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tgrt

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About tgrt

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    Newly Spawned

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    Thi_T#5309
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    tgrt

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  • Character Name
    Bardy Mc-Bardboy
  • Character Race
    dead

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  1. [ ! ] In the woodlands, North-ish West, somewhere near where once was Ves, one could find a camp all messed- Seemed abandoned, you would guess! But yet, impressed, you’d address- The raided camp still bore a chest! And right inside there laid to rest: A crumpled journal torn and pressed! It read: ♫ Swiftest of bards, that old Tim-oh-thée! ♫ ♫ And I’m one to know! That same bard is me! ♫ ♫ I’ve travelled so far. Went up and down hills. ♫ ♫ And yet- All my life- No man matched my skill! ♫ Let me tell you- ♫ My home was in Adreo, I fled from all battle. ♫ ♫ I fought with my words- my tongue can bend metal! ♫ ♫ I went out to Atlas as plague came to settle, ♫ ♫ Arrived with no grace- no minas to haggle! ♫ ♫ But yet as I lived I embraced all those near ♫ ♫ Even those who betrayed me. ♫ Looking at you, Rosenyr. ♫ I opened a tavern- It rose without fail! ♫ ♫ And then came the cold- I ran from the Vaeyl! ♫ ♫ I came here to Arcas! I got even richer! ♫ ♫ I sang every day. Got drunk. Can you pitcure? ♫ ♫ With friends by my side it was never that hard. ♫ ♫~♪ Our tavern was famous! The Bird and the Bard! ♪~♫ ♫ Then Ves was attacked. I too watched it burn. ♫ ♫ I lost some good friends. Too few did return. ♫ ♫ I lost every mina that I ever earned. ♫ ♫ But naught was my sorrow, for song I still yearn! ♫ ♫ I’m glad I’m here now! ♫ ♫ For passion I’ve hunted ♫ ♫ I’m glad I’ve my sound, for today: I’m one-hundred! ♫ ♫ I’ve battled with wyverns! Fought demons with spades! ♫ ♫ I’ve beaten grand bards! And none match my fame! ♫ ♫ I’ve immotalized folk with tunes never seen! ♫ ♫ So I praise my great legacy! No mind is as keen! ♫ ♫ And what did I learn in near 2 elven years? ♫ ♫ That life is too precious to spend under fear! ♫ ♫ You get your time free! So spend all you have! ♫ ♫ Embrace all the bad and the good while it lasts! ♫ Prithee, ami! You have now, you have here. And please- don’t flee. Let me make you see! What is has a job- To rebirth what could be! For why is now now now? And why is now free? All altars alter, all minded faulter. All moments move until they're halted. Do capture some, please be my martyr. My point is fixed: Some points are better bartered. All ends do end until they can't. Thinning lines still thin, but still when bent. So take what was and make it grand. You can replace what you were sent. Speak eternal words but let some fade. Let things slip. State: "My state states I don’t stray, but I stay to say: "I will no longer get in my way." "I'll allow my law to leave agape." "I will live, again.".". Wind up unwound, unbound. Soulbound by sound. For now is here now, right now. Be sound- you've ground! More than almost most men are allowed. Go scream it all aloud, out and proud! And be glad you survived. What better reason to live than being alive? Timothée de Fontaine. [ ! ] And there in that camp, laid down ‘neath a lamp, you’d find amidst rags- A body most damp! The man held some wine and a lute when he’d depart! By the gods- Could it be?! It’s the body of the bard! He bore no pulse- His skin was cold! From 100 years of drinking, his liver couldn’t hold. Swift was that troubadour- A legend, a master! His wits sure were quick- But death… Death was faster!
  2. tgrt

