ReverseNebula

Amidst the Countryside of Rajima, had Taigen retreated once the confrontations had concluded. In its wake, had he opted for a small bout of peace amidst the edges of their compound, with a Haiku that never seemed to part from his belt, a sorrowful air lingering as the man let the days of mourning wash over him - as much as He and his Mother hadn't seen eye to eye, Taigen had always admired the woman and strived to make her proud. With yet another note unto his grasp, did the world seem to slowly grow smaller as the Samurai's head drooped, and once more amidst the storm of Goro-Goro, did the man weep for his mother one last time. OOC Note: Thanks for inviting me to play Taigen, and everything you've helped / done with regarding the character. Its been alot of fun and I wish you the best on whatever else is to come.

Turbo, buddy. Just want you to remember we love you, and enjoy having you around; you're always free to reach out if you ever need anything, or want to play some gamer slop. Just keep taking care of yourself.

Very interesting take, I like it.

R

Name (MC Name): Seiryu Taigen (ReverseNebula55) (Discord): Chilly7795 Clan: Seiryu Citizenship: Yorumachi Mahō: Alchemy Materials: Azhl Availability Preference (Day(s) of the Week): 3/14, 3/15, 3/18

I'm currently looking for 2 people to replace the current players of my characters family, due them stepping away due IRL and other things. The children's ages vary, and can be worked out - and any questions can be discussed in DMs. They're apart of the Oyashi vassal Junmura, and would be of the founding clan the Loa'chils, the attached lore thread is there for any who are interested in reading it. If you're interested, please reach out to me on discord at: Chilly7795

Taigen eyed at the new missive, and then he eyed towards those he rode with. "Two weddings within the year? I am pleasantly surprised." With this, did the Oyashi set off to prepare a gift for the two, in hopes it would be worthwhile.

Taigen, the root cause for their recent tumble down the rocky hillside - had received the letter atop his chest in their moments of recuperation. Albeit, once his sight finally cleared and he could read it, a singular question bore from him. "My Nephews getting married?!" It was a moment later, that it was shoved into Tsubaki's face to bear witness upon.

⤘⧫ Ｔｈｅ　Ｗｉｎｄ　Ｈｏｗｌｅｄ　ォ萎モ ⧫⬽ Taigen’s day had been relaxed for once, stood amidst his family's shop, and with it did he seek to help accommodate the new arrival. It was only then, that the news reached him, And it was within that moment that the subtlety of Anger washed across his mind. ₮Ɽ₳ł₮ØⱤ. It was all his mind had come to echo, as his hands passed the missive into Tsubaki’s grasp; only then, had he sought his departure in preparation. He had been right. He knew that armor. The lies spilled from honorless tongues the month prior hung fresh in his mind, and with it, did disappointment settle. It was as if a spoilt meal had been placed affront him His lips smacked, and his mouth felt dry. His appetite was ruined, and in its place was an all too familiar call. A hunt. And with this, ⤘⧫ Ａｎｏｔｈｅｒ　Ｈｕｎｔ　Ｂｅｇａｎ　慰ヺ憶 ⧫⬽

Taigen, eyed from the missive towards the Vassal. "They're just going through their Arbiters, eh?..." He set it aside, going back to his duties.

Seiryu Taigen stood at his Mother's flank as the rain settled across their compound, his gaze casted towards the Horde Lands that lay within sight. "It seems the time has come." was the only parting words as he dismissed himself further inside to sharpen his blade.

This seems like a really cool telling, however - I'd ask you change the font in later posts, it is very hard to read.

He’d marked their faces out when they’d come and go, a family he’d treasured since his childhood, taken at such youth - and torn brick by brick, until their foundation laid in nothing but tattered ruins. Charlotte was the first, amidst Lichtenwald when Reinhard and herself were caught, his sisters were next, save Nocte, Melia and Eden - though the others were names lost amidst his mind. When was the last time he’d thought of something aside from war? It’d been months - maybe a year or so since his wife died, when he devoted himself unto studies and work, not to escape - but to try and staunch the hole that tore at his heart. In her absence, he tried his best at pushing his children unto their own paths, unto their own lives - perhaps it was for the better. Better for who? Everyone but himself. His connections waned, as he plotted, and with it did threats from others and connections unspoken. His capabilities expanded, but with them - did those words seem to hang overhead. It was a truth, he knew would come soon. "Your blades will settle into uselessness soon." “I know.” All tools ceased to exist eventually. So what was one more, whose honed edge finally found respite? What was one more, Whose story ended as abruptly as the last? All that was left, in the wake of the Jumoko. It was a stone coating that rendered him into a statue. From such, only one thing is known. From such, only one thing was the TRUTH. A flock of birds is released with letters. In their wake, the news spread. In their wake, the TRUTH is confirmed. Telemachus. Had Died. Letters scatter throughout the land, as news is spread. (Please do not metagame the letters, their contents are for those listed.) To Mikaze and Yukiko. To Athri, Naith, and Amara. To Iulius and Avenly. To Atsuko. To Ena-sama. To Jiro-sama. To Ysivrym. To Elathion, Maekar and Hina. To The An-Gho. To Meli To Nenar. To Nickie. To Jackdaw and Takashi To Vrys, Vella , Grae and Koi. To Constance To Eira. To My Children. Special thanks to everyone, that helped me build Telemachus' story. Its been ups and downs, and heavily restricted, but nonetheless. It has been fun.

