Qizu

It depends really, on some things the legs take up a lot. I was intended the 50x50 range to include legs but the actual body part can be limited to like a 30x30. The current goblin construct in krugmar is 30x30, my beetle on the beach outside is 40x20ish, ugokoyama was probably around 50x50. Lot's of taverns are around the 20x20 - 30x30 mark. I'll go ahead and lower it to 30x30 for the amendment.

Wasn't intending city or town sized things, but it'd be nice to have larger constructs that are able to move without marts. Walking taverns, a crafting guild base, moving mage towers etc. I think it would be a nice way to add some more usage and fun to the smoggers piece. It would allow groups to move between nations with more ease and spreading their roleplay across the map instead of being tied down in their cool builds for the entire map. I could also see larger smoggers being moved near event sites to engage with them!

Remove -Any smoggers larger than the size of a two-story building that's as wide as a standard building that is intended to move will require an approved MArt. -Any Gear Stomach intended to rival five or more plough horses (an engine mechanically larger than 8 blocks) in energy output will require a MArt, along with the smogger it is meant to fuel. Add - Any smoggers that is larger than a 30x30x30 will require an approved MArt. - Larger moving smoggers will require more/larger legs and require much more power ( a larger gear heart) and oil. - Smoggers that are larger than a two story building that’s as wide as a standard building will require an ST Approved sign to function.

The Leviathan's Embrace In the profound depths of the ocean, a powerful rumble resonated through the ocean floor, sending vibrations across the underwater landscape. The insidious advance of brine seeped through the nearby reefs, asserting its dominance over the vibrant marine life within. These tendrils of brine, like creeping specters, extended outward from a source of devastation concealed on the ocean floor, weaving an ominous path that led to the enigmatic Colosseum of Ruin. The sea, stirred by an unseen force, unleashed its fury upon unsuspecting shores. Waves surged with relentless power, crashing into ships moored at the docks and forcefully pressing them against their wooden hosts. The once serene waters transformed into a tempest, a manifestation of the disturbance echoing from the depths—an unsettling prelude to the mysteries concealed within the Colosseum of Ruin. Amidst the turbulent waves stirred by this oceanic force, a presence emerged from the depths. An ethereal glow illuminated the water's surface as a structure rose from below, a beckoning silhouette surrounded by swirling mists. Fishers and sailors that awaited the coastlines looked onwards, awe-struck by the mesmerizing display, witnessed the manifestation of an ancient power. A voice, carried by the sea breeze, echoed across the tumultuous waters, inviting those daring enough to follow the trails of brine to discover the origin of this mysterious phenomenon. An unknown force that felt as if it were a living embodiment of the depths' secrets, seemed to extend a calling to sailors, urging them to embark on a journey into the unknown, guided by the haunting trails that led to the heart of the Colosseum of Ruin.

The Flightless Pursuit The Falling Children of Azdromoth A great soaring wind filled the earth. It crawled through the forests of the lands, tearing through withering leaves and shrubbery. It carried on from the forests of the valleys and upwards into the mountains. Rock stirred and snow dispersed; howls sounded off through the night. In the thoughts and visions of the old draconic creatures of the world a darkness sets in place within their complex minds. This darkness covered all of their thoughts, their visions, the sounds that filled their minds. It was this darkness that brought forth the whispers of old. Old whispers of the high draconic and the ancestors that have graced the world before those who linger on it now. Whispers of the fallen dragaars and drakes, whispers of their fallen kin. No words were decipherable, yet they persisted. Fighting against one another for a place in the mind of the nephilim they grew muddy and crazed. “Awaken” This singular word broke through all. This singular word awoke the nephilim upon a dream - a vision. Laying flat in the sky above the world, they faced the infinite stars before them. They felt visible and seen by the God’s above. Their prying eyes digging into their feeble physical natures, a sense of insecurity running rampantly through their form. It was here they were displayed before all that they hid from. It was also here that they began to fall. Like a film, they descended slowly through the moonlight-covered clouds, helpless as they flailed in the winds to their descent on the world that remained below. Few torchlights from the nations of the world broke through the black skies of night. The marching armies and their torchlights danced through this as they traveled below. Though beautiful the world might have appeared, the nephilim fell closer and closer to it. So high above all that the world below could have fit into their hand, yet it would be the world that they sought to grasp that would soon kill them upon landing. Panic set into the mind of the nephilim, the inevitable physical death that they have experienced many times before felt different this time - severe, everlasting. An impending doom that they could not prevent set in on their thoughts. Some take this inevitable end as graceful, though this felt far from such. This terror persisted in their minds as they grew closer, and closer to the grounds. Like a falling comet their descent painted the sky as embers of dragon’s flame trailed behind them. This descent was beautiful to those on the ground as if a falling star had blessed their very wishes for the night. The nephilim fell closer, and closer yet again. The winds slowed and the embers failed to flicker as the cold earth embraced the form of the flailing creature - silence. A painful tearing is felt upon your back. Your scales being pierced and separated as scorching blood began to run down your boney backside. Your back was lifted from the surface you lay upon, something grew painfully behind your form propelling you upwards. Scratching sounds came from behind as the pain continued, though a new sensation occurred. You felt limbs sprawling outwards from your back - tattered wings shrouding your visage now as you stepped forwards. A voice called out… “In the silent embrace of the cold earth, your descent concludes not with a blessing but a merciless transformation. These wings are not marks of rebirth, but harbingers of a brutal metamorphosis. 'Awaken,' not to a world of grace, but to a reality where the fallen stars leave scars upon the earth, and the echoes of your kin linger as a haunting reminder of the cost of ascension.”

