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ivery

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Everything posted by ivery

  1. She had been so angry. What right had he had to steal someone so precious from her, drunk on whim and pressure? He who she had trusted, despite all instinct. She had looked at him and known immediately to be a threat, a wildcard of determination and the sharpest wit. A man who preached mercy she no longer believes in, cannot believe in. Knelt before her goddaughter's memorial, eyes stinging from tears, it had never felt so wrong to be right. Weeks later, Deia carefully unfolds the letter, her heart beating loudly in her ears. Anger curled in her gut unfurls into numb dread. She hates him, she hates him, she hates him- but what if he hated her just as much? She finds a drawing. ("You do!" he exclaimed, clutching his gut with laughter. Seeing her expression, pinched, he pats her shoulder. "Oh, come on, I'm only- I'm only horsing around- Bahaha!" "..You're ridiculous," she mutters, ducking her head to hide her smile. Laughter bubbles up to match his, but she swallows it back. She won't give him the satisfaction. Not when she already looks at him and thinks 'One day, I'd like to tell him everything.') The parchment crinkles in her hands, warping the drawing. A weak chuckle is wrenched from her throat, then more, until she is doubled over laughing. She laughs and laughs and laughs until her knees buckle and she begins to wail.
  2. In honor of its people, The Charity Ball of 538 E.S. KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the GRAND LADY On this 9th day of Wzuvar ag Byvca of 537 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, IN THIS MELANCHOLY ERA, as all those previous, we must remember that which is most important to us: the legacy we will leave behind for those who follow. In that vein, it is our duty to ensure that the foundation is there for them to thrive. It is with this responsibility in mind that we announce the opening of New Valdev’s orphanage, to house the children previously left alone and lost amidst their parents’ conflicts. No longer. They shall be raised with all reasonable necessities in a home named for the legacy of two orphans now lost to us: Seraph Morozov-Tabbris and his daughter, Amari. Through their miraculous determination, they paved their own ways in the world, and in their name new generations shall do the same at Morozov-Tabbris’ Haven for the Lost. At the year’s dusk, in their honor, a ball will be held in the Kastell Lesanov’s ballroom, where a series of items will be auctioned for the funding of luxuries for the Haven’s orphans. Any and all proceeds offered from the kind souls of the realm will go towards their quality of life. Guests, either of the nobility or the common class, are welcome to provide donations separate from the auction and will be provided with entertainment and refreshments. [The event will begin at 4PM EST on Friday, July 12th at Haense’s palace ballroom.] GODANI JEST WIELKI, HER EXCELLENCY, the Grand Lady of Hanseti-Ruska Deia of High Rock
  3. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Ingrid of Ulgaard Dimensions: 2x2
  4. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Eleanor of Lotharigiya Dimensions: 2x2
  5. This might be a bit more complicated, but things like putting out a campfire with a shovel or making a path cost mina currently. Considering you're already paying for the block itself (at least in the campfire's case) that feels like something that should be free.
  6. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Katherina of Karnatiya Dimensions: 2x2
  7. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Elizaveta of Kuriland Dimensions: 1 wide, 2 high
  8. Deep within the Kastel's halls, where few ladies and fewer royals dare step, Deia sits at a small table and stares at the parchment in front of her. It is quiet and cold, and there are many who share the bunks with her now, but she remembers a time when it was just her. When the butlers had moved out and her little sister - her sweet sister, cursed and lost- was exiled, the halls were her own, as large a space as she'd ever had for herself. The fire stayed dim, the chairs stayed rickety, and the blankets stayed thin. She ate alone. And then there came a boy. "She doesn't want to look at me," he mumbled churlishly, glaring at the floor. "I'm to live here now." (She remembers him before then, of course. Everyone knew of the king's- the Crown Prince's - bastard, of his shame, and kept their distance from the wailing in the nursery lest they earn his wife's ire. She remembers Amaya sneaking in to feed him and lingering by the door, too wary to follow.) "..Well, you can't stay in that room all by yourself," she'd said. "You'll stay with me." So she taught him to wash his clothes in the tub instead of calling for a maid, set out a second plate at mealtimes with pieces cut smaller than her own. When he spoke of missing windows, she spent her pay on paints for the ceiling- a night sky and its many stars- and when his hair grew over his eyes, she cut it evenly and ushered him off to play with the toys she'd found second-hand. Little by little, his scowls softened into smiles, and she remembered how to be a mother again. The shouting from the Aulic Chamber echoes in her ears now, where he's grown so much taller, and she mulls over what to write. What would teach the right lesson. What would keep him safe. What would help, when a servant is helpless to royalty. Come home when you're ready, she writes. Be safe.