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ The man, amidst his brief respite amidst Malchediaels halls, casted his gaze down, and against the happenings where he could, and from it did a smile settle against a visage unmarred, and a mind unfogged. "You will do well, as you always have, Madel." Albeit they were words she could not hear, and a gaze she could not feel. He hoped, that mask of his would bring her solace, whenever she opted to hold it. "I am proud of you." ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

You're my favorite btw Onion. Hope you've been having fun.

ONIONNNNN!!!!!!

ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ The sun had begun to sink low, upon the adventuring party, and for the last time, upon the Templar Raginolf. The swamp wore dusk like wet felt, draped over its canopy, the humid warm air producing a fog that clung low to the ground and masked the thick muck. An upturned caravan, one wheel still rotating slowly, was shaded by the crackling glow of the nearby Draconic flames, still roasting the crackling frame of some diabolical, pallid creatures. The muck spit in fits, and bursts, akin to a laugh from nature, and the songs of the birds had stilled long before the sun had set. The wind only carried the dizzying sounds of sad sobbing, and, bewildered laughter, offered by those boglings that dwell in the mire. Dozens of the creatures, spindling fingers, long, and needle-like, outstretched as the seams of their faces peeled open to reveal the rows and rows of teeth within them. A repulsive kiss of death, an iron maiden’s embrace wrapped in pale, mud-stained flesh, featureless, and devoid of empathy. They beset the man, left behind to his chosen fate, from all sides. It was the first time in awhile, he’d smiled beneath that helm of his. This battle had nothing on the line, not for him at least, for he had resigned himself to a fate such as this for the coming months. It was odd how joyous he felt, as his vision faltered with that drooling fountain of blood from the absent hand, staining the ground with such a vital substance that fueled him for so long, but with each mote came the carelessness of his own endeavors. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ Such a thing was a killer, and so - when the first wave prepared to crash down atop Ragin, did his hammer sweep forth - a long, white-flamed and arcing strike bearing forward to tear through the first three unlucky, and uniformly approaching creatures… and with it, crept the mightiest cry one could’ve ever hoped to muster. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ It was as if warmth basked over him, resolve steeled itself, and his heart willed itself to beat. His courage flourished, and that absent hand bled no more, red life refused to creep, and in its place - a holy white flame congealed as his courage manifested into a replacement for what was lost. The mask amidst his face fell aside, in absence of its purpose, and his strength felt as if he was better than his prime, for with this utterance had the man sealed his fate. The first strike that followed upon the first of many to barrage him, was as if a cannon thrummed from him, a thunderous echoance corralling through the treelines, and uprooting birds from their roost, the recoil of such a violent endeavor seemed not to tax him, for fatigue was no longer his enemy. His frame was forced to rotate, with another violent careen of that spiked hammerhead, and yet another violent blossom of purple gore, deafening echoes and the initial hum of a fight, that would be one's last. However odd it felt, as the thrum of his heartbeat and the clatter of needle-like appendages against steel, and crashing thunder; the man had come to reminisce of the simpler times, even when grief filled the people of Norland. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ When Veta lingered in his embrace. It was odd, the way the room began to settle itself against his perception, and even odder when it felt like he was peering through a window at his own memory… “In time we all will be.” He affirmed, voice quiet. Dead, that is. “.. So soon is what really scares me.” Murmured the frightened. “You’ve got ei job, and so does everyone else.” Raginolf uttered, as his frame made ease unto the ground. He settled there, where he then did something truly foreign to Yelizaveta. His hands lofted, and the woman was carefully swept from the chair, down now to settle atop his lap. She was lulled with the utmost care, and held just as gingerly. “You, along with them, must stand against the death that wracks us all.” Yelizaveta stilled within the hold of her brother. There sounded a gasp of surprise at first, though soon, the woman found ease. Her eyes fell slow, and her arms lay crossed along her chest. She bore no signs of discomfort, no, instead. . she found peace. Comforted by the gentle hum that began to ebb so. “Und so the ones above guide us down the road,” his voice rang gentle, somber, ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ For every word sung, the Reinmaren’s facade of stoicism began to falter. His attempts choked, scratching at his throat as he dared to continue. “From our great grandparents in the ground, to all the ghosts of our hometown, they’re the ones who find us down the road. . Grief is only love that has no place to go.” Still, he wiped her tears. “You speak as if you know you’ll die soon.” ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ It enraged him—or perhaps it was only the claws that slipped past his helm and bit his cheek. He roared, and rage pooled hot in his chest as the hammer rose. Iron met flesh. Thunder answered. His off-hand tore a sword from a fallen foe. Hammer and blade worked as one—old drill, holy muscle-memory—but numbers pressed in. Skill he had; space he did not. The trees closed like a shield wall. Limbs and roots hemmed his swing. He hewed anyway. One cut scythed through two Wastrels with the weight of a maul, forced a step forward, and bared his back. They swarmed like shore-crabs. A plate went—stripped, abandoned. The next wound he did not feel, only the cold creep of it along his left side as white-fire ichor mingled with red. He had seen this much crimson before. His mind slipped, not from fear but from the old truth of pain, into one single memory—when he and Sissel crossed steel instead of turning it on their common foe. His first holmgang. Metal filled his mouth. Blood sheeted from his shoulder in long, pulsing streams; every few heartbeats the white flared to red, and back again. It was a strange thing, to fight the woman he treasured. Stranger still to do it at her asking. He leaned in and cracked brow to brow. Blood burst. Her nose went sideways with a hard crunch. His fingers found the dagger lodged in his shoulderblade. He ripped it free to stab—her hand snapped to his wrist. A race against time. His left arm died when the gauntlet’s mechanism ran dry. He kicked for her knee. She dipped and wrenched, stole the blade as his weight crashed into her. The pommel slammed his face. Clay split. The old secret beneath it saw air. They grappled for the steel again, snarling in each other’s breath. He wrenched it back at last as they tumbled. The deciding stroke came down. The dagger bit her thigh, drank deep, and tore a red line as they broke apart. It felt a lifetime ago: falling beside her, healers shouting, hands dragging him away while he reached for her— Crack. The swamp snapped back into him. His longsword buried in a Wastrel’s gut and would not pull free. Another blow caved his side. He let the sword go. The hammer remained. He drove it down. Wood and limb exploded together in a spray of splinters and pale gore. The white flame along his stump burned steady, the Courage of Malchediael made flesh, and he set his feet to stand again. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ “Less likely to splinter, da,” a little girl murmured in acknowledgement of Raginolf’s instructions, hunched over a stick far too big for her to walk with. They talked of potions, princesses, and performances while Jorena scraped away bark. Amidst Raginolf’s lessons of different tools for their project, the girl etched squiggles and curling lines into the stick. It wasn’t until after she dusted off her childish handiwork and showed it to him that Jorena found out the full lesson of her walking stick. To make something with someone gave it more meaning. The girl took Raginolf’s lesson to heart. “We should make your bracelets,” for he and Sissel, so they’d have a special meaning with his help. “You’re a smart girl,” Raginolf complimented her on her quickness. Jorena thanked him before she told him the same. “And you’re smart too.” “Am I now?” “Da,” Jorena nodded. “Because you sound like all the good people in my life, and they’re smart,” the girl then specified, after a pause. “You are one of the good people in my life.” ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ There was a crunch and clang, the sound of more and more bodies piling upon the Templar’s form. The flames sought open air, through the crevices and folds of limbs, and of those muck-laden bodies that ravenously tore at his armor. The buckles were gnawed upon, and leather slacked. The weight of the pile upon him stilled his blows, and pressed the air from his chest; ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ His inflamed hand, a glowing white tool to hold the line, and enjoy his final fate, flickered, and faded. The wastrels found their teeth chewing through armor, and pressing down upon an empty vessel, as the creaks and groans of his hauberk and mail slackened. His form began to shift, as if a thousand fireflies that lay just beneath Raginolf’s chest had found their escape, and fluttered away. The ravenous horde found naught but ash in their mouth, and with the warmth of the Templar’s flame scattered back to his divine host’s realm, his soul with it. A stillness settling upon the swamp, and a quiet where thunder once clapped and rung through a now barrow marsh. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ A final memory flickered, like the soft lights of hope seeping from him. It was such an odd thing, how his mind settled itself to escape the darkness that had overwhelmed his vision, and his breathing slowly faded from the sounds of onslaught. The softest words, from the woman he so often held close. A final truth, spilled from behind curtains unpulled. It was a weary question, granted amidst the dull white room of a healing hall, his hands bound to the bedframe due a mental break days ago, and still blood had stained his visage in quiet adornments. The silence that followed, that brief sweltering feeling that so bitterly bit at him in fear. He awaited a truth he didn’t want, He awaited words he couldn’t bear… But the words she spoke nearly brought him to tears of happiness. ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᚱ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ ᛫ ᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉᛇᛉ ᛫ ᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟᛗᛟ

ᛁᛏ ᚳᛚᚪᛁᛗᛖᛞ ᚪᚾᚩᚦᛖᚱ Ragin’s mind had begun to slip, that much they all had come to notice. How fragile, how easily stumbled he seemed - how thin his frame looked, and how often that once hearty armor seemed to uselessly hang somewhere alongside him. His strength wasn’t what it once was, not since the day that Asmund died. The battle itself, etched permanently, and ever-lasting on a visage as tired as the setting sun, and as dull as the cloudy sky. Marred, by events once thought so soon… now left to fade into the faintest corners, draped by cobwebs. Yet through it all, out of a few names, that consistently settled into remembrance. Kieran was one. Kieran, the brother of his most beloved wife. The friend, he’d treasured so dearly. A brother, that he guarded so devoutly. Another. Taken. ᚹᚻᛁ ᚾᚩᛏ ᚻᛁᛗᛋᛖᛚᚠ? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? The question seared itself into his mind, like a flickering flame, or a scolding iron pressed to sunkissed skin, aged like wine, and crumbling like weathered walls. Why? How many more people did Ragin have to lose, before his respite was his own? How many more days did Ragin have to count, before they would mourn him? Truly. It felt like his flame faltered. ᚪ ᛗᚪᚾ ᛏᚱᚪᛈᛈᛖᛞ ᛁᚾ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ He truly felt… Like a man trapped in time.

R

Taigen settled amidst the crevice of the cave-side pond he'd made, an artificial creation amidst the land to house his mother in her new froggy form.. Yet as she wrote, and his eyes settled amidst the paper she scribbled upon did a slow smile settle unto his face. "I think you did well, Kasan."

"This almost makes me want to trade my hammer..." grumbled some Templar amidst the north.

NameMC: ReverseNebula55. Raginolf Frey A Templar of Malchediael, Standing at 5'10, and often dubbed "The Thunder Man", by the children of Karoslund and Norland alike due the High-Density Boomsteel hammer he so often wields. Ragin is known mostly for his sacrifice alongside Asmund, where-as he gave up 30 Years of his lifespan in a singular second, to help fuel a soul-eating cannon that was fired at, and used, to fell the Avatar of Orsaethiel in the Norland Siege. He's also missing half his face because he was punched in the face with a blasting potion at 16.

Telemachus had felt his breath falter when she had asked him to free her. Something she'd believed he could do, yet he only told her he couldn't. He didn't know how. But the two of them, in truth, knew there was only one way, for the woman to find redemption. And so she looked unto his eyes, despite the visor that shielded them. And she gave unto him, the hardest trial he'd ever been asked. "Please... I don't want to suffer anymore." The words were enough for his actions to grow resolute, despite the disgust that wracked his mind. His words, were like droplets of honey, draped unto the sweetest of treats. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect you... I love you." Words, left to ring amidst silence, as she was never given the chance to respond. She wasn't given a painful death, merely a quick snap of her neck. That was when the pain truly set in. For once, Telemachus wailed. He wailed, as the walls seemed to grow tighter around him, and his hold amidst her refused to waiver. He wailed, as he was left with the remnants of his actions, and his promises broken. He wailed, as one of few, that he promised to protect... Was lost.

Reserved (Back to the kitchen...)

How many more? That was the question Raginolf had asked his Sister, once the girl, naught more than a child, had been moved out of the Healing House. He'd not been present when it happened, neither of them had - merely subject to the aftermath where Veta tended the dead, and Ragin comforted the living. How many more would find ill-put respite in these trying times? How many more would die before him, kith and kin got to rest? The unending query, for what felt like the limitless deaths beginning to accumulate. How many more?