KronugiN

He shifted, groaned and wrestled with his blanket. Gripped by another fit of meaningful nightmares, mister Leverys crashed down to the floor while traversing an incorporeal dungeon in his sleep. Upon a rough waking, the elf clambered onto his office chair and, muttering a couple of curses, commenced the long and tedious ritual of reviewing his shoddy penmanship. His eyes run down an array of incomprehensible scribbles before they stopped at two particular entries: THE HUNT : ORB OF NIGHTMARES It brandished impenetrable illusions. It bordered between reality and nightmare. It had… tentacles. We, an ill-prepared lot, hunted it down. The general consensus remains that the thing did not perish, oh no. It merely retreated. THE HUNT : ORB OF NIGHTMARES, BELOW Seek it once – an honest mistake. Seek it twice and… Well… Just don’t. Deep underground it hid away - a tormented soul, malformed, abhorrent, weeping viscous tears of pitch black. It invited us, and we followed, despite our incompetence. But to where? There was an empty space after them, implying a third instance. Khaeryr hesitated, scratching his chin with the tip of a quill "Ne... It's done, there won't be a third time. And if there will be - I won't come, to hell with it." he oh so blatanrly lied, more to himself than to anyone else.

Does reality bend and buckle under the weight of amassing nightmares... or do nightmares arm themselves with snippets from my past and present? Whichever way the wind blows, my gaze deflects somewhere beyond, a place where I'm not meant to be.

Those seeking paranormality find it in no short supply for this insane, wretched reality is eager to provide. To keep yourself walled, to remain oblivious, to become complacent - is to stagnate and perish. To do otherwise... is insane.

THE BALLOT ((MC name: nornukig)) Name: Khaeryr Leverys Vote for Okarir'nor: ( ) Zelios Elibar'acal (XX) Nuala Telperion

Memories fade and overlap in a maddening entanglement, am I to untwine this abhorrent knot myself? An insurmountable task, for sure. It was not meant to be, fate is reserved for those powerful enough to capitalize on it, which I am not.

THE BALLOT ((MC name: nornukig)) Name: Khaeryr Leverys Vote for Aiera Sullas: (X) For ( ) Against

IGN: nornukigCategory: ArtworkArtwork: An origami masu box, made out of A4 sheets bearing printed-out pattern of sightless eyes, which I have manually drawn with a 0.3 thick fineliner beforehand. Snippet of the scanned pattern is below:

A disastrous strip of time, rife with both unexpected and undesired encounters, ghastly revelations of otherwordly kind, morbid recollections from the hollowed out past. It became a struggle to push through and a calamity to outlive.

Mister Leverys approaches the notice board in his now usual nonchalant gait. His eyes get caught by a particular missive that sticks out among the rest. In a matter of seconds, Elmali could've been seen vigorously jotting in a battered notebook, his struggle to hold back the panicked excitement getting in the way of qualitative penmanship. After being done with transcribing, Khaeryr looked around to make sure he was not witnessed or, at the very least, noticed. As he bestows the memo with a final glance, the elf mutters, more to himself than to anyone else: ”To peek beyond the horizon of present, to caress a glimpse into the future, to encapture the fate itself. A preposterous notion,” he smirks, “yet such an enthralling one, too.”

Mr. Leverys sluggishly approached the notice board while shielding his eyes from the accursed sun. He blinks wearily at the memo, the sheer amount of text overwhelming him in an instant. Elmali rubs his eyes and makes another attempt at reading through the essay, fishing out the seemingly important stuff and ignoring the filler. Finally, he focuses on the name. ”Nuala...” he mutters, “Uradir? Wasn’t she the one to bully poor Nessarose for baring her shoulders?” Khaeryr grunts, letting his gaze drift upwards a bit “Eh? It’s about Okarir’nor, not Okarir’maehr?” He snorts, wincing at the sharp pain stinging him into his temple “Ugh, who cares...”

So much to take into account, yet so little is actually worth being put to paper. A shame or a blessing? Who knows, really? Who cares – that’s the question. All in all, 1789 was a kicker. Things can’t stay quite the same anymore, can they?

Adopting a carefree gait, Mr. Leverys approached the notice board, skimming it briefly in search of outdated information and other fun stuff. His eyes stop on a fresh addition, its paper not yet withered and its ink not yet faded. ”Ah, of course.” he mumbles to himself, his smile widening. “The actual problem was the terminology used! Oh, silly us! Now it all makes sense, now there’s not a thing to worry about.” The elf nods to himself, taking a sip from the bottle of Qalasheen Coffee. He stares at the beverage in awe immediately afterward, as if this was the first time he realized how good it actually was.

Another year, another jumble of incoherent notes, another set of empty bottles. A shift of perspective was required, was long overdue, actually. Even if the year 1788 may seem a bit lackluster, it was rather poignant… in a way.