Mescaffier

Blud came back from a 9 year absence to tell everyone they're netanyahuinely a degenerate

Johanna Barclay spied from the doorway, squinting at her uncle. The moment he looked away, he'd have found it ungracefully snatched off the desk. "He says they're ... bad ... and ... uh," she struggled, looking in dismay to Caius. "EEEEYUCK," Josie translated, instead, to the Horen prince. "Put them in the book." @cadazio

✧⥼──────༺༻🔥༺༻──────⥽✧ •༺ ⚘ ༻• Find a Descendant from each tribe, and you will ask unto them; what do they think they deserve of the world? “The Kin of Urguan said that Yemekar has given them the world. The mountains! The gold! They only needed to look, and dig, and they would have it. The Kin of Krugmar said the spirits gave them themselves as a gift, to help and serve them. They serve, and so they are satisfied. The Kin of Malin said to work and survive every day is a gift, being able to work for what they wish; the struggle is the gift itself. The Kin of Horen said that they are the world itself. Their empire rules it, thus all gifts of the world are theirs.” But if the World was given to them, is it all theirs to exhaust? He believes he sees all the world clearly, for it is only as far as a pickaxe’s swing. Just as close does shadow creep behind. The Orc does not inherit the entire world, but himself. But if he was given being to serve, is he ever permitted the freedom to refuse? United by kin and displaced by struggle, the elf finds it a gift to live each day, but a curse to remember every slight for a thousand years. And men, who owned the world itself, claimed its every gift – but their story was not one written with one author, but four, and so they knew not the whole tome. The dwarf sees the material – the orc sees the spiritual. The elf is the world’s shaping, and the man is what is made manifest. “So they are one?” “So we are one.” “So all is one.” •༺ ⚘ ༻• [!] Within the libraries of Tor’Uldar, a new notice could be found, written in Draconic. “MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS ༺ Another now walks our path, Kanba. You have become familiar with him, and he has become familiar with us. He still has much to learn, but he has taken his oath and earned my trust. ༺ Any that are in need of teaching are welcome to come to me. I have found it a meaningful venture; simply send word. Wings Shroud, Truth Burns. •༺ ⚘ ༻• Thurifer, The Penitent Ordained, Winged Herald of Alemdrom ”

In uneven script of an unpracticed hand – someone still learning to speak and read Common – a letter found its way to Father Maurus. The grammar was wrong and the letters malformed, but the idea was there. "I am Dra'sa, Priestess of Our Grandmother Spider. My father Xundus is the rebuilder of our faith in your lands above. We will speak to you, and we will both learn of eachothers' faith. Is this agreeable? — დრა'სა, ფრიესთესს ოფ ნემისსაე"

[Idol of the Spider] -------------- [Idol of the Scion]

I LOVE YOU

Mapteam & LANDSKAR collab when?

Неужели он нашел в ней Бога? Он так чувствовал свою свободу Рядом с Богом тогда все можно Когда Бог твой ложный [ PROPHECY - In Vehementia, Oborior ] Viktoriya retched first, black bile and clotted phlegm streaking the stone beneath her cheek. Her spine arched hard enough to creak, muscles seizing in panicked knots as something unseen began to tear loose from her core. For a heartbeat - no, many of them - she was convinced her chest had been caved in, that her ribs were split wide and her own skeleton was crawling its way free. At the back of her skull, her mind itself burned away. Pain arrived late and vicious, a spreading frost-fire that ate at whatever nerves she'd had left, a husk withered and forgotten to time, which at this point had survived only off the bugs and vermin the maleficar could scrounge. Her veins felt hollowed, completely scraped raw of something thick and crawling that had now been sucked clean. Her rotten, blackened heart - where that horrible corruption had nested for so long, for centuries, felt as though it'd suddenly ceased to be. A fire both bright as the sun and dark as the abyss tore at her flesh, swallowing a figure before her whose words her ears refused to hear. A cloying darkness overtook her vision as the feeling in her limbs went. Her eyes closed. She had been a menace on the streets of Helena, once at the pinnacle of soul-weaving and then a gravelord amongst her fellow flesh-weavers. At last, this was it? Not in battle, nor betrayal, or even by her own hand. Death? . . . . . . . . . She gasped, finally, a raw and ugly sound. Air scorched her lungs, and the smell of the room then hit her - iron, damp stone, sweet ash. She rolled onto her side, nails scraping uselessly against the stone. Dripping water, wind slipping through the ruined architecture. The growl of her stomach. . . . . . . . . . Life. Her eyes slowly opened. Where was she? Who was she? Eventually, she pushed herself upright in a movement that was clumsy, graceless. A hand went to push her hair back, to no avail - it was matted and tangled into one, great blob. When she finally rose, the first thing she did was shave her head bald with the dagger she awoke with. Staring at her bruised and battered face in the puddle of murky water, she'd hoped to glean something about herself. But no names surfaced, nor cities or friends to recall. She was tall - taller than most, she sensed dimly - and the skin of her only arm was scarred enough to feel like sandpaper. Had she been a warrior? Perhaps a manual laborer? No, she was too weak for that. Somewhere far below the surface of her being, something old and beastial had been severed, against all odds, a once impossible feat. No longer sleeping or waiting, but gone. Entirely. In its place was an unclaimed quiet, vast and unsettling, like a field razed by fire. She turned toward the light leaking in through a fractured wall, drawn by nothing more sophisticated than curiosity to what might lay outside. Ahead laid a world that did not know her, and for the first time in her life, neither did she. From digging in her pockets, she found two letters. It seemed she'd been in the process of writing, before ... whatever had occurred, occurred. The two beaten slips of parchment would soon find their recipients, written in hardly legible Elven with even worse handwriting. @mika1278 @Lapidary

The young Johanna Barclay turned in her sleep, restless, as she heard the commotion throughout the palace. So it was, their Grandfather was dead – and thus, their father would soon ascend the throne ... whatever that meant, she did not know. She squinted at the light seeping beneath the door, and signed sloppily the Lorraine (as they were taught they must when someone speaks of death), before turning over to go back to sleep.

AMEN TELANIR!!

"Sasageyo ....." said Mescaffier, unsheathing her sword. Ign: Mescaffier Persona: Mescaffier