thequeennadine

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] Roused from her slumber by a dream, an oracle muses to herself. [!] "A vision," Ainmhi muttered to herself, holding a hand out into the dark. She grasps something unseen. "I see it." At the stirring of another by her side, the oracle lowers her voice to a whisper. "Apologies, love. Just a dream." Unable to find sleep again, Ainmhi quietly took to work. With a copy of the notice at her side, she began to weave a tapestry. ━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] The tapestry created, below. [!] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] Moments replay in Ainmhi's mind amidst a cool night's quiet rumination. [!] "But," the oracle began, looking on in regret toward a frightened girl. "It seems I have rattled you. Woe, ah..." Glancing aside, she tittered in worry. "What if, mm..." "I can remove a bit of that uncertainty?" The girl blinked then for the first time in minutes, her eyes wet with tears. "How... would you manage that?" "Well. Would you like to... take a little- look ahead?" ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The waters just beyond Cauróst's exterior wall seem to shimmer, to her pale eyes. Dappled with moonlight, their depths seem impossibly deep. Vallei had been too easy to lead, too eager for reassurance, for guidance. Something starved bore its fangs, the moment that girl took her hand and accepted the offer of premonition. It was a malicious instinct she had not ceded control to in many decades. Vallei had been so difficult to wake, after. There had been so much water in her lungs. She hadn't seemed any worse for wear, though. Perhaps things would be alright after all. The slip up needn't cost her friend a sound mind, nor her a good night's rest. Right? ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

4 PM Sunday is preferred but we can do 4 PM Saturday too.

"UBUNTU MUST FALL," shouted the new REX, Rue'Lur, as she stood amongst her companions in the great arena of LURAK.

Please do not metagame this roleplay. A watercolor sunrise is lazily dabbed onto a surface of unraveled canvas. The plateaus it hides behind are slate gray and mottled brown, broken up by the occasional smattering of green. Suggestions of a sprawling jungle, which grow numerous the lower one looks, with stone bleeding easily into its expanse. Rue’Lur looks past her work with disdain. The vista beyond, its inspiration, stands as a fetid mockery of what she has depicted. No longer does stone climb and plateau naturally. Neither does it host a sprawling jungle. Disheveled stone constructions obscure her view of an eclipsed sun, alongside the looming silhouette of a malagrugrous, misshapen tree. After a beat, the prodigal daughter turns away from that canvas. Her eyes fall onto the form of her father. “Why did you show me this, father? This is not our home. It is a sad sight.” Rue’Lur lofts a hand, bringing it to her sternum as a curled fist. “It is disgusting, yes, an abomination. Why do you think I have shown you this?” Daahd’Lur watches his daughter with a grimace. “What have you gathered of the tribes, the state of the Horde?” A single beat passes. “... You’ve told me yourself. Your time as Kapo,” she mutters, jaw set and tusks bared in contemplation. “The Iron Horde is in shambles. We owe others more than we make. The clans are scattered, upheld only by their oldest heads. Their eyes are closed.” “They are not simply scattered. They’ve grown weak, impotent. There are few left that have the strength of will we bare. Even less that know how to utilize it.” Daahd’Lur nods once in agreement with his daughter. “Foreign wars for foreign Kings, infestations of weak willed subjects most not even Uruk. Our people were once mighty, or so they say.” “The time is nigh, isn’t it? The Rex. He has submitted to your negotiations.” Rue’Lur’s suspicion is matched by surety. She would never assume Daahd’Lur could fail. “It will be my responsibility to upend this cycle.” At once, the heir to Krugmar speaks as little more than her father’s daughter. Doubt takes hold for a moment. “Am I ready?” “You question your ability? What were all those years of training– every machination I laid out for you– for if you were not ready?” “The rise of Lurak…” Rue’Lur paces closer to her father, back turned to that unfinished painting. “I have studied, trained. I do not doubt what you have invested in me, father. But why not you? I would gladly serve as your guard, if -” “No. I have served too long as Kapo, and felt too close to death. Lurak must be made manifest, the Uruks must be shifted to survive. If I pass as Rex they will scramble and fight once again. You must show them you are their rightful Ruler. I will be there to guide you.” Daahd’Lur says, placing his massive hand upon his daughter’s shoulder. Made mute by the Kapo’s impassioned reply, Rue’Lur looks down to her hands. Calluses and scars mar them, matched by many more across her forearms, and back. Her father had spent so long ensuring she would be ready. She could not count the lessons learned. “What will you do when you are Rex?” Daahd asks, rhetorically. He had already told her what she would do. “The tribes will be dissolved. The heirs of Krug will only prosper if united under one banner, if made as one. A Rexdom.” “The Uruks, descendants of Krug… the world will fall into desolation even more so than it is now should we not succeed in carrying out our plans. The sky is blotted, the world is dark. Apocalypse draws near.” “This unnatural twilight. Aztran will upend it.” Emboldened by Daahd’Lur, the prodigal daughter beats a fist against her chest once more. “As our dynasty— as Lurak— makes right of the uruk, so too shall he demolish the rotted spokes of order. The red sun shall shine.” Daahd silently watches his daughter then, speaking only one phrase. A lingering line of prose written long ago. “When the sun bleeds the Wolf shall take the Scorpion into its grasp.” Things fall silent for a moment, as Rue’Lur turns back to her canvas. With the air so charged, she takes up her brush again. With bated breath, she asks. “What first, father?” Daahd’Lur turns, facing the desecrated forest. “Ubuntu must fall.” CROWNING THE NEW REX, RUE’LUR [RP NOTICE] The time has come to swear your allegiance to the throne of Lurak and its Rex. Come to the proving grounds on [MONDAY JUNE 10th, 4:30 PM EST] to meet with our leadership. There will be fighting and revelry aplenty. ♛ Tourney of Triumph ➢ A tournament shall be held before the audience of the Rex, Rue’Lur, and the Autarch, Daahd’Lur. The winner will be awarded a seat to advise the new Rex and the title Champion of Lurak. ♛By the Old Blood Sworn Anew ➢Those with existing ties to the former leadership of Krugmar will be given the opportunity to bleed alongside Rue’Lur, binding them to the dynasty of Lurak and ensuring her loyalty to their peoples. [OOC] Hey everyone, it's nadiné! We’ll be hosting an in-roleplay event on [MONDAY JUNE 10th, 4:30 PM EST] to commemorate Rue’Lur’s assuming the throne of Lurak. This will be advertised in character as a chance for the citizenry of Krugmar to come forth and renew vows to the Rex, as well as for new allies to make themselves known. Hope to see you there! Thank you to Sean_Vevo for writing the dialogue of Daahd’Lur. Love you, dad!

