Mescaffier

Dame Viktoriya snorts. "Immediately after I say yam nie gonnae' help t'em any longer. What the #@!* is going on vith te' younger Darkwoods, these days?" " . . . Not as annoying as Othamans, still," she concludes and continues on her merry way.

"I hate women," a certain Dame Viktoriya sagely nods.

Viathan Othaman glanced over to his wife, nodding sagely . . . "Yam going to enter the Miss Oren pageant."

Dame Viktoriya furrowed her brows, glancing over the flier with a thin-lipped frown. "Alliance . . . 'gainst te' Azdrazi? This's gonnae' be an interesting few years. Ve're vatching history unfold right before our eyes!" She sighed, placing it down with a shake of her head. "Hope vy come out alright, [Mufflled]. Meet me on te' other side. Au revoir!" -- Viathan Othaman glanced up at the paper, shrugged, and went back to sleep.

"Tobias n' Edwin've yet to be found? Don' tell me vy faechkin' died te' some fire . . ." some mage grumbled as she read over the leaflet. "Still need te' speak vith Minuvas. Perhaps there's more to investigate here."

Viathan Othaman was scanning his way through a tome on leatherworking when his butler appeared beside him smiling the sun's smile. That to-be Count perked up, shooting the same grin over as he slid a bookmark between the leaflets. "My! Vyr in a good mood. What's the matter?" That servant leaned downward, whispering the news into his ear. At that very moment, Viathan couldn't help but snigger. "My, my. Kelhus has gone missing? A shame." He leaned back, taking the cigar from his lips to snuff on the metal plate atop his thigh. In his life, Kelhus had once been his brother - yet, as they both grew, he'd become only a thorn in his side. He'd constantly attempted to take his rightful spot as Heir - Viathan scowled at the thought, shaking his head. He'd threatened his life, and his family's. And at long last, when he failed, Kelhus had played the victim. "A shame, indeed . . ." "A shame it wasn't I that was his undoing. Burn in Hell, and not even Iblees show vy his wicked mercy, vy heathen! Burn!"

Viktoriya whistles, spinning a key-ladden ring around one finger. She ascended the stairs of the Lubba keep, chewing a strand of rye in her maws. "Mika's talked a bit about that Fiancé of his. Perhaps I should pay her a visit . . . ? See what side they both are on."

Dame Viktoriya sat still in her chair, gazing up at the same blanket of stars across the night sky. She recalled Demetrius sending her a bird that he was on a voyage-- but, how long had it been? Had he already grown up and fled the nest? "Mrmm . . . Nie. Vorrying vill do vy nothing, old hag." And thus, she began to drift off- awaiting his departure.

holy crap. The formatting is gorgeous, I hope this passes once it's expanded a little more

Viathan returns from his voyage, peeking into his uncle's room with a wide grin. "Rorislav! Look at this hat --" And yet, he spoke to an emptied room. "Uncle?"

"The Imperial Curator of the Crown Jewels is jus' a company . . . They tend to make fake replicas. I have the Crown of Courland, but also happened to find at least twenty other Courland crowns made by them!" one Dame chorlted. "It is a nice gesture, though. Migh' be te' real thing."

