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Samø

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Samø last won the day on April 6 2019

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  1. Samø

    Reclamation

    Golden rays of light cast creeping shadows over his dark, scarred features. That face betrayed nothing. Only a stare gave her any indication he was listening. Most men shrunk under Lanius' gaze, though the effect was seldom deliberate on his part. A conjunction of reputation and likeness. His father's echo, portraying all the ruthless authority their father had. But Adrya was different. She'd never been afraid of him, never had to be. Lanius would always be the weeping babe who came shivering and soaked, wrapped in their father's toga. She'd been the only one who could calm him in his crib. Lanius had only ever been calmed by being in her arms. Two-and-a-half meters of hulking musculature, the Monster of Arcos and countless other monikers his bloody reputation had accrued him and yet Lanius would forever be her little brother. Lanius made a clicking sound with his tongue. The creightonhounds that flanked him ceased their growling and sat still. Though there was a restless shifting in their posture. This strange woman smelled like their favourite human, and they so desperately wanted to give her kisses and to be pet by her. The marionette of flesh and black-bones, however. Something about it was wrong. A wrongness even the beasts understood. Beyond the stench of death and decay that radiated off the undead. Marrow reeked of rot, both spiritual and physical. "You called him a coward." Lanius grunted, cocking an eyebrow at her sister when she'd finished talking. "We do crucify cowards. Perhaps that notion didn't endear him to the cause, soror." By now the legionnaires, wrought in red, had formed their marching rank and file. Lanius' Aquilifer clasped the brass stave of his legion's signifer; a Chimera carved from red-gold with a mane of silver. He awaited instruction to declare march. Lanius could have made them wait for hours, through the night, and not one of them would have complained or left their post. Such was the expectation of a legionnaire. Move when bid. Kill when bid. Die when bid. "If he thinks we cannot succeed then you had best prove him wrong." Lanius shrugged. "Father took Noviria with less than this. With one less Oathblade as well. It isn't a matter of if we succeed, its a matter of when." A churning weight pressed against the meat of his mind. Willbreaker stirred. Seethed. It'd been less than a day since he'd pushed the blade into warm flesh and fed it, and it was hungry again. Always hungry. The ravenous hunger of the ocean itself. "YOU SHOULD THROW MARROW INTO THE SEA." The Oathblade spat. Hissed. "PERHAPS THE ABYSSAL DEPTHS WILL FINALLY SHUT HIM UP." "I'd have thought you'd like Marrow." Lanius said. "NO. YOU'RE ALREADY TOO MUCH OF A WISEACRE FOR ME. I DON'T NEED WORM-FOOD COMPOUNDING MY SUFFERING. BESIDES, IF YOU TOOK AWAY HER BLADE, YOU COULD BE DOMINUS." "I could snap you." Lanius growled. "... IT WAS JUST A SUGGESTION. FINE. NEVERMIND." It was an odd thing, listening to a corpse speak of sailor's myths and their father. But these were strange times. Eyes glassed with rheum danced between staring at him and Adrya as Marrow told them of Olihen. Lanius didn't recognise the name of the beast. Perhaps Dridak had told him it when he was younger, but he no longer remembered. "A friend of yours?" Lanius asked the blade. "NO. OLIHEN IS A USURPER AND I WANT YOU TO RIP OUT ITS GUTS AND STRANGLE IT WITH THEM." "That," He said, speaking to Adrya and Willbreaker both. "Sounds like as good a plan as any."
  2. Samø

