Benjikhei

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

[ This post, and the events contained therein are not known publicly. Unless they are caught wind of through legitimate roleplay, they wouldn’t be widespread. However, those citizens of Florentine and members of the Falcone brood would recognise an all too similar disappearance in the family tree, compelling concern from some, and siphoning what little care could be found from others. ] [ ||| ] ________________________________________________________________________________________________ CAUTIOUSLY DID THEY JUDGE L'UNIONE MORGANICA, THE BASILICA OF THE ARGENTE STAR - (c.1844) ______________________________________ [ ||| ] “Wrong is always wrong.” Ambling on a stroll with a gasper cigarette installed upon his curled upper lip, did a man trot through the lain cobblestone foundation of the hardy agricultural province – Florentine. Potent, intoxicating smog from his cracked maw seeking to haze the empty alley of the town which he traversed, offering a sombre overlay to the dimming sunlit brick that consumed each side of him. “Ssss….” The man, an Illatian, made haste to prematurely fumble in his coat whilst his aimless sauntering continued, idly malcontent until he would obtain a small locket, with a water damaged portrait inlaid, displaying the iconography of his only daughter. Exuding unhurried breaths, he admired this image a moment longer, until, so soon, he found his way to the end of that ramshackle thoroughfare; emptied. Looking to the canopy of the honeyed skyline that awaited him to the end of the back-street, his oblivious rumination ceased, as, with a breath – he began to monologue to himself. “And so-” “I will miss it. For all it is worth.” Did the man quiver, frigidly. Seeming distracted now, as the picture of his offspring were slowly, perhaps hesitantly pocketed again – to face reality, once more. “Do you fear what iss’ to come, Dante?” Pressed a new voice, derived from a haggard figure, visible to few who lurked nearby. Meandering ahead, with a bloodied suit and lopsided grin, befitting of his detestable and lingering nature. “Typical. And I’a took you for a thoughtful type- no?” Yet the goading of the figment coaxed no zealous retort from that scholar - Dante, for he was no longer burdened by lunacy. Instead swivelling to face him, with a rigid intensity, in ways that would doubtlessly harken to his predecessors, no matter how loathsome that sentiment was. “Still, now.” — “Iss’ unkind to speak such filth to a friend. Save them for another occasion. Truly wasted here, mm?” Dante made to retort with an inherited reticence. Remaining largely unbothered by the incongruence of the gruesome presence. “You will not be seen like him, Dante.” Reminded the gored statesman, who tilted his marred scalp. A dagger resting dangerously in a crimson palm, tilted scales of justice, favouring guilt within another. “Judgement is inevitable. You will be like Zia, Dante. A loon. Nothing like when he had vanished.” Dante’s expression violently contorted into one of dire vexation upon those words. Rising to test the apparition’s assessment, as his rapid turn to look directly into his eyes did cause the figment to recoil in some fearfulness, faced with the cruelty of the Illatian’s disgusted ire. “I’a said, no filth. Cease it.” “There iss' audacity in our actions, which they failed to recognise.” - “Iss’ wrong, but necessary.” The Entity’s ostentatious demeanour did crumble at his abrupt humbling, seeking to remain quiet for a moment, tending to the counterpart’s words whilst chewing at his scarred nail bed, before provoking. “And - Sbagliato è sbagliato… Wrong is always wrong, sì?” Mimicked the thing with a newly wrought smirk, peering upwards from his compulsive biting. “When ‘wass it you said that to him?” It asked, so delicately, following him along the street. Desperate to make him remember things. Traumatic things. “So long ago. Providentia. The Augustine Palace, no, the courtroom…” Dante articulated, grimacing. His calloused palms, wrapped in gloves- shaking. “I’a have forgotten. I have not become him yet.” “You are lying to yourself. You never really forgot. We never forgot, Dante. Did we?” It did spit back, frothing at the lips in animalistic fashions. Putting his mitts to his chest, did the Entity bowl over in sheer laughter, finding dark hilarity in these taunts. After a few moments of this grating commedia, he straightened his back, and moved to forcibly clasp his hands on the Illatian’s shoulders, in a bout of sudden honesty. “We can’t. Ever.” It paused, recognising