Goon

THE BLINDSIDE OF VIRTUE THE FISHERMAN’S TALE —-o—- ART BY BASILTHEBUNNY "FRIENDS ARE NOTHING IN THE EYES OF XAN.” —-o—- There exists a morbid fascination in the paradox that one could even freeze in a desert. Where the sea was once plunged its deepest, and the ships passed with only the worry of turmoil, its grains now the driest. He didn’t think it beautiful, rather he thought it exactly as it was. Not always a bad omen: sometimes a murder of crows is a murder of crows. On this cold, cold night, all there was to light the unending dark of the daemon-scorched desert was the sinister glyphs in the night sky, ones that mocked the onlookers to count their days, and even brighter was a bonfire that was made of the enemy supplies. They had watched the enemy patrol for hours and they had tasted the sulfur from the stench of the freight wagons. Certain it was munitions, a two-eyed SOUTHERON passed the final judgment: cripple the enemy, destroy their supply, “Burn them all.” And so he did. The executor of the order is meant, too, to be the executioner, so with his palm swollen with borrowed flame, he whispered the word he was told to, ‘Medescular,’ and from then, the oak of the stolen wagon stood no chance. Under the relentless heat, the wood began to crack and split, and through those cracks did smoke fill. The conjured flame only knew its nature so it grew quickly to engulf the wagon in inescapable heat, a weight the enemy supplies would soon begin to feel. “Stand back!” He ordered, because soon the sulfur would catch flame and sooner after erupt. A cacophony of contesting screams came from the enemy supplies, supplies that sounded like the enslaved women and children they were meant to be saving, but it was too late for these ones. The two-eyed man had already cast judgment, so he could only stare at the fire he made whilst the others sought to undo what he had done. They tried to pry the boards from their nails and take who they could, but the flame’s threats were not empty. It would sear any hand that would try to take from its meal. These flat desert lands were best to let the wind join the flame in its dance of violence, so the column grew brighter, and then the world grew quieter. It was the only thing that lit the cold desert, the darkest matters. The screaming and crackling even echoed as they faded, but the two-eyed SOUTHERON would hear them forever, regardless. “Did I ever tell you the story of The Princess and the Fisherman?” A much older voice asked of those gathered around the small bonfire, entranced by the flame the same as all those years ago. A now one-eyed SOUTHERON watched in pity as the flames failed to climb the metal of a forgotten blade, soot staining the sword like the decades having grayed and grown his beard. The lids of his bad eye was ajar a rat’s hair enough to glimpse the ruptured remains of his retina; he hadn’t worn an eyepatch though, instead, wearing his scars proud. “No, I don’t believe so.” One of the men answered. Through the only eye he had left, he had not broken his stare from the flame that kept the group of paladins warm atop the mountain. No matter how much he wished to unknow, the sight of flame would always set him uneasy, even if he would ever forget why. He couldn’t help to watch it close, like a bear you’re told not to take your eye from. “Once upon a time, there was a fisherman, and a princess.” ALICJO, the one-eyed SOUTHERON, began facetiously, smiling a shit-eating grin that revealed the snaggletooth he habitually tried to hide. Amused already in his own recounting, he made a hearty chuckle, one that coaxed him into a fit of coughing. He choked for air as if something would unlodge, and the wisps of black smoke from the campfire did him no favors. A few of those gathered with him looked on with worry, but the others did not wear theirs so outwardly. They knew the man would be alright. “The fisherman was a fisherman, and the princess a princess. They likely had as much in common as you think they might, but there was earnestness in the way they spoke to each other. For her, she saw he was a fisherman– the smell of brine and fish is unmistakable, but she saw him for his character first. A fisherman plays his part, you know, and it helped that he was a hell of a cook too. For him, he could not help to see that she was a princess. It was in the robes she wore, the guardship she kept, in her poise– but he sought to gain nothing from that. To him, it would be simpler were she not held to such expectations. She really was beautiful though, in and out, so he would do what he must. So when her people came under a great duress, the fisherman had even come to trade his fishing rod for a crossbow. He