    The truth

    The bard left to journey out and find the long lost love of his life. His heart pointed him Northwards, towards the Morsgradic mountain range. He didn’t know why, or how. He just knew. He knew he’d go there. He knew she lived there. He knew he’d meet her some day amidst that frigid valley. And he was right. She was there. But he couldn’t make it. It wasn’t even the cold- His body was just much too frail. His sharp wit dulled, his strings off-tune. His age caught up to him long ago and a sharp pain at his side made him know his time was up. Such is the curse of being human. As the snow fell onto him, he realized this is how he’d die. Alone. Sad. There was no one there. No wine. No song. Just him. Just him in that camp, with old wine and a lute. The bard sighed. He held his instrument up, his fingers shaking from the biting cold, and he just… giggled. “What a merde of an ending, eh?”. The wood did not respond. He thought of his life and of when he was younger. The people, the running, the joy, the songs, the names. The countless, countless names. He remembers every single one of them. Is it fair he’d die before meeting his muse again? Well- Was life fair for the ones who died younger? For the ones forgotten? There was no justice in this world. The man knew it. All that mattered was the now. Why is now right now after all? Can we truly not alter the past? He reached for his journal. He thought of his story and how it meant something. How everyone means something, even after death. People live on as long as you remember them, right? Memory is never the same as reality, of course, but the mere idea of someone, even distorted, is enough to make them go on. Thinning lines of previous lives always thin- but that stills when you bend them. When you create with them. He wrote his own ending. One last song. One for joy. One for being free. For enjoying the moment. For altering endings, letting things change. It’s our duty to evolve the past for as long as you’re here. Now. With yourself. That’s what he lived by. That’s how he’d like to be remembered. And he signed his name one last time for good measure. Will they remember him? How much longer would he live for? He didn’t care anymore. Timothée took a last long look at his journal before locking the chest and lying down. The pain was worse. As the cold numbed out his senses and ushered him into dreamless sleep, the bard closed his eyes and felt no more. There was nothing else. He was no different, no better. His life ended there, amidst wine stained rags out in a gelid mountain range. He hoped for more. He laid there forever. And his cold dead body never sang another song.
  3. Lillianna Camian just hopes her mom makes it back home okay.
  4. Honestly, this is a very nice attempt at simplifying, adding flavor and making sense of the already complicated and tricky nature of Izkuthii lore – The original spell list is quite convoluted and rp-unfriendly already. I think this version of it could bring some neat possibilities on the right hands!
  5. During your travels, you may happen across this most trashy of novellas. At first glance, it would seem quite ordinary, until one took a look at the cover art and title. A Kharajyr maid would be on the front, with a title that ought to shock even the most liberal of readers: THE LUSTY KHARAJYR MAID, PART 3: ROUGH WOOD, BRIARWOOD. The seediness of the novella is apparent... Note from the author: I have been informed the original pieces of literature for The Lusty Kharajyr Maid, Part 3 were suddenly gone from the shelves overnight, while I was still asleep. As I am quite sure it was merely a tragic accident by the librarians and recordkeepers of Arcas, I am once more releasing this rewrite of a classic for the sake of Art, Creativity and Loneliness. And worry not, dear reader. If anything like this ever happens again we have plenty of ways of spreading this piece in the form of books, performances and word of mouth! Without further ado, “The Lusty Kharajyr Maid”. THE LUSTY KHARAJYR MAID, PART 3: ROUGH WOOD, BRIARWOOD Written by T. Brock Hauss It was a baffling day inside the Grand Palace of Skravia’s kitchen, a place with absolutely no trouble, strife, or unemployment. The grand city of Oren readying itself for yet more war- But also, and perhaps more importantly to some, a Royal Ball! The glorious Vassal, Gawain Briarwood entered the cooking area, already smelling the flavourful aroma coming from Khat En’Heet’s wide oven. “Good day, sir! Whatever brings you into the Kitchen?” The Kharajyr maid questioned, sporting