something. “You know that, do you not?” Still, Dante made his disdain for the painless truth visible. A wince, crossing his stagnant, non-aged features, making to rub his nose, a knowing frustration. “No.” Came his confession, feeling once again that sheepish boy in the courtroom, unable to keep eye with a more dominating presence. “Il passato non è una definizione. - The past iss’ not a definition. This has never been more true.” He dictated unceasingly, grasping the spoiled shirt of the Entity in fearsome resolve, jolting it so. ”Even now- especially now… you see? Our core trait as humans. To be a part of greater matters.” The Entity sized his counterpart up a final time, as mirroring green eyes ran him upwards and downwards – seeking flaws in the logic, yet coming to none. “If you know what we want, fratello.” Paused the mirror image of Dante, a moment. “It seems fitting, I’a call you that - O’ grand studioso..” The Illatian gave a momentary simper to that jest, before grasping onto the Entity himself - pulling the grotesque statesman into a flurried embrace. Before suddenly, he was awakened by the rooster’s crow from that clocktower: Santino’s Perch – laying swaddled in his bedsheets, with a hideous gasp, fumbling for a bedside pocket watch, to detract from the symphony of the mind, he so recently experienced. “Studiossso…” He huffed, falling back into the throws of fatigue. [ ||| ] “But the justice to remedy the wrong should always be fair.” Founded primarily in reality now. Dante lounged within the fastening throne, locked away in some underground citadel, gushing with the filth of aqueducts and the dank stench of rotting carcasses. Perhaps a far-cry from the bustling squares and narrow, inconspicuous side streets of Florentine – but it seems not to concern the man largely, who tapped away at the armrest, picking balls of cotton out of a nascent rip in the stitched lining. “When the sun sets, that will be the end. I’ve understood this, mm.” Whilst the Illatian spoke, an alchemist darted around the cramped laboratory, fiddling with vases of volatile polymer, and scrounging amongst bubbling vials which acted as overture to the largely grim environment. “One… for eyes, and one for you.” The practitioner reminded himself, before in a startle, acknowledging the words of the man. “Aye? That is how it must be, for the greater good.” “From how you have always spoken, it sounds like some manner of… relief.” Suggested him. “Indeed it iss’. More than all else, to be done.” Dante agreed, watching him ready an implement. Himself, fiddling with a rusted syringe. “I’a have spent my life- working to such an end. An effective goal, that will last.” Contemplated the Illatian in determined drawl to the Alchemist, who now fawned over his visage – adjusting and prodding it with little regard for hesitancy, bobbing his head in poultry acknowledgement of the issue. “Often I was told my tongue and words were my greatest asset, my greatest weapon - you know?” Once, twice… the sound of knocking, and shambling dragged along just outside the doorframe of the laboratory. A creature, vying for spoiled attention. Releasing a cacophony of terrifying chokes and gags, as he awaited prey. Yet he was momentarily ignored again. “A nice thought, then? Let us hope.” The Alchemist finished, going about his work once again with a fiendish glare in his eye. “I hope. Very much so. It will be good to put them to use again, I’a think.” Dante’s final words came, beginning to flinch as the banging on the door grew ever greater in volume. Startling to many. And too, did the scholar give repeated glances to it, breathing shrill, hastened. “Wherever I am to arrive-” “... Keep it not waiting, hm?” Came his last intonation, as his voice cracked slightly. His face began to sting, sharply. And his cheeks, flushing as they were touched by a deep heat. “I am finished.” The Illatian then stared over to the door, watching the hinges promptly snap from their post - cracking, with another hideous whine of the invading creature. He then sought to stand, with the Alchemist - facing a new face, without a singular emotion displayed. Constricting his arms, behind his back, and regarding his fate with a ‘clicking’ roll of his tongue, and unblinking eyes. “Arrivedercí…” Dante’s final speech was in his mother tongue. His lips parted for a word; “finalmente, giustizia.” A remark that held meaning to him alone. It was his lonesome jest, before the door snapped again. Thereafter, Dante Aldo Falcone – ceased to speak. And some petty, insignificant justice had been delivered. [ ||| ] “Your silence. Your