Roona Lovelock
Established
Roleplay posts: 29
Age: 22
Appearance: With Green longish hair that's often in a braid. Build is on the leaner side with abs and a sturdy sleeper build but in turn wears bulky clothing. Freckles dot her face with a dragon eye tattoo on the back of her neck. She stands around 6'2 with the poise and gait of a elk.
Equipment: Two cutlasses with a holster to fit both. Seafarer gear for voyages. A long reinforced flowing coat that's a tad large for her. She also wears a perfect ring almost scared of ever taking it off.
Skills and Abilities: Has been taught a bit on the forbidden side two sword fighting style. The style includes lots of spins and deceiving the enemy when in the heat of combat. She has skills as a captain and leader as well as a star watcher.
Biography: Hailing from a richer society she was well schooled to be a merchant. But after her home city being destroyed she turned to more dishonorable roles. She is now the new ruler/ring of Rorkia.
Allegiances: Rorkia, her people, the historia
Place of Residence: Rorkia
Registered: Jan 7, 2024 23:49:37 GMT -5
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Post by Roona Lovelock on Jan 8, 2024 1:51:07 GMT -5
Roona gave a fair but long yawn as the mist breached from the creaky and worn wood of the Historia. Its long and tall masts loomed the shadows as the call of the bell struck and the cry of land sounded from joyed youths. The helms person shifted the wheel to favor the island that was now in wonderful sight.
Roona herself stayed retreated back in her cabin where her hung up her coat and sprawled out maps across the broad desk that she had loomed for many months now. She checked and doubled checked despite already tripled check that there was land before this. She then smiled in the dimly light cabin as the swaying lantern made the room subtly glow. Above deck the crew was still cheering for the land with sounds of grown men and women even crying at the sight. With everything in order she donned her formal clothes and coat with long tricorn hat as she made her way upwards.
Going to the ships fresh deck was easy, everyone was already on deck. When Roona got to the deck the crowd parted to let her through and see land. Roonas eyes gleamed with the sight of it as a smirk arose and she pumped her hand into the air "I HOPE YOUR READY, HERE I COME" she shouted at the island as her crew roared at her statement. The ship kept course and soon they would land.
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The Beast of Tindalin Forest
Established
Roleplay posts: 20
Age: 76
Equipment: Leather armor, short sword, dagger, a bow, quiver of arrows, and basic camping supplies.
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Skills and Abilities: Skilled survivalist, fighter, hunter, and thief with a natural ability to shape-shift into a Panther.
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Biography: Beast hasn't thought on where he came from in a long time, his early life nearly forgotten to the point he barely recalls his real name. He was taken captive by Dark Elves looking for slaves, dragged into the Under Dark he was sold to a fighting pit. He spent years trapped under the earth, barely surviving the sadistic events he was thrown into but they slowly turned him into an exceptional fighter. Eventually, he managed to escape the fighting pits fleeing into far more dangerous wilds of the Underdark.
It took him two years before he finally found a route to the surface, his survival a testament to his luck and adaptability. When he finally saw the sun again it nearly blinded him and it took him weeks to recover. He found himself in human territory, he remembered enough of his former life on the surface to know he needed gold and had spent so long underground he wasn't picky about how he got it.
Turning to banditry, he robbed those he came across on the road. Eventually, thanks to his ability to shape-shift into a Panther, he became known as The Beast of Tindalin Forest the massive expanse of woodland straddling two different kingdoms where he made his home. He attracted fellow outlaws and formed his own gang, which eventually turned mercenary when a war broke out and one side started offering hefty sums of money in exchange for his band scouting the woods for them. This shift into more legitimate employ remained after the war, he and his band spent a few years going from conflict to conflict.
Eventually he and his men, The Beast's Rangers, were camping on the side of the mountain travelling toward a new contract. A cloud settled down around them so thick that they could barely see and when it lifted they found themselves... elsewhere.
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Allegiances: Captain of The Beast's Rangers
Registered: Jan 29, 2024 18:12:31 GMT -5
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Post by The Beast of Tindalin Forest on Jan 29, 2024 19:48:24 GMT -5
Not every crossing of the mist happens over water. On a low hill overlooking the coast as dawn crested the horizon to start burning away the mist, a group of men materialized out of the bank that hadn't been there the day before. The nightwatchmen took in the new scenery disbelievingly for several long moments before he raised a cry of alarm. The camp came to life, as a dozen men emerged from seven tents.
It didn't take long before they realized what was wrong, it took far longer for them to realize that whatever witch craft had taken them in their sleep it wasn't a danger to them presently. When that was finally clear they stood in a circle around the fading embers of their fire looking toward one of their company.
He wasn't the tallest, nor the broadest of them. Indeed, the elf was about average height for the company though that made him tall for an elf and he was surprisingly broad for one as well, with lean powerful muscle. "So." Said one of the men, he looked to be a few years past his time with enough scars to speak of a life of violence. "What do we do captain?"
The Captain looked at his men and shrugged his shoulders. "We've been teleported, we don't know by who or where we are but since no one seems to be attacking us, we start scouting. I'll go by myself, everyone else teams of two. One pair stays in the camp, everyone else pick a direction. If you see anything don't get stupid, come back and report." With that decided the mercenary camp stepped into their new reality with simple pragmatism.
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gaunt
New
Roleplay posts: 1
Age: Young, made older by obsession. His cheeks are raked with experience and ravished with starvation. It's up to debate if he's in his early twenties or late thirties.
Appearance: They'd called him disheveled before the Mist, and they'd still be right. Long black hair reaches his skinny shoulders, his yellow eyes are deeply tired and framed by a pale narrow nose.
Skills and Abilities: When he ate them, he'd expected that it would not sit well but it did. Their flesh sat in his stomach, and he felt sated by their blood. It had been desperate but he was a scholar, a historian and an academic and they were sailors. The knowledge needed to survive, for it would outlive even him.
Biography: The mind is unwilling and the grimoire remains shut.
