Cave_Creature

"Well hell," Faeinn mutters. "Why don't I get a spear, too? Father? Can I have a golden spear?"

i thought there was no hidden lore tho just stuff for future BIG REVEAL events??? this is all about magic groups and boring 'historical' drivel???

Well, tell me about how she interacts with the world or how people perceive her to. Does she create tsunamis, hurricanes? Do sailors believe she grants them favor or ill luck? How does she interact or feel about other aengudaemons like the Aspects? Is she sympathetic, vengeful, aloof, maybe fickle like the sea itself? Personally I'd like to see that sort of stuff answered with brief tales or examples, y'know?

Axalia should have more to her, but I support a patron of the sea.

I'll have to try harder, I didn't get a bingo.

Faeinn wonders if the people on their side ever think to themselves that they might be the bad guys. I mean, they have Dread in their name. And a corpse on their heraldry. It must occur to them, right? Next they'll have skulls on their helms.

Faeinn reminds her friends in the Sirame and the other citizens of Linandria that though he might've been abrasive, he was yet an elf - a good, whole wood elf, who served nature and his Prince loyally, and now has left us. It was his time, but there is no need to poison his lingering memories with foul thoughts and words.

Faeinn smiled sadly over at her father, her hand reaching out for her codex of elven laws and bureaucratic proceedings to flip through once again.

Daaaamnnnn I'm liking that style. We could art trade sometime in the future if you want.

Faeinn mourns the need for ceremony and officiality when choosing a mate, yet swells with joy for Arahaelth.

One wonders what causes such an exodus of all these staff members. Sure, school's coming up - but many of these people quitting have been staff for previous school years.

Faeinn awakens from another dream. She blinks, seeing the sheaf on her chest that she'd read the night before. The woman clutches the Prophet's words to her breast. She kisses the dried blood that he used. She feels the life that he ground into the text. Her mind doesn't bother itself with the sentences. She forgets them all soon after. But the creature below her thoughts held the latest teaching close.

Faeinn reads through the missive five times over. "Wait... this doesn't seem right..." she finally remarks, putting away her coinpurse.

The Isles of Axios are so hopeless it makes me think @AGiantPie might have a promising future.

baller

Faeinn clutched a handful of pennycress. She fingered through the sabre-shaped leaves, the frilly flower spears. As she brought the herb to her teeth and tasted the bitter earth in her mouth, she eyed the little flowers, pollinated and laden with seed. The woman hung her bundles of wild plants out on a string, tightly tied, to dry in the shade. Before her daily training session, she moved along the houses and defenses of her city, scattering flower heads of a variety of plants in the foundations and in the cracks in stone. Carefully, seeds were sown in the structure.

Faeinn strokes the bloodied beak of a red tail hawk perched on her gloved forearm. She eyes covetously the torn squirrel in its talons, tatters of steaming red meat hanging from a mass of fur and claw just beneath the bird's feathers. The hawk pecks and tears at the flesh as calmly as anything, and the ravenous beast inside of the elven adolescent grows to become a part of her. She imagines herself with a beak, rending meat - food - and swallowing it down with pleasure. It's her birds' catch, however. She must content herself to watch, and indulge in merely the scent. Starvation is part of nature. She feels more close to the world's energies than ever.

-Humanoid albinism -Red eyes ???

A child gasped and writhed in the soaked sheets of her bed. A fifteen-year-old elven girl gripped the soft, tender reality of pillows and blankets and felt the corporeal bone, flesh, sinew and skin that surrounded her. She was secure, and healthy and whole, but she felt cold and distanced from herself, her shuddering limbs moving on their own accord. She found her eyes and discovered her lips, the shape of her nostrils as they quivered. She felt new, like a broken sword remade with fresh steel. There was something of a higher caliber between the cartilage of her joints, lubricating the muscles in her body and filling a void. Something new ran through her spine and her lungs, and replaced the liquid in her eyes and her veins. The dream had left her. The memory of it was washed away, and the remaining silt was the emotions pounding in her heart. Residual fear, and hope and delirium, the anger and terror and animalistic senses that come when faced with death. There was still adrenaline and excitement in her sleepy, lazy muscles. She lay there in an uncomfortable position of thrilled and lethargic, staring at the ceiling above her head. She felt that somehow, overnight, she'd grown to hate the protection of shingles. The nails in the clean-cut wood made her livid, somewhere in her bubbling, overflowing mind. A man pushed open the bedroom door. He gazed down at her, a hint of worry in the creased wrinkles around his wearied eyes and mouth. She could feel the lines in his palms and the calloused skin on his fingers as they ran across the soft, unmarred skin of her cheek. He brushed a large thumb across her lips and leaned over her, blocking out the moonlight with his silhouette, and laid a ginger kiss on her forehead. The warmth eased the cold in her bones, and soothed and grounded her to her world, and to herself. She let her lids fall closed once more, and she felt her father's stare for some time afterwards before she slipped back into sleep to dream of similarly unsettling things.

Faeinn hums thoughtfully, drawing a black tower on a sheet of paper.