The Unbreakable Chain
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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Upon the bank of a wide river rested the proud home of the Jarl. The palisades of his fortress home were erected of wooden beams, sharpened to points, from which colors of his family’s pride were strewn not in ribbons or bunting, but in the crest-bearing shields of his devoted raider army. Many summer days did Liv, the Jarl’s daughter, walk hand in hand with her father along the wooden walls, and ask of him the stories that were painted on the shields.
“That is the mark of Sten Erikson,” the Jarl would explain, “whose cleverness...
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◦ The Price of Surviving ◦
AMBIENCE | PROGRESSION
〚 ✧┇ ══════════════════════ - ‹ •◦ ✧ ◦• › - ══════════════════════ ┇✧ 〛
The silence of the room was perhaps the most deafening silence Cecil had ever heard in his short, bitter life.
Faintly, somewhere else in the estate, a clock ticked. It was a windy day outside; the pine trees rustled quietly and few birds chirped. It was the sort of winter afternoon that was startlingly clear and startlingly cold, delineated by pale sunlight and tiny, puffy clouds. The average person would have long ago gone outside to enjoy the wind and the birds and the sunshine.
Cecil sat inside, staring at his hands, eyes unfocused.
Inside his head played the same scene, in a loop.
“FASTER! FASTER...
FOUND
Disclaimer
I am not a writer at all but I felt this story was needed to clarify a loose end.
On the first day of every month Anya found herself lurking the sewers, drifting and wandering to the ruins of the Solifugae Library. She walked through the familiar tunnel towards the desolate library with her gloved hand raised, a weak blue flame admitting from her palm to light the darkness surrounding her. She came to stop at the entrance of the library, holding a sombre expression and rigid demeanor, she stood questioning why she still came to these dusty old books each month. Anya moved the flame inside a rusted metallic lantern to light it and once lit she gave her wrist a little shake extinguishing the flame from her hand and...
Deep thickets and spongy undergrowth sprang up in the cold night; bramble and bucklethorn and tangled knots of poison oak lay over the ground in heavy abundance, dank and choking. The forest's nights were unforgiving, to say the least.
For where the Allar's safely ensconced by the bonfires, all seems calm... Unstirring even.
In fact, it was the calm before the storm. The forest floors laid spectral in these witching hours, ground fog ribboning along with the earth. From somewhere far away – like a musical voice from the edge of a dream – they heard the trilling notes of flutes. A procession of flute players, it seems, as nebulous shapes warped in the mists around a focal point.
A point where a figure emerges from, like the...
A Short Story by @LumosJared, inspired by @MantaRey's writing|
The Balcony from the new Shilais Estate was not a wholly quiet place. The gentle babbling of the stream below, the sounds of far-off voices surrounding the Cathedral to the South, the everpresent sound of birds in the trees surrounding the Estate. The sun had only just set. Darkness swept over the Capital, and there was a gentle hush to all these sounds. Arahael stood there, of course, as he often did at this time of night. He sang quietly, a low bassy sound, as his mind wandered back through the many years that had taken him to this place. Behind him was a fair walk-through closet, a wardrobe that housed not only his few outfits and armors and weapons, but now a myriad...
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Like will-o'-the-wisps in the woods, the candles flicker
For all the memories shared, there was much bicker
But all in all, it was not so bitter.
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Tooth and claw, how frightful!— do not be alarmed
Gnarled of limb, long and mighty the armed
Many... many beady eyes; that which exposit charisma that charmed
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((Once more, feel free to consider these as IC writings))
Nothing is quite as droll as marriage, and the worst offenders are monogamists.
How pretentious they are to declare everlasting love, as if nothing should ever change, but the common rhetoric is that marriage changes people; it is common enough to be fact. The initial, primal, intoxicating love of a relationship changes as soon as one is engaged, and further as one is married; the beginning of a decline.
There are three people of this world, my friend, my foe, my nemesis, and they are the lovers and the seducers and the deceivers, and the unfortunate lot fall to the latter. The lovers of the world, the few they may be, are the truest; they have no cruelty to them, no malice...
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“I came ‘soon as I heard.”