Registered: Feb 8, 2024 8:18:51 GMT -5
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Post by gaunt on Feb 8, 2024 9:51:19 GMT -5
The mist had held him long enough that sailing alone had become too tiresome to bother. Gaunt let the galleon sail where it pleased. It had crashed clumsily through waves until the hours had turned into weeks of weak, pale sun. That same sun had been the only constant. It baked the blood around his mouth into a cracked smear, dried the bloodstains down his matted chest. He should have died in the city, drowned himself in that momentous, cataclysmic flood.
It would been easier to have perished. Then, at least, the crew and patrons of the ship would not have had to sacrifice themselves for his sake. He swallows the rising bile, looming over the waist of the ship. Gaunt let his eyes trail over the mist, then the sea. With a raised hand at his mouth, a stifled noise escaped through his fingers like some sad mix of a whimper and a laugh. Their struggle had been empty, hadn't it?
The knowledge, the history. He'd needed to save it then, but the realization was sinking in. Nobody would ever share it with a filthy creature like him, in this vast and infinite prison. There was no inherent worth in the history of a dead race, let alone the coward scholar who knew it. Gaunt felt the rising ball of hatred rise in his stomach, he was filthy with blood. His sweat had turned sour like their corpses, and the graveyard was waiting for him to join the others. His boots climb before he can will them to stop. This was just—right. The mist could have him, drown him here like the rest of his kind. There wasn't a leap, or a jump, only a limp fall and the crash of water. Gaunt let the water fill his mouth, he woudn't have been able to flail if he had wanted that.
He sinks at first, letting his world become the wracking pain of his lungs, and choking breath. Some small wet cough of shock takes him into darkness. That body that had become too tiresome to bother betrays him at the last moment.
Finally, the mist pulls him away from the galleon, his body drifts out of the edge of the mist and soon to land on unexpected shore. Lifeless, but far from empty.
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Iascor
Established
Roleplay posts: 13
Age: Beyond time, looks in early twentys though
Appearance: A built large figure with white and pale skin and long dark hair. Their skin seems almost untouched by the world despite looking like they've lived for longer than a newborn. They stand around 7'2. They look like no certain gender rather looking like all. They wear loose clothing most the time. A giant mark was is in the center of their chest, the mark is what seems like a combination of a scar, brand, and tattoo in one. In the center lays a giant stab scar that was orange instead of red that could only be delivered by a large weapon, spewing from the scar is black lines that seemed to crack off the orange covering a diamond like shape. To finish the last remarkable detail, surrounding all the cracks and the scar there is a terrible circle that seems to be made of tendrils with some connecting with eyes.
Equipment: Blanket robe.
Skills and Abilities: Sometimes they forget how to breath. Walk straight and understand basic commands.
Biography: Found and named by Alden. Then joined his adventuring group east bound.
Allegiances: Alden, Arianne Graves
Place of Residence: Dirt, camp
Registered: Feb 9, 2024 0:21:00 GMT -5
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Post by Iascor on Feb 9, 2024 0:39:17 GMT -5
Thoughts, all there was, was thoughts but now theirs feeling and motion. The motion of the water as the beings body was being shot through it. There was darkness and the chocking on water, was this the fate that they had sent thousands... millions too over the eons. It was awful IT IS AWFUL, All they can feel is water and see darkness and taste salt... taste, and it doesnt taste good. Its weird these words they know but have no knowledge of learning them.
Then there's a breach of the water as a body is shot out above the waves. Now there's the sight of the burning light oh so faintly in the sky, the taste of and feel of air before being plunged back into the waves. They with whatever they have move like a wounded animal flailing their arms and legs to go up. Then they go up and get pulled back down and get dragged away again fading to black again.
Was this, is this. Fear.
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Lune
New
Roleplay posts: 1
Age: 19
Appearance: With long hair and a veil covering her mouth. She stands at an average(ish) height of 5'9 with a toned body. She wears what's clothing that's always too loose except for shoes that are always what seem glued to her leg. Her voice is of an haunting lullaby. She has a circuler hand tattoo and fingers adorned with rings of different kinds.
Equipment: Very light. She does have items for her magics in small doses on her clothes and small bags and other such things for that. Hidden on her body is a pair of silver knuckle dusters that extend with claws. While clearly seen on her is a slightly curved short sword with a longer hilt than others and carved with many runes, sheathed in furs and slung around her back with loose rope.
Skills and Abilities: She has as much as the church of the moon has taught her. She knows their fighting style to its average degree but has been excelling in their magics. Though the magics she does know is limited cause of rules and boring stuff. But she knows tracking magic, tracing, scrying, etc.
Biography: Born into the church she has been raised all her life by the eclipse and everything they offer. She was average mostly showing more promise in magics and now has her first mission all the way on the mistborne isles.
Allegiances: Rougarou sect of the church of the moon
Place of Residence: Nowhere
Registered: Feb 9, 2024 0:46:10 GMT -5
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Post by Lune on Feb 9, 2024 1:48:11 GMT -5
"Or he'll reign his fury, fury, fury" A softer lullaby type voice echoed across the water as a terribly battered canoe skims across it with a paddle pushing it forward. The nursery rhyme continued softly with its haunting lyrics for no one and everything to hear. "for the crimson moon casts us down, blood, blood, blood."
Then the sight of land hit the person in the canoes eyes and their eyes gave a small smile as their face was not in view since a veil was placed in order to not see it. A cat meowed at the person after which a small cracker was thrown to it as the canoe propelled forward a bit faster now. At long last she was here and it was time to do what she came here to do. Minus a partner and another canoe and a lot of supplies.
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Coel
New
Roleplay posts: 9
Age: 32
Appearance: White mask, black leather clothes with a thigh hood and a long overcoat.
Equipment: He carries a bottle of a black, viscous and flammable liquid, 5 throwing knives, and a short sword hidden under his overcoat
Skills and Abilities: A decent swordsman and with extended knowledge on fire magic, knowledge on brewing alcohol and other flammable liquids
Biography: Unjustly burned for witchcraft, he survived by mysterious means, after his recovery he learned fire magic and had his vengeance, his views on humanity were distorted by his experience and would be glad to watch the world burn
Registered: Feb 29, 2024 22:57:46 GMT -5
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Post by Coel on Feb 29, 2024 23:10:57 GMT -5
The smell of burning wood filled the air, the only thing louder than the crackling flames were the screams of despair and ashes fell from the sky like snow as the small city of Lithonia was being consumed by fire, the culprit behind it all was now at the counselor's home.
