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Monomakhos

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About Monomakhos

  • Birthday 06/06/1944

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    Rhys

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  1. Rhys, the brother of the former proprietor of New Esbec (before it was so unceremoniously burned by those evil dragon-worshipping mongrel cultists) looked over a copy of the document from his seaside villa in sunny Savoy. He looked to Godfrey, scratching his head. "I don't know what facism is, but this sounds a lot like Risorgimentism, which is objectively the correct ideology. I wonder why this stinking, filthy bug-eyed knife ear, who also openly tried to indulge in miscegenation, is trying to have an opinion. Either way, why yes, I do agree that Savoyard society is nationalistic, racist and overwhelming in its piety. And God forbid if that ever changes."
  2. Rhys Briarwood threw his hands into the air as he finally made it home from his ten-years long milk run to Providence, only to find his brother's family estate burning down. "Well, shucks! All that hard work for nothing! If only the Imperial government actually cared for its far-flung subjects in the provinces, then maybe this wouldn't have happened... oh well, it could always be worse; I could've been born as Philip Aurelian, the clown of Adria!" Rambling into ventures hardly relevant to the fact that his home was burning down, he took a long, well-deserved sip of that milk. "Ah, refreshing."
  3. "Carry on Carrion." The Basrid smirked, a proud descendent of Sigismund.
  4. "Who?" thinks a man, not recognizing an unelected wig-wearing degenerate as his duke.
  5. A certain crow readied his papakha for the joyous occasion. He was indeed down to get his Dumapalooza on.
  6. The Lord Scrivener of Savoy, Darius Basrid, wipes the sweat from his brow on the long journey home after an evening of arduous negotiations, pleased with himself at the concessions made and the possibility for a future of peaceful coexistence between Canonist states.
  7. The smoldering embers of a fire were all that remained to illuminate the stygian recesses of the hollow. Dull light, fading into the throes of unmaking as heat wilted off the heap of ash and cinder. THUD. The noise reverberated against the walls of the chamber, a distant echo slow to fade with each step. THUD. Silence pursued the noise, and the room fell still to the haggard breathing of a drained soul. Suddenly, there was light. Blazing, it cut through the darkness, the features of a man barely distinguishable amidst the shadow. A fiery limb fell upon the brazier; its cinders kissed by the spark of dragonfire. A pillar of fire plumed towards the ceiling, that sudden crescendo steeping towards an even flame that burned against the cold iron which contained its wrath. The draconic shrine knew warmth again, yet -- illuminated in the glow of the brazier, its true nature revealed, the walls were lined with ancient tapestries, antiquated banners belonging to the holy orders of yore, icons of the saints depicted in their humble radiance, crosses and other relics that spoke to bygone days. THUD. Carried towards the altar by heavy steps, the flames bled away from his arm, and with their demise, so too did the pretense of humanity bleed away from the draconic scion. Ebony scales subsumed flesh, infernal eyes burning in the dim light as the creature’s hands struck against the flat surface. It shook the adornments that rested atop the smooth slab - icons of Exalted Owyn, Saint Lucien, Saint Thomas, Blessed Jack Rovin, yet most important of them all, the martyr High Pontiff, Saint Pius II. The reptilian leaned over the slab, taking meticulous care in rearranging the revered curios into position. He fell to his knees, smoldering gaze lifting beyond the altar towards the suit of armor mounted upon the far wall of the sanctuary, and the threadbare, tattered cloth that furnished it, the red cross of the Lucienist Order, albeit dulled over the years, still emblazoned proudly over the tabard. “Can they truly be considered men? The spawn of the deceiver Sigismund, the false prophet of God, who carried upon his lips the greatest poison to ever be sown across this earth. It never ends, does it? I fought them with prayers upon my lips during the Duke’s War, joyous beneath the incandescent sun of Esheuvard. I fought them when I brought fire to the meek crow, bedecked in her hollow raiments of faith. I fought them when the false pontiff discarded me from the communion of a false church. And I fought them still when I took upon the cross of penance…” Silence overcame the war-weary Nephilim. “It will never end. Not until every last misbegotten crow is sent screaming into the depths of the void. Oh, Olivier, why must you have been lenient towards those dogs? It should not have ended, not until every field in our beloved Oren was wet with the blood of the Adrians, not until every last corpse was damned to the scorched ruins of Brelus. It is yet to be seen if this empty church heeds the cawing of these withered carrion.” The rambling words of the supplicant fell short as he stood to venerate the icon of Saint Pius. Crossing himself, he removed himself from the altar. “They are damned if they do and damned if they don't, are they not? For their vicar of God is no more than an usurper, occupying the throne of a martyred saint.”
