Mescaffier

Even as a spook rper, I find it rly frustrating that groups can effectively hide behind redstone doors (and/or 10 billion iron doors) & never face consequence, or do the same /w lore builds (unsure if this is a thing this map, I've been ZZZ'ing). If a downside to having something like a void/necro tear, obelisk, etc. is that it can be destroyed - it should realistically be able to be accessed. I care less for doors if it's just a personal residence, tho

Her father - her true father - looked down at the letter in dismay. John had never gotten to tell her, but what if he had? Surely nothing good. Most of his children were dead, these days, and he had little to show for it. Rowan & Iduna were about the closest he had to children, and the only children that didn't hate him with a passion. He set the note away, and after a moment's hesitance, went on with his day. Serthekhur chortled. In some endless abyss, floating and standing, living and dying, breathing and suffocating in that black smog, she saw her acolyte's soul wisp away. He was Death, ever-present and absent all the same. It almost looked to be crying, if it could cry - if only that wicked being could have the same will as that woman. No, woefully not. "I had been . . . hoping I was." "About this all." The screams and shrieks and wails and cries of those, too, lost in the Lifebanks filled the gap between each word. A new life added to it. How odd it were that Serthekhur chose to exist there, like a stubborn plant in concrete.

"No, no . . ." Woeful cries split the air as John clutched the letter. His son - the one meant to have been his heir - selfishly, his favorite - unfelled in battle, but killed by his own blood in the most literal sense. Success in their secret venture was soon to have been had, the greatness they sought nigh. "Why did no one save him?" the man barked, curled up in a pathetic ball within his room. He paused to look over at the animatii husk that loomed over in the other corner, and a terrible idea bloomed in his mind. A greedy one. "His story needn't be over ... over yet." Grabbing a wrench and an armful more of metal sheets, he began work on the thing again.

SO GOOD

A leal follower of the drakaar-turned-god roared into the air, pale flesh smudged with ash and soot. Bloodshot eyes gleaned at the heavens for its wisdom, the shining, red moon above, the pools of ichor remaining upon the volcanic stone from when it had rained. The stench of dragonsflame and the smog of virolah. The visions of dragons, and then the actual creatures in flight, intermingling in the reddened skies. "EUPHORIA," he cried.

A decaying figure, spurred back awake for that short time, squinted at the missive. "Claiming one of four thrones for yourself . . . these Xionist youth know nothing. Only infighting will come," that Necrolyte spat, already beginning to wade back into their slumber.

"Oh." John, tucked away beside his paramour in the early hours of the morning, was pecked awake by his bird. The man still got updates of his homeland on occasion, and the ones of death were suddenly much more frequent. Sybil, now Casimir. The aging Galbraith grimaced and waved the creature away, clutching onto the figure beside him closer lest he suddenly blink out of existence, too. "May ... may he rest in the Skies. At peace," he mumbled, too many thoughts to speak aloud. John wept.

John stilled as he heard the news, tears welling in his eyes as he brushed ash from his skin. So much joy in the world - a victory to some, a loss to others. But this was, somehow, worse news than the Aengul of Order being rended into thin, golden ribbons. He'd always thought of her as a sister and her son, now the king, as his nephew. His son, little John, a great-nephew. There had been no letter waiting for him from the Novellen, only steetside gossip to inform him of her death. An ounce of bitterness to his weeping. The man went to bed sooner that night, clutching onto the figure beside him. @Lapidary

Balian is a red wine, Hohkmat is the alcoholic version of the Battery Acid you see people make on tiktok For famous characters specifically, Gashadokuro is a fruity cocktail but when you drink it, the alcohol is 99% rubbing alcohol and you die. Azdromoth is a tamarind whiskey sour, Xan is a stella in a fancy glass

"Art there not more pressing matters?" John gawked, staring through a looking glass at the undead war ravaging the south-western Aevos. Poor Sakuragakure had been reduced to ash and rubble.

only azdromoth is permitted to

yo!! Im looking for players, msg me on disc- user is Velkuzat

An aforementioned, ancient Orenian gave a lofty thumb's up to the missive. "Ave Orenia - may it one day return."