The house was only illuminated by the flames outside, the counselor and head main political figure of Lithonia was tied to a chair, gagged and afraid, in front of him was a man if medium built, he was wearing a white plain mask and leather clothes with a thigh hood.
"I can still remember the smell you know, the noise my skin made as the flames engulfed my body, the taste in my mouth as my tongue cooked inside it." Said the man, he took a deep breath like was remembering a precious memory or his favorite smell, "that was the day you freed me counselor, ir at least help me to go in the right direction. You call me a witch, a villain, a murderer, all things I wasn't…" he grabbed the chair's back and dragged it to the closest window, leaned close to the counselor's ear and whispered "all things I am now."
The masked man turned the chair around, walked towards the door and picked up a bucket filled with a viscous black liquid that smelled of cheep alcohol and tar and other foul and flammable things and started to gently pour it on the wooden floor, making a line directly to the counselor then dumped the rest on top of the man, he took the gag off and asked for his last words, "Fuck you Coel." Was the answer.
As Coel walked to the door the sound of thunder echoed through the sky as a torrential storm began out of nowhere, he lifted his index finger in front of his face, a small, round ember spawned from it "goodbye Clark, burn in hell." He said as flicked into the liquid, setting it ablaze, the flames quickly reached the counselor who felt the pain he caused to so many others.
As Coel exit the house, the water was already up to his knees, he had a feeling he would need a boat or something that floats, by the time he found a piece of wood big enough to support him the water had reached his stomach, he climbed onto it and had one last look at what was left if the town as the water took him away and into a mysterious mist. It wasn't long before he saw the isles in front of him.
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Lividfang the heartbreaker
New
Roleplay posts: 4
Age: Looks around the age of 20 (though real age is that of multiple human lifespans, She has seen many rings of Rorke rise and fall)
Appearance: Her armor is sleek and thin giving no more metal than what is needed to protect everything. it looks almost silver when not inspecting it closer. Their cape is of a vibrant red with black feathers covered across it. Their helmet looks personalized, Its strands on top are dyed a moon white with a it dotted with black. The front of their helmets face has carved into it a heart on the left cheek, On the top of the helmet there are cuts into it marking something. The back of the helmet shows teeth with fangs and a chain breaking through the fangs.
Her real face is pale but she has crimson red eyes. Her hair is a soft purple as is a medium length, it seems like its almost always tied in the back in a small ponytail or braid but in the front seems to always cover one eye. Her ears are long and pointed. Her body is riddled with random scars and brandings. Though a line star tattoos dot her left collarbone.
Equipment: Her suit of armor and cape. Three swords and slings across her back, the handles all extend perfectly for her hand to drop and grab one. One sword is a compact buster sword, Another is a well crafted and perfectly balanced rapier, The last a jambiya dagger of dark and light design. Her gauntlets fingers can extend into small claws. A necklace is also seen around her neck it has a serpent design.
Skills and Abilities: As a sort of vampire she does have the ability to sense blood and blood pressure, she also has higher hearing being able to echo locate. She has harnessed the ability to move swiftly with mist towards things with a high heart rate. She has also trained herself to heal rapidly even closing fresh wounds with no scars in only a few days. When fighting with her swords instead of training and becoming the best at one she has became 2nd best at three different weapons. In battle she judges a fight and the way it's going switching quickly between sword to sword, form to form to perfectly counter the enemy. When using hand to hand she prefers a more, i'm wearing armor and your not, approach throwing herself at the enemy with a flurry of knees and elbows. Replacing punches with palm heel strikes with her fingers forward usually with claws extended.
Biography: As an orphan from her mothers death from child birth and her father being too much of a deadbeat she lived on the streets. When she was 10 she was founded by the order and trained in as a sorta unofficial human mascot. It wasn't until she was 15 that she actually started training. Sooner than how anyone expected she went through the scarring at only 16. After surviving the scarring she harnessed her new skill as a vampire and as a maiden. Also to everyones shock once more her scarring went solid at 20.
After countless years of serving the ring and Rorke she took her 2 year retreat to live as a normal person. During this time she had a child with a man. The man left her soon after but she fell deeply in love with a woman whom she had to leave. Soon after coming back to her dutys the floods came then the fall of Rorke. She with her platoon that she had taken out fear proofing that day took a spare boat and set on their way. They traveled until they say the mist then went in.
Allegiances: The moons fangs
Place of Residence: Nowhere
Registered: Mar 1, 2024 23:46:32 GMT -5
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Post by Lividfang the heartbreaker on Mar 2, 2024 2:23:02 GMT -5
Liv had been the only one this entire journey before and during this mist to not take off her helmet. She never did enforce that rule, even if it was one of the scarred oaths but even to that point most of these kids hadn't completely gone through the scarring. At least not enough to be able to ever solidify it. But that all didn't matter, now they were all floating on this hunk of wood through this mist. A whisper arose through some of the girls which caught the eye of Liv. "Stop speaking" she said calmly in her elegant Rorkian accent. The girls quickly stopped and moved away from each other and from Liv.
Liv let out a sigh, was she being too hard. Rorke had fallen and the ring is gone so there's no point to really act like a royal guard. Even so she still had to reign these girls in they were too far into training to just let them loose now. The thought of what could happen soon went away as she yawned and laid back down across a lounge chair behind the helm. The girl manning the helm at the moment would've made a great maiden mainly for the princes and princesses she was quiet but in a non judging way.
She fiddled with the necklace she had on her as she heard "LAND, IT'S LAND." the person saying it didn't have a Rorkian accent but that wasn't out of the normal so she rose. When she looked off into the horizon she did in fact see land. She then heard sobbing coming from one of the girls. It was tears of joy but Liv swiftly came down the steps and slapped the sobbing girl without saying a word. This generation is to soft and weak anyhow.
Everything without her saying a word clicked once more as the ship set forward towards the land. Liv didn't know what she was doing but she sure was prepared. "I hope this brings something" she said sounding rather bored before going back to her couch.
