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A CHALLENGE ISSUED


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Within the confines of her Eastern home, a certain S’indri chuckles down at the parchment, her ashen wife and son within each arm. They each peer over her shoulder at the letter. After those lime eyes scan the challenging words, she lets out a hearty chuckle. “Silvered Thugs? More like stuck-up vigilantes. Running from their problems with their tails between their legs.” She looks now to Arani. Whilst her gaze lingers, it turns to a crimson as she lights the parchment ablaze. Letting the ashes dissolve within the air. “This new age of thill are an utter disgrace. Their honor, gone. They will always think less of you. Shall one challenge you, I will equip you with the tools to rise above. They’ll be shining your boots by the end of it.”

 

 

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Another certain S'indri looks at her beautiful 'aheral wife with a grin, blowing the ashes away from the two "Mm, my love, you paint such wonderful pictures." she comments, nose in her sketchbook, "It is no wonder I fell for you my dear." she says with a chuckle, pushing her sketchbook away to pull them both into an embrace.

Aymon Liawenys vibes in pacifist, not even reading  the missive simply using the paper for his latest experiment, ripping it up and placing it in the bottom of the terrarium "You ******* flies better not die this time" he threatens, running his hands through his messy hair, an air of complete and utter erratic madness within the man.

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cringe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Haskir wonders first why Amaesil is requesting for the Elibar'acal to fight his champion. He then wonders why he didn't request for the Elibar'acal to present a champion. How much better a fight it would be to see the champion of the High Elves, Acharon cut down the enemy!

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Athri wandered along down the roads to Elvenesse, reading as she did so. The woman was bored of home, and decided to make a trip. "How odd... suppose I should care." She'd shrug, tossing the missive off behind her as she continued her trek.

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"Such hostility and antipathy displayed by these Silver Lions.." Ro'ya Nullivari huffed from within the halls of her family estate, shaking her head as she studied the missive for a long moment, before tearing the parchment and casting its remains into the open fireplace before her. 

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"How strange." Arevthor Tathvir mumbles as he reads the series of missives from his bed within the Fennic Remnants.  The Snow Elf eventually rises to his feet, his mind quite focused on the actions of his High Elven cousins.

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