Hephaestus

Long live the Crows of Carrion

PROSPECTIVE BACHELOR FORM IGN: Remeron Name: Crumena of Kamees Age: 800 Place of residency: Lives in your head, rent-free Bank account balance: Xan's Light Hobbies: Xan, finding a fertile wife, finding a fertile wife that's high elven, finding a fertile wife that's a high elven female. One interesting fact about yourself: I am infertile. Why should Tatiana choose you?: I am infertile.

"To Petra, then I came;" WAS said of one, wretched philistine –– at that burgonet and scalp of his, wherewith its crest deigned herald a mane of hoar locks, laden by the brand of many a snows, he took unto himself the liberty of pressing to an incline, in the dip wrought of it; unseaming the stoic steeliness in its naves verily to a permeating lower. "… Met with a host, ever retching, and writhing at the wick of its spine; where it came to tell a haunting tangle of vile psalms." THITHER, even should he have encumbered those age-stricken lineaments of his, surmised there be a strait reckoned betwixt either a lip, wherein blister unto blister concurred its long fester for a malady, parting thus to cede his rasps to a resounding query: "Whence cam'st thou, thing of the Long Death's diaspora?" BUT he sought no adage of the loathing, lichen thing, making harken of the abject horrors he, himself, let curdle to gauge the very iniquity of the sacrament. "Whence cam'st thou, host aught clad in sable; and, shalt ye' smite the men of Petra, even shall their counts amount to fifty-thousand and threescore?" LO', that whither the time tolled unto the mass of men, accoutred in vice, a grievous thing became of the tenebrous sum. Of its churning surfeit, surely there rapt a great several tendons of pure, fructuous black, even did it take a dark so wicked, it surmised be greater than that of the Sunless Sky. Time's pendulum yearned be drawn, in that indomitable scene, and the men of Petra reckoned their come to kindling, two eyes in the blackness thither. Even, did that abomination claim each last corner, and countenance of the liturgical chamber, and anointed the thanes of this congregation in a nefarious malaise, in drawing shade hereof. BUT nary a one of them betrayed their lord, nor quenched his malady. "You art come on the wings of Death then, Lich?" TOLD one amongst them, in the moment whence he gawked so long into the abyss, that it were beckoned, that the abyss stared back. "Then, it is true; we are the secret." AND then, there drew a quietude.

UNTO that bank and shoal of time, carrions beckoned unto their stow, the guile of tide after tide 'lo the very zeniths of cool current. Forsooth, hie their winged effigies flout the skies, fanning the manifold a straits of cerulean unto the horizon cold. It were but one, that challenged this uniform murder; this congregation of doves anointed at pigments an ebony –– a mere one, nary a last other, gawking long about THALON'S air, 'till the apotheosis of its lithe would beget it be moored to the tract of fetid earth then. NESTLED lowly to the dim breast, thither procured the crow its notice. Per'aps, the very last vestiges for abase tidiness yearned be branded to that particular notice; nor, its presentation sought be any saccharine. It were nary ever furbished of the plight thereof time, for certainly, the livid mark of the yugas whither became litigated unto the device, thus it came to tell; "Hark, LORD THALON, and due partisans [be any there, present]; So certainly, we have exchanged word and broken bread under the same threshold, near naught past even a saint's night ago. I will deny naught of the crass greed that serves be my malady, forsooth if ye' wilt hearken closely; what be at your wield avails, thither myself, an absolute necessity –– even shall I smite threescore men, flour unto bread shall break once, and twice, and mayhaps, even thrice more between you and I, if ever need be, if that so equates to my heraldry of this antediluvian phylactery. Surely, death is bound to dawn upon you – as will it, dawn upon myself. Your folk are impotent, on matters of burdening the vestiges of their life –– their legacies, though be the times thereof, so long, and I daresay, perennial –– to the tireless wield of another, by rite of blood. Hie, vanquishment reproaches. And, my knowings surmise you are without the potency either to mould kith of flesh and marrow; be not a fool, to be away with your life, with not begetting its memory unto another. Consider my proposition, and even in death, you shall remain live, and your spirit shall rapt, skipping nary a last beating at the heart. Yours in practice, Tybis of Man."

Disappointed my tenancy within the Story Team under your leadership was shortened so significantly. In any matter, I always thought you were a just admin to ever have the pleasure of working under. Sleep easy.

abort. abort. ABORT.

yes the other arab approves

What was the spark of ingenuity that provoked you to write the Torah?

