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Act III: On the Brink


Ryloth
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FIN VIIR SHUL

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HIN REYTH BOLOG DO HI

RUL    FEN     DAAR    LAAT

 

An explosion rocks the druidic countryside, fire engulfing the succulent fruit of an apple tree. A second explosion rings out, the natural order of this place crying out amidst the ruin. A third explosion claps like thunder in the air, branches torn asunder to splay across the ground. A fourth, throwing the cavalry of Druidic now-interlopers through the air in this place of His rightful bounty. The weeping trees cry out to their injured lords, and a wave of great unrest washes over the Mother Grove in the name of damnation's blight. Wrought of fire, wrought of death.

 

The ire of our Father dons upon you in its malignant black shroud, a shadow to dwarf your dragaar, to dwarf your elder tree, to dwarf your divine Aspects as nothing before Him. We mount your walls, raid your capital, burn your lands, raze your trees, and you die to our wicked blade of flame.

 

Kneel to your KING, AZDROMOTH. It is HE who is your LORD, for this land is HIS.

 

We will drive you from this place if you do not heed our command. Our patience is broken and we wait no longer. Your end is nigh.

 

Deliver our demands to Nahldroth to end the madness.

~ Alemdrom sin Uzoth

CHOSEN OF AZDROMOTH

 

Spoiler

Thank you to the soul tree player bein dope as always, was much fun! btw..

 

Wile_e_anvil.jpg

 

THUNK

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the_pocketer.jpg

((Real Image taken of a wizard unleashing the pocket anvils))

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The Seals Weaken As The Hour of Its Doom Draws Near."

 

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Edited by Apocrypha
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A random nameless woman praises Azdromoth before she goes to bed, she hugs her dragon plushie tight. 

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The Boreal Druid, casually reading such a missive, recalls the kin of Azdromoth fleeing from battle as soon as reinforcements came, and off came a wheezing, grating laugh out their maw.
"The moment one fights back, they flee with their tales 'tween their legs. Yet have the gall to hurl empty threats. You are playing a stupid game, and your prize will be earned soon enough."
The elf hummed into the night air, surrounded by all that Azdromoth's brood could muster in that day.
Failure.

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a dwarf laughs at the missive wondering why they still think they can win

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3 hours ago, DistantCryprid said:

The Boreal Druid, casually reading such a missive, recalls the kin of Azdromoth fleeing from battle as soon as reinforcements came, and off came a wheezing, grating laugh out their maw.
"The moment one fights back, they flee with their tales 'tween their legs. Yet have the gall to hurl empty threats. You are playing a stupid game, and your prize will be earned soon enough."
The elf hummed into the night air, surrounded by all that Azdromoth's brood could muster in that day.
Failure.

 

Mistress of Flame, the Witch of Embers - such insidious priestess of the First, that which sentenced a crowd of Aspectist-Xannic, and even Voidal, worshippers to an agitated state by a mere spell of her own - loomed unseen amidst the flourished lands of the absentminded druids. A most vivacious memory struck her mind - that whence Her and her allies persecuted the fleeing Boreal druii as soon as his apathetic hues glimpsed their feracious presence.

 

Most certainly, they had forced lasting fear into the hearts of the perilous false followers - sufficient to rejoice.

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Joseph Clement de Sarkozy ate his popcorn while seeing some places aflame here and there.

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