  8. Is Benda Chivay being shelved?
  9. Lost half their enrapturements, regained debilitating weakness to frost from older writes, gained innate weaknesses to three kinds of magic (one of these requires them to be cleansed as a result), now have an exhaustion system, revives no longer instant, polymorphs not only break through ability usage but also exercising their strength, but uhhhhhhh they didn't gain any weaknesses. Mald.
  10. JOURNEY'S END ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ The riders had stalled their horses beneath the cover of verdant boughs. Staking posts to hitch, theirs was a waiting game. Fujiwara Musashi approached the ancient knight. ARTHONATH. Kind eyes fell upon the faux-Oyashiman. Arstan thought back to their days together, when the world was younger, when the simplicity of the era still prevailed through all things. They had fought shoulder-to-shoulder, given in service to the Titan; to the numerous avatars who enfeoffed themselves to their maker, who had championed the Azdrazi through crisis after crisis. It pained him to think that his brother was worthier than him. That he had somehow failed his creator-- no, his father. It was why they were gathered, after all. He was dubbed an orphan by the Knightly Avatar they called UR-ABAZ; cast aside, and yet he was no wiser in this revelation. What had he done to displease the Titan? For all the leal service of centuries, his laurel had been the ruin of his dragonsoul. A return to the frailties of the mortal coil, and with it, the dreaded pain of what he had run from for so long -- age. His wandering mind snapped back to the present. It was all to come to an inevitable end in the very place it had begun. A hellscape; kinder words could not describe with confidence the environment they had given themselves unto. Craggy, jagged spikes of rock and crystal formed the walls of the cavern, molten rock cascading down from above to drain into the sea of devilish fire that gathered far, far below. Fire and brimstone choked out the air -- what breath a man could take was poison to the lungs, and yet, the elderly knight had found himself amongst the gathering without hesitation despite knowing well the detriments of what journey had brought him here; the burns that scoured his grizzled features spoke well enough to that, of molting skin and seared flesh that peeled away beneath the duress of impossible heat. He was no stranger to adversity. It was not the first time that he had humbled himself before the Titan, and for an orphaned son of the Archdrakaar, it would certainly not be the last. It was there that Ur-Abaz awaited them - he would not content himself with a mere avatar. It was the accolades of his father that he sought. Why else had he suffered so long? BELAY YOUR FEARS, SERINATH. YOU ARE MINE BROTHER STILL AND AGAIN SHALL YOU BE, ETERNAL. BE WATCHFUL, ALL OF YOU, AWAIT MY MOVE, AND HESITATE NOT IN TAKING THE CHANCE TO STRIKE! VAELYA, Ur-Abaz named it. It was the Titan’s by right, and yet a malign infestation had taken root among the proud ruins of marble and hewn stone. Arthonath clasped a firm hand upon Arstan’s shoulder. The Azdrazi did not know his own strength, or atleast, he was too used to his old brother being made of the same infernal strength. The greybeard winced beneath his friend’s touch, shrugging it away before the Oyashiman departed for the gates of the settlement in earnest. The malignant shroud of druidic meddling have fallen over the ruins, reclaimed to nature in the worst of ways and home now to an enemy he was all-too-familiar with. Even with Arthonath’s departure, however, the knight did not stand alone in the den of the enemy. It brought him solace, knowing that he was in the company of friends for the first time in a decade. Snowy white tresses shrouded the figure’s features, scarcely contained by a band of leather; the High Elf stood proudly, Niënor Nullivari -- she wore a face foreign to him, yet he knew them all the same, HELINATHE. When Serinath still commanded the favor of the Titan, it was her brother who exalted the Triune Saints. Who spoke the names Khel, Koltira, Velulaei. Was it ever genuine? Was any of it? He had donned so many faces, so many imagined personas dredged up from the dark recesses of a waking mind. She was a sister to him, he had failed her, and still she remained faithful to him. Even in her ascension, when the name Vivyne was sundered to bear Helinathe, she clung on to those days where they walked the sunken halls of Renelia. He thought it blind devotion in a way, yet