Di Roused Taunttongue | An Eidolon Narrative

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

Endless lengths of vines, creepers, & lianas rushed past Zilzibin. Palm fronds bent & sprung free of his weight, though he felt no impact as he imagined himself falling. The colors of macaws, monkeys, & frogs speckled the stretch of green that enveloped his vision as far as his mind's eye could see. Then, he perceived in his innermost self as if he had been emptied into a vast vase with water filling its volume. He felt pressed up against by what he could only comprehend as algae, grimey & setting his senses awry. His vision turned black, then his eyes opened.

 

He looked upon a gathering of eldritch mystics with one particularly arabesque man whittling away the final details of a wooden mask. Zilzibin looked down to find his hands no longer cerulean and of flesh, but rather dull grey and of stone. He shifted uncomfortably, the sound of scraping rocks lent him further discomfort. He noticed a glow of violet washed over himself and faded off the further he looked out. He choked as he saw trickles of water forming rivulets down his eidolon form.

 

"You & I go way back you know?" the arabesque companion commented as he continued his woodworking. He paused enough to blow away some debris freshly carved.

 

"If latz telling di truth, latz'd know there isn't a single of Horen's spawn I haven't gutted. Especially a Hyspian," Zilzibin replied sardonically. Half of his cynicism given over, half kept for his realization of his condition.

 

The arabesque man gave a matter-of-fact look, glaring at Zilzibin for a moment. He then leaned to rest the wooden mask neatly over Zilzibin's visage.

 

"There, there. I figured the old guerrilla wits in you would come handy. That and I wager you wouldn't have passed up another chance to quash the spawn of Horen," he added as he adjusted the mask one final time.

 

"Latz sun-baked folks all look di same ta me," Zilzibin mocked as he raised his arms and flexed his full eidolon form arrogantly.

 

"Any opportunity to taunt my foes & trade blows is an opportunity I'll gladly take," Zilzibin remembered.

 

 

Spoiler

I'm HIM.

 

First time playing a "darkspawn", this will be fun. As per usual, will keep a narrative thread for this character as I've done since Aegis with the Teutonic Order. Get yourself some tea, a mug of joe, & enjoy.

 

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

The ebb & flow of the tide that carried onto & away from the Virunese shore lulled Flynnigan as he spoke. The man looked absentmindedly off into the distance, to nothing or no one in particular, as he carried on his conversation. He stood by his lonesome as the tide increased its foothold across more & more of the sand further aground. The water in one particular span of the coast seemed to thin then. The tide parted then laterally left and right along the shore away from Zilzibin as the Urukim-turned-Eidola emerged from the sea.

 

Zilzibin's menhirous stone head craned to find Flynnigan whispering away, the man petrified and stood still. Zilzibin's head craned a few inches more to the left as he approached with a titanic plodding that left deepened impressions on the loamy sand. The eidola's eyes casted a lantern-like gaze over and past Flynnigan as he neared; the outline of a phantom grew more apparent to the naked eye as it contorted itself as he covering its newfound nakedness. Zilzibin gave a backhanded gesture with his hand towards the ghost he caught out and fixated his attention back to Flynnigan.

 

Flynnigan clutched his chest and let his cane tumble from his hand as Zilzibin towered over him. His cheeks sagged, his face could not manage to lift a smile or even hold up a contented expression against the presence of the risen Taunttongue. The eidola's form looked as if it caught & drunk the reflection of the moon from the sea behind it, becoming a second moon in its own right.

 

"I will spare you di burden of my presence if latz answer me one question," Zilzibin offered rudely, his tone & mannerism slipping then back to his hobgoblinish way of speaking. Flynnigan managed a sullen nod.

 

"Where be di Hyspians? Where be di sun-baked folk that I once knew, I only slaughtered one generation of dim agh I suspect others lived when I died in di old continent"

 

"The Hyspians have all been slaughtered, but your kind have the misfortune of being hunted by the Empire," Flynnigan gave as one lie and a truth.

 

Zilzibin grew bitter. The memory of Grommash Rex haunted him then. Grommash's skull appeared to him, simply one of many and at the base of a great pyramid of skulls - all Orkish - stacked neatly by a deathly efficient mass of Men. Zilzibin recoiled from Flynnigan, marching back into the sea with a newfound mission. The ghost he had ignored at Flynnigan's side disappeared from view as he submerged himself to walk the floor of the sea once more.