A sickly creature hunched over in his lab as he read the notice “RELEASE THE NAMES! RELEASE THEM!” the nephilim howled.

How did your orc die? Old age, died teaching shamanism to outsiders. Do you think it was a justified death? No, he should have died during the inferi war. Are they in the Stargush’Stroh? Yes Are they able to be contacted by Lutauman? Absolutely. Can provide lots of guidance in regards to clan lur, leadership, and shamanism.

WER IDOL DI WER ADULESE The Serpent’s Revenge Bithe’Vah calls upon us to prepare, to fall into the sin that drives us. How far will we fall? The earth shook as the banner was placed upon the battlefield. Visions plagued the mind, voices creeped upon the ear. . . As the warband of undead set their sights upon the lands of Tor’Praeth victory was likely ensured. The Prophet of the lands defeated prior, the Regent of the Titan missing - all was silent in the lands of Tor’Praeth. Though even when silence consumes, it does not mean that life exists within it. The Serpent and his followers had been lingering within the hanging fortress for some time. Displacing themselves from their own pits of despair, they awaited for this very moment. As horns were sounded off and armies marched, war had begun. Through a battle of fire and magick the forces of Undeath were swiftly pelted into the cavities within the earth. Few were even capable of getting close enough as they were overwhelmed with the powers of the Titan though this did not stop their charge. What remained of the group after the initial charge persisted against the Serpent and his Forces. The sister of the dragon doing most of the brute work upon their armies as she laid waste to those who headed the front of their charge. The two followers of the Prophet came to aid swiftly as they casted artillery upon the charges of the dead. The battlefield moved back and forth as losses were soon taken account for. Some moved to flee whilst others proclaimed their bravery in the name of their Dark Lord yet even those who sought to run were met with more. Standing in their path was the Titan of the Serpent’s Horde - The Sunderer. A behemoth of a construct blocked off their retreat slaughtering some and capturing others; the forces of Undeath were pinched between those they sought to kill. They fought valiantly, though quickly were felled to the Ways of the Serpent. What men of their charge remained were quickly rounded up to kneel before the Dragon as conversation ensued. Jabs were made, ego was displayed, and pride was broken. However, the fate of these creatures is remembered solely by those who survived. Once all was completed, dragon’s fled from the caverns they hid in. Their force no longer needed in the lands of the North - a destination had been made. [!] In the halls of Tor’Praeth a message was left - a quote from the Way of the Serpent “Strive to rise above everyone who doubts you. Play the card of resilience where they make quick grabs for fame and power. When they play the long game, smother them in your glory and rise above all. You must be the best in whichever pursuit you undergo - you must be perfect.”

