Radzig

Xan Empire producer, Aelric, begins composing another classic.

Thanks The60th you are such an amazing warrior

real talk

when he when he done

Feel like this needs a lot of reworking to read like proper magic lore, can't really tell what the intent is

Discord username: Radzig#5583 Ever played a Discord/Forum rp before?: yh Favorite Sci-fi book or story?: Blame!, Spacecraft 2000-2100

"Mm." Began he, adjusting that hat which sat idly upon his head. "Kind folk, they seemed." - "Naive, if anything." Alas, he would continue on, making a note of those names listed.

o7 burn you will be missed

When is the last time you smiled, Goon? 🤭 What, vaguely, keeps you tethered to LOTC?

The youthful Tomás pockets a raffle ticket, more than happy to attend in support of those Mareno compatriots. IGN: kushballad RP Name: Tomás de Capua

"Alas." Mused the pallid drifter, missive clasped in his gangling manus. "That Alicjo lives. Many a days I would have assumed he had passed." Those lips would curl, beaming as they crept up his cheeks. "Quite the revenue they offer, enough to fill my coffers." Came that man, bare-chested and cofferless.

┍━━━━━━━☟━━━━━━━┑ AN ITINERANT'S CONCLUSION ┕━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┙ ══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ “If I had brought myself to sustain, to partake in that task, would things have gone differently?” Was the outstanding question of the day. “If I had the insight to claim those morals and cast away the prospect of that fleeting human condition, would things have gone differently?” He would slide down that rock, stoking the small fire with a stray stick he had stumbled upon. A good meal was due, for a good man, truly. A sausage, pilfered from some local storehouse, as well as a more than stale biscuit. Regardless, neither would yield any taste, as it was only for temporary sustenance. The man licked his worn and chafed lips, crawling into that enclosure, that garden he claimed his domain. The sausage rolled, right and left, reddening and bulging like that of a flayed man. It spit towards him, rolling along, a cycle of that hissing and rolling. The man enjoyed it. Enjoyment was a fixed thing, placid. Happiness was a fleeting thing not for that man but for the land as a whole. It was saved for that disillusioned nobility, bumbling in glee as they sodomized each other until a great rage overtook one, for another felt that joy. Enjoyment, though, was found in that man, regardless of the deprivation of any human relativity. With that ushered another query -- “What was a name?” Integrity and character, something that name would dictate. But towards whom? If one is to find none to judge that integrity and character, does that name have any value? There is no condition for upholding the values and ideals a former took upon themselves, so the selection of a name might as well be a manus fumbling about a worn cap. A name, alas, is relative and can be molded like an argil figure. With the strippage of that state the name will not mold the character, rather the character mold name. Thus, who is to say a name must be constant and cannot change at a foible? The string of thoughts was surely a justification for that man, as he had known many names in his lifespan. In his domain, he had no denomination. And what of that human condition which he once, for a short span of time, held so dearly? It seems that all was relative. With a great loss one may experience that loss of the human condition, but for the man's case it was something so absurdly mundane: time. At a certain point, he had lost his sense of purpose relative to impending death. For that short time, he had felt purpose, greed, malice, all of which directed wrongly were just in his humanity. Perhaps there was a hint of guilt, some repressed anger towards him. But alas, the depiction of these human conditions became a farce, as a name was, molded at his next endeavor. Speaking of such, a venture was due, for that domain grew cold with the passing months, the passing years and he yearned for something new, if such even existed. And truthfully, such did, a hunger growing in the pit of his soul and crawling up his lungs, mouth agape yearning for some meal to chastise it’s lacerations. And thus, the man dismantled that fire, grasped that small parcel of ornate goods, and sought that endeavor. -- Rebuilt, was that mantle and fire, leaving the man to sit in that crevice with the heat to roll from side to side, spitting and hissing as his face reddened and bulged like that of the sausage, a great terror and yearn overtaking he. “And what of the fiendish, the naive?” Alas, that fleeting human condition returned for a mere moment. Revulsion was brimming, to the point the man crept from that domain to retch and gag. “And what of the prideful, the aloof?” Wrought was the man clawing at the soil, hurling his curses and malediction. It was a welcome affliction, which offered some sense of circuit. “That of the youth.” After a great ages the man halted his writhing, standing upwards and dusting his bare person. Perhaps a return was due. -- That return would sustain longer than expected. That man halted along a bend, peering upwards along that hill face dotted with trees and former homesteads. The surrounding air reeked of smog, although the air was pristine as ever, not a bird nor man in sight. The man pursued on, though, coming to a halt where that quaint village once stood, now mere smoldering