satinkira

Holding a piece of God in her hand, she stumbled through the snow. How lucky she was! How blessed! The fact that she, she, at the tender age of thirteen, had been visited by a saint beggared belief. Why, she had just been a normal girl.. Or, well, she probably wasn’t. Why else would she have been chosen? She clutched the Lorraine tight, felt its otherworldly ambience. She chose me! She laughed. It still seemed insanely improbable. The wind howled with her. Her fingers had long turned blue, and her shivering frame fell to its knees. She could not go on. She had dressed in nought but rags; what had driven her to think that she could endure this trip? . . .Oh, right. The Lorraine. God would not lead her astray. Even as the biting snow began to pile upon her, as she crawled underneath a swaying pine and felt her eyes drooping, she still clutched the Lorraine. God would not lead me astray! God led her to sleep. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— She rushes through the Church, glancing from pew to pew. “Excuse me,” the child asks one man, “have you seen Nicolette Amador?” But he turns to her without a face, and she runs in sudden fright. “Do not be afraid, Serwa.” He stands and follows. He has no voice - only a noise. “You are ordained by me. What have you to fear?” She doesn’t listen. She isn’t listening. She can’t listen. Her hands are covering her ears, and she’s running, and she’s mumbling to herself, “A dream, that's all.. I'm looking for Nicolette. Yes, that's it. Nicolette. The saint. Where are you?" “Behind you,” the false man murmurs - with a voice that lulls, with a voice that stills her. Serwa turns. The man looks down at her, and sighs. “What are you?” “The devil,” the faceless man says, “but only if you want me to be. I can be Nicolette too.” “Can you be God?” “Yes. Watch.” And he presses his fingers into her eyes, gouging them out. Serwa screams, but he doesn’t stop. She punches and kicks, but he doesn’t react. She screams obscenities, but he has no mouth to smile with. For what seems like an eternity, the Church is filled with nought but the sound of dripping blood, struggling limbs, and dread silence.. Until, she tires to exhaustion, and falls limp. Blood runs down her face onto the carpeted floor below. “Do you see? I can be anything you want me to be.” He speaks without a voice. Silence is his language. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— Serwa wakes. At first, she thinks she’s still dreaming; she can feel the cold wind, hear the cawing of departing ravens, feel the pain in her.. She shrieks in blind agony. The Lorraine falls from her grip.

A young wizard named Sheldon picks up the parchment. "Erm akshully," the nerd proclaims to himself and his pet stick insects, "this is a poorly made missive because the logo at the very top is surrounded by black, this can easily be circumvented by using websites such as https://www.remove.bg/ then you can just make it so that the image isn't surrounded by black and instead looks like the below" Sheldon taps the paper thrice with a magical wand and says the magical words "abracadabra hocus pocus" "voila" Sheldon puts his wand away and smirks. The stick insects, at least, seem impressed.

Music ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— Foul Prince, even as you sway across the skies, I dance with the stars… The sky winked yellow. The screams of the burning echoed across Haense, the demon army of the Carrion Prince besieging the grand city. And as your stolen purses and crowns glint, I fall. The Prince walked towards him. Remon readied his blade, swung - and his steel was met with fiery anger, sending him spinning down the mountainside. But he kept his footing, and his blade. I pray to you, O’ Third-Eye. To your gaze. He grasped his sword tighter, and went for the personal guard of the Demon. One strike took one in the neck, killing it. Another approached him, and his blade glided through the beasts arm, then into his chest. Remon laughed for glory.. That it should watch, as I live, fight, slaughter, and die… A mace, then, caught him in his copper legs, and then in his ribs. He coughed blood and collapsed. …For there is no better death than the known one. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— The GODs hands are dirtied. Blood drips from the heavens into the waiting maws of man. Bells rang. Unfamiliar tongues cried out, as masses of warriors began to pour down the mountainside. Remon and Usamea ran for cover underneath the mountain, but Alucard remained outside, calling out in meek greeting, even as the storm clouds gathered.. Lo! As we are the will of the GOD in all things, we are absolved, no matter the sin. The sky flashed red. A bolt of hellish red lightning left Alucard a smoking stain upon the rock. Our existence is foretold, our work divine. Remon and Usamea, on the verge of being cornered, dashed out into the forest. Usamea only took a few steps before the lightning took her too, melting her flesh and scattering her ashes. What are you, base Prophet? You open your mouth, speak the word of the GOD, and out spews blood. Remon huddled underneath a tree, unable to understand, to comprehend. How could it all end so quickly? So mercilessly? Even as he gazed up to the skies, saw the ire of the Karkosan Demons reach him, he was uncomprehending. Even as his blood boiled out of his body, as his skull imploded, as he was reduced to smoke and scraps of rattling armor, he could not understand.. He could never understand. In life, we die. In death, we live. We are the anger of the GOD. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— But I have struggled for so long, and my sword has claimed so many a being, that I separate the sword from the arm. To kill with it is to displace the violence. The cutting, the hewing, all of it is done by something else, someone else's creation. When I punch someone with my fists, beat them into a bloody pulp, it feels as if someone else is doing the swinging. The world has grown so blurry, An-Gho, and I feel so out of place, so foreign, so very fundamentally wrong that the act of murder has become separate from the soul. The extinguishing of the mortal coil of another is merely the trimming, the cleaning of my own. The screaming is my screaming, the blood my blood. There are no souls but mine. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— Remon stood, absentmindedly staring at the bubbling lava to his left. "I was planning to slit my throat tonight, but I may embed myself within the Ibleesian cults.. they've a va-" "Stop." The An-Gho cut over him. "Stop fighting." "Accept it. Accept yourself, Remon. Look at me." Remon did not move. "I said, look at me." ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— Remon stumbled into the sunrise. The sun ate at his spectral flesh. I love you. The warmth caressed him. Remon looked to his fingers, saw them fading.. I feel that if you die, I may lose faith in love. Remon fell to his knees, the glorious sunlight eating away at him. Still, he crawled along the mountain. Stop. He stopped, looked at the distance, and realized the impossibility. Oh well. At least I'll die with a good view. He looked over the ocean below, a vanishing ghost, and pondered. He thought of Luthriel, of Alucard, of the An-Gho. I am sorry. I should have committed more to this struggle against the World, but.. how could I? It's too beautiful. With that last thought, Remon died. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——