silence is answer enough.” EPILOGO * CONCLUSIONE DANTE’S VISUALISATION, THE ABERRANT - (c.1844) __________________________________ An indifferent spouse. A progeny of his own – thoughts, that fluttered outward within the eroding mind of the Illatian now. Deformed, and shivering, incessantly convulsing. But yet, a flicker of lasting consciousness remained within him, and could muster the resolve to remind himself of blissful years... There he was, a younger Dante. Always foreign amongst the chaotic scrapes of other youth, the hurly-burly of social precedents, partially derived, no– entirely owed, to his famiglia. When all he required for was listening in, upon his father at meetings of the Imperial Commons. In free, effervescent hours, being largely content to blithely meander the streets, hands clasped behind his back. Scents of incense, and rich distillery of VINO – made the spare time worthwhile for the boy. Watching his siblings squabble, too, provided a modest amusement. “Sorella, did’you hear what Carmine said?” Perhaps he had a small knack for sparking conflict, despite his often thoughtful disposition. “No? Mm, he said you got’a insetti, in your hair.” Whispered the boy. “Iss’ what he said to me.” Then he withdrew, careful not to overplay his hand. “Juss’ what he said.” Reiterated he, a tone quieter. One would think Dante enjoyed taunting her, making her wonder. But he spoke the truth – he merely revealed an uncomfortable realisation, and ruined the day. Whilst he would peer from the homestead’s window, staring down at the pair, the pair who acted like ‘real siblings’ as opposed to him. He took no joy from the violence, their playful wrestling as it was merely a byproduct, but he did take joy, pride even in their aggression, at knowing he had spoken something true. “You fought for hours, hm?” “... You waste your time, tricking me. Folk say I’a am real clever at outwitting.” The game Dante made of breeding unease with blunt honesty, worked almost always. With the children of the capital, especially. His siblings, his mother, and various relations… not so, the case with his patriarch though. Not Cosimo, nor Carlotta — his father, and his own daughter. Carlotta, he would discover in his waning years, but he learned of his father’s striking perception at an early age. Factly speaking, he taught the budding scholar much of truth and necessity on their little field trips, now and again, into the heart of Providence. “Iss’ padre going to take me out today? Good, Good, Excellente.” An unusual boy, in his placid observances. He missed those days now though, and despite some personal horrors, and judicial incongruence — he was happier then. Gracia was preoccupied in recent years, Carmine, driven far away, of which Dante thought was sensible, and envious to. His daughter, to some soulless Haenseni boarding school as refugee, and his wife, often unwell, or out for an ‘inconspicuous’ affair, as per their marital bargain, a falsity. Perhaps he really did wish to be that boy again. It was much simpler. 'Less corrupt than the world of the sinning elders. “Mostly I’a think about people. Why they act so strangely, always.” Quipped he, to adults, prying of why he did not act as expected. He would’ve been a great, honest man. He felt prepared to be one, by the conclusion of his adolescence filled with that naive idealism to the brim. Circumstance, however, as he would conclude, had the unparalleled pleasure of distorting that idea for his future. Frequently it does intervene, cruelly upsetting an established plan. He wanted to be different though, but circumstance did mitigate against that fantasy. His father was, to some degree, correct then. An unceasing wheel, crunched under the bones of patriarchs past, leading each new keeper to bear the weight of continuing orthodoxy — and he was slowly coming around to that way of thinking himself. But he was determined to be rid of it, to his own detriment. What force would pull him otherwise, besides violent compulsion? Such a primal emotion, he had decided. And not for him. “When I'a grow up, iss' my wish to be like him.” He once declared with such hidden pride, in such a calm way. Now, he had little concern for those dreams. He had little concern for anything. So the cycle continues. Dante – was made free of it. Perhaps the next generation would have more luck. But he severely doubted it. LA FINE. “Il cerchio sarà ininterrotto A poco a poco, Signore, a poco a poco C'è una casa migliore che aspetta Nel cielo, Signore, nel cielo…” — Will the Circle Be Unbroken, Charles M. Alexander (c.1907) [ ||| ]