1st of Horen’s Calling, 1837 Penned by Lady Dowager, Dame Viktoriya Tsecsar DeNurem I, Retired Captain of the Fifth Brigade Alas, as I write this, I ponder on how much time I truly have left in life. In but a few Saint’s weeks time, I’ll have reached a century old; three or four continents lived upon, five Orenian Empresses and Emperors lived through, dozens of wars and hundreds of skirmishes. Only three humans alive that I know have lived this long century alongside me; General Velhrun Darkwood, General Erik Ruthern, and Emperor Philip II, all have certainly reached their elder years as well. No one can quite recall these Demonic skirmishes anymore within the Empire - now, the worst thing we might struggle against these days are meager roadside bandits. he sun rose high above in the clouds, wreathing Godani’s earth in a golden glow. A day like none other in beauty, and yet ... Helena’s fields smoked and burned, buildings trembled; the end of the world itself had begun. Perhaps . . . Around 1770, I’d been leading the Imperial front against the Inferi alongside dozens of other officers. I led then-Ensign Erik Ruthern, and ten other comrades towards the Hive to assess their progress - and we escaped unscathed, even with those insectoid beasts tailing us. Not one soldier had ever perished under my command. ur company took immense risks; yet, it had always paid out in the end. At last, we’d established a camp within their borders. An assassination attempt or three later, I’d finally been put back on the front line. Myself, then-Captain DeNurem, then-Captain Reine, then-Lieutenant Reine, then-Captain Darkwood, and then-Private Lostariel set out on a journey toward the infernal coasts. We’d hardly traveressed half a mile of ocean before an imp had noticed us and gone winging back - yet, we hadn’t retreated. Captain Darkwood led us forth, and there, we’d accidentally met head-on with a patrol of Brutes; negotiation was attempted, and it failed spectacularly. They decided to rush us head-on. Swarms of Legionnaires climbed over the overturned tree which had been set aflame by Darkwood - my foot was stuck beneath the tangle of roots, and for a moment I thought I'd die to the flames. In retrospect, perhaps that would've been a better fate. As I went to flank their patrol, my comrades had all begun to evacuate. My husband, Captain DeNurem, had been skewered with their spears in both legs - Captain Reine was in critical condition, as was his brother. Private Lostariel died sacrificing himself for the three to escape. Captain Darkwood was behind the tree alongside me. Each of the boats had been taken and filled by the four, now three and a corpse. Still, those demons hadn’t noticed me. Captain Darkwood fled by land, and when he ran, he ran as fast as he could. Still, I blame none of them; these were dire circumstances. Yet, they were catching up to him. I’d summoned all that I could and urged the band still chasing the Captain back through screams and shouts - in my struggle, I’d blinded and maimed ten and managed to fell just as many, but it wasn’t enough. Soon, I found myself with a spear through my thigh and a sword’s tip a mere jerk away from sending me to the Seven Skies - my mind searched and my maws opened to form words, yet I couldn’t speak. I was dying. On my last breath, I recalled the band speaking of ‘General Tichar’. Thus . . . In desperation, I shrieked; “TICHAR! TICHAR -- take me to te’ GENERAL!” And somehow, it worked. arkness had set in over the horizon, and I was dragged through their hellscape for however many hours. As I stirred, I awoke in not the Seven Skies nor true Hell, but its embodiment, instead. I had learned much during my time imprisoned. True food was a delicacy; instead, I was forced to subsist on the Descendant’s flesh I was fed. Each prisoner had been fed the very same, more or less - perhaps the Olog in the cell beside me enjoyed it more. I was always prepared to fight for my life against folk in my same shoes. The paladin in the cell across from me had been just as prepared to end my life as I was, his. The same woman you spoke with one day could be the very same to slit your throat the next - soon, this was only a mere way of life for those of the Pit. No one could trust each other, thus a coordinated escape was impossible. The upper echelons of the Inferi were ten times more cruel than their brethren, yet, unnervingly human. They toyed with us - our suffering was amusing to them. We were dehumanized. We were none more than grains of sand. Yet, we lived on. Like a cruel light of hope, one day, that General arrived before my cell. The bars