would give his life for the woman and her people. The princess couldn’t deny, if he truly did seek to gain something from her, he sure did offer a lot to get it. To win her love finally, he had simply remembered something she had said when they first spoke: she loved cinnamon, and she loved tea, so he traveled far to find someone who might successfully wed the two, and he brought it to her. In the midst of tribulation, the woman sobbed tears of joy at his thoughtfulness. At her lowest, the fisherman still came for her, trying to make the world right as if just for her. With her blessing to seek the sultan’s, he sought the sultan and he said if he wished to curry favor, he needed to help their people see through their trying times. The fisherman smiled big– because every man wishes that fortune, but fewer fishermen are answered.” The one-eyed paladin bore a smile for the retellings entirety, but it faltered. His smile emptied, kept but not meant, and behind his sole eye that reflected the glint of flame, the man re-lived for a moment. “But their trial was war, you see. And not with man or elf, but cretins. CRETINS OF THE HIGH HELLS. The fisherman had found himself the soldier now, and as the years passed, the soldier kept the passions that drove his blade. It was for the princess he still fought, but it was not only for her now. Now, the soldier fought for the world the princess was meant to inherit too. The soldier fought to free, and keep free, all of the women and children under care of the princess. Of course, the soldier wasn’t expected to do it alone, but he was there. Among the warriors, the knights, the elves and too, among them, the huntress. More than twice did the huntress and the soldier find themselves in a place to save one another, and much more than thrice did they find themselves in one another; but the soldier did not forget his princess and her people. The fateful eve of the decisive siege, the one that meant the freedom for the princess’ people, the huntress came to see the soldier in his tent. She told him she thought it could be their last night in this life... She told him—” The man held on to a heavy breath that came with the heavy thought, setting it free before he could continue, “When they spoke, it reminded the soldier of the title he was meant to soon inherit. That he was meant to become the prince, and that once upon a time, he was just a fisherman— and then she kissed him. Mayhaps only a lapse, if it were only that, but the soldier slept with the huntress and then in the next of days, they freed all of the princess’ people, as promised.” ALICJO fell silent. To him, he had decisively concluded his tale, but evident in the leftover stares, some were not so satiated with the inconclusiveness. “You forgot the happily-ever-after part of the fairy tale, old man.” ELIMAR goaded jestfully as the story came to a jarring halt. “Well, that’s the end of that story. I might pray those women and children lived happily ever after, but I’ll tell you how it ends for the others.” The old man shimmied to sit himself more upright, but the fold of his loose garbs would eventually slide him to settle in a slouch once more, too tired and old to fight it. “She was a princess.” The one-eyed man said simply with a shrug, as if they were to know what he meant just then. He did not leave them to solve the riddle on their own though, “I wouldn’t sully her prestige any further than I had, so I told her the truth. That as much as I still loved her, VYSALDRIS was bearing our child, and I could not marry the to-be sultana whilst I raised a child with another woman.” ELIMAR did not have the same quips prepared now, allotting the old man the repentance he sought. Even he understood the frailty of the human heart. “Swayed by love and duty alike..” “I know I have no right. I made my choice, but I would not make it the same. I would have shoved the huntress off. I would have chosen faith. Faith that I would have seen tomorrow, and that I would have gotten to hold ESMAE again. I wouldn’t have let myself be tempted so simply. But I was to be a father, and that was a joy its own..” The one-eyed man took his eye from the flame to fall upon OTHAMAN first, lingering longer ‘pon NIKOLAI. “That child grew to be my VERENDUS.” Unspoken, those brothers gathered at the sword-lit fire pit fell quiet to offer the invoked fallen a long moment of silence, but the fire didn’t cease its torment of the wood, torturing it to scream loudly whilst the paladins sought quiet. It was OTHAMAN who eventually braved to disturb the tribute. Surely, VERENDUS wouldn’t have wanted them oathed to silence. “Will you tell us how the BROTHERS OF VIRTUE came to be?” For a moment it might have felt as if ALICJO would not answer the question, or mayhaps he was lost in thought and had not heard it, but the aged man had lived a long life. There was much to remember if he were to answer his BROTHER true. “I had a shared vision, but this was ANDUIN’S dream first.” The one-eyed man admitted with a soft shrug. “I was just its inheritor.” Mayhaps the man needed some time to recall the tale for himself, because he fell to a quiet stare, watching the flame as if it would come to life and spell his tale for its spectators. “I had been with my old crew at the time, the SAVAGE DAGGERS, rowdy little bunch of sailors and misfits. Eventually helped me open up my shop in the bazaar, and that ended up being our secondary safe haven until we would’ve got the ship built.” The old man canted his head like a housepet leaning into a pat as he scratched at his overgrown beard, pondering. He took the same hand from its tangle of gray and white hairs and pointed it at one of his BROTHERS. “I don’t even think I was older than you are now, ISABEL.” The man made a face like he might have regretted saying that, but pleading eyes meant no harm. Contrary, ISABEL picked her head up from the tale she saw in the flames upon the call of her name, a soft smile to rival the warmth of their makeshift hearth. “I first met ANDUIN through one of them. He wasn’t part of the crew or nothing, but ASRA was a bit of a do-gooder on the side so they had mutual interests a lotta times.” Clear from the smirk he kept, the man thought fondly of these times. He had tales in abundance he could share with them, but he knew he had not enough time. “Funny enough, I met them after being thrown out from one of those ORENIAN livery meetings– because I said they were wasting resources dying to SUTICANS when they should have been wasting resources dying to the daemonspawn plaguing ARCAS. DAGGERS liked my moxy, made me one of them. Some things don’t change.” “They don’t call them that anymore, unc.” AMARA informed him. “Huh?” ALICJO was perplexed, “What do you know of the SAV DAGS?” “Livery meetings, they haven’t called them that for generations. They barely call themselves ORENAIN these days. PETRAN, or something else.” “Oh, what have you, that’s what they used to call ‘em, and that’s what matters.” “Anyhow, the captain of our crew was a clown,” ALICJO did not stutter. “If we ever would’ve managed to get that ship built, she would’ve sunk it within the first hours. Lot of us seen the signs: ANDUIN was preaching us to jump ship for his little upstart mercenary gang, but THE DAGGERS, we liked each other. It was really only the cap’ that was the issue. ASRA should’ve been captain, she was really the foundation. None of us knew LYN, and she did not let us know her.” “So why didn’t y’all just get her gone?” AMARA couldn’t help to interject, both empty hands splayed as if she anticipated a well-meant and well-paced response to fill them. “ASRA had some age-old fealty sworn to her, so she never stepped out on LYN– but needless to say, eventually they fought. The cap’ exiled her and the whole group went to shit after that.” The old man shrugged, good eye closed as he shook his head. “Only a couple of us ended up blowing over to what was to become THE BROTHERS OF VIRTUE. Rest of ‘em are dead, all I care… except SO’KOTORO. I hope well for him. All the while though, ANDUIN had been learning in secret from JACK and the LUXEMITES— secret to us anyways. I mean I met the old man a couple of times, he was always nice, but he was always there to see ANDUIN. Not my fish to catch, y’know?” ALICJO grunted a loud, sharp sniff, spitting phlegm into the flame far ahead of him, turning up the noses of a few of the BROTHERS. The old, one-eyed man wiped the spit from the tip of his beard hairs with a gloved hand, making sure one last time his words would no longer reverberate from the mucus in his chords. “But it was JACK who conscripted us to the efforts of THE LAST LIGHT, and it was JACK who would have conscripted me to walk the path if ANDUIN had not. If it was as ANDUIN wished it, the BROTHERS would have never walked our path. They would walk one not too dissimilar, but THE BROTHERHOOD was never intended to be what it became. It was meant as simply as the name states: a band of do-gooder comrades so close they’d call themselves kin. We wanted gold and perhaps a wee bit of glory, much as we say we didn’t. Mostly though, we wanted to keep true to virtue. I believe the founder’s dream was largely to put back together what pieces we could of our world, and make an earnest living along the way. Least we’ve kept true to this part of his vision. It was much more welcoming then, too. We’d elves, and voidal