  9. From what I understand, acquiring plate armor is as simple as having a skin that has plate armor on it, and full sets are the most common/accessible types of those skins. Because of that accessibility, they've become the default for individual players and nations. Having more weaknesses suited to a "default" would definitely help.
  10. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Adelajda of Metterden Dimensions: 2x2
  11. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: A portrait of Reza of Turov Dimensions: 2x2
  12. MC Name: iv3ry Discord: ivery Image: Description of Image: Portrait painting Dimensions: 1 wide, 2 high
  13. There is shouting in the dungeon. Deia stands by the door, amidst the blood and muck, and watches as it stains her shoes, stains her. The breeze brushes past to the cells and back out against her spine and she’s so very cold. Everything is cold without the Queen. In the shadow of her death, they call her the White Flame. They call her venerated and a Queen of the people (what is left of the people) and they speak of her kindness, her generosity, her love, as a mistake to learn from. Red pools at her feet like water and she feels the brush of fingertips against her ankle, the first of a trail of corpses that will lead her to her sister. She doesn’t have to look to know their wounds, nor that they will ever flow, an endless fountain from a slit throat, a pierced heart, a skewered eye. She doesn’t have to look to know there are dozens. For her. For them. For love. The gruesome sound of a glaive against flesh makes her open her eyes. When she turns towards the wail that follows, the dungeon door is stainless, there is no weight in her hands, and Amaya is still dead. Look, a voice demands, at what she has wrought.
  14. Though good sense keeps her from reading it at length where it hangs, Deia need only read one line to feel compelled to free the missive and fold it carefully into halves. Wherever she carries on from there, it burns in her pocket like smoldering coal.
  15. It happened so fast. Within moments of the shadows crawling across the peaceful flower field, a heavy blow to the head sent Deia sprawling. Only when the fighting ended, white petals torn and sprayed by blood, did her eyes open to scan the blurry landscape. She saw Leonid, shredded by claws, and Villorik, piercing the back of some demonic creature with vicious intent- but where, where... She saw Amaya, peacefully laying in a pool of her own blood. Her world shattered to pieces. Villorik was saying something ("Don't deny her death, she died in glory-") over Leonid's bellowing ("- slay you one day, I swear it!-") She was saying something. (A constant chant, "No no no no no-") Without thought, a gap of memory, she has Amaya in her arms. She presses her hands to the wound fruitlessly ("Perhaps we can- we can still save her-" "Stop, just stop-") and then, when it finally dawns on her, as she feels the warmth of a hand on her shoulder for the last time, she holds her Queen's body to her chest and wails. The miraculous may follow, and a crowd along with it, but she holds her all the same. An army could not part them.
  16. Within the darkened chambers of the Queen, Deia remains steadily at her bedside, fetching whatever she might need and welcoming in visitors at the door with a stern warning to be quiet and gentle. In the moments between visits, where it is only Queen and loyal handmaiden, she whispers with her back and forth of kinder times - of painting together and her favorite cocoa recipe, of her precious gemstones that she's bid to bring to promote a clear mind and healthy body. In the bravest of moments, they speak of a future to look forward to- one of travel, of fresh air, as soon as she recovers. It is only when she has coaxed Amaya to a fitful sleep that she buries her head in her hands and prays for her words to be truth.
  17. It had all happened so fast. An innocent chance meeting on the street that turned an especially merry day into a nightmare. In her heart, Deia knew it had begun long before that- from the moment her precious sister was taken from the field of flowers- but she'd so firmly believed there was a chance at happiness. A chance for everything to return to what it was, and simply be, forever-lasting. Now, sitting in the clinic bed alone, long after everyone else had gone to sleep, there's a hollow feeling in her chest where she'd poured it out. A slow trickle in the garden, years ago, a steady stream in the low light of the Basilica, and finally the waterfall that soaked Ruthern's keep in blood. What could she have changed, for a different outcome? Should she have trusted less, or said more? As she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, she has no answers- only those last words echoing in her ears. She glances to the side at last, through the lattice at the man sleeping in the next cot. ("My darling sister. I will not let the wolves take you for his sins," Laelia whispered, and sealed the promise in blood.) With a dour frown, she rolls over to face the wall instead.
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