WER IDOL DI WER ADULESE The Serpent’s Wrath The Holy Day of Bithe’Vah grows closer each day, but on this day instead of one step - thousands were taken. The darkness grows closer to claiming us, are you ready to succumb to it? Like beacons upon the mountainside the nations of Aevos were set aflame, though this flame did not burn, it yearned. It searched for its counterpart, it searched for the thing that was good for it - balance. One by one the Serpent searched. Each nation he marched upon with his forces was met with a rolling cloud of ash and smoke that spanned the horizon itself, smothering the fields in soot as it carried the army of the Serpent within it. Its masses moved in the shroud of ash and flame that engulfed them, making their mark upon each land that held descendent-kind as they searched for answers. Those who caught a glimpse of this phenomenon would notice one important feature above all else. It was not the smog that searched the lands of Aevos, but the flaming banner that glided over it. Upon the black, silken textile the blazing eye of a dragon scanned all that it passed over. It glided just below the surface of the clouds as embers that fell from the edges of the burning banner lit a trail behind it that spanned for miles forming flaming serpent within the sky. From within the ashen smog that roamed the lands voices called out as it searched for answers, “Consume the darkness, learn from it. . .” “Where is my Brother?” “Has the daemon returned?” “Where was the inquisitor?” “Why do they do this?” “What will Father think of this?” “Are we prepared to save him?” “Will we be victorious?” “Has Bithe’vah come so soon?” “Has he fallen already?” "Will we be too late?” “Have I gathered enough forces?” “Has he sold himself to the dark?” “He must be set free.” “Where were his students?” “Did they abandon him?” “Revenge lingers. . . “ “Who will prove themselves.” “Wer Idol Di Wer Adulese - Wer Adulese Nugric” The voices came and went through the different biomes that made up the world of descendents, along with it the hordes of the serpent as they searched for the counterpart of their existence, the light in the areas they grew dull. Without balance they would be consumed by the ideologies they toil with - balance must be restored, the flames will choke without.

As the news reached the pale dragon he slowly stood up, pushing away his many servants and constructs that hovered around him. His eyes glimmered a yellow light upon the crowds. It was here that he addressed those loyal onto him "It appears my Brother has found himself in a bimd, call upon our legions. We will march soon upon the craven of the dark - flood the earth with flames, find the tombs and crevices they hide him in."

