Dj_McMuffin

Woke up from her nap with a start, eyes wide. Shit! Shiiit... I forgot to write Rhae'lin to tell her I made it... the Farfolk bit at the edges of her lip; explaining her speedy recovery was going to be interesting.

Isabella shed not a tear when she learned of the passing of the Reinholds; she had mourned their loss many times over in her head as her decades in solitude passed. Their absence had been felt even while they were still alive. She'd come to miss them, though she never did return to see them. Theirs was a presence she had become regretfully numb to, as with many of her loved ones. It was never a word she dared to use - more alien to her than what lie beyond the veil... at least some morsel of that lay in her grasp - the notion was one she struggled to wrap her head around in her youth, with her mind trapped in other distractions. She only really understood when she saw the familiar faces of those who were still alive, and the portraits of those who had passed. Two of the finest men I'll ever meet, she mused, I wonder how Atticus and Wilford greeted death? I'd imagine with smiles on their faces. The old crone always knew they would take over the world, hearing Atticus had become king was beyond impressive, but, expected. And I expect you'll have the Gods back on their best behavior for the Creator too by the time I arrive...

An elder Farfolk took a long walk after reading the many missives that had been passed back and forth between the parties. Upon the hillsides she’d stop to gaze over the vast untamed deserts, a place she’d always considered, but never truly got to call home. I’m getting much too old for this… She mused to herself. Perhaps she had always been a little foolhardy, for it seemed like that excuse wouldn’t dissuade her. For one reason or another, she felt compelled. To satisfy her own sense of honor, trusting the honor of the Orcs held up to what she remembered in decades past. Isabella was overdue for another exchange with the Orcish kin.

@rathat

The Red Robed Musin returned to her home; changed, but still the same. It had been a harrowing journey, one which she only now remembered fully once it had finally been completed. The soulless plane that she and her Musin comrades had been quest bound to save had finally been freed with the help of those from all walks of life. Despite the scarring terrors she'd faced, their act of heroics was more than enough to mend her wounds. It was a magnum opus of mortal kind, banding together once again to breathe life to a world that would otherwise be dead, even if they themselves would never see its color restored. A story for the ages, worthy of song, if a song could ever capture the majesty of an artless world reborn into beauty.

LETS GOOOO

This is sick. Seers are the #1 Magic for flavor and we love them for that.

I am going to spend All my Mina on this. (also expansions when?)

Upvoted for loot

A Series of Unfortunate Events reference? I approve.

<(0_0<) <(0_0)> (>0_0)> Dancing Kirby

Ji'Feather kicked her legs in excitement from atop someone else's fair stall where she read the missive. I can't wait!

Welcome back to the party!

A pale 'ame snatched the page from where hung in the air, the red tinged breeze passing away from the cliffsides without a trace. His shoulders slumped. I think we're runnin' outta time. He grasped at another small parchment he always held on his person; the final will of an elf more ancient than he could reasonably hope to become Llun, llir. I wish we could see better days, but that requires better men. I'm afraid we've lost 'em both.

Third time is a charm. We will push the boulder uphill yet again.

W in the chat for more Kha' lore in the forums.

Isabella had the misfortune of seeing the missive herself. She knew better than to indulge in such frivolous reading. It was nothing new; it would all sort itself out naturally. Despite this excuse, she was struck with a terrible twinge that pulsed from her feet to her skull, twisting into a nauseating uncertainty. That terrible urge to indulge in the countless possibilities aching to be born, to cling to any one of myriad feelings that tugged at the mortal heart. It all clamored for her attention, begged for her aid, raged at her stillness. And still she was, after the wave had passed. She decided she was not in the mood. Others could choose adventure, or a great arcane achievement, or conflict. Isabella would distract herself with something mundane, until she was inevitably pulled into the tide by the others.

Isabella read over the missive eagerly from her office in the Academy. She rushed to the Chamber of Wind, delivering the missive for copy and distribution We must lend them our aid. The Age of Creation is still upon us, and we must make the most of every opportunity it provides while they are ripe for the picking. The people seek the Sorcerous Path, and they shall find it.