FOR surely in surfeit thereof, it were rapt and heralded, but the diaspora for yet the age implied of the individual it wrought the countenance of, great markings for his ill-acquainted lineaments, that of an old man; older than time itself –– or at least, so were it suggested to his fetid appearances, at founder in flesh, and all that a tissue that yet pertained hereof –– for to reap of a sure show for his joviality closely. Thenceforward, a dynamic smile were shunted in lip appendages, hearkened the sentence for a great blister in its presiding bounties; whence had a sum for ridges creased and ringstraked of his maw, with its dole descent for yet merriment and pride. HOWEVER were he of carbuncle fluids, for which coursed through and betwixt silica in a siphoning conduit, lodged to the constraints of his ashen deformities in limb here and there, one IPOS reckoned the age-old augur of the SAVOYARD claim, hoar to either an eye declaring aroynt as had sheen moored thereof in a jaded roll herein. Certainly, though, thus the gesture were of aught but ennui. "Very well then, Eshænveurd. Rise from the ground, however have the ruins of your dynasty been salted, so that no good could become of them." IT were one of envy. "Undvalla."

zoo-wee-mama!

Mayhaps, not quite here; not quite there. Presiding over nary a dark, nor light. And ever entranced, and certainly, led astray in that regard, claiming and boasting a tenebrous veil, art projection of th' wayward Illatian spirit. And, ever in its slighting; the assuage, to its fervent waning, and the ardour, for which served the prerequisite thus, it were nigh perennial –– smouldering flax, he did not quench, nor either, a bruised reed, he relinquished thereof. Surely, he had upheld, that an unbridled force of the long relieved man, what an epithet he held, in his epoch about the waking world –– the Old Adversary, and… the Herald of Sacrilege; the like. Lo' where had he fastened in his constraints, as had shackles and trammels impeded his degenerate tract, transgression coursed ever of the precincts he assumed to his worldly mind, –– per'aps, lack thereof, to consider his findings –– susurrations but an inhale, and exhale indicted of his waylaid miasma: indeed, had claimed of it, a harrowing tribulation. But, were this miasma of he at lack of scent? No; had it only but seemed aught a just truth, to consider he lingered of other domains –– far… far darker. Umbrage foundered of its tendons, exigent as had it made initiative, thus it unseamed him, the primeval surplus of a man long beyond commission, from th' naves to the chops. Victor walked, surely –– treading of his machinations, the causeway of what had been assumed his Hereafter. Agony: per'aps, that were one variable that death were at naught a liberty for obliging the relief to, as not per the consideration of the melancholic malediction of his spirit, feigning of the creature's ruse in physicality, no accoutrement of flesh, surely. This were no praxis of the creed he boasted of his piety, in wake. No praxis, whence the war rages all throughout its armistice. No praxis, whither the world ceases to be, but ever the cosmos to encumber oneself, as had trudged thou of the elder lunar body, of the Moon itself. And certainly, no praxis whence ailment and pestilence prevails in pitied death, writing of its exegesis', in a new beginning promised the vanquishing hereof. Right reverent and worshipful, Victor sifted of the buffalograss volumes to the bitter air of recoil to his likeness, spirit seeping through and betwixt the vesicles in particle matter of the very world itself. He devised none but the very worst in his mind, as came ember that a divined likeness of knowledge its kindle of the man's subconscious. Thenceforward, had wish washed over he, the ill-begotten Illatian, even in the Hereafter, the wishes for drawing of tongue –– but appendage for the release thus in either a lips, confirmed rebuttal to the devices of the metaphysics that governed his domain, it had seemed, and he could not spare the troubles. And adamant, and quiet, his air became. Not a wavelength; not a chirp. Not a psalm of his wicked disposition were pardoned of the man's lethargy, ever dictating his presence one of abdicating silence. Surely perhaps, that would relieve the abhorrent quality of his spirit; sentenced to its rouse in walking… and walking… and a torment of bone marrow, as had he tired about his throes, besetting of them, a great strain, in recurrent deuteronomy. Pace, after pace –– after pace. But, what of the world he trekked for his conquest? The world, that had come of his waking in the after-death? Per'aps just, at no liberty were he of determining. Ever shifting, but a most definite walking; immutable, and indentured a servant to the tides of the esoteric Stream, weaving a distortion of his close vision. A man with sure eyes, after all, may still be verily blinded. The kindles of the sky hadn't their extinguishing, just quite then, –– coeval a scathing iris' to Aerial reckoning of its surveillance, in long scrutiny oft the hour; the abiding, undying hour. He walked of the bounties surveyed in hearty sight -– for if were this none but yet the demiurge hereupon. Certainly, knowings of the divine Aengul were without their presence –– were Victor, without knowings of this mighty image –– of gnostic piety. For, in the face of the esoteric entity beyond his veil of zeal, if it was that which branded his countenance not a likened fright at the very fleeting image thereof, then one hadn't the least idea whatever were. Time is relative, had he imbibed of his destitute, forlorn mind, that a pleading lament. At least, when he were of his youth, in bygone time, that is. But, in fact, that a truth persisted, as he assumed dole in having tread the grasses of his afterlife, perhaps without quantifiable mirth, to consider the circumstances he had been assumed under. One may choose to believe, as they wilt, but there was no rebuttal of the fact, Victor's sentencing would be not one of haste nor times that a sojourn. Behold, that no: were this no insignificant sabbatical, nor a pilgrimage. Rather a verdict, as the cosmic court adjourned, that he would remain ever of the pain he was subjected that a day. "As saith the proverbs of old…" Then, to his view, came a brilliant light, far and without its definition in the sky; a great fire, for which had smote fifty-thousand, and threescore winds in its wake. He had his weariness, and his knowings, of whomever that a shooting gleam was: "… Do not thou this folly." And his frown grew manifold then.

This Lore has been accepted. Moved to Implemented Lore, it will be sorted to it's appropriate category soon. Please note that if this is playable lore, such as a magic or CA, you will need to write a guide for this piece. You will be contacted regarding the guide (or implementation if it isn’t needed) shortly.

i believe so i can, as a matter of fact I would like to cite just reading quite often as the main benefactor for my ability to write, but that would be a lie –– mostly, I have an affinity for theology, and especially esoteric poetry and scripts of such nature. Music, and other similar forms of media factor in, as well.

i'm supercool 😎

You get a worse rep than you deserve. All my interactions with you, as both a player, and a friend, have been some of the best I could have ever had in my years and years on the server. With that said, yes — you are (however, dastardly in your schemes) a player with huge ambitions I can only admire, and a welcoming one, at that. fyodor because he cares for the well-being of those whom he is fond of (music teachers are strange people).

woah there –– monks monks

monk-s.

this is my native trade; it is pure wealth in and of itself not soon i am managing a startup dedicated to the research of neuroscience, to develop funny innovations that will stop the elderly from going verbose (i am a student, full-time) you made me into a very strong orc man; i owe you yeah, man it brings me no pleasure to say, yeah sometimes. It would appear so. because i need something to make up for my dickishness crude oil If you must

i would like to say, monks.

HELLO. Hephaestus writes sometimes. Ask me anything (no stupid questions [there is a criteria {you will be considered and judged based upon this criteria}]).

"Your ardour, for to desecrate a just name, is without acclaim, should I so say–" Shrouded below a blanket of stars to the backdrop of dim fray an outwardly, about the picturesque horizon, for which had so but illuminated in thus having been woven to a cling so, the Silver State's own Ihieuhii'thilln, the Breath of Silver, fashioned respite in a drawing for tongue, the sodden keep to which had so haunted in psalm, and reckoned by pure distraught, the outers of his coalescence, and that a heart and soul of his. However were it without common spawn, especially about the kindred of that 'aheral's theatre for a countenance, devoid much of the expressive gesticulate the norm would so assume and set to their employ, it were indeed so, that for the wrought and blight that gathered, his ivory likeness, a taut at either an eye, shrewd in its pools of amber that so bequeathed yet pigment, in stark contrast to the malaise that reigned otherwise, for hereupon had his eyes drawn short slits by svelte to their curtailment, in ***** squint over. As had his vision reduced, for its similar stow, were the man's vacancy in pallid a contours to his disposition, and thus its vacuous quality. For were his ire rooted to several a constants and under-earths –– he were irate, short measures from being seething with conflict, for the fact that were the legionnaires he sought claim to, some far lion days ahead, had been assumed but a tumour, to a vesicle that could not quite supported; he were irate, for and because of the fact that one whom traced his own ilk had thus humiliated so self, for the favour of propagating the superiority of a waylaid rival in blood; he were irate, for and because of the ersatz nature of his claims. And though were he anointed in the prospects of but abase a variety, and habits, Ihieuhii'thilln fathomed not the jaunting about, as did his unsound distress reverberate hither his jaded spirit. Tapered ends to either sabaton moored so themselves to the regency of cold soil, for as heed to the pivot that the sir made in his form, a march onwards and about. "And you, Celiasil, shall live to observe no theme resound that has not its superlative source in me, nor will any twist the humming about my despite. Justice is healing."