esterhase

They say Krug was cursed with tusks and green skin because he violated the natural order this way.

I wish to play as Grom'aglûp, Grommash's merchant son who uses his large nose to sniff out the finest wares to grow his father's fat money-sac. His character flaw is his homosexuality, a taboo in the orcish kingdom as it does not often result in offspring.

"Light rain." Bluto pulls from the sleet-clouded window to spit a globule of phlegm and ale into the flagstone tiles of the Tunnelsmasher longhouse. "Must be those sick 'umri bastards."

"Theh' say them Veletz umri control t' banks. And t' weather." opines a malcontented Bluto Tunnelsmasher. "Wit' their machines and wily ways."

A wizened elf, long cloistered in a tower, stares at a fast-moving facial glyph to titrate its noospheric powers. "Thy portenous portly sphereings do sear my eyeballs, sigil. Let your bolus of hexed flesh be gone from mine sight lest I rend each frame in flame." He traps the thing in a draw, the glyph rattling at the locks as if pleading in an unspoken tongue to break free.

A Tarhadian Cavalier-Marshal rubs his long-unspurred heels with a calloused palm. His memories of the tea-serving traditions of the Acaelanites knot his stomach. He takes another sup of his pipe, hoping the acrid smoke will serve as some unguent to his moral unease. "Blots ae grease awn all ae creation..."

"Good fer him!" opines Bluto Tunnelsmasher on the radical poet's choice of lifestyle.

[ An aged man, face so embossed by wrinkles and the patina of time that you can only discern that the grim reaper has forgotten about him, holds a tome before you. His robe hangs limp at his wrists, threadbare and loose — possibly older than the man himself.] [ After blowing the layer of dust from the tome's leather jacket, you look upon its gilt title. ] "The Big Bad Book of Slurs" [ Durst you open the book of every slur you are not allowed to say on Lord of the Craft? ] > [ Yes. Burden yourself with the knowledge of the forbidden and let the Gods judge you for it. ] > [ No. This is enlightenment rightfully forbidden by the divine.]

"Strange. I didn't see you at Southbridge!" Comments Hugh Bloom as he reads the blogpost. "If you are trying to be a mincing intellectual that can't hold a sword, I think you are three emperors too late. You are an anachronism, little poofter out of time. Take your wig off and put your cuirass on."

Hugh Bloom raises his flagon high as he bobs around in his boat, his droopy mock-steppe moustache curled about his ear. With a smearing of lamp-fat on his paper, he writes a letter to the girl's parents. The spelling is choice and content most severe. " To Madam, I's reckon you an them Haensers don't realise what an existential threat do to a man. Aft'r one loss, the idea of their culture, existence, being snuffed out like a nightstand candle is enough to make even the meekest of noblemen gnaw their arm bloody from knuckle to elbow. Mortal terror is the greatest ally and most formidable opponent in a war. If yous remove the comfort and lackadaise behind fighting a war when you know you've got an overwhelming chance of victory, every nobleman that isn't unseaming his enemy from nave to chops is cheering those who are. The greatest military machine in this land is the one that stands to lose everything and gain nothing. They's goin to fight with those primordial lobes long dormant in hunters for sport because the threat is the oldest one their there is. There ain't no judgement from God in them halls, because judgement'd defeat 'em. You use the tools you's got. H. Bloom. Whaler."

Imperial spymasters decipher the secret code

"as a proud canonist i dont believe in nonsenses such as a hell. only the seven skies, the ground below, and the void without. god does sinners all they deserve by giving them an eternal nothing. cheers." says brother micawber the judite priest as he totters around the swiss cheesed infernum of whatever the last map was called.