Unwillingly

Wildfire understands that the fierce are not devoid of grief.

paladins r cool but i've always been itching to see some more holy magics, can have a million bajillion dark magics but only have one holy magic?? +1

It happened too fast. It wasn’t supposed to end this quickly. For all of his blind remorse and blurred vision, Eir’thall understood all too well the fate that met him. He understood all too well that nothing, not even the work of the gods above, could repair the consequence of his own grief. Regret surged above all. Above his grief, above his wroth, and above the discomfort of the spear lodged through his torso. Perhaps, he figured, it was something every suicidal maniac experiences in their dying moments. This… regret. The idea lessened his concern, but not the struggle he found himself in. He felt the shaft of the spear around every move, every breath he tried to take, and even in the trembling of his jaw. He felt the silence in the air, a million eyes that watched with what he assumed was shock. He’d be shocked, too. Hell, he was surprised he had the guts to commit in the first place. How funny is it, that for a man of such pride and confidence, these tiny revelations follow him to death? If he could drag in even a sliver of air, he’d surely have laughed in that moment. He hoped to speak, to say something worthwhile, but he only felt the warm spill of blood pour from his lips. The taste of iron brought back a flash of nostalgia, an almost comforting reminder to the brawls he shared with those he called brother and sister. It eased him, just a little, and he pretended his wound wasn’t the death-sentence it actually was. It’s just a pinprick stab, don’t look at it. But it wasn’t, no matter how much he tried to convince himself. Eir’thall’s knees trembled. He had been standing for some time, after all, and he felt the weight of the spear drag down. He’d lift his gaze to the one who held it — a familiar face, one he swore he’d seen before, but couldn’t put a name to it. For a moment, he almost thought he starred in the mirror. It was the same panicked, regret-filled churn of his face that reminded Eir’thall of himself in those moments. How ironic is it, that one of the few times he was actually sorry for something, was in his own dying? Gods above, making me mull in it. I get it, I’ve been a ****. Someone’s hand set itself to the back of his head. He didn’t know whose it was, but he accepted its support nonetheless — his head felt awfully heavy, the muscles of his neck straining to support it. He felt the warmth of the bonfire nearby, the hold of its flames against his side, and he closed his eyes. He pretended he slept beneath a canopy of yellow and orange, and that was all he needed. It was like going to sleep.

I got morbius what'd u guys get

Once, it was the ceaseless yapping of wild dogs. Now, it was the silence that woke Eir'thall. His eyes shot open, stirred awake by the clean cut stillness that overtook the forest he resided in. At first, he figured it was the consequence of the subtle yet dizzying nausea that woke him and crept at his gut. He hoped to let the feeling pass, but he couldn't ignore the raw deadness. More so, he couldn't ignore the encroaching anxiety, panic, hysteria that bobbed in his throat. He scrambled to his feet, throwing himself to a near by stream to let loose a disgusting display of last night's offal. The moment of nausea passed, and yet, the sudden razor-blade realization that rendered his breaths shaken, did not. He knelt that way for a moment on his hands and knees, palms pressed into a surface of small, jagged rocks lining the stream bank. A callused hand lifted to drag aside his overgrown, filthy mane of hair — a cruel reminder of his reclusion. Reclusion. Now comes the guilt, and it's a cruel, sadistic thing. It wouldn't spare Eir'thall. The glint of a blade shone in Wildfire's hands, heavy steps dragging him from his once cherished isolation. He made haste, every fiber of blindness and devastation guiding him towards his own undoing. And he'd be certain it would be his undoing.

cant get doxxed if you dox yourself first On a serious note, welcome to the server! If you have any questions or just want to chat, feel free to reach out at un-w#9099 :)

Skin commissions on hold

lotc is an open world that is meant to be explored and interacted with. there's no such thing as someone who isn't "open" to RP, bc the moment you log on, you subject yourself to the world and players around you. the people you interact with subject themselves to your interaction by logging on to the server i understand how the new player experience can be, and more so, i understand how rough dealing with anxiety can be. with that being said, i sincerely think your hesitance to approach strangers in-RP is just a result of overthinking. no one is judging you for engaging in conversation in-RP, because that's what the world is about. of course there will be instances where someone might not respond the way you would have liked, or someone might be totally AFK, but it's not something to let bother you too much remember, it's just a game, and you can choose to disengage at literally any time

I hate that "bait" nowadays is people saying something fkn dumb, people calling them dumb, and that person going "HUR HUR GET BAITED XDD I GOT YOU SO GOOD"

Awful mindset to have. It's true that it's a server of communities, but we shouldn't be OOCly encouraging this whole "pick us or them" behavior

8/10 wowj

[!] Young couriers can be seen pinning a missive to various trees, notice boards, and walls throughout central and southern Almaris. To my Poets, Bards, and Authors, Since I was a boy, my father taught to me the values of literacy and humanities. He taught me the merit behind paperwork and diligence, all while stowing away my longing for artwork and experience. For long I have worked to refine my skill with the pen and paper, to perfect the craft of self-expression. I see all the worth in the world behind this forgotten, yet ancient art we few hold so close to heart. So often I find myself without the sustenance of scholarly connection, of creative expression and artistic forging. In my suffering, I came to the conclusion that the pen is an illusion without its counterpart paper, just as the scholar is aimless without his likewise acquaintance. Here I write, grasping into the empty realm, bargaining with the utmost anonymous and strangers’ eyes of my life, for those who can provide what I seek. Please, find me if you have what I’m looking for. I linger in Vienne. ~Castiel A. P.S. Send a courier if you intend to write to me. I have a violent phobia of avians.

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skin commissions on hold as of 4/23 edit: skin comms resumed