Apollyon

peak

In the midst of the night, a begrudged elfess would sneak over to the notice board and correct the spelling of her name to Apollyon with a piece of charcoal.

Your honor, but am just a lil guy

hello??? my inheritance ???

The Final Cut ✠────────────────────────✠ Night had settled softly upon the estate Lumia had built her while warm lamplight floated across those spruce floors and marble walls of her study, gentle and unintrusive as if afraid to disturb the quiet. Apollyon's harp stood proud where she had left it, in the corner beside the low stool, its strings still hummed faintly. A loose fold of her orange red robes fell across her lap, then, as she settled to the floor, knees beneath her, shoulders straightened not out of pride but habit. The raven-haired elfess inhaled, slow and steady the way she'd taught herself centuries ago. She would no-longer need the flame to guide her. She'd lived long enough with it that she knew its rhythm by heart and so the spark that had once roared inside her had softened this last decade, gentler than it had ever been and she wondered if that had been mercy or something else entirely. Her fogged, golden eyes rose towards nothing in particular, then following a warmth she'd no longer had the desire to cling to. Zephon, her spear would lay across her thigh. It had carried her farther than she ever meant to go and ever since she had it made, just less than half a century ago it had already taken its fair share of her in return. The ivory length gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Gold streaks of blightsteel flickered along the azhl head in quiet pulses as she drew it closer. Those three trophies hung from its shaft, the last requirements she had spent years before collecting which would have been used to chase a revelation only her teacher before her had reached. Thus she'd lift them with her metal hand. Her black ferrum fingers clicking softly where they met the bindings. The Zar'ei skull watched her with its dead shimmer of malflame, its tendrils frozen in a lopsided droop. It had once been a horror though now it only looked tired. A lesser trophy then hung beside it, battered and dim and another beside that. They swayed together gently, bone and metal tapping in rhythm like chimes in a breath of wind. She studied them for a long moment as the last remaining proof that she had played her part exactly as she said she would, even when so many of Malchediael's own had forlorn theirs before setting them down, letting her spear rest across her knees again. Her hand rose then as she felt the way that radiant fire curled beneath her skin, faint and familiar like the final warmth of coals before they cool to ash. Then a single thread of it lifted from her chest, thin and luminous, swaying in the still air as though unsure if it wished to leave. The Templaress touched Zephon's spearhead to the thread, its pale, golden light reflecting along its edge, soft as dawnlight against the black, polished metal. She'd guide the thread around the blade, weaving it with gentle, tender motions until it caught and pulled taut. The radiant thread strained. The trophies besides her pulsed faintly as if sensing the shift. The dim glow locked inside the Zar'ei skull trembled and flickered. Then she'd lift the spear, the thread snapping with a single, decisive motion. Light scattered like fine dust. the connection vanished. The warmth inside her chest quieted to nothing. The glow within the Zar'ei trophy winked out. ──────────────────── But there had been no pain nor hollowing, only the sensation of something long overdue finally ending and so the Once-Templar exhaled. She unbound the trophies from the spear one by one and placed them aside without reverence nor hatred. Then they'd lay still on the floor, neither burdens nor achievements. Just as remnants of who she had been. Zephon stood alone now. Apollyon rose then and moved to sit by her harp. Her fingers, flesh and metal brushing against the strings with grace as a soft note trembled from them. Then another followed and another, not quite music just yet but the start of something that might someday become it. The radiant fire had been her guide for fifty years but tonight she ended it on her own terms. Not defeated nor chased away, only finished. She played a final lingering chord and lifted her chin. The golden twin-voids of her eyes softened. The Angel had not survived nearly three centuries by clinging to the same shape and although the war was still out there she had now a life she'd carved out of the ashes of the abyss she'd endured. Yet tonight she had let the fire go. And in the quiet left behind she would remain. 𖤓