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Nerys
New
Roleplay posts: 2
Registered: Feb 11, 2024 15:23:23 GMT -5
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Post by Nerys on Mar 3, 2024 11:35:24 GMT -5
She was in church at the time.
With hands clasped in reverence, Nerys bowed her head and prayed. The image of the first disciple stood before her in exquisite detail, all the folds of her clothing and the fluttering of her hair carved from marble. The hands were outstretched, welcoming all who would embrace Nantum in their hearts.
So entranced was Abdal Nerys that she did not notice the presence of water in the church until it lapped against her ankles. So taken aback was she, that when the waves burst through the door, she hadn’t even the chance to scream.
How she woke up, clinging to a piece of driftwood, she didn’t know. The first thing she did was make sure she was reasonably safe. She was as comfortably atop this- was it a part of the church?- thing for now, and there didn’t seem to be anything lurking beneath the water. By Nantum’s grace, she still had her sword and armor, though her mantilla and shawl were missing. Her hand flew up to her face, only to find that her mask, too, was gone. To this, she scoffed. How was she to blind herself to world so that her goddess could help her see it for what it truly was? And where had she brought her now?
Days passed. Days with no water, days of starvation. Nerys crossed her legs and bowed her head in meditation, staving off her suffering as best she could. This was not dissimilar to her training in the coven, and so this trial proved itself managable until the third day. Her body shook, weary, and her mind began to waver. To what end was she to suffer? What trial was this to abandon her at sea in a fog so thick she could not even look to the sky for solace?
It was on the third day that her questions were answered. The moon beamed down onto her, gracing her with its presence before a wave taller than any church swallowed her up into the dark.
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Sah'iir
New
Roleplay posts: 1
Appearance: Sah’iir hails from the lands of Arak’Esh, a land known for its extremely diverse people. In Common, she’s Cat Folk, humanoid in stance, but possessing a felinoid head, retractable claws, a tail, and a body covered in a coat of fur, to name but a few of their strange, otherworldly features.
Sah’iir herself is grey in colour, and patterned in almost-black stripes, as well as patches of lighter fur tufts on her chin, cheeks, and elbows. Her eyes burn a bright amber from within patches of dark lined fur. Three claw scars cross her face, two across the bridge of her muzzle, between her eyes and pink snout, and one that knicks at her black lips.
Her head is topped with long dark hair that’s pulled into multiple braids, each one held together by a golden bangle, matching the many rings that decorate the ears atop her head, as well as dotted around her sleek, toned body.
She can usually be found in well fit leather armour, decorated with studs, buckles, and a handful of pockets, perfect for both travel and her more nefarious purposes. It matches well with her exceptionally made boots, travelling cloak, and hood that in her homeland hid her identity well, but elsewhere her tail usually catches the eye.
Once upon a time, when she wanted to be seen she’d don one of her many colourful dresses from her family mansion’s wardrobe, but it appears to be no more.
Equipment: Sah’iir has four basic-seeming short blades that sit sheathed at her hips and at the base of her chest. Despite their basic appearance, they’re made from only the finest alloys in Arak’Esh, and made by her family’s Blacksmith. They’d yet to let her down, and her routine maintenance keeps them exceptionally sharp.
Her other weapon of choice is a master crafted bow that’s never too far away, with its matching quiver of arrows, each ready to be loosed with incredible accuracy.
Other than her weapons and armour, Sah’iir travels light, usually choosing to procure or steal the majority of her provisions along the way to top up the small supply of rations she usually kept on hand.
Skills and Abilities: Sah’iir hails from nobility and a family riddled with master thiefs, both of these things offering her a wide variety of skills and abilities that had taken years to master.
Racially, her cat folk heritage grants her night sight, the ability to see exceptionally well in the dark, as well as faster movement and greater jumping height. Not only is her sight generally heightened, but also her smell and hearing.
Her thief training has given her not only the skills to sneak around undetected, pick locks and pockets alike, and a keen eye for high value items, but also made her incredibly proficient with short blades and a bow and arrow. Though killing was never a good idea in her trade, being able to stealthily eliminate an enemy was always taught regardless. It was better to know how to do it and not use it, than to need it and not be able to do it.
She has a sharp mind from years at top school, and years of being forced to become a socialite has given her a penchant for acting. She has a manicured look and facade that she can slip into without issue, disarming folk and making them feel at ease with a friendly face, regardless on how she really feels. It has come in handy in many occasions, and some that may have been unintentional.
Allegiances: None official, socially Fiona Blythe.
Registered: Mar 6, 2024 16:40:32 GMT -5
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Post by Sah'iir on Mar 6, 2024 16:56:29 GMT -5
The end of the world had been… unexpected. Those Sah’iir had come across on the waters had called it the wrath of the gods, some the world shaking itself apart. People had always had a theory, but none of them seemed to fit right in the cat woman’s mind, especially the crackpots that tried to claim people like her, abominations, were to blame for it all. Those people obviously didn’t get out much.
Sah’iir had nothing but time to ponder those theories as she sailed across an endless sea of mist and gentle waves. She rolled a gem in her hand, one that had started to shimmer and vibrate gently as she delved deeper into the mists. She’d hoped to present it to her father, a truly unique gem, one of the few she’d managed to harvest from her mortal enemies. It was the reason she’d… procured her small boat, that was little more than a tub with a sale and a small cabin. It was likely just a commuter boat used by a guard in the city she’d set off from, one used to get from shore to a small outcrop for lookout duty. Nobody would miss it.
She rolled the gem over to the back of her hand, then she threw it up into the mist and caught it again in her palm. Her plans to reunite with her family were dead in the water that surrounded her, an idea that still sat terribly in the pit of her stomach. There may have been a nugget of hope in there, that the floods hadn’t invaded her realm, and that her family were safe, but the rifts that she travelled to and from her home were closed to her now. She rolled the gem over again, deep in thought. Sorrow perhaps wouldn’t be the word for it, it was more than that. Far beyond it, in fact. It may have been in there, but the feeling she gripped tightly to was the one she’d clung to when she first saw those gem encrusted beings laying waste to her friends during the war. Hatred. Anger. Revenge… The end of the world had only made them grow.
