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Eyes of the Dead


Xarkly
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A particular cloaked figure's eyes gleamed red as they reflected the newly birthed flames that began to consume the throne room, the crackling and breathing of the rapidly glowing flames drowned out the racing of her heart.

 

As she watched the flames quickly follow her trail of oil leading directly into the ballroom and toward the Haeseni food storage, a small exhale left her.  She took the hand of the other figure with her and together they hastily began to move toward their escape.  The scent of smoke had already expanded and spread over the winding halls they hurried through them. 

 

The fire would surely destroy everything it touched in those rooms, and likely put Haense more at risk of a famine; however, the only thing she felt sorry for was that she couldn't witness the flames consume everything.

 

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Within the ashes of the throne room, a particular mutt observed the carnage with no small amount of melancholy upon it's countenance; So inelegant, yet so effective. It thought to itself, it's maw slowly twisting into a wry grin at what had been wrought... And this certainly wouldn't be the last of the chaos, nae, 'twas only the beginning. 

 

For indeed, that errant 'geist may have been a being wrought of malefic workings, subsistent off of rage and misery, but even beyond the veil did it remain loyal to the cause of the righteous, the one true cause; the cause of GOD. And as it departed that throne room, such that it might linger within the graveyard of the basilica, it wondered if any yet remained who were loyal to Godan.

 

An ethereal tongue, then, licked at the air about that bedeviled tombstone, attempting to taste the stench of death that hung about the area to no avail... Yet, it did taste something. Something that lingered on the wind, that carried with it the emotions of a people. 

 

it tasted fear.

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Nataliya Reza sat up in her bed in the Cathalon Manor, where she stayed to make a swift recovery. The wayward princess then spotted Petyr, resting in a chair beside her bed, fast asleep. she moved off the bed slowly, not wanting to wake her husband. she then glided out of the room, the wooden floor creaking beneath her bandaged feet before ascending up the steps to the nearest window. Nataliya felt the warm beams of the sun upon her healing visage. The Haeseni woman then grasped her golden cross that hung around her neck before shutting her eyes. 

 

"GOD! punishes the WICKED!" A voice cried in the back of her head, one of the false priests who condemned The Princess, calling her a witch.

 

The Princess then opened her eyes that matched her father's and the King's of ole'. her darkened brows began to furrow with anger. gripping onto the necklace tighter, her knuckles turning white as the blood left them moving towards her cheeks, flowing red with wrath.  "Hell hath no fury!" she muttered. 

 

 

(sorry for the comment being weird, the server messed it up when it crapped itself.)

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Shirren sat in his bunk, staring up at the ceiling. His broken arm was killing him, the blissfoil long having fallen away, and he simply could not fall asleep. But more than the pain, it was his mind that kept him awake. For every time he closed his eyes, such came forth the visage of the terrible busts, covered in blood and ash, the roaring flames surrounding them like a swirling torrent of hellfire, staring into his soul, judging him for every wrongdoing he had ever done. 

 

Shirren's left arm started to itch. 

 

He sat up, crawling out of bed, careful not to put weight onto his tender arm. Shirren got up, stumbled down the hall, each bunk he passed devoid of an occupant, and made his way into the barracks' courtyard. When the fresh air hit his face, Shirren breathed in as deeply as he could, his lungs swelling to capacity. The night air was cool against his skin, and it soothed his burning arm. 

 

The moon shone bright, but the streets of Haense were left completely abandoned. How strange. Shirren wandered through the empty alleyways, mindlessly following a path of meaningless direction, before finally stopping before the palace, a dark, looming shadow rising into the night sky. 

 

His arm pulsed with discomfort, the desire to scratch renewed thrice over. 

