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About wan

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    Tree Puncher

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    some dumb pun

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  • Character Name
    Eris Storne, Fëanor Sylvaeri

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  1. Essentially these are little more than an excuse for me to put my god-awful puns at work. Happy Single’s Awareness/Valentine’s Day, folks! Most of these are just people I know/have RP’d with, but I can probably do them very quick if someone wants one. Additions under Spoilers:
  2. wan

    1700 Imperial Wedding

    Across the seas from the Imperial capital, the bands of the wedding rings gleam with a smith’s signature teal lustre. From his collection of riches, and in accordance with Her Imperial Highness’s full request by letter, the man retrieves two similar, marvelous opal stones and prepares to set them within each band. There was yet more work to be done, yet his patience would be sure to show, for it would be as if he wove silver itself around the gemstones. After all, such a momentous milestone in the couple’s life deserved nothing less than the finest work of the jewelsmith’s ability.
  3. To be a healer was to expose yourself to gore, to the varying measures of flesh and bone between the mortal races, to know the blood you work with. A studious doctor took measurements, would know surgery. This grim intimacy, familiarity with flesh often involved the study of cadavers. Should the healer be meek or sympathetic to the body before them, this could extend to respectful treatment of the dead. Healing could be an undertaking in each sense of the word. Although a healer’s dedication was to stave off the creep of death, they were not always successful. Not all corpses possessed next of kin. Not all souls would be wept over or remembered. Inevitably, decay and the creatures which feast upon it would need to be staved off or else the corpse become a feast for scavengers. Tanager Volaeren’s body was dry upon the cliff-face, framed neatly by an arch of carved bricks. Once it had been a door’s frame. The stone wall was little more than a surface to catch sunlight through the hawthorn canopies of the tropical isle. It should smell of rot. This was the first thought which occupied Fëanor Sylvaeri’s mind. The space was surprisingly arid in what was a normally humid section: they were close to the baths, after all. Turge, who had led Fëanor and Albatross Volaren there, slumps the broken carcass of the freshy slain Jim (a rascal of a man but otherwise weak and less than memorable) next to Tanager’s body. The human had been decapitated. The elf was mostly whole, and his living cousin knelt in examination then prayer to pay respects. This was a matter of not one, but two burials. A pyre for Tanager, and a simple burning for the slain Jim, whose presence had promised the Isle only deceit and suspicion of his character. Both would need to be disposed of quickly, so as to not tempt scavengers of the dead. Fëanor was displeased with the idea of disposing an honorable cadaver in conjunction with a petty troublemaker, and the elf expressed as much to those present. It was a request of Albatross on how he would like his cousin sent away. The cousin said as much of the matter of funeral: “Yes, the All-Father would deem it most important that my cousin be burned effective immediately.” Fëanor would gather the larger logs for the funeral pyre’s palette base. Long strips of crude spruce boards, kindling and more were gathered, then cut and stacked. Assembled within the hour, the neat palette rose three meters high upon the cliff. More the work of a carpenter than a warrior or smith, though none upon the Isles would question the origins of this Sylvaeri’s knowledge of undertaking. How grim, that he had learned to bury, embalm, and burn the dead from the same mother who had instructed him in healing, in the protection of others… It had been too late to properly embalm Tanager’s corpse, but the elf, with aid of Albatross, could spare him honor and decency. Crimson silk, later to be implemented into the signature armor of the Isles, was wrapped across Tanager in a manner of crude mummification. As the silk would preserve decency and spare residents’ eyes the sight of decay, an axe would preserve honor. Made of iron, it had in Fëanor’s eyes been a functional but ugly thing. There was nothing wrong with it, yet it was not perfect. No weapon, no armor so far was, and this was especially true in the wake of any death. The sun had set. The body, laid wrapped in silk atop the pyre, was honored with an axe which would rest at the base of the palette. It had been placed there by Albatross, whose customs were unfamiliar to the Isles, but not unwelcome. The Lady Stewardess and Turge lingered by the clinic’s round, wooden archway. The Prince-Lord of the Isle, Belestram Sylvaeri arrived in short company of Vienele. “I cannot offer the words of the All-Father's faithful, nor the blessings of Aspectism or other rites. Foremost, I am a warrior and smith, and I thank you, Tanager, that you will not be without it into the next life, to wherever your soul will find itself. May you rest, may your soul go in peace. You fought bravely, and to the last. And thus, a warrior's funeral.” Fëanor Sylvaeri takes three steps forth. Though the remnants of his beginning words had carried through the canopies about the elven group, he continues. “A warrior's pyre, for Tanager. Have any others here parting words before we send him off?” “He checked the walls, it was an honourable labour.” “He was my cousin, so if shared anything with me then he was alright.” “My condolences for your loss,” Vienele says as much to Albatross. “Dispatched only bodily by a wicked wyvern,” Fëanor would muse. Come to kneel beside the pyre, the kindling tucked under his elbow was soon organized into a long, creeping pile against the palette’s wood. “A death braver than most.” “One that could easily have claimed me,” the elf’s father speaks. There was a long silence as the patient Fëanor took flint and tinder to the kindling. At first, the only sounds from him were the idle clicks of flint and tinder. Unafraid, barely moving, the flameworker casts sparks across the kindle. “We send you away, Tanager, that you will be committed to a well-deserved rest.” Smoke, then embers rise across the pile of kindle, flames sparking and consuming the dry twigs and leaves. In a moment, it climbs across and breaches in the innermost cross-sections of wooden logs. These tufts of smoke begin to billow and climb at the outermost reaches of the cliffs, breaching a spot between the hawthorn canopies and mounting skyward into the dusk. The kindle and logs had been arranged so that the heat would spread in a rectangular manner, up and towards the crimson-draped figure atop the pyre. Laid down, Tanager's broken form was soon to be consumed by the encroaching flames, which hastily make towards him from the elf's arrangements. It was certain now, no trace but ash would be left of Tanager Volaren. “May Ælfwynn guide his soul, for one who falls in battle is accepted nowhere beneath the side of the All-Father himself,” Albatross prays. Fëanor murmured hymns in the back of his dried throat. There was no exact word for the emotions coursing through him. Displeasure, anger: these were close, but not precise. Perhaps these were the lingering results of his trials with wyvern and lubba scales. Too many hours in the heat of the forge were sure to dry the body, make the mind weary. Prayer was one of his few reserved acts to settle his mind. The pyre burnt into the dawn. As the elf spoke parting, hopeful words with the soon dispersing crowd, he was faraway in thought. For although Tanager would be laid to rest now, there was a second, headless corpse to be disposed of. This next pyre would not be made for honoring Jim, and would be seen by no one but the most barren of trees.
  4. wan