it warmed him still, and he was gladdened for the fervor of such an ardent soul. She was not the only one, though -- stoic as she was, their companion mirrored a cold reticence upon the eve of war. AVENDAL; black drake, cladden in scales of midnight ebony that drank in the sunlight, given unto the shroud of night that veiled the Kharajyr in draconic protections, he stood out among them as a tool, owning to its single purpose; that of a weapon, wielded by the Titan with impunity. LET US BE DONE WITH THIS QUICKLY. WHAT COMES AFTER WILL BE LONG AND ARDUOUS. The herald’s voice rumbled out from behind the veil of a helmet, and with his words was he carried onwards in a march towards the gates of the settlement, chasing after the Fujiwara as he disappeared behind the moss-eaten walls of the ruin. The others did not take long to arrive. Heralds and young sons of the Titan. He knew them not, but assistance was not spurned; not for so important a task. They took to the saddle and rode out onto the field. The gates of Vaelya stood in plain sight, and with it so too did their mark, sat upon the balcony overlooking the bridge -- one of many perfidious settlers who made their domain in lands which belonged to the Titan by right. And then their signal came. Arthonath emerged atop the walls, wrestling with the elf, both descended onto the bridge below grappling for purchase. The alarms were sounded, the sycophantic servants of nature gathered arms to oppose the interlopers, and so Arstan drummed his horse onwards with the spur of heels. Steel clamored against wood, draconic fire met the witchery of druidic magicks and the Titan’s name was invoked over glorious slaughter as his children did battle. And as the dust settled, so the victors emerged from the bloodletting, and with them, five prisoners of Vaelya, a pact fulfilled. Hours past, they had gathered upon the cliffside overlooking the violent rapids that spilled down towards the mouth of the river opening into the sea besides Vaelya. The words spoken by the knightly construct of his maker lingered upon his thoughts. They would not leave him, not while true purpose suffused his being. THERE EXISTS A STRONGHOLD OF AENGUDAEMONIC INFLUENCE IN THE RUINOUS SHELL OF VAELYA. IN TAKING ROOT THEREIN, MANY A SHRINE TO MINE IMAGE WAS BLASPHEMED AND DESTROYED. YOU ARE TO BRING MY IMAGE BACK TO THE COASTAL PLAINS. ERECT A SHRINE AND SANCTIFY IT WITH THE BLOOD OF A SERVANT OF NATURE. DO THIS, AND YOU WILL ONCE AGAIN KNOW THE MIGHT OF YOUR DRAGONSOUL. Diligent construction had seen it rise above the cliffside, a mottled altar of orange-and-red stone, adorned with scarlet banners and runes sown in draconic script. When the last of the prisoners were ferried across the river, they were marched up to the edifice they had dedicated to Azdromoth, and there, each of them was placed against it. Frantic cries, venom-laced defiance and stoic reticence were the qualities owned by the sacrifices; no matter, each met the same cruel fate. They were bled upon the shrine. Bludgeoned, cut, maimed or slaughtered, each one ordained a profane blessing through their own demise. Sanctified, eldritch fires roared through the incantations of Avendal and his aide. MINE PATRON ARCHDRAKAAR, FATHER OF THE AZDRAZI AND FIRSTBORN OF THIS EARTH -- I CALL UPON YOUR WITNESS OF THIS MOST DEVOUT AND SACROSANCT CONSECRATION. FOR WE DELIVER UNTO YOU THE BLOOD OF FIVE WHEN YOU HAD REQUESTED ONE! The herald cried, and through those roiling flames, a singular command was uttered; BRING HIM. It was as Avendal said; the journey was long and arduous. The towering peaks of the Firelands closed in around them all. Their party had grown since the departure from the southerly lands they had sown conflict in. Arthonath, Helinathe, Avendal, Vithfrinaak, Zahkriikyzer, Draakopf. Their band was formidable. Heralds, warriors, sons of the Titan. And yet Arstan felt as if he were none of these things. As pollution plumed from smoldering basins, smoke and ash choked out the sky and the blistering heat closed in from all directions. He was weak; vulnerable. What had once been his element had been turned against him through cruel fate. They had trekked for hours. He was bruised and burned, made victim to the baleful kiss of fiery polyps and paraded through terrain that grew more treacherous with every pace they took further into the blasted landscape of fire and volcanic ash. His thoughts turned towards despair; towards the voice that carried upon the wind as debris battered the landscape. ARE YOU THE ONLY YOU? It spoke to