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ASTARK, GRAVEROBBER

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ASTARK, GRAVEROBBER

 

The mantle of a Herald is a charge, not a throne.

He who guides, not reigns, and comforts in the word of Xion.

 

What is a preacher who does not know the faith?

 

You have hindered Xion at every turn until your selfish pursuit of power found strength in our tenets.

You do not care for our scriptures, our histories, our revered practice.

You have proselytized poorly to the faithful. Behold your flock; so many have strayed.

 

You are not righteous in your claim, founded upon footholds of egocentric ideation. For far too long your heresy has been ignored and your critics too oaken.

 

It is the right of any Xionist to challenge a title mistreated,

On behalf of the true herald of Embers, Barrowlord Azazel: I, Gravelord Melandrach, move to challenge as his singed champion. Gleefully you robbed his grave and let him rot, for you rathered his fate sealed than a potential check on your own perceived importance.

 

You spit on his mercy, which alone saved you from my wrath. 

 

I CALL FOR A DUEL OF WORDS; on the Fundamentals of Xion.

I call the Pampo Perea, emissary of Mordring, to adjudicate. 

 

By the primordial laws of Xion a challenge answered with silence is a mantle forfeit. 

Gravelord Melandrach,

Acting Singed Champion of Barrowlord Azazel

 

@Zarsies@TheWhiteWolf

 

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F8CbJJu.png 

 

Separate from the amalgam of wretched souls, there lies a singular one, beaming with hallowed and profane light alike. It is formed in the shape of the screaming face - and yet, the face forms unto a wretched, unending grin, baring rotten teeth.

 

It screams.

 

"FRI MIG FRA DENNE VERDEN."

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A Brother of Tsion, adopting the lingo of a sanctified figure, mulled over the discussion that had preceded the formal missives... "May our just cause be led by a figure of virtue, and may their champion prevail." he ushered, keen to attend the duel.

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A freed flame smoulders, once-doused and now stoked.
In an unknown cavern the Barrowlord licks their wounds with tongues of heatless fire.


"Blessed are the Challengers."

 

The Phylactery hums in the dark.
 

Spoiler

 

 

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The Scholar hastily reserved seats.

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Amusement frothes from someone's visage; "A battle."

 

Spoiler

Mc melandrach vs Mc astark

 

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First Judge Fornotos, former Herald of Strife, readied themselves similarly to safeguard the oncoming battle. 

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Within the depths of some nameless snow laden forest, a woman sat upon the edge of a cliff gazing out over the roiling waves ahead, her visage barely illuminated by the fading moon above.

There were no thoughts on the coming exchange of words for the title she held, in truth it meant little to her. She had done what she could to restore the Occultist Art given to her in a fractured state, now her mind drifted off to other tasks and obstacles that stood before her..

On the road to Divinity..


Dark Night and Twinkle Star. Each night she spends time in the… | by Nimrah  Mushtaq | Medium

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Silfyr, one of the few mortals within the depths of Murkwater, reads the missive gleefully. 

 

A lesson and a debate in one? He will not miss this.

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“Herald of Embers… A title befit for only the most Orthodox of Xion, to which, Astark is not.” The elderly Southeron explained to his flock of Weirhents. “Long ago she had left, to start a cult with herself at the forefront, and only claimed the mantle once it seemed fitting… Either way, a debate will be fruitful. As the title of Embers implies, their way with words must be… Supa hot.”
 

Spoiler

 

 

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A pale elfess, donned with a mask that aids in her breathing, catches wind of such a debate. She slowly comes to a stand, leaning upon her stave as she took several steps forward. "To split what was mine into three, only to turn against one another. A pity, is it not?" She thought to herself, as she wandered. A crow left her side, soaring through the skies with a strip of cloth in it's beak. Who knows where her next destination was?

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