Isabella Fa'alua Fahrazad held the proclamation to her chest. It's pages were kissed by the ruby pendant of the Wolf hung about the haggard farfolk's neck . Five Decades; I suppose that will have to do, hm? The Sorceress turned the Crimson jewelry about to inspect its face. It felt like nothing at all, but when we were younger I was aching for the day... a weak, wrinkled smile graced Isabella's face, if even briefly, before dropping the pendant back to rest We'll have to celebrate another time, the clock is still ticking.

In a separate point in space, in a separate point in time, in a separate mind, a younger woman reflected on her choices. A child princess, so new to the world, perhaps in as much need of guidance as she was now. In her older days, the aged woman reflected in a similar manner even still. It was not her place, that she had determined then. Even still, the rogue thread plucked at her heart. Was it the fear of ill intent? Or perhaps the risk of ridicule? And during such times, to make such bold claims, before the world was ready... how? Who was she? To decide such things; no one in specific was intended to. Perhaps, rather than perform a role, it was better to play the part.

Godspeed and good luck comrade. Deadmund #1; an Icon wherever the bony boy went. It has been an excellent run, with that energy I'm sure you'll de excellent in your job and studies.

In the young Mana Weaver's inner sanctum, she let drop a final paper with trembling hands. The collective of bloodstained pages were gently met with one more failure; or success, gently floating down into place. She refused to believe. Isabella had been given the same answer again, been offered reconciliation, but still she denied, even now. It was as if no outcome could truly satisfy. They were all ugly and imperfect. Corrupted and tainted by things beyond her power. There was never a final piece. Each gap filled created another. Every solution would create another problem. Such was the nature of things. Her mind swam for hours. Days. For years; always. What existed within the gale beyond howled with the demand to be expressed, to be understood, to become real. Alas, she lacked the strength or the understanding to have it wrought into existence. To attempt on ones own would to be consumed and destroyed. And so, no display was made. No brilliant outburst, no monumental declaration. Not a maelstrom, rather, a steady pace. One foot in front of the other. A trickle, torturously slow, nauseatingly moderate. Subdued yet unbroken. Such had been bound in ages past. So bound, even today.

Isabella breathed a deep sigh of relief, craning her head against the brick wall of her balcony. From where she sat on the floor, the warmth of the sun radiated against the baking black rooftops that nestled just under her own abode. They descended steeply down the mountainsides amongst winding streets, much like the cliffsides that dropped straight to the river below. She clutched the paper tightly, until finally she let it go, snatched away in but a moment by the wind and carried off beyond the railings, beyond the walls. I missed the time in my youth when the Fathers first came to me about the commission, she chuckled lightly to herself I hope there are still some that could believe what they saw in me. Perhaps someday, I'll repay their time tenfold. The Sickly Sorceress grunted slightly as she forced herself back onto her feat. Someday.

No respite from the Struggle A sickly, tiring woman sat sequestered in an attic. Often the space was ablaze with lantern light and brimming with letters of correspondence. This eve, it was dim. The papers so neatly stacked in their cabinets were left strewn on the floorboards; scattered in a nonsensical array and stitched back together at the seams. The Farfolk's face was enshrouded like the rest of the room, graced only by the flicker of a single flaming candle she had happened to forget up there amongst her chests of trinkets and memorabilia. Useless clutter, really, which served no purpose. Just the same as the blank pages full of words she sought to puzzle into a pleasing shape. Like ritual they were rearranged. Over and over and over. But always a piece was left out; unfit; inconsolable. Irreconcilable. Starkly pallid green eyes strained against the waning flame to see something, anything, in spite of the shadows that encroached closer. Once rich and deeply verdant, the pair responsible for vision failed to muster any color from the page. There was never enough time to make sense of it all. However much could be found was already being lost; any that was created was always being destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Stolen, taken, lost, destroyed. Understanding became impossible. Where was it coming from? How could one possibly recapture all the time constantly slipping through their fingers. How could anyone find the full picture again. How do I get it back? Weakness Consumes. Strength Creates. Content fades to nothing. Ambition seizes all.Limits.Define.Infinite.Potential. Isabella's breath hitched as she was thrust back into the world like a fleck of the Heaven's spat out spit. Her limbs trembled; her body overcome with a cold sweat yet again. The candle had long since burned out. She struggled to her feet and traced her fingers against the wall, wading blindly through the trail she set for herself. Running her palm over the cabinets, Isabella guided her frail form out of the attic. Ultimately, she found her way back to the light of day, but not after receiving the same answer from a different question. The same question that begets every answer.