mages, if you could believe it. I detested it. The elves, fine, but the magery?” ALICJO all but spat, leather-covered finger wiping his lip on a chance he had. “Dangerous even in the right hands, but it was JACK who had put it convincingly once, ‘that we should waste not what few tools we are allotted,’ and even ANDUIN did not contest much. We were just grunts of the realm. Escorts, guards, beast drivers, the like– the standard mercenary faction. Only difference from your average militiamen was how zealous ANDUIN had been about the avoidance of bloodshed. It was only ever to be shed in defense of life and with heavy heart, those were his conditions…” The one-eyed SOUTHERON fell to silence then, rubbing at his eye whilst the smoke of the campfire dry it out. “Twice, though, did we falter.” ALICJO avowed with two crooked fingers held outward. “Firstly in our failure to uphold the oath during the SIEGE OF THALOR, in which the BROTHERS were meant to reclaim ANDUIN’S homesake from some brigands. Our men were the first to strike, inevitably bleeding all of those sons of HOREN dry, and it was the first time I thought ANDUIN a hypocrite. He levied a virtuous few for his personal bloodshed, our men in harm’s way to liberate a bandit town. A righteous cause, maybe, but it's the people who will always feel the weight of the king’s missteps. The second was the same, I’ll tell you why. Before she was one of the founding members, she was a contractee– JORDAN BRASHTON. See, JORDAN’S husband was a real piece of shit, KINSRELL COMMANDORE, I remember. Putting hands on her, threatening to kill her family, all somehow part of his sick political machinations, so she tasked us to take one of the bastard’s eyes, as he had done to her— and his tongue, so he might never threaten or lie to another again. KINSRELL deserved that, and much more, surely. I’ll spare you what I think was truly appropriate for him as it’s hardly appropriate for you all, but I digress all the same. ANDUIN and I had our conflictions. Such a request was against all of our codes, and it was he who swore me to this oath, so I would uphold it as long as he. JORDAN was not just a stranger to us, though– mostly not anyway. She was close to PRU, the barkeep who took care of all of us. Gave me an earnest footing when I first got back to ARCAS, and JORDAN’S tale definitely invoked a fury, so we couldn’t let it go unanswered. But I still wonder, was it the right call?” Perhaps the BROTHERS thought ALICJO would continue, but he picked his head up to acknowledge all of those who were gathered. His one-eye glance panned for all of those circled around him and their sword-lit fire, dour as if he meant to instill something, “It was our personal vendetta. A minaless transaction that would spill blood onto our virtuous tabards, so I ask again: would any of you have done the same? Is that how you see virtue in our world?” There was no answer easily gave, instead the one-eyed SOUTHERON was answered by the varying glances of hope and abash. “You say we are to be the sort of shepherds who would let our astray sheep wander?” OTHAMAN asked as if it were clarification in a lesson, but he wore an evident reluctance to the sentiment. “Aye.” ALICJO grunted. “The church will feed the hungry, and the armies will stave the bandits. It is us who staves the dark.” “I don’t mean to say inaction is your only decision, but our fight now is bigger than DESCENDANT squabbling, and when we blur that line, we embody the very same invirtue our LORD has wrought us to destroy.” Unbeknownst to those he spoke to, the man questioned if even he truly believed what he said, much as they might have. He understood those words, he recited them; but were he at the crux of choice, could he be so dutiful? “It is truly a misfortune what happens to some people, and a much bigger misfortune that those who cause the pain are the ones who escape it the most. If they cannot drown it in prolifigacy, then they can just as easily revel inflicting it upon the next. It's nothing if not a damn shame.” OTHAMAN likely hadn’t asked to challenge the old man, but perhaps because he knew he and his brothers needed the answer, "The descendants act as if nothing has happened. The very people we swore to protect mock us. Their ridicule has never ceased. I know our wills and duties are far greater than to care over the common favour, but what if we've fundamentally failed on the domestic front? If everyone were to bow willfully to the TITAN and embrace tyranny– what would I tell my student, LAURELAI? What reason would I give her to continue to fight?" “How should I know why you would continue to fight?” Surely, that wasn’t the answer anyone expected. The fire crackled