She gripped the gem tightly in her hand, a wild look in her eye, but she soon let out a sigh and stowed the gem inside her satchel. There would be time. The Gem Demons had to have something to do with the end. She had seen their raw power, and they would likely only grow more powerful. They had to end the world in an effort to stop her.
But she still drew breath.
The mists and waters may go on, but she knew she’d make it somewhere. Anywhere. Her luck had carried her that far, it wouldn’t fail her, and wherever she ended up? That’s where she’d find more to hunt. More of the Demons that plagued her. More Demons to put down at the end of her blade.
And she had a feeling she’d find that land soon. The mists felt… thinner, somehow, and the gem seemed to calm every hour she continued.
She took a bite of an apple and narrowed her eyes at the horizon. She’d make it.
She always did.
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Chantrea
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Appearance: Chantrea is a variant species of Arna born from the moon. She stands about 11 and a quarter great grey slugs tall (the official unit of measurement amongst Arna kind.) Her skin is an iridescent blue and her wings are a beautiful grey color speckled with black markings. Two antennae sprout from her wavy hair. Chantrea also has two pairs of arms which are common among Arna kind.
Equipment: Chantrea chooses to dress herself in intricate robes. She finishes off the look with an elegantly patterned woven shawl. She finds comfort in dressing in darker colors. Many times the top portion of her face will be covered with a black lace veil.
Biography: Chantrea, a name meaning moonlight, was given to her by her parents. She was born bathed in moonlight when she was birthed into the world. She felt out of sorts with her species, sure there were others born of the moon and looked similar in features, but they all praised the radiance of the sun. The moon glows just as strongly, yet everyone worships the great sun. Soon after her emergence as a full-grown Arna, she left the tribe to walk her own path. She soon found a place where she belonged. She was astonished that others believed in the great power the moon brings. She did not hesitate before joining the Rougarou Church of the Moon in Rorkia. Chantrea devoted herself to the studies of the church and soon rose in the ranks to become the head priestess. Even her adorable Moffulga named Pepperidge gained an honorary title in the church.
Allegiances: Rorkia
Registered: Feb 25, 2024 15:37:33 GMT -5
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Post by Chantrea on Mar 16, 2024 19:29:48 GMT -5
Chantrea being an Arna was never found of the sea. Wet wings meant trouble. As the boat clears the mist, she takes in the views of their new home. She leans her arms against the railing of the ship. The moth kind couldn't wait to explore her new home. Her eyes filled with curiosity.
"A new home" she whispers looking towards the island. She never found a sense of belonging amongst the Arna. Not many were like her, she was different, and not many enjoyed the luminous glow of the moon. She was different. The moon revitalized her and she soon found her new home with the Rougarou church.
Chantrea smiles seeing the excitement from her friend Roona. The two are like two ends of a magnet. Chantrea is reserved and quiet compared to the lively chipper energy Roona brought. She was happy to be off the boat and couldn't help but let out her own hoops and hollers. Just this one, the high priestess will let out her own celebrations.
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Kae Marshall
New
Roleplay posts: 5
Age: He is 19 years of age
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Appearance: Standing at 5'10 and with a toned build his most defined features are his ears which have a subtle blue to them which is strange compared to his brown hair. His hair is at a medium length way above the shoulder but bangs that go down to his chin, his hair is often tied back in a small pony tail or braids. His clothes of choice are often loose and/or fitted with almost always wearing a long belt that's looped on half way making it extend down the rest of its length almost like a tail. Their left ear at the base of it had a small cut into it, A series of tattoos of what seems like Runes is also adorned around their left tricep and bicep.
Among his wide range of clothing he does favor a certain jacket, some call it his trade mark. It's a dark black jacket that goes down to his belt, with a white shoulder that seems to be sewed on and made of reinforced leather. Its cuffs are rolled back once. It sports a hood and a built in mask that comes in from the side of the hood. On the back it presents a decently sewn in Isran flag, though pull back the stitching and something else rears its head. There are hidden pockets and sheaths all over the jacket.
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Equipment: He carries on him a longer short sword. The short sword was spared no expense with its flawless blade and its needlessly flair filled runes dotting across the blade. Most of the runes have seemed to give out but there are a few runes still active on the blade. Often stored in their back pocket they also carry a hand gauntlet that seems to only cover the front of someone's hand and their palm but not above the hand where it might be practical. The palm gauntlet is also etched with runes into it. He also carries at least a dozen senbon at most times, often hidden around his clothing rather than one place. Outside of the combat aspect he often carries a satchel filled with mundane items like his journal, some sewing tools, and some other knacks he enjoys.
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Skills and Abilities: Being trained by head marshall of the sun marshalls since around the age of 9 had him gain combat skills that some deem impossible for his lack of years. Though not nearly or really anywhere close to the training his father had endured, he is somewhat adept in those skills gaining them through a cleaner and more caring style of receiving that training. Outside of what his father taught him and what he picked up training with others who wanted to help his training. He has developed his own style of combat to which he feels most attuned too compared to everything else. Though a lot of his favored moves are those he trained and honed with his twin. He is also a known master of the light skin stare. A weird ability he's gained is cat-like flexibility, which does include being able to squeeze his head.
He also shows promise in music and sewing. He can play a wide variety of instruments but prefers strings. Surprisingly to all he also shows great skill in cloth. From patching his own shirt to even making entire shirts. Though this isn't honed at all and is rather sloppy Kae still shows promise in the field and enjoys doing it.
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Biography: Born as the son of Alden in Isra with five siblings, one of which looks uncannily just like him. Kae started life with the pinnacle of love and care and safety that most could only dream of. He had a happy childhood for the most part despite his mother never exactly being there. He doesn't talk about his biological mother. Given every chance at everything with gifts coming plenty he still chose to want to train in the art of combat. It was the day of blue blood that really drove him to pursue violence over anything else. He enjoyed his siblings loving each one differently but never one less than the other, though always biased towards Caleb his twin. Throughout his years he's gained many stories of him and his siblings going off on adventures and such. He often shadowed Caleb if he had nothing going on for himself.