ruins. Temperate, it was, those charred fixtures, not enough to burn, though. He would produce a cloth, which he would lay upon one of the blackened stones. It was a welcome warmth, one in the aftermath of some unnamed disaster, but welcome nonetheless. What a similar heat he had felt those years ago, when glory was still relative to his person, on those charred sands about Korvassa. If he recalled correctly, he had lost a leg right at the femur, which was tossed aside along with he by the insolent regiments he fought with, for their ranks were made mostly of sons of nobles and criminals. Alas, such was better than what they faced now, their forces made entirely of figurehead and pompous brats. A criminal had more honor, truly. Regardless, he felt at that right leg and shuffled to feel that of the left. Honest, true flesh sat there. He stood upon those two legs, wrapping his blanket around his skull, for the dawn had already crept upon that valley as he lay there for the eve. The man bent over, reaching for a charred stone. A quaint thing, that little stone. He’d tap at it, scratching the edge which would surely dull his creeping fingernails, for under the charred ash shone the grey face a stone. Dusting it off moreso, he would jostle it in his palm, clench it, and thrust it upwards into the air above he, only for it to land to his right. There, he would cup a hand along his brow. “An endeavor.” He’d mutter, making his way along that path in the direction that stone had predicted. -- The moon offered a cold reflection against that tarn, the placid fixation broken on and off by some creature revealing it’s presence, sending ripples which would bounce along the bank. One of these creatures was unlucky enough to make junction with his slender digits, pulling such out from the loch as it was tossed along the bank. The man hurried over, reaching into the gorge of it’s forefront where a great clenching would initiate, although not enough to subdue this creature. The man would sit, content, extending his hands as cold sweat streamed down his brow. After such was completed, he would toss the blanket aside, creeping towards the waters edge. Rather than pull out another creature, he dipped his person into the water, slowly descending until the biting fluid encompassed his body where he would halt. A great contrast it was, that blackened water and his pale skin, akin to that of the moon. The man brought forward his two legs to peek through that liquid and let his scalp rest in that water. A good deal of time passed before the man opened those apertures, peering skywards towards that moon. He’d writhe some, swimming yet again towards that bank. There was a youthfullness to he, reinvigorated, for he could swim with little strain upon those limbs and produce a chord free of rasp. His gaze, too, the complexion he donned was smoothened with youth, though his eyes shone great wisdom. Blackened liquid, that of ink, encompassed he as he swam, his skull, covered in flesh, skin, and hair the only thing to break that perpetual blackness. Save the occasional hand to reach through, pushing he along towards the edge where he would make for departure, the stygian water dripping down his body. The man stood, climbing upon that bank to reach for his cloth wrapping it around his bare person at the waist. His feet had no callous, yet he felt no pain as they walked upon those roots and branches descending from that mountainous loch. -- “Where did they bury her?” He asked himself, attempting to recall such as he made his way along that path, little sun leaking through that awning above. “And her daughter, where did they bury her?” He asked, driving a small limb off the path. He halted, briefly, to looked peer his foundation searching for some wear or wound, yet none was found. He continued along. “And of the brother, might he have passed as well?” He ceased yet again, pausing at a brook. He’d stoop down, inspecting that face peering back at him beneath that surface. He’d lift a pale hand towards his cheek, pulling down at such as to assess the sockets of his grey orbs, that of the First, Joseph. “What of a name?” He stepped through that stream, lifting the cloth some that covered his waist and groin so it sustained it’s insipidity. “If only I could recall, I would return bearing that prior namesake.” He halted yet again at some bridge, bearing worn planks of that decaying countryside, now a metropolis of unemployed estates. Upon that bridge was a paper, wet and torn, yet the ink still readable. Lifting such, he’d scan the words printed upon such. “If such is relative, he disgraces that name.” He’d mutter. “One of my blood, foolish.” He’d muse. “A naivety, beyond comprehension, for if he were to assess the true state of things, he would find and understand the lengths at which his facades ripple throughout these lands.” He’d sway his head, tossing the composition aside, which would indefinitely float towards that river beside he. He would continue his march, muttering to himself. “I speak as if it matters, though.” He’d heave. “There is none to rule, I notice a supreme lack of unity, here, for in unity they find dissent.” The man would pause feeling at his cheek. “Have they no honor?” He would turn, not from where he came, not towards where he was going, but towards the west, for if one were to taint that name he held so dear, that fallacy of honor that he held so close to he, that relativity, he would not stay to watch such. Thus, he began that trek --

