bloomtiara

As the softening of Nature signaled another druid passing over, the bedridden woman let out but another sob that ached her ribs. Another one bites the dust.

An elven woman sat within the depths of a small oaken basement, riddled with boxes and crates, the smell of rot surrounding her. Within one, prosthetics; others, toys and items as aged or older than she. A notable few, letters. Letters, all returned without responses. Each and every scroll was marked with the scratches of an automaton upon the edges of every one of those pieces of paper. Each one, signed with her name, and pleas to his well-being. An unfinished one, even, lay upon the crate's top. Long now had she assumed she had outlived another one she once knew. Eleven, this made. . . Eleven that had abandoned her to the lengths of time. Someone, to never again respond. Someone to never again teach, nor to speak back. So then she continued, calloused fingers striking a harp's strings. It rung through the basement, the ground, the grass, into the ears of anyone near enough to hear. His student would, even surprisingly, never forget him. As she wouldn't forget any others.

Oh, how she cried. - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - ~ Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep. ( -Unknown ). A faint flick of a match against the candle wicker: bright, contained within the pitch black of dust and grimoires from centuries past. Plans continued, passed word of mouth between each being within that pit. Cascading down the vertical hall of void, came again the armored figure, piles and cases of bottles in hand every time; or, further... gifts, to add to her collection. Her favorite? The latter. Each time someone left, each time someone entered, always signaled by the creaking of the lift, threatening to snap under someone's weight some day. Some decades in the future, to some unlucky soul's fate. Ones of stone, of unpresence, stone or something higher to bow to. Someone inferior, gathering supplies: the occasional equal, one to spit insults across the aging hall. Another dead to add to the collection. Wandering the closed corridors, one were almost certain to find a corpse or two, a body or two, a skull, or a few. Most often, you'd find it was him, [REDACTED], with the cases in hand. Armor does screech so horridly with nothing to cover each joint and crease of it's form, doesn't it? And yet, it could be considered for someone to be within, maybe, if you considered them beings worth of philosophy, beings worth conversation, if they could be considered those such things at all. She had, once upon a time, long before she had been what she had now become. What is it she had become? Was she always this way? Who did she used to be? Who did I exist as, before this? Was I always something as wretched as this? Can it truly be called such a detestable thing? - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - Who was to know? No one, no one that had seen her, after all. Not a living mortal soul had, not in years, nor in decades. After all, the thing that had once been a woman had long forgotten, if she'd used to have a name, it no longer belonged to her. Not anymore, nor was she longer worth such a title, no matter what it may have been. The screeches of a pained mind fell on ignorant ears. Ones that did not much mind her suffering, as they wallowed within their own. They grew more frequent, these flashes of thoughts. Things the former woman used to know, but no longer. People she used to know, places, seasons, colors, feelings. The sobbing rung so loud, akin one most horrid bell. Unable to shed tears, nor to tell if they were true ones. What were true tears? What were they for? Were hers real? Life remained scarce, in some place you could hardly call a residence. Yet, she stayed there. Most days, weeks, months, years, decades. Her dear friends, so long past her existence. She had seen one, recently. Apparently, unrecognizable from what she had once appeared as, whatever color, shape, frame that had been. How long had she been this way? How long, to go on like this? What was the original reason, anyway? Had there been one? Every night, every day, when the sun crossed the horizon. Every time, every singular time, did these cross her mind so many times over it made her ribs ache. Her innards, no longer there, churning in nausea; despite the long lost ability to so much as to have a glass of water. Tears of blackened ichor poured down her faceless visage, crying to the moon; for: one day, to know what she was to be. What she had been. What she was to become, or to cease being. Yet, on these worst of nights, where the former woman were so unsure, again came [REDACTED]. He too, so plagued by this: thought, he was a tool. She assured him, he were not, and neither were she. But what were the two of them then? People? Surely not. - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - - = || ―━―━+━―━― || = - Wandering out into the depths of the night, did she cry out her lungs into the sky. They had been long lost. Her fingers scraped against the stone bridge, hoping for cold. She felt none. Crying out into the sky, hoping to swallow the wind, to feel the fog in her throat. There was a big gaping hole, that which marked her demise, from so long ago. Her whole being, through and throughout, presented itself before the moonlight, long before the sunlight was to come. Screaming to whatever may lay in the heavens above, shrieking, wailing, howling, bawling, for something, anything, to explain. Nothing answered. The disfigured, disgusting once-was woman laid on the moss-stricken bricks for quite some time. She could only weep, curling up with her arms wrapped about her legs. One long forgotten ballgown, so wrecked and torn, it could no longer be identified to nation. Her hair kept neat and tidy, even as ebony streaks decorated her cheeks, dissolving soon into the ground they landed upon as her bones faced the sky. A quiet maelstrom of thoughts ravaged her mind, not soon to be answered, nor to be lost.

