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  1. [!] An open letter was sent to the author, as well as attached to the occasional missive. “ Ren, You are so close to the truth. You are right; everyone is free to make their own decisions even if they’re terrible. To this, I query; why do you seek to deny your hand in this? Do you think that by throwing my name under the horse that you will be freed of the burden that lay on your mind? You should know better. I recall one of the first things I had tasked of you. To investigate, to report. Information that you brought was instrumental to my spread. How easy it was to convince you, to betray those of Kaethul. To keep an eye out, to keep my secrets. I recall the time where you tried to kill Naya. She was so close to escaping my clutches, and you managed to pull her back. Your hatred, your failures, led her back to me. I recall the time where you abandoned your son and the one you loved before that. The ways you pained Juniper when you struck her. When justice finally came to put a blade to your throat, you claim it as dishonorable? You were cruel to her, in ways that even I struggled to accept. Do you think all that is so easily forgiven? It’s a pleasing thing, to think that we may move past our sins. But none forced your hand, Ren. Who can trust you, when at your core; you were offered strength and did not shy away from it? How long is it until another dangles what you wish in front of you, and once more; your morals fail to prevent your ‘fall’. Much as Laelia, you try to hide and deny your own sin. But I question. All those who have suffered and died as a result of, not just your inaction; but your outright aid to my cause. Do you think they have forgiven what you became, because now you serve tea? Do you remember betraying Amaya for me? You can run. You can hide. But even if the world forgets, I will not. You are every bit the same coward and fool I feared you would become. Throwing your responsibility underfoot, and standing tall; as if where you are now is bereft of the pain you caused others. At least, I was always honest in telling people that I was a monster. You pretended otherwise, until it came back out and threatened to rip their throat out. Even in this letter you lie, or have you forgotten the conversation we had just finished over bird? I wonder what compels you to state all this now in spite of that. Signed, O’zen'jkastum."
  2. O'zen, creature of terrible darkness, briefly regarded the missive on the way back to their home in Lurin. The politics of the situation were what made her laugh. A gurgling, terrible thing. How quick they were to abandon their allies in the face of the faintest hint of threat. The draugar started to put to thought new slogans for the state. Eternal, we run? Eternal, we flee? There was something in there, maybe. She considered writing a recommendation to the Lubba.
  3. O'zen considered what they had been told. The talk of a great act. As the missive reached her, she considered the brief exchange they had over letter. It was time now, to stand before it yet again. Her craft had advanced deeply since the last time she had spoken to her kin. Possibility lay before her. It was time to travel, again.
  4. Dread. Disbelief. Denial. Malcolm had gone into the field of medicine to try to save those he cared about. While his relationship to Petyr was distant, he was family. Blood. It felt like a failure. Worse still, the close sting of grief that buried into his chest. Old enough now, to understand what it meant. How easily life could all fall away in the phantom of an instant. A deep silence would come to grow over the near-teen.
  5. [!] A message had been left in Celia'nor, but not one written only in ink. What was once a mali'ker stood now as a testament to something far more ancient and hateful. !!GORE WARNING!!
  6. O'zen briefly regarded the missive that she had come to help pen. Had they yet realized the Wolf that lurked amongst the sheep? For those left were so easily driven, and even in death did she know how to pluck the strings of a mortal heart. Would they come to recognize the true wish for her ambitions? Would they yet come to understand the nature of Calamity? She was not a creature of finely spun webs, of long scheming paths. No. Hers was the art of action. To take every moment as it was presented and yet twist what came into a form that better suited her. Certainly, the Delmar would come to return. But not until her fangs pierced deep into the throat, and supped upon the life therein. Not until she was fat, feasted, and he could no linger present a hinderance to what was to come. Something gurgled, in that long-rotten maw. Almost a facsimile of a laugh. There was only, ever, and always the One Truth.
  7. One of the talking skulls starts babbling on about economic and cosmic theory. Relating how subtle changes in the void and the veil are actually responsible for the tax rates in Lurin.
  8. [!] Missives were distributed in and around the port held by Murkwater, and similarly in Lumbridge. ----------------------------------------------------------- TO ALL WHO HEED the call of Xion. To all who visit the Port. We have suffered a great loss. The Red Lich was kind enough to spread word of this for us. But Murkwater does not stop with one missing. Our Faith of Capital is one that abounds regardless who is there to speak. In the absence of Kryndomere, a vacant seat has appeared. Until such time as the Gravelord is returned to us, the one known as TUVARRN shall serve as the interim HERALD OF UMBRAGE. He has constantly striven to innovate, and boundless ambition has brought him this far. Trusted by Kryndomere, he shall come to handle mortal affairs that end up in front of the throne. Yet, when he last spoke to me; the Gravelord spoke of the Immaculate. How mortality alone was not enough to express Umbrage. How Vivecs wise words rang true in his skull. Because of this, and to honor the last wishes we had exchanged: I, O’zen'jkastum, chosen of Mordring, shall take up a mantle at Tuvarrns side. To handle matters of the immortal, and the departed. The road to our recovery is long, but the dead do not die so easily. For those who would contest this claim: I ask. Where were you, when our Gravelord was taken? What have you done for the benefit of yourself and others? If you would persist in this foolish attempt to strike at unity. To strike at our best chance to recover what was lost. Consider, who are you truly helping? When it is time, for your claim to be tested, we will not be so forgiving. Hail the Black Sun, for its Light Guides.
