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992 Heroic


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    A very nice and kind individual worthy of respect
  • Birthday 12/31/1997

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    I cannot the government will find me

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    In some dorm or other

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  1. “Good bull mood music makes all the difference, he’s the Pontiff we’ve deserved. The ears of god’s faithful bleed no longer.” a skeletal High Pontiff Everard II mentions, watching from the sidelines, offering a fat salute to the Pontiff Daniel Haas.
  2. Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly. If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.
  3. The night was dark when the Emperor sent for him, he wove through the streets his mind had raced. A palm shaped scar still burned at neck, his most recent wound lay upon the grizzled veteran; his mousy brown hair flecked with grey, he also wore a great beard; a signature of his time spent on the road. He had abandoned his bandanna, his cap he had thrown in the dirt, still he paced wondering what his liege would demand of him. His duster swayed in the midnight wind; his rusty spurs still rattled to the beat of his feet as he passed from the muddy streets and behind the sheltered gates of the city’s royal residence. ”You’ve been with us since Rodenbourg, Ser.” So spoke the Emperor Joseph, whom showed his back to him; instead facing a small fireplace which flickered dim against the darkness of the room. The Emperor sat in a tall wooden chair visible only was his resting arm, he prod the flames with his fire iron. He himself had halted his advance at the door, he remaining sober and silent and he stood there awaiting a signal. Would he be dismissed, scorned, stripped even? His thoughts were a calm storm, but from the corner of his eye he caught his summons and began to approach; the Emperor set his implement aside to wave him over. ”And at your side since sire, so long as these wings don’t fail me here.” he’d grunt, taking care. His voice hoarse beyond compare, to Joseph’s melodic tone. He stood beside the Emperor now; directly before the fire, the Emperor in his armchair who lew just next to him. As he stared into the dancing flames, the Emperor gave a simple and hoot of laughter. "Ever since, quite right." Joseph snorts, curling forward slightly, if only to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Augh, quite right." "But now." he wheezed, pressing backward into his chair again as he composes himself. "I've had an idea." ”Sire?” he questions, turning to search the Emperor’s face, his features only half lit by the now smoldering fireplace which lay just a few inches from them both. “Save your trumpet for the crowds, not for me.” ”You’ll rise right out of the ground, when my damn trumpet sounds” The Emperor would quickly retort, scowling upon his man for his resistance. “Now come before me and take a knee; you’re a man without a purpose Morovic, it’s time enough I gave you one.” He fell before the Emperor, and the Emperor rose before him. He unsheathed his sword planting the tip against the floorboards, his hands tightly bound to the it; Stefan Morovic began to speak the words. “If I should falter in my course, send me never to the skies above. If I should die before my charge, bestow unto me His blessings. For now, I march into a valley through which there is no path. And the stones cascade behind me, to seal my retreat. Though in this valley, I find my Brothers; Now I am named Guardian to the Sovereign of Man. Should I falter, my shield shall turn to ash; But I shall falter not.”
  4. “I shall have to address both in-kind; as it’s seems you’ve gone off the script your nephew had pinned to the stick up your arse.” It’s as if you’ve snatched any suitable street-defecating peasant from his place in the gutter and fitted him a purple tunic, I wonder if you even paid any of them? It’s as if your mother popped you out only a day ago, to be so naive. By the laws of primogeniture our most gracious Emperor has great claim to the throne of all mankind, denial doesn’t determine fact, it is grounded in reality; much like your incredibly slow wit. The last Prince of Alstion died when the family you support stole his pacifier and splattered his brains over the carpet. The last bastion of true Johannic ideal rests in the line of the Westerlands, of Marna, descendant from the stern loins of John Frederick Horen: Emperor of Man. Johann Strauss signs the letter with relative ease, a simple stroke of his quill. Sending it off by raven just before bedtime.
  5. You don’t know how succession works, don’t even try to, you’ll hurt your little head. Learn some actual history you wretch. Yours are the scions of a third son with no glory of his own save bending to the will of the murders who dashed his brother’s pudgy-corpse against the walls of the Adelsburg palace.” utters Johann Strauss, a grand orator and archivist of Adria; sounding out the words as he pens a response most furiously. “The line of John is dead and only a single broodmother remains.You are no Prince of Alstion, you are heir to nothing, unless you’ve suddenly grown your manhood.” “There exists no other male heirs save the honorable house of Marna, who served for generations that you will never know, nor be able to express in words with the propagandized soup bowl you call a brain. By right of primogeniture, by divine right, and by the will of the people he is our Emperor.” ”Your nephew will never be an Emperor nor your own son, for you and your tyrannical privy had him butchered; so to top off your blundering idiocy you’ve also the blood of your own son on your hands.” ”Sit down, shut up, and continue letting the men who plough you nightly in your ivory tower continue writing your own words for you.”
  6. the boys are back in town

  7. “We will never see a bosom of her ilk ever again.” comments Stefan Morovic, smoking a fat blunt as he sits back in a bar in some far off tavern.
  8. “Ave to the true Emperor, borne of Johannian blood to save us from the child murdering and kin slaying usurpers.” utters Stefan Morovic; his red bandana torn from his face, his heavy jacket traded out for a more familiar set of chain. The former Knight had returned to fight the good fight, his days as la Sombra at an end. ”HARKEN TO US SONS OF LIBERTY.”
  9. Want to say thanks to my pal Kid Mackin for all your blood sweat and tears. You earned this buddy.

  10. “Burn them all, praise the prophet Owyn and praise the Emperor.” utters a senile and crippled Pontiff Adrian I from his jacuzzi in the seven skies; smoking the devil’s lettuce with his pal, the blessed Jon Renault.
  11. A clarion procession of Ithelanen kin strode through the city, their faces lit by torchlight against the darkness of the night. Lead by through the city by Aneir’in Ithelanen, foremost among this band of Lupine brethren. Shouting like demons in a strange dialect they set fire to everything in sight. A dead city for a degenerate people. Forward still, this reaving continued until the city swiftly lay burning in the background; houses of oak and birch aflame like campfires, reaching to grasp the heaven. There they stood as migrants, all settled ominously; whomever remained fled out into the countryside, to Aegrothond. Standing against the tide of refugees, Aneir’in Ithelanen held his arms outstretched and his gaze wide; he was happy. BY THE WILL OF FANG AND FURY WE WILL LEAVE NOTHING FOR THE ENEMY; POISON THE WELLS, BURN YOUR CROPS, SLAUGHTER YOUR LIVESTOCK. LEAVE NOTHING BEHIND. MOREA PUNISHES HIS CHOSEN PEOPLE. THEY ABANDON THE OLD WAYS AND BETRAY HIS PACT. LET ALDRYN BE A SACRIFICE, THE HUNT SUSTAINS.
  12. WACKO

    Art raffle >:D

    Nobody breaks the law under my watch, pay your fine or it’s off to jail.
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