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Ringing. Staring at the flaming bright sky with squinted eyes, a horrible force floods his eardrums. Like the cacophony of a fractured bell, not singing, but screaming. Ringing. Putting a hand to his searing forehead and finding nothing, he is chilled with worry. Roving his dilated right eye leftwards, he finds his right arm disobeying. Limp, like a fallen branch on the cold ground. Everything rings. His bones shake. His nose quakes, and his tongue, stannic, resonates with the acute frequency of the rest. Heaviness on his shoulders snuffs out the debilitating sensation. Pulling upwards, they scrape him across the loose dirt. As the white sky transitions into a bearable periwinkle, the oppressive sunlight retreats to allow perception of the trench walls flanking each side. Dragging along, bursts of rough noise pair with a coarse ripping on his scalp. His helm gone, blown far by- a blankness, and chilling worry, takes hold of his rattled brain- the blast? Such thing feels like a good night's rest ago, but the battle around his slowly shifting position still rages on with arrows flitting, men roaring, and the fallen thumping. An unwelcome constant married to another: the cruel sun stabbing at his glassy eyes. So dreadfully incandescent. His thoughts plod along, as does his rescuer, and he is soon deposited under a wagon, his salvation from heavenly rays above. The merciful soldier slaps his plated chest and promptly runs off, leaving only a brief glance of his bearded face behind. He stares at his sole companion. A woman, quite the sight, smiles down on him. Dressed in alluring red cloth, trimmed with golden finery, and topped by luscious dark locks, she is of noble mien. Familiar to him, thankfully, as memory saunters back to him. He returns the friendly gesture, unsure of how to proceed. He forces open his heavy lids. A plank, dried with mud, smiles down on him. The blanket of sleep creeping up to his fleecy chin is too enticing to ignore. He shuts his eyes, but opens them after a momentary spell. No need to slip away without a fight! It is much darker, as he discovers himself in the comfort of his own home; his own bed. Sitting up takes more effort than it should, considering a kind soul piled up his armor in the far corner of his cabinet. He sets a hand to task, this time seeing it respond, as the appendage moves up to his left eye. Linen wraps his head, and brown hair flowing over the band tickles his digits. He nearly curses aloud as those fingers begin to shake. Hurriedly, he jabs two tips into the cloth. An appropriate pain shouts back, so welcomed, and relieved with the ultimate lightening of his chest, he lets himself fall back into his warm covers. He is roused by muffled shouting. Gazing up at the dark ceiling, a dull pounding from within his skull goads him on. Bringing his unsure legs over to the right of his bed, he tests his weight. Good enough. Confidently rising, he unexpectedly stumbles to the floor. He clenches his lids tight, the pounding intensifying like a zealous drummer. Each thump, thunk; rock moves his body like flotsam in the waves. The musician of his injury is unsatiated, bringing his work of agony to every sense. Each beat; red nebulae of intangible clouds illuminate in the infinite space of his closed eyes. He brings himself to his palms. Each note; a dangerous stirring between his gut and throat loosens his muscles. Just as he rights his weight, the stirring becomes a swelling. His knees give way to what is to come: a rushing of broad sensation beneath his sternum opening his gullet wide and letting out a tide of dark bile. He stays, kneeled, and breathes. Air taken in; air eased out. The steady harmony of his lungs almost distracted him from his tormentor, who made sure to return right after the storm. Pounding, staring at the closed wood shutters with wide eyes, a horrible force wells tears beneath those reddened orbs. Like the cacophony of a ripped drumhead, not tapping, but wailing. Pounding.

Ballistae and trebuchets are already misused, poorly emoted, and poorly understood by operating GMs. I allow myself a suspension of disbelief for those things, but having a meme cannon blowing through walls is going to give a lot of people a bad time.

This is actually in OOC / Creative Writing, surprisingly.

"Unmarried at twenty-nine! Must be a reason there!" Tim chortles and chuckles, the chok he is.

Give up, Jebbie.

"I, Tim of Locklear, one of few founders of this fine city of Felsen, pledge my support for Mylas, a sound business partner and brilliant man. I would also like to point out that Manuel is not a citizen, and if he is, he has recently walked in to our city and paid the minimal amount to destroy our human society."

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((who the **** is dibleymustdie coz I'm gonna play Diedrick))

SendaMedieval : D

~le current year. ~this.

DNF

I love the way Man makes me feel I love it I love it Jokes aside, this avatar requires a serious critique. It is a very short and disorienting gif from a video, but, however, this excerpt does not require context. The thigh highs get me hard. A solid 7.

Image of a Sepoy Wood Elf.

You are going to burn out, Cracker. You are going to become a weak shell of your former self as you blow away into dust. +1

While the image seems to have undergone some lossy compression, a full critique is still in order. The natural hues making up the image do not make a complimentary product when set on the bistre background of this forum's default layout. It is quite a fine piece, however, of detailed make and without the slightest detail overlooked. Also, the image has a pleasing synergy with the user's signature. A solid 6.5/10.

there is literally no counter to these cannon-mounted segways (mc horses)? help!!!! By the way. Studded leather isn't real and it doesn't make your arrows more effective. I hate it so much. Also infinity bows make woodworkers a bit less useful.