 

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Cheers to @Sr_Dimentio& @Flynnigan for the entertaining roleplay!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

The high elf loitered outside the bookstore, reading the names of titles illuminated by a torch ensconced on the outside wall. Zilzibin spied him there. I cannot fathom the extent of my reach nor the weaknesses that could easily breach me. He plodded towards the elf, gripping the back of his collar with a resolute vise. I will cast this dice and see what happens to my body, I'll learn something whether I live or die. The elf yelped as he reached back against the eidola's yanking, his hand awkwardly bent against the stone of his captor. A woman came running out of the same bookstore, her shrill cries hysterically reaching Zilzibin before the sight of her did.

 

Zilzibin dashed the elf against the cobbles and turned to find the woman fleeing. His eyes trained for a moment on the ethereal outline of an arm reaching and tripping the elderly lady, he looked away to give his poltergeist companion the liberties of his invisibility back. There in the far end of the street in St Godwinsburg, the Urukim-turned-Paleknight locked eyes with a knight who had nearly reared his horse in preparation for a cavalry charge. Let us see how fortified my stones are, test its strength against man, metal, and charger to see if my citadel will go unscarred. The knight broke into his charge with a greatsword held to his side.

 

He began the long arc of his sceptre's swinging as he bent his knees and launched himself into the charging knight. The crunch, clangor, & peal of steel against stone rang out, followed by the appealing of a horse held nearly still as knight & paleknight met with neither overpowering the other. Zilzibin let his scepter plant firmly into the knight's shoulder, the knight's armor pealed like a bell just struck. The knight chipped away a piece from the menhirous stone elbow that shoved him from his horse then. The next noise came from behind then, both Zilzibin & his opponent paused momentarily as the high elf's halberd burrowed a hole in Zilzibin's upper back.

 

A bale of flames exhaled from a nearby clinic then. Zilzibin reached with his free hand at the high elf, grabbing and tossing him against the building opposite of the conflagration. The eidola & the knight continued to trade blows as the clinic's burning interior cast dancing shadows over the injured high elf. The knight wielded his sword's crossguard like an improvised military pick, taking away chunks of menhirous stone where his blows managed to land. The eidola lost an arm, the same one whose hand gripped his sceptre, but the two continued their duel.

 

More & more of the townspeople of St. Godwinsburg roused. The dice deals that I return to my menhir, I have learned a great deal in this daring venture. The knight drove his crossguard into Zilzibin's right hip, burrowing a gaping hole and snapping Zilzibin's attention down. He watched as water drained from his wound, ectoplasm leaked from it too like algal scum on a sitting pond. He managed to crane his head upward again though every passing second stiffened his movement until he stood inert. The last thing he saw was a poltergeist morosely lofting up and away as the crowd of people grew around the dying eidola. His eyes went dark and his mind's eye went blank. His form crumbled as dried mud would.

 

His mind's eye reopened though his vision stuttered blurry. A ghost met him, he did not need to see its finer details when its ethereal glow greeted him all the same.

 

"Did you come apart o' Taunttongue?"

 

Zilzibin remained quiet for he could not speak yet.

 

"300 years you spent as an Urukim, beheaded after your victory. You barely made it a year before you needed to be put together again. Hope you learned something," the ghost chided Zilzibin at his menhir-altar.

 

I learned a great deal.

 

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Spoiler

Hats off to @woke , @NinjaQueen, @CamoRein, & @Breadsticks  for the wonderful RP. My character will not remember names, faces, memories, or locations with his defeat, simply using this loss as an opportunity to narratively explain my character becoming smarter on how to move as a Paleknight. Hope ya'll had fun!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

Josdari's striped eyes ran parallel with the stone hand that neared as it reached to scruff her in one fell swoop. The cub came willingly, guilt-ridden as she clung & clasped to the edges of the eidola's fingers. Two Virúnese soldados approached cautiously as her captor stood to its full height, her eyes met with its ethereal eyes as its head turned to glare at the guards. Her guilt drained with the sound of unsheathed sword & that of a hand twisting a halberd shaft; Josdari barely managed a whimper as if cognizant of her deserving punishment for her attempted pickpocketing only ten minutes prior. She looked upon the smooth visage of the eidola as it brought her nearer.

 

"What is a kharajyr doing so far from the mesas?" the eidola began, its speech plain and unforgiving.

 

"Would latz be willing to help me wid these Hyspians?" the same eidola added, slipping into a familiar accent - that of a hobgoblin. Josdari nodded hopefully.

 

The next sensation Josdari felt could only be described as her stomach being lifted up in her abdomen, she clung with a greater ferocity as she watched the ground beneath her grow further in distance, then rebounding. The eidola launched himself against one of the soldados whose sword flung from her hand as a great stone sceptre drummed against the hand that held it. The kharajyr's eyes grew as she felt herself being flung towards the second soldado, she held out her arms and legs to starfish onto the halberdier. She drove her claws into any inch of skin and padded garments she could, cheerfully reveling in the guard's cries.

