hopey

yeah +rep remove them both and make u staff of smth. they are def not good for this server. lets protest in lobby again

I HATE INTERACTING WITH FIVE YEAR OLDS ILL LITERALLY LOG PLEASE LISTEN TO WINTERBLOOD AND TAKE HER UP ON THIS. THANKS.

Lecelina de Bruges simpered at the missive, her chest sodden with pride for her youngest son of various successes. In support, the Duchess of Avar picked up a quill.

**** YOUUUU

Still yet did her cheeks relish the coil of the brackish breeze, the persisting ebb and churn of waves shamelessly bounding lithe ear to ear. Her feet were hollowed by sand, all while a book of splendor rested against her knobby knees. Her father cradled a tome of poetry, and every now and then, she could hear the rustle of a page folding over another. It had been their day of normality, without the burden of responsibility, freed from his unending shackles of leadership that seemed to get heavier each passing day. That was how they should’ve merited their lives, released of expectation, disburdened of titles and all that feigned importance. That figment of freedom tasted so sweet on her tongue, a rare delight that she so often neglected amid her turmoil of youth. The sun never really seared so vehemently like it did that day, a warmth so very lacking in the aloof hearth of Rittersburg. Hadrian deserved a life richer spent– a hereafter of no nightmares, a commencing without regret or toilsome melancholy. For a long while, Livia believed she only saw him befit of jovial luxury, for many had not esteemed him as bounteous as she had. Nothing could ever deter her from the likeness she kept. It hadn’t mattered how large the pool of blood festered beneath her feet, or the bitter scorns of the diffident denizens of his Imperium. Her love of him was not to be snuffed. Finger ache was all she could keenly recall amid her lifetime of exile, upheaved by the correspondents she assayed to give to Hadrian. Heaps of paper that all felt the singe of fire, devastated from her burgeoning sensation of inadequacy. Letters for a man who she believed deemed her a blight to the name of Horen. How could she plead forgiveness? To restore that homage of his that cribbed her youth, his unending reverence that seemed to only siphon her out of her kin. It was his gratification that she chased alone, his bellicose gawk of approval. None other did she bend to, trailing only his veneration all amid isolation. Her devotion was so sourly derided by those closest to her, reprimands not only of friend but of foe. The countering side of war upturned chins when she would not betray her father, enraging many who tried to captivate her worship and wilt it towards loathe. Relenting was not of her nature, a trait learnt through Hadrian. All while she underwent dejection, her crevices of grief could not yet be punctured by any sort of rival.. And as she nearly encroached a decade of ostracization, no weakness was sheltered between the cracks of her countenance. It was all too surreal. Had God truly loathed the both of them? He thieved her endlessly, uprooting all that was goodly in her life, without a breadth of reprieve each time. His neglect began with ichor in her coughs, proceeding an ache of her limbs that fastened her to her chambers. An ailment all too closely mirroring that of her father's. If she was to squeeze her eyes shut hard enough, all that presented itself as reality seemed fickle– as if she was simply shedding a misery hallucination of her late father. None of her preparations bore fruit, her sorely attempts of stiffening her mien, the endless nights devoid of visions of him.. All that was a warning of his impending death. His absence only gouged a deeper emptiness in her chest, sorrowing her body could not yet bear. As the letter came to her by kin, Livia could not yet tolerate unraveling it. Ailing had been the forefront of her life, yet within this moment of odious grief, she had not yet felt so infirm and fragile. Wreathed by exhaustion and sullied by piteous weeps, her trembling hands deigned that letter close. You have conquered this world for me? It was unclear the amount of times her eyes pestered that sentence, contending it as if she could bring it erasure. It was a revolting irony, to have something so precious claimed for you, a conquest she did not once desire. All she had asked of him was endearment, love that she deciphered between his melancholy lines uttering of failure. Never to her was he anything of disappointment or rendered as a frailty. It was his feathering of touch that she remembered most of all, his murmurs of console and his everlasting pleas of her to be kind. No one really knew what it was to be him. How could they? The burden of life is a lofty hand that shapes each soul it touches, twisting its victims with incomprehensible weight. Not one man is wrought the same. He differed the most against any. Oh how direly had she wished he escaped his fated duties, the expectations constrained to the first borns of this realm. Obligations now suffocating her eldest brother. It utterly enraged her. Her father spoke only wisely, for hunting the anticipations of others directs the erratic towards a path of misery. She understood now. And soon enough Marcus will live the same life as him, subsisting within mirroring binds. The densest bonds one cherishes is of kin, for blood runs thickest in a land of scrutiny. Livia would disallow Marcus to suffer as he had. She determined that the very moment she concluded that letter. Worry not father, relish in your time of peace. I shall watch over him in your stead.