rose, and in came the behemoth with its wretched grin. Great, pale wings and talons that could sever a descendant into halves -- it was Tichar, the Unchained Tyrant. “Those that serve are given mercy. Those that swear by the light will die.” I couldn’t understand. “This is the nature of Man. The Children of Man … We are all monsters, ikztoz-kaar. Demons, Inferi, beasts … Driven by primal things. To consume, to destroy, to take.” It gestured to the pit of blood and gore. The man I saw crawling looked mangled and drenched; though he moved, it looked as though he’d lacked a soul entirely. He tried to climb, but his arms uselessly clattered back, broken by whatever force had thrown him in long ago. “Our difference is honesty ...” That man is met by another. A second person crawled up beside him and they began to fight one another, mindlessly. Like animals. The first man had started to beat into the second's head, brutalizing him without thought. Once this happened, right before my eyes, the first man used the second's body as a platform to reach higher. Closer to the ledge, but still outside of reach. He slipped back down, and let out a wail so wretched I’d forgotten where I stood, almost falling down into that pit in my distraction. “Honesty… Vul.” “I don't care whether you die here or not. We will get to you eventually. I desire for you to bring me a sacrifice… Most precious to you. In exchange, I will allow you to leave.” Tichar looked over the pit, into the cells where other prisoners lied. They languished in suffering, left to rot in their cells just as much as those in the pits. I still hadn’t looked up from the creaking boards beneath my feet. “I know there is a man eager to find you. A loved one, is he?” It’d begun, a serpentine tongue slipping between its teeth. “Kill him for me. Bring me his corpse. Prove to me your service… If you fail, I have ways to drag you back home. To me. Prostrate yourself… Bow to me and vow your soul's eternal service to me… Or fight in vain to escape. I will give this choice to you now.” The beast stood in front of the entrance to my cell, so large that there was little chance to slip past if I were to try. It’d given me two options. Its eyes swiveled in an instant as I moved forth, so quick it'd been less like they moved, and more like their direction supernaturally shifted, like a hunter to its prey. "Now … Pact with me." My heart thrummed; I could fight. If I were to die, I’d die fighting. Yet . . . I answered. “I will. Give me my freedom, and I’ll do as vy ask.” I felt a pair of talons clasp around my abdomen and hoist me into the air; my lungs screamed and my eyes watered. As I gathered the courage to look down, I saw that I was flying. Above the blackened sands and charred trees and crumbling cities - I was flying. After several minutes, now the ground was quickly approaching, as were those familiar tangerine walls of Helena. I was home - I'd tricked the 'Unchained Tyrant'. Had it truly thought I'd keep my word? How clever, I thought. And even as that wretched beast left, and flew far, far away - even as I was hoisted into my husband's arms and I sobbed, and recounted my story - I felt as if it was not Tichar that had been tricked, but I. Even after a hundred years, even after watching it be slain before my own eyes, I can feel its gaze burning a pit in my soul. I'd never rewarded its offer, and yet . . . I truly feel no freer than when I'd been dangled above that pit of gore. Throughout my life, I've lived and I've learned. I escaped a wretched fate and lived to tell the tale. I betrayed the offer that that infernal General gave, and lived in paranoia for the decades to come - I still do. One day, I always think to myself, it will happen over again and I'll be doomed. I spent each moment with my husband that demon had been bent on slaughtering like it was our last, and I'd learned to truly value my kin. Life is ever-changing. Flesh is fleeting and the future is fast coming, yet we've all the capacity to learn and live in leisure. ▪︎ Your life is much too short to wallow in regret of lost opportunities. Seize the mantle. Ask the question. Rise above, before you may be too old and withered like I to do so. ▪︎ And if you think you've lost purpose in life, strive to make meaning of what you've already lived. Go beyond. “Ea byk zwem zanyotsk ter ea byk denpetravesk." 'I would have perished had I not persisted.' In memoriam; Captain Ser Alaric DeNurem, the bravest of all of the Imperial State. Captain Jacquelyn Cenobia, a warrior for her nation and a lionhearted compatriot. Private Endellion Lostariel, a hero to his comrades.