One to silently listen to the rumors behind layers of cloth and wool, the woman traversed the hills. She seemed to recognize the place as spoken of in rumors, within the cities, thick and thin with people residing. A sharp pair of shears rested at her hip, the large form of the mali tumbled down through old ruins, dodging cracking or broken stones. Finally then, rusting goggles gleaming faintly with darkened lenses coming to face what she had only glanced over many a time. For the first statue's riddle, was pinned with a hefty stone on a piece of parchment, as were all of them. "As much sugar as it takes for a treat every day. It is hard work to cross the bridge and survive winter." For the second, she sat a time. Thinking, and idly scribing within some different journal, for some other journey unrelated. "He bled because the farmer had most likely mistakenly injured himself while working on his butchering tools. Cleaning old blades that have been doused in blood always smells like seared steak." Third, the woman turned to look at the sky herself; finding some humor in this section of riddle. Maybe the sky was different than she'd always thought. Or not. Who would ever really know? "The clouds whisper for the death of mushrooms. After all, mint is not kind to them. It chokes them to death, leaving a fresh scent in the air. Then again, if it were not painted to look like the sky, who could really know?" Fourth, the woman did take a piece of cotton from her ear, always used as some makeshift earplug. She scoffed, then, with not a mina to her name to justify having the material. Maybe the person she'd received them from was rich? "A snake. Most often pictured as green, and sneaky, within children's storybooks. A snake can disguise itself as someone unwelcome, a spy, sneaking into a noble's home unannounced. The strike of a snake upon a noble's life would certainly leave an unpleasant memory." For last and yet not least, the fifth riddle she stared upon. It felt like some butchered story she once read, long passed. She wouldn't ever remember it, anyway, though squinted at some of the wording with poor eyes through thick bottlecap lenses. "The poor four horsemen had to leave early, for they set off yesterday if it was 'morrow'. They were probably not happy to leave so early with heavy barrels on their backs. They arrived at dawn, because it took them a day to get there. Morning to morning, dawn to dawn. There was also wine in the barrels, colored of roses. They were likely not allowed to drink the wine. How sad." Content with her answers, however butchered they may be, she'd smear a bit of a raspberry candy's powder in the shape of an 'A' upon the bottom of each note, for her own recognition of them. And then the woman set off. Distantly, the clatter of crashing wood and stone sounded as she fell through the floor of some ruins. (bloom#3047)

Some distant Mali stared upon the rubble, her own curiosity bringing her to watch it for some time. What happened here, and what laid within; she didn't mind regardless, due to the city's past, but still: what happened into those who had been inside?

A lone man sat in deafening silence, amongst a cluttered workshop. Day by day, night by night, sewing, carving, scraps of cloth and wood shavings piling up at either side of his scarred seat; of which, kittens rested about the floorboards, a screowl up in the ceiling. On a monthly visit to Cartref did he come across this letter, yet not a sound nor a word escaped this man. Instead, the maelstrom of voices grew within his head, much to the annoyance of the second existing resident. And so, only a dim frown graced the man's visage. That beaten but dimly shining ring was set to rest on a nearby shelf, as the man returned to his feverish work, pallid, unwilling to stop, unable to quit, lest he think too hard about it.

exciting! can't wait to go up and see it

big rock lads get the update they deserve +1

The pallid elf within the cell twisted their fingers around that odd puzzle, ferrum rings woven into each other. Clicking echoed from the stone cell most hours of the day and night. Taking it apart, putting it together, all while those terrors loomed over their back from within those depths of the freak's mind. Mere hallucinations, but the only thing commonly within the cell. Awaiting someone they knew to come, yet, they were sure it was a trap. It must be. But they had no choice, but to sit there bound, and wait. Or so they think.

DEUS VULT! unironically tho, good post. Hopin it goes through

ayo, excited for this. Hope it passes! Was a fun readthrough and enjoyed the general brainstorming. You got the big brain power m'dude

"..What.. have you gotten yourself.. into?" A man pondered this aloud from a cot, unable to budge, nor even walk very fast, ridden with pain. He knew what this is about, who it were for, and unable to stop whatever outcome may show. What an idiot his brother is.

Auden firstly faced off the men who had invaded with a fearless blade held in front of him, yelling for the invaders to leave, only in defense of the maid that had been at his side at the time. In favor of the sword, once his nephew entered the scene, he took to bashing a man's helmet in with a brick tied on a rope. Atherian's head was slammed into again, and again, and again. Eventually the ISA did come, though already with several O'Rourkes tying up people at the scene. What chaos there was, with all the screaming, but eventually the captives were killed or taken away... Something like that. Hard to tell, amongst the dozens of soldiers. Oh well. He could laugh at the ridiculousness later.