The undine washed up on the beach, carried by a wave. For the first time in decades, she set foot on the Katharic Coastline, but for a worthy cause. A thin, water-worn letter was clasped between webbed fingers - small knicks and holes in the papers where she had gripped it too tightly, holding on to the chicken-scratch writing of the Wylathar she had taught to read and write.
Zambezi sat on the shoreline, their many eyes glazed over as they stared into the sun-kissed waves...
It was a seemingly long time ever since the invasion of the city by that spiteful Lich. It was incredible what he had done in such a short time, how many lives he had changed within the span of only a few days. However, it didn't quite have the same impact as what had been done to the Url. He didn't like what he had become during the crisis, but at the same token part of him was calling; Crying for that power that he had. Attacking civilians was horrible, quite brutal, and was part of his past he tried so hard to hide on his violent quest to save Aloria through symbiosis. Though, the calling of that Arken and being able to level buildings he disliked was intoxicating. Even the most silent nights seemed to have whispers and screams that...
[A quiet evening in the Siwat district town hall, after many rounds of Songaskian drinks. By the fire sat Sakara, reclined on a couch. The mood eventually turned somber as the Songaskia continued her tale of the great wars fought.]
- = o O o = -
I stood horn-to-horn with my fellows, all in a wall of bronze and steel awaiting what was to come. We formed up soon after morning prayers in drenching rain, the sun obscured behind a curtain of clouds. The day only got worse every moment; the weather was one thing, then we learned the inbound ailor army was outnumbering us, and that they were all prepared to expel our beachhead.
There was heavy breathing when we spotted the glint of their armors in the distance.
There wasn’t a choice on...
[A tale told in the Dragon's Den, after many rounds of Songaskian drinks. By the fire sits Sakara, clad in an old bronze armor and - albeit scarless - speaking with the experience of a dozen wars.]
To half the world, it was a morning like any other. To me, it was the first time I was commanding more than a single platoon. For Regalians, including the then-arch-chancellor, it was a day they’d lament for a long, long while. It was the twenty-seventh of November, the 602nd year after hatching. I spent the night sleeping in a barn, in a village which was known as Steinberg, on the Rim Isles within the Regalian Archipelago.
We had swept into the town in a flurry of chaos which hid much order within. There was an uncanny logic, a systematic...
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Building and swelling. Swelling and building.
Pain and sorrow. Uncertainty and confusion.
Rage and anger. All building and swelling.
“It’s your fault. You are the reason for it.”
This was all that could run through the Isldars head as he walked
Along the street in the heavy rain that fell around his soaked form.
He walked into his home, slamming the door behind himself
Stumbling over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of heavy liquor
Any kind, he had no care as he popped the cork and drank from its contents.
“It’s your fault. You are the reason for it.”
The words kept running through his mind as he took another swig, then another.
His mind raced, his pain continued.
“It’s your fault. It’s...
The halls filled with festive music as the storm that battered against the sturdy stone walls was relented from the warmth that spread across the fortress. Members and friends of the Tempetyr family alike danced, drank, and jested amongst each other during the joyous celebration held deep within the high mountains of Kintyr. A young man stood alone, watching the dancing with a faint smile on his features. He had grown much in the past four years and made at least a couple of friends in that time. One of such came bouncing up, a bright smile on her face.
“Arntyr! Arntyr. SPARKY!" She said, grabbing onto his arm. A shock traveled down his arm to her hand, one of a very, very weak static nature. He let out a sigh as his...
x
An Isldar picked up a hoop to begin on her new embroidery. Another flower out of the thousands her hands has already made - if she wanted to, there could be a museum out of it.
Needle in, needle out. Her eyes hyperfocused on the beige ceiling, and soon she would begin to notice intricate details that initially weren't there. There were small cracks and missing pieces, as expected of an aging home. Was that stain always there? That section - it yellowed out so much -- Maybe I should hire someone to give it a fresh coat of paint, she thought.
Her mind blanked out for every seam that she stitched. A rite that every bored weaver has gone through.
. . . . .
She remembered the ravens who weren’t ravens, but perfect, geometric...