    The Crustacean Menace

    Fëanor decided his luck was poor. Scales littered the workbench before him, their sizes varying: shimmering teal, miniscule; ink-black, large as a dinner plate. These spoils were the bounty of the serpent-kin which surfaced through his family’s history: the Droquar from Atlas’s early years, the lubba, now wyverns. He was poor in luck but rich in scales, and this made him cross. These scales were not worth the loss of good Tanager, whose life was snatched away by the jaws of the wyvern. Not worth the loss of his father’s arm. The bounty had been mighty, yet the scales could never outweigh the omen which draped over his shoulders and bore down on his back. It had been only a month since his mother spoke of mortality: that he would yet outlive her and others. Just less than a month he had spoken of this (in part) to his father, and now his father too had a brush with death. Too many other omen-words drifted into his forethought. The elf had enough. Serpent-coin, flames, mallet and anvil: all of these would drown the premonitions, these shadows of his mind out. The forge of Aegrothond was hotter for the following week, as the young smith sought perfection by the flames and by his own hands, weaving scale bounties into wondrous armor. “You are an inheritor of action,” someone had told him, long ago.
  5. wan

    The Firelands Campaign: Missive

    IGN: wearenumberwan Character Name: Feanor Sylvaeri Nation/Group Representing: Self/Small Settlement Are you a leader of this group (If Yes, please list your discord information below): Cause for joining the Campaign: Previous interactions with undead and other beasts at the Ice Walls. Previously Interacted RP (Malevolence - Firelands p3): N/A
  6. wan

    [Bounty] Mutant Hog | Challenging

    An elf in sea-faring garb snatches up the missive, and with his free hand eyes a set of obscure scrolls. He thinks darkly and thinks of his crew, and the challenge presented. He writes up a reply in moments. “Gideon Eustice – crew of the Red Dawn shall see this done. I shall make arrangements with you. -FS”
  7. wan

    The Evil Seed of What You Have Done

    Beneath the charred roots, an elf wondered, and for a long time whispered of anticipations, his gaze set to the stars between the foliage above.
  8. wan

    Guy with swiggly fingers

    Thanks, Bio-Domes! Very cool.
  9. Eight souls upon a vessel with crimson sails milled about the deck of the Red Dawn. The wood beneath their feet, a too-pale color for the work they sought to carry through, but bright enough that the blistering heat of the sunlight was less agonizing for those with bare feet. Out here, hours away from any shore, the craft was a bright and red spot in the open sea: a target. These elves were here not for fishing, but revenge, and hunting. It was but a year ago they had been assailed on a meager fishing trip. A small boat, made bent and broken by the mother-serpent they had offended. The crew, six then, had assaulted its child and drew its mother out. The beasts returned to sea as quickly as they had come, though not without damage to the small boat and to one crew member, Leyne. The crew returned to the Isles, and now they were at sea, with a vessel thrice as large and bearing small ballistae, and a larger crew. Hours away from land and their bait was warmed and soon ready to spoil. The captain of the vessel took note of this, and hailed the crewman who secured their bait: Annil. The proud hunter had secured a most vile bin of wolf’s innards, primarily the gut. Out at sea, this was a scent rank enough to cause the weakest of constitutions sickness over the side of the craft. "Annil, have you chummed waters before?" Fëanor Sylvaeri hails. By now, the elf was much a portrait of his ancestor Eleron, once a shipwright. It was a plain thing to see for elves who knew the fallen prince, but to the crew of the vessel, this was no new thing. Always, those elves of Sylvaeri blood took well to the sea. “Oh, uh, don't you just chuck it over?” Annil, the hunter of the wolf’s guts. An elf older than half the crew, but whose appearance suggested elsewise. “You just chuck a **** ton of meat and blood over the surface.” Elros of the Silma, here to accompany young elf Damien and in part oversee the success of the trialing elf Annil. One of the veteran crewman, too. “Aye, pick a side,” the Sylvaeri called again. The gore was prepared, and Annil took to the port-side railing of the vessel, just beside the center mast. Annil rose his voice, urging the crew to be prepared. The elves assumed the wait would be short, for they were likely to attract the ire of their prey. Be it the heat of the sun, the impatience of Annil or the weight of the wolf-guts, the elf delivered the chum out across the railing and into the sea, bloodying the waters. They would wait. At first a few minutes, but the heat soon boiled their tempers. One of the crewmen nearly sparked a fight, insisting the youngest of the elves, a lad of fifteen years take to smoke from his pipe. The crew and captain’s attention were set upon the argument, and this they would regret, for they had forgotten the speed of the creature. A great fin broke the surface of the water some fifty meters out. The elves were quick to notice, but less so to act. Before the crew and captain had fully prepared, the mother-serpent had struck the starboard-side of the Red Dawn, and revealed her unpleasant visage. She was met, not with tears and meager arrows, but harpoons carved with runes, carrying upon their speartips the wrath of the elements. Yet the serpent-mother’s wrath was great and terrible, for these elves had attacked her child and invited her to these waters with a bloody promise of food. She would have her fill, a way or another. A harpoon struck her flank, and sent the large beast wailing, thrashing between the rigging and railing. The vessel tipped with her great weight, tossing the elves who sought to take aim upon her. Bloodied sea water stained and filled the deck from starboard side. The sun, blinding as the glimmering scales reflected light upon the crew only served to contribute to the bolts and arrows which flung off course, deflecting off the thick scales of the beast. She would not avoid the clerical light of Delmira which exposed flesh on her neck, blasting scales free. Bloody desperation, attempts to gouge the young elf Damien and too Turge and Elros sent the thrashing serpent-mother to the deck of the Red Dawn, further towards the port-side of the boat. Any elf within her path was certain to be felled or torn apart by horns or teeth. For her thrashing, Elros had gouged the sea-mother’s left eye, thus hurrying her escape towards the sea, Elros certain to tumble over. Leyne, narrowly avoiding the hungry beast’s wrathful maw, was sent to the deck of the ship, certain to be dragged off after the beast, for her rope was still leading to it. Already her vigor for sea-serpent blood had dazed her. It would take the efforts of the cleric to free her from the rope, which soon was scooped up by the captain. In the chaos, Damien narrowly avoided the wrathful mother’s horns and for it received a long gash, though not without wounding the creature in her escape, where scales had been torn apart by Delmira. Damien was saved then by Turge, but as for Elros, he and Fëanor tumbled into the rigging of the boat. A great snap was heard, the mast and rigging soon beginning to tumble seawards. Gore and scales littered the deck in the beast’s death-throes. A bolt from Annil upon a port-side ballista struck true into the beast. The crew and Elros, safe upon the deck, reeled back as the boat flung back to starboard side. The serpent-mother tumbled over, gravely wounded, and after her followed the elf captain. Fëanor arced one arm above, a mace with four hooked flanges in one hand and delivered the mortal blow to the serpent-mother in their descent to the waters. He would not recount his fight with death to the crew just yet, but this he said later to a denizen of the Isle. "I tumbled o'er into the sea and plunged my mace into its flank. I felt and saw it bled and die, and I tumbled, over and over into the bloody froth and foam beside the boat. Dark, corrosive, bloody. Pain in my lungs from lack of air, in my side from the lightning that struck me... I live, yet. The taste does not come out yet. I can still smell the blood." Leyne took it upon herself to tear the captain free of the rigging as the crew panicked in their bloodied state. Annil, against his own fear of the sea, experienced bravery if only to save this elf. It was difficult to spot the elf beneath the corpse of the serpent-mother, and he had not counted upon Leyne’s assistance. Either way, the crew and captain were whole, and ever quickly tiring. Just as swiftly as it had come, the creature now would float dead beside the craft. It would take hours to be prepared for a return trip home, in large part to Kharris’s devotion to the steering, but ultimately they were victorious: the lubba mother was dead, and its child an orphan at sea.
  10. wan

    Grudges Settled

    Within a warm pavilion, Fëanor Sylvaeri relaxed into an oaken seat. Retirement away from the mainland had done him well, and the news brought a deep, satisfied grin to otherwise vaguely solemn features. He regards the statuette of Belka, a small likeness to the long fallen monument of the same goddess carved in the Kal’Omith temple to the Brathmordakin. An elf though he was, it was Kal’Omith which was his first home, and he missed it dearly. Never again would he walk those halls, but the grudge which until now festered in his heart finally settled. He would rest easier in the coming weeks, but not before he would toast. If only to himself. “Narvak oz Urguan.” He had letters to write.