HEAR ME, DEMONKIND

[Chimeraof1999 1187]

𝔑𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥𝔲𝔷 𝔎𝔯𝔢𝔦

A devil read missive sent out by the church in an abandoned home in the coldest depths of the North. His eyes squelched in pain as he read the missive in his hands, his armored knuckles creaking and his plated fingers gripping the paper in anger. With such, he forms a ball with his fists clasped together, paper in-between palms before letting out a booming and frustrated...
"GGGGGHHHEEEEEEELLLLL!"
The table below the devil, the one he struck, was torn asunder into blisters of wood and scrap. The creature would continue the rampage within the abandoned room he sat in, throwing objects asunder in a fit of rage; A tantrum. He and his brothers lost, a major loss to the devils within Aevos. The covens he knew, vanquished.

After time had passed, he sat in the room idled, everything and everywhere destroyed in the tantrum; Yet, no satisfaction was given.

He lost.

 

[ivery 590]

Across the world from Reinmar, the same sun that rises over their victory peaks over a forest of fir trees. To those within the rowdy tavern, it is no brighter than the candles. Perhaps they are squabbling again. Perhaps there is blood or, Lord forbid, fire. If it is a good day, though, it might be quiet. Peaceful quiet from broken people, still struggling to learn that there is a world that might allow them kindness.

 

For once, Deia is not there to know which it is. Her focus is on the rising sun, and her climb to meet it. A foot on a window ledge, her elbows on the roof lining, and she manages to pull herself up just in time to watch warm pinks and oranges bloom across the horizon. A mix of colors she cannot hope to capture on canvas are spread before her, ever changing. Through it all she watches, tucked alone atop the tavern roof- as she has done for weeks now, as she will do for many weeks after. The sight still dazzles her.

 

She knows in her heart that something is missing. That even if she could freeze the moment in time, it would be incomplete. And so, inevitably, her eyes close. She pictures the first of these mornings, and listens to the crackle of the hearth below. She tells herself it is enough.

[AntiSociety 709]

The Wraith-Lich deliberated upon a missive, seemingly a collection of words documented and since spread from person to person. He clenched the missive upon reading particular words.

 

"I know your name. I know your face. Never show it within the Light again."

 

The missive was crumbled, the Wraith-Lich droned on as he spoke to himself aloud.

 

"The Light I have already long abandoned. You speak of what we've abandoned, yet you are no different. You pledge thyself to Deities who entrust you with their power. You forsake and continue to forsake the mortal form which you come from. You perpetuate the cycle which binds us, and so you shall die as all others have. In vain."

 

Aratakrast turned to peer upon a gang of skeletons, zombies alike lumbering in work. Breaking, mining, building. They continued like clockwork. The Wraith-Lich sat upon a throne, staring upon these beings with his skeletal figure. He spoke to himself again.

 

"I will outlive you, and the next self-acclaimed warrior who seeks glory.. Again, and again, and again.."

-

"When will they learn?"

He mumbled to himself.

[MysticalWeasel 910]

Spoiler

 

An imp flaps its vestigial wings, carrying in its talons a parchment. Entering into some unknown cavern, its sight darkened. The heaves and rasps as the infernal creature pushed its physical limits. Acting as a messenger, it arrives to the decrypted room, with but a single bed and a desk. A crimson flame illuminated on the candle, revealing the make out of a cursed child. Its piercing eyes glow in the dark, awaiting for the imp to explain the disturbance. Merely being handed the letter with claw like holes in it. 

"So easy it is to think you've won, when the light blinds to the truth. Another hero, another man succumbing to his own ambition and self need for gratification. Speaking of hollow victories and threads that cannot be understood. Yet in time, this small taste of battle will come to be washed with a sour taste of truth."

Mindless ramblings of one, who had witnessed this would be warrior's displays of 'heroism'. His tone one of dismiss as he had seen his ilk before, and he would see them again. The warlock toils in his damp dark cavern. Licking his wounds and ego, for when he next would emerge to bring about truth. 

[HurferDurfer1 2978]

Tulip shakes his fist, clutching the crumpled missive in his hand as he curses his fated rival Villorik, though admittedly the enmity was one sided and completely fabricated on his part. He was a a wretched underling to be sure, with great delusions of grandeur. He had a desire to be lord over all things great and beautiful, if only Villorik would stop foiling his shallow plots!

[Xarkly 17299]

3 minutes ago, HurferDurfer1 said:

Tulip shakes his fist, clutching the crumpled missive in his hand as he curses his fated rival Villorik, though admittedly the enmity was one sided and completely fabricated on his part. He was a a wretched underling to be sure, with great delusions of grandeur. He had a desire to be lord over all things great and beautiful, if only Villorik would stop foiling his shallow plots!

 

Villorik knew Tulip's name and his face, but he alone was allowed to show it in the Light:)