 

Josdari looked up for a moment as the halberdier managed to scruff her. She saw that the eidola had tackled the swordswoman who cried out for the second guard. She pounced against the flat of the halberd blade then, tipping it away. She watched as the second guard cursed under her breath and chose to drive a sabaton against the eidola as it hunched over, wincing as she then saw the halberdier catch a sceptre flange to the collarbone in response. She pawed and dragged the heavy halberd as the two guards tried to wrestle the eidola into the water.

 

The spray of water instinctively repelled Josdari, she hid around the corner of a nearby building and peeked back. She gasped as she saw one soldado's head being pushed underwater with the weight of the eidola's right knee snaring her and the second soldado being drowned forcefully with a hand. The eidola's sceptre had thin wisps colored mint green dancing along & against the flanges; the engraving of scorpions & milipedes wrestling seemed to glow.

 

"I slew di generation of di sun-baked folks in di old continent, now my work starts anew here," the eidola spitefully exclaimed. Josdari could not make out the second guard's response, her voice too choked & raspy as the eidola brought her head back above water for a moment's time.

 

"The kharajyr will remember me," the eidola spat out against the back of the second guard's head as he dunked her head back in until her fighting & seizing stilled. Josdari recoiled then, the glow of a second set of wisps casted a faint glow against her fur as she found the courage to dash off.

 

Spoiler

 

 

Spoiler

Kudos to @Casualty, @Dbird2, & @Eliseth for the wonderful RP! Thanks for being good sports and as I mentioned then, I'll be hands off from attacking Viru directly for a few more OOC days. Enjoy the narrative post!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

 

Dope Art by Annena ( @Casualty ) based on the previous post. Thank you so much!

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

Her forehead trembled under the weight of his stone palm that he kneaded in a side-to-side motion. Though the skin was taut across her brow, Zilzibin felt emotions stick and stretch like strands of dough along the length of his palm as he brought it against and away from her. He returned his palm back a second time, letting it rest with his fingers fanning out. The Idunian princess Azruphêl slumped, her shoulders going first before her neck going slack. He reveled as Azruphêl's pupils dilated; he knew his devouring had struck a chord in her. His fixed touch on her forehead let him peer into her.

 

A nebulous form of pure black, whose color siphoned away all color immediately around it, planted itself in the Idunian princess' mind. The form expanded & ballooned. As it filled more space, any and all emotions felt cramped as it lost ground to the ceaseless expansion of dread. The princess' pupils dilating seemed to match the timing of the expansion of Zilzibin's devouring dread. Soon, the dread had clung to all four corners of the mind's eye - up, down, left, & right. No emotion could be felt, everywhere Azruphêl turned in her heart & mind had been completely filled with pure black. Then, the dread gave the sensation of it adhering & sealing around her very skin, her very being. The princess instinctively jolted, shuffling away from Zilzibin's palm for a moment.

 

Zilzibin opened his own eyes and his hand lunged forward. The cobbles beneath his feet were no longer there, replaced by loamy Adrian soil. He looked upon another woman then, Uriella, and his hand simply gripped the porous lavender mists as she blinked and ended up further along the riverbanks.

 

"Oh-ho, latz have hozh mojo din. Never seen dis kind in my former life or my unlife now!" he conceded with pleasant surprise.

 

"You should leave here, you will not seize upon any of this if I can help it," the woman challenged mildly, her voice giving up the lie as her form apparated after the completion of her translocation.

 

He leapt into the river then, his titanic form sinking until his feet met the river's floor. The sediment kicked up by his eventual landing at the base of the river obscured him from view.

 

He felt his hand lunging forward and crowning the skullcap of Azruphêl's head with his five fingers then. He blinked, finding the Idunian princess shuddering into a stoney stillness. She had been enveloped by the dread, shrouded in the cerement of catatonia.

 

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Kudos to @Rayalia, @King_Kunuk, @Baccaaa, & @Security_ for the interesting roleplay! Chose to blend two encounters into one post.

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

The rendezvous, too far to discern whether romantic or platonic, drew the Taunttongue's attention as he spied from the nearby foothills onto the holdfast of Auclair. An Auvergnian man & woman rested against separate parapets looking out across the valley between their respective spur and the cliff face beneath Petra. He wound his way towards an adjacent wall, unbeknownst to the two above and began his method of madness. He drummed a stony set of knuckles against the stone wall he had pressed himself up against.

 

"Anyone here?" he called out, folding his other hand partly over the wooden mask that sat awkwardly over his menhirous head. He watched as the two Auclairs jolted out of their lolling.

