TreeSmoothie

RAH OL U TENEIR, MOIEF MON BLETH ON NÉFSERVE – – Ven u hrudao ETH-RIETE-FRITH-SI FHUIL THAF MON BLADEE AF GLOREER VEN MON ATHA – – I was young – eight, I believe – I first joined the army. I was given a set of armor too big and a sword too heavy, and I used it with pride. There have been many times in this life I should have died, alas, I write this now. I have been busy ever since I’ve learned to walk, unresting in my duty to the state. While I have so, so much pride in this nation still: I have grown tired and old. I can no longer function as I once did. I have reason to believe my time upon Mundus draws to an end, soon, and thus, I, John of Cascanova, wish to offer out the lofty podium of Royal Legate to the next generation. With my unfortunate eviction and the attempted felling of my beloved, it is time I venture down a new path, one where my mind shan’t be so clouded. I must set my sights fully on the eradication of evil in this world. Whilst I am still bound by title and land, that is a fruitless goal. I would like to thank all of Balian for the good life I was able to live, and all of the friends I’ve made. Alongside this, my heir, Adrian Marcello, shall inherit the house of Galbraith soon enough. A few years, give or take . . . he has his mind in the clouds, at the moment. Brothers and sisters, continue to thrive. To the next Legate, I offer these words of wisdom: keep a level head and be sure to only gossip about other nations in whisper. Keep our peace and extend the olive branch to all, as I and my predecessors have always done. But never, ever, be a footstool. - Long May Balian Prosper! - BUÉSSI NA U RAH OL U TENEIR H.E., JOHN AUGUSTUS GALBRAITH

"Shit." A aging Galbraith frowned as he read the flier - recalling his conversations with Mircalla not a day or two ago - one of the more relevant cursed children. All things considered, the devil was a kind soul despite his ... prejudices. "Our diplomacy with the non-canon realms that house them is bound to be interesting. Poor souls. Literally." --- "Perfect," rattled an ancient, ancient woman. In more secluded spots where the notice had been laid, another poster was jailor's-moss-glued beside it. It read ... "TO THE DEJECTED AND CURSED; THE HUMANS MAY CAST YOU OUT, BUT WE WELCOME YOU. THEY CALL YOU DEVILS - EMBRACE IT!", alongside directions to send a pigeon to one 'Serthekhur'. Eye-burning sigils surrounded the advertisement, scrawled in blood.

Omg! I'm also doing an LOTC dnd campaign rn of the Inferi war. From an adaption perspective, I don't think anything exactly would ruin it. At least, none of the little changes in the campaign to DND-ify it have been bad.

A winged man, who had met the author prior, held the tome up in reverence. "Vao rah, vao methrah -- a glorious relic. Perhaps this is the path I'm meant to take?"

RAH OL U TENEIR, MOIEF MON BLETH ON NÉFSERVE – – Ven u hrudao ol ETH-REITE-FRITH-ETH FHUIL THAF MON BLADEE AF GLOREER VEN MON ATHA – – is for Irene, thee rotund, white-fleshed, putrid smelling bacon-did-feed wench, why thee TOOK mine beloved's eyes out and flayed them, beat them to nigh death whilst their back was turned, thy TRIFLING, FILTHY, LARGE, ‘oompa loompa’, corse-haired rampallian WENCH! I'm coming up thither and I shall beat the ALAS out of thee, wench, and don’t rally your darkspawn-filth comrades, I shall cometh up thither unexpected and wail on thee rampallian wench arse; I KNOW OF THE FETID CARRIAGE THOU DRIVE and thou raggedy arsed steeds and ratty cloth. Damned tattered shoes, thin-haired, stenched dog, arsed wench! I'm telling thee, WENCH, I'm coming to beat thou for thou foul-mouthed, trifling-arsed attitude. WENCH!!! “HARK, AEVOS; IRENE OF ALDENBURG [SOMEWHERE IN HER FIFTIES; OF AVERAGE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT; BEARING SCORED OFF TATTOOS; A HUMAN WOMAN, SUPPOSEDLY] has fallen to the way of Iblees – when my spouse was strolling the streets of Balian at night, she attacked and performed some rite of NECROMANCY upon them. She did not stop at this, however, and proceeded to remove their eyes and slash their face. Callista of Tuvia found her victim dumped upon my very porch in the early hours, and written in blood and carved into the wood was her signature, and when my beloved came to, was able to recall such events. Keep watch, brethren - for the wretch can surely change her hair, her garb. But her wicked heart remains the same. And to Irene – and your moniker I shan’t call you by, for you do not deserve the honor nor humanity of it – you best avoid myself and my kin like the plagues you fester in. For if I catch you, I will fly you to the peaks and impale you upon the highest mountain. For every time you come back in undeath, your skull will be split again, and again, til there is only a vial of dust to remember you by. LET THE HUNT BEGIN, GOD WILLS IT. BUÉSSI NA U RAH OL U TENEIR H.E., JOHN AUGUSTUS GALBRAITH

