_Sug

Farewell man. It's been a long ride, onto the next highway.

↬ Discord: Sug#4795 ↬ Skin Name(s): Green Aristocrat ↬ Bid(s): 16

Denied. Magic lore not allowed on LoTC. +1

Yeeesh...

Can the striga community get the CA back now?

Looks like the new map might be coming sooner than we thought!

Azdromoth?

It is time.

Aravir's brow raised as his little gnome companion waddled up to him and gave him the paper, after reading it, he obtained a small bout of confidence in the times to come. It seemed his mentor had much to teach the world, and not just himself.

A Chronicle of a Gryphon - An Endeavor An Artist’s Depiction of Her Highness, Princess Valyris Wynasul-Ibarellan I. Circa. Year 125 of the Second Age [!] The following is a fable from the Order of the White Gryphon. ___________________________________________________________________________ Upon an armored stag, garbed in plates of golds and silvers did ride along the roads, a Knight. For it was he who patrolled the roads as increases of attacks on the Celian population did rise in the recent years. Anointed was the man by Princess Valyris Wynasul-Ibarellan I, the Butterfly. Alongside him, was his daughter Dame Eowyn Nullivari-Ibarellan. “Father, what is it that we seek to attain from these patrols?” The woman asked, for she was and inquisitive one. The sounds of hooves meeting the leaves and ground below almost masked her hushed tone. “We seek to create legend, manifest a children’s tale into naught but a display for the youth seeking to join the Order to find wonder in...” The Grandmaster of the Order responded in turn. Whilst they rode into the woodlands of the Celian Province, they soon came upon a pond. It was tranquil and still, lost from civilization and untouched by the hands of mankind. It was there, a lone boulder, a raw deposit of iron which sat just within the shallows of the reservoir. Only the top of the boulder could be seen, protruding but an inch away from the water’s surface. Thus, the elder of the duo dismounted his steed with a grunt and offered a few pats to where the neck of the beast met it’s shoulders and moved alongside the ashen horse to withdraw a cloth-bound object which was tied to the saddlebag that sat at the steed’s hips. For it was a sword, crafted by the Grandmaster Smith and member of the Order of the White Gryphon, Sir Zoddryk Nullivari the Gallant. The glint of metal, visible only through tears in tattered cloth, reflected the moonlight which began to fill the small opening in the treeline that surrounded the pond, it shewn hints of a white light which reflected from the polished silver elvish markings and inscriptions which decorated the blade of the weapon in ceremonial fashion. A painting of the duo whilst riding out in the woodlands of the Fi’andrian Province. Circa. Year 101 of the Second Age. For, the man waded into the cool waters of the shallow pond as a rain began to trickle, causing small ripples to make themselves apparent upon the once-calm surface of the pool. The Knight thus removed the tattered brown wrapping which hid the elegant weapon from the world, now making the intricate elvish blade glint the moonlight even more as raindrops began to meet it’s metallic blade. A kneel was taken and the Grandmaster placed the point of the weapon into a small cut in the stone, where the elements had caused the rock to crack. An exhale of fire, born from the chest of the man met the iron deposit and in time melted the top of the blade which was now lodged into the boulder. He thus stood and that rain which once trickled from the heavens above, began to downpour. It cooled the steel and iron quite quickly, causing the blade to become one with the stone it was lodged in. The waters of the pond began to rise and soon the top of the boulder was consumed by the pool, then the blade, then the hilt, until the object was no longer visible from the muddy shores of the water’s edge. The two shared a smile, as a place of pilgrimage was created, and there they reflected upon what was to come with the ever evolving crisis which they knew would inevitably bring forth wrought to the continent. “Come father, we should be going.” The woman spoke into the quiet that overtook the grotto. “Yes, yes…” Drawled the man as he moved to once more take up position upon saddle. And the two departed back into the woods to return home. The pond, now appearing as if nobody had disturbed it again, aside from a set of boot-prints left behind in the mud. A fable created by the hands of man, to live on in the minds of those aspiring to join the order, a place of pilgrimage made to honor those who inspired the reformation of the Order they served.

An old thing loomed in his bomb shelter, the Nephilim unsure if nuclear holocaust loomed above or tranquility but he prayed for the latter.