Pallodium

A draconic child's lips curved upwards as they read. Its cavern echoed in cruel laughter.

A nephilim gazed to the ashen skies in silence.

So it begins.

[!] A crisp piece of parchment was tightly sealed by a figure, sent over to the guild. It read as follows: FULL NAME: Candour AGE: 45 EXPERIENCE: No introduction needed. I await an interview.

Name: Eshonai https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DQLvOcijWlg Thanks, Satinkira!

“The only thing worse than being blind is having sight yet no vision.” - Excerpt from the Krux Doctrine; ‘On the Witness’. The west-bordered north always was a tempestuous place. Dry gusts swept down from the mountaintops, the colossal volcano spewing magmatic ash at a steady pace, clouding the skies. This land, to many, was the ‘Ashlands’, or to some even the colossal behemoth of ‘Redmont’. To the Raven, this land merely was. A land they once gazed upon decades ago, a land they found as everpresent, a fragment of a world that existed as it was. The ashen cliffs, the smoke-covered peaks- the ragged shores, all of the land simply existing as it was. They sat down before an ashen tree, gaze fixated upon- nothing. Their sight was stripped for them, hollow sockets capable of beholding nothing. Ashen leaves crumble off the branches, stripped by the wintery day. Yet the figure could not see the world about him. What is sight? Is it the ability to witness? It is what permits a living being to comprehend the world through a new lens? Is sight what begs a being to move forth? Flames wither into smoke, rocks crumble to dust. Does the one who witnesses both’s undoing have sight? Yet that cannot be. One can smell smoke, can touch that of dust; both must exist in the end. Fragments of another, lingering decrepit nature of what was before; is such not the world in itself? The world, fragments of what came before- observable. What is sight? Is it the capacity to witness that which came before from what one perceives with the present? Is it the mental nature that allows one to believe what is present? Nature does not permit oneself. Oneself permits nature. Does the one who beholds other’s attempts to fell the world, to watch those collapse and fall beneath the weight of others have sight? Yet that cannot be. Sight is a concept, that which permits the concept of reality to be witnessed. Sight. A plea to The Titan, a plea fell on by deaf ears in the ashen plains. The world seemed to drift, a corvid temporarily stagnant upon the draconic tree. The being looked on- in silence. A single word, esoteric in nature followed from the person- a swathe of flames carving into a small rock- lifted up, and pocketed. The winds bellowed, blowing hard. The west-bordered north always was a tempestuous place. In halls of ash where shadows dance with flame, A herald blind, their visage marked by ink, Yet scornful of their sight, a soul that sinks, Longing to see, to pierce the darkened game. Upon the Ashlands, the Titan's path of might, The blinded one seeks an audience not, Implores Azdromoth, flame-eyed and true, To grant them sight, to end perpetual night. "O Azdromoth, thou King Who Never Was, I yearn for sight, release me from this haze.” The pleas fall under false ears. Not a soul Hears of the words; thus scorns the Raven’s phrase.

Whoa its basically free money :O

Accepted. Please DM me on discord for further steps as we approve this piece.

A lone eyeball, plucked from a herald's face, lay floating in the deep. A sacrifice. A casualty. Bloody remnants of what once was a being lay strewn in the water, slowly dissolving into the blue. A sacrifice. A death. Such it ended.

An elephantine behemoth gazed upon the missive. Most dismissed it as being unable to read. Perhaps that was the case, and it merely was looking at the quite fancy imagery upon it, or the brilliant colors of text. Yet perhaps- perhaps it could read. It stood there for a few minutes, gazing upon the missive. It's gaze flickered upwards oncemore- two beady eyes staring at the endless ashen storm above; after a few minutes, the figure slowly lumbered away, trunk swaying side to side at a slow tempo as it did...

An elephantine figure gazed upwards. The skies weren't blue. The clouds weren't clear. The five pillars gleamed as the figure's head slowly swiveled, their small beady eyes scanning past each and every one. And no sooner than it began to gaze upon this occurrence, it merely left. The steady thumping of its feet filled echoed across the streets- as the gleaming red light shone down from the cracks below the ashen mists.

