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Plasma

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About Plasma

  • Rank
    Newly Spawned
  • Birthday 06/25/1997

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  • Gender
    Male

Character Profile

  • Character Name
    Dima the Rabbit

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  1. The Jackalope would eat a single strawberry, then burst into laughter. ”Damn, that **** sucks.”
  2. The Jackalope eats a single strawberry, then smirks.
  3. Hahahahaahahahaahahahahahaahha!
    *breathes in* BWAHAHAHAHAHA! 😂🤣

  4. The Jackalope eats a single strawberry, then smirks.
  5. Plasma

    1. Kanadensare

      Kanadensare

      do you get so few kills that you have to flex about killing an AFK person and an RPer?

       

      omg lorraine btw...

  6. Trials of Lorraine . . . In the chambers within the tallest towers of the chapel, the summit of a notoriously young citadel, there was a frenetic flicker of light spilling out of the cracks between shutters and distorted glare dancing upon stained glass. Across the limestone gothic was the hanging mantle of a blue lunar gloom from which the cloudy belt of the heavens cascaded a reluctant sea of forlorn moonlight; a cobalt gradient mixing in a liquid-brilliance as a gentle rain misted over the daunting eminence of the castle perched above windy rye grasses. The individual panes beset the pale anterior breast of the westernmost wing were concentric to the gathering glow. On the midnight skyline towards the seat of the Crownlands was the restless landfall of a gathering storm. It rode toward the mouth of Adria like the tiding outline of a dark horse, drifting gradually towards the quiet fields of Lorraine on a steady gust. The crack of yellow-violet streaks in the fold followed by rolling thunder was underwhelmed by the distance, and prevalence of a softer shower greeting the arms of the disconcerted Duchy. It was instead within the lofted halls of the gallant palatine oratory that a focus was being attended to — neither mind to the dilated outline of a looming front that carried forth the stifled cries of erratic thunderclaps — nor was it to the regard of wayward snakes nesting shelter from the tempest within thorny brackets beneath the discerning blooms of Lotharingiae gardens where the pious had once zealously toiled. The ardent presence of faith had, by then, escaped the stoic ambulatory that erected itself as the caretaker of these crafted groves; stolen away was the vibrancy of reverence and with it so did come the withering of the coralroot lattices, dragonmouths and arranged beds of roses. The kindly adoration of a land that kissed the embrace of a lulling river, whence there had been idle complacency regarded over the region, since withdrawing. There would be no orchard, nor husbandry, nor dainty subsistence of game. Not from the labors of these men. There, nonetheless, a fire burning behind the chalky window oracle layered above the chancel. A tentative bustle of winking light that shone of life inside, which breathed chromatic tones of vermilion paired with the rich gilded and jade leaded glass. Laden was the portholes and vaulted sash with the heraldry of Lorraine. At the seams of stanchions that wreathed the visage of curious panes lie in the quarters the figure of a man seated beside a woman at the foot of a roaring hearth. There was a cordial calmness to the scene, accompanied however was the evident presence of mourning in the air. The rabbit shifted, a tender movement that was choreographed under the gleam of the hot aureate carmine color of the transient embers. There was no thoughtless monument to this silence of the night, and yet stood an uncertainty lingering within and without the heart of the silhouette. Lambent were the qualms of the Jackalope. Much like the forced reluctance of the flames that fed upon their own radiant sinews, in a bid for wresting fate, it was in their shared nature — to burn. He had drafted the work of the masons and of the carpenters and of the glassblowers and of the accorded artisans; it would be at his behest, he thought, that the resolve would be given. He ate a single strawberry, then spoke. ” Remove these stones. ”
  7. You will be starved.

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