Astrophysical

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Zabub'Lur, destroyer of worlds, overlord of darkness, slayer of all things good, looks at the missive and bobs his head a couple times, taking a sip of his EVILLY BREWED tea. "Madoc iz a bub'hozh friend, hi will certainly be a fit for the position dat haz been zorely lacking for agez." The orc sets his tea aside and rubs his hands, plotting something probably evil!

A very EVIL Orc shaman looks at the missive with utter disgust and disdain. "How DARE they put uz zhamanz on da zame level az magez!" he grumbles as he says a bit more quietly "Though a pointy hat zoundz... hozh."

A very EVIL Orc, overlord of darkness, destroyer of worlds, prepares to dump copious amounts of red oil into a void mage bath house...

When Legacy Fails Zabub awoke to an unfamiliar sky, an overcast of dark clouds in purple and black hues. Although he was prone upon dry dirt, the Shaman could see a grand castle before him. The construction was of gothic architecture, yet impossibly tall, reaching the malicious clouds. Dark stone bricks, some of them cracking, make up the impossible structure. Zabub takes a moment to lift himself and get his bearings. He clearly was not in the Iron Uzg. The courtyard was dotted with dead trees which gnarled and twisted in mind warping proportions. Leafless bushes line the perimeter, ceasing at a colossal gateway to allow entry into the castle. The orc approaches the gate, pushing upon the splintering wood to open it. The foyer was just just as gloomy as the outside, it was dimly lit with candles sparsely illuminating the walls which direct towards a grand staircase. Following from the bottom top, Zabub’s eyes meet with a short shadowed figure upon the apex of the steps, glowing crimson eyes peering downwards at the shaman. The figure spoke a word of power, “Dorog-lat” (Surrender). Zabub fell to his knees, a great pressure overwhelming his very body and soul. The figure descends the stairs, stopping in front of the pained orc. A shadowed claw extends towards the orc’s torso, delving deep into Zabub’s being. “Lupub-lat izishu, snaga. Kul-lat izub agh izub ashuk!” You will pray to me, servant. You are mine and mine alone! The orc’s mind shatters, he was powerless before the spirit before him. The shaman’s head throbs with unbearable pain, visions of madness overcome him swirling with a single name: VENAKU. Memories begin to fade, twisting and morphing into mere fabrications. The mark was left upon the shaman’s soul, one of madness and mania. Zabub then awoke a different person, the wound upon his soul festering, digging deeper. With the last remnants of his sanity he whispers: “I am no servant.”

Prophecy of Molted Skin [This post follows all rules and redlines of Prophecy lore, anyone who holds the ability to see visions can peer onto this prophecy.] The stale air reeks of sulfur as pitch darkness still blinds your sight. It is painful to breathe, air chokes you like water, drowning your lungs. You gasp and grasp at the very thing choking you, it hurts, it burns! You crawl, nails scratching weakly upon a mountain of broken bone and rotting flesh. A whispered voice echoes through the darkness, yet it is painful to hear: Lo, upon sulfured winds doth he arise. Borne of flame and malice, a cacophony of hatred. Once upon a throne which all men aspire, To a throne which all lords despair. From the bodily soil erupts a colossal throne, long stairs meandering to the seat. You ascend the long stairway, crawling at a snail’s pace. Feelings of hatred overcome you, yet no cause or reason. You still climb, yet the throne lies abandoned. The voice returns, your head feels like it is going to split: Lo, upon wings of sin doth he fly. A molting of skin, unsightly yet divine. From a cocoon of mortal wishes he springs, To soar beyond the curtain of the world. You tire, yet you are near the peak, you must go on! The overwhelming scent of sulfur drowns every sense. You did it, you grasp the arms of the seat, And you sit upon the throne. The voice returns one last time, yet there is no pain left to be felt: Lo, upon salvation doth he leave. Yet save thy gentle tears, children. Do not weep upon loss, But smile.

Pharos the Supplicant, Voice of Eshtael, Keeper of Balance, The Eternal Flame, approves this message.

A Lur fisherorc saddled upon a mechanical crab stops before the missive board, the exhaust pipes upon the back of the construct fooming black smog as he did so. He reads the news and messages for the day, skimming most of them as they have no importance, "Nothin intereztin, tax noticez, angry letterz, oh?" The orc reads this specific missive with care "Charity? Now thiz might be zomeazh to look into... Kaiuz ob Azog, hrm?" he chews the name in his mouth for a bit as he places the missive back on the board. He turns the lever on the mechanical crab as it begins to walk sideways offwards.

The Embellishing of a Soul Two animists stand within a forge, warmed with the roaring flames of the furnace. One of water and one of fire, opposites intertwined. They step upwards to the anvil, their ritual spot, and they begin. The animist of fire reaches to the stub of his former arm, ripping the scab. Crimson fluid pours downwards as the animist of water dips a finger into it. He draws a circle of runes of ancient orcish origin upon the anvil, chanting in the same tongue. With one final rune, LAPUS, the animist of water stands before the anvil. He places an ingot upon the surface, the animist of fire chanting prayers. The animist of water raises a hammer high and strikes the ingot. The runes upon the anvil ignite into an orange flame, spiritual energy floods the room. The animists’ very essence is shaken as a raspy voice erupts from the anvil. “MY NAME IS XALAT. I MARK YOUR SOULS.” Pain overwhelms the animists, nails scratching, teeth gritting. Nothing… The runes fade, the pain stops. They have been marked, but at what cost?

Is it that hard to call people “Poopyhead”

Signatory of Region: Gotrek Union User: Astrophysical Persona name: Ak-Rullaz Persona ID: #82492

Twice Stricken Deep within the parched deserts of Aevos, the scorching sun beats with a cruel heat upon the sands. The grains shift gently as heavy footsteps dig into them. Across the mirage of the dunes, an Uruk garbed only in hide and linen cloth marches, fatigued. His green skin glistens with sweat as he grasps a leather waterskin from under his hide cloak, hoisting it in the air to drink. Alas, the container was already emptied long ago. The Uruk curses silently under his breath, followed with a frustrated sigh. BOOM. The sky echoes with the rolling of thunder. The Uruk sets his gaze to the heavens, stopping at the horizon. CRACK. The darkened clouds streak across the sky over the Uruk, fast as lightning. The skies opened, letting forth a monsoon. The Uruk grumbles at the sudden turn of events as he begins to march once more across the now-drenched dunes, sploshing beneath his feet. He pauses as he sees a silhouette through the downpour. The Uruk narrows his eyes, as he observes the being upon the apex of the dune. Blue lightning crackles upon it. But before he could fully observe it, the being dashed away. The Uruk takes a few steps forwards, in an attempt to follow it. However, lightning struck the dune before him, as if warning. The Uruk toppled onto the soaked dune, rolling downwards. The Uruk fades from consciousness… The next morning, a papyrus flier is pinned upon the notice board of San’Briu: WANTED AND CAUTION: The dissipation of an unnatural storm which has terrorized travelers at random locations within the Deserts outside San’Briu. Brothers of the Iron Uzg are encouraged to go out in groups to avoid injury. OOC

A dwarfess of gold hears of this missive and cringes, wrinkling her nose in disgust "Always in our damned business, w'en will t'is leech get off of us and our clan politics?"