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The Death of a Beard, 1850


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Solomon would read the post over and chuckle a bit "Duncan is a savage."

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The Landgrave of Alstreim stared, unblinking, at his Urguani Legion figure representing the Grand King, surrounded by an entire regiment of Imperial State Army pieces in just a handful of simulated dice rolls. His fingers drummed upon the wargame board in uncertainty.

 

"...Nikita's gonna kill me if I have to get another custom one painted."

 

 

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Okri squats in honor of the King of Squats, making sure he's in top physical shape for when vengeance, inevitably, comes.

 

Spoiler

join the lift thread

 

 

 

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1 hour ago, XOCO said:

Captain Ezekiel Moores grins upon hearing the news, grabbing his brigadiers and dragging them all down to the pub. 

 

"A toast for Duncan! Long live the Sheep-Slayer!" He roars, thrusting his tankard into the air. @Duncan the Fearsome

 


Duncan thrusts his tankard up in return pleased by his brigade standing by him he would shout out to the group  SKAL!” before drinking the contents of tankard in a singular swig

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"So Orenians resort to cowardly night raids, is anyone really surprised? You just proved all the things people say about the Empire in hushed tones." Ruathar Indoren would frown at the cowardly raid on Urguan.

Edited by Tulan
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Eunomia Vanrose looked over her new dining table, moving around the chairs she had just pushed in, her hands gliding over the cotton table cloth, smoothing out the wrinkles of the fabric. Her amber gaze moved to the window, the palace she had been in earlier that night just barely in sight, the edges blurred by the mist of cool air that flowed through Providence. Her mind stalled as she recalled the shame of the dwarven king, the sizzle of burned flesh that pervaded the momentary silence of the court as he was branded. A grimace took to her features once more as she shook the thoughts from her head, returning to her task of decorating the table. As she lit the candle at the center, a low hum escaped her as she mutters to herself,  "War seems rather complicated. Even something as simple as cutting hair leaves ripples in society."

 

Aylin Vanari glanced over the missive she had retrieved from her post box, the paper crumpled from being stuffed in her satchel beside her other letters. Her frown deepens as she reads over the words, the ink stamped on the page smearing as the rain dripped from the overhang above. A slight curse slipped from her lips as she pulled further back under the awning, her viridescent gaze running over the wet cobblestones just out the clan house. Folding the missive, she makes note to speak of it with a few of her fellow officers, letting out a slight sigh as she opens the door and steps into the warm space of the entryway, intending to do away with her worry until she could discuss it in a more apt setting.

Edited by Beelzemier
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“So they become angry when churches are fought in, but they go and do this?

 

Kosher Daesmon Fier snorta, shaking his head.

 

“Only God can forgive them for their crimes, and for what I must do.”

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Amelia Hughes eventually crept through her small cottage just as the sun began peeking through the morning fog. She briefly looked into her twin toddlers rooms, making sure they had not awoken from the creak of her armor. As she lay in bed and the sun poked through the windows, she finally fell into a long awaited sleep, dreaming of their fantastic escape from the mountains.

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A Beardling would return to the capital in the morning, unknowing of what had happened during the night. When he received the news he couldn't believe his ears. "Oi s'pose t'at shudn't come as ah surproise. Our capital es open, even en toimes 'o war, t'ey sureleh didn't 'ave ahn 'ard time gettin in." He said, filled with sorrow for the loss of the Grand King's beard. "Per'aps dah toime 'as come tah beh less trustin' 'o foreigners 'n shut dah gates." He contemplated as he put on his first self-made beard bead. 

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"Well, I hope that's not gonna worsen the situation... It sure will" a sad Kharajyr notes

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"O' GOD, Charlotte!" lamented the Duchess Auvergne to herself. "Whatever are you doing, sister?" Holding little regard for the midgets, that aged imperial merely lamented over her cousin (and sister).

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William Trissingham seeks to hasten his military enlistment application, afraid he’ll miss out on all the glory.

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Luthriel wonders to herself, "So . . . they fought a long and hard battle, abducted the king of their enemies, only to remove his facial hair?!?!?!  Was there not some other thing they could have done with the opportunity of having the king in their custody?  Perhaps torturing him until war ceased?  Drugging him and hiring an illusion mage to mold his mind into a more useful shape?  Or simply the good, old fashioned method of holding him for ransom?  I fail to see what good this petty act of gloating and pride does to end the violence swiftly and to minimalize the causalities of this war."

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A new acolyte in the church shook her head from side to side. "A chance to actually end the war before it began dropped on their literal doorstep. A chance to end the fighting. A chance to end the death. And they chose, instead, to guarantee it."

 

She sank to the altar in prayer, reciting the words of the Scroll of Spirit. "The Lord is the Lord GOD without peer, but you have conjured in his place a wicked and vengeful host. This is a sin of senseless imprudence, for there is no god but the most merciful GOD. He created all things, and all things are His children. So I find that you seek power in wrath, but there is no power like unto GOD’s. For he is the Most Merciful, the Most Powerful, and even the thousand petty wraths of the spirits do not overcome His mercy."

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