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SMILING FACES, SHOW NO TRACES


Moenah

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"Hmph. My sister's anger was always fire and not frost," Villorik grunted to himself. He did not realise it, but he smiled.

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Ailred Ruthern applauded from the seven-skies, his pride evident as he watched his relative wear the stitched breeches  - a feat that few MEN could achieve. "The last time I witnessed such cowardice was during the Siege of Southbridge, with soldiers bickering like lobsters in a boiling pot."

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iconic, going to make a page on the wiki for this

 

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Renilde understood the connotation to the former chamberlain's words, and shook her head upon the realization. She felt relieved, yet bad for the woman who'd endured the treachery of the vassal that'd been outcasted from the Commonwealth. She sighed, licked her finger, and flipped the page to pen a letter to Princess that would validate her experience.

 

"She said it, and said it best." The Petra's monarch tsked her tongue and shook her head, rereading the letter again and again; she wished she'd had the nerve, the gall, and the freedom to say all of what the Princess of Merryweather had.

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"My, my. Seems all of the Heartlands are falling to chaos and infighting." A sickly Petrine Baroness idly commented to her husband and his kin, far away from the turbulence -- and sheltered by the towering walls of Isaakev, where she had been forcefully moved some months prior. 

@Pancho@Doggedwasupxxx@annabanana1014@RaijenStars

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Moderator Comments

 

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Posts breaching the Forum Rules found HERE have been hidden, warnings dispensed. Consider the following post, made days ago, to be a advisement that I will be moderating the forums against anon-posting, sh*t-posting, and other practices that breach the Forum rules. Cheers, have a good day!

 

 

PS: Please note that you need to not vague-post in the form of "The Illatian said. . ." or "The Princess swore. . .". Specify your character's name or, if you hold an official position that is mentioned in another thread, specify that position such as "The High Curator of the Clementine Court" or "Princess of Marsana."

 

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Fabian d'Arkent-Kortrevich chokes on his tea, and on base instinct, furiously rings the bell above his desk meant to summon the palace gardeners from the greenhouse, the last safe haven in Valdev's blizzardy plight. A congratulatory bouquet was in order: and more importantly, a hearty cheer for his younger cousin.

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CUmJoUy0PT9dEas_-09IcLzGwZW2dYJM7TJv2fvG4fBKRaNIoa_DQSwidAtLzwV6mO2P-7AGB2D_G7J-cQRc8dX4qKM2dMcM1XoZc-YM5sNoqhs1IbMJf8AfQbroG6kJp95I3hoWjdr7uF_fpXj9BBU

 

Cunimund led his horse in a canter towards the Hand of Horen. He entered the palace, making the mountain-strenuous climb to the office for the High Curator. He removed the ornate lapel pin, indicating his office, and rested it on his old desk. He took a deep breath, eyes scanning over the copious bookshelves and their fill. He left the office without a single book retrieved from the office he retired from.

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