CLAN RENSHIN OF GUSHIKEN Originating from the island of Gushiken, Clan Renshin, though not historically prominent, carries with it a legacy deeply rooted in the principles of respect, diligence, and honor. In a land where the rigid class system of Clan Shimazu overshadowed many, the Renshin family sought to rise above their humble beginnings and make a name for themselves through unwavering commitment to the Samurai way. Though years of devoted work and training, Clan Renshin lacked the the representation to advacne further in the lands of Gushiken. Their strongest warriors were often equated to the weakest of Samurai among the island. Fueled by a desire to escape the confines of the Gushiken class system and to prove their worth, Clan Renshin made a courageous decision to relocate to the distant lands of Aaun. In Aaun, they saw an opportunity to start anew and create a name for themselves based on the virtues they held dear. Though this move is not to be forsaken for abandonment of their beliefs, loyalty and culture. Members of Clan Renshin often return to the lands of Gushiken for festivals, events, and gathering among the family. FAMILY COLORS AND CREST The family colors of Clan Renshin were jade green and light gray. These colors symbolized their connection to the land of Gushiken, where lush green landscapes and the subtle shades of gray in the architecture were ever-present. It represented their roots and their determination to honor their homeland even as they aspired for greater recognition. These colors are often worn as ribbons upon the clothing of clan member - though often these colors are used in day to day clothing of the clan. The emblem of Clan Renshin, the Three Cranes Crest, carries profound symbolism and a rich history that reflects the values and aspirations of the family. Passed down through generations, this crest is a source of great pride and reverence among the clan members. Each crane stands for the three values the clan desires to represent themselves with; respect, diligence, and honor. Often the cranes are used as medals during training to form what the family calls the Kurēntorofī. This is a circular medallion that is broken into three parts, each part being the shape of a crane. Once all three medallions are collected by proving that a clan member upholds the three values of the clan, it forms the symbol of the three crane's crest. APPEARANCE Members of Clan Renshin have a distinctive appearance that reflects their heritage and values. They possess light-toned skin, a subtle fairness harkening back to their roots in Gushiken, though not strikingly pale. Black hair is common among them, often straight and neatly trimmed, symbolizing discipline and practicality. Their most striking feature is their hazel eyes, a mesmerizing blend of brown and green, symbolizing the fusion of their Gushiken heritage with their new experiences in Aaun, highlighting their adaptability. Clan Renshin members tend to be taller than the average population in Aaun, representing their determination to make a lasting impression and command respect. In terms of physique, Clan Renshin possesses an average body type, prioritizing functionality over extreme athleticism. This reflects their commitment to balance and harmony in life. They prefer simple and practical clothing for comfort and ease of movement, adapting to local customs in Aaun while preserving their Gushiken heritage. Modest jewelry is cherished by Clan Renshin, often passed down through generations, reflecting their deep respect for tradition and humility. In summary, Clan Renshin's appearance mirrors their commitment to simplicity, respect for heritage, and adaptability to new environments, telling a story of their journey from Gushiken to Aaun and their unwavering determination to uphold honor and diligence in their new homeland. SAMURAI Draped in green and black samurai armor, the warriors of Clan Renshin embody the spirit of protectors and guardians. Their attire, represented with deep green and obsidian black, is a symbol of their unyielding commitment to safeguarding their family's people and values. With the lush green representing the fertile landscapes of their ancestral Gushiken and the black signifying their inner strength and determination, they stand as living embodiments of their heritage. These samurai are not just warriors; they are the living embodiment of Clan Renshin's core principles: honor, respect, and diligence. Their duty extends beyond the battlefield, encompassing the very essence of their family's existence. Samurai of this clan are sworn to eternally protect the honor and respect that is being built upon the name of Clan Renshin. Resolute discipline defines their way of life. They adhere to a strict code of conduct that demands respect for their superiors and peers, unwavering diligence in their responsibilities, and an unshakeable commitment to honor, even in the face of adversity. This discipline extends to their daily rituals and practices, forging them into examples of self-mastery and fortitude. These samurai serve as the guardians of tradition, entrusted with passing down the wisdom of their ancestors to the next generation. They preserve the values of respect, diligence, and honor, ensuring that these principles remain not just words, but living truths within the clan's culture. Their journey to becoming a Samurai of Clan Renshin is one of tireless training and self-improvement. For years, they undergo arduous physical and mental preparation to refine their combat skills, discipline their minds, and cultivate unwavering character. Each day is a testament to their commitment to becoming not only skilled warriors but also paragons of virtue. Yet, beneath the armor and behind the disciplined facade lies a profound loyalty. Loyalty to their family, their values, and their way of life. It is this loyalty that binds them together, creating an unbreakable bond among the clan's warriors. They are not just comrades; they are family, ready to stand side by side in the face of any challenge. Within the Renshin Samurai, individuals are more than just accomplished warriors; they embody the pinnacle of mental, physical, and spiritual prowess. They command profound respect from every member of the clan, bearing the solemn duty of safeguarding the clan's reputation and thwarting those who seek to tarnish its legacy. In adherence to the cherished traditions of Oyashima, each Renshin clan member attaining the status of Samurai is bestowed with the revered Katana or Nodachi, alongside a shorter Wakizashi. These twin blades serve not only as instruments of combat but also as symbols of their exalted status, signifying their significance not only within the clan but throughout society at large. Consequently, anyone who carries these sacred blades yet fails to bear the honor and responsibility of the Samurai title is perceived as a direct affront to the very essence of the clan's identity. In the end, the Samurai of Clan Renshin are the living embodiment of a legacy. They see themselves as stewards of traditions passed down through the ages. They understand the significance of leaving behind a reputation of honor, respect, and diligence for their descendants to inherit. Their every action, their every decision, is a testament to the enduring legacy they strive to create, one that will inspire generations to come. TRADITIONS The Ceremony of Ancestry One of the most cherished traditions of Clan Renshin is the Ceremony of Ancestry. Held annually, this solemn ceremony serves as a profound expression of respect for their forebears. The clan gathers at a sacred shrine adorned with lanterns and offerings that represents the trials and history of the Renshin who came before them. Each member, from the youngest child to the most seasoned warrior, takes a turn to offer their gratitude and prayers to their ancestors. It is a moment when the past and present merge, connecting the living with those who came before, and reaffirming their commitment to upholding the family's values. The Walk of Diligence A rite of passage for Clan Renshin's youth is the Walk of Diligence. As they reach adolescence, young clan members embark on a journey to a distant and challenging location in the wilderness. There, they are tasked with surviving for a set period, relying solely on their wits, skills, and determination. It is a test of self-sufficiency, a lesson in resilience, and an opportunity for the young to discover their inner strength. Upon returning, they are welcomed as adults into the clan, having proven their ability to face adversity with unwavering diligence. The Vigil of Honor The Vigil of Honor is a tradition observed during times of crisis or decision-making. Clan Renshin's leaders and elders gather in solemn reflection. Each participant takes a turn to speak their thoughts, guided by the principles of respect, diligence, and honor. It is a collective meditation, a time to weigh the consequences of their actions, and a commitment to make choices that align with their values. Once a consensus is reached, the clan moves forward with unity and purpose, secure in the knowledge that their decisions are rooted in honor. Credits - Azayagaryu, Qizu Gushiken - https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/230151-oyashima-gushiken-具志堅/?tab=comments#comment-2004165 We are Recruiting - https://discord.gg/PBceTvYe2s

A smoldering letter would find itself falling through the air before the man, upon it a short passage. You seek the mysteries of asioth and her people? All who wish to seek enlightenment are welcome, though not all prosper from it's teachings. Come to the far north and try your hand if you will.

