laugh_giggletehe

Angstslop in spoiler. Grief. It is a wicked thing that strikes when one expects it the least. It is a contaminant that seeps into the very pores of everything that is and everything that will be; the whispered echoes of love lost haunting the ears of all that knew the departed. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ Tiva Milan Ukesh’tahel was unrecognizable by the time his remains were brought to that quiet household. When the knock settled against drooping ears, the drow had set their book face-down against their shared desk with a smile. The years had been hard on the beloved son, his condition worsening as the sparks in his eyes dampened. What once was a bubbly, energetic child had grown into a nervous, shut-in adult- but he had left the house. “Progress.”, Ythur had whispered to themself, watching Tiva wind down the stoney path from an open window. It had been a proud utterance, if a tentative one. Nothing could have prepared them for that progress to be cut short, for the news that beckoned them towards the door. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ Grief. Like a physical weight, it bobbed painfully within their throat as they took that crimson-stained fabric into their arms. The sickening scent of iron flooded the air as what remained of Tiva was jostled. In this moment, clarity is offered unto the half-blind father. They had always known death for what it was- a horrifying, inescapable fate. An executioner with no moral obligation, no desire to turn away the undeserving or those with life left to live. Ythur knew, of course, and they knew that it was absurd to live in fear of such a thing if it would come regardless. To live one’s life fully, they must do what they wish- accomplish as many goals as they can before the final sleep; not because they wish to be remembered, but simply because they want to. In this moment of horrible, perspective-altering clarity, they realize that Tiva had never accomplished what he always wanted. And his glasses slipped from their hold, clattering against the wooden floor. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱𝄞⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ Time passes, and yet the father is stuck in that moment. The realization, the denial, and the gutwrenching understanding that nothing would be the same repeating time and time again, echoing about their skull. Time passes, and yet the father remains seated just outside of their son’s bedroom, spine pressing uncomfortably against the mossy stone wall. Both of their arms enwreathe his remains until the cloth is rendered a mere formality, until the blood seeps through their own shirt and plasters itself against flesh. Until they are ready to let go.

Nestled just before a borrowed hearth, Vysryana peers to the missive. A light frown tugs at scar-worn lips at the names- as well as the prices- listed. “Cheap-ass.” Is all that is spoken,, for a time- offered only to the arid space ahead. How far had her friend fallen- or perhaps she had drug him to such a level? Lorandil was so kind in their first meetings, if cowardly…. A letter is drafted.

Please check your walls for black mold because no normal person would write this out, read it over, and post it.

Deep within the chest of a certain drow, a diseased heart beats just as it always has. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━⊱⛧⊰━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ When Vysryana caught wind of Ryad’s death, the news was met with only light relief. Relief, of course, that accompanied a bated breath which has not yet escaped. She does not speak of the peace that followed, nor the uneased glances she sends towards her sibling- for just like a candle, if this hope is spoken over, it may very well be snuffed out; leaving only faint, wispy trails of what once was behind.

This is Bugsy. And Smokie. I know my camera quality is poor. He jumps when I get close enough for a clear picture and snorts and begs for hugs. No matter how much affection he's given. Biblical levels of greed.

Protip for you: Learn how to write if you are engaging with a creative, writing-based medium. Do not rely on a machine that only regurgitates the efforts of others and steals water from communities that are already struggling with the effects of the data centers built nearby. This is an issue I've noticed with a great many players, new and old. None of y'all are slick. Lock the **** in. It is a hobby, not a race or competition. Your slop bores everyone around you.

Vysryana falls still upon reading the name of one Ismail. Someone so small, whom was meant to be entrusted to her care- is now on a list? Grumbling, near snarling below the rapid hums of her mechanical voice, a letter is written.

Somewhere, a woman's gaze darts across a missive. Often days pass where she'd simply walk past, yearning for a life without the Empire's absurdities. Today, though, was different. A daemonsteel-clad arm reaches forth, tearing it from the wall and drawing it near to her visage. Perhaps, she thinks, today will be more lighthearted. “!” It is folded up before she reads past the ten mina reward- a scoff accompanying the motion. "They fear what they do not understand, and so they judge the beastfolk as evil." Muses she in that slithering, mechanical monotone. "What is deemed evil, they seek to control- and control leads to violence. This is but a cycle of their own creation- I pity only the beasts." Eyes of ferrum flicker towards a nearby forge- and the missive, however pretty, is discarded into a mountain of licking flames. "Zob uhv'noraet azula." She utters. "Zy uhv'laht lyhn kokur, trausthk me neryum zy ygne."

