_Leyd

From some dank cave, a spider turned the missive over to their kin with a nod.

IGN: Elahicol Name: The Black Pontiff / Eye Of Iblees Age: 1163 Gender: N/A The team you’re playing for: Iblees Interests: Killing, deals with mortals, worshiping GOD(Iblees). Extra info:

Ragebait?

Newport or Marlboro Top three long hold investment suggestions who does your taxes

Here before the lock 😍🤞🏾

I should preface by saying I had no real hand in working on this, I gleaned maybe one or two blurbs and tossed around an idea with Navi previously, so as of today I was reading this proper for the first time. Devils needed a rewrite and I feel like this honestly fits the theme relatively well. - Previously, CC lacked any real substance beyond being fucked up looking, hardly and fluff or much else to drive character stories save for the general 'go forth and do evil' vs 'go forth and break free' tropes that many players have done (very well, mind you.) - I feel like this allows for those archetypes to persist while adding more possibilities to stories moving forward. At the very least, this will show us where ST stand on pieces like these, and will allow us to conjure up something that might fit into the server's lore.

Marlboro Reds or Newport 100s Menthol

Wretched, squelching flesh and chittering bone. A false thing, a bastardized drake beholding no majesty; perched ‘pon a pulpit before a congregation of figures too enamored in their praise to realize his being there. Some bloat-fly wizzes forth, spitting forth bile and papyrus, word of this missive came before mortal eyes had seen it for themselves. He does not conclude his preening, corpse-worms are plucked from blackened scales and yet; to one veiled at his flank, the patchwork of men and women who spoke for him like some tone-deaf choir; ”How many Men would shed their FAITH in each other, if only they knew the depravity of their Sins? What facades take they, if only to guise the truth of their being.. War, endless war, Kings, Princes, elves and men; shamans, priests, clerics and scribes.. How many devote themselves to my kin, and yet believe not the stories of That Which Sees?” A whisper in turn, though many might claim them to be his own, no matter, he bids his conclusion as though none SHOULD question. “War, endless war.. Send the hordes, reinforce our kin until every faithful servant of my Father rises from mortaldom to wield their Lorraines inverse; to topple their shrines and their barbaric totems. God is dead, and they have replaced Him.” - “Hail the General Vriza, Hail Ixris, and Hail My Father.”

The Son Iblees, freshly emerged from his pulpit's festering depths, beckons the attention a small section of his clergy. The rot of his downturned expression is answer enough. ; Usurper, pretender. - "Find them." @xo31@lemonke@PolarLoLs

i think thats the point. It's not redlined out, and u cant tell these guys 'common sense or ur powergaming' because no one wants to argue semantics

I can’t read this they didn’t teach me cursive in school sorry

“I will destroy you” remarks the son of iblees from the high hells very nonchalantly

U ɴ ɪ ᴛ ʏ ᴏ ʀ D ᴇ ᴀ ᴛ ʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴜɴ, ᴏᴜʀ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ꜱᴛᴀʀ. ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɪɴ. It is in the nature of the free people to seek the One Truth, to prove that might is right, and pursue Mivtahza. Whether they choose to acknowledge this fact, or shun it to the depths of their minds, in some false sense of morality, such remains undeniable to those truly enlightened. And so, it is the decree of the Black Pontiff, to be carried out by His Horde, that Unity is attained once more, but unlike before, this Unity is non-negotiable, and obligatory. The many covens, courts and squabbling groups of Azuras, of the free peoples, have a simple choice set before them. Every warlock, weaver, shepard & bloodfiend not bound by the Pact of Kings must heed. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴋɴᴇᴇʟ, ᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴅɪᴇ. Such is the One Truth, and such is the fate of all Men who walk the lands. The weak kneel to the powerful, or they are made to be meat for the Horde, as it continues to march on, unopposed. Despite any resistance, despite any futile clinging to old ways, despite any attempts at sweetened negotiations, the might of the Hells will no longer bargain. Aucte, His Unholy Eminence, Ra'vor Ozorraz The Black Pontiff, Last Son of Iblees, Supreme Heir to Strigapoth

(This is a vision accessible to Seers, Naztherak, Clairvoyants, Veilwatchers, Nephilim, and all others with prophetic abilities per Prophecy lore.) ꜱᴜ́ᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇᴄᴀ́ᴍᴜʀ, ᴘʀɪ́ɴᴄᴇᴘꜱ ᴍɪʟɪ́ᴛɪᴁ ᴄᴁʟᴇ́ꜱᴛɪꜱ, ɴᴀᴛʀᴜᴍ ᴀʟɪᴏ́ꜱǫᴜᴇ ꜱᴘɪ́ʀɪᴛᴜꜱ ᴍᴀʟɪ́ɢɴᴏꜱ, ǫᴜɪ ᴀᴅ ᴘᴇʀᴅɪᴛɪᴏ́ɴᴇᴍ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀ́ʀᴜᴍ In your sleep, a terror bids you, something wretched & surreal, you are both victim, and observer, your senses overwhelmed, twisted and fabricated- man knew not what was to come. For reality would splint and crack; it’s yolk, a horror which broke the minds of all unfortunate enough to witness it. You watch a man, a fiend; you are him. ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴘʟᴜɴɢᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏʟᴛᴇɴ ᴘɪᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴇɴᴛʀᴀɪʟꜱ- -ʜɪꜱ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ꜰɪʟʟᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪᴄᴋ ᴡʀᴇᴛᴄʜ ᴏꜰ ɪʀᴏɴ. He awakens, lodged within the hull of some wretched oak; something which felt familiar- nostalgic; His roots dug into the earth, and grasped at the miasma at its center. His branches unfurled high, and strangled the stars. And he, all the while, stood helpless, as the last of his humanity faded; as instinct became reason, and reason became will. A droning- a siren, a horn so loud it rang his eardrums to burst. He- cocooned in the incarnation of the first Oak, was spat from its bark, joints calcified in primordial resin. Now, he knelt aloft a perch, so high above the world.. war, unfolding below. It was not his war, for he was only the speaker- the doomsayer and harbinger. But still, they came to parlay, to speak amidst the ashen smog which had made itself the very clouds above Mundus. Each figure- familiar. An apparition, first manifested from the black stone upon which he knelt. His limbs flayed, spewing ectoplasm that seemed to burrow into the earths, only to be wrenched up by the arcane machines scorching the earth below. Φ “Is it time?” The wight queried. ❉ “It is.. May every damned soul fuel their cannons. May their hulls be unbroken by every magi and alchemist seeking glory.” And so the phantom vanished. And below, those machines unleashed hellfire unlike anything seen before- nations leveled beneath their wheels. History ground beneath the thick metal which surrounded each rotating cog. From a pile of bones, surrounding the Pontiff, a skeletal tyrant is sown together. His ribs peeled in such a way that they pierced the earth like the roots of his cocoon, feasting from the sap of life. ✷ “They hunger, my prophet,” the tyrant seethed. ❉ “Then let them feast-” And so worms, wrought of steel, jagged and twisted beyond anything of man’s make. Burrowing up from the earth, consuming families, their Gods and idols. Their saints and messiahs. He looked on, as that lich formed itself into a scepter, to bring the decaying Prophet to his feet. Flame now sags from the sky, forming canopies and pillars of sulfuric ash. And from its maw, a winged serpent sank to the perch. And took the form of Man, kneeling before the Pontiff. ⋈ “The veil is broken, they are prepared to reach us, brother,” sang the draakarkin. ❉ “Then let them make a storm into eternity with their lightning.” And so the skies cleared- and those sirens blared again; thrice this time, in melodic cacophony. From the shaking clouds; portals emerged. And through them, zipped from light ships which seemed afloat without need of sails. Hovering, jetting through the skies, and unleashing black steel that pierced every burrow man sought to hide within. No longer, had those sigils of bleeding suns, of silvered stags and twin-verdant spirits shone. Every banner made tatters and ash upon the world. One of those ships lowered itself, and its maw unfurled a pulpit to raise the Prophet into its core. A small court manifested within a choir is eyeless priests. 