Name: Aleksandr C. Raven-Ambrose Are you an inhabitant of Dúnkeld: Begrudgingly Madelyn Noryth (1-5): 2 Wisteria Adeline Pinemaw (1-5): 2 Vauban Daesmon (1-5): 1 Lin (1-5): 2

Why do they call it oven when you of in the cold food of out hot eat the food?

An unnamed fellow, a masked figurine, knowledgeable of much and yet entirely unaware as to the course of history for the foreseeable future, slaved over his bench of oaken wood. This was a fools errand, to predict the future, to understand the meanings and nonsense in between the lines of nonsensical ramblings, pictures and images deemed "Jokes" or perhaps just "Nonsense." Lantern doused, the man, a descriptor more physical than anything else, paused as he glanced toward the darkened skies, reflecting on the stars outside his home. It was so beautiful this time of year, when the snow covered the farmers fields and the men and women bustled about with their coats of fur and torches, to shield themselves from the nipping cold. Perhaps it was a fools errand, as he had thought but a moment ago. He should go to his wife, and sleep. Tend to his children once dawn was to rise, and forget all of it. Damn the letters, the notes, the declarations. It was pointless. It was all the ramblings of fools- and yet, was it only the ramblings of fools? Sure, it might just be nonsense, but there was something here. It was too coordinated. The madness was too refined. It simply couldn't be. Thusly, he went back to his work. His pen etched itself upon the pages, these scrawled images and constant flow of words must have a deeper meaning, must have something more about them. The blood rain, the rot, the "Cleaning" as it was so thusly called. Perhaps it meant the end of the world. It must be so, mustn't it? The calling of an apocalypse, the saviors of this world, named something so trivial he hadn't bothered to remember it if only for assuming it to be nothing more than a joke. What was it again? Janitors? Jacks? It was something with a k, surely. In less than a moment, a murmur escaped his throat. "Never mind that Nescaff. . .pay it not a moment of your. . .precious. . . time. . ." Then, he simply paused. The pieces began to slide together, porcelain thoughts connecting into a vase of realization, if that was even a senisical term any longer. Perhaps all he had was madness, or perhaps what he was experiencing was more clarity than he had ever realized. This was a revelation. It was so clear- how could it not be? Yet, he paused in his thoughts, halting but a moment before the words slipped from his lips. He glanced leftwards, rightwards- and yet, found himself still alone. There was no-one here, surely. This was his study, in his republic, in his home. This was his safest place, within his deepest basement. Yet he felt it. The prickling of the hairs on his neck, the slimy feeling of breath on the back of his net, of eyes peering over his shoulder. The silence emanated, not a sound but the creak of the house settling- or steps above? It didn't matter. His hand reached out, grasping- "Long live the republic, you godless wretches." The lantern was shuttered.

The prideful Doge of Maltosse smiles as he pretends to read the message (He cannot read), before rallying his men (Definitely more than three) for another twenty-three hour march! The forest dwellers wouldn't see the dawn once he figured out which direction he was supposed to be marching!

also did not get pinged, actively weeping

Someone calculate the percentages, whats the most popular way to kill a hamster?

Pala Yes You cannot stop me, lowly spook. I am the Lady of The Craft!

This is a terrible take! We Should ERP!

You know who I am you clodMaybe, just MaybeStar Wars, Halo, WH 40k, and Stellaris are the greatest forms of Sci-Fi media, and that is fact