 

"Quick, inside, I've managed to barge through their sally-gate! See if anyone is inside, I've scouted this keep for a week with nary a soul seen. Fit for my keep I deem this alabaster holdfast to be!" Zilzibin lied. He lied convincingly, the two peeled away from the parapets and out of sight. He could hear the unsheathing of swords and the mad dash against cobbles & gravel.

 

"Show yourself!" he heard the man cry out.

 

"Are you scared about what lurks around the corners? What about what sits in the shadows? Come, come or jump, jump from your walls into your moat so you can fetch those who would be better prepared when we come to seize barren castles from vassal barons!" He heard no movement, but a shaky retort.

 

"And what are you afraid of? Show yourself! Why hide?"

 

"Well, we will be brushing shoulders then. Would you care to be pressganged as maids into my service?" Zilzibin said with rudely crafted daring. He parted from the holdfast as he heard a growing din of waking family & guards and melted back into the dusk-shaded hills.

 

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Part I of many posts to come detailing encounters up until XMas Eve! Cheers to @JadeStryuu & @Hopeful for being good sports!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

"Stay back señor," the adolescent warned, her voice as shaky as the potion primed and held limp-wrist to her side.

 

"Do not throw as I only wish to ask a question," Zilzibin replied.

 

The eidola's soul lanterns, fixed where his eyes would be behind his hobgoblinish wooden mask, reflected the flames that came then. The young Hyspian had tossed the potion to her side. His head followed her as she reeled sideways and into the gritty coastline.

 

"Latz must careful wid di libations!" he exclaimed. He coughed away his having slipped back into his Taunttongue accent of yore.

 

"My question then: Have you heard about the mercenaries and their wicked work in Tirglas? They claim a Lady Salazar had sent them to seize one of their holdfasts closest to Viru," the eidola asked as he offered a hand to the fallen Hyspian.

 

"I've not heard of them, but the only Lady Salazar I know, other than myself, would be my tia," she took the hand. Zilzibin's trap lain had been triggered.

 

"Then they must be lying. It is a man named Frederick Hildrakken. He claims he has been paid 1,600 minas to seize a holdfast in Tirglas on behalf of Viru," he lifted the Lady Salazar up onto her feet and began to bat away debris & sand-grit from her clothing.

 

"Si, Viru does not wish for trouble with her neighbors. Aurieliano believes every issue can be solved with diplomacy," the young woman advised. Zilzibin could feel her tensing up, like an animal having its moment of realization before the trap came down over it.

 

"Why do you involve yourself in this matter senor?" she added, her eyes bulging as she saw Zilzibin's menhirous stone sceptre come around her head and over her neck. The eidola placed her in a chokehold with the shaft of the sceptre bound against her throat.

 

"Because a butcher needs to hide the knife from the sheep he will slaughter, the panic from the sheep would taint the meat!"

 

Zilzibin wrestled the woman for a few moments, his great frame of stone absorbed what punches & back-kicks she placed against him. He hoisted her off the ground, continuing to choke her until he felt her limp & heavy weight rather than her jolting. He carried her into the sea, his plodding footsteps left deep imprints the closer he got to the crawling tide. He bound her with the thick straps of seaweed that formed labyrinthine mazes at the floor of the sea and continued northward towards the Sepulchre.
 

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Kudos to @Amesti for the wonderful roleplay and for being willing to be a sacrifice (non-PK death ofc) to bring our boy Arzota/ @Shadeleaf back!

 

 

---

 

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

 

"Hey! You, clearly unnatural in nature. His Highness addressed you previously, and you fled. What for?" a young squire inveighed with a drawn sword-blade pointed towards Zilzibin.

 

"That was His Highness? That I did not know, do give him my apologies," Zilzibin chided mockingly. He held up his own sceptre towards the young squire, imitating the same bravado the knight displayed.

 

"Descend the cliff face and let us fight then. This is clearly the only outcome of this conversation and let us make it easier on the both of us. Or is that soul within already rotten with cowardice?" This knight speaks of cowardice, betraying his own being green to the matters of war. Zilzibin's tribal mask clattered against his own stone head as he laughed.

 

"I'll do latz one better, how about latz go on your merry way agh I descend back into those depths behind latz," the eidola jeered at the squire.

 

"An uruk and a coward? Do not make me hunt you down, do not dishonour yourself so. You come down, I will dismount, and we shall fight on even ground," the squire urged.

 

"You will dismount? very well, do so now," Zilzibin replied, taking a few steps forward and fixating his gaze on the squire expectantly. The squire did as was asked.

 

"Let us make this interesting, we fight on that moored ship over there," Zilzibin added, pointing a forefinger to a ship nearby and moored at the Silasian coastline. He watched as ash formed around the squire's blade. The key to haggling? Offer multiple conditions to land on the one you want. "Agh no strange mojo either, latz can speak chivalrous yet you still have sleeves to hide tricks in!" he finished offering his idea.