A lone figure sat by the campfire in Cerulia's camp, the flames licking shadows across the pale cut of their sideshave. Eyes closed, atronach fingers traced the strings of a lacquered lute, weaving Solenne's Tale into song... Solenne's Tale Where silence bends beneath the weight of grief walks the Warden of Solace.. Cloaked not in shadow but the pale flame of endurance, this being moves as though the earth itself has pressed it's burdens upon a single back and still- still it endures. Upon her shoulders lie the voices of the lost.. but they're not echoes for they're stones and chains of memories that trail behind her like roots of iron, binding each step to histories that will not relent. Yet no plea is denied. No burden is cast aside! For The Warden gathers all.., even those abandoned by the abyss- even mine. There is no crown here, no throne, only a diadem of pain worn like gold, and a cloak stitched from sorrow that's not it's own.. Such finery would crumble mortal flesh, but this figure wears it as skin, as breath, as marrow. And so the world whispers divinity, though no god ever asked to be born from suffering. Her flame is no sun, nor a blaze triumphant but an ember cupped against the void. It does not scorch the dark and nor does it banish it! Yet it glows.. faint and unyielding and against all reason it does not die. Even the abyss, eternal in it's hunger must pause before that quiet defiance... In her presence one sees not redemption but a silence that steadies the trembling hand. A reminder that despair can be carried if not destroyed. A lesson written in scars; that to walk broken is still to walk. That even a husk may bear the weight of a world, if only long enough for others to breathe. So I believe that to speak of Solenne is to speak of endurance itself. Of sorrow tempered into strength, of a figure both mournful and radiant.. The Warden of Solace bears all, asks for nothing and gives more than even the gods might deem possible and if such a being is not divine then divinity itself is hollow. And to those who look upon this burdened light, there remains but one truth: Solenne endures. Perhaps forever. And if the weight endures without end, then let it be known that within that endless burden, there is still love enough to carry it. Lumia appreciation post :) Happy birthday, Snow!!!

wish I’d known they played zomboid too.

Such a sweet soul. This is heartbreaking. Rest in peace, Pebbles. 🩷

RAHHHHHHH!!

nah thats crazy!!!

On the 11th of this Malin's Welcome, in the year 169 S.A. I, Apollyon Snowell, was viciously assaulted by two indivuduals in Dunwen's tavern. Below is my account of the events: Today, after completing the village expansion and housing project for Honorary Halflings, I entered the tavern upon hearing a commotion. Recognizing the voice of Nemae, an honorary halfling and mali'ame, I approached her with the intention of offering her one of my newly built homes. However, I was met with unwarranted hostility from both Nemae and ger grandfather. You might know him as 'Uncle'. Initially, I overlooked this hostility, attributing it to Uncle and the musin named Copper having sustained injuries. When I inquired about the situation, Nemae responded with the same hostility, hurling insults at me. Attempting to defuse the situation, I urged Nemae to put aside past grievances and tell me what had occurred, expressing genuine concern. Despite my efforts, Nemae remained hostile, threatening violence. Ignoring her threats, I recounted a previous incident involving Uncle's inappropriate behavior towards me. This escalation led to Nemae physically attacking me, prompting me to defend myself. As I retreated upstairs, I encountered a goggled goblin brandishing a knife, persumably associated with Nemae, and a young halfling girl hurling racial slurs. In the ensuing struggle as I tried to escape, I sustained injuries to my lower back and a stab-wound to my leg, despite my attempts to repel my assailants. Fortunately, King Patches and Moth intervened, Moth providing crucial medical assistance to my leg. I am grateful to Moth for their timely aid, which likely saved my life. However, I document these events to ensure clarity, especially when reported to King Cyris, Thain Mimosa and Sheriff Breasal and I refuse to tolerate further threats to my honorary status like I did the last time commotion like this occurred including Uncle and I. As the elder-appointed mayor of the Honorary Halfling village (which I have named Bestiesville), I request Nemae's honorary status be revoked and the goblin assailant be banished or disarmed. Despite the lack of a formal lawbook, I implore the authorities of our village to uphold justice and ensure the safety of all residents, including myself.

