Heed the Scorched Crown

[hearth_ 1023]

 

Nailed to signposts across Azuras was a sheet of parchment, its corners curled from humidity.

 

────────────☾✦☽────────────

 

 

Silence has returned to Kalldur’s shores at our departure. Where we rose our shelters there now surely lies rot and ruin, yet still the Song still Sings beneath it. The land will remember, as it always does.

 

Alas, not all that lingered there was lost to memory.

 

On our last day on that infernal rock, nestled in the central valleys of Kalldur, a Lich entered the Mother Circle’s encampment. It named itself Urk-vyr’adalm, King in Undeath, Ruler of the Scorched Crown. After my own failings, it proclaimed its oath and swore its return.

 

I’ve seen the strength in its will, and if it is left to fester, this realm will know a despair unseen for centuries.

 

This cannot be the burden of a single Circle or faith alone. The Song is threatened by a silence I am at a loss to contain. I am no Archdruid. There will come no shame for disregarding this cry. But, I would call upon what brave Druids remain across every Circle, the Templars who still embrace the righteous zealotry of their patron, and any hands with a vested interest in the living world. If this corruption is left to take root, we will know its influence far from where I first met it.

 

The hunting horn of the Scorched Crown howls. Heed it.

 

 

────────────☾✦☽────────────

 

Thalen, The Harvest Druid

Cerridwen's Devoted

 

 

 

Spoiler

Inciting Incident

 

[Chuuwys 502]

The ginger stopped in her tracks at the out-of-place missive pinned to the boards on the roads making their way from the Western plains on her journey to Iryalen.

 

Out of pure curiosity, she'd halted her travel to read it past still-damp hair after the rain. It isn't the chill of the wet that strikes ice through her body, but a familiar terror she had yet to cure, a nausea-inducing reminder of an incident she had not begun to wipe from her memory for good.

 

She didn't need the missive to remember the name. It already rang in her mind when the nights were late and sleep didn't approach her. Hollow, shrieking, unmistakeably undead.

 

She unpinned the page, carefully folding it with leaves between each fold to keep the ink safe from bleeding and parchment sticking together.

 

"...Ahernan, Harvest. I'll let them know when I get there."

[LichinCrocs 257]

☩ ✦ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔘𝔯𝔨-𝔳𝔶𝔯’𝔞𝔡𝔞𝔩𝔪 ✦ ☩

 

𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔢 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯,

𝔐𝔶 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰, 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪… 𝔞𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤.  
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰, 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔫, 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔫.  
𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔡𝔢. 𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔤𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔡.

 

 

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰.  
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢, 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔫𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔱.  

 

 

𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔢. 𝔄𝔫 𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔤𝔤𝔩𝔢. 𝔄 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩, 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱.

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔰. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔗𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔰.  
𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡.  

𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔱. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰.  
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡.  

𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔯.

 

 

𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔢, 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢.  
𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪.  
𝔗𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔷𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔯𝔶. 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔦𝔯𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔰.  

𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔫.

 

 

 

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔥𝔬𝔴𝔩, 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔦𝔱 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬.  
𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨,  
𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶 — 𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔶𝔢𝔞𝔯, 𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢, 𝔬𝔯 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔶 — 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱.  
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔡𝔞𝔶, 𝔦 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢.  
𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔲𝔩, 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔢.

 

 

☩ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔰. ☩

𝔘𝔯𝔨-𝔳𝔶𝔯’𝔞𝔡𝔞𝔩𝔪

 

Edited October 19, 2025 by LichinCrocs

[Jaslaw 602]

Urzul, might have not been capable of reading in common. Yet, the existence of the missive soon reached it as well through 𝔘𝔯𝔨-𝔳𝔶𝔯’𝔞𝔡𝔞𝔩𝔪's ghouls. Quiet cackle following soon after to such grand news as the creatures head shook at the messengers.

"We shall be ready to fight, should they be foolish enough to seek us out... It's SO much easier when they come to you, rather than you to them." Pausing briefly as it finished off with a message to be delivered back to the lich. "Black Rose's banner remains ready to be called upon." With a dismissive wave sending the messengers away.

Strangely, the death-knight being more excited rather than concerned about said news... It did wish to try a couple of things against its druidic foes after the last few fights it had.

 

 

 

[TuggIsHere 54]

ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍᴘᴛʏ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʙᴀ, ᴡᴀʟᴛᴢɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪɴᴅ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴅᴇʟɪɢʜᴛᴇᴅ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰʟʏ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇɪʀꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏᴏ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰʟᴏᴀᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ, ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ.

 

ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʟᴀʏ ʀᴏᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜᴛᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜰᴏᴏᴛ, ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ʀᴀᴛ-ʜᴏʟᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛʟʏ ᴀᴡᴀʏ.

 

ᴏɴᴇ ʟᴇᴀꜰ ꜰᴇʟʟ ɢᴇɴᴛʟʏ, ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʟᴏᴛʜ. ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇᴀ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴀᴍᴘ, ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ.

 

ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛɪʟᴛᴇᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ.

 

ʜᴏᴡ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅʟʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀʟʙᴀ ꜱʟᴇᴘᴛ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏᴏ, ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀᴜᴛᴜᴍɴ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ, ꜰᴀɴᴛᴀꜱɪᴇꜱ, ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ꜱᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ- ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴇʏᴇʟɪᴅꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴏᴘᴇɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍʟᴀɴᴅꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɪɴ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ. ᴏʙʟɪᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ɪɢɴᴏʀᴀɴᴛ.