🟍 “Let us break what stars remain. Let us shatter each ‘till we uncover the rock that thrice-armed fool hides beneath.” And so they marched- the ships maw closing behind them in a thud of metal. But it was naught. Darkness became of him, just as it had within the cocoon of the first oak... and by the time he turned, to realize a darkness he had not witnessed since his ascension into prophethood- he was home. The heart of that city, for once- silent. The worms did not burrow, the fleets did not gather in the sky. Strigapoth stood waiting, a dock, floating within the void, the heart of the war waged beyond. He knew well the voice that called to him- the one that hid. ⍟ “Come to me.” Just as every man and woman had ceased their treachery, as sin ceased and lawless havoc gave pause. They all knelt before that inverted pyramid. Hovering the blighted metropolis. But he- he was welcomed in. And so he ventured through its labyrinth, and dug unto its core ‘till his feet met again the solid surface of writhing flesh and twisted limbs. It was Hell, long before it had such a name, long before the chaotic tongue had been scribed; before the spirits melded as one to make of their dead worshipers the first Demons. Tʜᴇ Rᴇᴅ Nᴇxᴜꜱ. And upon its throne, positioned ‘tween two pillars of mangled men. The One awaits. His eye piercing, larger than the sun, and just as withering. It’s limbs splayed in each direction, crimson lightning binding the plasma it made vessel of. ⍟ “Have you succeeded?” It bid a kneeling pontiff. ❉ “Yes, my father.” ⍟ “No.” | “You are so.. so very far, from my war.” He sought to argue, to preach what he had witnessed, the war waged in His name.. and yet, his mouth was but a mound of stitched leather. His thoughts as though language had never been learnt. ⍟ “I gave into you the vision of stars.. I bestowed my gaze, and allowed you to make it yours.. I taught you of this place- of my courts, your kingdoms, my Empire.. and yet.. you only fashion me Kings and Princes..” A pause, stagnant. “I sought so much more of you.” He knew well what he spoke, the burden he had inflicted unto himself.. That helplessness to grasp the power he offered so many- even then. The prophets generals were numerous, each with horns as mighty as the armories of nations. Each with wings, long enough to blot out the sky. ⍟ “You try so very hard to escape Elahicol- just as your brothers seek to escape their Lords.. yet you, are more bound to him than they to their own. And even still.. you deny it.” And yet he was still but a man. Consumed by a bed of infernal worms, halo’d by bloated flies. “My prophet- my eye, is not meat… My prophet- my eye, is Speaker of Keys, breaker of seals, strangler of stars.. What I have shown you- is not possible in your flesh.. and it was only shown to you, because you refuse, even now, to ascend.. Your soul- your ego, it rejects it.. believing your wisdom so divine- you needn’t bother.” With each of its limbs, it reached our, reeling in the Pontiff, and shoving the helpless ant he had become, into its maw. “No more.” No teeth, no tongue, only the shrill heat of flame unburdened by ambition. A conquerer’s heat, ruin manifest. It unmade him, and yet, dared not to grant him the freedom of unconsciousness. So he suffered. His bones cracked and malformed, his skin blistered ‘till it tore at the seams to reveal scales. Eyes formed like boils along outstretched wings. Feathers woven into fractal patterns beneath claw-crowned limbs. ⍟ “This, will be my Prophet.. and if he is to fail.. I will sunder him too.” ꜱᴜ́ᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴇꜱ ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇᴄᴀ́ᴍᴜʀ, ᴘʀɪ́ɴᴄᴇᴘꜱ ᴍɪʟɪ́ᴛɪᴁ ᴄᴁʟᴇ́ꜱᴛɪꜱ, ɴᴀᴛʀᴜᴍ ᴀʟɪᴏ́ꜱǫᴜᴇ ꜱᴘɪ́ʀɪᴛᴜꜱ ᴍᴀʟɪ́ɢɴᴏꜱ, ǫᴜɪ ᴀᴅ ᴘᴇʀᴅɪᴛɪᴏ́ɴᴇᴍ ᴀɴɪᴍᴀ́ʀᴜᴍ

The Eye dreamed as he had a thousand times. The gnawing, the aching, a familiar comfort. He of postulants and bile, he who carved into the tablets of fate and bore prophecy from the simplest of acts. He, the blasphemer; awaits the blasphemous in new lands.

*lights 20 Newport 100 menthols and smokes them.*

Yeah, I didn’t read it. Grandfather me lol haha April fools! Check dms lol

I will never recreate this level of writing, this is my retirement post.

The Eye crowning ash-laden clouds had laid witness to one such discovery of Fate; it churned beneath scarlet lightning, the guttural choir made from the heavens, leading ripples through the split iris casting dim rays over the onslaught in some twisted psalms of Flexio. The Prophet returned to the town’s center from the flank, some malnourished, charred and battered harlequin drug by chains of abyssal flames in the streets behind his entourage. “Men bruise their knees in prayer, they wage war in His name, our Lord; who bestowed the tongue of angels unto Humanity. We too, serve a True, and Living GOD.” “Know that it was Sin which lured us here, and Sin which will see us return.” Not a single victim was given the mercy of death, blessed instead this display of divinity which dared echo through their dreams for eternity. A seed sown to be harvested yet again.

It’s self taught