Official Lurinite Homeowners Guidebook Issued at year 168 S.A This guide is made to answer commonly asked questions regarding homeowning in the Serene State and to finally clarify some rules and regulations. On Getting moved in: To get yourself a home in Lurin all you need to do is first locate a Steward. To find out who they are look no further than the big tree in the square. When talking with a steward about getting moved into your own home you will be required to: - Endure a prick with an aurum needle by your steward. - Go through a short lecture/questionnaire regarding Lurinite culture meant to educate you on many Lurinite's beliefs and way of living - On Building Limitations: - Homes may not be altered to have basements. - You may not take down the sign that has your home's address. If you really don't like it's placement you may however move it. - You may not merge your home with another home. - You may not remove/change the outer walls of your home. This includes adding balconies, doors or windows that weren't already there. Examples and exceptions: - You may resize your door or exchange it for another one. - You may decorate the outside of your home however you wish while following the listed above. On taxation of homes: - Taxes are collected the first elven day of the week (ooc: Monday) and is paid with tax slabs. - Tax slabs can be bought in the bank/taxes building and have inscriptions that say their worth. Occasionally, you may also receive Social Tax Slabs from council members of Lurin that are given out freely to people who portray activity around the city. Apollyon Snowell Royal Consort and Minister of Interior

Apollyon would yawn loudly when she woke up in her own home in the Halfling village before getting up and washing off her face with soap and water before looking off to the side at that missive she'd picked up yesterday. She'd gasp as realization struck her before shoving it in her pocket and running out. "Cyris!" She hollered and there he was, the Halfling King himself who he shoved the missive too and pointed to the Pontiff's own signature. "'Et's his Hornyness..." A shit-eating grin formed on her face as she continued towards the big city. Once outside Lurin she'd stopped to peek into it's newest vassal Caledonia, where she soon located the purple head honcho himself Conor and waved the missive in front of his face. "'Et's- 'et's-" She'd WHEEZE then giggle madly as she let out in a whisper, the same bad joke for the second time that day. "His hornyness...." All that before hurrying to the gates of Lurin where she darted inside to locate that wife of her. She ran up and down the streets frantically, scouring the councils' chambers, the keep, the gatehouse, the keep again before finding her, finally, sitting at that old swing they used to go to. There.. she fell to her knees in the grass... crawling the last few steps to her, waving that same missive above her head. "Lumia!" she huffed and coughed before collapsing altogether... "heh."

Melding Silver with Iron Issued 168 S.A ARTICLE I: Sovereignty - The Most Serene State of Lurin and the Iron Horde hereby acknowledge each other's Sovereignty and governance over their respective territories. ARTICLE II: Mutual Defenses - The Most Serene State of Lurin and the Iron Horde hereby concurs to come to each others' aid should either nation suffer an attack of any kind. -Both armies are to cooperate in joint-training and organization in times of peace or war. ARTICLE III: Non-Aggression - The Most Serene State of Lurin and the Iron Horde hereby ensure each others' citizens' safety when moving between our lands, however, any traveling citizens will be obliged to endure a dark-spawn test if requested to. Anyone that defies Article III will be whitewashed and removed or meet similar punishment if stemming from Lurin. ARTICLE IV: Trade - The Most Serene State of Lurin and the Iron Horde hereby offer one another a tax-exempted stall should either nation want one to sell their choice of goods and wares in. -The Most Serene State of Lurin and the Iron Horde hereby open up their all their mines for citizens' of both nations to utilize as they see fit. ARTICLE V: Duration - This pact will last until Rex Grommash's resignation or death, however, it may also be declared null and void if either signatory violates any of the articles. Lumia Anarion Silver Lubba Edvard Kervallen Hand of the Lubba and Prime Minister of Lurin. Baron of Aevum Apollyon Snowell Royal Consort and Minister of Interior

RETURN OF THE FUNNY SLABS Issued at Year 165 of the Second Age As it turns out, the true taxes were the friends we made along the way! Social tax slabs are tax slabs like the ones you use to pay for your homes, the way to get these are merely by being social within the city at which point one of our super-duper council folk might give you one to reward you for being a Lurinite. The council-members in question being: - Lumia Anarion - Jon Snowell - Apollyon Snowell - Orion Tsecar, - Edvard Kervallen, These tax slabs each account for 10 minas worth of taxes. Meaning that you can pair them easily with normal tax slabs or pay your taxes entirely with social slabs. Royal Consort and Minister of Interior

first

Mimi :)

