahorran boats.

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A certain 'Thill in love with the stars scoffed as she read the missive, taking a sip from her cup of tea. "Can you believe this?" she'd query, passing the paper towards her best friend, Syndriel.

 

@SomebodyHelpMe

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Syndriel blinks slowly, looking up from his journal to face April. He’d offer a short smile and shrug seeming not to be too aware of what she was saying, the elf being too absorbed in his own mind. “Horrible..” He’d respond quietly in a voice flooded with care to a clearly unknown subject.

 

 

@latteTM

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Karnath quickly read over the missive as he sipped his tea by a small fire in the Mother Grove. "Always something stupid happening in Elvenesse, especially when the Tahorran are involved." The 'ame said with a shake of his head, tossing the paper into the fire before returning to his tea.

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Wildfire reads over a copy of the missive, unease creeping at his features. "When the dwarven Ireheart was slain by Him in Siramenor, I stepped forth without persuasion in order to settle the grudge once I knew it would keep our people safer. Once again has He taken a life, a once-friend of mine. This time, no one will be around to clean up his messes, lest he once more puts us all at risk by cowering behind our walls. What will he do now?"

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1 hour ago, Bhased said:

Evar'tir Oranor of the line of Mithras, recently dubbed 'Tyrant' by the Usurper regards the missive with a deep sigh. With conviction, he utters forth a reminiscent phrase: "I hate the elves."

Aurelion, Exarch under Evar'tir read a copy beside his colleague. He too let out a sigh, one of annoyance. "Me too."

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“Problems, this means problems for me. I think I should leave the city, for my safety” Avaela would speak to her golem, seemingly being worried. The Mali’ame looking around, concealing her true identity. 
@Rip and Tear

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A young elfess seated before a stool, one hand against a scrubby rock — it crashed back and forth against the edge of her blade, sharpening it so. Lilaeth brought the longsword into the air, cherishing it; she noticed the perfect edge, perfect enough to lacerate the head of elves.

 

 

“This will do for the war.” She cooed, swiftly returning the blade to her sheathe and sauntering off.

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The clad warlord sauntered into the gates of Krug, welcomed by his orcish comrades. Behind the vestiges of his dragonish glare, consumed by fumes of ash from ebon dragonscale, he prosit in health to the Archdrakaar whilst chugging a filled seidel. 

 

“To war again and back; let they see us — the Iblees-spawn they call, is it not?” Eluitholnear hissed.

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A mali sits by a long-extinguished pyre, gaze upon the ashes as he laments the loss of kin.

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