Jump to content

OF ROT AND RUIN

 Share


yeeter2k

Recommended Posts

 

AD_4nXcGc7r7lstx239ZHJvkYzlUZmAGWp0wmthx97si8wvaAzEfV2u_w5JGwO-ea1dpqdYMXpDYHha6J22r_1xlpQVmBtNUZJrHFsgX_dAdG3qOZMd4oNIfKbGXPE0cpmn-iDXtef0e?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

AD_4nXf24CXc17mj-1E4Tho1Xm99V2AdTd-pmLSG0eXHFWENI3aUwHcgSYPvzoIpIfpK_b-ubKvHas84kuszNTjC0encQePW26k1Usq1ScOnieVKGuZyF_PvQUnja5YcoMll6rGVZio-4g?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

Distributed by the Office of the Lord Bailiff of Reinmar.

In the Year 231 of this Second Age.

AD_4nXfH1obQmSp4EgVI9QTiQznR3fkMI-WywlxwAxylu8tEbcqNi2-QhI7kgpbBfSJASZnkduqvjitsDL6iA5fp52V5igC7-m-ttZ5XG_sZg63KhSlpHJPevBgWvexqROSOT6mJ5MoXuw?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

AD_4nXfxGnuUnNrdseY_mtIcdkA5HvEM3KuC3r_bNi5E4hQpa0ckkeWtnbr4RywiLfawFHvini0yjzXk2FHcIpHhLzxpkBvj2nrvZmw-7Ctu6KTCeMcKG5B70c4FJSWrI19-BZKsM_Wizg?key=jpC_3aGi8is6VyA4Wg-CQJalÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR,



 

AD_4nXcdvvsGBcbo5aPAl512qOQqi120KB4Yi9vIv4wqXNpc2vh2NIZP4R707Y6MM_p9_Mt--5iLf7afnqH3MFdHT6CTO2-gu0uC2j4Ut0q9AS-NJ91uSx7z1mkQA-SexClUgNzDzISZNA?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

 

HE ONCE HELD A SWORD IN HONOUR.

Now his hand clutches naught but air and bone.

 

HE ONCE DRANK FROM THE MEAD WITH BROTHERS.

Now his jaw hangs loose, tongueless and cold.

 

HE ONCE HAD A NAME.

Now the stake bears his skull—and three words of shame.

 

AD_4nXee9XNRfg5oXa7ipAGPtq42ccaROu17-a4uXtYcwgnHi7wj_opkS0eprfhVqHmJUdFHSFk_PVkVORcnTEpe9XbiZJUOX__v8e6f4A01gZDr4eS4YvzgbtMVFMKtRn5DgaXpOWo89g?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

 

His name was Urzul. A son of riverfolk, born under clean sun and the shadow of mountains. He trained with the spear in fair duels, led men against brigands, was honoured by his kin. But Urzul wanted more.

Not coin. Not cattle. Not kinship.
He wanted power.

They told him that Voidal Magick was safe. "Just a spark, just a blink," they said. "A new tool for a new age." So Urzul learned the runes, spoke to stars he could not name, and let the void speak back.

But spark became hunger.

Soon he was chasing whispers. “A little vampirism won’t hurt,” they said. “It’s still you, just stronger. Just better.” And so Urzul let the night into his blood. He stopped eating. He started biting.

But thirst became rot.

He struck a deal with a Lich. “Let me serve you,” he said, “and let me never die.” So they took his soul. He stopped dreaming. His heart stopped. His body stood still.

But stillness became slavery.

He died in a skirmish- yet rose again. No longer Urzul. Just bones, rusted armour, and a voice that hissed like dead leaves. He thought himself a warlord. But he was a thrall. A puppet. A joke. A walking insult to life and God.

He came to Reinmar’s gates, and threatened to slaughter our children.

He received a stake.

Now his skull rots outside Reinmar, rainwater pooling in his broken helm. And beneath it?

Three words carved in the old tongue:
FEIGRCursed.
KNECHTThrall.
UNGIUnloved.

Let it be known:
NO MAN EVER STAYS JUST A VOIDAL MAGE.
EVERY SPELL IS A STEP INTO THE PIT.

Voidal magic. Blood magic. Soul bargains. It always ends the same.

A cold skull.
A name forgotten.
A shame eternal.

AD_4nXdxNtnzhpRZGS2tNECk77WV85F4o-7QErnyY06WSEeZKHGpustpVad7H-aRkfPJgJDuVRH_Pmxo9-jDvEMuTbZA4ajvUvQsnKinYZRzD58h-4YcKLoObTg3MHFTzNdu2s3DD61D?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

 


AD_4nXefMV7r8KvteU0_444o4l2ad0Npb4uomo5aYrxjK9jmccA_ZkRiKm6TEiaHh2ztohNr9nHCL1NHR1sMC9NxNakByjbXKIfXbsmwuxx6vNRZBLO1R0eBpFnrtZUmrTtntzv5-_6eFA?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

ZUERST REIN, ZULETZT RAUS

AD_4nXecaFaZo6d9uF5fG8fdipGqHEN8iSh2uyQN-bGT1aQY5dSieurwQaZploZhs7GwbUwa3jXwjlEgMZkwVlOUFpi6fYK2ZSUI9HN0EUnufXS0H0kixJpvMYlbNeQdvQQ4YGO5-XnSzQ?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg
JOHANN VON WEISENSTEIN,

Lord Bailiff of Reinmar, 2nd Chief of the Tribe of Weisenstein

AD_4nXf-VQ3WCIqLfALjctLffYFaQyKdXxj59LfQtu50RXEfjRAuszE7c5JI73a7Wt1OZLAagibhH1-zgD-nwPyuHBQfpLClf4MJmB_ZSUfO2mpLePOrqDKuNjSvfEPZ1dLSmzFfYYsU?key=35wyK5INKDr4rhAFqEilvg

Link to post
Share on other sites

Theveus Sythaerin - a mage - decided it best to practice his magic here 

Link to post
Share on other sites

Theodemar shook his head

“The Glebbites have returned…”

Link to post
Share on other sites

Upone having been read the contense of the misive by its creator... for the orc themselfs knew not how to read begun to grumble and mald in the corner. Not pleased with its own portrayal... yet also unable of writing eather it did not create much in the terms of a response. One was certain though, it would be back... sooner or later, but it would not forget easyly. 

Link to post
Share on other sites

 Share

  • Recently Browsing   0 members

    No registered users viewing this page.



×
×
  • Create New...