Laeonathan

A late pact Of Gakh’Lur & Faraknar ☽ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻☠︎︎⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ ☾ ☽ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻☠︎︎⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ ☾ 17th of Sun’s Smile, 217 S.A. Grakh’s heavy feet stepped through the unforgiving desert surrounding Lurakhan. For a moment, he bent down to touch the searing sand beneath him. He knew it would be burning, but he did it regardless. Steadily, the sand trickled through his hand. As he stood there, in a small valley within the desert, his mind was racing. It was customary for Lurs to bond with their Wolves from childhood. This tradition had been upheld for many generations, yet Gakh had never gotten his part. He had arrived with his father, Bakhu, at the Horde when he was thirteen years old. By then, he had already given up on the idea of finding one of his own from the pack. But that wasn’t what truly occupied his mind this day – his father was gone now. He had left the Horde behind to go on a pilgrimage without saying anything to him. Not a single piece of advice. No, Bakhu was just gone. It did not surprise him, yet he followed him into the desert, hoping to find him and bring him back to reason. The hot sun did not bother him, and even if it had, his hood protected him. He pulled it down further to shield himself from the heat. He was far too lost in thought to hear them approach – ironically so, for a Hunter of Clan Lur. Humans. Three of them. There was no time to guess who they were or what their intentions might be. He did his best to draw his axe from his belt to repel the incoming strike. Miraculously, he managed it, but only had time for a quick breath before the next spear was hurled toward him. It was impossible to prevent them from encircling him. His pride did not allow him to flee, nor was there any chance of escape. Slowly, they pressed him further against the large rocks. Then, the howl could be heard. From above, a lone Lurwolf emerged, quickly ripping out the throat of one of the attacking humans. At first, he thought it to be a Direwolf – but no, it was not. Both he and the remaining bandits stood there in shock for a second. He was the first to recover and realize he was no longer outnumbered – and certainly not outmatched. A swift strike from his axe cut down the next startled bandit, while the last tried to flee, only to be quickly caught by the wolf. It jumped and bit deep into the neck of the fleeing coward. For a few seconds, the man struggled, but he soon lay dead in the desert too. At last, Gakh turned to the Lurwolf. His heart pounded – would it attack him too, or bind itself to him? Was it a stray? Something darker? What, even, would one be doing outside the pack? The Lurwolf began circling him. It came closer, but showed no hostile intent. No – somehow, it had deemed him worthy. He thought himself weak, yet the wolf did not. They looked at each other in silence, broken only after a minute. “Mi shall name lat Faraknar,” he said with determination. The Lurwolf did not protest in any way. It was settled, then. The young Lur had found his Wolf at last. That day, Gakh’Lur returned to the city, riding atop Faraknar. ☽ ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻☠︎︎⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ ☾

I read the document and it looks really off zto me. Nitpicky, petty - half of that report were normal conversations? Being upset someone drunk alcohol is insane, sorry.

all the vanished st members who thought my CT ass couldnt see them... yeah spying on diplo huh

"You know, in the Galahad is an Ibarellan, even if he calls himself Ilumrin. He just can't stop messing with the Silver State. He's got a point, but... we still love Validali, no?" Raziel, now an honest blacksmith asked Uriella. @leduxberrie

The young Gakh'lur read the missive of his father diligently; yet not known about the issues with the so-called mage tribe - the betrayal of those seemed not to shock him, after what he was taught about voidal mages. Yet a question lingered: Why was the corruption ever allowed into their lands, at all? Did not all warn of the dangers of magicks?

why do people keep falling for charles bait? he truly is the lord of the craft.

Selling one Hobgoblin in a glass

"I shall be there," Yelled an Ilicaeryn, right into Aythelns ear.

THE TOURNEY OF THE OLIVE BOUGH ☩ A crisp parchment pinned to a noticeboard, its seal bearing the twin eagles of the Exilic Duchy of the Adrians. Another copy hangs from the tavern beam, fluttering in the breeze beside the scent of fresh bread. Some say a page rode through the night, tacking the message to every gate and chapel door from the Kingdom of Norland to the Duchy of Alba. Wherever you stand in the realm, the words find you, plain and bold: With the clash of war fading to silence, and the olive bough raised high in thanks, a call echoes across the realm. The Exilic Duke of the Adrians has declared a grand tourney to be held upon the Franciscan Fields. Knights, nobles, and honored guests are summoned not for conquest, but for celebration. At the heart of the gathering lies the joust, a contest of horse and lance in tribute to peace and the countless lives spared in the waning days of war. Riders from across Adria and beyond are invited to compete with bright banners and sharpened skill, meeting one another in friendly tilt beneath the gaze of the Duke. The lists will open with the morning light. Heralds will call names to the field while the crowd gathers on the banks, eager to see honor proven through sport. Feasting will follow throughout the day. Tables will be set with bread and roast, fruits of the orchard, meat from the hunt, and barrels of ale and wine. None shall go hungry, and none shall go without cheer. For those not called to the lists, games of strength, wit, and skill will fill the fields. Archery, wrestling, riddles, races, and contests of dice will be open to all who wish to take part. As dusk approaches, the fields will fill with the sound of music and laughter. Dancers and bards will entertain guests beneath the torchlight. A quiet vigil will follow as night falls, where lanterns will be lit and raised in memory of those who did not return. No names will be forgotten. This is a day for peace, for gratitude, and for kinship among all who call themselves Adrian. For this occasion, we invite all Canondom. The winner shall be given 300 Mina. (Friday 25th 3 PM EST in Adria, Coordinates: 600 / 150 / 300) signed, Josef Euler, Chancellor of the Adrians [Attend the Tourney] [Send a Champion in My Place] [Grumble about the expense of peace]

"Are Balianites the true successors of Oren, like they claimed for generations, no more? They keep changing their mind!" Raziel lamented.

amazing mappainting

You are a cool guy Gremlock. Hope to see you again.

1. You went HAELUNOR to find a sweet and welcoming place? Just why? They are the biggest known racist place. 2. My elf walked into Númendil with a Lorraine hanging around his neck "omg how cool an elven canonist". There are elven Cardinals. There's memes abou elves yeah. And there are racist characters. But if you have a sutican mindset your char wont b accepted by canonists.

Raziel Amethil salutes to the most legendary Euler...

Any player can get a powerful CA. Werewolf wrote the lore. Maybe write smth cool yourself? Djinn interactions were awrsome for me ngl. The nation Sailor and I (and many others), Celia'nor, remade got destroyed. So what? I still play. The way Celianor went is not how I wanted. So what? Im playing in Adria and Cauróst now. Two lovely places.

"Oppurtunities might arise there," Günther the Artificer realised.

"What is discord? Is THAT where all the plots have happened?" Wondered Raziel.

"Expected," Spoke the aging Raziel. "To this very day - she cannot even remember what day it is!" He skimmed over that text, filled with disappointment. "She is still no lineal descendant of the Silver Phoenix." - "No, no matter how often she claims to be." But a smile appeared on his face. The disgrace for Ivarielle's legacy was wiped from the earth at last. He rose a bottle of Ivarielle's Humor, filled two cups and rose one. @Morigung-oog