prophetisms

wonderful to have you here and i hope you keep having fun!! everyone else's advice is very good and you should listen to it :D my biggest tip is don't be afraid to check out new communities or character concepts if they interest you, especially if it aligns with your current roleplay experience! it's a great way of meeting people on the server more and seeing where the story may or may not take you along the way.

woaw. i heard this person is pretty cool. favorite moment at/with deguise and its residents?

Laura, who could not read, took great interest in the missive thanks to the art of the fairer little girl beneath the title. She promptly shoved the missive in Duncan the Younger’s face for him to see and hopefully, read. @garentoft

Within the confines of her atelier, Jorena read over the script, her lips curling into a smile as she read through some of the lines. If one thing was certain, she would find herself a front row seat once this play took to stage.

absolutely rosalina or zelda

meet cricket. she is fat and old

While the city no longer lacked festive cheer, Jorena did. She would be asking the Queen-Mother for a Tuvmas hat too.

In an abode beneath the gnarled mangroves of Norland, Jorena wrestled against her blankets as she woke abruptly. Her hands patted and pinched at herself, as if testing whether her senses deceived her. Surely, they did not. Sat in bed, Jorena turned her gaze towards the glaive that rested against the walls of her room. Although uncertainty knitted her brows upwards, her spirit bore a newfound resolve. Now seemed no better time to put her beliefs into practice. It was time to fight.

Jorena came into possession of the newest publishing of the Northern Geographical Society and quickly read through it. She found herself both inspired and in awe of Manon’s work!

Somewhere, in the swamps of Azuras, Jorena treaded the mud and brush with a weathered walking stick. Although the shifting earth was a burden for her journey, it did not compare to the burden of the mind. “You’ve all got names, writ in greatness that you’ve yet to see. Even if the world doesn’t see it, and fails to adhere.” “I hope I’ll see it.” Those words, from their final moments together, caused the woman to stop in her tracks, with a near glassy gaze looking out onto the waters nearby. Never, in that wayward life of hers, did Jorena feel more blind.

Upon the mountains of Kalldur, a woman surged out of slumber, upright in bed. Her hair had tangled from tossing and turning, and her skin turned to goosebumps. The makings of a nightmare, no doubt. What does a nightmare mean, though, to a woman who is the author of her dreams? She has to find out.

GOD, GRANT ME THE SERENITY TO ACCEPT THE THINGS I CANNOT CHANGE, THE COURAGE TO CHANGE THE THINGS I CAN, AND THE WISDOM TO KNOW THE DIFFERENCE. The words jumped out at Jorena, upon the aurum dagger made just for her. It was a gift from her uncle, Kazimir. She loved it, but as a girl with little sense of wielding weapons, the best way to show her gratitude was a hug. She was quick to scamper off afterward, on some adventure with her friends. The years, in a blur, were similar. Jorena exchanged small chats, waves, and smiles as she grew. She couldn’t remember the last conversation they had, before she left for two years. For two years, she roamed, and came home. And from warmer lands, Jorena heard of how the blood spilled through Vjardengrad’s streets. She could not bring herself to go back yet. She was afraid of what she would see. “Haakon, Ægir, Kazimir, Sissel, the High Keeper…” She did not see them, but heard only of their names, their demise. Jorena asked Raginolf if he was certain, and he was. Kazimir Weiss, “Gone in a blaze of light.” It made her stomach twist to know. Jorena’s own blood spilled, the flesh of her family singed into insignificance, and she was none the wiser. There was no chance to save him, nor say goodbye. So from the halls of blacked stone, in earnest, Jorena prayed. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” And, “Grant those I love the serenity of this life, or of the next one.”

A young woman, once a girl given a stern talking-to upon the steps of Vjardengrad by the fallen Ingridsson, felt an odd bout of melancholy on her way back home. It was the phantom feeling of something–someone–lost, but surely, not forgotten.

In a place where the world is quiet, despite all odds, Jorena turned over the small collection of poems in her grasp. She knew Martin had something planned, agreed to work with him, even, although he beat her to publishing. She would cherish each word, regardless. The first of the poems, THIS LAST LIGHT, caused her lips to twist. Jorena had no mirror to see if it was a smile or frown. Silently, the teenaged girl transcribed it into her journal.

MC Name: pomegrad Discord: pomegrad Image: Description of Image: A drawing of a crow by some juvenile. Dimensions: 1x1

420 days no appeal

if you could play any creature or have any magic on the server no strings attached, what would it be?

what's your favorite character arc any of your personas have gone through, or your most memorable rp interaction over the last 7 years?

if ur sign is phaedrix dni

ㅤDszamila stared at her name upon the missive, and her husband’s too. To be called an oathbreaker when she upheld her duty, to its end, meant little. To be called deceitful when she always spoke true, meant little. To be named as a source of suffering and a chip for barter, made her simmer in her seat. ㅤ“Drivel,” uttered the Raev. Were it anyone else, Dszamila would not have reason to draw her blade. Perhaps, instead, her blade would find a liar’s skull before another fell ill.

big day for fun and whimsy enjoyers

From atop her loft, Jorena looked over the missive of the scouts. “Hmmm,” she hummed out to none but herself. It wouldn’t be a bad idea for the girl to pester either her elder or younger sister more about the scouts first.

does anyone wanna moonshiner larp with me in the river delta

Fierce and free-spirited are the Korvacz, yet there was a time when the latter was lost upon Dszamila. The Matriarch, no longer a viscountess, was born for both roles. The closer she came to their peership, though, the further she lost her freedom. Cuff by cuff with her age rites, link by link did her chains grow with each duty and each title bestowed. Those chains embedded themselves within the cracks of Xéniavaros. It would’ve been her first and final resting place, shackled, but with her ancestors. Her chains were shredded, though, that day cannonfire ripped through Xéniavaros’ stones. Those bands about her wrists were pried off one by one; by Nadya, by Alekszej. With lightened shoulders and hands, she could carry her children to safety. From the eerily silent walls of Lesanov, to the warm and dim hall of a longhouse. It was a new home for Dszamila’s children, as Baltasar and Dszenifer took well to the fur-draped bench and firepit already. Between ferrying family, supplies, and hounds, the Matriarch found a moment of respite on the road. She sat upon her white steed, where snow and maple leaves cascaded together to give the woman and horse company. The dirt path held not a single soul but Dszamila’s, idle by the edge of the Crimson Grove outside Vjardengrad. ㅤㅤㅤAnd thus, she rode. ㅤㅤㅤIt took only a cue of the stirrups, before Dszamila’s feet returned to resting. She sat deeply as the mighty mare surged into gallop through the woods. Snow and leaves passed Dszamila by, red and browns becoming blurred as she found her voice again. It was naught but howling, out of joy. Freedom. ㅤㅤㅤShe was a wayward woman indeed, who found home.