    Reclamation

    A legion readies itself for war. Gladii are sharpened. Pilum shouldered and scutum oiled. With the unerring efficacy that was their signature. The camp that had been their refuge and sanctuary was torn apart without sentiment or reverence. All was dismantled. Tents, fortifications and trenches. Save for the withered husks of those traitors and cowards who had been nailed to posts and trees. They would remain. As a reminder, threat and promise. Centurions barked orders in their Novirian tongue, alien words to Drasirian onlookers, but acted upon without hesitation by the carmine-clad legionnaires. Supplies filled wagons. Grains, salted meats and wetskins filled with posca. Donations from the few souls whom the Red Legion had protected from the dregs who usually exploited them. Nothing had been stolen. Those people had only been too happy to repay the order the Red Legion had brought to Drasir; however fleeting it may have been. Amongst it all, Lanius stood motionless. Statuesque, carved from scarred marble. Cold green eyes darted back and forth, from soldier to soldier. Observing and criticising. Men who caught his gaze began to go about their chores the tiniest bit quicker. Resting at his side were three gargantuan hounds. Creightonhounds, they were called. Bred from the loyal companions Creighton Drasir had brought to his colony and the native tropical wolves that prowled the jungles of Thraece. Man-killers. They stood at the height of Lanius' waist and even their thick coats of black-brown fur couldn't hide the rippling musculature that coiled underneath. Their tails were wagging furiously as they watched the legionnaires work. One of them licked Lanius' gauntlet-clad hand. A smile threatened to cut itself onto his face. "Stop it, Diana." Lanius growled, with just a hint of softness in his rumbling tone. "You've been fed." Diana whined and rolled onto her back. "THEY'RE DISGUSTING." Willbreaker retched. "As are you." The legate flatly responded. "I AM BEYOND YOUR PATHETIC COMPREHENSIONS, LANIUS." Then, a pause. "ALSO, FUCK YOU." "Yes, yes. Fuck you too." He responded, instantly. "ENOUGH." Willbreaker hissed. "LET US TALK ABOUT THIS SISTER OF YOURS. IT WAS SURPRISING, THE WAY YOU REACTED." "Oh?" Lanius feigned his interest in the blade's observations. "YES." The Oathblade responded. "I HAVEN'T SEEN YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON ANYTHING YOU HAVEN'T IMMEDIATELY FOUGHT AND OR FORNICATED WITH." His answer was a shrug. "I AM GROWING WORRIED, LANIUS. THIS ISN'T YOUR USUAL SELF-" "Eat shit and die, blade." "THERE WE GO." He saw Adrya return. Fuming, her usual cold stare holding venomous contempt. A breathless snort of amusement sounded from him. Very much the picture of their father, when her moods took her. Those legionnaires that crossed her bowed their heads in reverence, greeting her with an "Ave Domina", or avoiding her entirely. "So he said no." Adrya's brother greeted her with a smile. An infuriating one.
  3. Ah. She muses. I'd say something about mice and men and their plans but... Shalana had barked something to her. Instructions. Slake had heard that word, understood that much. But she hadn't seen M'yr give much of any orders. Just a pinprick, some blood and now they were clambering up the gate. Had M'yr developed some kind of telepathy since she'd last met him? Or had Shalana said 'I'm not following' before instructions? Eyes flecked with black followed the Elf as she clambered her way up the towering metal gate, their stare devoid of anything beyond confusion. Perhaps it was Slake's fault. The sea had been singing to her so loudly she hadn't really been listening to much of anything. Shalana