Neat stuff!

The Evil Morur’ei strikes again. . .

Qizu qizu. Skin Farm Casual

where is the option to remove nameplates completely : ) ((As in nobody see's nameplates during rp, not optionally turning them off))

A pale dragon would creep upon the missive, hiding behind the walls of flesh that concealed his true monstrosities. "It is truly a shame that An-Gho got all the credit, even more of a shame that they don't know the history of their own people." spoke the creature to his student before moving further down the path.

Primordial Descent Add/Replace: The Nephilim’s wings in this form allow them to glide midair in a straight line, should there be open and constant airflow in their surroundings. They cannot perform complex maneuvers, traveling 3 blocks forwards and 5 blocks downwards every emote. They cannot carry individuals or heavy items while midair, nor can they use this ability to get to places they cannot access mechanically. Should their wing joints be pierced or broken during flight, the Nephilim will fall, resulting in injuries. Azdrazi are able to access their draconic forms out of combat using [2] Dragonsflame Units, with no upkeep cost or duration. Upon entering combat, they are forced back to their descendant form. The wings cannot be used to gain any advantage during combat, nor do they allow flight. They are the same color as the Nephilim’s scales, stretching at most 4 feet in width. This option can only be taken when an Azdrazi is T3. Draconic Fallalery Add/Replace: Battered wings Redlines - Wings do not enable flight and are purely aesthetic, being colored the same color as the Nephilim’s skin. Only receivable upon tier three. Each wing can grow outwards of four feet, however they will have tears and battering - making them incapable of flight as they are a mirage of the true draconic race. As stated in the redlines of this ability, all objects of Draconic Fallalery are incapable to be used in combat and are purely aesthetic. Should someone swing upon the back of a Nephilim it would easily tear through the wings, they are too weak to be used to block hits or move things away. Credits Gamma & Qizu