(This is very long, apologies)
“How many.”
It was the question Wilvamair had asked more than once, so far. A short, bald man with enough pride for the both of them- in no small part because of the ludicrously long tapestry behind him, he was sure. Its weaving told a proud tale of silver men, clad with shield and spear. A tale he was likely to find in ample quantity, even in this sleepy town.
Tapestries were a useful thing, Wilvamair knew. Rare were there opportunities in the Archipelago for one man to know the entire history of another, from one piece of woven cloth. And in Kintyr, one rarely fell far from their forebears. Farmers stayed farmers, and soldiers stayed soldiers. For the most part. Once in a while, there came...
((non-canon))
"he awoke as a corpse, set along dust and dirt and bone. muddied blood soaked his trousers and cooled his legs, flesh still boiling from the heat of war. plate armor was terribly insulating, and the layers of gambeson underneath helped not. perhaps, in any other situation, it would've been refreshing. perhaps it already was. it didn't matter; no moral man would ever dare to admit that. the soldier peered down to his legs with a consciousness that had long since left the battlefield. his sabatons were dirty now. what a pity. he had spent all morning shining those boots. for a moment, he wondered if they were empty; it wouldn't be so unusual for the shock to numb the pain of it. for a moment, they were."
"it was...
| WRITTEN BY @AtticCat |
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| LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI | Sir Frank Dicksee |
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DECEMBER 1ST, 309 AC.
DAWN
Snow drifted down from the sky, blanketing over the once-greenery around the lake and offering a bitter chill. The lake itself was obscured partially by frost overtop the solid ice, and only an opaque white overtook the landscape. That was excluding the hurried gathering of people that were shoveling a path through the snow and setting up benches that had been lugged just outside the Regalian walls. The snow-cleared path was covered in a long runner, black in color...
"Do not go where we cannot follow, Coren. Do not hurt her again."
The warning was heavy. Heavy the same way a hot lead ball is when dropped in the middle of a frozen lake. Heavy the way blood rests warm and thick upon one’s palms. Heavy the way the crimson seeps and stains fresh snow. It hung between them on a fraying thread while they stood face to face at the beginning of a pathway that they had tread so many times before, with so many before.
"I need you to pull me back if I go too far, Vala."
He was always so care free. From Kel'drocos to Coren, it was one of the most endearing qualities that had carried over. She resented it in a way so childish, she was almost ashamed of herself. To be able to exist in such a manner, to not be...
In a blink, they were back home. The wind no longer smelled of burnt skin and flesh. It was cold. The ground beneath them was white snow, not black marble lined with red lights and ancient dust. And although they left behind the ancients to their crypt, fear was a paralyzing poison. In a blink, they were home, but that staining ichor followed them there. There it pooled beneath the traitor.
Arahael gathered himself post-teleportation. He shifted through the shallow snow, around to the dark, red-clad figure. Coren. It was dark overhead. They left at sunset, just about. Returning to darkness somehow was fitting.
Gwenyth stared at the shadow she knew to be bleeding, and how it morphed the snow into a memory unkind. Her fingertips...
Hillemør's Riddle
A Velheim legend, traditionally passed down through spoken word
Transcribed and translated by Valsung Sivrid Sorenvik
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It had been twenty days since Julva had last seen another person. From the first step out of the small village that sat at the base of this forested mountain, it had been her alone with the trees. Each mile, each hour, each day, had been characterized by the crunching of autumn leaves under her boots, and wind in the branches overhead, and birdsongs that began to grow softer and softer as the dropping temperature forced any sensible animals South. But Julva, against the recommendation of the village, continued North.
She did not suffer...
“..We’re doing this again?” he grumbled out, pulling himself to a stand amidst the gravel and dirt that had lay claim to the sides of their encampment.
“It hurts less the third time you get thrown off the horse, you know.” Cilian replied in his typical teasing fashion, adjusting the cyan shawl wound tight around his waist.
“..Really?”
"No. Feel free to test it, though."