Although his heavy combat roots and the amount of training done on him, he never really wanted a life of combat. He wanted to spend his youth adventuring for sure, but not sitting and stalking ready to act with violence against another living being. Now that he has grown more he can't help but want to drop weapon training and train to becoema tailor. But when he started having these feelings he felt he was already far too in to back out. So he went on with the path he was building.
At around 14 he started sneaking into fight clubs, mainly ones ran by a man going by Skel-o-tin. and going at it not for money but just a chance to use his skill. He soon got under the "mentorship" of a man named Ego. Ego taught Kae to be more flashy in his combat but not much else beyond that. This didn't last for long as the disappointment of those he cared about when they found out bared too much for him. After that he went on to go through a soft hearted phase to the love of many Isran young girls and boys. He spent the rest of his minor years mainly training and being a playboy.
It wasn't until his eighteenth birthday when he started going on more wild adventures, both by himself and with his close friends and family.
Allegiances: Isra, His family
Place of Residence: Nowhere
Registered: Mar 19, 2024 23:29:24 GMT -5
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Post by Kae Marshall on Mar 20, 2024 0:45:54 GMT -5
"Bored... b-b-b-bored... BORED"
Kae was not happy, it was supposed to be fun. But now he's here floating around on a small raft with a small wooden tent on it. He was running low on rations and fresh water. All he had with him was everything he brought in his satchel, this trip never intended to end up being so long. It was just meant to be some reckless fun of taking off the sails of a raft and letting the tide take the raft away. It rained, it rained so much, it was no wonder when the tide got messed up sending him here.
Kae laid across the raft staring up. He didn't know where this thing was going and he didn't know what to do while waiting to find out. After a long while of staring at the mist above, again. He got up and went for his canteen that was running dangerously low on its water. He took a long sip before it all ran out leaving him sitting with no fresh water. He decided to work more on his small project now. Ruffling through the wooden shelter, it suddenly shot up and hit his head. Kae confused quickly got out of the shelter to notice waves. Then he looked at the sky to see light peering through clouds to dimly light the raft.
Kae looked around trying to spot anything. Then anything appeared. Across the slightly shining water was the lines of the horizon that could only be one thing, land. Kae stared at the horizon then sat back down. He realized he now had to wait for the tide to bring him in since he chopped off the sail and threw away the steering board. His ears drooped down at the thought of swimming, so he decided to just wait it out.
"Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooored"
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Willa
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Age: 29
Appearance: She is a buxom woman, her hair is dark and so are her eyes. She stands tall and is a bit curvy. She has a little cluster of freckles on her nose.
Equipment: Cooking gear mostly, a few dresses, various things that were grabbed based on importance but are in the bottom of the bag for the moment.
Skills and Abilities: Serving (as in waitressing)
Cooking
Singing
Housekeeping
Hospitality
Biography: While not from the Usque proper, she was once the serving wench of a place right on the border, The Strutting Rooster in, but after Patches had disappeared into the misty forest and the inn became obscured by the changes that happened after.
She went to the festival within the forest where Tana was about to get crowned. And then the rains fell and the floods came, and then more mist...
Registered: Mar 19, 2024 23:04:41 GMT -5
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Post by Willa on Mar 22, 2024 11:24:40 GMT -5
The mist was so very heavy but the sound of the birds overhead caused the young tavern wench to open up her eyes. Ugh, she was hungry but she had been eating less so that the woman she tended to could have some extra, being weaker than the other three remaining passengers of the longboat. There had been twenty, now there were four, and the boat was now simply drifting because only two people were able, barely, to row but they needed at least eight, if not more, to navigate the craft through the water. The men kinda sat up and one of them commented on how the vaporous cloud thinned as the sound of birds grew louder.
While they would have been joyful for this, they were downtrodden by the journey and so very off on the time, they couldn't tell how long they had been in the craft, and up until that moment, whether it was day or night (it was dusk). They finally passed through the thinned Mist into the clear night.
The one that Willa was currently cradling opened her eyes too, her, talking about the way the warmth of the sun felt, but her words were so weak and soft that Willa couldn't make them out, so she gave a noncommittal pat to her shoulder and murmured in agreement. The men, weak though that they were, started doing what they could to steer the craft away from boulders and such. They headed toward shore.
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The Hierophant
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Age: Ancient
Appearance: The Hierophant's spectral form is ever shifting, and at the behest of the whims of the world. The two most common shapes he takes are as follows:
A majestic beast resembling a stag, with dappled grey-green fur, broad antlers, and a sweeping feathered tail. The stag's form is translucent, and glows with a soft blue light.
A translucent human man, who glows also with a soft blue light. He is outfitted with a set of chain mail armor, gauntlets, and greaves, mostly hidden beneath a simple tattered robe. His features are colorless and often out of focus, but one can still make out light skin, faded shoulder-length hair, and warm eyes creased with laugh lines.
Equipment: As a man, the Hierophant may sometimes appear with a weathered flanged mace and a kite shield. The shield appears to have at one point been decorated with a crest, but the design is no longer recognizable.
As a stag, the Hierophant carries nothing.
Skills and Abilities: While the Hierophant is a being of great and powerful magic, his agency is the world is largely limited to his own manifestation within it. He is bound to the foundations of a ruined cathedral that have since washed ashore, and cannot exist a great distance past its boundary.
Within his sphere of influence, the Hierophant is capable of enforcing a protective aura against those who seek harm upon those seeking respite in his domain. He is also capable of powerful healing magic, though his abilities are diminished under the effects of the Mist.
Registered: Sept 13, 2023 1:47:43 GMT -5
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Post by The Hierophant on Mar 27, 2024 16:38:56 GMT -5
There is grace in inevitability.
Hollow words, perhaps, from the mouth of a man such as he. Many had come before him who were all too quick to damn those who were not given the gifts they themselves had received. The prince will damn the beggar; for the prince would never stoop so low as to steal from another.
He did not damn those who had not shared in his belief. Perhaps once, a long time ago, he might have. In truth, he now thought those people strong. But still would he trade moon and sun and stars, that each mortal be gifted with the same gift as he.
