Acostrob

Deep within the bowels of the earth, a lone Weaver cackled and licked his lips. "And thus, they turn on each other again; so blissfully unaware that they are but tools." And so, his ceaseless work would resume.

His feet are light and nimble. He never sleeps. He says that he will never die. He dances in light and in shadow and he is a great favorite. He never sleeps. He is dancing, dancing. He says that he will never die.

A white-clad weaver sighs in disappointment at not being mentioned. Clearly, he needs to step his game up.

add developing a romanian accent into the examples

hi

the femcel ca is... gone..?

Perhaps, this is hell. Tchort wandered the putrid hallway, the silken, scarlet robe that once adorned his ravaged and scarred body in pride now completely ruined, devoid of its faux-divinity. His dirtied face ran red, two dark, scabbed spots where his eyes should be, a dried waterfall of blood running down his cheeks and neck, blending into cloth. His scarred hands ran across the pus-covered walls as he whispered his mantra without end. Your seat is stained my Lord, And your tears carmine red. A man is dead; a Prince is born, All men should die so a Court is born. All hail the King; A Prince of Nothing. Yilth’r Marog. His hands led him into an open room; a throne room, it would seem. He fell onto his knees with a weak thud, hands trailing across a damp, torn carpet that led further into the royal hall. Upon reaching what he deemed the throne, his frail figure rose, placing its’ mass upon the great stone chair. Within moments he saw once more; a sight without seeing, a vision without light. There he sat, atop a rotting chestnut chair, hands and feet nailed to the wood, yet he struggled not. The newly acquired vision led him to pace around the great hall, head frantically locking onto the nearby environment. With his feet he felt the ground, one not made of stone or plank, but gray ash and dead, wrinkled roots. His eyeless sight then trailed, seeking to find the source of such massive roots, yet they found nothing - nothing but a great, endless and dark void stretching in every direction. — The Prince was at peace, it seemed. A sigh of relief was given, as five figures then approached with a lazy step, each older and increasingly marred by scars than the one before it. Friederik, The Gelt, Horus, Ifan and Aesyr. The nailed man counted, each name spoken with a tremble, of both pleasure and terror. The figures stood a few feet before the chestnut chair, glancing at each other and sharing whispers, only occasionally shifting their gaze towards him, as if with disgust and admiration. They walked onwards after a short while, each passing by the chair, stopping momentarily as family members would before the coffin of a loved one. Tchort tried to move as they passed out of his vision, yet the chair stood stalwart, intent on staying in place. Nothing would help him now. As he turned to face forwards, an antique closet appeared in front, where the five men once stood. He looked down at his body, and the nails that bound him to the chestnut prison were gone. He rose, shaking and trembling as if he had not stood in years. With slow, irregular steps he made his way towards the closet, opening it. The inside was empty, save for a human’s left ear and left hand, laying in a small puddle of blood on the bottom. He knelt, hesitating if the offerings were to be picked up or left alone in their rest. The Prince signed the Cross, and stood back up. With a slow, jerky motion the closet was shut, and he moved back to sit atop his throne. The closet then changed into a visibly older one, and as the Prince noticed, he tried to stand, yet his hands and feet were bound by nails once more. The closet opened without a sound, revealing a man standing inside; A malnourished, contorted figure caked in dried blood and vomit, a descendant’s entrails hanging around his neck like a noose. With a heavy step the figure left the inside of the closet, and the martyr noticed that the other was missing his left hand and ear. — Tchort inhaled as to speak, and the figure spoke alongside him, word for word. Perhaps, this is home. It was then that a great urge arose within the man, and he could feel it rising within the standing manifestation of the Larian Wretch as well. With a final weep, a final look around the endless void, the duo began to sing a prayer. Oh black bird, Sing me your song of sorrows. Cardinal! Cardinal of midnight soot! What do you spy at the bottom of the well? Tchort felt a fire igniting beneath the seat, slowly pecking at his cold feet, as if he was nothing but carrion left for vultures. His fingers began to elongate, skull cracking and growing a snout, legs forming an extra joint. I see a weeping devil damning hell, Dancing, Dancing with its ghosts in its watery halls. A primal hunger took control over his body, and he thrashed, his jaws snapping at the man who only stood and observed, cracking lips singing, as did Tchort’s, involuntarily. It’s shadows sold, It’s children drowned, And it’s God, ever smiling? The skin began to melt, that inkling of flame transforming into a great pyre with Tchort at its center; his malformed, charred carcass screaming the remaining words of the song. O, little devil, crying in the well. Why do you weep, O why do you weep? Little devil, dying in the well.

Within the deep reaches of the South, a gambeson-clad figure held the missive within its' grasp. A strap went loose, a helmet falling onto the hardened dirt, revealing a face; a gaunt, ancient 'ker. A nod was given, seemingly to no one, and a piece of blank parchment was withdrawn from a bag fastened to a horse's saddle. The 'ker began writing.

I personally believe in shift-clicking a person and/or searching their forum account for any traces of spookery before I interact with them, and if I do find anything I guard default pvp them

A crazed vagrant wept, his eyes blood red, his tears as crimson as the torn silks he once wore in pride.

can't wait to metagame the location ong..

Ifan had found himself staring absent mindedly towards some unknown horizon, eyes unblinking, thoughts racing from the past to the future, then back to the past. Along this current of erratic thoughts floated Castiel, an old friend, a mentor. It reminded him of an empty room, its doors left wide open in a hurry, a cold breeze running through the halls. "Has it happened again?" Muttered he in a brief moment of recollection, of sentience. Such clarity faded into oblivion then, the prince lost within his thoughts, standing still like a gargoyle once more.

"Spook tests? What ridiculous wording." Spoke some lavish degenerate, "At least have the mental capacity to call us Darkspawn first."

this font is unreadable 💯💯