“Oh how resplendent." Livia Caesonia fashioned her hands at her front, pearl-adorned sleeve cuffs enfolding across her barren wrists of gauntly-stature. Her eyes besmirched her reflection, immersing in the finely folds of silks hand-sewn by the charming Clementine of Dover. Beyond her shoulder, a friend of merit loomed with supine hands; fixing the ebb of her pious veil that shrouded her tresses of chestnut. “What have you say, Valentina?“ @kuerbis@Lalosia

you look like judyhoppslover69

“Elizabeth shan’t need my help,” Amidst the low groan of rushing waters, quiet murmurs caressed over the lithely shoulder of Livia Caesonia “She fashions herself a bitter fool.” A jaunty tune blubbered thereafter, soil-encroached palms catching the stream’s vigour. A pail of freshly-chosen flowers lay rightly to her side, nestled by the Prince of Alduun who possessed the aforementioned missive of scrutiny. @sam33497

At the stroke of ebony night, Livia Caesonia beseeched a gilded mirror. Another year had exceeded her, shriveling reminiscences of the past. Though her eyes were of Hadrian’s, the likeness of her smile was solely parallel with Martinus. As days grew lengthy, it was only her face that breathed life of her vanished twin. His altering features were fickle in her mind, enshrouded by her heedless yearning to forget what became of him. To be without a twin is a severing of the soul, an anguish far beyond the means of practical repair. It was an inattentive mechanism of protection, to stow Martinus would mean frittering that throttling burden of hollowness. The fatigue it brought upon her father was of no doubt. She knew him best of all. Even amidst exile, murmurs of servantry bled throughout the crevices of her newfound life, carrying incessant whispers of the Emperor’s fragility. Now among her remaining brothers, she felt that churning of her soul moreover. A contest of hope conflicted with hesitation, divulging memories once forcibly forgotten. An unneglectable faith inched that of her mien, rousing each breadth of her comportment. It was as if she could feel Martinus– sense him. Just barely was he within her clutches, narrowly grazing the slope of her finger tips. “Return to us, Martinus.” It was a prayer, uttered to the attendants swarming her flank. A sole plea that she hoped God would heed, for it be her first authentic ask of Him. That constricting evening sustained without slumber, ensued only by her listless pacing of the Rittersburg streets– warranting each eye that passed her by, searching and hankering for what was once hers.

like rank as in smelliest?

"My father frightens of the quill." A slovenly look severed beyond a shoulder, heedful of a blond who dutifully borne her wares. "You should meet my brothers, they'd like you."

News of your excommunication flooded the streets of Alduun, passing my ears without respite. Priests amid my travel weaken with antipathy, pronouncing the throne severed from the eyes of Heaven. I wonder if that frightens you, or if alleviation is your new disposition. You ceaselessly acted as if God existed not, as if it were only the eyes of kin peering over your shoulder and not the judgement of an omnipresent being. I idolized that variant of you, the Emperor that bore God like a witness jutting his nose in business that wasn’t his own. I should not be writing and I shan’t feign that I do not know my place. I am the daughter you relinquished, a name scored from ledgers. I do not ask to return. Exile has dutifully given me compassion boundless in comparison to your own. I have learnt the leniency of strangers, the weight of coin, and the strength of empathy. Banishment induced me with a liberation I had senselessly believed to possess prior. Now I know that sense of autonomy in my youth was just a mirage, a learned comfort that I can now discern as a falsity. But above all else, even now I can recall the tender man you once were to me. The father who held his palm to my cheek and requested that I establish kindness. You told me it best to have some charity, and in my time amiss, I have learnt that benignity you preached amid my youth. There is no anger in me now, for I have learnt the burden of bitterness, and being apart from the capital taught me how unforgiving hate can be. This is merely a trial of misfortune. A hardship the Imperium you’ve reinforced shall predominate. It can survive by vigor alone, through ruptured allies and heirs alike. Excommunication is not erasure, it is simply a word posing as a conclusion. If God no longer stands beside you, sustain without Him. I do not write to reopen wounds, nor to reconcile what cannot be mended. I know what it’s like to be divided from something of importance, to languish apart from those who deliver significance to your life. If you should find the crown burdensome in the midst of desertion, know that I see you not as something forsaken. May haps not by law, nor in prayer, but by blood you are of my kin. I hope that morning comes to you without burden and that amid this narrowing of the world you find the stability to withstand it all.

"What absurdity." Livia Caesonia derided with a sinkage of her head before supplying that scroll to a lurking Adunian Prince. "Does the half-creature yearn to die?" @sam33497

HELL YES!