Roleplay Post The Misadventures of Lyari Sylwynn Or The Boy and the Firelands The first day of his quest, but not of his trials. A normal day in the city of Fi’Andria, the young Mali’aheral known as Lyari laid under the shade of an old tree that seemed to reach halfway to the heavens themselves. One socket was covered by an eyepatch, an empty chasm hidden underneath. The other was light blue. A familiar hand reached for dishwater blond hair, twisted and scaled, yet white in color. It grasps them in a firm death grip to snap the boy from his daydreams. “You’re delaying, Lyari.” The nephilim reminded him. “But mentor! The sky is so lovely today.” The young ‘aheral admonished in response, the sun itself barely visible in the east, only a few golden rays reaching across the heavens. “Looks the same as every other day.” They retorted, retracting the hand and leaving. Lyari’s hands wrapped even tighter around the small object he’d been clutching. A perfect sphere made of metal. Those familiar with metal could identify it as steel, though how it had been formed in such a way was a mystery to Lyari. He was not a smith, he was not much of anything, truly. A happy soul in an abyssal world that would soon be dark. He’d dreamt as much, though he had never truly seen the light or much of his surroundings. A peaceful day. He’d muse wistfully as he finally clambered up from where he’d been and returned to the manor. Spent packing. The thought sombered him as darkened shadows flickered just at the edges of his vision. He tensed, stopping every few feet to glance around. “Godani was good to let me see.” He’d whisper to himself, a reminder he’d often utter when the shadows crept too close, left hand reaching to grasp the cross of Lorraine that hung around his neck, concealed by his robes. “Godani is good.” He’d echo again once in his room, signing the Lorraine, knelt before the cross that hung on his wall. He’d then rise and begin to pack. Food, water, the scripture. A book of asioth laid on his bedside table. He contemplated it. “Mentor doesn’t seem to like it…or my riddles.” He’d murmur to himself. “But maybe it’s just for show, he wants me to think he doesn’t so I don’t feel obliged.” A small smile formed on his lips, nodding excessively. “I won’t let you down, mentor.” The book of Aurelics was added to the bag he planned to bring. It was heavy, he stumbled and then he laughed. “Mentor would think I am very weak.” He’d muse fondly, aloud despite the empty manor. With a fond wave, he’d tell the books on his shelf to not get too dusty while he was gone and shut the door. His journey had begun. The walk from Fi’Andria to the Fireland was long, but quiet. He stopped several times, shaken by the battlefields along the Norlandic road. The long abandoned corpses with eyes wide and mouths agape. At first he would say a prayer for the groups, close as many eyes as he could and sign the Lorraine for them. It was constant, and the sun was half way set already. Yet he remained consistent and the sun had fully set by the time he’d finished. He took shelter in a small cave, cold as it was but protected from the elements outside. Dreams of an eye opening behind rock and stone, of the sky falling to the earth caused him to toss and turn. He was fitful and somber, stirring fully, finally, only an hour after he’d begun to rest. The young elf rose, carrying on in the dark, binding fabric over both eyes. “The shadows can’t reach me now.” He’d remind himself in a soft undertone, exhaling in a cold cloud of air as he passed through Norlandic roads, the Firelands red in their warm splendor in the distance, far beyond where he could see, but the wardren’s whispers to him told him what his eyes could not. Promises of tales and glory, of understanding and memories. His heartbeat quickened. Breathless, he smiled. He set up camp at the peak of one of the mountains. The sun began to rise. The first day began. Day One No birds greeted the morning sun, no dew covered grassy landscapes, and no fog rolled over subtle hills. Only the churning of lava in the distance greeted the young Mali’aheral as he stirred. Only the intense warmth of lava and fire was felt. He rubbed at sleepy eyes and woke slowly that first morning. “Good morning.” He’d exhale, a cheerful smile gracing his features despite the hostile landscape he’d found himself in. Do you think the land hears you? Well, no, I just… You just what? Thought you were being special? Well, I… You’re repeating yourself. Shut up. Unsettled at best as his thoughts waged a war against him, that smile slowly fell. At the edges of his vision danced the shadows, the unfamiliar heat causing sweat to trickle down his brow and back. With a shaky exhale, Lyari set about arranging his camp. Shelter, first, was unpacked and staked into ashy ground, a billowing tent that threatened to collapse on him in the middle of the night, yet it was the only shade on the barren mountainside. Within the tent he set his books, food, and water. The books he carefully kept far from the water, and the food from either. A fly buzzed around his head. He grimaced, then smiled. Around the sack he dug, clawed, and searched until he found the cloth he’d brought along. Binding it over both eyes, he breathed a sigh of relief. The shadows were finally gone again and the world was quiet- save for his mind. You look stupid. Cut out the other eye. It doesn’t do you any good anyways. Why do you care if people think you’re a cripple? They think you’re useless anyways. He’d swallow, hands shaky. “I just…they think I’m useless enough.” He’d say firmly, retrieving the book On Asioth, flipping through the words mindlessly. You think you’ll understand that? You think you’re smart, don’t you? Everyone knows you’re dumb. Stupid. Spineless. The minutes felt like hours. The hours felt like days. The sun set, the warmth did not vanish. Lyari laid in his tent, staring up at a sky he could not see. Day Two The sun rose again without greeting by any bird or commonality