The sun was drawing low long before they had made camp, its normal yellow glow replaced by a display of purple and orange that gave them both pause. They were far along now- further east of the coasts of Ȧgerik than they'd been in prior assignments. The crag they found themself upon was ample height to give them a lay of the land, and the journey ahead. His gaze...
OOC note: I recommend that you read Midnight Shipment before continuing with this story. I’m not going to say much of the previous story since it’s all there. There is one more story after this one is posted.
Family Reunion
As the ship slowly sailed during the early hours of the morning, Connak would be holding onto the mast via it's ropes as the city slowly broke the horizon. The ship's captain would walk over to Connak and stood beside him for a while until breaking the calm sounds of the waters around him.
"Beautiful city, isn't she?" The captain would ask as he looked out toward the city.
"Aye, I just hope that things there are calmer than Regalia." Connak would reply, keeping his eyes locked on the city.
"One would hope the...
A pair stood beside the dock, a sigh escaped a short-statured, pale woman with a sad smile. She wrapped her arm around the other, slightly taller with skin kissed by the sun. Their hair both the same burgundy red.
"I won' try tae stop yae, but... Jus' be careful. Th'city is a strange, dangerous place." The shorter spoke, a thick Caeran accent, pulling away from the hug with a sharp huff. The other chuckled, smiling with a nod.
"Yes yes, you've told me. Steer clear of the guard, where I can find your old friends... I know." She said, mimicking the other's voice a tad, as she was far less accented.
"Aye Maevia, aye... 'At's a good lass. Now, one last hug." She said, hugging the other tight. She brought her head down to place a peck on...
((Part 2, again this is fine to consider as an IC text of sorts))
Boredom, my friend, my pitiable acquaintance, is sin. We are all children, and how happy and obedient we are when we have our toys, when we have our entertainment. But when our toys break, or we lose them, or we grow tired of them, boredom comes, and we once again must entertain ourselves. We grow bored, and then we must have something to do, like the children we are; left to our own devices, we will disobey, we will be bad. We will grow bored of the chains, if we see them. Day in and day out, if one sees the chains around them, they will cast them aside eventually.
Some say the chains are good. They guide us, they know what is to be done, but they are boring, and they...
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Rain plummeted down from the sky that late afternoon. It seemed to be endless.
The Archblood sprinted up the hill, slipping one or twice from the rain that touched the dirt. Dirt had long gotten on the bottom of her dress, leaving behind a few stains. At this very moment, she could care less for her dress, rather she instead cared for her well-being.
When she finally reached the hill, she made her way towards the cliff, seeing the view of Regalia, she started to pant from all the running she had just done. Running through the streets, through the forest, and up the hill, it was a long, exhausting run. It left the Archblood sweating for a minute before she wiped it away with her arm only for...
OOC note: It's been quite some time since I've written a lore story. I had a bad case of writer's block and let's face it, 2020 was a flaming garbage barge of a year with everything that happened. I plan to do two more stories after this one in regards to the sudden absence of my character.
Midnight Shipment
It was a long day, and Connak was sitting at his desk writing a few notes to a few friends of his. The notes would be short and simple at best. Once he signed the notes, he’d send them off and began to pack things into a beaten up rucksack. Out of the things he’d stuff into it, some of the items would be clothes, a few beaten up journals, a journal that wasn’t as beat up as the other ones he packed up and an old blanket that he...
The Sounds of Time
Tick-tock. Tick-tock. The sound of the clock would never end. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. “Shut up,” could be heard from across the room. Aleksandra’s yell echoes across the empty hall. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Her hands shoot for her head, hoping to make the sounds stop. She groans, peering over to the clock on the wall. It had stopped. Why? Why did the clock stop? It didn’t seem to have any issues on the exterior. What had gone wrong? She steps towards it, placing her hand on the glass, sliding it down with a squeaking sound. “Why did you kill me, Aleksandra?” She turns around suddenly, looking for the voice in the room. “Was it for hatred? Was it for revenge? Was it for... greed?” Finally, her eyes lock on the man in the...
