TreeSmoothie

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."

12 minutes ago, Reckless Banzai Screamer said:

"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'.

John had been handed the missive in Balian's square by Prince Xander as they arrived back. The man had begun to cry, a hand fastened over his mouth in pure shock. "My husband - they aim to rescue him?" he spoke, hardly louder than a whisper. It took a moment, but the man slowly glanced back up at the pair, a nervous smile plastered on his face. "We march with them. We'll save Rhys, and return him to rest, where he ought to be. Where he needs to be." The last conversation they'd had was an argument. The man needed his parting words with the Ruthern.

*backflips in full plate as arrows bounce off my armor, decapitating you in one strike with my katana 

This is PEAK RP. haters will be EXECUTED.

John crept out of a tiny room some place in the Mage City - paper in hand and brows furrowed as he tried to comprehend the magi-lingo he was woefully unfamiliar with. The man popped in downstairs to show @Lapidary. "Ist he talking about Hohkmat's ... King? Mayor? Whichever they go by."

"Huzzah! Pride Club!" proclaimed one John Galbraith, gleefully clapping his hands. He re-read it a second time, now with a frown on his face. "Oh. Pride's Cub. Eugh. Lame."

THE RESPONSE

3. 

Faechk a battle - this is a lifelong battle with yourself.

"I'm going to plant a bomb in the house of whomever replaces him," declared John with a sagely nod, promptly taking down the notice from the board.

John sat outside of Kositz, cigar dangling from his lip as he read the letter fresh off the desk. A small bit of peace in an ocean of grief - it was something. The man tucked it into his coat pocket and rose back up, walking through the doors to head to his widower's old room.

John had found his husband's hat on the road - he picked it up, hoping to return it to him with a little lecture on 'how hard it is to make these', 'someone could have stolen it, you know', and the like. He got upon his metal steed and rode for the forests of Nevaehlen, the cap nestled upon its head, and settled down for a night's slumber in the trees. When he awoke, a bird pecked at him with a letter.

He could do nothing but stare.

The days in that month passed hazily. Rage triumphed over anything else, and when he had finally drawn out of it, his knuckles were bruised, nose broken, and much of his belongings pawned off or stolen. He could feel the familiar sting of orkish Light Dust burn his nostrils. Slowly, painfully, he shambled up.

Beneath the missive that'd been nailed to the board, was another - bearing the man's handwriting and a single, bloody handprint as though it were some form of signature.

"Do you know what nemesis means, Irene?

I will teach it to you in blade and knuckle."

this is for.. .this is.. tjis... this ... this is for rhys var ruthern, thee rotund, rotting ......

John gave a gleeful nod from his home in Nevaehlen. "Hate high elves, love diplomacy! Blessed be."

Some old, battered woman - a creature, more like, or even less than that - peered upon the paper. Few caught its attention these days, but the wisp and the flicker of the creature that delivered it to that part of Aevos beckoned it. Out of fear. Those bygone days, bygone ghasts and wights, eidolon and occultists. The spectral talon-mark of its disconnection still marred the flesh.

"Vorztrok. Why does the name sound familiar?"

"Not Vevodrok, surely. A different thing. Perhaps one of my old students? The sixth synod . . ."

Viktoriya's frenzied mutterings trailed off as the husk of the Orenian meandered elsewhere, lost in thought.

A Balianese man, too poor of vision to have read the headline correct, let out a woeful sigh. "Ai, I could go for a margarita or two. Amirite?"  hummed John, nudging his beau with an elbow. @teeylin

A mechanical drakeling delivered a parchment to Cerulia's gate;

------

"HELLO, your Serene Marq-ness!

I am a despiser of Darkspawn and Capitalist extraordinare. I'd love to set up shop in your land. Where is Cerulia, in Lurin?

Capitalist Farewells,

 - John Augustus G. Of Balian."

"ABORT IT," hissed some ancient, undead thing - crumpling the missive. It furiously stomped on it as another spam-letter entered through the window. "WHY DO I KEEP GETTING THESE!?"

One battered warrior, who'd just escaped the battlefront of Tor'galend, squinted at the flier. "AH, yes, Mordring. If I ever see the behemoth, undead, dragon lich, I'll surely give him a piece of my mind." Still, he pinned it to the board in his home to memorize the names.