 

"You would have me hold back warrior? You would have me go easy on you?!" the squire accused.

 

"Very well, I'll allow the mojo but permit me the location!" Zilzibin replied laconically.

 

"The ship will do!"

 

The squire & the eidola descended towards and onto the ship, keeping a good distance between each other. They took positions on the prow & the stern, the squire & the paleknight turned to face one another. The squire set his blade afire amid a smoke of mana & flame, bending his knees to prepare for their combat. Zilzibin looked off into the distance, imagining where his bound quarry had been tangled up in the seaweeds in the sea, then turned to the squire.

 

Before the squire could count down to the coming of blows, Zilzibin launched himself off of the ship and into the watery depths. I am the best haggler for the circumstances of my success. The squire dove to look overboard the ship. Zilzibin watched the squire angrily shake his sword-arm as he disappeared into a cloud of kicked up sediment & debris. He waited a few minutes until his titanic feet found the floor of the sea and began his march again, to find his quarry and to complete his journey back to the Sepulchre.

 

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Kudos to @ferdaboy for the brief encounter and good job on catching me off-guard!

 

 

[ferdaboy 3472]

The squire seethed at the memory, allowing such a prize to escape him so easily. He vowed he'd not allow such a failure to happen again.

 

Spoiler

😭 you got me good

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

"Well fought old birch, but an old neighbor saw fit that fell you this day"

 

The seat of the ebony gambar forcefully turned Arturas' head sideways, both its ebony color and the shade it cast appeared like a great black sun out of the corner of the Silasian's eyes. Zilzibin turned the stool, its four legs standing on both sides of Arturas' outstretched arms, until it uncomfortably pinned against his neck, shouldercap, and armpits. The eidola sat atop the gambar then, adding his weight atop the menhir craft.

 

"A neighbor who knew me in my former life saw it fit to remind me of the little joy I bore in the old continent, of my forge on the river banks of old Silasia," Zilzibin recounted, miserably and wistfully.

 

Arturas, between spitting up blood enough to free his throat, gave a throaty croak. "Zilzibin," he recalled.

 

"Yes, di Taunttongue. Di Hyspian conjured up one last bridge fa me ta burn. I am arisen anew, malevolent and my memories and what attachment I have wid dim are askew. I need no serenity where I stand now, nor could I benefit from a happy memory. It is for the best that I wrestle your soul from you, that I burn this last bridge of good memory or at the very least to teach that Alencar that her trying to build rapport with me is like building a house on sinking sand," the eidola argued, his hobgoblinish accent fading into a monotone plainness.

 

Zilzibin held his sceptre gingerly in both hands as he leaned forward and stared into the side-eye of Arturas. He dropped the sceptre carefully enough to drum his right temple. Drum, drum, drum. With each tap like a timpani against Arturas' head, mint-green wisps channeled tantrically along the surface of the sceptre's flange. Within minutes, Arturas gave one last croak and his mouth hung open as the last of the wisps lashed itself against the sceptre and eventually led into a great cradle distended from the Taunttongue's stone abdomen.

 

Spoiler

Cheers to @_RoyalCrafter_for being a good sport, to @Vlaming , @DizzyGrey ,@Amesti, & @Anonymous_Rando for the interesting roleplay arc!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

In the mind's eye, the hobgoblin-turned-eidola shivered. Snowflakes began to fall gently and melt gently still against the fabrics of the high elf. The high elf shivered too as she ascended the stone steps towards the sally-gate of the Castle Devereux. She peered between each gap of the lowered portcullis, trying to peek for the author of the letter in hand. The snowflakes fell faster than a flurry would allow.

 

"Do you seek the master of this castle for his charity?"

 

The high elf nodded in response, uncertain still where the voice called on her from. She swept her eyes across her shoulders, they were clean save for the fuzz & debris of travel.

 

"Do you appreciate the beauty of such a regal holdfast?"

 

The high elf stumbled forward, she felt a gale buffet her with more snow. The shiver sent up her spine and across her limbs made her wish for more layers and warmer material. She nodded, her head bobbed with a convulsion more in response to the batter of wind & snow than to the question given her.

 

"I left the paintings just outside, but perhaps it ought be brought in out of the snowfall," the high elf urged, beginning to turn around.

 

A blizzard threw its contents over her eyes, blinding her then. Zilzibin watched as she pivoted on the balls of her feet, batting her hands at nothing except the cool air. He stood but two feet from her, nothing between them except the occasional leaf wafted in by the Alban breeze off the sea. He stood at his full height as the high elf held her forearms up to cover her eyes. He towered over her with a swagger though he knew in her mind's eye that she cowered not at the sight of him but of the blizzard buffeting her in her mind's eye.