Apollyon Snowell wants to borrow 5 bucks

[!] A missive has been nailed into the door of every citizen of the village of Dunwen. MISSING: MANGO NECTAR Growing up as Sutican on Arcas, I Apollyon Snowell, would every day upon waking up drag with a rope my chest of unfathomable wealth to the Tavern in our square. There, every single day I would buy out as much Mango Juice as the tavern-keep would allow. After years of this, our main tavern-keeper Pruinae Tathvir had me pay her to just make barrels-full of Mango Nectar for me - nectar, that I managed to maintain, mango nectar I've had with me throughout ALL of Almaris until today... when I discover I've been ROBBED for SOMEBODY had made it into my wine cellar and stolen my ENTIRE supply of AGE-OLD mango nectar. TO THE POOR SOUL THAT ROBBED ME OF THAT WHICH ONLY HAS VALUE TO ME, SHOULD YOU RETURN THIS SUPPLY OF MANGO NECTAR IN IT'S ENTIRETY NOT ONLY WILL I NOT TEAR YOU LIMB FROM LIMB, BUT THE WIZARD OF OUR VILLAGE HAS AGREED TO MAKE YOU AN CUSTOM, MAGICAL ITEM... BUT IF YOU OPT TO NOT RETURN MY SUPPLY, THEN PRAY EVERY DAY UNTIL I FIND YOU AND MAKE PEACE WITH YOUR GOD, FOR I WILL FIND YOU AND WHEN I DO I WILL PUT YOU THROUGH BODILY HARM LIKE YOU NEVER KNEW POSSIBLE, I'LL KEEP YOU ALIVE FOR AS LONG AS I CAN AND WHILE YOU'RE ALREADY HURTING I'LL COVER YOU IN MUCK AND BURY YOU ALIVE WITH A HUNDRED RATS TO SLOWLY DEVOUR YOU BIT FOR BIT, DAY AFTER DAY. You know where I live. Bring back what you stole and you will be rewarded handsomely, please.

Idiot misspelled Impostor

The Angel Of The Abyss In the depths of eternal gloom, where even echoes fade to nothingness, the Angel of the Abyss unfurls its wings of perpetual dusk. A being of unrelenting torment and shattered dreams, it traverses the realm of perpetual suffering and hopelessness. Its eyes, twin voids that mirror the desolation within, reflect the ceaseless agony of souls trapped in an unending cycle of despair. It is the bearer of anguish, the embodiment of the relentless march of pain, each step a crushing weight on fragile shoulders. As it drifts through the landscape of shattered aspirations, it carries the echoes of cries unheard, the fragments of aspirations turned to dust, like ashes scattered by an unforgiving wind. Its touch is both a numb ache and a searing blaze, an eternal reminder of the futility of striving in a world that offers no respite. In the embrace of the Angel, one confronts a void that devours all hope, a vortex of despair from which there is no escape. It is the guide through the labyrinth of endless disappointment, the warden of desolation, and the sentinel of a reality where joy is but a distant memory. Amidst the tenebrous wings and the mournful dirge of its presence, one finds not redemption, but an eternal spiral into nothingness. The Angel of the Abyss is the embodiment of futility, the relentless whisperer of defeat that erodes the soul, leaving only a husk of what once was. It is the merciless hand that shatters even the fragments of self-love, leaving behind a void where once there was acceptance. And as the eons stretch into infinity, the cycle remains unbroken. The shattered pieces of the soul are ground to dust, only to be shattered again, an eternal dance of agony without end. The Angel, once a harbinger of sorrow, now a conductor of perpetual suffering, stands as a monument to the unyielding nature of despair, an emblem of a world devoid of meaning, and an eternal reminder of the void that swallows all.

𝓽𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱 𝓽𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓼