High_On_Math

A spot of blood smeared the rocky wall of an elfess's room. The Haense soldiers in the Haelun'or tavern. Elves showing hospitality to those who defeated them. Smiling, grateful they were allowed to leave the island alive. An elfess's nose had been bashed, twisted now to the side. The Mori killing elves. They were stronger. Might makes right. The survivors sailing away from their city in the night, grateful for life. Her head pressed against the wall. "Lucilia, it's happening again. You failed to become strong. You failed your family." She leaned against the wall, alone in the room, and then sunk down silently. "I'm trying." Her last name. Calith. The surname of a maheral and sillumir. She had wanted to grow, and to deserve that name. Now, with the Maheral, her grand uncle, having resigned and left the city, and with her father who-knows-where, it seemed the surname had shriveled and decayed to fit her. "Are they going to want to kill me, too?" That smudge of blood on the wall. She'd rammed against it in a fit of rage, leaving that mark. How much more were the streets stained with the bloody rocks used to stone Braxus? She should have listened to her grand uncle. She should not have signed that petition. "No. I should have done what needed to be done sooner instead of being like this. I shouldn't have waited for an impure to try to rescue Haelun'or. I should have been good enough to go home sooner and fix it myself." This hovel. This blood on the wall. These bottles on the floor. These handwritten journals cataloguing the ancient peoples of Aevos who had also lost their homes. These things were all hers. Bloodshot eyes beheld them all and vowed to never lose them.

A high elfess took a joint out of her mouth, exhaling a puff of smoke as she put the joint out in a tankard of old beer. She was alone in the tavern - an abandoned tavern that had never been used and probably never would be used by anyone but her. The stench of sewer water embedded itself in her coat, "He said, 'where is our Maheral?' Don't insult my granduncle like that." She slammed excrement-stained boots onto the tavern's counter. "Where were you!? Where were you when people kept taking our home from us? Idiot." She'd nonetheless pull her knotted locks back into something that could pass for a pony tail. "Ne oem can save us from our impending doom. I must spread the word."

GrubMomo thinks there might be a food shortage due to the Horde's political situation! She wants every orc to have good food. She wants the orcs to have fun klomps again! She wants free drugs for every orc! She wants to cook food for you! Send a letter to GrubMomo; she will cook you dinner! She will also be organizing klomps! And grub parties in Sulianpoli!

My dad listens to dan carlin on long car rides. I used to listen to him too but he's too dramatic and it causes me to forget things and just listen to how cool his voice sounds. Not super accurate cuz I mostly listen on YouTube that's my youtube wrapped mostly Rammstein with other stuff mixed in.

This will be good for herb gathering, but also medics. It's not ideal since we can't carry salve items in the bag, but it's an improvement. I don't remember all the herb updates, but there's like at least 7 herbs that could have a valid medical use and storing those in your normal inventory is a pain in the butt. 10/10. Frees up more space for olives, oil, salt, and bronze in my inventory.

Luthriel Thanks for doing this!

i dont need an rp guide for this since i struggle every day with a very difficult addiction (lotc)

A half elfess placed another statue amongst the multitude of dolls. "You've peaked my interest. I'm sure we will not agree on everything, but I too hate the "gods" who cause damnation, and feel immense pity for the damned."