 

Zilzibin raised his sceptre then, orbiting it to strike her across the temple. Did she see the mighty menhir-craft or did she mistake it to be a hailstone in her imagination? Within minutes, many hailstones pelted her all across her face until she slumped against the portcullis iron.

 

Spoiler

Thank you to @Atlas Got Cubed for being a good sport on the trickery!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

 

The Taunttongue caressed his menhir, his palms gently sliding & massaging the stone monolith until the surface finally gave way and his hands became one with it. His distended abdomen, his apparition's cradle, belched out its contents like dexterous strings of mucous swinging and sticking from the grating of the cradle, along his arm, and into the menhir. As he watched the fragments enter his menhir, his graven eyes thinned and the depths of his memory rushed him like a storm surge.

 

He remembered the milky fog that washed over him, ineffective, yet gagging two knights who had clashed swords with him in the bucolic outskirts of Tarnavon. How one of the knights begged forgiveness of the other before revealing himself draconic, though both the human's eyes & the dragon's rolled up soon thereafter in demoralizing terror all the same.

 

He remembered the reflective shimmer of a swordsman who, watching his masked partner get trapped beneath Zilzibin's foot, dissipated into a mist with the turn of a ring. How the swordsman's trickery reminded him of the Adrian magi and he prepared to pull a spear from his back and caught the teleporting adversary in the gut with the butt of his longarm.

 

He remembered his Maker's pronouncement before a scattered assortment of the Undead and how one woman attempted to assassinate his Maker's lieutenant in a sudden melee. How the woman had quickly been cast down by one of the others who came to give his pledge and Zilzibin then battered her lifeless with his sceptre.

 

The spray of memories drenched his mind's eye, a shock to the system to take pride and carry oneself with a newfound haughtiness. Only two times has he emerged from his menhir anew, but dozens of souls he reaped in contrast. Even more discord and strife had he sown, a plentiful harvest come the maturation of seed.

 

Spoiler

 

Spoiler

With the end of my content moderation, I've decided to write a narrative post stitching together multiple in-game events. Kudos to all involved including, but not limited to @woke, @BloodW1LD@Gkiauris, @King_Kunuk, @Mestvin, @Drak3, @tantuni445, @AechQQ, @blackhand7, @TheHuntedRaven, @TheOnlyTub, @simatra, @Sawdustaddict. PS: Redacted the hidden Nephilim, but cheers to you - you know who you are!

 

[Samson Option 9652]

  

 

♫ Music Link ♫ 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 ♫ Music Link ♫

Spoiler

 

 

Ectoplasm camouflaged as lichen & black ichor ran like sap. The canopy cloaked the three soldiers of the Sepulchre in an extra layer of greens and greys, the understory of elms & poplars with shrubbery beneath obscured them from view on the forking paths that wound vein-like between Virú & Tirglas. Zilzibin held up a stiff open palm to Galbatorix & Gorkus as a man sauntered into view, nonchalant in gait and whimsical in daydreaming. As he crossed in front of the Taunttongue, all manners of hands sprung for him with tree branches snapping and ferns breaking underfoot like a trapdoor spider had leapt out.

 

The man yelled out as Galbatorix yanked him sideways and worked a web of hempen rope around and around him binding his arms to his torso. Soon after, a woman too became ensnared after she arrived in response to the first's outcry. Gorkus hoisted both prisoners together, bracing their backs together, and hushed them.

 

"You will answer me quickly, quietly, and without lie," Zilzibin began, crouching until the ebonywood mask lain over his graven head emerged from the manifold darkness of nightfall, treecover, and eldritch umbra.

 

"Are either of you magi?" the Taunttongue asked laconically, dismissively raising and lowering coils of hair dressing both of their ears. The man and the woman shook their heads.

 

"Are there any elves or magi that you know of behind those walls," he then asked, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder towards the city of Virú. They craned their heads as tightly as they could, though neither could look to the other. Then a cry petitioned the captors and drove the captives to struggle.

 

"Release them!" a woman bade the three of the Sepulchre. "Darcy, Kamo, we will sally forth to save you!" Zilzibin paused before turning, holding his forefinger and middle finger together in a motion to Galbatorix & Gorkus before entreating with the gallant woman approaching.

 

"Darcy & Kamo are under arrest by the Imperium Inquisition, their charges will be lain before them in the capitol," Zilzibin began, lawyerly & mockingly measured.

 

"For what crimes-," the third Virúnese complained before the paleknight cut her off, "Do you wish to take their places and learn of the crimes, I will agree to an exchange."

 

Darcy & Kamo rocked back and forth, half in struggle and half in protest to their being exchanged. "You may make a formal reply sent to the Imperial Inquisitorial Office for further information on the case," Gorkus said in jest to the pair in his custody.

 

"Very well, release my citizens & I will go with you! I am not the heir to Virú, but to her military. I do not take this kindly!" the petitioner announced.

 

"Inti, we didn't do anything! We should be fine, right?" Darcy cried out. Inti stepped forward, sheathing her weapon. Zilzibin motioned Galbatorix & Gorkus to undo the binds on Darcy & Kamo; they sprang away as soon as the paleknight laid hands on their replacement. Zilzibin worked Inti's hands behind her back and bound her in the same manner as the previous two captives.

"Run back to your city lest we change our mind," Galbatorix barked. The Taunttongue's head lifted to see arrayed before him & his soldiers a growing sortie from the city. He grinned with a wickedness that inspired courage in Galbatorix & Gorkus and stepped beside his new captive, Inti Pachakutiq.

 

"I will read the crimes of Darcy & Kamo of Virú, all may stand to be present and to hear them," the Taunttongue exclaimed in a booming voice before replacing the ebonywood mask he wore with an identical one. The sortie had come out as a mob, with all manners of weapons, accoutrements, & ordnances, and raised fist and voice in protest. The cacophony of disputations, of weapons unsheathing and clashing against shields, of daring bravado against the captors grew. Galbatorix & Gorkus readied themselves as some of the sortie leapt on the balls of their feet with excitement while some prepared to charge. The sortie swelled like a storm surge rearing to rush, then-

 

"The crimes are thusly," Zilzibin began, before his graven mouth drew itself lips that parted as if a tongue lolled out arrogantly yet no tongue could be seen. The morale of the sortie utterly shattered, many of the soldiers and town rabble jumped & reeled backwards and recoiled in terror that caused eyes to roll backwards and some of them to scratch at their armor & clothes furiously. Get it off me! They are stinging me! Its crawling all over! Some of the soldiers & townspeople fled tearing at their clothing, dashing the contents of their canteens against themselves, exhorted each other to bat at their bodies while they retreated.

 

"What happened?" Inti muttered in defeat before Zilzibin hoisted her up and braced his shoulder against her back. Galbatorix, Gorkus, & Zilzibin inched their way into a copse of trees as the few who withstood the curse cast by the paleknight reorganized themselves. At the head of the reduced sortie stood Awicha Paqar, bearing a spear dedicated to Votar, and she commanded the remnants to approach the soldiers of the Sepulchre. One of the soldiers faded into obscurity while another loaded a crossbow. 

 

"Do you think me moved? Mine soul has been returned in a greater form," Zilzibin taunted as Awicha approached the trio forming a rough testudo among the copse of poplars. Awicha, with her compatriots at her back, charged and drove the spear towards Zilzibin's throat. In a shower of menhirous stone chipped away, the Hyspian saw the Taunttongue arrogantly stare into her eyes as he drove his own menhir-spear into her chest. Gorkus launched abyssflame and Galbatorix caved the brave leader's shoulder in with the blunt end of his warhammer.

 

"Don't touch her! Don't touch my mother! Manam Imapas, Malla, Tompos, Mierda!" Inti cried out as she helplessly dangled in Zilzibin's grip, suffering the sight before her as a human shield for the paleknight.

 

A flaming bolt whirred through the trees and struck Gorkus in the leg, the flames seemed to be swallowed up and extinguished then by the abyss-blessed sculpting of his own form. The Iron Boar mocked the lady Darona who stared aghast from behind the iron sights of her arbalest.

 

"I am Gorkus, First of Kryndomere's Knights, emissary of Doom!" Gorkus yelled in a frenzy as he bit the edge of his shield to spite the arbalester's failure.

 

Ser Mauricio emerged from obscurity again and attempted to duel Galbatorix with the latter outmatching his melee with his Blackbone Pike. The Virúnese knight, through rune and roaming invisibly, tested the mettle of the great darkstalker and found himself at disadvantage each time. He faded into obscurity once more after Galbatorix broke his stance with a prod and jab of his pike.

 

"Cowards, why have three against one. If you were His disciple, you would know that he honors combat as well," Mauricio jeered as he became undecipherable from his surroundings.

 

"Chameleon-knight, do not speak to us about cowardice, go change your colors," Zilzibin replied in equal measure and a dismissive gesture with his chin.

 

"Ser Mauricio de Chameleon-Knight, we shall make sure his name spreads across the lands. His fame for disappearing like the ghost in de middle of combat," Gorkus added with a haughty roll of his shoulders. Galbatorix mimicked preparing to throw his pike like a javelin towards Darona, his feign broke her spirit and caused her to retreat in turn.

