Svyatgoroye

this all started because of a seer plot ritual btw vaseek's greatest little pranksters

A humid air caressed the skin of a trio whom had awoken upon a idyllic grotto. Waters, crystalline as they were blue. Serene waves lightly rolled their way to the shore of rock and overgrowth that found its way into the cracks and gaps. Symbiotically clung to the surfaces of the grotto they found themselves in. Hera, first guided the spirit of that poor lost soul yonder to the waters. As he walked, Lyria’s gaze had remained upon him. She watched as his heels dug for traction, standing just at the edge of the waters. “Drown or rise. . .” The man, Virarim said such absent words to none in particular. Perhaps an age old sentiment. One, Lyria knew not. Bubbles from the surface boiled to greet hat lost soul. They surged forth in tendrils as they grasped upon the very fabric of his being. Their grip, a seemingly insurmountable force. One that was, and shall forever be. The waters consumed him. They forced their way into his lungs. The bitterly frigid liquids surged through him almost as if they joined to him so. He was pulled away swiftly, consumed by the river that cove joined from. “Chase his soul, guide him so he may not be lost!” That Shaman, wizened by experience, had directed almost care-free. As if this were something she had done a thousand times before. The Mali’thill obliged. Near the shores a boat which was not there before was caught by her almost worried lilac hues. They darted from this vessel to Hera and back again. Yet that palm directed, an unspoken sentiment. ‘Go with the tides.’ The Spirit-guide who’m had taken this journey a thousand times more first began by setting the vessel off into the white-water rapids. The frigid waters were a stark contrast to the nearly idyllic features of the tropical landscape which manifested them. Sand glistened from resplendent rays. Almost a metallic sheen upon them. A strange dissonance to the colours and make of the land around them. Yet above all they seemed familiar. The old soul. One riddled with conflict and strife, fresh and elden seemed to struggle as it was pulled away through the great and fortuitous river. An old and burning star that fizzled before its own mass. Almost drowning in the waters it could not bear the burden of much longer. That elf, the one whom was thrust unto this walk nearly froze with hesitation. Yet it were not fear that gripped her, but only uncertainty. This experience was far too fresh for her to act without thought. Many things raced across her mind, yet none of them quelled that single emotion which carried her in most days. A desire. One to move onward. Lyria held onto the vessel just as Hera directed. Her hands gripping the edges of the boat as they rocked and swung, crashing in to rock and toiling waters all the same. A soft voice. One which wove its way into the reaches of the Mali’thill’s mind spoke in a soft almost delicate prose. “. . . Are you prepared to guide thyself, and those you seek to mend down this path of turmoil? . . The Path of a healer. It is harsh.” This unfamiliar yet almost motherly voice had asked. “To guide the soul. . .” Lyria echoed this sentiment. A muted whisper only well overtaken by the roaring rivers that swallowed whole any words that came from the trio. This great and mighty force that would weather any mountain no matter how firm and resolute only encouraged the Mali’thil. Guidance, were demanded. And so she did. From Hera’s hands did the oar leap into her own as if willed upon. Her grasp wrapped digits around, tightening firm as she drove the end into the waters frothing from their fury. At first, she used the paddle to stabilize the boat. Perhaps a futile effort with such fury of the rivers. This desire. This yearning. This choice to continue down was her answer. No words necessary. Before them lied a fork in the river. One, to a great drop. The other, rapids which continued on until they dulled to a muted end. An ocean calm and as pristine as the grove they had come from. Lyria considered, and respected the great fall they were already on course for. Yet she drove her oar, redirecting the boat towards the more long and arduous path. For if by viewing that soul. . . He needed this the most. Long and arduous it was. Lyria fought for a time unknown to herself. Her mentor only in the back, a passenger to witness the training wheels revoked from a mere infant on the journey of a Farseer. The Mali’thill guided the soul along, avoiding rock and sediment with a great labour. Her breaths stilled. They remained calm despite the exhaustion that settled in. In time they were greeted by the stilling of the river. . . It’s mouth flowing into the great ocean. The soul had met its rest, purified of what had wrought it so horrifically. A spirit, a Dolphin of sorts returned the poor soul to the surface. To which the Shaman and her student thanked graciously for its own assistance in the journey. Though exhaustion had settled in a voice returned. Familiar now in all means. For it were Nuli, for she always encouraged one to continue their journey. “To the path of healing, you carried on. Seek me, commune with my waters should you wish to take lent upon my prow.” That great spirit whispered low. Its words were gentle like the vast expanse they had found themselves in. As all were returned to the vessel. With the man’s spirit in tow Lyria set off towards the greater shores so distant. In time, slowly they awoke from the stride they had walked. Forevermore, a daughter of the waves.

At the height of Enlightenment, a solitary Norn stood on worn stone. The message had arrived. In some manner, it found him. He was not unacquainted with the halls of Tor’Praeth. Yet, the volcanic terrain, magma, and sulfur were never his to traverse. Though the fire blazed within him, it burned for reasons that contradicted theirs. His tired gaze swept over the pages, following the words penned by impious hands. A moment of understanding washed over him. Those inscribed words ignited something within him. He recognized, just from a few words he read, that this was his story. He remembered the grim scene he faced that dreadful day- the bloodshed, the battered spirits. One such spirit was precious to him. The Norn’s breath lingered in the air- a sharp, prolonged gasp. The fury of countless burning suns surged within him, twisting his expression into one filled with deep anger. He began his descent from the peaks, his mind occupied by little. Not with thoughts of Asioth or the Draconid spawn he was tracking. Nor was he concerned about the impending dust storms that might obstruct his journey. Instead, one singular thought consumed him- a fixation, a yearning, a profound desire flowing through his veins, intertwined with rage. Just one word left his lips, simple yet profound in its significance. “Blóðörn!” And so, the man set off from the shifting sands in search. A very personal hunt.

we will never recover.

quality stuff

This is some good food.

This is awesome! Hilarious to see old aegis and the fringe again. I remember the fringe being like an extended/alternate map because the previous was just so dogwater