"You are weak, Luthriel Because you are ready to simply wear that amulet of gold. To simply let those who stand before you as your lads, suffer fates impure. To let those who we could have aided, fall to cruel fates." Step 2: Vacation An elfess lounges in the undead-infested lands of Sakuragakure, on a Pamphilos-mandated vacation to clear her troubled mind. Dear Remon, I’m so sorry for not saving you. I know you didn’t care. But I know you might care now that you’re hurting. I wish I was able to be stronger. To fight the An Gho for your mind. I should have cared more. “If you are asking what I would do if I were you, I would pray for him, just as I pray for the living and the dead every day, Luthriel.” God gives us strength. It’s not our own. If we are weak, it’s ok. In the end, he’ll make everything all right. But does he even see us? Dear Remon, I met a bishop, and I think I trust him. We both know God isn’t what we thought He was. But the Bishop told me to pray for you. So I have been. I don’t know if that makes you feel any better. The ideal warrior is someone capable of controlling their emotions, utilizing them as necessary to promote their desired outcome. “Think of it. If you had grabbed your old llir that one time when I had told you to, perhaps we too could have brought him pure. Think on this, and think which will be the bigger folly. To club a friend over the head and try to aid, or let them slip away from the camp with the deceiver.” Dear Remon, I wanted to let you know that I really cared. I still do. I thought that you died because I didn’t care enough to save you, but that’s not true. I cared so much it made me sick to my stomach and paralyzed me. “The first thing you must do is hold no expectations. You yourself have come to me, to a degree of despair or frustration, because you think you are failing to convince them. Why do you hold such weight? . . . You are indeed upon the Saintly path, but you are mistaking selflessness for yearnings. You have adopted children, and provided to them hearth and home . . . But you cling to the expectation that they would feel the same way, or that they would live as you desire for them. . . If your compassion was truly, TRULY, selfless . . . Then you would yearn for neither the child's praise nor the affection and redemption of your loved one. You would do the right thing, purely, because it is the right thing.” I know what I’ll do. I need to not need what I need. And what I need is the love and approval of others. Of course I still want to help, but I don’t need to help in a way that gains me fame or love or honor. There is no need to be a hero- battles are won by ammunition supply and the footman’s sacrifice, and that’s what I can give. A vacation from seeking significance. A time of honest work.

An attack on Atemu is an attack on all of us. We will have him back, be it by rational bargain or cruel spear. If you kill him, you will forever be hunted. The Bronze Band and Sakuragakure demand that his whereabouts be made known and that his safety be demonstrated. The taking of civilian hostages is condemned and presents an unpardonable sin. Should one of them or Atemu be killed, all negotiations are cancelled. If you are undead, we will kill you again and again forever. We will find a way to make your death a living death. If you are Azdrazi, we will release the names of many Heralds. Whoever you are, I promise you that we will save our LAD one way or another.

Step 1: Cry Does anybody love me? I think- Remon did. Nuldar- I wish I’d been a better mother. Everyone in the band ‘loves’ eachother, but- I can’t really be honest with any of them. I know- they care about me- but if I show my weakness fully- will that lower their view of me? I am so weak. It . . . would be nice to know there’s someone who understands. A shoulder I could cry on without feeling ashamed. Pamph’s always been there for me . . . but he’s so mortal, so close to death, always reckless. That . . . head. They want his head, dried out and hanging from their belts. What would I do- who would I turn to then? And it would be so easy for them- he’s not a god. Could a god love me? I can’t- be friends with a god- I couldn’t care for a god- but maybe- a god could care for me. Something I could cry to, instead of cry for. A parent. I don’t deserve a parent. I killed mine. But some gods wouldn’t care. Could I become a shaman, and go to Scorthuz’ realm when I am hurting, and find peace there every time? Does Scorthuz care? Could they care? Or . . . do they only love what serves them? If I couldn’t serve them, wouldn’t they give up on me? Anguls . . . daemons . . . spirits . . . God wouldn’t care, He only created the world and left the Anguls to do the caring. I wish I could be a Cannonist and believe that God still cared. But now- I can’t believe that anymore. Why did Remon give up? Why did he always go back to the An-Gho? Was this why? He needed a father- I’m mortal. Weak. An idiot. Mortals crave the affection and compassion of immortals, just like children desire the love of their parents. My whole life- I wanted to be kind to people, hoping I could save them with just compassion. But it’s ne what people need. They need something larger than them to care. But anything larger than a mortal . . . cannot truly care. Somehow, if I ever want to change anything or help anyone, I have to become larger than a mortal. I must reject everything that makes me one. I must . . . not need what I need. Thank you, Remon, for teaching me that I can’t need a father or a mother. I won’t repeat your mistakes. The elfess covered her mouth as she began to cry.

Oh no no no this is so sad! Poor guy ;-;

It wasn't a very interesting sight, and no cryptic words were spoken. But somewhere in Aevos, an elfess could be heard weeping.