osumanduas

the past is dead, kill it if you have to. striga smirk from the grave

Headless Richard Helvets nods, haunting the grounds of the meeting with a particular relish; fully sane now that he had shed his frail mortal form.

the stauntons are still dead, they was a disgrace and deserved to die. and if they roams the world as an undead they deserve the blade once more "a headless Richard Helvets, would proclaim getting tired of people trying to talk as if the legacy of clyde still alive talk."

Skinning is easy af, there isn't any 'unique style' use a template or use a photoshop tool like gimp either one is braindead simple. The problem is time. I don't want to waste like two hours on something like how my mineman aesthetic looks. I'd rather just get someone else to spend their time doing it.

A man is made by the crucible of his life, and his decisions in those hardest of times. Once a kind boy the force of the world became a bitter man. A cynic forged from the cauldron of a young idealist. As Richard Helvets, was laid to rest and his soul ascended from the mortal coil all sin was purged. The madness of his frail frame shed like snow from a sheer mountaintop by a strong gale. The stress of life and the duty which had haunted him in life all being stripped away. He would see his sisters soon, his brothers, some whom he had never met in his life, and perhaps his wife. Would they receive him well with strong whiskey and laughter? Or would he be damned to be as the souls he himself loathed. In all this the solace for a dead man who in a way demanded punishment for himself in his final hours. For all he had was by the sweat of his brow, and so in life all was taken by his hand and kept by his oath. But now he was at rest, and with it would the line of Rochefort find it's future. To break from the shadow of a man plagued and unto the light of a new day.

As he stood before his grandson in Karlsburg and before the assembled court, Richard Victor could not for the life of him remember where was. In one moment he was at a ball, his brother Henry at his side to encourage him forward. "Go talk to her brother, maybe you'll make a friend." In other moments he stood before that very women as a consoling figure, yet he could do nothing for the Horenic illness that plagued her. In other moments he stood before two graves, an abandoned patch of soil in rain stained woods, in the other a pyre that glowed bright as smoke pillowed out above, in both an immense pang of regret and sorrow. Lastly was a meeting, for which that whiskey he was promised would always get him through. One more minute, two more, then he would be home. That home in which, though he had done so much to preserve, he still despised, and in which his children were his only solace. That place had stolen his freedom. But the view from his balcony was a decent one, it looked out over all the valley of Cathalon and what had been Ves; his city of birth. He was so very tired. In his grandson though he saw what could have been in his son. He saw his own reflection in the lad and the person he was so long ago. In better times he would have despised that weakness as he despised his own. Yet before the last he took solace in knowing that perhaps what was needed was a gentler hand than he had given. He had failed, yet in this perhaps there could be some respite. "Take care of it Adrian my boy, we'll be back to Cathalon in no time at all." he muttered as the boy hugged him and hurried away before the end. On some level he knew what was to happen at the cost of his actions, he knew and still he welcomed it. Perhaps he would chat further with his siblings who still even then whispered in his ear. He was taken back to the countryside, and as lounged on that balcony which was the second of two things in life that could bring him peace, did he die. His head falling down unto the valley below, though he was now gone his blood would provide soil for a new Oak to rise in his place someday.

"But I don't want to fight him sir. Leopold is my brother." he said to Rovin, looking between his brother's trainer and Leopold himself; his brother the spitting image of their father. Brown hair and blue eyes, yet he had always resembled their mother with hair as fair as the snow at sunset. They stood in the streets of the Golden City, Ves was empty in those nights. His brother was their father's favorite always unflinching in sought approval, much older by several seasons while Richard sauntered the Markets and the fields outside the city. When he was but a tot their mother would buy him sweets, though he couldn't very well remember much of her now save what she would do. He was the black sheep, weaker than his brothers though many did not themselves survive the crib. So why him? "What are you, some kind of sissy boy? I said fight damn you!" Rovin spoke louder, hollering at the two boys; small Richard, and dutiful Leopold. One responded in kind, and so the elder brother with his father in his eyes marched forward. He charged at his frail brother with a wisp of hesitation yet he did not falter all the same. Leopold was to be his father's soldier, so how could he not? "I don't want to fight!" he said again as his brother charged like a bull, flattening him to the ground, a mere boy of six, tears rolling down his cheek as he shook his head. Yet Leopold continued on all the same; going easy though the younger Prince would never know, for all he saw was what he felt to be true. His brother assailed him with shot after shot, pinned down to the cobbles as Sir Rovin watched approvingly from afar; his pupil was applying what he had taught and in good order. Yet for Richard something broke, as it would many times in the future. He was not a violent boy, but something broke inside. "Leave ME ALONE." he screamed, he had enough, and so the boy became like a cornered animal. He pushed and shoved, hooved with all his meager strength against his brother. It was only when he started to bite and scratch that he gained progress, with one swift ascent he bit down on one of his brother's balled fists and used both his hands shoving his fingers into his brothers eyes. A surprising savagery that gave him opportunity to turn the tables. With it he tumbled over his brother and their positions changed with his brother beneath him then as he sat on his chest. "Alright stop it now you little rat" spoke Rovin moving over to wave the two of them off. But Richard did not stop, with his paltry fists balled he continued through beating down upon Leopold as he had done so to him. He could not think, he was filled with nothing, he gave nothing but the tears running down his cheek and the slow bruising that now began to blister the face of his dutiful brother. It took their Knightly overseer himself to finally dislodge him, for it is hard to bite steel plate without your own teeth falling out, but by then the damage was done.

