Benjikhei

Through, and far installed beneath the cushiony silt and moss laden deposits carpeting the fungal floor of a saturated woodland thicket - there into rock, was installed and engraved a modest sanctum; this mausoleum was indeed intended for a pauper, and yet enfettered to a basalt throne, fastened with rusting chains, was bound a long entombed cretin of dark prowess and occult significance. He would strangle himself, spitting in the leftmost of foreign tongues, and his skull would serve homestead to chittering insects, of both a wicked and wild nature, now famished. This horrid practitioner was not always so lamentable, and yet groaned in the rousing of his form from inert silence - deaf and struck dumb of the revelation that another of his kind had again fallen asleep and indeed not yet been reposed. The gloom of macabre undeath was indeed, though potent - not hardly enough a resurrectional comfort to satiate his morbid appetite for closure, or be reprieve from ancient familial torment. ”Ti cerco, e’ te ne sei andato. Non guardo e’ tu presenti. La morte è oscura. My loss ‘iss now, I say.. complete.”

Beneath the world, catacombs of fetid rot and rusted fetters shook, for an undead tyrant rattled - insectoid pincers clicking upon his skull, whilst he chittered endlessly. This memorandum found way into his claws, and was promptly ripped to shreds of parchment, scrawled with now unreadable jargon. "How cle-ever it iss'..." The acarid-beast chattered in abject vexation. "This'll prevent nothing' that is to come."

Dante Falcone, from the unmarked mausoleum his embalmed form was stored within - rattled the walls of his carved tomb, in a nightmare. The longest memory.

Dr. Theodore Galbraith, an immoral murderer and unrepentant sycophant bellows thunderingly from a pit in burning hell, his eternal comeuppance for a life poorly spent...

"... This slighting will not go unforgiven!" Contends the feared Anvil Priest, third of his title, and great leader of the aforementioned Anvil-Worshippers, pacing incessantly for hours upon hours within the derelict sanctum of his holy site. He spends the rest of the day whining.

From a nearby tropical shoreline, a philanthropic man peers up from some parchment - on which were scribbled the designs for new dwelling spaces and the signatures of other, doubtlessly wealthy benefactors. "I can't believe they're back.."

Skin Name: Skin 4 Discord: if u don’t know it by now.. Bid: 5 USD

Ancient whispers beckon, from a world of sprawling bazaars and grandiose merchants... __________________________ __________________________ A golden mask was affixed to the face of the giraffe, as smoke expelled from their nostrils once more.

Some disgruntled yuletide merchant of the realm went to offer some good advice to another GROUCH, over eggnog. "This is tarnishing yer' brand image," He'd declare. "You oughta' sue him, fella!" @DISCOLIQUID Elsewhere, a group of Merry Tuvmas Ghosts all chatter and shake their heads in deep annoyance. "What a miserable miser!" They all seem to agree in unison. "Perhaps he needs to learn the true meaning of Tuvmas..."

Sir. Yewson Yew-yen, a passing elven cartographer — observed the city, Florentine. His reports were as follows, pressing on with his geographical development. He had an eye for annotations and revising his work: "Florentine is completely remarkable as a location. The surrounding body of water enriches their agricultural prospects tenfold, and enhances their prospect twenty. I am compelled to think without the river, not a wayward soul would bother to venture to such an ordinary clump of land. The few residents are chummy, and I received as many of 'Good Morning Florentines,' as I did 'Good Nights,' which made me feel instantly at home." Off he went then, humming a merry tune as he wandered into the square — hoping to buy some local fish.

"im really digging this" this was my totally original joke btw (don’t steal)

c. 18xx In that place called on yonder, a dwindling green Magus shrinks away within his corner. He remains crouched amidst the baggage and fandagles of his journey, and leans against the chewing, idiot camel - within the sunlit courtyards of a Balian homestead, his nose remains lodged within a scrappy book, some forsaken aeldenic text, colloquially dubbed; 'Dr. Faustus.' The Magus turned his nose up, as the tale came to his favoured part. "No Faustus, curse thyself, curse Lucifer That hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven . . . It strikes, it strikes! Now body, turn to air, Or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell! O soul, be changed into small water-drops And fall into the ocean, ne’er be found." - Christopher Marlowe The Magus beamed. The Magus giggled, blithely. The Magus slept.

Beryl E.J. Carrington