Long, one would wander, for those avenues would offer shelter naught. Alas, a time had come which would yield a referendum by those entities. There was no duality to that Empire, only a placid face. There was no duality to that individual, only a fixed stature. Tranquility was relative, for that man found no peace in what other would claim as still, motionless. A question, of imprecise direction, set in motion. What of virtue?

Appropriate

┌─────━┿──┿━─────┐ OF MALICE AND PRETENSIONS └─────━┿──┿━─────┘ ༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛ Jan Porcellis - Ships in a Storm on a Rocky Coast ══════════════════ Downward, was such, a humbling strike upon that wrought and sapped boy, for if he were to sustain, such would continue for the Saint’s Day, at the least. With acrimony, a storm would halt for no man, no boat, surely. Alas, such sustained for another Three Saint’s Days, youth of city and spray making for return, for the sea was no place for a boy of his likeness. “Boy!” Came a voice “Be ye one of sand, for black silk wrap that noggin?” Such was not the case, for silk wrapped one’s head for a variety of reasons, especially in the wake of such a terrible storm. Directed, he was, towards some stoops, partitioned about until it descended into that vessel. The boy perched. •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────• “De Capua.” Came he, the boy, an utterance. A pouch, vacant, was a great inheritance to that juvenile, for it had granted him passage, many ways through both brigand and pelagic duties. “Of what?” “Of that.” “Of whom?” “Of he.” “Alas-” Sought the russet gaffer. “Why?” “Father sends me.” And thus, silence befell that shack, a crude thing tucked a good deal from any road. The man seldom ventured to stir out before night for fear of bailiffs. Strange it was to come upon one, stranger to come upon a face he knew, even more so. Besides, it was among the great misfortunes of he to bear a personal resemblance with the bronzed child. “Mm..” The man would rasp. “I will send you off at dawn.” A great susurration began in that shack, although such was only the result of a repast in the making. The boy spoke. “Silence! I am no dullard.” The black-haired gaffer returned. “I will bestow you a blade, of your kindred, and food to last you the next four eves.” The boy spoke yet again. “Yes.” He’d ponder. “If word carries true, you will make for Savoy at dawn.” And thus, a meal was due. •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────• “Every man, with his own merit, has a natural right to take from them all that he thinks due to himself; and every creature, finding its own wants more than those of others, has the same right to take everything its nature requires. Brutes, much more modest in their pretensions this way than men, and mean men more than great ones. The higher one raises his pretensions this way, the more bustle he makes about them, and the more success he has, the greater hero. Thus greater souls, in proportion to their superior merit, claim a greater right to take everything from meaner folks.” The youth listened. Upon that corner came a shudder as the wain was tossed about some, to the dismay of those situated at the rear, that bronzed child and the worn condottiere. “This, the true foundation of grandeur and heroism, and of the distinction of degrees among men. War, therefore, is necessary to establish subordination, and to found cities, kingdoms, as also to purge bodies politic of gross humors. Wise princes find it necessary to have wars abroad to keep peace at home. War, famine, and pestilence, the usual cures for corruption in bodies politic. The greatest part of mankind loves war more than peace.” The youth nodded. “Sedan, ahead.” Came a voice from the front of that cart, with a sound of agreeance made in return. The youth did not speak. ══════════════════ Unknown Artist ╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡ “Mm…” An eminent clash, hurried strides. “Mm...” Flying shafts, perhaps nearby “Mm...” That whimpering man, curled like an infant, was present, among the fields. There he was found by that bronzed youth, caught in a conflict for some false King, one that reeked of cowardice. Sincere, he had struck the man and was responsible for that outcome. The youth spoke. The youth was answered by those hurried strides, beckoning him down the incline to join their forces in some final push, both blade and intention in hand. The youth concurred. A battle, for what ensued is readily documented, was what the condottiere had spoken of. Fighting along that band who donned the likeness of an animal, a goat, the youth found no malice, only wise princes fighting wise wars. The youth scoured. •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────• Gutted came that creature, neck worn as that of a flayed hide, for knife would not ease the scorn. It was a pretty thing, sitting there along the edge, for silk of purple and green encapsulated it. Alas, stained it was, tainted with lost purity which would never be returned. The youth spoke. There was no answer, for this creature spake not, for one had gouged its innards. Perhaps it was not of meaning, rather some inner malice, for the two, as often misinterpreted, are not two in the same. The malice drew an individual to slay the creature, to lacerate and tear, skewer and hack, gash and gouge. Regardless, there was a profound silence in that clearing, unbroken by bird nor man, for this creature was due to rest upon those delphinium til passing come. The youth watched. It really was a pretty thing, that creature, its golden hair, purple garbs, warm complexion, purity beyond belief, refined beyond that of similar creatures from distant lands. That chord it wrung was like that of an ensemble, until such took on a shrill nature, moments before. What was its name? It was no malice that caused this incident. A conflict, agitating and quivering to cause a great tremble, was to blame. It was, truthfully, the creatures fault. No malice, for it was tucked gently, that creature’s belongings touched not, only a crimson pool to bathe in. Why did it squall? The youth ran. ══════════════════ Unknown Artist ══════════════════ A horseman, a boy. Three suns present for that individual, beat upon the russet-haired youth. A cave, a bridge, and alas two fields, a passage carved between the two with a great incline where he would meet that final sun. “Greetings, traveller!” Spake he, the horseman. “Seen anything on the roads?” The youth spoke. “What do you seek?” The youth would point, cupping a hand along his brow. “Ah, friend! Come, I will escort you to the city.” The youth complied. “And, of your name?” An utterance. “De Capua.” ☽༓☾

