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TO THE FALL OF DRAGONKIN


Goon
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Edric wonders aloud to his sons around the fireplace, "Peculiar. It seems we 'pagan' people are not puposely invited to partake in this particular party to pacify the poor lizards. I expect this performance to pain me, done by those without even a pair of peanuts in their pants."

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"Strange." Remarks Aobh with some neutral expression. Her off-white bandaged visage looks up from the chancery, to the ceiling. Who knew what the future would hold, after all? 

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AMIDST a fiery wasteland of his own doing, did he grasp and wield a fractured and ruined banner of his kinsmen; the sigil of a Three-Headed Drake. It burnt fervently amidst the ash-covered winds, embers and cinders clinging onto its tarnished beauty. And there, did he await -- bidding his time in torture until his body would reform, until he would clash steel with Paladins, not Xannities who masqueraded as them; wielding his gifts, yet knowing not of the ruinous duty that they donned. Those who'd hide, bicker and pretend to walk the Sunlit path. Pretenders of Light, not Wardens of it.

 

FLAMES would clash against light, and he'd be there to burn and wield the symbol of his people.

 

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A wayward traveller sat in a tavern afar, hearing of the missive from the chatter bustling about the area. Without a moments notice, the woman prepared to make her way home.

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A worn shaman sits within his swamp, spitting upon the missive before crumbling it up. "Mi nub luv duh azdrazi eithuh, but lats kant go lyin in duh parcheemintz. Mi klomped inferi alongzyde azdrazi, dae even had uh big zkahim boom ball!"

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The Inquisitor Eternal stared at the parchment that somehow landed into his very hands. Once again, he read the contents of the rally-call, lips curling into a gentle simper. 

 

“At least the effort was put in. Good attempt, tin-man.” Eluitholnear commented, awaiting for anyone to arrive. 

 

 

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"The slaves of the Aspects and of the Aengudaemonica, gathered into a horde to persecute a war against the righteous few who stand against their vile manipulations... The Azdrazi are allies of Descendants, the Deceiver's kind seeks to turn the inhabitants of the Material against one another.  I stand with the sons of Azdromoth." The mage said, sharpening the blade that would soon taste the blood of Xannites and Aspectists alike.

Edited by gameingg
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A Kharajyr runs the flat of an ancient bronze sabre with a silken cloth, its stained and mottled metal dull against a candle light nearby. Still the tool stood, a remnant of a by-gone kingdom of yore, of Ioth'Vah. Taking up the weapon by its handle he peers over both sides of the blade. A bolt of tattered cloth wrapped the pommel, dangling its crimson banner in a dull sun and water stained hue of rustic aura. Fa'Rot Zin-Tamn was a beautiful weapon, but an old one. Settling it atop the tabletop at his side, he leans back in his seat.

The smell of the explosion across the water where what used to be Ando Alur still hanged in the air.
"Ignorant as ever." He murmured in remark towards the missive. He thought of what might have been if the voidal tear hadn't been closed, if it only grew larger, more unstable, before shaking his head in disappointment with the Descendants once again.

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A man who allowed himself to slip into a dangerous fit of rage, looks over the missive with a cautious gaze, "Hmm?" He pondered before making the long trek to his shrine to prepare and mend his broken armor.

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A figure overlooks the wasteland that once was the Eastern Coast of Almaris.  The massive crater from Ando Alur still smoldering with voidal energy.  “What goes up.  Must come down.”

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“Dang both sides suck. I bet ten mina this group is accidentally going to be the cause of murdering an innocent. Cause what am I to expect that a canonist might NOT attempt to attack a voidal mage? Or etcera. We cannot really group together unless it’s a world ending event. Mika.” The scholarly and snappy ‘aheral would comment to the leader of the Silver Lubba with a raspy and jesting tone. “And if I am wrong, I will give ten mina back.” She’d also add after her first comment, still with the same tone, a smug smirk on her face.

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A regal Mali' scribes beneath an Elder Tree. The name Alicjo provokes a memory of Attenlund: a coterie of Xan-sworn taking up armaments against infernal Nachezer.

 

The elven lord takes up his favored relic, the Arm of Aeriel. Remembering one fateful night in the Silver woodland, he marches on.

 

"So turns the Wheel."

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The ‘aheral looked over the missive, her eyes narrowing onto the contents. She’d then hand the paper to her husband. “Seems ‘tis the season for war. They claim our own llir to be enemies. Though, they took down that damned city. They did us a great act, I fear we can never repay.” She sighed, thinking back on all her azdrazi liiran. 

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A young, raven haired youth prepares his ivory pike. “Perhaps it is time to tear down the lackluster hubris these serpents hold, before they bring down all of the land in name of their wyrm.”

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