The small room was slick with darkened ichor, its coloration not dissimilar to that of a star-speckled night sky. It coated the floor, the seating, and the carpet- the unique, iron-esque scent of viscera greatly overwhelming the now faint stench of cactus green. The devil’s abused, slashed corpse lies front and center, settled peacefully within his seat in an almost regal manner, befitting of the young devil’s unwanted title- The Black King. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━⊱⛧⊰━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ In the days before, Shahan and Vysryana had sat within that same room. Idle conversation flowed with abundance and ease, The topic of redemption at its forefront. “What inspired your want for disconnection, if I may ask?” - “Was it the boy?” “‘Cause, like… what I said about my dad. I couldn't let him grow up with a warlock for a father, cause I know what that'd do to him.” “One's environment shapes them. You made the smart choice, not only for yourself, but for Ismail.” “I don't want him to grow up in the village, and I can't raise him anywhere else unless I disconnect. So… the easiest choice I've ever made, really. I'd do it a million times over. Or… well, I'm still a warlock. But you get the idea, right?” ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━⊱⛧⊰━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ Despite what Shahan had done, she still saw that impossibly small child sitting within Norland’s tavern. He had never eaten anything that was not necessary for survival, and so she and her brother brought various sweets and flavorful foods to his home. When Vysryana discovered Shahan’s mutilated corpse, she did not see the wicked thing he had grown to be. She did not see his bloodied form, slashes cutting through the brands that denoted his infernal magic, but that dull-eyed child. Perhaps if Fate had denoted any other end for Shahan, she would have seen those eyes glimmer, his will to live and lust for life restored once more. Instead, his gaze remains dull- staring on and on, unseeing and glassy. ₊˚ ✧ ━━━━━━━⊱⛧⊰━━━━━━━ ✧ ₊˚ A letter is clutched within hands of steel and flesh; two mechanical eyes clicking and whirring, flickering from side to side as it is read over and over again. “Vys, I didn't really know you very well, but you were very, very kind to me at a time when you definitely should not have been. You're awesome. Sorry I probably killed myself in your house, and all. Take care of Ismail, please. Keep him away from Maheen. Don't let him be evil. -S” Vysryana contemplates, as she will for some time, how those he was raised with will react. Her own mourning for the child she had watched grow up from the sidelines is set aside, for the time being, so she might be a steadying force if any choose to seek such a thing from her.

The half-drow had not known, initially, of Telemachus’s passing. Despite their lack of true friendship, she had begun to consider him someone reliable- Someone that she could trust in a time of need, someone who’d had wisdom of a man beyond his years. In following days, when proper quietude is offered, Vysryana contemplates. She pours over their conversations, the verbal puzzles and occasional offers of experience-gained wisdom. •────────⋅☾⊱☀⊰☽⋅────────• “There once was a miner, who sought to carve from the tallest mountain, the riches from its deepest depths. In such, he cut down many a tree so they might be used to support where he dug. Yet even then, with an entire forest lost, the mine still crumbled and caved in. So who does the blame fall upon? Do you blame the weakest tree for being cut? The mountain for being too heavy? Or the man, for digging too deep?” These were the words spoken to her, years before, settled within the devil’s home in Junmura. Who to blame, indeed? Without much time offered to think upon Telemachus’ query, Vysryana had offered a response. “The man. His greed, his want, was ruinous.” The half-drow had continued, then, describing her wish not to be the man. Her determination to be the tree, to stabilize the life around her. He asked her, in no uncertain terms, if she was tired- not if she could be tired, nor if she could permit herself to be, but if she simply was. •────────⋅☾⊱☀⊰☽⋅────────• Vysryana’s steps do not falter. As she treads forth, for life must always continue on, she does so with a quiet understanding. Her path is etched in stone. Fate is a fickle thing- it leads the willing and drags along the reluctant. Telemachus had believed in her. Will she allow this to be squandered? OOC note:

Once, there was a library full of warmth. Its hearth kept away the frigid chill of the rain outside that sought to beat against the backs of those gathered, huddled around a table that sat surrounded by towering shelves of knowledge stored. An ashen purple hand is lifted upwards, held by Lazarus’s own. He spoke to her of Shepherds, of the endless void and of the loss of a child. She had not understood it at the time, no- not until her daughter had disappeared; her presence pulled from Neia’s life with only her bedroom and a handful of personal items collecting dust as evidence she had ever existed at all. Over the years did their relationship grow and change- from mere acquaintances, to friends, to mentor and mentee. So much time had passed, and still did the half-uruk refuse to request help from him- not when she had donned chains of gold, nor shackles of violet. Not when blows were sent her way, seeking to tear, to maim, to destroy- still, did she keep him at arm’s length. ꧁──────────────────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────────────────꧂ The Barrowlord Szardiael had always been someone she could have depended on, should she have allowed those painstakingly built walls to crumble. All it would have taken, he claimed, was a letter- for her to reach out and tell him of the danger she had been in. Alas, hubris had taken its wretched hold, strengthened by a yearning for independence- and they fractured. The world ended, Aevos overran with the Mountain’s forces- and there, on Kalldur, did they finally take a step in the right direction. After years of Neia refusing help, of keeping her friend at arm’s length- did the two finally speak. An oathbreaker and an undead, face to face in a shabby clinic- then, and only then, did it finally dawn upon her that Lazarus was still there, deep within the enwreathing souls that made up Szardiael’s form. Even if it was only a shred of the man she’d once drank in her kitchen with, of the mali’ame that had offered to train her children in self defense, of the man who had been her friend. ꧁──────────────────ஓ๑♡๑ஓ──────────────────꧂ Sat beside her eldest son on her balcony overlooking the city, years upon years after her disconnection and subsequent realizations did a ghastly breeze blow across her visage. The damned wind whispered to her, coiling about pierced ears and hissing out an admittance intertwined with a challenge. Its meaning had not immediately hit her, of course- no, first came the sinking feeling of a pit formed within her gut. The grief was only truly realized when that spectral breeze carried a long, visually ruined scrap of fabric that swept and arced throughout the air until she reached up and caught it within one clawed, gauntleted hand. Then, and only then, did it dawn upon her. Her friend was no longer. Dead was not the word for it, of course- Lazarus had been dead for a long, long time. No. Szardiael had been unmade. That loss is swallowed alongside the bile that threatened to rise, and after wallowing for but a breath- and she responds to her son, looking out to the starry sky above.