the elf had grown familiar with. Only the lava gurgled and ash billowed in its wake, the glow repressed but the brightened landscape mysterious and beautiful in its own way. The elf awoke, lips chapped, stomach growling. He smiled. “Good morning.” He spoke quietly. Again? Again? A singular word echoed through his mind after the word had escaped. His smile faded, his gaze lowered. The sun rose and he ate bread. Onward and upward into the sky it climbed, he drank water. He wandered the mountaintops. Ash flew around his boots, clung to his clothing. A few flowers grew, as though in rebellion to their surroundings. Midday came and passed. The campsite was finally in view again, he collapsed to his knees, exhausted and breathing heavily. The rest of the day was spent in the tent, reading philosophy he did not quite understand, yet had been promised would enlighten him. First Born? White Branches? Golden Fire? Golden bands? His thoughts drifted then, from the pages to his daydreams. Glassy eyed, he studied the land beyond which he could see, as though willing it into existence. There was nothing, save for the imposing wall of darkened abyss. Then, as quiet as a mouse, as sudden as a shooting star, it was there. Within that abyss, two Mali’aheral, a smaller one between them. Laughing, holding the child by either hand protectively. His smile returned, the sun set but nothing changed for Lyari, lost in his daydream. I wonder what it would have been like. The voices were quiet. Day Three The sun rose, the sun climbed, Lyari slept feverishly in the heat of the Firelands. Further into the sky it ascended, nearing midday before he awoke, warden held firmly to his chest. Red marks clung to his skin where the steel ball had been held protectively. A fly buzzed overhead once more. His sleepy hand, outstretched, brushed away just outside of the tent. A small white flower stood upright from beneath. “Good morning.” He greeted it softly. He thinks he’s a druid. They can’t understand you. Next you’ll eat air because everything has feelings. Maybe you wouldn’t be so fat then. The normally pale and chubby elf had begun to burn under the sun’s relentless rays. White skin was now a light shade of pink. His lips had cracked all the deeper, repetitive licking to moisten them once more proved only to chap them all the worse. He opted to lay in the tent, the water supply half gone, his food barely touched. Sweat beaded on his eyelids beneath the cloth, he batted it away, yet read all the same. A blessing in disguise. Godani is good. He thought to himself, cheerful, thankful. He read until nightfall, the same few lines over and over, wondrous, awestruck. For First-Born, his royal kin climbed the bright heavens, and brought him the sparks of starry grandeur held there. Loving, he lapped up the red waters of their muse, and raised them upon a throne of shining thunder. In turn they filled his vessel with timeless insight, and wrote his name upon the book of Asioth. Up at a sky he could not see, past the limit of his own gaze, he stared. He imagined shooting stars and twinkling rocks dancing across the black abyss above. Lyari thought of a moon, glowing as the sun does, yet cold and somehow more distant. He slept, he dreamt of a dragon, mighty and powerful, climbing the steps to a heaven he’d never known, of them plucking the moon and kneeling before the Father, offering the gift upward in reverence. All cried as one, gathered together, as Azdromoth plucked the gift from hands, sent clawed fingers through the object, the once white moon turning red and dripping crimson. They stood, anointed, shrouded in wisdom not even the books could do justice by. The voices were quiet, only the wardren hummed its soft promises to him and sang songs of draconic origin. Day Four Clouds drifted lazily over the skies, the crackling of thunder in the distance. His tent shuddered and shook, the sun was barely to be found. No greeting was given, the young elf struggled to stake the tent down in sturdier soil, wind whipping around and nearly through him and that which he had brought without thought or care. His efforts were in vain. The downpour came. He struggled against it and tried to cower in the safety of his tent. He sobbed, he pleaded, and he begged the skies to be kinder. There was no reprieve. The crackle of thunder loomed closer, yet the flashes of brilliant lightning were unseen. He stared blankly in the direction of it all, bright blinding light illuminating his face, soaked with rain and tears, jaw trembling in terror, yet he saw nothing beyond that narrow patch a few meters in front of himself. The overwhelming sense of dread, however, was not lost on the cowardly Mali. He packed his books, stored his food and water, and quickly ran from the supposed safety of the tent. Lightning struck where Mali and supplies had once lain, the tent igniting in terrible flame. Muddied boots slipped and slid on the treacherous mountainside. He ran, gasped for air, and ran further in the downpour until he could barely lift his feet. The edge of a tower came into view, the steam from the lava deterring him. He continued to flee. Eventually, the opening of a cave jutted out from the mountainside he had continually slid down. He entered, threw his belongings on the floor, and sobbed in terror and relief. You should have said good morning. You always make these things happen. Failure. Worthless. Either hand shot over his ears as he bawled, rolled around in dismay. He screamed, he begged the world aloud. The thunder drowned out his pleas. The lightning illuminated his suffering. The sun set and the moon rose. The stars danced across the sky. The storm raged on. Day Five Hunger greeted the Mali’aheral, not the sun. A growl of his stomach, pangs that clawed at his ribs. Most of the food had grown moldy and spoiled by the downpour, sped up by the cave’s humid, stale air. Lyari’s eyes did not open, yet he stirred all the same, the world a miraculous thing when seen behind