Ryanark

"May that be the revenge that Veletz has so desired. In the end, so will thee be dust." Ahnakriel spoke scornfully in his fiery chamber of flaming gold— the fallen forget the war, yet the Nephilim remember. Always.

Bēowulf combed his beard for the occasion.

"'Ker like him come along only once in a few hundred years." Ahnakriel lamented over some ur'ba in his fiery chambers, the Azdrazi shortly recalling the bloodlusting memories that passed, "I shall await his reincarnation patiently." the undying Nephilim mused under a breath, relaxing in his little burning hole, putting the fire-cucumbers back onto his eyelids.

A genuine thanks for being such an incredible ST and dungeon master; every one of your events that I participated in was top-class in engagement and sheer fun. This server is in short supply of people like you. My friend, I hope the future only brings you joy and good fortune. Thanks again.

“No one escapes fate— especially not the lucky. You know we do not rest.” Ahnakriel forewarned in burning words.

Raphaiel sighed, reading the agenda in the square of Winburgh, witnessing the flags and banners changing before his eyes: turning away to return home.

"Will there be peace in our time, or will the Haenser war machine clamor for greed, and ravaged lands under the guise of righteousness?" Raphaiel wondered out loud, his hearth of war still burned and swayed with each passing moment.

"Tremendous." Raphaiel muttered, a tear blissfully rolling down his cheek.

Raphaiel stood atop the walls of Petra, his battle raiment donned and having intruded the walls of Petra, watched the chaos ensue. One of those, being the final stand of Sigismund. "A commendable effort." he awarded, after seeing the lone man felled. "Terrible shame his leaders won't show the same honor and valiance as he." Raphaiel slowly shook his head, leaving it at that. Then, he returned to holding perimeter, the man's death upon his mind for the rest of the night.

"Made your father and your blood proud, you have." Raphaiel murmured deeply, claws trailing the missive.

"This was an insane prestige hit." Raphaiel mused before the board of Inquisition Kings 3.

ok who was the wise guy

Raphaiel buys the box set of assorted Veletzian ballads, enjoying them by the fireplace.

"Five mina." Raphaiel bid, waving the bid sign calmly in the square of Veletz.

Is this the sigma the prophecy foretold?

Raphaiel brandished his BrascaLite BR-10, eager to show the adulterers what true death looks like.

"These orcs fight mighty hard. I would tremble in my boots if I was a poor Haense boy." Raphaiel mused to himself, carving out skulls of the Coalition members he has killed so far.

Raphaiel de Weit ran a fleeing Haeseni soldier-boy down, slicing his saber across his back - a cold touch of death began to chill his spine. Then, the next fell. Perhaps the rest of the battle was a blur, recalling the bloodstained finale with glee.

"Like crabs. Do you like crabs?" Raphaiel asked himself, looking across into the mirror as he ate a meal of fine lobster. "What say you, we put them all in a bucket and watch them fight?" He suggested to himself, slipping a piece of meat into his mouth. "I quite like this place," he smiled as cannon fire shook the candlelit dungeon.

If karim has million fans, then I am one of them. If karim has ten fans, then I am one of them. If karim has only one fan then I'm THAT ONE. If karim has no fans, then that means I'm dead. If the world is against karim, then I am against the world.

"It ain't all too bad," Raphaiel de Weit reassured down to a poor Veletzian kid at his side, "You know our fathers before us were war criminals too? They used to sing.. No Kings but Us." He intoned, trailing off into a long-winded history lesson.

An elden Blackvale mercenary read the maxims over his morning ur'ba, Hannes' soul warmed inside.

Ahnakriel's attention was caught by the missive blowing through one of his windows, gently landing upon the ashen windowsill among the fires and cinders, his clawed hands eased the missive under and into his palm, his fiery blazing gaze beheld the paper page and its dull format. The Nephilim's eyes lingered for a moment, perhaps stuck in some glue for what the immortal had witnessed, a certain incomprehensible word. . . His free hand lingered, and his steps led him to the drawer in his cavern of a home, from which he brandished a pencil marked with the old Imperial sigil upon one of its sides. Propping up the missive to the sharp and jagged walls of his home to use it as an implement to incur a stable surface to write upon, tracing a circle in one of the farflung corners of the missive's page to ensure the graphite was fresh and ready to stay on the page. Then, his clawed hand, pen inside, hovered over to the title, crossing through a word. Cradled just under the one specific word, a correction, if you would call it so; "Their." the Azdrazi wrote.

Ok you're goated