The root of suffering is time. Each mortal, no matter how wicked, no matter how broken, has the capacity to change. To become better. He knew this to be true. It is the unfortunate reality that most are not afforded enough time to do so.
Neither is this the fault of Time. Time too, is a gift - one granted in much the same way that the sun sets. There is beauty in absence. In hollowness. For if the sun never set, one would never think to find holiness in the warmth of His touch - nor may one hate the Sun for the absence of the Moon’s divine light. It was not the fault of Time. He held no hatred in his breast for Her.
Still, he wept.
He wept as he felt the first waves fall upon the shore. For each tall oak that grew so high as to yearn to reach the sun itself, and each seed buried in the soil who had only begun to take root. Each towering city fashioned by thousands of hands, and each bundle of logs that dream of one day becoming a cabin. Each tempered marriage of hundreds of years, and each unspoken declaration of unrequited love. Each and every soul which walked these lands, and each and every soul yet to come that would never take a single step.
He did not weep for his own ending. He had made his peace long ago. There is grace in inevitability.
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But his ending never came.
He stood atop the surface of the sea. He could feel the depths writhing far below as the flood raged ever and on. The stag stood calm, lit with a pale green light in a curtain of dusky grey.
A slab of weathered stone floated just in front of him. A remnant of the very ruin he had haunted all those centuries long passed. The ruin where countless lives had come seeking refuge from the wicked, shelter from the storm. The ruin where he had protected them. A slab of weathered stone floated just in front of him. And on it, someone lay breathing.
Even between the flagstones of the street of the world’s busiest city, a flower may bloom. In a crater left by a city’s destruction, a mortal may find shelter. And in the throes of war and bloodshed, two soldiers may throw down their arms in the name of love.
The stag lifted his head towards the horizon. There is grace, too, in the unexpected.
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Avinkar Cleric of Arynthur
New
Roleplay posts: 3
Age: Quite Old
Appearance: The best way to describe Avinkar is shabby, which is a bit odd for an elf. While he does have the lithe delicate frame most accurate with elves he has a certain gauntness to his features. Where the average member of his species gives the impression of a young tree, supple and willowy ready to bend rather than break, he gives the feeling as though that tree has died and will blown over in a strong wind but it never actually does.
His hair is a shaggy mass, dark with a very faint hint of blue in certain lights. Despite how frail he seems, he doesn't look particularly young or old just tired. His dark eyes often downcast and thoughtful, his clothing all in neutral tones as though the colour had been drained from them.
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Equipment: His vestments, wand, and holy book alongside a rucksack with basic travelling supplies.
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Skills and Abilities: As a cleric of Arynthur, God of the Void and Mists, Avinkar sits on the precipice between life and death. His sacred duty is to help shepherd those who are about to die peacefully into the veil between life and death. In the mists, they will live out their second life their reward for the one they lived on the material plane. When the soul is cleansed they cross into the infinite void to be reborn as stars in the vastness of Arynthur's domain.
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Registered: Mar 26, 2024 19:22:38 GMT -5
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Post by Avinkar Cleric of Arynthur on Apr 8, 2024 14:41:18 GMT -5
"Oh, hrmm, this is... unexpected."
The elf emerged from the mist and looked around as he blinked, trying to get his bearings. The yapping of the smallish dog that was at his shins got his attention he looked down at the black furred menace and said.
"Okay, yes, you would have known if we were dead but you have to admit I had good reason to doubt."
This was met with a low growl of disapproval and the elf waved his hand as he wavered slightly on his feet. It really was bright outside, he felt rather sweaty with his robes on but he supposed he would just have to suffer.
"Yes, yes, you were right and I was wrong. How is that any different from normal?"
This got an indignant yip, a stomp of the feet, and a muttered. "The things I put up with." The low growl he got in return made him cough and say. "If we haven't crossed through the mists into the world within, then where are we?" The response was for the little dog to scamper off ahead and with a sigh he followed. If he wasn't dead then he probably had work to do and he'd find his way to it eventually.
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Ragenard 'Baron' Guiscard
New
*Angry and pained small monster noises*
Roleplay posts: 1
Age: 436
Appearance: The Man:
Standing at seven feet tall, gaunt of face, and broad shouldered, Ragenard is a physically imposing man. His well muscled physique—borne of a hard lifestyle and enhanced by the beast within—is thoroughly crisscrossed by the scars of a hard upbringing and a misspent youth.
While at first glance a brute, it wouldn't take long for an observer to notice the cunning intelligence behind his hazel eyed gaze. The worn-in laugh lines on his face would indicate that despite a near constant scowling visage and sour demeanor, at some point in his life the man knew how to laugh.
The Beast:
The murky mists of the receding passage into the Isles obscure this erstwhile terrifying feature of Baron Guiscard's features. While once a monstrous and slightly modular transformation, something in Ragenard's crossing has impacted his connection between the aspects that make him what and who he is.
Equipment: Absolutely stark naked; a plucky will, a surly disposition, and a scathing wit.
Skills and Abilities: Krsnk; Ragenard was originally born as a werewolf, in a world in which lycanthropy came in several different flavors. His is the result of a quasi-magical alchemical curse which renders the affected as "engines of survival" within, causing sufferers to appear from anything to quadruped large wolves, to twisted bipedal monsters and more in-between. The more monstrous the wolf, the stronger their regenerative abilities, typically.
Ragenard then went and ate a Fae Lord turned accursed Vampire Lord, who was also functionally immortal. The person died, but the thing it was refused to die, and Ragenard's condition refused to not survive, so a compromise was reached and the Krnsk was born.
Ragenard's regenerative abilities can be more accurately measured not against others of his kind, but held in comparison to some of the more ancient examples of his most detested enemies, vampires. One of which found it's accursed blood forever mingled with the man's own innate engine of predatory evolution and further mixed in with a good dose of Fae hexing to form the steadily changing monster he is now, and whose rage may have no horizon...
Or so he thought. He'd never breathed in such vapors before, and his body feels mighty strange.
Biography: Once a roguish brigand, leader of his band of werewolves, then a wandering sell-sword betwixt worlds, now a forlorn wayfarer.