may have been trying to grab whatever eldritch tome they were seeking for herself and to run. Slake cocked her head and wondered if there was a brick or a rock she could throw at the back of her head to prevent that from occuring. Not that she needed an excuse. Bludgeoning was her third favourite method of grevious bodily harm. Right after keelhauling and then choking. Slake glanced at M'yr for a second. Later. She bid herself. And then blackbush conjured tentacles from beneath her form. This girl was full of surprises. Slake would have to buy that girl a drink after this and try and push her luck wi- Oh. Slake's shoulders sagged into a long sigh. Now she's climbing the fence too. "This is why I drink." Slake groaned. The horror that lurked atop the library's rooftop stared at her. Made her vision throb and strobe with madness. A titan trawled from the blackest depths of the ocean. Two long, clawed digits pointed towards her. The arm they were bound to moved itself closer and closer to her. "Well." With her signature levelheadedness, Slake shrugged. "And that too." Another blink and the creature was gone. Perhaps it hadn't have ever been there. Yet the roof where it had rested its bulk was wet with what she hoped was rainwater and not brine. "Careful, poppet." Slake winked. "Or you'll end up with a limp, just like M'yr." The smoke did seem like the best option. Though the pirate didn't trust anything she couldn't physically punch, it was undoubtedly the quietest option. And at least the plume was polite enough to offer to help everyone. This place has a lot of windows. We might just be the worst thieves in Taen. Cammy and her cat-crew were doing well, Slake noticed. The sight of them made her pause as she approached the swirling hand of smog. She resisted the urge to scratch each and everyone one of them under their chins, as she had struggled to do when they'd first met in M'yr's house. At best they'd consider the gesture uncouth and at worst, probably racist.
  4. VITAE PERSONAE Name: Daemea Gillick Title/Monikers: Dee Age: 21 Gender: Female Race: Human Birthplace: Corinth, Ursa Madeum Physical description: Liquid black crowns her head. Flows in thick locks, falling upon pale white shoulders. With features that border on being lupine, Daemea is a face hardly forgotten. Eyes white as winter snow stare with knowing, seeing more than what they should. Daemea seems to find a great deal amusing, and shows as much with a sharp, creeping smile. Tall and whip thin. Daemea is deceptively strong despite her gaunt frame. She has two shrikes tattooed onto each of her hands, one white and one black. Personality: Ever amused and believing herself amusing. Sharp-tongued and sly, Daemea borders between being the most infuriating and endearing person you're likely to meet. Always the one to have the last (usually infuriating) word in a discussion. Daemea does believe in good and doing good, however. Despite her rougher edges, she does everything she can to benefit others. Close to naivete, though she'd resent the word and the people who use it. Cruciatus Invisible fingers pierce their way into flesh. Burn agony and pain into those who Daemea whims it to. A father's gift, blood magic. The ability to control the pain of herself and others. Daemea is untrained in its use, though she has been aware of her capacity for its use since she was a young girl. Years of training have brought her only a middling control over its power. Background: Place of residence: Corinth. Free Marshes. Beneath her favourite oak tree, right beside a road. Current Employment: Mercenary-for-hire Family: Mother, two half-brothers and a half-sister Affiliations: Alcohol Dominion: VI
  5. Samø

