Felling of the Old Birch [PK]

[Le_Psit 405]

Upon hearing of the news Osbert would enter the local church of Silasia,

there he'd pray in silence.

With thoughts of his journey, his loyalty to the Whitewood family, his personal oath to Arturas himself;

he looked up towards the ceiling, his gaze going beyond it

"My L'rd.... I've fail'd thee.... the oath I meant t' uph'ld....

I've fail'd.... I fail'd myself...."

And tears trickled down his face.

 

Yet when the moment passed Osbert set his gaze forward,

and hatred filled his heart

"I shall avenge thee..."

He fled to his home and donned his armor,

sharpening his blade before leaving for the nearby lake;

there he kneeled and set his sword

"God Allmightei, let Thou be witness t' my w'rd:

By Thy name I shall bring justice t' my fallen L'rd...

'R die trying"

[Samson Option 9652]

  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

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"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.