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About Zarsies

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  1. Zarsies

    The Order of the Scarlet Fist

    Name: Nero Avenius Race: Velian Age: 27 Past Combat Experience: Various acts of self defense. Choir practice. Noteworthy Skills: Glassblowing, alchemy, lumberjacking, painting, sculpting. Magic Status/ History: N/A
  2. Zarsies

    ⛧ Entropy ⛧

    “It’s the way of the world, isn’t it, father? It’s the flow of lifeforce… we age, we deteriorate, and feed the worms and trees. Man or monster we rot inside out.” Strimoza hvan vu rikult nhit e’dakir-uhd’karth. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Deep in the forest stood an elderly manor, a home having traded caretakers to its own detriment for now this once grand house was little more than a derelict ruin et by disrepair and negligence. Trees spiraled up and out through the walls, the many floors had long become rotten and soggy, having collapsed into the lower levels to create a mess of fallen wood and displaced furniture. The stink of mold and mildew drifted through the manor as the breeze welcomed itself through broken windows and holes in the walls yet this forgotten place was too thick with life; arachnids of all sorts crawled along the walls and hid amongst the leaves of the trees, nests of spun web and great streaks of silvery gossamers decorated the walls and towers and outcroppings. Thick, complex webs wreathed the rooms and blocked some of the upper levels with dense walls of white, cocooned corpses and petrified prey scattered about. There, centered in the entry hall of this collapsing ruin of a home beside some carved text on the wall, a firm, greyed-cyan hand caressed the scruffy whiskers of an aged and gaunt man beneath the shaded canopy above. It had been mere hours since she devised her plan yet the blue lady was still seething. Her trimmed, blood-black nails gently scratched at the limp, pale man’s beard as she pondered her rage; what burned within her was mere anger or simple hate, it was not petty or minor or halfhearted. No, she bore fury. Eternal, immortal, thought-immolating fury known only by the discordant souls of demonkind. She sat with the corpse laid in her lap whilst four large, hulking arachnid legs sprouted from her back and enclosed her and the body in a strange, black and jointed cage of sorts. Beside the two laid shattered, abyssal black shards of some gem. The vaguely beautiful woman rose her head as she cast her eyes up to the wet floorboards of the floor above her, the woman’s mantle of four thorny, spiraling horns supporting small, floating motes of idle blue-white flame which burn without smoke or heat off her body. Her eyes, glossy and blued, roamed as she reveled in her ire. She glanced down to her dull sapphire skin and looked over her whitened, gleaming tattoos. Her every thought focused on her appearance, her hellish features and monstrous form. You’re truly hideous, Morrigan. You know that? The words resonated in her body and gave her shivers of sickening, burning ire yet she kept herself tempered and still, brushing her fingers through the man’s blonde hair. She opened her mouth to edge out a whisper yet her voice was absent and she merely exhaled, a soft vapor of grey smoke parting from her lips. She then accepted her silence and pressed her hand onto the elderly elf’s face, onyx mist bleeding out from her nails as she took hold of him. She began to press into him and wipe at his face as his skin became malleable and slippery like wet clay, his flesh sloughing off to fall flat on the ground. She took her hands and wove her fingers together, combing over the man’s forehead wherein his scalp peeled off and his blood-layered, ivory skull was revealed. Over the course of twenty minutes or so she worked with her black mists, a haze permeating her hands as she flayed the corpse and slowly but surely dredged his every bone from his meat jacket of a corpse, pulling his skull out from his head as his dead brain drained out from its holes, liquified by lifeforce. Gruesome and carnal yet stiff with silence, the woman gathered the bones of the man and bagged them into her satchel before she collected the dark crystal shards from the ground, sure to not leave a single flake or bit. Taking her fingers into the squishy, gorey heap of the old elf man’s flesh, she wet her digits and began to write on the walls. She wrote in the script of chaos, of fiery rage and violence and sin. As she finished every character a dry, crackling heat became to take the wood as though it were warmed by its touch. After dumping her thoughts into language through the man’s blood, embers began to glow where she wrote. Smoke drifted off the blood as it dried and flaked, the script burning into the wood. Once she was halfway through the manor, having marked every wall along the way with her demonic script, flames appeared. Orange and red licked up the walls as the boards crackled and ached, embers and insect-burrow sawdust spilled from the ruinous spruce as the fire split and bore through the walls. The demoness danged in the air as her four spider limbs sprouting from her back carried her in a scuttle out of the manor, her bag clinking softly as the bones and crystal shards within slapped together. It was not long before the great house of old was consumed in flame, an inferno having taken to the kindling of soft wood, numerous webs, and all sorts of dry furniture stuffing. She watched from outside in the dark as the housefire spread from the manor to the barren tree and bushes outside, windows bursting and floors collapsing. She stood silent and deadened as the blaze glistened against her glossy eyes. She did not weep for her tears had dried from the eternal fire within her and she did not falter at her acts of sin. Could regret breech her diabolical and devilish mind? Could the weight of her deeds weigh her? What did she stand for, what was her reason? She did not know; instead, she walked. She crawled off into the night as the manor burned and fell behind her, guided only be instinct and fury. Perhaps it would pass, perhaps it would fade, but the hearts of demons cannot be trusted or divined.
  3. Zarsies