That Draskovic peered over the missive, a slight frowning. "At least she was an honest girl, that one." He'd begin. "Such I can respect." At that, he'd place the missive on an ornate desk, along with the other papers sprawled about, wet ink drying. Somewhere on the other side of Oren sat a young Raev, pale fingers clasped, and such held at his chin. "Vile." He'd sound, such an utterance coming from his lower jowls with a layer of rasp. "Those who reek of guilt shall face reckoning."

Discord: Radz-ung#5583 Skin: The Cryer Bid: 100

didnt even see that 🙏 ty Skin Name: Edgy Skin Skinner's Username: Spoons Discord: Radzig#5583 Bid: 300 min

Skin Name: Edgy Skin Skinner's Username: Spoons Discord: Radzig#5583 Bid: 150 min

Overly complicated and completely unneeded on the server Can't wait for my Oren Legislative Gun Control rp though

Skin: Haenseni Boy Bid: 110 Discord: Radzig#5583

Name: Henry Joseph Draskovic-Kovachev Age: 8 Username: Radzig

From that purity, the cracked and salted grin spread, up those cheeks like that of a flood. For times were simple, they were, to be truthful, good. That O'Rourke muttered to himself, for the Falcone had arrived. They were all in the same, brothers from those fleeting moments. But that Falcone had done something he could never achieve and for that he was bitter. A sweet, creeping bitterness that swelled from the chest and left through those sunken nostrils. And with such, came a rasp. "Laddeh did it, eh?"