It wasn't the Pontiff Lookalike, but Demetrius' bestest friend and brother-in-law, John. "We know about the tattoo of the feline-eared Duke Vuiller on your back; otherwise dubbed a 'catboy'. You cannot run, mankisser," the Galbraith forebodingly warned as he ransacked the Ruthern's thanium-box for milk. "Also, Rhys says hi." John promptly let himself out of the keep.

Dame Viktoriya Denurem, relic of the Orenian Empire and resident sentient corpse, spat out her drink. "ON GOD?"

John already begins writing his retirement letter when he sees the Rutherns had made a public announcement - only to see it was the other old fart renaming his County. He grumbled and returned to his paperwork, awaiting the day he could finally rest.

An aging human glanced to the letter that'd slipped into his window by chance. The Mark of the Pertinaxi burned on his chest, worsening by the year; as much as he might have adored the idea of a life in retirement, it would surely grind him down before he could reach such an age. "Ah ... perhaps I can wring together a group."

The husk of an old, battered woman grumbled at the flier. She presumed if she came with a flesh golem to fight in her stead, she'd probably be killed. "Stupid . . . voidal magicks. They're too weak to even mask my damned creature as a conjuration!"

PRETTYYY

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Emelia, in her little beach cottage on the coast, sipped on a margherita beside her wife. The graying woman perked a brow as yet another damn spam-letter was dropped at her porch, and begrudgingly walked on over to read it, lest it be tax-collection. "All those children, just to get one heir, that didn't have kids!?" she blinked, almost contemplating. "It sounds ... fun, almost. Alas, I'm lazy." Smiling a smile that knew not of the burdens of tax or peership, she shambled on back to ensure her child hadn't drowned in the time she was up reading.

Serthekhur's misty form traveled over the fields, hopping between anchor to anchor - leaving behind her, bodies and gore. Not enough, never enough. To be infamous like its own mentor would mean to be bold, first: and the old woman (if It could be even deemed one, anymore) was only cowardly. Brewing in her self-loathing, she'd slumber for many more a moon, until something would stir her again.

Emelia Kervallen - wherever she was - glanced up as the general 'letter of death' was delivered via owl. Shamefully, she had never met her younger sibling. She cast a glance to her own son, brows furrowed as he played with a wooden sword, before she went back to reading.

I thought Big Story was supposed to make elves CAs??? where did my $500 bribe go!?!?!

The elderly John Galbraith can only get two sentences into the novel of a law before contemplating going to the Seven Skies early. He is promptly arrested and thrown in jail for possessing several illegal spices!

Knew it, Big Tech is evil!!!!

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(hes a weiss)

The bestest friend of that aforementioned child poised a brow, grubby little hands taking the flier up close to poorly read it. He sniffed, tilting his head. "Ra-ra's like ... SIX. You're ancient, old woman! Stop being ancient and grumpy and ... old! Old woman!" He took the thing, and blew his nose in it, promptly throwing it back on the table to go play with his friend.