Skin: - Armour Skin [5] Bid: - 15$ Discord: - thequeennadine IGN: - thequeennadine

happy pride!!

i feel visible af rn

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] A sharp gasp cuts through the night's silence. The oracle has awoken, left tremoring by a sight she cannot recall. From the depths of her doldrum delirium, a die has been cast. Another fretful glance toward the abyss, answered in turn by the watchful eye of horror. [!] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ [!] The stagnant air of a sequestered library is once again shattered by its Oracle's stirrings. Collapsed on the floor beside one of its dusty stacks, she startles and feels a hand out through the dark. Soon enough that sight beyond sight returns itself to her, revealing the room to her with a crisp clarity. The staff at her lap shifts and warps, floating itself into the air. There it hovers, waiting. The purpose of this centennial's upward climb had revealed itself. She need only grasp it. [!] ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

[[OOC: The events detailed on this thread are known only to those present for the roleplay! I have been incredibly sick for a little over a week now & have been taking time to slack off on my writing. This missed week (04) has been rather eventful for my character, though. Here is a story I wrote up & some art of a neat development she's had. ]] The blue sky, run through by the marching of scattered, lazy clouds. It seemed infinite to the onlooker, stretching out toward a waxy horizon, and ever onward still. Beneath it, a sprawling forest of verdant green, teeming with wild fauna. Just as the dream begins to drag on into that timeless, peaceful expanse, her vision darkens. A flutter of dark wings. The creak of some wooden carcass, chittering out from below. And the slow descent of scattered, ebony threads, trapping her in a night-woven web. Something behind her eyes, subdermal and insidious, writhes. The onlooker awakens. Blinking out of her reverie, the Oracle turns away from the mouth of the cave and begins to walk. Deeper, away from the unnatural light of that ever-dawn, and into the welcoming silence of an earthen tomb. A short flick of her hand is offered to the side, scattering her plying thoughts of escape, and the shadowy things that had risen to smother them. Silhouettes of sable thread, taking shape like many birds, spiders, hands and other crawling things. With the illusion dispelled, she pushes past a curtain, maneuvering between the doorway of tangled roots it protects. There, she finds a pool. Still waters gather at a basin of molded stone, enshrined by the entrails of some great tree of the world above. The barren center of it all is totally lightless. The Oracle kneels before the well, and places a small object into her lap. An orb of glassy texture, which is kneaded and rolled. Pulled and woven. Until it expands outwards into a banner, laid out over her legs with a care that suggests veneration. Placing two hands flat to that standard, the Oracle closes her eyes, and begins to rest. She expels thoughts of the sky and the great expanse of its blue from her mind. She shoves off the memory of her right eye, and the aching sensation it welcomes when she considers its loss. She steels herself, ignoring the burn of cool droplets against her back, as they strike still-raw markings, tattooed by a too-dear friend. The scars she bears, and their many fonts, eschewed. [[ OOC: Just some reference art I'm still working on for tattoos! @Evanurihas been a huge help. ]] Only then, does a second presence fill the space. It makes the Oracle tremble with fear. Something, terrible even in its indifference, looms over the pond. From her side, the Oracle retrieves a dove’s feather. It is cast out over the water, and allowed to float down to the center without so much as a ripple in response. Her marked palms drag up and past the elbow of one arm, extending it out. A lash of something unseen in the air strikes across her forearm, forcing rivulets of blood to drip into the dark. “Sanguine silk, the very essence of life. But a morsel of the bounty I offer.” Below, the crimson red plunges into still waters, sending ripples across its surface. Just as the presence