An elven girl did not yet know that this figure would be dead; she of course would not have received a letter, knowing the figure for only a few weeks. Yet she knew they would be gone. From the moment Eshonai witnessed the golden vessel being taken outside, she knew they would be gone. OOC:

The Seventh Scribe gazed upon the missive. Their study was dimly lit, only a single candle providing light for the cluttered desk, covered in scripts and dialects old and new, annotations swathing the text- yet this missive invoked a great interest in them. "... I'd hate for our game to close before it had even began." The words were silently uttered within their own room, deftly masked by the tune of a harp strumming in the background. The candlelight faded away- leaving only the low pitched thrums and notes upon the scene.

Branches coiled in dark leaves rustled in the heavy breeze; a large stone platform resting in the center of the brush. A figure sat upon it, their fingers snapping to a rhythmic melody; a small parchment flittered in their other hand as Hoid continued to gaze upon its contents. A small flash of orange- somewhat feline in shape- flittered upon the branches above, the figure managing to get a brief glimpse before it vanished. Perhaps it was some omen, perhaps it was some bizarre occurrence. Yet Hoid's gaze flickered back down to the paper- the tempo of his fingersnaps slowing to a halt. "Perhaps..." the soft word filled the grove; the man slowly rising from the andesite tablet. And so the man began to walk. He walked on and on, until the forest slowly withdrew unto a vast desert. And such his search begun- a search that would soon meet a closure; Hoid had found his target. Withdrawing a small piece of a bleached wood and a small knife, he began to whittle. And whittle he did, on and on until the mere block of wood slowly chipped unto a new form. The sun set over the horizon, the man only working with the mere figments of moonlight in the freezing night- yet he continued to carve on and on. They were finished- a figure, carved of pale wood, of a woman, parts of it tinged with ash. Within its torso, a hinge was carved- for the man took out a pen, scribbled a small note down, and slid it within, closing it up for the future. And so Hoid oncemore walked; oh, how he continued to walk, until he found himself a drink.

A few days prior, in the aftermath of a conversation far secluded- a man sat down near a single, pale blue flower. A helmet lay toppled in the grass nearby, drops of dew starting to form in the early hours of the day. He knew in mere days, Remon would be gone. Yet he knew that after those few days, he would care not for Remon. The ghost's words were still present in the man's mind, yet he did not care much that Remon would pass on. Yet he still ruminated over the single flower. Alone.

An elven girl would be seated upon the edge of a large rooftop. A single parchment, swathed with curving and stagnant writing was tightly grasped between her hands; the corners of the paper flittering back and forth against the evening breeze. Her amber eyes read over the missive time and time again; the curving words and twisted phrases slowly being memorized by heart.

... time to apply for Lore Team.

Pallodium The Shrouded One 74590

A red-shrouded figure would gaze upon the invitation in his palms, walking towards a sole tree in the middle of an ashen room. He held it outwards- placing it towards a being before the ashen tree, uttering a solitary phrase as the letter was given: "An invitation has arrived- and I do believe there is sufficient reason to attend..." The cloaked man walked out of the room- the letter left behind in front of the being; the letter waiting solemnly; waiting to be read...

A single hand reached out to a bulletin board, the wooden surface swathed with pinned papers- yet the gauntleted hand aimed for only one of these, a single missive... The red-shrouded figure clasped the paper between his fingers- then rip it outwards, pulling it off from the surface, and towards his narrowing eyelids. A thinned, inhuman smile would splay across the lips of The 'Scribe' as his eye scanned across the content of the missive, before crumpling it up- and tossing it to the side.

Not a word was uttered by a red-shrouded figure, learning of this death. A single drop of ink fell from his pen- landing upon the bleak, dark flooring beneath him. Reduced to ash, not a single bone nor tooth left in the pyre's remains- or so they spoke. Another crimson drop fell from his pen- landing upon the open journal. A crimson drop- something that the ashen remains lacked- or so they spoke. A single word left his lips, in the dark room: "Pityful". A word, a thought- something that Lucias couldn't do in his last breath- or so they spoke.

A silent figure gazed at the copper stairwell- tinted with a ochre, streaks of swathed red matter plastered upon it's surface. His gaze was stagnant, almost judgmental as he stared not at what was there, nor what will be there- rather at the stairwell itself. The stairwell- gleaming copper-bronze. The stairwell- covered in blood. The stairwell- silent.

MC Name: Pallodium RP Name: Genthru Kervallen Timezone: PST Discord: pallodium