    Power in Death

    Silkweed and salt did little to hide Drasir's signature. It's scent. Blood, piss and sweat. Permeated its wretched odour, staining the senses even through the thick rosewood walls coloured black from years of neglect. The Black Spot. What a spot it was. A refuge of excess, filth and crime. The owner was called Madman, and it was plain enough why. Murderers and thieves enjoyed each-others company. Swilling pint after pint of rotgut ale and smiling through their insults and jests with yellow teeth. A few of them gave Lanius little more than a glance, stood up and left. Crucifixion wasn't exactly how they wanted to end their bar-crawl. Those that remained believed themselves innocent, fearless or resigned themselves to the violence his presence inevitably brought. "WHO," Willbreaker spoke a dripping growl. "IS THAT?" "My sister." Lanius answered him. When the cut-throat had wrapped his bony fingers around her shoulder, Lanius hadn't moved. He hadn't done much of anything, beyond stop, wait and watch for the inevitable ending to things. "AH." Willbreaker responded, clicking an ethereal tongue against a immaterial mouth. "THE RESEMBLANCE IS UNCANNY." The blade snickered as the severed hand fell to the floor with a wet thump. "IT SEEMS A PROPENSITY FOR INDISCRIMINATE VIOLENCE RUNS IN THE FAMILY." "It doesn't run so much as it sprints, blade." Lanius gave a breathless chuckle. And then a flash of silver light. A shard of glinting white that cuts through the long shadows of the dimly-lit tavern. And then another. Two figures, garbed in sealskin jerkins and clutching dirks with whitened knuckles push past the uproar Adrya's murders had caused. They make their way towards her. Daggers held high and surging towards her and the flesh-puppet Marrow pulled the strings to. "... ARE WE GOING TO KILL THOSE TWO?" Willbreaker asked, with all the enthusiasm one would expect. "The thought," Willbreaker materialised from swirling brine. Sheathed in the oceanic depths, Lanius wrenched the blade free from a conjured whirlpool. The scent of death and silkweed are replaced by the rot of sargassum and flesh. Grey-blue, Willbreaker emerged from the depths that housed it. Across the surface of the blade, something lurked. Anticipating. Hungry. "... Had crossed my mind." "OUTSTANDING." The first man dies with a sound of splintering wood. Little more than a carmine blur, Lanius shatters the mans head with his fist. Like a hammer, it breaks through bone and brain with terrifying ease. His compatriot staggers back, blinded by an explosion of bone and viscera. "Bastard!" He hisses. Willbreaker howls its laughter. "VERY POOR CHOICE OF WORDS." Blinded by what was his comrade, the man's death is as pitiful as the first. Oathbreaker eats through flesh as Lanius buries it into the mans chest. With a wet tearing Lanius wrenches the blade free. "GOOD. NOW CARVE OUT HIS LIVER." As the blood dripped from the blade's edge, it sounded like Willbreaker was drooling. "OH I BET IT'S JUICY. DO IT, WIELDER. WE HAVEN'T EATEN ANYTHING FREE-RANGE IN SO, SO LONG." "It is tempting." Lanius grunted. There she was. He'd denied her, when he saw her. And as true as the sun's rising, she was there. She had fought. "How does the saying go? Speak a devil's name and he's sure to appear." For once, he didn't know what to say. How could he? A calloused hand wrapped itself around the arcing red plume of his helm. Removes the emotionless, featureless face of his helmet from his head. Discards it with an irreverent toss. Dridak's shade stares back at her. With unfamiliar, green eyes. An echo of his father, all except for the eyes. Adrya's mother had often joked at how much easier Lanius' eyes made her life. Without them, she wouldn't have been able to tell the two apart. At least for a time, until Lanius began to "sprout" during the twilight years of his youth. "Reports of your demise were incorrect, then." He even sounded like their father when he spoke. When Ophelia was upset, Lanius would fool the servants by pretending to be their father and make them do the most outlandish things they could think of. Lanius did the only thing he could think of doing. He wrapped his arms around her sister and hugged her. Gentler than the brute had any right to be. Pressed the side of his face against her cheek. It was wet with something. Sweat or blood. Or perhaps it was something sweeter.
  6. interior crocodile alligator 

    1. danzilla3

      danzilla3

      I drive a Chevrolet movie theater!