a blindfold. “Godani is good.” He’d murmur to himself, smiling despite it all. “Good morning.” The voices were silent, he was alone in the cave, save for the soft humm of his mud encrusted wardren. Dirt and soot stained arms clung to the steel sphere, his dirtied and torn shirt sagging, reeking grotesquely from the trials of the last near-week. A sniffle, subdued by a yawn, escaped him, the entrance to the cave half covered by mud, a trickle of light just barely peeking through, a reprieve from the heat of the last four days. Cracked and bloody lips parted, an exhale as he crawled towards the sunlight, the wardren’s soft coaxes ever leading him onward. “I’m so tired…but if I don’t stay in the heat…it can’t change me…this’ll all be for nothing.” The words echoed ever so vaguely through the cave’s walls, taunting and yet motivating. Handful by handful, he pulled mud from the entrance until the hole, where scarce a trickle of light had poured earlier, now turned near oven-like. The gurgle of lava bubbled and churned nearby and sweat streaked the mud and soot that clung to hair and face alike. He swatted at the flies at first before ignoring them as they landed and flew away, determined to pull himself from the cave. Outward he hoisted himself, panting and shaking from the effort, before collapsing into mud that hadn’t yet turned dusty, though soot and ash fled from ground to the air after the impact. A hand rose, blocking the sun from scorching him further, yet he reveled in the heat and might of it all the same, staring off towards that which he could not see. His brothers hid at the edges of his vision; watching, they each lit their flames with his blazing eyes. His mind wandered to the books he’d brought, now ruined as they were, and he found only the words of Azdromoth and Eresar, made immortal in tomes, lingered in his mind. His left hand clung to the warming sphere that hummed, his right undid the blindfold, shadows dancing at the edges of his vision. “Soon we will be brothers. You will welcome me as my parents never did.” He’d murmur, a smile forming at the thought. Under the sky he laid, blistering and burning until the sun set in sympathy and the moon rose in pity. Day Six Morning found the elf rummaging through what tattered remains of his tent clung to the stakes in the ground. His blanket, by some miracle, had been staked by mistake and so clung to the soil below, ruined and dried with innumerous layers of dirt and ash. Yet- he pulled the wood free from it and pulled it close all the same. “Good morning.” He greeted the blanket, laughing in relief and horror before smiling and setting it down. “Azdromoth is good.” His stomach growled again, he sent a muddied fist to it, stumbling and doubling over. “Quiet you…” he’d whine towards the internal organ. “You’re weak! I’m not weak!” The voices were oddly silent, save for the wardren which hummed in delight. His gaze went to the unearthed flower, somehow grown taller in the few days, unbroken by the storms. The World was a fruitful womb of red earth: a cage. Below, a white-gold seed, First-Born, became himself. Thus a sapling of Asioth emerged unseen. Lively knowledge was as sunlight upon its leaves. Quiet words whispered in his ear, wizened and cunning. He smiled at the small plant, growing tall in a hostile environment. He dug away at some of the mud, creating a barrier for the flower from the wind. He smiled, cupping the leaves in a careful hand. “Azdromoth is good, even flowers can survive in these lands.” His voice was soft, reverence evident. He knelt, forehead pressing into the ash and soot below. He wept, deep and guttural, yet no tears came, too dehydrated from the sun to shed water beyond the sweat that chilled him at night. “I am worthy. I am worthy.” He rose, cupping ash between palms, pressing his bleeding lips to the powder within his fingers. “Praise Azdromoth.” A cry to the heavens. The madness continued, the sun set, the moon rose. Stars shown and meteors danced across the sky in his dreams. Shadows danced at the edges, with reddened eyes and horns that appeared as though crowns. Betwixt fires he danced and cheered, within tomes of knowledge he was lost. On and on his dreamworld shifted and formed and vanished until the night fled and the day arose. Day Seven The final day greeted the blistered, battered, and filthy elf as he laid in the dirt. A lazy hand rose, spreading ash over his torso further. “Reborn…reborn.” He’d murmur in an echoing way, the other arm clinging to the steel sphere as though it was life itself. “I will be reborn.” Cheerful, he’d smile to the sun. Mid day found him still laying amongst the ash and soot, aurelects dancing across his mind, delirious and shaken by the week long exposure to the hostile environment. He laughed, a raspy thing, throat raw and sore. “Have you seen me yet, my soon to be father?” He’d call out, no hatred or disdain to the tone, though it was barely above a whisper, his voice nearly lost in the strain. The wardren hummed terribly, trembled. The elf rose and bowed to the ash and lava. “My books.” He admonished, fleeing from the campsite, wrecked and ruined, back to the cave. Dirtied fingers dug into torn and tattered books, hoisting them up into a loving grasp alongside the sphere. He returned to the campsite, looking for the flower. It lay where it had stood, half broken in the ash. Yet he did not weep, for he understood. “To build it up you must first allow it to be broken down…” With careful hands, the elf set to burying the flower beneath the dust of the Firelands. With loving hands he grasped at the sphere and books, carrying them away. On shaky legs he found his way from the hostile land and laid beside a lake, lapping up chilled water until his belly swished with liquid with every movement. It was then that he returned to society, to his mentor with new found wisdom.

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IGN : Qizu Discord : Logan.#6052 Category : Skin Title : The End Bringer