a sweet smile to accompany her baking’s fragrance. “I come under King’s Orders, maid.” The man said, thumping his heavy load onto the table “You are to bake this loaf. At once.” “My goodness, that's quite a loaf!” The girl broke a sweat, wiping her brow with a sigh “How ever shall I get that baked in my oven in time for the Ball?” She promptly went to work on it, getting on her knees to manage its size. Gawain tugged on his belt, pulling out a long shaft of hard wood “Mind if I practice a few strokes while I watch you knead?” The man’s hand strummed his instrument fast, producing loud chords one could hear all over Skravia. “Sir, you mustn't distract me!” She moaned, soaked in sweat. Her mouth wide open. “Your fingers pluck it too much, we’ll get in trouble if you keep making noise!” “Tell me about it.” He hissed, stroking the neck of his instrument as he paused his tune “-The other day I got arrested for fingering A-minor in this very kitchen. The cries of my lute are forbidden here!” “I must have everything in perfect order for the King’s Ball, sir!” The maid snarled, squeezing the dough tightly as she worked it good. “I never could see a single one of them! Now- It’s my chance to be more than just the King’s pole-polisher! I’ll be his Ball-baker too!” “You’ll have plenty time to work your way up, maid.” The man stepped behind Khat En’Heet, his muscles reaching around her to help knead her loaf as he smirked. “But if knowing what Balls need provided is what you want... I’d be glad to show you a taste.” The maid turned her head, her eyes glancing up to meet Briarwood’s. “Then show me how you dance, big boy!” She smirked back, her fur once more covering her blushing cheeks. Little did they know, the Wise King Rocco watched on from afar, still picturing Khat En’Heet’s soft peaches on display the day before, for a curious Oscar Lancefield. Oh, but his revenge was yet to come. Soon- In his great Royal Ball. TO BE CONTINUED...
  6. Timothée de Fontaine readies his shouders to dorn the heavy weight that is being the best bard ever.
  7. A type of magic that focuses on fun, easy, player-run events, interesting characters and THE FREAKING POWER OF MUSIC? Yep. Yep yep. Yep yep yep
  8. Timothée de Fontaine is sure to come by this place to judge its wine! ...As he drunkenly sings!
  9. An old and tired Timothée de Fontaine would hear word of the new Duma taking place! He readies himself for more chaotic yelling. And dice.
  10. Timothée feels rather nostalgic upon reading a few names within the missive. He'd surely tag along for this adventure, mostly to see who tries to kill the Duke this time. "I wonder if I can 'ave a wacky title, like Minister of Wine, Party and Silly 'Sings or somesing!" The bard would tune his lute to prepare for the festivities if the thing wasn't broken in half. Seth Rutledge sighs, hoping not to get dragged out of his study.
  11. Timothée de Fontaine, leader of the Hibou Plongeant raises a brow when finding out about this so-called Troupe. After a chuckle, the Troubadour decides to keep an eye out for any talent Haense might show! So he can bribe them into joining his own Troupe.
  12. [ ! ] Upon visiting Rosenyr, one would come across honest and heartfelt poetry about the place, pinned on the Library’s door. Penned by Timothée de Fontaine, you’d assume this man had some history with the Principality. Do come and ask of Rosenyr. Of all the things I’ve left behind. Of all their people. Of their drinks. Of all the creatures that came by. I see it fondly, Rosenyr. Despite the cynics and their lies. Despite the anger. Such anger. So much greed and grief and pain and bloodshed. Men gourmandizing gold, romantizing dread. By gods I left so many things there. What ignorance. There was endless fear. Unspeakable fear. But. I forgive you, Rosenyr. I might see past your broken ties. Your sacrifices, revolutions, poisoned drinks. Your pretty corners, petty crime. With broken pasts come broken people. And broken people mend with time. I come to see you, Rosenyr. And hope this time I don’t see knives. For I sure miss your flower gardens. Your shy demeanor. And your wine. T’was quite a journey, Rosenyr. You’ve made me laugh. You’ve made me cry. And you were there when journeys came. And you’ll be there when journeys die.
  13. tgrt

    ??

    Timothée would hear of the news, sighing deeply “A beard zat glorious could never live forever...”
  14. Timothée’s eyes narrow as he reads the flier, a face-wide smile curling to his visage. “What great timing!”
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