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About Boruto

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    Kill the boy and let the man be born.

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  1. On the matter of a terribly prevalent folktale Indexium Lupus, vol i, on the extermination of the beast, M. Horst writes; “In Aeldin, among the village-folk of Emyth and Maeyr were preserved plenitudes of old and erroneous traditions on the subject of mythology and beasts of the legend, and not seldom did they speak of dead souls who after death are convicted to straggle hither and thither over the continent to be rid of their curse, or who live an impertinent life in their passing in the crypts as vargs, or lykanthropists. The folks’ beast, as witnesses maintained, slept in the grave with wide staring eyes; his nails grown into excessive lengths, in that they are almost talons, and his hair burst into thick sprouts of mane. When the aberrant is alleged to have fled his place of sepulture thus, the remains are earnestly unearthed; if it be in a juncture of adulteration or decline for the clergyman to drench it in blest water; if it be pure and pale-complexioned it is subject to purification, whereupon a sharp stake is thrust through and through its ribs lest it thrash forth and provoke bloodshed. In other smaller parts of the continent, lead was to be riddled upon the head of a carcass and then burnt entire, firmly believing that in doing so will shun the crows of decay, who then wing hurried away in awe of the profaned flesh.”
  2. she ******* BETRAYED me...

    1. Jentos



  3. Boruto

    Jackal Sect

    [!] A young man, schooled in service to the Sect, came to bear the guild's insignia. It would depict their pennant, signifying the end of five-years in training, and the transition from fledgeling to Jackal. Upon its iron was engraved the youth’s name, and the plight from which he had been inducted; Bedrich of Morce, an orphan of war.
  4. A jaded, greek man screeches, rotting within the confines of some trash clustered room, biting and gorging away at the remnants of leftover pizza. “No. . NO. . NOT AGAIN. .” the man would be left haunted, risen to the core by the sheer horror of evoked flashbacks dating to a time not quite immemorial. Nah, give this hard a miss please.
  5. Boruto

    Jackal Sect

    One, disarmed child in stained threads and a state of hygiene to be pitied, stiffened up, lugged his shortsword, then lashed out for the third time at the trunk of an inanimate scarecrow. It stared him back, silent as the moon, with a loose smile cleft upon its wood. ”Tragic thing . .” the battered figurine grumbled in, unannounced.
  6. she took the kids..

    she took the ******* kids

    1. Barrio_Tales



  7. One, reverent, god-fearing man recited the prayers, then set out to fulfill the holy duties bestowed upon him. For maybe then would the miscreant be cleansed of sin, and amend that which he had erred against God. Maybe then would he appease, and make proud the lone creator. W̶h̴a̵t̷ ̶h̶o̶g̵s̴w̷a̴s̴h̵.̷ ̴S̸i̷n̶n̵e̸r̵s̴ ̶a̵r̸e̴ ̸n̷e̶v̸e̴r̷ ̴s̴h̷o̴w̷n̴ ̴p̴e̸n̸i̴t̵e̶n̸c̷e̸.̷
  8. I wonder when this aussie bogan’s gonna see my app 🤔

    1. Show previous comments  2 more
    2. ScreamingDingo


      no it's too late

    3. Boruto


      **** . . . 

    4. Lirinya


      It’s known that bogans can’t actually read

  9. “A r e y o u c o l d . . e l d e r o n e ?” Horror. A mirage of visions, tainting sights and distorting the mind. Attainment, or fulfilment. A fool’s paradise, some pretentious arcadia. Contradictions; an unsightly pandemonium. K̴̰̲̰̦̠͓̳̰̪̞͔̩̥̳̖͈͉͖͎͙̍̃̈́̎͂̓͑́͑͆̀̀̆̔̈́̍̅̌͌̽̆̔͌̐̿̑̔͋͆́͋̽͂̕͘̕͠͠ͅnowledge and̴̢̫͈̯̣̰̗̫̝͙̬̘̭͍̤̙͈͇̗̜͒̑̎̽̎͗̅̽͋́̄̿̀̒̉̋͐͐͘͜͝ madṉ̵̜͖̥͈̳͈͎͖̏͆͐̓̈́͛̿̐͘͘ess are ở̵̢̛̛̮̝̲̪̮͇̯͓̖̫̘͚̞͉͇̼̝̯͓̮̟̇̎̃͋̃̂͐͊̾̒͛̅̒̏̇͗̑͑͌̅̄̅̉̈̎̄͋̈́̅̈̂̽̆͋̐̎͌͑͂̈́̄͐̌͊̓͆̒̈̅̿̀́͆͋̿̌̀̒̌̄̈́̌́̀̈́́̀̏͘̕̚̕̚̚͘͝͝͠͝͝͝ͅne of̴̢͚̦͎͔̖̹͖̪̦̖͕̼̖̫̆́̍̊̋͑́̒̍̍͊͂̾̇͘͠ͅ the same. Delve ţ̷̡͈͖̲̙̫̞͔̲̦̰͓̬͕̜̖̰͓̝̲͍̍̃̅͂̆̋̈̒̈͌̍̾̋͂̀̈́̇̐̽̌̾̈̆̕̚͘͝͝͠͝ͅoo dę̸̡̖͖͎̹̺͕̮̥̪͓͚̯͖̥͓̠̫̳̮̓̏̈́̅̓̾̂̈͛̊̇̒̒̿̃̽̑́̈́͋́̓̎̈́̚̚͘͘͜͠ͅep, and you shal̶̢̥̼̬̤̼͖̺͙̬̱̬̬͈͚̪͔̣̫̬̓̆̐̾̔̍̍̊̇̈́͆̇̃̾̇͝ͅl never ę̴̝̖͖̭͙̯̬͈̦̖̮̭̹̻͇͎͉͉̗̲̩͇̣͂͑̅̽ͅm̷̰͈̬͕̤͕̹͇̘̬͉͈̳̻̺̮̠̱̥͕̟̪̩̊̆̾̔́͒̀̐̃̇̈̐͆͛̍̕̕͜͠͝͠͝ͅerge. One, weary man, a sufferer of the great war, a gravedigger, a bastard born of a negligent maiden and a mad father, and a man who bent forbidden sacraments woven of virgins’ blood; Emreis, a man so accursed and drownt in wretch that the gods had deemed him undeserving of a fair death, and so he stood, clustered of the psyche and mind. Hedged in a strange dread of that which he could not see, nor hear. Indeed, he was distraught. He believed himself to be some freak, a sort of an aberration, a half–mad creature through whom the gods — or the devil — may begin howling suddenly. Or he may abruptly keel over in a trance, lifeless of the body and glassy-eyed, only to recover from the unseen realm of myth with some preposterous demand, not at all in keeping with conventional civil manners. The man’s primitive fealty is to the spectral dimensions, not to the civilisation. He lay awake in the midst of an obscured bog, traversed from the earthly ground by rites he had chosen to meddle in, but should not have. For, was it not known, that not everything is for man to dabble in, and not every bloodlet scribing is meant to be unearthed? Is it not prevalent, that the preternatural and those who skulk under its umbrae, are not to be incensed, or provoked? Oh, but man’s curiosity had often led to their own demise. And it is by their own rash insight, that they tramp and raze their very own destinies, to dust and fallen ashes. But there, in another unearthly dimension, a marsh bristled, and a man counted his deeds. A peculiar wind whistled through its very pith. That man, a planeswalker of the olden remnants; a man so old, his age had turnt him unto an utterly raving lunatic, was shaken. To his relicly bones, and to an unbeating heart that cradled within his frame. He shivered, from what he saw. The vile blood in his veins boilt and churned within dying nerves, petrified by the foul gore that lay in place of the mud, in that cryptic swamp, in an unknown cosmos, far removed from any of the ill-meant monks. But he was flustered. Abashed by that which he had blindly witnessed. He knew not of what aggravated him, but it swept at his skin, touched his life. He sat there, fondling a limb he had torn of a pagan man. For although he was a man of many heresies himself, he feared God. He sinned, he cursed, and he stole, but yet held a great reverence for he who lies in the edge of the skies, throned. In hopes that one day, such a god, if he existed, would grant him salvation. But what was it that shook this star, instilled such fear in a man so dilapidated by age? What secrets do these realms harbour, that we do not know of? Ghouls, Vodniks. . yet, no. Something else thrived, astir within the fields of these woods. It had been roused from its slumber. The stench of gutters was rife, the carcasses of butchered dogs were lynched from atop high trees. The man, frothing in the mouth, drank of a decoction that would soothe the ache. But he would then be frozen, stiff in place. He didn’t move. He couldn’t have. But time flew, and so did he. He shunted, and split that planetoid. For the second time, he fled the monstrosities that soared the cosmos, the otherworldly forces that would seize any chance to latch unto the man, and tear him apart, feed him to dying stars, or the craving chasms that dine on stars. Soon, the man had found himself upon a sinister crypt, deep within its forsaken ruins. An empty catacomb. But, as he looked around, they weren’t intact. In the sense that, every tomb was without its slab. They were pushed over, some broken, others nowhere to be seen. Old skulls, barren of flesh, of botched and murdered men, were glaring. The seer trod on, and glanced at the first of them. It was an unrecognizable cranium, mutilated beyond recognition. Mere bones, ground to smithereens. The next few were of the same. But as he advanced, the faces seemed more and more fresh. Their faces could now be discerned, corpses identified. They were of men and young women. All of whom had met their demise at the wretch’s own hands. He resumed the walk, unfazed, if only a little. Faces that were battered by rocks, others that were etched upon by broken daggers. Then, at the end of the walk, rested children. Infants, stillborns whom he had unknowingly killed within the wombs of their ravaged mothers. He reached down, to touch the babe, but it slowly scattered, and he could hear only its miserable cries. Guilt. It wrapped the man, like a pelt of his own, flayed skin. A madman can only kill so many, until he sees the blood on his hands.
  10. enslave me. . thrash away at that tragic, ruthful soul of mine.
  11. truly, an incredible man whose genius and versatile sense of combat holds no equal amidst manly and elven empires alike. T-the adrian butcha. .
  12. Some dying farmer, somewhither amid his blood savaged ranch, applauded the valour of such a poet. A final breath was drawn, and the man was soon reaped of his woeful life with a most piteous smile. ”The stars. . the heavens. . look how they beckon you so sweetly.”
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