seems to radiate gloom, so too do the streams of ichor. They sour from red, to brown, to an unnatural, ebon black, swirling in towards the offered feather. The air grows thick with the scent of alder and rotting bark. The feather is consumed by the churning pool, until its stark down is dyed black, and burnt away into the air with an ugly hiss. “The promise of hope, of free flight and pleasant days. Memories, turned to pitch.” Watching the feather crumple in on itself, the Oracle tenses. Sympathy pangs cruelly away in her heart, contradicting her conviction. With a tremor in her voice, she continues. “All this and more, I offer to ye. Teacher. Matron. Weaver of Lies, hear my plea.” Shifting a hand to rest over top of the blackened feather, she casts her eyes upwards towards that presence, that visage of her distant, unknowable patron. “Bestow ‘pon me your secrets, your darkest thoughts. The last wails and suffered cries of those I usher to fill your court of memories. Let none tread our domain unknown, and further so allow me to reveal those that do to your porcelain gaze.” As her sight begins to dim, the Oracle exhales. That presence settles itself in her mind, and peels back a veil. She mutters distractedly in her last moments of consciousness. “I will rejoice mutedly in the boons ye offer, and…”

[[OOC: The following text is a letter sent to a particular group. It is being posted both to be kept as part of my public 'Centennial' collection, and because I adored Sorcerio's own letter-spree some months earlier. Please only respond in good faith! Unless you're funny.]] A letter addressed to the high Concord of Nevaehlen, as well as the Father Circle, delivered by swift wings and curled talons to their woodland chambers. It bears the mark and signature of a certain Oracle, alongside a wreath. Rue blossoms, orange buds, and a few fragile zinnias. "To my siblings of Nevaehlen, and of the Father Circle, Once, I was welcomed into your care as a guest. Shaded by guileless boughs, wholehearted and honest in their wanting to offer me a home. It was above the heart and hearth of the Father Circle that I met many of my dearest friends. Rest comes easier to me when I consider these boons. I take solace in knowing that you still offer them to wayward mali’ like myself, as they begin their own adventures on Almaris. I did not always understand their value. There were too many times, too many long years spent in self-imposed isolation, that I looked at them with contempt. I felt as if I would forever be a guest, forever be less than a peer, forever be a useful thing to man your gates. It would be a farce to say I have eschewed my ill shaded opinions of your cabal; yet, I can no longer level them with so much contempt. I can no longer condone the actions of my younger self. I have only just begun to take steps towards righting my misguided ways. Towards approaching my doctrine and faith as a teacher, instead of an entitled ‘visionary’. The things I know to be true may differ from what you believe to be right. They may mark me as a draoi and a heresiarch. I willingly take on that judgment. However, it is not out of any misplaced guilt, nor any doubt in my good Work. It is out of a deep respect for the true spirit of the few traditions we share. Rumors have been perpetuated, levying guilt on my name for the crimes of ‘utilizing dark magicks’, ‘being a servant of the Titan’ and ‘associating with darkspawn’. These are falsehoods I have endeavored to disprove– and have managed to, by the tests and trials of Caras Anor. Still, my attempts to parley with wards of the Father Circle, and the Vale of Nevaehlen, are rebuffed. They follow your laws, and shear away any contact with me whenever able. My hope in directing this final attempt to you, is not to relieve myself of banishment. I have no intentions to ever darken your doorstep again. Instead, I ask that your citizens, if wanting, be allowed to communicate with me at no risk to their homes, or livelihood. That I might be able to face the judgment of my once-peers in its fullness, rather than by the bare substitute of state issued silence. There is much that I would like to repent for, personally." SIGNED, Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.