subatomic

more aggression required

nice destiny 2 references

bro u just nerfed my favorite ca

Upon a hill forged from the bodies of a thousand men from the defeated coalition, Richold de Rouen took his stance, high upon that mound of gore. As the parting clouds revealed a golden sun, its rays bathed his figure in an ethereal glow. With a thunderous cry, he declared: "Blood for Ashford, forever shall the Druscan endure!"

If u fix the lag ill do 40 backflips on camera

prob would need a plugin cuz that last system was very easily exploitable

Lots of items are not in circulation like they once were when the AH was still implemented so +1.

bro i thought an lotcer was calling the police to send the swat team to ur house jesus

no one is giving u rep

lol sure

60th is a good worker I feel as if people MAY be over-exaggerating a little too much. Give him some time and then people can start complaining if they find it fit

VERY UNBIASED ADMIN +111111111111111111111111111111111

thats actually some dickhead shit that they would grief years of history ngl

[A painting of Vitré afar, 11th day of the Sun's Smile, 1945] The scion of Rouen sat up-top his bed, various letters and quills aside him as he pondered within’ his thoughts. His mind was fixed on the matters that weighed heavily on his mind: the imminent human politics and the enduring heritage of his line. “W o o o s h . . .” sounded the wind. Even as the melodic wind breezed through, Richold's hand did not waver in its task of writing. Perhaps it was but a day marked by gentle breezes in the Heartlands. Yet, in the blink of an eye, the windowpane in his chamber shattered, propelling shards perilously in his direction, and scattering throughout the room. Swiftly, Richold unsheathed his blade and rose to his feet, employing it to shield his face from the airborne glass fragments. “Ring the bell! Attackers have breached the castle!” cried Richold. As he advanced towards the door, he watched as dark shadows manifested within the room, their forms undulating and weaving as they began to envelop the space. The youthful Ashford came to the unsettling realization that this presence was not a mere raider, but potentially something even more ominous. “Kekeke. . .- I could smell. . . pondering. . . thoughts. . . seeking questions. . .” murmured a raspy, malevolent voice - deep ancient, yet filled with wisdom. Yet, no words came out of Richold’s mouth. He only persisted in his advance toward the door, his mind cluttered with thoughts. That same door he was going towards could be heard locking itself, as shadows continued to whizz around the room. Something would then be seen near the window; an ebon-black mist, slowly seeping into the room. “. . . speak your . . . thoughts . . .” declared that voice, a deep, horrible, and low grumble. “It is not the hour for my reckoning! I refuse to ascend to the skies just now!” shouted the frightened de Rouen. Soon enough, the ebon-black mist began to coalesce into a shape - it was a small, gray Owl with great, wide, and knowing eyes. It bore one talon, which it hobbled on, and its appearance exhumed gouts of that very mist. Richold only stood in place as he watched the being manifest into its true form. “I am not here to reap, for now.” spattered the one-legged ‘thing’, before it’s beak hung low, revealing an empty, dark pit within. - “I am here to provide you with an opportunity.” drawled that small Avian, it’s talon shredding the table-cloth with one mere swipe. Richold would then lower his blade as it spoke out, his unwavering gaze fixated upon that one eye of the owl, and in silence, he merely nodded his head, understanding that words were unnecessary in this presence. “What a lovely blade,” spoke the Owl, as miasma escaped its open beak. With a hefted, sharp talon, it pointed in the direction of Richold. - “Answer my call once. In return, I will protect you, and give you my blessing.” He gave a simple nod, though his countenance revealed no composure, only an overwhelming fear. His resolve appeared to be fueled by the abundant surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “. . . aah. . .-” exhaled that Owl; twines of ebon-black mist began to seep out from his maw. It would rush in the direction of the Carbarum weapon gripped by Richold, covering the blade with that strange mist. - “Let this be my first blessing. Those not of your blood will be unable to hold that weapon, so that in life and death you may pass it on to only kin.” Richold's hand, clutching the hilt of his blade, began to tremble uncontrollably with fear as the mist encircled the weapon, sealing the incantation spoken by the Owl. Yet, he managed to hold his grip steady. “You will know when it is time to answer the call.” The one-legged owl cackled, a most vile, and evil laughter. That form of the Owl then began to wisp away, and slowly headed out the broken window. As the Owl left, a mysterious hand pulled together the shards of glass towards the broken window, restoring itself. Richold had known that night, he forfeited his life to something unworldly; even sinister. When day broke, he strode to the church of Veletz, in pursuit of a bishop.