    TheKingOfTheMoon's Lore Moderator Application

  4. Zarsies

    Lockezi's Lore Master Application

    He helps me a good deal with organization and brainstorming for various pieces; he’s be a good addition because then I can stop hiding things from him and just let him be my secretary : ]
  5. Zarsies

    Sons of Mechinum

    A spry lad goes looking for the his superiors.
  6. Zarsies


    Thank you.
  7. Zarsies

    A Strange Character Request

  8. Zarsies

    Letters to Aequium

    Seated upon a finely crafted yet plain chair is a dear lad of the Aequium colony, a particularly brawny youth of Velian make and forge-tending build. The boy-turned-man was nested in his own craft and labor, recently blown collections of vases, bottles, flasks, sheets, and all manner of glass littering his forge. He laid out a large parchment – something he assuredly intended to cut rather than fill – and produced a quill wet with a mixture of ink and anchovy oil, his makeshift writing desk prepared with a wrapped package beside him with gifts and goods for the homeland. He inhaled long and hard as he took in the salty sea air drifting in from the waters over the walls of the colony, something that reminded him he was not home, but ‘home’. The man began his letter home as such; “Percarus avus, Terra Pravum is indeed what it sounds, torturous and corrupt. There are feral Men who live in huts and speak to flames, Men who are enraptured and confused by their own governments, and Men who are so dim and dull the rumors must be true; they eat dirt. There are knife-ears who pontificate without power from atop pearly towers, knife-ears who roost in the canopy of elder trees, knife-ears who, black as night and wicked as sin, hide in caves from the sun. There are all manner of creatures and beasts and things which roam, some beasts regarded as Men and others which seem as Men yet are beasts. This place is haunted by wickedness and sick with poison. Yet, avus, Terra Pravum is an enigma. This place defies itself with compassion, sweetness, small comforts like what is at home, and gentleness. There are families with bonds as tight as our own, small throngs – small – with hearts of gold, and people of decency too. They must congregate upon leylines for I have no mind to find them accurately; they are disguised in all forms, be they Men, knife-ears, or even beasts. Is this hope or is this sickness? So too, avus, am I afraid. I have delved into matters far beyond myself and my own, more than what I could have ever imagined, and the strangeness of it all cannot be described. As I write this I hunger so as I have hungered always yet more. For more, for garum and wine and bread and grapes and all things meat and flesh. I eat for two, some days even three! Four! I know what fuels this hunger and in turn what this hunger fuels but I have decided to live with it and make the best of what I have been offered. I think you know of what I speak, dear avus, perhaps I am your prodigy with herbs and plant or perhaps I am a shame upon the family for having not fought harder. Whatever my fate, I grieve for myself nonetheless. As I speak the strangeness of this land is creeping up by spine and tickling at my thoughts. I feel it against my skin, coarse like lion fur yet dense and of some fluff like a fine down pillow running up my spine to raise the hair upon my neck. I feel the weight of my veins on my skin and I sense every heartbeat and every twitch of what lifeblood moves within. What these mean I do not know but I will make the best of it. But, avus, I am reminded of home. Of beauty. Of grace. I mean to send the same reminder back but of I and with what spoils I have managed to collect. Inside this package I have enclosed my best work yet, intricate little glass animals, and a good many bars and coins of sparkling gold and precious metals and stones I have come across. I love you, avus. Give my regards to avia, I miss her so. Give my regards to mater and pater, I weep away what nights I am haunted by them but too live in the day in their memory. -nepos Nero” A few fleeting tears trickled off the man’s face as he finished writing and read what he had penned, quiet as he smiled. He cut the parchment to size with clean forging scissors and a knife and tucked it into the wrapping of the package to be sent away. He carried it to the boat, paid what he needed, and sent the goods home.
  9. Zarsies


  10. Zarsies

    [Pending]fastest man alive's lore master application

    i mean yeah a lil : ]
  11. Zarsies

    PvP and Raids Generate RP: Change My Mind

    depends on the person? I pvp solely to lose faster so I can either PK or move on with RP. If I’m safe and there’s a raid around, I sit in a locked underground bunker and wait or just log out