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Morgana would read the announcement, a loud sigh escaping her: "They were given many chances before and they simply choose that one? Well...this is their last chance as it seems." She would move onwards, aiming for the workforce building: "Time to prepare everything."

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The infamous, illustrious, legendary merchant, Bane, half of Boon & Bane's and Logistics Guy, took a tight hold of the missive. He gave it a quick glance before pinching his beret with his forefinger and thumb, before cackling. "I bloody told 'em! All these pizza boys do is talk shite, nick shite and assault shite!"

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Zelphar reads the missive and says "I always knew this would happen, it was just a matter of time before it happened." He'd place the missive down on a table grabbing a throwing dagger and throws it at the paper with an odd smile.

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Bobrog'Lak laughed at the missive, nibbling on a steak. "Wub duh Twiggiez duing?"

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Xancraes was sitting with his pipe above some papers as he found the missive within them, with a slight frown he read through it.
"Such a broad statement, an orc or human unaffilliated with the brigands can be killed without punishment."

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"Never will the bluster of lessers be taken serious! For it is these lubbites who sought to despoil the most ancient civilizations. It is these Lubbites who have ne sheared themselves from the sins of their past! May the greed of their master lead them down a foolish path to utmost ruin!" The Wanax spoke! Though he then thought.  "Perhaps truly though, it is the gladiator pits which will purge some of the weakness" Smiles

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"We ought to purge those filfth 'toga elves', first," an aged woman spat, black mists flittering around her open palm. With a hand planted upon the skull of a horse left behind, the thing shriveled and let out a shriek before it turned to ash, blowing away into the wind. "I'm ashamed to call myself an Honorary."

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Faelion's eyelids drooped in a deliberate, unhurried motion, embracing a moment of respite as his form settled into the embrace of his well-worn wooden chair. "In the midst of our tranquil existence," he reflected in a voice as gentle as a breeze's caress, "converge various factions, each harboring an unsettling desire to disturb the peace we hold dear." The notion hung in the air, a delicate wisplet of contemplation.

 

Perchance, he pondered, the juncture had materialized for the once-drawn boundaries to be reevaluated—an admission of vulnerability met with a hint of reluctant acceptance. A faint exhalation brushed past his lips, accompanied by the rhythmic dance of his fingertips, coaxing the burgeoning ache at his temples. An unspoken accord between mind and matter, demanding a moment's solace amidst the encroaching clamor. "Perhaps the time has come to consider lowering the gates."

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