 

Shirren slid down to his knees, he couldn't bear it anymore. The urge was overwhelming his sense as he tore at the bandages covering his broken arm, throwing aside the splint that held it in place. At last freed, Shirren dug his fingernails into the soft, raw skin, raking his hand back with as much force as he could. Furiously he scratched at it, running his nails up and down with more and more pressure until the skin started to tear, blood oozing down his arm as he heedlessly continued. Then his fingers dug deep into raw flesh, and he howled in pain, but it felt not like it should. Shirren's entire arm felt like is was on fire, burning away to ash one layer at a time, the all consuming flames searing into his flesh with righteous desire. Shirren needed to cleanse himself, cleanse himself of this fire, cleanse himself of his sins, cleanse himself of his doubts. He needed to be cleanse. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be cleansed. To be clea-

 

Shirren bolted awake, sitting upright in his bunk, slamming his forehead into the bunk above him. He fell back onto his pillow, clutching his bruised forehead with his right hand. A disgruntled soldiers tossed down a pillow at Shirren, sleepily telling him to quit knocking about. Then he looked at his left and gave a sigh of relief. The arm was fine, still bandaged, and only ached with a dull pain. Outside the murmur of night traffic could be heard. People talking in the streets, the faint sound of distant music drifting through the windows, and a muted laughter echoing from somewhere down the way. 

 

Shirren smiled faintly. In the few years he had spent here, those sounds had become comforting, warm and welcome. 

 

He turned to look out the window, over the city below, saying under his breath, "We are Haense, and now amount of smoke and ash can obscure you from our view. We will find you, and in the end, you will be the one who's burning." 

 

Shirren laid back down, closing his eyes. Too many things were coming to a head at once, and it was stressing him out. He then glanced at his arm. He needed to get better, and fast. He could not afford to be handicapped much longer. 

Edited by Elpreties
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Juliya Ipera had shut herself into herself in her bedroom for weeks now, the sorrow of her beloved sister’s execution replaced with an undeniable anger. Of course, she had get such a feel before, anger, but never to this extent. Never had she thought she could hate someone. Never did she think she could loathe family member. 
 

Usually, filled with forgiveness and grace, she would forgive those who have done wrong, but nothing inside her could push her to do so this time. Her sister, one who was outcasted for following love, the one who took on the responsibility of taking care of her and her brothers when her parents could not, the woman who was undeniably kind and wise, was murdered by the command of her once favorite nephew.

 

The boy she had loved and adored through his youth was turned into a monster in her eyes, and ended up too far gone. She will never forget the betrayal that her once beloved country committed, and for the first time in her thirty-seven years, she feels nothing but ashamed for her nation. 
 

“To hell with it all.” 
 


 

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Surrounded by the shadows that were haunting him, Heinrik Karl sat in his office. Crude shadows danced around him, casting their mock upon him.

"KiNsLaYeR KiNsLaYeR!" the bottle screeched, only to be deafened as he placed his lips on the bottle. 

"MaD KoRnG MaD KoEnG!" mocked and hissed the cigarette, only to be silenced as he took another drag of it. 


"TyRanT TyRaNt!the reflection of his image in the long dagger whispered and he knew exactly how to silence it...

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Another mirror was broken in Franz's chambers, such was so much of a common occurence by now that the courtiers paid it no mind, and already had a mirror ready in a storage room to replace it. He could hardly differenciate between the realm of the dead and the living anymore, so many people that once were living had transcended to the dead, but to him, he felt no difference.

 

But he held no ill will towards his nephew for what he had done, nor towards anyone else who had let it happen. He had, after all, done nothing about it himself. And when prompted by Josefina as to why he did nothing, he couldn't come up with an answer. Though, perhaps there was one to find. Already from birth, he had been without a parent, and from then on his mother had gone into solitude, leaving him as the youngest of six, Nataliya being the oldest. She had naturally been the one to take care of all of her younger siblings. His aunt, Alexandria, had once told him that family was the only people that you could truly trust, the only ones that would always have his back. But when he was fifteen, Nataliya left. She picked such a false and hopeless pretense as love over her family, over those siblings she had watched over for years.

 

Perhaps that was why he had done nothing.

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Katerina Ceciliya stared out of her window after the night of the fire. So many things had happened, and so many times she had been a coward. Too scared to stand up to her brother for the things he did to others and herself. But she kept telling herself it would be fine, after all he had apologized... But she knew in her heart it would not be, and that she had to stop being a coward. She would not lose another person she cared about to that madness. No more she told herself.

 

"No more..." she said out loud to the empty and cold air.

