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Hephaestus

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  • Character Name
    Vladislav
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  1. ya mama (archons) Jokes aside, this is some gnarly ****. I always try to entertain the idea of a mage coming to realise the detriment of their feats.
  2. "DUNAMIS! DUNAMIS IN ESBEC!" IN the throes of an unabated mania, one begrimed peasant cantered out the solace and bounds of his farmhand home: hands flailing and splaying to and fro. For, in reel and rout, the fires of fry and brimstone razed the town to its very toes. "DUNAMIS IN ESBEC, I TELL YOU!"
  3. _____________________________________________________________________ _____________________________________________________________________ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvNRQPkgHTM FROM the precipice of the sea-girt peninsula that was FREEPORT, one lord of old retired himself to a seat astride a threadbare crate. For however his age, that thane's taut of flesh was nigh unfurling; his age undone; and, wanton pleats and creases folding to and 'twixt, and across his temples, vacuous jowls blanched with an unseemly pallor — a token of his pestilence. He ruminated pedantically, the odd ringlet of his hoar, crepuscular locks twining 'round his moribund, bedizened digits, nails unseaming from his own fingers in ceaseless torpor. HIS watchful, stolid cataracts laid bestead upon the wear and tear of one argosy ship's tatter-spangled, steepled sails, thrashing with the nigh tossing tempests and tides. Vistas of entropy and disorder opened up before him, languishing down the docks, whose stilts stood the tests of time, albeit begrimed and girded by the verdant sea's tongues of kelp and weeds. AND, he murmured only in a delirium's bout, to none but the sycophant, leaden wind: "WHAT SOLUTION DO YOU SEE FIT, SHEPHERD?" _____________________________________________________________________
  4. THE DUKE OF ADRIA propped a mauve halcyon flower at his breast, given his conspicuous invitation to the momentous occasion.
  5. In the basement of the house, learning from the Archon Dog

    1. Hephaestus

      Hephaestus

      Archon Dog.

  6. rsvp to dumapolooza, 5pm est tonight;

     

    • ✓ yes
    • ? maybe
    • ✕ no

  7. _________________________________________________ _________________________________________________ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0sflDPa9zY DIMPLES encroach either end of VLADISLAV's leaden maw, jowls stretched into the, albeit, lackadaisical and waylaid, semblance of a gregarious grin. Limelight ceded to his appallingly gilt-tinted teeth, canines waxing with jaundice, as if'; a heinous and appalling tone of yellow, whereby his gelid, kaleidoscopic eyes surveyed the missive — with awe and zeal in equal gusto. The gin-soaked CROW hacked, in a guttural cacophony, then deliriously raving, in the throes of a demented fit, melodically: "… I AM THE LORD OF BA-RROW; I AM THE LORD OF BA-RROW …! — … I TH' L'RD OF BARROW; ITH' L'D AF BA-RR'W…" _________________________________________________ _________________________________________________
  8. _______________________________________________________ _______________________________________________________ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FSmeV45Erw "… Savorm avhe fielduk ro damnaavion, mir agh plenavy—" ROWS of long-forlorn Uruk-hai took to brisk rout from the steppe of damnation, where the ground palpitated with discord and trepidation, and espoused the hoar vapours of dominion: it was WAR. A murder of jutting arrows capered the leaden winter's sky, estranging the indomitable battlements which girded 'round the range of Dâlzob Hûrûrz Mazauk, the incessant Planes of War, a mainstay of the Uruk Hereafter. The canter of hooves trilled all throughout the sunken prairie, souls languishing in perpetuating strife and disaccord; blades, rent and rusted how, flailing athwart the air, only afore meeting their assailant in grating cadence: wind-waking blares spelunking the bowels of that plane, on a terrific precipice which loomed precariously astride the boundless breadth of oblivion. MENNIROUS spoils of gore percolated into the haar-ridden sky, in piquant vermeil miasmas: sending an unceasing hebetude into the bowels of those Uruk-hai's souls. A deep rift blazoned the discordant steppe of Dâlzob Hûrûrz Mazauk, where hid then was a brook with pewter threads and festoons, where rills and brooks wind in deep, subterranean gorges through the glade. And, one legionnaire bade the shade that grotto had cast: lurching at its lip, a cleft of his face bedimmed. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FyPE0u2muE A PALLOR spilled into his sunken skin: much unlike any Uruk, countenance embellished by boils and blains, and the vestiges of discord: scars. His ears behooved the sides of his head, below his brass-wrought burgonet, long and kept to fine points, finding resolve in the nigh-winding tumult which stirred astride himself. He listened, craven and sullen, languishing in cowardice: vicariously scheming some, in the pits of that glade. The rout of the Uruk-hai harrowed his mind, where vistas of the waking world he once dwelled seemed to open fore him. GRISHNÂKH'RAGUK, THE USURPER REX languidly exhumed himself from that rift, thrust into the throes of war. And he knew only one phrase: "… LUTAUM KÛ'PAR UL-RIUK!" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgWQOEKu5p8 _______________________________________________________
  9. @Nectorist Goodbye, my brother in arms. It's high time you hung up your hat and called it a day.

     

    "Then Fingolfin beheld… the utter ruin of the Noldor, and the defeat beyond redress of all their houses; and filled with wrath and despair he mounted upon Rochallor his great horse and rode forth alone, and none might restrain him."

    1. Nectorist

      Nectorist

      You’ve always been a real one, brother. Will be finishing up my RP on Sigismund. Better see Vladislav

  10. @Eryane o7, good friend. I hope the road treats you kindly. 

     

    "I hail from beneath the sea

    and that great aquatic nursery.

    For I am but twenty-one years old,

    And from youth's throes, I escaped the watery below."

    1. Eryane

      Eryane

      you as well o7

  11. ___________________________________________________________________________ FAR from the bounds of the descendant realms, across a sunless strait which died into moors and firths in Old Rh'thor, a moribund contingent of YULTHARANS in the reaches west sulk. Their sullen faces did reap anaemic pallor, with dimples met at their jowls: their smirks razed, maws dilapidated wholly in nigh-unending melancholy. A mennirous odor boded the sea-girt grotto, that of GORE, as vestiges of the winter's gelid frost festooned the entrance to the hallowed cavern: ringstraked with viscera from corner to corner, in piquant vermeil rings. Word of the metaphysical had been in the tide, kept at bay no longer, sending the sages and learned men into their mania's throes. RAIN rilled and trickled astride the mountainside: autumn was in full swing, as a pallid red and tawny bled into the trees, and all life which enswathed the bounty, in all four corners of the peninsula. For, in the pits of their spirits, their melancholia reduced their once-busied spirits to naught. Ensheathed 'twixt the digits and dactyls of a long-inanimate cadaver, the final issue of the FILIUS PHILOSOPHORUM bade its stay — the root of the litter's tumult. THAT eve, the gaggle took sorrow and lament in the demise of their felled, discarnate god, who brought no fruits but the root of lunacy and delirium. They would mourn the SPOKEN SPIRIT. ___________________________________________________________________________
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