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The Raging Sea


femurlord
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From frigid coasts to tropical beaches, waterlogged zombies erupted from the depths and trudged the waste of the ocean onto land, crabs, seaweed and seashells littering their path. They swept the realm, offering watery parchment inked in watered down red.

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The halls of Raht’uma, hallowed by their bovine Heshtor is no vibrant than the aid they receive. This eve had Lizards and Pharaohs clashed, the latter slaughtered behind their flames and eventually overturned as I stepped from the sea. Know you are not as pure no more, you are my Vassal. The Bovine Goddess’ shrine fell into your blessed sea is my tax for routing the filthy Nephilim on your behalf; now you are no more than my pawns, Atemu-Ta. The Kraken I own will roam your seas and you will pay tithing to stave me by throwing captured lizards, large or small into the watery depths for suffering three losses against me.

 

For as the An-Gho and his ilk fled, suffering my strikes and haunting as their numbers were crushed and drowned. From the Sea, you both hold it in some regard, Scalies and Sandmen alike either fear or with occultic revere; know they belong to the dead who walk beneath their surfaces.

 

Soon, Tor’Praeth and Raht’uma shall feel the coast swallow them, with the briney unlife I bring. This is a total Gashadokuro victory.



 

Know my name,

 

Gashadokuro.

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“Let them fight,” says Faeryel, scrutinizing the soaked parchment, borrowed from a recently-slaughtered messenger-zombie. “I don’t care for either of ‘em.”

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"You CANNOT call the people of Raht'uma sandmen," seethed a second age warlord not too far away from the tragedy that befell their sacred cherry blossom land.

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The Smith read over the missive, burning it in his furnace before saying a prayer. 

 

The Herald tended to himself after the battle, saying words for his fallen friend in a Draconic tongue.

 

The Madman cackled and danced, clapping his hands above his head. “Why follow those silly Gods when you can follow that Lord Gashadokuro! Why, why indeed!”

 

Spoiler

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"Looks like Shaman and Azdrazi are both on the menu!" Cackled a mad mutated woman. She pins this one up on the wall for all to see. Poking another Azulyte and gesturing over to it. 

"Boss sent out a new memo." "Ain't that a kick in the head?" "So what's the deal with these dragon people?"

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Atop the sandstone city of the sea, a lone, aged Uruk named Ninkthaguz stood as he and a few of his priests collected the bodies scattered about from the attack, both from their own men of the living, the dragon-kin and the remains of the forces of the red lich (A few fingers were lost due to their snapping jaws!). As he gazed into those Briney waters he spoke "We, the priests of Nesahor stand against you, red lich, know that in the lands of Raht’uma, the dead will stay dead as long as I live" his skin was seared, his body scarred from the attack but his will remained unbroken as his hatred grew for the dark, may they all fear the light and know the power of the gods. "And I do not plan on dying any time soon..."

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"Please azdromoth, if you can hear us, please save us Azdromoth." The An-Gho began to pray shortly before the tentacled undead began flinging him around. 

 

 

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A whitewash Uruk growls as he finishes off a messenger zombie, taking the parchment from it's dead/undead hands "Darkspawn? Again?!? The Brath and Firstborn stand by us"

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"man, we really can't catch a break." The sunblessed priestess sighs...

 

A delish imp grins with excitement at such news "more chaos!!! die die!!!!"

 

"I like this kraken... Ayla fella, takin' ou' a ci'y and darkspawn? wha' a useful ac'." The Corvid grins and plays with a newly brandished bracelet idly.

 

A large kha figure furrows his brows in concern, "netlapohua inin nehcahuacahua."

 

 

 

 

 

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