Cathar Vel Yates gripped their cape, dawning it over their steel armor as a makeshift cape, as they approached the Regalian Harbor. Thoughts still fresh in their mind of the Vampire Crisis that happened, and the thoughts its left them with. The blood their sword had shed, and the struggles and strife they've endured. The war was over, They'd managed to get cured, Got out of the war alive, Much more than many people and their families could say in this bloodbath of death and misery, And Cathar felt no reason to further stay.
They approached the Captain of a Traveling Vessel, Speaking up to them
"I'd like to board your ship out of regalia."
"Anywhere in mind yer tryin to get ta?"
Cathar pondered the question for but a moment, before...
Joyous laughter filled the peaceful meadow in which a banquet was held, the band playing with jubilation as a group danced to their heart's content. A man of tall stature stood off to the side, taking a drink from his tankard. His tunic's collar cut low and lacked such in sleeves, a fur cloak draped behind him. His pants and boots of fine material, same as the tunic. He also wore a crown of sorts, dawning parts of antlers and flowers woven in. The cool spring air wafting through the tent, a woman striding close. She took forth his tankard, setting it down. A halfling, wearing a dress of similar styling to his tunic. Cutting low, lacking in sleeves and the back cut out. She wore a similar headdress to her other, adorned atop a head of...
-Pacifist-
One who believes that sentient life is so valuable, that they shouldn't kill.
Azrael had a restless sleep tonight. Much was on his mind as he lay in his cold bed. Pondering why he had even come to regalia. Was it in search for adventure? Pursuit of happiness, no. It was an intent to do good in a land they heard was in Peril. To help others, to heal them, maybe even make friends.
They drifted further and further into sleep as their thoughts continued.
Azrael had soon found themself in a familar park. But the skies were all dark and cloudy. Shadows loomed all around. As they muttered in their dream.
Thats when a scene formed around them, A scene all too familiar to them. Aldon in the park, and two Figures wielding crossbows...
He Watches Us
An excerpt from the Candle Light Memorial, October 17, 309 AC.
"I am Aleksandra Dragic, a fellow Unionist, albeit an Evintarian one. You may not agree completely with my views and I may not agree with yours as well. Even so, we all come here today in front of the cathedral to remember the people who died in the Crisis. I was on the front lines most of the time, fighting battle after battle. I saw men and women fall to the sanguine and beasts beside me. I was also a gate guard throughout the entire time. One group of people I wish to speak about were the Velheim mercenaries who fought with us against those cruel beasts. They could have not even believed in Unionism. But as Unionists, we must make sure to remember their...
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"From order, comes freedom."
The halls of the house were silent, only the sounds of a family gathering in front of a hearth could be heard. A large table was set out with eight chairs at either side and one at the head of it. The family sat there, bickering amongst themselves.
A young woman’s voice rings out in protest, “but Aleksandra isn’t a man! Serafim should be sitting there, Father, not Aleksandra!” A gruff older man responds, “Be quiet, Galinya! You’re speaking out of turn. Know your place,” his face red with fury. “Father is right. Understand your place, Galinya.” Aleksandra finally speaks up, shooting a glare across to the woman. All of the other siblings quiet...
"On the eve of the Winter, 309 AC, strange ships could be spotted off the horizon of the Holy City. Dozens of ships with blood red sails and dark, wooden hulls. After a long battle against the vampiric threat, the Regalian empire fears the worst: Kathar. However, once the ships are intercepted, it is quickly recognized that they are not elves of grey-skin, but rather a collective of people, both bestial and humanoid. Their epicanthic eye folds and dulled tans could not be mistaken; These were Sihai, come from the Far East. Quickly, they were escorted to the mainland. They barred no weapons, but some wielded magic the likes of which Regalia had never seen. Their ships could easily have outrun the Naught-tier Regalian Navy, thanks to the...
[[Just some IC writing I didn't feel fit in with other sections. If you care to have your character read it, by all means!]]
In a thousand epochs, millions of lives, through dreams and unconsciousness and waking, through snow and rain and sun, we wait. We all wait. Worms are coming for us. Many of them have not been born, but they come all the same to feast on our dead. They gnaw to the bone. Why are so many so comfortable all the time, those ignorant people we run across every day, my friend? I hate them, and I envy them, the pitiful lot of fools; they are like you, you know? You do not have to have left your corpse behind in this world to have the worms gnaw at you. You should feel them. They eat at most people right now. I do not. I...