awkwardly whilst it waited for the old man to speak. “You don’t fight solely because I told you to long ago, do you? So please, don’t tell me you forget yourself.” ALICJO spoke loud and scoldingly, because he resented the question. In truth, it was a misplaced frustration, because he hadn’t the answer he wished he could for OTHAMAN. To hear it asked was like a parent learned of their child’s profound anguish for living, it stung because he knew it the same. “I return the question for you to answer, but first, perhaps I’ll tell you why I have.” ALICJO turned his eye to face OTHAMAN fully, but his body had not budged from his half-lidded sprawl, “Because if we do not, then who else will? The humans sip their tea, kill each other, and shake hands with known evils. The elves scamper from all of their problems to nestle in their alcoves, and somehow we are left to carry the weight of the world we will not see wither. TARATHIEL, least, understands why she must.. AER’DIR fights, and GAEL, but even HILLITH and LUCIEN— they nurture a tree they will never feel the shade of. So, what— stop here and have a piss? On the dying embers of all the champions we’ve trampled along this path we’ve chosen? I know you, OTHAMAN. You’re a man of tradition, you know already why we must continue to fight: because it is right.” The quiet respite they sought was found once more as ALICJO quieted his fury, turning his answer now for those others. His commanding glance sized each of them up, too, acknowledging all of their growth with only an eye– as if his last time to do so. “Because of the sleep you would lose if you did not. Not just to honor those past in hopes we are regarded the same, but so there can be a future for the ones we’ve sown— a future not eclipsed by greed and disorder– but one vindicated, united and upheld by order...” “ORDER AND VIRTUE.” —-o—- ART BY BASILTHEBUNNY ALICJO VERRANA had never wanted to walk the path lit in sun. He never intended to become a champion of anything, because it was never his combative prowess that set him apart; he was only a fisherman, after all. Too, he loathed magic long before he’d ever wield it, so in wake of his tragic misstep whilst doing so, he had almost regarded those blessings of XAN the same. When he was led to the path, its meaning eluded him, and he did not feel himself worthy, so he told the KEEPER JACK that he had no desire to walk. He had made irreparable mistakes, and he had been unfaithful before, so who was to say he would not be tempted again. Besides, ALICJO preferred the simplicity of fishing and fatherhood, because he only had the worry of his elven lover’s fickle nature. “That makes you all the more suited,” JACK told him with a laugh, and over time his reluctance swayed. Even then, burning hot with the aengulic embers, ALICJO knew not a champion’s place– only the fisherman’s. He walked the sunlit path now, but he walked it aimless, unsure if maybe he was turned around. He had prayed to a sea of clouds before, and seldom was he answered, but still he tried. That was when his lord, XAN, had led him to see the first azure starfall of his lifetime, the one that made the paladins the enemy of the realm and tested their faith– the one that returned us THE LADY OF THE LONG-HAIRED STAR, PARTHENIA. XAN now had his undying devotion, but ALICJO once again lacked purpose after his pseudo-niece, MAYILUN, left him to find ANDUIN, her father. He had left for an elve’s reason, so THE BROTHERHOOD and ALICJO were left without his successor. Serendipity would not falter though– it seldom does– and soon, NIKOLAI, the lost and nameless child, would come under the tutelage of the man he was molded to become. The child ALICJO had never been graced to see grow old. It was through NIKOLAI, his first and only true student, did ALICJO have any semblance of legacy. Any skill or story he held, he would try to impart, and so when NIKOLAI came of age, he was the only other who still wore the TABARD OF VIRTUE. It was through NIKOLAI did OTHAMAN and ELIMAR come to don the virtuous black and gold, and it was through NIKOLAI did ALICJO have his first granddaughter, ISABEL. To lament or rejoice that his granddaughter would come to walk the same as he and his pseudo son was a feint, yet persistent dissonance. It was a fight he knew her capable, but it was one he wished he had prepared the realm for– he wished that he could have already made it so the sun would never set, and she would never have needed to fight again. His expressions would not oft tell her this, but it was for more than the realm and his god that ALICJO continued to walk. It was for her and her father, his niece, and their brothers; the found family that shared all