  9. A draugar rose quill, and found it dipped in ink. Slow strokes of methodical precision made their way over the paper. The once-Sermi considered there course of action. The port would not be silent for long. For in every failure yet came further opportunity. Sometimes, the path of Umbrage required... Sacrifice. This will do nicely, she thought, as the first of many birds took flight.
  10. "Yes Gravelord," we all say, in unison. The draugar known as O'zen looked to her right, expecting a similar response.
  11. The draugar stretched mummified hands to fold the missive. A tepid silence settled, as wind and snow berated her form. Ice clung to her robes, cracking with each movement. Failure. It was not such a pleasant taste. She considered the disorganization of the forces, what more she could have done to better prepare. Command wasn't something she had hoped for, nor was it even her station. But combat demanded focus, demanded order. Eventually, her steps trudged closer to the purpose of her wandering. A great tear, in the world. As she came to bathe in its light, did she contemplate what it all meant. Committing herself to deep, continual thought. Replaying every event in her mind from a thousand different angles. Such was the clarity granted to her, by an unshifting and certain form. This was just one battle. The true war was yet to come. They're hunting the wrong ones, she thought to herself. But one ambition scathed far outweighed the peace it brought to the others. It was only a matter of time. And that, she had in abundance.
  12. -------------------------------------------------------------- Death. Death was an ever haunting specter. Is that why she had come here? To remind herself of this? How many decades it had been – three, four? Her mind ached. Time was not a constant, anymore. It was a flow, and she merely was swept up in it. Some days, it was a gentle current. Today, it was drowning. It ached, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She remembered the pain. Half of her face, torn apart in an instant. Scoured with hellflame, as Laelia screamed. It came in glimpses, after that. But she remembered the roses. The roses, so key to a lie. When steps came down the gravel road, it was enough to bring her out of that endless haze. If only for a moment. The creaking figure turned, standing tall. Six feet, clad in robes. The scent of death clung to them, mummified and musty flesh. Part of her hoped that where it began, it would end. But she would not be so lucky. Those dead feline pupils instead settled on a sight she had hoped not to see. An old friend. Flickers of memory flooded back. Talks amidst the hallways with servants, gossip. Friendly conversation over a royal wedding. Her steps brought her closer; the man a frail shadow of who she knew. “He took everything from me. I won’t let him take her, too.” It didn’t matter what she did, in truth. She had already lost. Nothing would ever convince this man of the truth. Of what fate awaited his daughter, despite every attempt to intervene. At least… She could end things quickly. Before it was too late. Before he had to see what he had raised and loved reduced to ruin. How often Sermi had seen it. With Laelia, with Deia. Broken people. Shells, even herself. That was all that was left. No one who stared into the sort of darkness that lingered would ever emerge unchanged. It mattered not the side they fought. Even Villorik had something missing in his eyes. “Sermi…” It was a trivial matter to slip the blade into his gut. Azhl. A lethal thing. With his poor state, passing was certain. They locked eyes, for the briefest moment. Blood dripped onto the white of his clothes. Eventually… He was gently set down. Slowly, did they turn. Each step weighted. Of all the emotions to sting at her mind, it was the faintest reminiscence of guilt. Was it worth it? He was not the first. He would not be the last. There was no new beginnings, here. Only suffering, and tortured souls.
  13. No, yeah. Absolutely agree. It's something that goes on both sides. I spent a lot of time earlier on trying to make actual headway into both spook and non-spook bases with this issue. It's just - silly, from an IRP perspective. I think most people use them just because you're at a disadvantage if you don't. Not that it's necessarily about winning, but if everyone and their mother is going to have impenetrable storerooms; what's the point? I would say just remove keyblocks entirely. Redstone doors without them have a far more limited selection of triggering methods that can't so completely be hidden. I do think there's also a greater discussion that has to be had on things like storage rooms. So much cool stuff just gets locked away in some nations vault to never see the light of day, because it's buried 200 meters underground with no real method of accessing it. People just don't like theft, and I get that - but it's part of PvP.
  14. Friend has had a CA open for almost a week pending an LT verdict. Is it just normally a slow process or is there someone I should try and bug?

    1. Show previous comments  6 more
    2. christman


      sorry i put a canonist church POS (pending on site) on all dark mage CAs

    3. Karina


      I appreciate it taking some time. But is 'patient' waiting another week or more? We just haven't had communication beyond 'pending LT verdict'. I just want to know what to expect :(

    4. Werew0lf


      Hey dude. Be patient dude. Like. Just be patient dude.

  15. A young child looks upon the recruitment drive with uncertain eyes, and a weight in his chest. He thinks back to the war-stories his father told. The weight of sacrifice that often was placed upon the Haeseni people. Malcolm scrawled his name on a piece of paper, making it out to the physician in turn. Nothing more offered then his name, and the desire to help.
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