Allegiances: None Yet
Place of Residence: Wilderness
Registered: Apr 11, 2024 14:07:23 GMT -5
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Post by Ragenard 'Baron' Guiscard on Apr 11, 2024 23:09:04 GMT -5
The forlorn scratching of wind over wind-swept stone dominated the soundscape as a gust momentarily overpowered the sounds of crackling flames. It settled back down almost immediately, and the charring journey of lignin to ashes being undergone by the anemic kindling in the sad and oversized—by several orders of magnitude—fire pit resumed its place in the auditory spotlight.
There was nary any illumination to see by, except the light of the fire itself as it cast two grotesque shadows upon the slightly brighter gray circle it illuminated out of the gloomy darkness. It was exactly noon. A bright and cheery sun shone upon the peak of the skies, framing a forget-me-not aquamarine sky that went unseen.
It wasn’t that the last two aware beings in the entire world lacked the sense of poetry to appreciate the wondrous midsummer skies. Indeed, one of them would have taken great pride in pointing out the gorgeous summer skies they performed their last labors together under. It would be a brutally stark cruel irony with which to lash out with.
This figure was a callous, inhuman monster who would only do so to torment his captor as the clock finally wound out on them both. The other was also an inhuman monster, but while this one would be more likely to curse you out and lambast you for the crime of existing in his personal space, at least he would do so whilst ensuring a safe magical evacuation out of your village square where you stood gawking like a newly minted squire.
In fact, he’d done just that some twenty years prior, when fate was sealed on this world. Neither could see the glorious skies under the perpetual cloud of ash which choked the life out of everything. He’d saved the day, but forgot to secure his ride beforehand. The cloud of ash didn’t just choke out the starlight but also the magic out of the world. In here, they were one and the same.
The two shadows flickered on in silence. One dwarfed the other handily; it wasn’t hard for a seven foot tall man to out-height a legless and armless torso. More macabre than the missing limbs was the smile plastered on the creature’s face, however.
“Remind me again,” the mutilated vampire lord started suddenly with a hint of toxic mirth under his slightly tired—in his opinion anyways, his companion thought it plenty overworked—undead voice, as if he’d been forced to run a marathon it would need to actually breathe for. “What exactly was your exit strategy?”
“Shut the fuck up,” growled the larger of the shadows.
“I mean, I did the whole monologue thing. I told you magic would stop working…”
“Shut the—”
“So there you were. Hero of the day, portal closing. And you just stood and watched it close.”
“I wasn’t going to let you take any cheap parting shots on the villagers,” replied the gruff man. His tone was tight, and his voice angry. This had nothing at all to do with his current mood, it simply was his disposition. No, a person well versed in Baron Guiscard’s moods could easily discern the sheepishness behind the angry exclamation.
He had thought the bloodsucker was bluffing, given that legendary magic was supposed to resist legendary magic. Well, Baron wasn’t wrong, he just didn’t consider his teacher’s words in full. He was better at lopping heads off with his fancy sword than using its amazing abilities in more abstract ways. His sword was fine, but the fabric it could affect was fucked.
“Then you just…” the undead creature stopped suddenly. A third sound rose in the air; the croaking sound of a cruel laughter being forced through a corpse’s parched throat. “Just stood there waving your sword like your dick was stuck in your hand…”
“Shut the fuck up,” Baron Guiscard muttered without much malice in return. Afterall, he’d ‘won’. No need to rub it in, he felt. He really hoped he’d die soon.
He didn’t. He eventually got up, gathered more of the dying kindling and fed the fire before taking a piss. Cruel that; no one told him his body would grow to be so good at hoarding water he’d still need to go through that motion despite increasingly—extremely so, even with the Baron’s own warped version of undead physiology—rarer feedings.
There was only one food source left in this word for the grizzled Krsnik after-all. But today was the day and they both knew it. Ragenard’s body might still retain its height, but the man’s erstwhile musculature was a grotesque joke by this advanced point.
“And then you started cursing—” a peal of laughter rang out as the vampire’s diatribe was interrupted by its own twisted mirth.
“Shut the—” hunger forced Baron’s hand.
The forlorn wind and the crackling of flames gave way to a new set of sounds. The vampire lord didn’t waste time begging for mercy; the creature recognized the irony of its position as the vampire hunter’s jaws severed his last and greatest joke from its immortal coil.
It gave Baron another five years. They were quiet, but quite sane. He’d gone longer alone, and also thinking he was going to die the whole time to boot. He thought to reflect one last time upon his long centuries and the score of worlds his…deerskin boots.
Baron Guiscard jumped out of his reverie in a preternatural burst of speed, tapping into the last of his reserves. Something was changing. He hadn’t noted when the last time his sense of smell had a contrast and thus could actually function. He didn’t pause to wonder why he could suddenly smell brine amidst decay and petrichor all of a sudden. He didn’t stop to ponder why his keen sense of hearing could suddenly hear waves.
He didn’t question the appearance of the mist as it overpowered the ash clouds, despite the stark difference in their color and richness in texture. Ragenard ‘Baron’ Guiscard was absolutely no stranger to eldritch, overbearing entities suddenly making their presence known.
Certainly, he might have become quite the fuck freaked out had he cast his preternaturally blessed amber…globes skyward and beheld the impossibility of the concept of hands reaching down upon the world though. The one in his neck of the woods tended to be less...hands on.
No, Baron instead was wholly focused on the fact that he could sense Fragarach again. As the ground around him started to disappear over gently overlapping waves, the surly—softie—hunter of evil…
That was Marissa’s voice.
Baron’s concentration slipped, and he slashed his way out of a dying world—rudely ignoring what would have likely been a far gentler landing—in too much of a hurry. His last vision as his sword fell somewhere between the gap in nothingspace was of a rapidly approaching snowbank.
A snowbank that was beneath him. The scent of blood and grave wax permeated the air in the unmistakable aroma of numerous bloodsuckers nearby. He was so so hungry. Instinct took over, but his wings wouldn’t work. He crashed into the snowbank in an angrily snarling ball of wrong. The monster that was expected didn’t materialize, but nonetheless, a hunger for the blood of the bloodless came to the Isles.
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