What is the favorite quote you've ever gotten from lotc? The weirdest character? Wackiest event you've been in? Can player run or staff run

Good luck out there Neo! I'll probably see you around. better come to play jackbox sometime or so help me.

((This is not a PK post, I swear))

Always pity the thinkers, for they are cursed with their own imagination. (Atticus) Tainted golden eyes stared into the darkness, where nothing could be seen. An endless void danced before her eyes, nothing but her bare hands for defense. Within that cave, a voice rung out: one so familiar, yet one she most dreaded- one she was afraid to hear again. . . "Are you willing to follow me in here, Astarte?" For, he may just disappear. Shattering shells rung in her ears, showering over the lass. Everything fell from beneath her feet, stones grinding against her palms as she sat on her hands and knees within that eerie dark. "Were you not going to make that peasant- You were going to make her proud?!" Breaths pumped through her chest, that dirty excuse for a mali. She peered down to those shards of shells within her palm, wheezing, throwing them with a red ichor into that gloom. "I've not the faintest idea how another family was even able to accept you into their third-rate home." The clatter of the sea-bound objects rung through her mind, piercing, looking down.. Sand began to pile up, pouring out from her ears in a slow, and steady flow. "You throw up at the slightest punch - Now, that same material began to drain from her maw, sand pooling out across the cave-floor. - Are you that pathetic?" "How long will you need me to coddle you until you finally start taking care of yourself, you useless thing?" A pain began to surge through the lass' gut, eyes shutting tight as the ringing of the shells begun to fade, piercing throughout her skull. "Is that all it took? One punch? Get up. Get up!" "Get up, Astarte! Come on!" And that which replaced the splitting headache, was that instead of comfort- held tight, staring up through cream-colored locks of hair. "A daughter of my brother is a daughter of mine." That voice, that voice she craved to hear, for decades. Peaceful, quiet. Oh, how she longed to scream, to cry out- naught more than trapped beneath that old blanket. To beg them all to return- all those she wished to see. "I'll close your eyes, one by one. And so instead, she'd cling to that dearest toy, one her maln had left, sewn from rabbit's fur upon that olden continent, swelled with flames. "The sun is leaving, the day is done, the sky is going, going off to sleep, oh let your mind follow, let not your eyes weep." It crawled about at the edges of her eyes, That subtle crimson that sought to overtake her, Clinging to that little lass' dress hem. . . If only to forget that scene, as the axe cleaved for one of them, another just barely left for their trip, and that last one, the worst, as screams and cries for her father were all that remained: "Go home, Astarte. I'll see you later this evening." I made pasta that night, I believe; though, I did burn it. You never tried it. "Now rest so gently, letting time pass by, the dreams that you yearn for, they dance behind your eyes." "Rest well, Astarte." It was painful for her eyes to open that day, Scattered needles of pine sprawled across her form, Wrinkles in her clothes stuck to her with a sweet amber sap. Just like those lousy irises of hers. The smell of cedar filled her nose, mixed with rotten eggs. Another average day. "Emilei ought to be getting antsy by now.. I need to finish my task." And so, as those words of Earnest rung through her head, she thought, while the crunch of fallen wood echoed from beneath her heels, "What dreams I see now, huh?" Came that hum, while the charcoal pencil scratched along the notebook's page, and the charcoal shattered.

Here again . . . His gaze wandered around, dancing between the beds, the window. A familiar face sat on the bed across from him, smiling - The ginger tinted brunet, being a young lad staring up; pupiless eyes shimmering with a deep green. An unsettling itch hovered over his shoulder, as the boy spoke: "Auden, what did ma'am say?" With that, the window shattered. The boy was gone, the beds tattered- both the same, yet different colored sheets. "Where are we going today?" Flames swelled through the room, as fissures began to grow through the floorboards. A note rung through the air, with a horrible, ear-shattering ruckus of chords. Surroundings grew blurry as he went tumbling through, ethereal hands grasping for his front, ripping, tearing, breaths choked back into his gullet. The clouded black of his surrounds crunched down on his forearms, as crimson came to pour, in which they seemed to hunt. Rats, hundreds, of thousands seeped through the floors of the building, fire singeing the fur upon their flesh. Twisting and turning, desperate to escape, flailing within that void. Cries rung to deaf ears. Backs were turned, shoulders of their forms headless. He wailed, he sobbed, nails scraping against splintered wood. His body twisted and curved, spun and shifted, coming to face someone eye-to-eye. Less than an inch between their irises, the glares bore into each other. Crimson seeped from the other's ears, and as the being akin to a twin grabbed him by the neck, only one thing rung through his mind. For she screamed, "They're all awake." His eyes popped open, fingers grasped around the cloth of his shirt as he choked upon his own throat. Bile spilled out upon the floor. Slowly, he came to sit; pain resounding throughout his ribs. ". . There it is again." Outside, lingered Edward, tensed with a bowstring taught in his grasp. John sat upon a fence, and Vesryn on the dirt below him- relaxed while watching. And at once, he saw with empty eyes, It was all just a dream.