TO SERVE AND PROTECT – – WE MUST FIGHT – – TWO YEARS AGO, MY FAMILY WERE STOLEN. SLAIN. AND ROBBED OF THEIR PLACE IN THE SEVEN SKIES. TWO YEARS AGO, DIPLOMACY WAS ATTEMPTED. I have sat RESTLESS as these beasts pursued me – hunting me to wit’s end. I have borne my blade with pride: I have waited for you foul folk to, at last, kill me in battle. But there has been NOTHING. Sat idle in a place you thought unfindable, snickering behind the gate and wall. BUT WE HAVE FOUND YOU. To the Commander of the Pontifical Guard, Patriarch Villorik – to the Queen of Balian, Sybille I – to mi sobrino, Prince Xander – to mi sobrina, Princess Santana – to my friends, the brother Coyote & Dyonne – to my mentor and the greatest wizard to live, Sarah – and ALL OTHERS who seek GLORY, BATTLE, and WHAT-HAVE YOU: We must end the undead menace, once and for all. A united front: no more dis-jointed raids and threats backed only by quill and parchment. Before the beasts grow ever-stronger, we must strike. If not for the kin they have taken from us now, all the ones they have taken and will take in the future. Your mother. Your son, your daughter. Your husband, or wife. Hells, your dog. Let us not have a second Cloudbreaker – or a second Worm. Let us learn from our past mistakes. Ruthlessness is Mercy Upon Ourselves. Your humble servant, Justice-seeker, John Augustus Galbraith

The slayer of that Awaiti Sirame still lurked; holding onto that decayed body, somewhere, within the old relics she kept from her days of soul-weaving. Still, she had no idea of her victim's significance, and perhaps, never might learn. That wicked, old woman went back into her hibernation.

+1 this is rly cool

John began packing a pipebomb with a gleeful smile. "Orion!" the man called down the hall. "If anyone asks, I was here! Sleeping!" @Lapidary Pointing it away from himself, he pulled the string upon it, spraying confetti into the air. A pipe-confetti-bomb! "Congratulations to Segor d'Savoie."

"These hips don't lie," rattled some half-sentient necrolyte, awake just enough to see the blur of the poster - cackling, to herself. "Shrek-ira, Shrek-ira ..."

"If you can ever find someone that causes your heart to drum a thousand paces a second, brings a blaze of fire to your heart, brings rapture upon your mind from the sheer incomprehensibility of your love's depth," "You must never let them go, John." He was recovering from another bender, a hazy night and hazy morning of a spree of drugs and fine wine. If he could not think, he could not feel; what dreadful things the mind could think in substances' absence. He felt cold and hot all the same - nauseous but still - sick but starving. He teetered on the edge but never over, somehow. His livers should have given out; he knew that long ago. But he hadn't. And the reason itself was in his very being, that fae-thing that'd attached itself to him. For all the harm it did, it did so much good. But what was a Human, if it did not cause harm to all it touched, like those that slayed the druidic beast-shifters all those centuries ago? Having just sent off a rambling letter, he'd crawled back to his hiding place in the trees and drew forth his dagger to polish it. The second voice in his mind hissed - and then yelled - and then screamed. His softened mind could only comprehend it as he'd felt its vile edge pierce his glove and then his flesh, turning his blood black. Nothing at all. Silence, for the first time in years. He was still thinking about what had happened in Hohkmat. What was that feeling? Anger? Spite? Jealousy? And then there was the pain. So much substance he should never had thought of touching, filling the holes where human interaction would've sufficed. A conversation, even. The dedicant's shrieks filled the forest that night, weeping of a great loss and a worse, horrid pain both inside & out.

Real and true It's horrible trying to read thru ppl's Deep & Thought Provoking thesaurus spam and worse when it's philosophy that doesn't make sense. I miss villains that are villains for the kick of it

John whistled, carrying a suspiciously hammer-shaped bag. "I'd hate to have been that guy!"

John, a white powder dusting his nose, squinted at the flier. "wuh . . . This stuff ist illegal!?"

"Sobrino! Teu spelled my name wrong!" John hollered, scratching over the surname to respell it, 'Galbraith'.