him. Again, and again, and again. It drowned out his thoughts, clouded his focus. Yet reality provided a potent jolt when the charred soil suddenly gave underneath him. The earth determined to swallow him -- devour the aspirant, the orphan, snuff his waning flame. His body slid in freefall down the cliffside. His companions rushed to his aid, yet rope could only be fed so quickly. Despair. He considered resignation; death. To put to rest his story, long overdue, and finally make himself accountable to the sins of a lifetime. Yet he was stirred; not by any desire for self-preservation, but for a name, what escaped the lips of Helinathe and Avendal with their frenzied shouts. Serinath. His hands wrenched a knife free from its sheath and in a split-second judgement the steel came bearing down against the earth to drive deep. Both his hands clung to the hilt, and with every bit of strength that remained in his old bones, he held on. WE BRING YOU SERINATH. THE ELDEST OF WHAT REMAINS OF YOUR OLD BROOD. MY BROTHER RETURNS TO YOU, FATHER! His eyes opened. The darkness burned away as the altar before him ignited, engulfed in a veil of fire, glowing with an intensity unmatched by the molten rock far beneath it. The voice of the Archdrakaar boomed in reply, disembodied, yet his words were unbeknownst to those who did not reap the boons of his favor. Arstan knew his purpose. Languid steps carried the dying knight towards the altar. There was no hesitation in his actions; he entered into the flames, faith burning as brightly as the draconic fire that swallowed him. His anguished screams pursued that leap of faith, resounding through the ritual chamber as he caught fire near instantly, being engulfed by the dragonflame off the altar. It gnawed hungrily away at his flesh and sinew, quickly stripping the human man down the bone canvas that he was framed upon, his anguish drowned out by the roar of the inferno. His bones blackened, falling still. A semblance of spectral light housed where his heart once was sputtered weakly and began to wane. Yet, as suddenly as it seemed to fade, a futile end to his long journey, it was invigorated. The fire that bathed the altar condensed and swelled repeatedly, stoked by the energies of the man's mortal soul. The flames danced wildly, casting Arstan's bones in tangible fire. The fire solidified, forming incandescent flesh. Two horns sprouted from the knight's skull, protruding forward until they had formed wicked points. His teeth elongated, forming beastly fangs. A new creature now laid upon the altar. One of scale and cinder. One of conviction and zeal, restored to his lost flesh; his true flesh. BREATHE AGAIN, SERINATH, SON OF THE TITAN. BE FREED FROM THE GRIP OF HOREN'S CURSE. As the words of his maker bled into nothingness, he took in the world with smoldering eyes, burning like hot cinders. His brethren clamored to his side, exuberant, but he could not care. For he basked once again in the gift of his father, what had been stolen from him. CLARITY.
  11. A Kadaksleri rider returned to his Qan with news of the resurgent Azghari. Consulting with his Imam amidst the haze of smoke and hashish that choked out the interior of their catir, he spoke tersely. "Yet more günahkar who defy the words of the Prophet and eat up the lies of Iblis and his demons. Let us remain true in our prayers, and hope our wayward cousins find Ilah sooner than they find the tips of our lances." @Hephaestus
  12. Narthok is based. I think the concept should be refined a bit, but DnD magic principles epic and better than lotcshit.
  13. Darius Basrid withdrew to his red corner. In prayer, he commemorated the Saints and begged them to carry his words, for the deliverance of the Church from the evil that had now befallen it, and for the safe return of the Holy See into the hands of the righteous and right-believing.
  14. A beatified hieromonk clad in the purest linen laid hands upon the Pontiff as he reached the skies, weeping joyful tears for the ascent of the worldly ambassador. "Be glad, for a governor of the Church, for any man true in his faith, his work does not end as he enters into the Gates. We are raised in glory, twice-alive in the wholeness of the Lord, REJOICE! That we might lift their voices on high and glorify with all the living and the dead, and all the Saints and Angels and servants of our Lord, the greatness of God. Come, brother of mine, and as we did in life let us be shepherds in death, and whole in the oneness of the Church."
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