but blood. Only by the luminous authority of XAN was ALICJO able to cheat the CURSE OF HOREN, granted long enough to see through his bitter, duty-bound hatred for the DRAKEKING. As he aged, he withered, and there was little to sustain ALICJO beyond the will of his god, but even that has its limits. SORDRAN THE SILVERBLADE had tempted ALICJO once the immortality of heroes, the burden of KEEPERSHIP– guardians bound to this life and the defense of its realms– but he still had not seen himself worthy. His successor had already succeeded him, and long ago did the bards stop singing his songs– and so he shirked the unwanted mantle onto his only student, NIKOLAI, a debt ALICJO could never repay. On the fateful evening they would slay AZDROMOTH and all of his kin, come-come the second azure starfall of his lifetime. The first azure starfall filled him with devotion, a beacon promising salvation, but this one made him whole as the days he swept the floors of the bazaar for ANNABELLE. This one made him whole as the days he labored the docks, but this was the day he had heard PEREGRINE utter, “Burn them all,” wishing he wore a helm to mask his anguish. He had said those same words before misstep, and he did not want her to fall the same. This azure starfall heralded his god to come and fight among his champions in his titanic form, sculpted from light and made to restore order, but this one, too, foreshadowed the fisherman’s end. It marked the sun’s undoing, the one that came before XAN had the APPLE OF HOREN torn from his throat and swallowed by the THOUSAND-TEETHED DRAAKAR. His only tether to the realm faded before his eyes, and so ALICJO fell to his knees in anguish and pain. Death came quickly to reclaim that century the ONE-EYED SOUTHERON had stolen. “No,” he croaked to contest his and his lord’s fading. He felt the power granted sapped from him as sudden as it was gifted, his weakened lungs shriveling tight. His white hairs thinned with each moment to pass, like he was already dead, now he needed only to decay– “Take me somewhere quiet to die..” ALICJO managed to NIKOLAI and ISABEL, the only two familiar faces he could find once they had stepped through the portal of retreat. Return a fish to the sea, but the river would have to do. ALICJO could not afford to be picky, because he did not have the wind in his sails to carry him much further. NIKOLAI let the man fall into the stool that overlooked the stream, a clattering thud of soot-stained metal plates as the aged man let out a heavy huff. Shakily, ALICJO’S hands sought to unclasp the pauldrons from his shoulders, because he did not want to die in such cumbersome plates– perhaps one less burden for his BROTHERS to inherit. He struggled though, the grip of his gauntleted fingers frustrating and failing him. “My mentor… I am sorry.” NIKOLAI bit back against the melancholy he felt– it was not his being’s nature to have that now, but still, the pain was too sharp. “I've failed you, I failed our lord, and our realm.” Each of ALICJO’S breaths was labored, some laden with a pain he sought to bite back to save face for his BROTHERS. “And I, you, my chosen-student.” He tried to say, intent to unequip at least one of those pauldrons, albeit it a wasted use of his energy. “And now I will spend my next eternity wishing I had done more.” After an effort, he managed to free himself of a shoulder pad, throwing it down in a fit before beginning to work at the next. “There is hope, though… We must hold onto it.” Once ISABEL, now PEREGRINE, reached for a locket around her necklace, holding it to the old man’s chest. Imbued with a warmth he once felt in service to his god, least the man would die with some comforts. NIKOLAI set his hand against his mentor’s bare shoulder, “Perhaps you are right, my daughter, but this pit within my chest–” The handful of the aged man’s brittle shoulders tightened, unrelenting, but still his tone had not shared his rage. “A somber fills me.. But I fear not. THE BROTHERHOOD will persist to protect the realm.” “Then that is my only solace in this moment,” ALICJO responded to NIKOLAI’S remark, his head bowed, unable to meet the eyes of the man he felt he had let down so badly. “That the mantle is still in the hands of those who are meant to bear it. That this is only trial by tribulation for those that will remain..” A cough then, sharp and violent. Death was coming. “It will be harder than it ever has..” “We will endure it.” PEREGRINE murmured, her eyes shifting the sky. “We always do.” “Ease yourself my master…” NIKOLAI pled as he watched ALICJO still fight the leather straps of his metal armor, but still the man persisted. Each grunt would cause his disciples a wince, as if each amount he had would be the last of energy he spent. Eventually ALICJO no longer fought to rid himself of the burden of plates, heeding the beck of his trusted student. Instead, an arm sat in his lap while the other was left to sway. “If you do nothing else.. If you do nothing else before you are reclaimed–” The one-eyed man’s breath quivered as a tear rolled from the only eye he had left, and that pissed him off, so he yelled like he scolded a child. “You will do what I could not.” THE SOUTHERON had not been alone in his tearshed, each of those with him offering their own brine for the fisherman. Though the KEEPERS had not sobbed, their eyes wept for them, setting free some of the anguish to come. “I will do as I can my mentor, even in this tarnished body.” NIKOLAI assured him finally. ISABEL sat her head against the dying man’s shoulder, arms gently twined with his, close enough to hear each of his lungs' rasps with each breath. Another tear trailed after the first, falling from his face to wet the virtuous tabard he donned. ALICJO still had not brought himself to meet his student's gaze, nor did he for his grandstudent. He couldn't. Mayhaps he could not muster the strength, or mayhaps the man could not muster the courage, but he could not, and would not. His only remaining eye drifted shut, just then, likely to stay that way. The parading steps of the others had arrived to see the old man in his sprawl, his cheeks stained with salt. He would have wiped them clean if he had the energy, but he was too tired. “M-MAS-MASTER ALICJO.” He heard thrice the echo of OTHAMAN’S call. “You are who set us each on our paths. You guided us to purpose, to life, to duty. You have fulfilled your duty beyond all counts. I pray, that one day, we-we will see each again, BROTHER.” ‘We had better.’ His lips hadn’t moved, but ALICJO had smiled. The old man wondered who he would see first, and how long he would need to wait until he would reunite with all of the others. He prayed it would be a while– his BROTHERS had much to do before they could enjoy idle hands in fishing with him. Still though, ALICJO could not help to think, ‘all of this: incited by my own dereliction..’ ‘Really, what a waste.’ —-o—- ART BY BASILTHEBUNNY ALICJO VERRANA ‘THE DEADEYE’ OF VERITAS WARDEN OF XAN, THE AENGUL OF ORDER JUSTICIAR OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF VIRTUE 1750 FA - 1973 FA (1750 FA - 182 SA) —-o—-

A nightelf prepares by practicing the flourish of his oversized hand-me-down spear. He aims to tauntingly twirl the URUKI armament with ease by the time the warhorns call the march. NYSIS, certain of their triumph, now only needs look impeccably stylish doing so.

‘No parent should know the hurt of burying their own children,’ Maybe, but likely a disregarded sentiment for A MAN THAT MIGHT NEVER DIE. A man that might never die will bury each and every one of them, and he will bury each and every one they foster— of course he knows this. He knows the mortal coil is frail like the heart of man in the wake of loss, it is why he sought so badly to circumvent it’s hold. He knows the weight of his dynasty was felt most on its inheritors, because it was the same he had inherited once. A MAN THAT MIGHT NEVER DIE knows this and still, it would kill him to know what has become of his littlest, his Mischa. Even to know what she became before she was taken would remind him of those obligations he once failed for her; but, by now, A MAN THAT MIGHT NEVER DIE has already forged a mask with enough turgor to drape over the pains of a past life. If only he knew, he might have the strength to peel the layers of his carefully crafted identities, so he might mourn earnestly. Each face, though, a barrier between the memories true of his daughter and he. Relegated now to storybook tale of what seems the life of another, the man that might never die might never learn of his daughter’s demise. A shame, because A MAN THAT MIGHT NEVER DIE would do well to be reminded of the love that once anchored the essence of his unfeigned humanity.

A CHILD OF LUARA frowned the moon’s frown upon the return of the sun. Sure, the crops were happy, but he was not. “The world was better without..” NYSIS swore.

For some reason, @thequeennadine can't bid so they've asked someone to bid in their place Skin: 5 Bid: 21 Discord: thequeennadine IGN: thequeennadine

I have got to get a gamma skin by any means necessary Skin: - Armor Skin 4 Bid: - 38 Discord: - motherchild IGN: - maidenful

There was a man so far out of touch, realms and realms beyond, and even he had heard of the latest Haenseni scandaling. A married woman making intimate with her married husband. "What sort of maidenless proposal is this?"

[!] A missive is spread throughout Aevos. TO THE FALL OF DRAGONKIN V: THE BIGGER FISH To the obedient followers of the False Lord, Azdromoth the Archdraakar: I haven’t forgotten you, my enemies. But that I write for you means you have blundered irreparably. Rarely indeed, but you have proven the sliver of competency you possess to your master, so it seems congratulations are in order. By slaying the Keeper Redwulf, you have not only incited the furthest fury of your foe— all that inhabit this realm— but even amidst the Gods, you have only served to vindicate what was already promised to come. I will feel the sting of the Red Wolf’s death, surely, so revel in that much maybe; but know his death means little to our Lord and those that Lord beside him. Know that you’ve not even made a tear in our banners. Death rides for us all, and that is all of our price to pay, but the death of one could never mean the ruin of order. Your hand has tipped, faithful servants of a false lord, and we’ve seen your desperation. Now, lament; to know that your demise does draw evercloser. When the Red Wolf was slain, you, too, felt that awful, dreadful feeling, aye? All of you felt it, like an overwhelming remorse, but you’ve likely conflated your anxieties with the excitement of the cretin’s bloodlust. Having foregone your emotional capacities, you’ve likely no way to discern it true, and so as my final random act of kindness for you, I will aid you to parse that which you felt. That feeling was not an echo from the guilt you were once capable, nor was it the uncertainty of what your actions will have wrought from your foe’s riposte— no, that awful dread was fate’s decision final. That awful dread was nothing more than the certainty of the Divinieers of Fate, the very heavens above, ordaining your sooner ultimate undoing. So perhaps it was merely an unpleasant but fleeting feeling for you, but that feeling was nothing short of a scarring premonition for the one that misguides you. Your false king has seen the misstep for himself, and he cannot unsee it. I implore for yourself, you ask him what it was the Gods have shown him. Ask him for the truth. Ask him, for once in your service’s entirety, not to honey his words for you like you are an unlearned babe, and to tell you, in true and full, the vision he was shown. Ask him now, because when we come, your “leader” will not be there to save you. Your “leader” will not be there. Your “leader” will cower behind the mound of your corpses, and he would offer seventeen thousands of you whelplings before he would tell you of the truths he has seen. Brave yourself to ask, and he will call me a babbling fool first, then you for entertaining the notion, but watch the flicker of fear in his eyes and know that I write true. Listen to his voice tremble when you tell him who has penned for you, my enemy. Remind him that he has never sought me as I’ve asked, because he has seen what I say true, long before even I have seen it. Even though it has been some time that I have written for my old enemy and his tail bearers, he has not forgotten the sting of my truth. And I cannot wait until premonition comes to fruition and he will feel, too, the sting of my bless-ed steel. So, Azdromoth, O’ Azdromoth, Lord of the Oaves and Impotence, False In His Reign and Last of His Name: If you wish to let your lizards attire themselves nicely to greet fate proper, let them withdraw their tongues from the webs of your toes and tell them what the Gods have decided; before they are shown without warning. Tell your followers of the paintings we will make upon the walls of your keeps, and of our flesh that will char in the fire and light alike. Tell your followers of the crown that slips from your fat skull into a puddle of your own waste, and that you have seen them become the ash to mend our wounds. Tell them of how the countless hours they’ve wasted in chiseling those monuments will sooner turn to dust, and how your legacy is reduced to a tome– relegated to the forbidden depths of our library. If you do not tell them, it makes me no nevermind. We will show them all the same. All we are are instruments of righteousness– and you, a cornered pawn in the games of all those greater than you. I can only imagine what that makes them. To all of my enemies, especially to those that took the vessel of my brother: Know that you’ve only commenced his eternal service prematurely, and that you will see him once more beyond this realm. Soon, we will deliver you to him, because he awaits, impatiently, his recompense. Count how many it took you to take my brother, and bring twice as many when you come for us. Trust those doubts that you have for yourself, they are right about you. Trust those doubts you have for your false king, because fate has chosen, and still, he shields you from its truth. Signed, Justiciar of the Brotherhood of Virtue Alicjo Verrana, the Deadeye of Veritas “The women of the court say they feel safe in your presence.” – Philip II, circa. 1850

All night, it was quiet in their little hole in the wall. All nights were mostly, but this night was, and for the first in the decade past his supposed expiration, the one-eyed Southeron gnawed at a cigar’s end. Gruff, smoke-laden rasps rattle the solemnity, “war ready,” he told those who brood with him. “I’m ready to see them bleed.”