He had an axe to the man’s throat. “Wait..” With a cold emotionless look he lifts the axe, preparing a swing. “WAIT!” But Sebastian didn’t care. It didn’t matter what the man was going to say, the money was worth more than anything that could come out of the man’s mouth. The axe swings forward.
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“Hey!” Sebastian sends a smile and a wave to Theo. “How was school?” Theo collapses on the couch and sighs in exhaustion much to the amusement of Sebastian. “That bad?”
“Mhm..” Theo rolls up his sleeve and examines a large slash on his arm. Sebastian gets visibly angry seeing it.
“Who did it?”
“Hm?”
“The slash.” Sebastian takes some bandages from a nearby cabinet and brings them over to Theo. “Who did...
In a far away land, a young hunter stood on the shore of a beach, the sunlight slowly sinking beneath the waves, the spray of salt on the wind dancing through his golden feathers. He breathed in this moment of the world, watching the vestiges of light die over the horizon, feeling something awaken in him that he had always tried to fight - something desolate and quiet, gnawing deep in his gut. His eyes remained ever against the sea, the waves crashing in gorgeous sprays of red and orange, the water as warm as blood against his slate-colored scales.
On the body of the hunter were painted stories. They were the stories of his life, and the life of his ancestors and comrades. All of his triumphs and all his promises carved in gold and...
Art by Havsbris_
Footfalls raced across the soft ground along the Regalian countryside, not far from the coastal beaches. With the snap of splitting branches and the whistling of pushed air, something was traversing fast, racing through brush and foliage, till the thumping stride eventually came to a rest at the end of a canopy. The fourty-year-old allar brought their pace to a casual walk, surveying the ornate labyrinth of forest and cavernous rock formations. Ahead of them was the sound of crashing waves, striking the harsh and razor-sharp stones which divided land from the sea. The sun was warm and pleasant on the feathered plumes of the Maz-Allar, the salt brackish with a tang in the air. It was liberating to be outside in the...
Weary and exhausted, the hooded figure laid against the pillar of the bookshelf. His ankles crossed over each other as the soft and smooth touch of silk flowed over his body, the scratch of the midnight breeze pelting the figure's face over and over again as the moonlight shone through the broken roofing of a destroyed home, a bland but yet purposeful shelter utilized as his safe house.
His breath was silent, movements restricted, and body freezing, as if tossed into a breathtaking and deadly lake in the Far North. Within, his blood pumped vigorously, breath - silent, but vast, became a cloud of white smoke as the warmth immediately crystalized into vapor. The eyes were closed as the consciousness within the figure's body was jolted...
“I hear they take kids, see, and empty em like a pint of ale..”
“I heard they crush their bones up into powder and use it to clear their skin…”
“I hear theys use their hairs for...what’s that stuff? That stuff theys cleanin their teeth with?”
“Floss?” Baskin chimed in, directing his attention away from his side of the makeshift fire to the kid with a skeptical brow raised.
“Yeah...floss…” the kid nodded, shuddering at the thought. It was that night, the one night a week where all the ‘residents’ of the alley would come to share their week’s piece. The usual crowd consisted of Baskin and Julius, along with two other faces, a Cielothar girl and Kathar boy. Tonight’s topic was one that always sent chills down everyone’s...
Moonlight sang its silver serenade.
The shrieks of steel. The howl of wolves. The cries of the damned. All echoed out over rust-painted cobble as the night went on. He had fought long and hard. Day by day - week after week. A month of combat without pause. Yet, man had its limit. He had his limits. Now, the hunter laid still, chained to earth. Steel bound extremities, briars bound mind, curse bound soul. A prisoner in locks of three. None of which could be broken by weary body and half-hearted sentiment.
As soon as heavy lids lifted and idle digits twitched, affirmation of his continued existence arrived - delivered by two of five senses.
He was still alive. Yet, burdensome query came to mind-
“Have I been bested?”
At last, the...