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Maya of Muldav, the consort of Andrik IV and mother of Sigismund II– both among the three statues of great and good men, watches on alongside her husband from the seven skies with downtrodden heart for the burning kingdom, and the royal family –the House of Barbanov– that once held such immense prestige now falling to parts. For her nation, her homeland, she sheds a tear for what has come of it and all the horrors the Haeseni people have endured in recent times; what had they all fought and died for in the past, if this was to come of their nation? 

 

"What has come of our nation?" She asked her husband, "What truth shall come of 'I would have perished had I not persisted' if this is to be the fate of our people? This chaos at the hands of our great-grandson?"

 

@AndrewTech

 

Edited by Eryane
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Erik Othaman places his head into his hands as he lets out a jagged sigh. He recollected his more youthful years as he stood in the front ranks with the soldiers of the Barayan Company. "Brothers in Arms... all willing to lay down their lives for a common goal." Erik would remember how he stood by Ser Tiberius @Eddywilson2, a man who gave everything for the Kingdom, even his life.

The Aged Othaman would remember the stories he was told about how his ancestors Tarcell Othaman and 'The Animal' @Gridlockstood atop the ramparts of Crow Keep with the Brotherhood of the Golden Crow as they fought to the last, keeping their ideals of brotherhood alive even in the face of impossible odds. They gave their lives that day.

"What was it for?" Erik would lament. He would pick up an old painting of Ser Tiberius, placing a hand atop the frame "If only vy could see what vy death means to the King. The Kingdom that sacrificed so much over the centuries, built on the backs of those who gave their all, fallen to the corrupt who kill their own family on a whim."

Edited by grnappa
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A weary man with one eye departed from a Haeseni slum, several rucksacks stained crimson slung over his craned back that brought heavy treads into the mud below. The fires that once bellowed from the pyre, and now from the palace seemed to blot out parts of the sun, the snow at his boots clung heavy with soot and ash. Wretched coughs muffled from his lips, the biting air clung to his lungs once near the center of the city. A nation the man had once grew up with, now set into such internal turmoil wrought only by its leaders, his very visage a mimicry which brought him rage- "Such hubris from something so low, so nothing.." Rambling madly in the center of the city, he barked out each muffled word, "Barclays, Baruchs, Bihars, such bastards have done worse than Kary could've dreamed. To the Hells with their filth."

Joseph, the Bastard, he cared not for his tyrannical reign nor his pathetic acts of self preservation. Malice came only from the Bihar which drove him from his home, and his spawn which only furthered a damned line. Turning off, in the distance of the burning city a looming figure watched, as it always had. Its cold gaze reflected in the icy rooftops and the paned sills, its presence ever-looming over the Maddened Scholar, lulling his heart to its fell with each coaxed whisper. Ludwig thought little for much of his current family, though he loathed the Kingdom which had turned their backs on them, whether justified or not. Trekking northward into the wastes, so did his ethereal shadow follow, its pallid macabre glinting ever so- a fragment of the past, reminder of each failure and blunder he took in life and otherwise. A new verse chorused from the amalgamation, swelling the tepid air with its mockery as it awaited the fool's precipice.

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Viktoria the Warrior stood looking down, 

her face adorning a deep, painful frown. 

Her eyes lit like fire and a snarl on her lips, 

watching as her eldest daughter's blood drips.

 

“This future I fought for, their peace brought by me,

Is not one I ever wished to see.

May your moniker reflect you, grandson of mine,

Your actions forever immortalized in time.

 

King of downfall, King of death,

King of Crows betraying my final breath.

I was not great, graceful or grand,

But my Haense was one that could withstand.

 

This cannot be withdrawn, taken back, or undone,

You’ve sealed your fate, it cannot be outrun.”

 

The poem written by the dead Queen would never reach an ear of the living, it would remain in the Seven Skies with the Warrior that had always held a soft spot for poetry. She paced from above as there was nothing she could do to help erase the blight on her lineage, and there was now only one thing Viktoria loathed more than being useless.

 

And that was her own grandson.

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From her cavernous dwelling, an ancient monarch contemplated upon her next meal. The tyrant-King of Haense proved more and more each day to be the perfect choice. Even with her more wicked inclinations, perhaps she could do that northern kingdom some selfish act of kindness.

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