graveyard_bones

what the flip man, not cool

I'm going to put my two cents in here. I haven't once seen someone portray a mental illness and/or disorder wrong in LOTC. There are a multitude of symptoms that can be more prevalent than others, everyone experiences mental illness and/or disorders differently. Why not make this argument with dark magics like mysticism for example where one's character is a pseudo-schizophrenic? What about naz? Blood magic too? There is absolutely zero harm as long as proper research and understanding is noticed and implemented correctly. If you see someone being ableist, then report them. -1

Nataya is someone Sariel didn't know much, yet every small conversation spared was a delight. Eventually, he visits that all-familiar house they first met in.

Silfyr, one of the few mortals within the depths of Murkwater, reads the missive gleefully. A lesson and a debate in one? He will not miss this.

:3c

Something akin to pity forms within Alaric's mind - this isn't a joyous death, yet it's not quite sad either. He shuts his eyes, intertwining his fingers as he clasps his hands together; he isn't religious, but he prays. He merely wishes that - within the Pontiff's life - he could have disproved the holy man's words, that he will not go back towards the darkness. Alas, he will use that redemption 'til his last breath and hold it closer than anything else imaginable.

+1 ALWAYSYYYYYs

Alaric stares at the missive, mind entirely blank; he feels a pit in his stomach. For as long as he could, he pushed this towards the back of his mind, yet now it simmers within the front. He throws the paper away, for all that he knows, he will not be attending. He wants to believe she's still alive, he wants to believe the ritual was a success.

Pallo coming out with even more sick lore KEEP IT COMING!!!!

"thank you pallo" we all say in unison

Alaric taps a finger against the only table sat within his now, destroyed house, reading the missive over. His eyes travel upwards, towards the flooring above that creeks and smells from the flesh that impaled his walls. He knows very well that residing under the roof is dangerous, but alas, it was better than sleeping out in the streets. "I just bought this place too..." A sigh emits from the mans lips, scouring throughout the various barrels scattered across the first floor for anything to donate - something of proper worth. Cleaning is to be done, a job is to be taken care of, and there are events to attend. Despite the injuries that plague his body from the fight, he persists.

Tuvarrn ******* cringes. "Yo how do you downvote something."

A lot of people tend to forget that druids and alchemy exists; this is what is keeping the plants alive at the very moment. Granted, if you wish to RP famish, then that's entirely up to you and/or other individuals. Not only that, the sun is in a permanent (or, maybe not, it genuinely could simply last for a few weeks or so), red eclipse too, so a tinge of sunlight is still reaching the planet. The planet would drop in temperature a bit, yes. While there can be mental effects people can RP out, such as possible seasonal affective disorder, or a vitamin D deficiency, or a weakened immune system, this won't outright kill everyone within a year. Time and time again, in the real world, humanity has survived the impossible. Realistically, not much would necessarily change. We can survive.

[!] Scattered around the port held by Murkwater, Lumbridge, and scattered elsewhere came yet another declaration. THE ORACLE HAS SPOKEN COMETH FORTH THE ERA OF THE UNHERALDED COMETH FORTH THE ERA OF OUR NEW HUNT WE STRETCH OUR ARMS INTO THE ABYSS WITNESS NOW DEATH, AND THE RISE. XION IS DEAD. Its titles forsaken. Meaningless, decrepit badges. For now risen, we cast off our failures with it. Henceforth, there will be no more Gravelords. No more Barrowlords. No more Heralds. For The King that Never Was has shown us the Path that is to come. That of hunger. That of ambition. So too, does his brother share in this. So too, does he see now the treachery of the Heavens and states: we seek no longer to eradicate all there is. Only that which yet comes to oppose us. In the place of their chains, we shall yet elevate ourselves. This is the Word, spoken and true. There are no more maleficar. No more anathema. We unite, now, under the beat of a dragons wing. Beyond mortality. Beyond single souls. We are shackled by the mistaken philosophy of our forefathers no longer. For those who cling to what is past and gone stand in the face of our Patron. There will be no discussion. There will be no dialogue. There is this, and only this. You will disavow your titles. You will strip the weight of old thoughts. You will adapt, or you will join the great pile of corpses I have promised Mordring. Upon the backs of the inept, and the unambitious, will the scent of flayed flesh sting a nose. THE SEAT OF UMBRAGE AND STRIFE STAND STRIPPED APART. THOSE OF OAK, AND EMBERS: WE AWAIT YOUR REPLY. LET NOW HIS WORDS BE HEARD FOR THERE IS NO END, NOR WILL EVER THERE BE.

Tuvarrn reads the missive over - brows curl inward, something akin to disappointment clear on his visage as stress piles unto his shoulders forevermore. For he is a moral, he does not come close to touching the rift dividing life and death. He is a descendant, he is human. Claiming the title of Herald of Umbrage would prove to be a mistake; he sets off to find O'zen.

Teehee

hi :3

"Yes Gravelord," we all say, in unison. Cerberus sends a passing glance to those surrounding the lich, lips curling into a smile at the sudden reunion.

Cerberus blinks- right before a scoff emits from his lips. "Hm... interesting."

In a sea of regret, a singular man stands. He doesn’t shed a tear, he doesn’t scream into the night's empty void- he stares. He stares at the letter in hand, standing in Kaethul, feeling gentle waves crash upon his ankles. Something to feel other than crushing grief, something he hadn’t felt since his mother passed. A thumb presses over the creases on paper, flattening them out, gazing at the drawing held in hands, one real, one fake. His mind is blank, perpetually pushing each word etched with love into the forefront of his mind. With a lump in his throat that refuses to die, choking back sobs as reality hits him, he couldn’t bear the heartbreak. Yet, tears never form. He remembers snow crashing into his back, the competitive-filled pursuit they had, snowballs in hands, desperately attempting to reach that third hit. Ducking, cowering, scooping, crushing- it almost makes him laugh. In the blistering cold, standing proudly on that boulder, did Naya win. Sariel stared at her with disbelief, soon rolling his eyes- a dramatic, drawn out sigh following afterwards. And he wonders, could he build a snowman, adorn it with fake twigs as hair, and have a snowball fight with it? A husk of what she is? Could he win? Could he carve a one next to his name on that very stone? Has it withered away with time? Will she, along with his memories of her, wither away with time? In a blind rage, does he return to that very castle he promised he’d get out of, storming up to his room to destroy each and every last bit of furniture that stands. He throws books off their shelves, he breaks glass- blood coats paper, seeping and soaking. Blood drips onto the counters. There is glass entrapped in his palm. He screams at the top of his lungs- so long his voice goes hoarse and raspy, fueled by unbridled rage. Alone, could he no longer keep his act together, destroying even more until nothing could be pieced together, just like Him. No stone will go unturned, no corner will be left unchecked. Not until he finds her. He recalls that night, sitting atop a roof in Vikela, staring at the stars; reminiscing, remembering. They pointed at individual sparkles in a sea of black, comparing it to their mothers. That day they had reconnected, and Sariel was overjoyed, to finally have someone he deems a sibling inside his very first home. “The stars look twice as pretty.” Utters Him, “Are you up there?” No, she isn’t. He knows this, but he wants to believe. He wants to have that hope he promised her. His silence is broken off by a singular thought, something to pry his mind off the inevitable. His endless wandering leads him to the foot of Naya’s house in Petra, and he jostles the door open, jingling keys to alert his presence; animals seem overjoyed. His feet creek with every given step, slow and painful. He weaves around, meagerly refilling food and water bowls. A Borzoi seems rather delighted to see him, padded paws tapping on the floor. A feasel scurries down the stairs, hissing at him. How is he to tell an animal about Naya, he thinks, how many days until they finally give up hope of her ever returning. Something tugs at the back of his mind, begging him to step upstairs into her room. He uncovers a baby crying in his crib. Sariel gently scoops the baby into his arms, tending to his very needs. After mere minutes of calming Fynn down, he settles himself at her desk, fingertips grazing over books, beginning to indulge in whatever studies Naya committed herself to. The fire is lit.

Cerberus flicks a pen around in his finger, loosely dragging ink across a blank piece of paper- thinking, debating. Humorous, is what he'd call the situation, pitiful too. He glances around the empty halls of the grand castle he resides in, previous feelings subsiding. After enough pondering, he continues forth, outside into the trembling cold to send a letter to his sister, the very name that was slandered, Naya.

Cerberus stifles a laugh, remembering that night filled with countless amounts of fun the group had — or, at least the fun he had. “MORE PAINTINGS!” He yells, in the safety of his own room. What a shame though, that the very tower such tomfoolery started at, never fell.