The Last Dance “He’s dead, Hui. I killed him.” The adrenaline built up in their veins as their foot skidded back through the muck. One, after the other, after the other, until it felt as if they glided through air with each step. And yet, a hand caught them by their face, ending their flight like a hunter with his rifle. Flesh grinded against the stones beneath the murky waters. “I love you dearly.” They allowed a smile to grace their face, for the first time in years. Feet swinging, just above that drop. Endless enough, they’d disappear with just a slip. And they told, they loved that brightly colored boy, they loved him too. Oh, so dearly. Their maw gaped open, a bottle stuffed between their teeth as a sickly oil slid down their throat; hoarse, soundless cries meeting deaf ears. Fingertips pressed harshly against their skin, as someone loomed over them. One damp blue scarf sewn like deep seawater, pristine white hair filled with rotting petals; tainted in red. Fire swelled. It ate them, from the inside out, crawling, up until it flicked through their teeth. The happy lad danced with them in the midst of the streets, sunlight shining down upon them. The pale lass sat upon the steps, smile glowing as she watched the two dance. Soles skidded across the earth and stones, as they counted, One two three, One Two Three, One, Two, Three. Oh, nothing came to that pitied child, as they were left behind. Again, and again, and again. They finally found the place to call home, amongst their mixed sisters, mother, and maln. Their dearests, the mud blood and silver haired. Even that mage. He, who pitied the lonely child, long abandoned by their friends, convinced they’d been so horrible. That time together was cut short. Those gone looking for whence they had went, found naught but decayed petals and squished butterflies, all their outfits and trinkets remain. Crayons littered the streets, crushed under someone’s weight. The chickens starved, their beloved wisteria tree wilting. And, they were never heard from since. Oh, what karma it was, to be a repeat: the same as their father they once adored. Who they missed, so, so badly. It’s a shame, their wails never became loud enough to notice. Raspy. Soft. Broken. “Goohd nigh’.. Pieck. Love you, moth’r.” “I’ll mis’ youh, Maln.”

The Scholar’s Thoughts ꧁༒☬༒꧂ ꧁༒☬༒꧂ Down in the damp halls where many lay to ruin, she roamed: unfulfilled. Where mold took hold, and water held control, she lingers; followed by a dull glow. Slowly, she looked skyward. Met with darkness, no sun to be found, for, she was not near the upper ground. Her form grew opaque, ribbons adorning ribs, bound there akin to a noose. She no longer seemed familiar. Not anymore. Shelves upon shelves, cases and boxes, brimmed the place from floor to ceiling. Whence she sat, heels rested upon a skull, with a book in hand. What was my name again? Panic became overwhelming. A rage, an unbelieving. No one was there, Not a soul to remind her. What was it? Oh. Right, That’s who it was. The ichor settled, leaking from her bones. The seams bursted with mist, dissipating the moment they came. That old ball gown, she still adorned. Sleeves were torn. But, weren’t they always?

Someone looked upon the ruined city behind a set of.. Regifted goggles, gold-lined glasses clutched in one hand, Diddyfunkle herbs in the other. She could not help but watch the odd things going on in Freeport as she did her rounds, shuffling through the ruins and vines which held the place together. "What do the Knowledge-Seekers want..?" That woman wondered beneath her ragged breaths, gloved fingers running along that odd necklace of hers.

AYo this is amazing and i'm excited for it. I've only heard of when cleric-types existed. Can't wait to see how it turns out.

Discord: bloom#3047 Skin(s): Farmer's Life For Me Bid(s): 200 Skinner: Neo

Discord: bloom#3047 Skin(s): Farmer's Life For Me Bid(s): 150 Skinner: neo

That Poltergeist wandered about the depths of a library, dusting the olden books lining the walls. She hummed, in the worst of tunes, twirling around dark spaces between the shelves as her crimson dress brushed against the cracked stone floors. "Hound.. where are you? I've yet to hear you these past days..." That odd being wondered to herself, flipping through pages to ensure no rot came to the scriptures. As that old friend of hers wandered past, she would look up to them, a book waved around aimlessly. "I haven't. Where is he..?" She spoke, in a tone oh so rattling; and even yet, spoke to the woman as she always had. "It's.. strange. I hope Hound returns soon." @TreeSmoothie