Jentos

A dirty child solder wheels forth another barrel of ink to the hiding High Pontiff, hopping that this bickering ends so that he may rest his back and avoid spine problems that may arise in the future.

Who is the best man with a mark witcher boi

That in no way causes a reasonable explosion, or any at all. Strength and stonekin are not flammable by any means. No wonder it was removed.

Name: Wieslaw Marrow Race: MAN Age: 30??? Past Combat Experience: Wieslaw is good fighter. Wieslaw kill many things, Wieslaw read creepy book = WEISVLAW SEE SPOOKY THING Noteworthy Skills: Novice alchemist, lockpicking, stealth and combat with a saber. Magic Status/ History: I have been able to make myself bleed, with my own mind, although I do not know what it is that I possess.

“Why, wasn’t I right, little man… The stars, they sing!” https://78.media.tumblr.com/fbc0c51fa7b7972ef433c29d0882b84d/tumblr_nmgxlvJykF1t7b5qro7_1280.jpg https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5VYyHglSDxY Wieslaw, blood of a bastard, family of inbred, and cursed to be cursed. Why, if he weren’t a raevir, one would have thought of him some run of the mill, degenerate Sutican. * Leaden silence. The day was grey, and yet the day was not. For what is day? The day is a word. And words are there to commune with one another, so that logic may be our anchor to the world. And yet, logic is no more than chains to the hearts of men. Wouldn’t you think so? Why, wasn’t that De Sola bastard, the one with the witches, he was a logical man, wasn’t he? And look, he died! Why, it’s quite clear then, logical men are those that wish to die. Wouldn’t you say so? Asked the raevir, staring down at a dried skull, the thing being covered in ornaments and engravings, like some relic of old, as it was, sitting in the hands of a bloody man. His whole body quivered and shook, he existed and yet he didn’t. Where he was, he could not tell, but as he had told the remnants of some ancestor; the day was gray. And so it was. He stood in a great valley, covered in whitish powder, that seemed now unlike snow, cliffs and rocks protruding from the snow far in the distance, each one of them covered in some most odd, crude drawings. And it was cold, truth was there was little cover, and Wieslaw stood in the middle of it all, whispering to the skull he held so dear. But the cold, the day that was gray, and the horrid, dreadful silence of ice was of little concern. For yet still beyond the snowy wastes and cloudless skies were faint forms, barely visible. Like some great ghost. Like the ghastly remnants of Gods. These beings walked upon the earth in utter silence, translucent and bitter, their icy white eyes staring down at the meager, small raevir, that had yet even to notice them. Why, he’d been staring at the sky and his skull all along, neither did he notice the other, wight-like forms that spied him from the hills. No, he cared not. Neither did he care for the long, protruding slabs of stone drenched in alien blood that stretched as far as the eye could see. No, Wieslaw cared little for these things. Albeit perhaps, if he’d had the wits to look about and see one of the great spectral beings, a great, and epic debate could have taken place Wieslaw and the skull, to which I must admit, the skull would certainly win, outplaying little Wieslaw. But Wieslaw was soon to be bored. And little did he know, how to flee from this place, and so, with long, tired steps the man slowly made his way up one of the hills, his head held down as he mumbled and whispered to himself like any bookish, eldritch-induced scholar would. Why he didn’t care where he was going. Why would he? For GOD was with him, as always, how could he ever fail? And so he walked, he walked past snow-covered, headless corpses, nailed to chairs, their bodies still quivering as if life yet lived within them. And yet he did not spy them, nor did he care for them. And suddenly, the day was not gray, it was black. No, it was not night, nor was the world any darker than it had previously been, Wieslaw had simply stumbled within a cave. And it was then that the ruskan man stopped, and looked about, for now the heavens were no more visible. What would there be to guide him now? He looked about with care, and he was soon to notice, the great amount of crosses, twisted and broken, fair and ugly, of wood and of gold and other materials he had yet to witness that covered the cave floor. Why, they were everywhere, abandoned. And the silence remained For yes, apart from his hoarse voice. There existed not a sound within this place. Frightening was it not? Well, his voice, and that of the most blessed skull he carried with him. And so the raevir kept on his great walk, quite uncaring for the many wonders of the cave, which twisted and broke, one specific channel of this underground place led to what appeared to be a grand, beautifully decorated hall, where a number of disfigured entities bled over each other, some of them dancing upon a great chandelier that swung from side to side. And yet still, the leaden silence remained upon the world. The only sound existing was no other than that of Wieslaw, ‘The Unlucky’, his whispers were a sweet song, his murmurs a melody, and his prayers a chorus to the otherwise soundless place. And the silence, was broken. Rather, it was shattered, broken into a thousand pieces, like some angry child that had decided to destroy his mother’s mirror for whatever reason, and personally, I do not blame any child which would do so, because women are retarded animals and deserve no less than death. But yes, the leaden silence that existed, only deranged by the constant mutterings of Wieslaw was broken by another entity. Neither was he in a cave, he was back again, back at the snowy valley where he’d began. Yet before him stood a creature most horrifying. A beastly thing, it stood eight feet tall, it’s back covered with a cloak of black feathers, it’s whole frame hidden away by a mass of dark tendrils, not unlike tentacles, and it’s head was no less than the skull of some wolf, staring down at poor Wieslaw. Two appendages, hands of six fingers, the thumb and the pinky being the longest of its fingers, which were thinly and pale, clawed. On one of these arms was a crown, looped around the left arm like some much bracelet that was ten times too large. Then you might ask, dear reader, what is it that broke this great silence? Why, from within the creature came a great chorus of voices, speaking twisted, holy flexio. And so, the great being, the Elder Thing, paced ardound Wieslaw curiously, studying his frame. Wieslaw stood there, unmoving, his whole frame shaking from the cold and the fear. Fear for the beast, the beast that broke the silence. This thing, this elder thing was not unlike some creature of the cosmos, why, who knows what it could do, for the limits of the world have no bound, and limit is a word, and words, well, words are lies, one way or another. And there are thus no limits, and there are no words. Understood? The beast was silent, and but the chorus of chanting voices that came from it now kept the silence at bay. And ever so gently, the creature pushed aside the black tendrils that covered it’s thinly frame away, revealing to the eyes of the living man, what horrors lay within. A howl erupted from Wieslaw. He woke. And it was as if it were all a dream, he was sitting down, staring at his precious skull, back where he’d started. And nothing had changed. Actually, much had changed, for within the man’s mind there was a thing black and horrifying, something he wanted to forget, a thing vile… And apart from that, Wieslaw’s hands were now caked with blood.

Janbert weeps the death of an ex-comrade

Somewhere, Jean de Saint-Loup smiled at the prospect of joining.

Yeah just give him the role Joel is the man

mmm yes papa cameron do it in my yoresigil just ******* accept this man already

”Ahhh, Druids. Degenerate creatures, they are nothing far from the characters of the eastern illustrated books.” stated some long dead veteran. “Let the wrath of the woods strike them down, sinful creatures.”

Application IC Name: Wieslaw ‘the Unlucky’ Age: Late 24 Race: MAN Serive: (Nun, Monk, Clergymen, layman, etc) Monk Where do you wish to serve: Judeberg, or the Capital OOC MC Name: Jentos Discord Name:Jentos#6646

“What degenerate elfski soil my name?” Some ancient veteran asked aloud, frowning the sun’s frown.

*** xdxd

I believe that the true end game of lord of the craft is finding a girlfriend