ImCookiie

"A'ight, 'ere we go!" It was the middle of the night. There was no audible conversation or visible wee-folk in the near-obscured village. The Proudfoot fellow procured perfect timing for his master plan and it had arrived! He carried a petite hammer in his right hand, rusted nails in the soft grasp of his fingers. He'd trot along towards the notice board and prepare for the arduous quest ahead. CLUNK— CLUNK— CLUNK. He had been successful. Albeit it was once he concluded, that Malfoy realised he had signed the supposed-secret missive. "GAH! Oim niet doin' et again..." He scanned each line of the scripture in frantic admiration, a thin gloved-digit aiding his indomitable concentration upon each word. The Halfling narrowed his mouth for a moment, so to mutter something— although no speech exuded from him for some time.

The retired Sheriff stared at his creation in awe, before hopping towards his burrow in glee. "Oim should 'ave done ah hunge' protest — but oim canniet stop eatin'." He sang for a while, then shouted towards the Moon until he could no longer.

A successful evening for the sleep-deprived Halfling.

Incredible work, once again. Props to @Junar and every other member involved. 

"Ja! Oim niet thought teh High Pumplar moight solve teh fires. . ." The Proudfoot commented to no being in particular, instead procuring the few belongings that had become scattered in his evacuation - shielded against the forceful, thunderous crashing of the flames that encompassed his small figure. He had returned— to rescue the Halfling populace. 

Woo! 

hey ark may I have one sir

Great work!

56 minutes ago, Nozoa said:

The BOOMER

The boomer has been playing since 2011, or 2014 at the latest and will always talk about “how much better it was back then”, and always talk about old memories of how stuff was broken, or how everyone was a noob, etc. They always seem to be lost within a wave of nostalgia, drifting off elsewhere, perhaps longing for time to rewind so that they may play on Aegis or Asulon once more.

I am feeling attacked.

“Oim niet thought oi’d ever become ah champion ouf somethin’— apart from tah’ oen time. . wit’ tah pies.” The Proudfoot commented to no Halfling in particular, choosing to relish in the silence that bestowed itself thereafter. He’d return home before the sun descended, procuring the shogging equipment that had been passed down for generations. For hours, he’d practice each valiant swing— smashing almost all the ceramic vases around the burrow, in desperate attempt to become the best around, for no being would bring him down.

Here’s another favorite of mine.

”Ain’t niet tah Halfling es afraid ouf. Weh shall beh victorious—” The Proudfoot exclaimed atop his burrow with audacious might, albeit falling silent thereafter for there was no soul near the enchanted utterance of the brave Sheriff. He returned to his abode, preparing to share the news with his fellow kin. “Weh must beh prepared!”

“Oim comin’!” The Proudfoot admitted, in a rapid path towards his home— preparing the infamous baked goods of his kin.

Wee woo! This is fun.

Incredible work.

The Elervathar child had become encompassed in confusion and riddled in the fear that her home had been cursed through the impure actions of others. Her parents roamed around the near-desolate halls of the manor, in constant argument about topics unbeknownst to her. Elesia prepared for the worst, procuring recollection of her most valuable possessions— her vast assortment of teddies.

“Hmh...” There was a moment of mute thought, as she attempted the arduous quest to select her favourite for the possible change ahead. “You. You... You, too.” Another call, to the cat that followed her. “Come along. We’ve quite the trip.” Dimaethor had called for her, and in that moment she had to depart.

The child offered her room a final digestive observation, soft countenance creased in her squinted visage— until her blue-gradient orbs fall unto Iaria, once and for all, buoyant smile growing upon her puffy cheeks. Hastily, the small Elervathar began a rapid hop towards her father, forcefully curling her arms around his figure. 

Wow! Nice update!

“Oim readeh!” The Proudfoot commented, in eager hop out of his bed and rapid-pace towards the festivities— as fast as his small legs allowed him.

Welcome to the server, friend!

Erich Barclay scanned each line of the scripture in frantic admiration, a thin gloved-digit aiding his indomitable concentration upon each word in valiant attempts to pronounce those which he hadn’t seen before. His narrowed mouth then became everso agape, so to mutter something— albeit no speech exuded from him for some time. The Barclay child remain in silence, erratic actions leading his path to private chambers. “Karolina.” 

I am in love with a pixel. 

The Woman wailed and wept for Him, abandoned at the altar of mortal coil and furthermore isolating herself from all— instead choosing to relish in overwhelming anguish, mourning the loss of her lover and once-hopeful dream. Few, frail and audible steps manifested in the reticent silence, contrasted only in the forceful crackling of path upon layered-snow, fatigued persona in odd lethargic venture inside the seemingly discarded settlement. 

“I return.”

Alas, she continued forth, now obscured in the cobbled-pillars that surrounded her. The Woman shifted a singular digit to delicately rub at her exhausted visage, dark circles vaguely visible in her seclusion— albeit, she’d make little attempt to obscure it. Yet, the Vixen held a heartrending posture in inattentive path beside the Man, so that the duo faced one another, once more. An environment shared in many aspects, albeit it differed for once— an irregular, restrained silence bestowing itself once the clicking of her footwear halted.

“TAKE HER AWAY.”

The Woman erupted in belligerent speech that encompassed a silhouette of meddled mind and destructive utterance, sudden displeasure contorted into a fading, wicked smile in her agitated actions. The Cuth’arlin presented a new figure to the Man, one of bitter and anguished past— maddened umbrage settled beneath the facade of posture. Her cloth-obscured digits grasped a ceramic object in delicate motion, offering a slight ascent of it before pressing it to a narrowed mouth.

“I shall, once more.”

A skeletal figure awakened from restless slumber, cadaverous countenance bombarded and engulfed in the relentless force of her own treacherous thoughts, blustering the abysmal night-sky that encompassed outside, against the bitter conditions she had faced. The Woman mourned, then withdrew into the inner den from which she had been drawn out of, momentarily. She chided, nigh upon the thunderous congregation that appeared around her.

“FAR FROM THY WARM LANDS.”

The Woman’s dulled expression presented immobile, final regard of the rotten setting, dim visage accompanied by the glossed, cursed sights that she held. Alas, occupied by delusions of those of her past, twisted and weaved into abysmal monsters. The blighted Witch cried out once more, in tender submission to the sin-striking gaze that peered beyond flesh, directly toward the mantle of her very soul. 

“And so it concludes —”

The tale of the Woman halted in frantic admiration of the desperate countenance of the valiant Man, once-prideful demeanour descended to the ground beneath in cordial but hesitant farewell. Her cerulean-dark eyes shone, though not with pleasure— rather, with the shaming doom that this Vixen had bound herself to, in this action. Adeline grumbled beneath hushed inhales, converging her sights with his own once more— a twitch more prevalent, now, as the pythoness perused his demeanour, countenance marred by scar and stare alike. 

“For now.”

Whoa! Nice update!

”Ha! I want to be a demented paragon, also!” A Maehr’tehral commented in audacious tone to the Silver State, sarcastic utterance aimed at no being in particular. Few sporadic motions tore the  parchment into various pieces, a clenched fist ascending to the abysmal night-sky — maddened umbrage in the actions of the elf. ”I am never picked!”