Bones

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"I wonder if Peter is going to be neck deep in the gigantic leg of a boar?" Edwyn thought to himself as his soul rushed up towards the domain of his patron.

Ser Edwyn held up Liar's Bane to the low light of the forge, its otherworldly surface shimmering and warping the reflection of all around it. "Nei, my Lady. . . There is nei stone that will sharpen her so well as a husk of the damned." Proclaimed the old knight as he looked fondly on his faithful sword for a few moments, twisting it left and right to shift the mirrored world within it.

Name (MC Name): Shuji (Wet_Bones_) (Discord): Wet_Bones_ Clan: Tsukinomiya Citizenship: Yorumachi Mahō: Ancestral Kekki Genkai, Alchemy Materials: Thanhium, Shinobi Steel, Argentum Availability Preference (Day(s) of the Week): Weekends, early in the day on Sundays

Shuji, a lowly retainer of Clan Tsukinomiya sat atop the giant ONI head that crowned the Grub Bucket, looking out over the centre of the village as its denizens rushed to gather their belongings and depart. His brow weighed heavy with a gloomy frown, legs swinging back and forth as he could not bear to be still in his glumness; he had fled the cruelty of his Oyashiman homeland and its evil Shōgun, and found safety and purpose beneath the Scattered Sun. He could not help but be filled with angst but also eager anticipation for what yet another move would bring. "For Auntie A. . . And the State." He reminded himself as he reached for a well-read copy of The Little Pink Book that sat by his side, thumb brushing over its lettering.

A gentle, sparse clatter of wooden cutlery bounced off of the hollow halls of Elias' point, the only sounds heard elsewhere the muffled sobs of Naoise's mother. Alone at the head of an empty table sat Edwyn, idly toying with a bowl of stew that had long since gone cold and untouched, his stony gaze fixed upon the curdled contents. With each clack of the spoon upon the bowl's edge he seemed to blink back into reality for a moment, only to succumb to the same languid stupor as before. His spare hand pressed upon the top of a small bound leather book, glued to it by the paralyzing combination of fear and morbid curiosity. Just as a thumb dared to lift its corner came a voice, "My Lord?" A cautious servant, teetering on their heels. The presence stirred the old man from his despair long enough to spark a feeling of guilt and shame at the state in which he must have looked, he gave a dismissive wave for the servant to whisk away his untouched meal, and stood himself up. How long had he been sat there? His legs felt numb and his back crooked... The sorrowful song of his wife finally caught in his ears, and for a moment he found peace in the sadness they both shared, and his desire to sooth it. His heavy legs, stirred by unconscious devotion to take him to her, clipped clumsily upon the corner of a chair, and in an instant his sorrow, guilt, and shame caught upon the Aenguelic fury that burned in him, like oil over flame. The heavy oaken chair was hoisted up over Edwyn's head for his own carelessness, and slammed down upon the centre of the table with such ferocity that the thing buckled in its centre and caved in the middle, flinging ornaments and crockery soaring into the air only to come back down with a cacophony of chimes, clangs, and dizzying swirls. More wanton destruction followed as he stomped his way over the littered floors of his hold, kicking and stamping at any cup, plate, or bowl that dared brush a foot; though by the time he had reached the stairs his near maddening anger seemed to dissipate as quickly as it had come on. Not even rage could linger long in his heart, falling through the hole left by his daughter's untimely death. He staggered up the steps, following the sobs of his beloved in the hope she might teach him how to grieve. ( @Cally@jihyunah )

i just want to toil...

Edwyn peered over the shoulder of his betrothed with a gleeful smile as she penned the missive, leaning forward to plant a peck on her cheek.

Edwyn Stafyr read the missive while lounging over the view from Numenost, the news brought a wistful smile upon his face.

Worminator: Dirt Fate

Very happy w/ this it looks great, so much more clarification and elaboration on some of the vaguer parts of the previous write that were open to abuse. Also a big fan of the implementation of the strain counts!

Lovely writing as always Mr Hephaestus <3

What is thy name? Celiael Maeyr'onn [OOC: What is your username and Discord handle?] Bones#1037 What is thy race? Mali'thill From which talonii do thou hail, if mali’thill? Maeyr'onn Art thou pure? Ti. If not, do thou wish to be? N/A What is thou age? 143 Dost thou pledge thy troth and loyalty to the Silver Mother, Larihei, and her state? Ti

"Maehr'sae Hiylun'ehya. . ." Uttered a silver-haired elf, brimming with pride at his cousin's declaration.

What was the turning point for you (if any specific thing/moment) that made you want to engage with LOTC as a player, and not just troll/muck around?

BIG AGREE. 100%. I would love to see large scale antagonising of settlements that isn't just bandits showing up, causing a city to lock its gates for an eternity. Unfortunately, navigating the red tape surrounding property damage within settlements, coupled with the fact that the perpetrators would likely be subjected to pvp default makes it near impossible to do.

Favourite memory on the server, ic or ooc?

Xanthe grabs a copy with her morning coffee, hurrying back home to read it!

maevuna of thoth

A young redheaded raevir sat within the dreary pub of Dobrov, alongside a certain flamboyant bard. The relentless chattering of whom seemed melded into nought but noise as the youth stared blankly upon the half-drunk cup of ale that sat in front of him. Only when he reached for it, bringing it to parched lips, did the sing-song voice of his companion finally break through his daze and return him to the reality had sought escape from. "Yes, yes. . . He will be missed." Kazimir muttered as his friend once more returned to the blurred peripheral of his cerulean gaze, it then affixing to the looming portrait of Ostromir that hung above upon the wall- as it did in every residence of Dobrov.

Seated in a land far off, word finally reaches the now aged Haeseni man. The notice offered to him by the courier was scanned over with an eager gaze-- it had been an age, or at least it felt like it, since he had heard from his firstborn. Though this was not a letter he had been hoping for, nor indeed expected. With a heart so heavy it felled the man back into the seat of his study, the missive held betwixt a crushing grasp-- his cerulean gaze glossed over and then turned out over a small bay. His chest rose up and down as finally, the barriers to his sorrow broke back to deliver a torrent of tears down his pale cheeks. "Rest well, little dove. . . You are free now."

Time seemed unmoving for Aidevo, a petrified, rigid look of pure wrenching, agony stuck to her face as she peered over the battlements where Blanche had been but moments before, and where she had been too late to catch her. Scrambling, and tripping over her own feet she dashed down to the pond where the Duchess-Dowager's body lay afloat. Repeatedly she struck her departed lover's gentle features in vain attempts to awaken her from a slumber that deep-down, Aidevo knew she would not return from. Beneath the cover of darkness, the Seyami did steal away into the night, to seek out a suitable resting place for her beloved Blanche, from where she did not return for several days-- unwilling to leave her side. Briefly sound of mind, she was left to wonder in those few moments of lucidity, what would she do without her?

Why did Vladislav challenge his wife's music teacher to a duel?

Can I ask another question?