"Seems like everyone wants a piece of that brilliant bastard." Spoke Richard Victor from his rocking chair, staring out at Redenford below from his Cabin in the mountains. "Good luck dear Laurence; feed that ol' racehorse Annie' a few sugar cubes on my behalf." he chuckles, completely senile at this point, talking as if the Pontiff sat right there next to him.

High Pontiff Everard the Wise sips nectar and chows on ambrosia at the Archaengul's side, ready to embrace the kin of Fabian the Lesser into the bosom of the Seven Skies. @VIROS

Sixto Rodriguez - Street Boy The Midwinter night was cold, freezing by all accounts; a frigid new world in which a blue eyed boy found himself. He had snuck from his father’s cabin, tucked away and hugged by the taiga, hidden in the brush as any woodsman would have had it. So was the youth’s habit, and so in the Midwinter just past midnight would he leave that cabin for the city to the south which never slept like he, or how expectation would have him. The work of the day, and that which would come with dawn was daunting enough for the young lad but he could simply not resist the urge to escape the fresh air for the sense of companionship he felt in a far more urban landscape. When he kept to the city in the dead of night he would still see many doing business in the late hours, it was dangerous, oddly more so than one might expect his outland address to be. It was there among the urchins that he would find his fun, play dice with folk who were as he was, though dice was quite the horrid habit for a child of only seven years. He didn’t mind in the least, even if their clothes were a bit tattered, their manners coarse. Nor was he quite good with the knucklebones they rattled out across the cobbled streets, the shadows illuminated by dim torchlight as they had their fun. It was one night when they were entirely bored themselves, and so the oldest of them; a wild-eyed boy of hair blonde who proposed a reversal. “What was the forest like? The street-boy would question, would they be at risk? would wolves gobble them up if they dared leave into a cold winter night?.” So many questions his companions had, and yet it was his life itself and blue-eyes barely asked himself much of what they asked him in turn. Boastful was he in turn, of his daily excursions and the time it took to return every night odd to their common games and the sound of their lamb-born dice of pale white bone. So that night instead they broke early, he knew his pa would be mad for the company if he awoke; but he would soon lead them back and for every few minutes they began a bout of merry play, for each he would take extra caution in returning them home. So he led them on their way, the usual trail; for blue-eyes knew well enough that to follow his own tracks to and fro would be an easy affair for him at least. Upon the trail home it was there that all turned ill, for they came across a black horse jet as the night they trudged through. Stupid and young, all thought it a great idea to ride it. All the oldfolk ever worth their salt would speak on how great the folk were who could break a wild horse, dangerous to be sure but truly glorious for the troupe of boys and blue-eyes alike. They divided themselves into three smaller groups, whoever could hop on and stay the longest would have the most glory of course, who could fault the excellent logic of these youth who were barely able see much of each other nevermind that of the horse itself. The first three boys did as was only smart in theory, approaching the beast to flank from the rear, the other six divided between its flank, and of course a frontal assault. They surrounded the beast and entrapped the thing which was nearly a fowl itself just a year or so by the tell of any expert. Those three boys who approached from behind soon found themselves inconvenient near immediately as they set in. The others if they could not hear it at least heard the crunch, the force of the blow as the horse brought up his hind legs with such force that one boy’s head lay warped in the snow, it bucked and in a moment the two left over fled. So too was the fate of the boys who brought themselves down upon the horse from the front, wizened by the sharp wail of their fool brothers in the back they themselves fled when he turned his attention and stood rampant to ward them off. Last was blue-eyes and his three man crew, though distracted by the other boys they stood the best to beat the beast. One minute, two minute, three minutes, four; his first mate stuck and hopped onboard. The success didn’t last and he was tossed in one more. The next tried right after and was bucked off just as quick; it was then just him. His last thought: “If this horse doesn’t kill me I swear my pa better not.” With that he hopped on and tried his luck, and he did get home before early light; yet his pride did not survive the night.

"you people are disgusting and you should feel bad" says Richard Rochefort from the grave

@_Sug His name is Zecharael, not Zecharel. Learn to spell his name right in your title page before you go around posting Justice styled Paladin fanfic; he nearly fought his own War with Xan because he thought the Gods interfered in the mortal world too often. If your goal is to honour the Aengul's mandate then do the original writers a favour and leave the dead guy be.

Matts answer can be summed up like this: