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A Devil no Less


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In a little hovel at the woodland’s edge, a gaunt elfess feels the absence of her father deeper than anything. The loss is insurmountable, hurts more than death.

 

She retrieves parchment and pen, and opens her window to the shadows beyond.

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carry on my wayward son

 

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devil man crybaby

 

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A bereaved 'thill recalls the memories of the Okarir'tir walking out of the cell covered in the victim's blood. And even still did the armored figure let out an amused huff and utter out a simple question.

"Feel better?"

"...Ti." The Okarir responded.

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A breeze flows through the Silver City. A certain elfess draws herself up from her desk in her library-top office, where she'd fallen asleep amidst towers of books and papers. Hazily, she examines her surroundings.

 

"Celestia?" The voice of a certain militiaman calls from below. 

 

An inexplicable wave of contentment washes over her.

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A pale thing crumbles in the forest, trembling in prayer.

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Some Elven Man awoke from a peaceful sleep only to be instantly engulfed by a sudden and painful realization. A scaled, alchemical hand reached outward and met glass. It took just one moment before him before he sent himself through the barrier and onto the stone floor below - like he had so many times before.  

 

Perhaps he liked waking up on the grime and filth of the floor, enjoyed rolling around in his own sickness in the time it took him to breath properly once more. It a way, it symbolized a new start - where one path had failed, he started back at the beginning to go forth again. In another vein, it symbolized that he had failed.

 

In any case, he looked out to the darkness that surrounded himself. Though these eyes had never worked before, they were slowly beginning to painfully adapt. To a small, goat thing he croaked out a hellish sentence before passing out.

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Beautiful writing. I will add Morgana's reaction once she learns IRP (hopefully soon)

 

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An elven man’s jaw hung aloft, his breathing shook as his heart pulsed into his throat and his gut rolled over itself; there was silence, whispering, and finally- screaming, he dropped to his knees and drug his fingernails against the ground beneath, embedding wood grain up to his cuticles. His voice carried throughout the confines of his home, pouring into into the streets of the silver city; There on the ground, he would remain for hours, pleading to something, someoneto unsee this tragedy, to wake him from such terror.

 

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Absolutely beautiful post

 

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