 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ 

 

ᴀᴢʜɴᴀ'ꜱᴀᴇʟᴇᴋ ᴄᴀʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴘᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ, ᴘᴀʟᴇ, ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀ ᴠᴇɪʟ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀɪᴍꜱᴏɴ ɢᴏꜱꜱᴀᴍᴇʀ. ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀɴᴀɪʟꜱ ᴘɪᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇᴀꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴍ, ʟᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛꜱ ʙɪᴛꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇꜱ ꜰᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ꜱᴡᴇᴘᴛ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ.

 

"ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ... ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴜɴɢ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴀᴅɪɴɢ ʟᴜʟʟᴀʙɪᴇꜱ. ꜱᴏɴɢꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ꜱᴜɴɢ ꜱᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴀɴ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ʜᴏʟᴅꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪɴɢ." ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴅʀᴀᴡʟᴇᴅ, ᴇᴄʜᴏɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇɴᴇᴅ ʀᴏᴏᴍꜱ, ʙᴏᴜɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ʙᴏʟᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴏʀꜱ.

 

ᴀᴢʜɴᴀ'ꜱᴀᴇʟᴇᴋ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ᴜɴʜᴜʀʀɪᴇᴅ, ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴇᴇᴋ ɪᴛꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴡɪɴᴅᴏᴡꜱ, ɢʟɪɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰꜰ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇꜱᴛꜰᴜʟ ꜰᴀᴄᴇꜱ. ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʟᴏɴᴇʟʏ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ, ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ ɢᴀᴛᴇ.

[Navigator 4260]

 

 

The Herald of Xandraza gazed upon the parchment sequestered by one of his imps, gleaming over its contents with interest and curiosity. Lazily, he set it aside, a grin delicately tugging at his lips, a visage of peace and calm unlike a False Prince of Hell plagued by maddening visions. Sharp nails scraped against the armrests of the dark chair he sat upon, in a dimly lit cavern upon lands he already loathed despite having just set foot upon them. As the cacophony of angels sung into his mind, filling his psyche with false promises, this enlightening conflict proposed itself as a refreshing alternative to the boredom of the Zevir Tulkhurz. Verily, the forces of the King in Undeath were free people of Ra’Dazkah-Vor, and a servant of the Loathsome Aspects could not be allowed to trample the free people underneath heavy hooves.

 

 

And so, he stood from his chair and rounded the squabbling mass of imps and zekul that bit and clawed at each other for something to do, for something to kill. There was much to do. Many to summon. Things to be set in motion. But this? This would prove a healthy diversion to the Tarun’Ildrith, and the servants of loathsome aenguls would verily see the terror of the infernal.

 

 

[A_Cosmosss 27]

"What you writing there?" The Mali'ame chimed in the usual sprightly manner, leaning to peer over the Druid's shoulder as he wrote. Only to be met with the somber reality that crossed view. The curve of her lips faded, knuckles balling up. "So that's what happened that day..." Her eyes traced the words a few more times to make sure it was right what she read.
 

An all too familiar pulse of pale smoke rose from the Druid's body, surrounding her too with the golden motes that danced erratically around her figure. Displaying the storm of emotions that she tried to hide behind her next words. The anger, the sorrow, the fear, the guilt

"Tuva'leh iheiuhii sulluelne salumeh ker'ento." 
 

After a long, deliberate exhale. The breath she spoke of resonated through her being. A cacophony of hums that embraced the Druid and rippled inwards like wind over a flower field. Attuning herself to seek the feelings that most resembled her own. The anger of the wolves as they fought for dominance, the sorrow of the leaves as they dried to fall. 
 

Soon getting ushered by that tune to other places that soothed her spirit. Breaking through her like sunlight through the dense canopies.

For a moment of silent she let them flow, merging with the greater harmony until her own feelings were undistinguishable from the world's own ache. Reminding herself of what she promised to maintain, the Balance that existed within The Song of Everything.

"Not while the birds still sing outside, not while the flowers bloom and wither." Like a vow, she continued. As if trying to cast off the doubt rose in her wake. Carrying a rare conviction that only the Aspects could provide her tone. "Not while we can still fight."
 

"Next time." A fierce smile returned to her face, an almost mischievous glint as her fangs showed. "You won't stand alone."

[Mordringfan 166]

The Thrall quietly exhales through where his nose once was in a mimicry of frustration, continuing to read through the singular piece of paper in pure silence, the harsh winds of the Western Forest causing the already worn paper to violently flail in the wind. He reaches out with his boney hand, wrapping it around the nailed piece of paper and ripping it off where it was hung in one swift pull. 

He stuffs it into his the chainmail of his worn armor, possibly having been passed down by generations of different folk that found themselves in such a situation. Domnhall finally begins to quietly speak to himself, void of any other people nearby to overhear him "Wel than, it semeth I shal have my werk y-shorn out for me". 

In the moment he couldn't help but feel a sense of hatred for those who had the audacity to place these posters throughout Azuras, denouncing The Scorched Crown and calling for all that could to rally against it. But still, he couldn't help but force a grim smile from underneath his helmet. This was going to be all he wanted, the chance to kill as many bastard living as he could, the chance to inflict the same curse on those lucky enough to continue living happily. 

And with a swift turn of his old and worn boots, he makes makes his way off, walking off towards the path leading to the small settlement of Kuraki-Kuni.