On his deathbed, a Draconic Cultist named Remon takes to art. He grabs his pens and brushes, and begins sketching out a painting. Eventually, he inspects the painting, and smiles. Where those of the Bronze Band (or was it just Pamphilos? The art on this missive looked pretty genuine) would resort to automaton-generated paintings and artwork of twinks and golden-haired femboys to justify their losses to the Draconic Consult, the Azdrazi preferred a much more simple form of drawing, one passed down since ancient times: 'shitposting'. "This satirical piece will take Aevos by storm!" The ghost does a stereotypical sort of cackle that belongs more on Cartoon Network than on a respectable, serious, no-memes-allowed minecraft roleplay server. He forgets to watermark it, though, so the identity of the painter is lost with time. Most likely the painting will be too.

what perceptions of staff did you have as a mod that changed after you joined the admin team

if you take up the mantle of rp'ing a server villain who cuts open corpses and has slowly rotting and aging flesh idk why you're saying to yourselves 'surely the best path for character development is romance rp'. like if you can't conceive of any other way to rp and produce character development other than romance rp ('It doesn't allow for character growth' 'then we'll have bland and edgy necros running around' 'I personally don't see limiting oneself to such a degree necessary') then you are beyond saving and should be struck away from the earth through divine intervention. as if not being able to romance rp is somehow 'limiting' to your character; there are oodles of ways to roleplay an interesting villain without having to resort to kissy smoochy rp, and if you lack the creative imagination to admit such then I'm afraid you don't deserve the narrative gift that you've been given you are villains, act like them; surely that is doable in an interesting manner without saying 'oh dearie me, my lover abandoned me because I'm a slowly rotting servant of the devil who's aging at a rapid rate and cuts open corpses on the regular and murders people' because unless you are romance rping with a ******* weirdo that is what will inevitably happen

Hey, whenever I try to post in Discord links (and other types of links) into the signature to update it - whether they be still images, gifs, or text, it comes up with this below screen. I can paste in images and gifs into other places (like this feedback thread), but not the signature area. idk if anyone else has been having the same problem, but pls fix it techies

NOZPOSTING

[Please note - this vision is only accessible to those with the ability to see Prophecies.] AZASH SAMN NAGNARIOTH. The voice grates through your sleep. You stand at the rim of a great volcano, looking deep into the red abyss below. You, yourself, are within a suit of armour, though it seems that the armour itself is empty. Your heart burns, painfully so. Lava courses through your vanished veins. The volcano rumbles. A muffled roar sounds within the magma, and you peer over the edge, see a black form rising through the smoke - A great black dragon bursts forth, the volcano shuddering and splintering - lava racing down a track of stygian rock. You withdraw your sword, and kneel before the titan. Out of worship, yes, but also out of love for a father. It turns, and regards you. You cannot see its eyes, nor what it thinks, but you can feel it; the weight of a millennia of knowledge and life, the strings of fate, the music of the damned. Its wings unfold, and the World holds its breath.. A torrent of dragonsflame engulfs your form. But you do not die. Instead, the flame seeps into the armour, filling it entirely, giving you new life, new purpose, new meaning. Every sin you have ever committed is absolved. Sorcerous muttering fills the air, though you know not who or what speaks - and your soul grows heavy with change. The force of the blast, though, sends you tumbling down the mountain. The dragon takes flight into the sky, and your spinning vision just about catches a third eye, grown upon the forehead of the great creature. You clatter to the base of the mountain. Lying on your back, you gaze at the sky. The moon is a sickly shade of yellow. The dragon is nowhere to be seen, and the the stars glow bright. Demons dance in the skies, bearing birds and crowns, laughing. You weep, though you know not why.. You wake. Sweat dampens your neck.