 

Galbatorix, Gorkus, & Zilzibin receded deeper into the weald then, leaving the slain for the routed to double-back in order to shroud, inter, & bury. The last detail of the Sepulchre-soldiers that the Virúnese saw from their battlements was the kicking feet of Inti Pachakutiq. One scout who bravely took on the task of retracing their steps, Joelina de Trastamara, returned quickly thereafter to report seeing the menhir-knight march solemnly into the sea.

 

Spoiler

 

After the Sepulchre-soldiers returned to the Witch Kingdom. . .

 

Inti lifted her head, defiance dared not steel her neck as she strained to look up to the paleknight. She saw more of a silhouette than defined features as her eyes strained to focus and to read particulars from the general shapes. She recoiled as the Taunttongue crouched down. She saw inlaid lines chiseled where she had expected pupil & iris, such graven features discreetly hid its expression behind a mask decorated in hobgoblinish motifs and whose vibrant colors seemed to clash with the laconic mocking ever-preserved in the whittled away smile and expressionful brows carved out.

 

She ricocheted back forward as the grating screech of portcullis iron echoed in the dank Sepulchre chamber, someone had began to work the gate open. She shrank into herself, no where to go yet all need to hide her panic.

 

"Alright, this one will be sent back home. To mourn & to remember her mother's soul sits in my gut," the paleknight ordered with a dismissive batting of his stoney palm in Inti's direction.

 

[Samson Option 9652]

  

 

 

♫ Music Link ♫ 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 ♫ Music Link ♫

Spoiler

 

 

“Dim Lurs be dim”

“Can't put a name to di face then”

“Did I not sign my threat wid Zilzibin?”

“Since when does an Urukim scrape di sandal sole”

“Of di Hyspians whose generation I slew whole”

“That you burrow your yurt beneath their walls you vole”

“Better I drive you out with fire and hexed soul”

“I never seen di back of di ass of a scurrying Lur-snaga”

“Mayhaps di Hyspians will run after their jolting alpaca”

 

[For my Mobile Readers]

Spoiler

“Dim Lurs be dim”
“Can't put a name to di face then”
“Did I not sign my threat wid Zilzibin?”
“Since when does an Urukim scrape di sandal sole”
“Of di Hyspians whose generation I slew whole”
“That you burrow your yurt beneath their walls you vole”
“Better I drive you out with fire and hexed soul”
“I never seen di back of di ass of a scurrying Lur-snaga”
“Mayhaps di Hyspians will run after their jolting alpaca”

 

 

The sorties & forays out of the Rimeglen often led the Taunttongue into the boreal Norland or the autumnal Idunia. One such track he took led him to a conspicuous disarray of yurts under the Hyspian walls of Viru nestled in the forests of the west. The guerrilla spied signs and traces of living and markings of LUR. He felt then repulsed, disgusted, and ashamed. Upon a sun-dried length of bone, he issued his threat. Better to range as nomads or take up shelter beneath the walls of anyone else.

 

 

  

 

♫ Music Link ♫ 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 ♫ Music Link ♫

Spoiler

 

 

“Di Fenn foray into di Rimeglen”

“Pointed ears will our thralls have then”

“I spy dem in di village laced with frost”

“Which herd will thin quicker?”

“If I had it my way, di Fenn will be at a loss”

“Suffer not their hunting of small game agh gut di Elves wid vigor”

“Porcelain soldiers dim all, fragile and their lustre better den dim sturdiness”

“Enough of di banter from me, I have porcelain to add to di Witch King's kitchenware”

“The first time I came ta visit di Fenn, all they could do is bitch n' stare”

 

[For my Mobile Readers]

Spoiler

“Di Fenn foray into di Rimeglen”
“Pointed ears will our thralls have then”
“I spy dem in di village laced with frost”
“Which herd will thin quicker?”
“If I had it my way, di Fenn will be at a loss”
“Suffer not their hunting of small game agh gut di Elves wid vigor”
“Porcelain soldiers dim all, fragile and their lustre better den dim sturdiness”
“Enough of di banter from me, I have porcelain to add to di Witch King's kitchenware”
“The first time I came ta visit di Fenn, all they could do is bitch n' stare”

 

 

The paleknight Zilzibin di Roused Taunttongue tantrically danced around the frozen-over fishing pond of the Fenns. His griot-like recital of bars of boasting, of lines of panegyric praise, chased after the few Fenn he had ambushed outside the village. The guerrilla made his presence known - a stalwart lieutenant of the Witch King.

 

Spoiler

Salute to the Fenns I encountered a bit ago. I definitely love the premise of small group on small group conflict. You'll find me from time to time and a laid-back adversary. Cheers and here is to more conflict roleplay!