A fur-clad figure chewed on the end of a Hanseni cigar, coughing out wisps of burnt paper and soot from her maw. She flicked the roach of it into the trashcan beside her desk as she rose, her white-knuckled hand clenching the table. "So, Franz vas lying - I hadn' realized t'at lass vas being truthful. Vy vill reap vhat vy sow, vy dylevar-shlyukha. Vy keaeur! Plague 'pon the Bihar name." That figure's door swung open, and out she came clutching a great sack of mina. "Padrevar . . . Does six-hundred sound about right?"

The leviathan that sat beside him in some odd, decrepit shop hummed a tune - her voice, feeble, like an autumn leaf on wind. Flames crackled within the cauldron ahead of the pair, iluminating her face and his with a lime light, as that behemoth murmured, "As vy are now, so once were we. As we are now, so shall vy be. The future awaits us with open arms, Tobias - we only have to sieze it. Yam glad to venture this untrodden path with another."

Dame Viktoriya hummed, churning away potions and crafts for the store! At last, the single potion she wills herself to make once every few saints' months.

Dame Viktoriya Tsecsar scratched her chin, looking over the missive with a frown. "Vhat'd Vortice do . . . ?"

A behemoth knight polished her blade, narrowing her eyes toward the horizon where that grand city sat. "Draakopf . . . I like that one. Vy vill aid him as vell, da, korotyshka?" that seven-foot husk of armor chortled as she shakily rose, sparing a glance down at a shorter man. @Qizu

"Mmm . . ." hummed a Dame as she glanced over the note, lightly crumpled in her iron grasp. "It doesn't give a location. Bumm'r." The leaflet was stowed away as she set off for Vortice, wondering if this Doctor had been one of the dozen she'd recently encountered. "Naming vyself 'Doctor' is odd, bu' who cares. There exist folk in this world named 'John'."

MC Name: TreeSmoothie RP Name: Dame Viktoriya Tsecsar Are you are Citizen of Oren: Yes CRP or PVP (Limited to 1): CRP

Hey, it's that place in Oren I blew up.... it's been four months and it hasnt been fixed #FundOrenHealthcare

"That took all of vhat . . . Two days after her marriage?" one Dame snorted. "Never 'eard of her til' then, but good riddance. Sutica is a stain 'pon Almaris, just as it was in the Arcas. Damn 'er to te' hells for insulting Mika!"

A depiction of the elfess, Lynette Ilyana Túre, drawn in crayon. HARK! Lynnette Ilyana Ture, the Wicked Witch of the North, is wanted dead! On behalf of the Mali’thill populace she has wronged, the Hanseni she has wounded, and others she has harassed, we seek to bring an end to this foul elfess. Ms. Ture is convicted of; - Interbreeding with orcs - Mothering interbred children - Harassing children - Being undead - Offering immoral services to a wed man for magick - Trespassing - Devilry Ms. Ture has maintained the same appearance for centuries as many undead do; it’s not difficult to pick her out in a crowd, but we’ve provided artist renditions lest you need a proper reference! [!] Two small crayon-sketches of the elfess, above a significantly better painted rendition. The payment for successfully executing this undead elf will be 300 mina! We will require the corpse, with her head attached, as proof. This corpse cannot be old and rotting - it must be new and delivered as soon as possible upon death. Once fulfilled, leave a note beneath this flier and a messenger will come to retrieve it and give your reward. Signed, An anonymous puritan.

Dame Viktoriya cocked a brow as she warily scanned the missive. With a frown, that titan, marred by scars and shriveled by flame, uttered -- "smooth runs the water where the brook is deep. Be wary, my 'thill brother. The Orenians are men unsounded yet and full of deep deceit," as she set the paper aside. Her hand trembled upward to feel the edges of one brutally torn ear, and then the next, scowling.

A cloaked figure meandered through those dank halls of the Synod, on her daily venture toward the library. At one point, she'd began mumbling as she glossed over the shelves in search of a certain tome. "I wonder where the Hound is. And that . . . One Barrowlord. Heciline. I haven't seen either in some time. Yam more glad about the latter," the figure cackled, her slender hands snatching a book by its tarnished spine. "That old dog'll turn up again soon, yam sure. Probably caught dueling another one of those 'ame. Needs te' learn to be more careful." Unknowing & blissful, that hag settled down and cracked open the tiny journal. "Jac . . ." she warbled, craning her head up as the geist passed - a sight for sore eyes. No, rather . . . A sore sight for eyes. That old magi never truly had been accustomed to their ghastly visages. Anticipating a swat on the head, the figure continued, "Have vy seen him? Te' Hound?" @bloomtiara