    2. Malintzin

      Malintzin

      HA HA HAAA

  7. Samø

    Power in Death

    Ragged breaths fill his mind. They come with the tide, the push and the pull of the ocean's waves. Willbreaker seethes. Breathes it's rage and feeds it to the ocean it controls, echoes its anger into the churning sea. The blade, the thing was often enraged. One thing or another. Not enough bloodshed. Too much thirst. But this was different. It felt different. Primal. An emphatic shock of shared emotion surges through him. The jealousy of a predator whose territory has been invaded by another, the revulsion at the threat of being usurped. "THERE IS ANOTHER, HERE." Willbreaker had spoken, a sound of a thousand overlapping voices that echoed in his mind. Lanius was out of the encampment before his praetorians had a chance to strap on their helmets. Another. Him. His hand twitched with a familiar ache and soon a familiar hate followed. "DON'T GET YOUR OR MY HOPES UP. IT MIGHT NOT BE HIM." Willbreaker barked. "IT MAY BE ANOTHER OF MY KINDRED. PERHAPS THEY HAVE A WIELDER AS INSUFFERABLE AS YOU." "You don't know who it is?" Lanius responds, deadpan. "NO. I HAVE MY LIMITS. YEARS IN FUGUE HAVE MADE THEIR SCENTS UNRECOGNISABLE." Willbreaker hissed, evidently irritated. "I should use you to split firewood. Perhaps then you'd be of some use." "DO NOT TEST ME." It roared. "I HOPE IT IS GUZON. SEEING YOU TWIST THAT HIGHBROW UNTIL HE SNAPS WOULD BRING ME SUCH JOY." "You're oddly excited, blade." "AND YOU'RE ODDLY SOBER, WIELDER. TODAY IS FULL OF THESE PECULIARITIES." Lanius and his legion's arrival to Drasir had been polarising. To the common folk, they offered sanctuary from the predations of criminals. And to the criminals, they were an obstacle to their preferred outlets of life. Extortion and thievery were hardly advisable near Lanius' influence, unless one desired to become a lesson by being be nailed to a tree. The smallfolk bowed their heads in respect to the towering Legate, whilst rough men with scarred and painted flesh bore their hatred into him through glares and snarls. Though none of them were stupid enough to confront him with anything more than a whispered insult or curse. A patrolling contrubernium passed him as he walked. Pilum in one hand, scutum in the other. When they caught sight of their Legatus, they stood the tiniest bit straighter. "I ENJOY THAT EFFECT YOU HAVE ON PEOPLE, WIELDER. IT ENDEARS ME TO YOU." "I'm going to retch." Lanius smirked. Though his austere features were hidden behind the enamelled steel of his helmet, the sting of the expression still cut deep into the Oathblade. That strobe of influence that guided him grew stronger and stronger with each passing step. They were drawing close. Before long, the throb of intent pulsed within him like a second heartbeat. All that stood between them and them was a tavern's door. "KICK IT OFF IT'S HINGES. LIKE YOU DID WHEN WE RAIDED THAT CABAL'S STRONGHOLD. I HOPE IT HITS SOMEONE AGAIN LIKE BEFORE. THAT WAS VERY FUNNY." "No." Lanius flatly answered, wrapping a gauntled hand into a fist around a handle cast from black-iron. He had to duck down low to avoid his head hitting the doorframe. The Chimaera of Thraece entrance was sounded by tankards and drinking glasses dropping. Willbreaker laughed when he saw it. Patrons froze in their seats and stools when they saw him. Lanius froze when he saw her.
  8. THE OCEAN IS SO VERY DEEP, BUT TAKE MY HAND, WADE ONTO THIS FRACTURED LAND, BEHOLD HER SIGHTS, HER SOUNDS, OUR HOME, OUR URSA MADEUM. - Chasic Ode AUTHOR(S) NOTE(S) Information regarding the various races, beasts and plantlife in Ursa Madeum are like the land itself; fractured. After consuming countless tomes, books and volumes, it seemed pertinent to compile a compilation of this information, so it might better reach those curious souls who want it. As with all things academic, this work is under constant editing. Information may be incorrect. But to the best of my abilities and upon my honour as a man of learning, I shall strike these errors out with furious abandon and ruthless efficacy. *Authors note: If you see a coffee stain on page no. 43, sorry. I've got shaky hands. *P.S: After many requests to do so, Ive decided to re-write the page. Thanks guys. Really making my life easier. *Additional P.S: Okay, so my professor said I shouldn't put my passive aggression into officially sanctioned MOGAH texts. Sorry. Signed, Jill Alcala - (Slightly overworked) Attendant of the Museum of Global Art and History; Biology Sect. INDEX I - FOLK OF URSA MADEUM (RACES) IA - Humanity IB - Elves IC - Fae ID - Pereds IE - Shifters IF - Beastfolk II - BEASTS OF URSA MADEUM (ANIMALS) IIA - Corinth IIB - Misral IIC - Thraece I. FOLK OF URSA MADEUM IA. HUMANITY Complexity and a yearning for more. Varied beyond count, no human is the same. In this, their strength lies. Where one skill or talent might be used alongside another. Farmers produce food for the those that build their houses. Those that dwell in those homes become craftsmen. Shaping clay and earthen ore. Arming themselves with spears and blades, with which they take that which they want. No other race is singularly as adaptable or tenacious as humanity has presented itself to be. They inhabit virtually every landmass across Valucre. Ursa Madeum is no different in this regard. From mountainous Misral to the tropical plains of Thraece, they exist. They thrive and grow. Such is their nature. And from Fracture they came, to settle Ursa Madeum. To thrive. Ecologically, humans are medium-sized creatures that typically range from a height of five and a half feet to six feet. Though there are many exceptions to this. They are warmblooded mammals. Not particularly physically imposing or as innately dexterous as the other races they inhabit the islands alongside, a human's strength is instead based on their adaptability. Making for formidable warriors, wise scholars and everything else between. Another trait they possess is their capacity to crossbreed with countless other races to create hybrids of both parents. As of now, humans are the most populous race in Ursa Madeum. As well as this, most of the ruling aristocracy are of human descent. As the years pass, their numbers continue to grow and grow exponentially. Examples of; Varda Hildebrand, Walter Crowley IB. ELVES Elves originally hail from Terrenus (Now Fracture). Their origins lies with a series of migratory fleets that set sail from Fractures' coastlines. With each migration came its own distinct classification of Elf, as each of their cast settled vastly different environments and adapted to them accordingly. Their kind seem to be the most easily influenced by the Deep Magic. Likewise, they are able to tap into it with greater ease than any other race. As a result, many mages, warlocks and druids are of Elven stock. Below will be the two distinct catalogues indexing each unique cast of Elf. SEA ELVES Tide-folk, as they call themselves. They were the first of their kind to set sail from Fracture to Ursa Madeum. Settling the vast coastlines of the archipelago and erecting their glimmering cities there. Typically, a Sea Elf will be taller than their erstwhile cousins. With broader shoulders and chests to aid them with swimming and diving. Hair in hues of black and white are most common, yet other colours are known to occur, though they are a rarity among the race. Skin-tones of pale white and blue are their signature. Of the Deep's influence upon them, Sea Elves make for skilled sailors. With a sixth sense towards the sea, numerous merchants and navies are only too happy to employ their kind, as they can sniff out a storm and feel a kraken with startling accuracy. For magic, Sea Elves make excellent Hydrosophists. The control of the thalassic school of the arcane comes only too easily to them. Numerous fleets of encroaching foes have met their sunken fates at the hand of a cabal of Sea Elf Mages. Examples of; Slake RIVER ELVES River Elves are the youngest of the pureblooded Elven peoples to migrate to Ursa Madeum. Where the Sea Elves had made their bastions on the coasts, the River Elves went up creeks, further inland and colonised there. From the rivers and waterlands they draw their power, and are especially skilled at subterfuge and guerrilla warfare. As they are still a younger breed of Elf, their appearance is more in line with their Fracture counterparts. Note: House Viridis' members are of River Elf stock. HALF-ELVES Half-Elves are, as the name implies, beings with an elven parent and another from a differing race. The most common demographic is humans, as interbreeding has become much more commonplace as the years grow. Their heritage grants them some moderate skill with magic, should they choose to pursue it. Their dexterity is beyond the ken of humanity, yet nowhere near the inhuman grace of pure-blooded elves. Examples of; Rufus Ignis Viridis, Thelema Theodane IC. FAE The fair folk of Fenwyld. Children of Leviathans. The Llŷr. From their wooded sanctuary they have persisted from their creation by the Old Ones. Returned to the world by a bridge between reality and something far greater. Their fate is the fate of the Deep. Powerful magic that has shaped and woven the very fabrics of Ursa Madeum. Within their race, they are three. The Shallowfolk, Chasmic and the Drowned. NÁEIN Cursed and pale. Borne from outcast mothers. Brought into a world of withering Deep. The Shallowfolk. More numerous than their cousins, yet still the unmistakable touch of the arcane dwells within them. To an untrained eye, they may even appear to be human themselves. But there are always telltale signs of their nature. Spiderweb veins paint weaving patterns across their pale flesh. Pitless eyes that eat at the light and give nothing in return. And yet despite their otherworldly appearances, they are sympathetic to the plight of the other races. Hiding away the powerful Deep Magick that would destroy those unready to use or abuse it. Like all Fae, they are a rare sight save for within the Queendom of Svanhild. Though rarely they may be seen, as their curious souls may make them yearn to see and experience the world beyond their woodlands. These folk make their homes within the towering trees of Ilvor. NÂMA Purebred Llŷr. Staggering in their majesty in beauty. Theirs is the barest fragments of what it is to be mortal; blending the arcane and animate together. Rare, even when they were first brought into the world by the Leviathans. Now, they are little more than a myth told by wetnurses and grandmothers about ages past. Of the Nâma, of the Chasmic folk. The Chasmic play with fate. Their desire is to see their creators brought back again, to usher in their dominion over the islands once more. To let a deluge of Deep pour onto Ursa Madeum and permeate within. To drag them and everyone else back down into the abyssal depths from which the archipelago came. And to those few who know and seek out the magic that the Chasmic possess, they are often rewarded. It was they who granted house Gillick their infamous blood magic. It was they who brought Ursa Madeum to its knees and spawned a Tyrant King. NEREIS Enigmas. Strangers and stranger still. The Drowned are believed to be the shades of dead Fae; restless ghosts whose spirits wander the land in search of something. Others believe them corrupted. Moulded into ruin by the very the Deep itself. Regardless of their origins or purpose, they are best avoided by all. Notes: A separate and far more comprehensive study of the Fae and their nature. ID. PEREDS Where the Shallowfolk are seen as a dilution of what was the purity of the Leviathans' design, Pereds are thinner in blood still. Quarter Fae. Often derisively referred to as Quadroons, there are more of them than their Shallowfolk fore-bearers; but they are rare still. Often a Pereds will never know that they are a fourth Fae. Occasionally, however, their nature makes itself known through magical manifestation. For Pereds, their attunement to the deep far exceeds even that of the Elves. Pereds most often take up lives as pellars, wisemen/women, witches or sorcerers. IE SHIFTERS Shifters. Dopplers. Changelings. Countless names for beings who take shape from countless forms. A venerable race of shapeshifters who can transform into the likeness of a beast. As such, many of them prefer to stick to the wilder, less civilised regions of Ursa Madeum. That, and their near-genocide perpetuated by Damien Gillick has made them wary of folk beyond themselves. Originally, Shifters operated in nomadic clans - with each clan being able to shift to one specific form. Wolves stuck to their own kind, as did bears, etc. With their dwindling numbers they now form more diverse packs in order to grant one another protection and sanctuary. Many shifters have forgotten how to change to and from their forms, remaining humanoid. Though they are distinct in appearance, should one know how to recognise one. Their features take on subtle notes from the animal within, and many have enhanced senses befitting of their talents. IF BEASTFOLK Beastfolk is a widely used term to define the variety of half-humanoid, half-animal inhabitants of Ursa Madeum's three islands. Some have horns that crown their foreheads. Others take on the likeness of lizards, with scales and long forked tongues. There is even talk of sheep-folk who farm the fertile lands of Svanhild. Perhaps the most famous race of Beastfolk are the Suujali, though their numbers have grown sparse over the years due to their mass migration from Ursa Madeum following the death of Damien Gillick. II. BEASTS OF URSA MADEUM (WIP. I'll continue work on this at a later date.)
  9. Samø

    Grumble.crk

    Crowley @COYCROWLEY234 • 20m ago Finally decided to put Orenmir down and give myself some time to relax! Headed to my favourite cafe, can't wait! #Blessed REPLY GRUMBLE LIKED BY @EMPRESSOFFICAL SHARE Crowley @COYCROWLEY234 • 19m ago @COYCROWLEY234 Has just entered the: Redstar Café and Bistro! REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE Crowley @COYCROWLEY234 • 18m ago This is great! I really needed this, makes all the stress and turmoil seem so distant now! REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE lanius @LARGELADLANIUS • 16m ago @LARGELADLANIUS Has just entered the: Redstar Café and Bistro! REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE Crowley @COYCROWLEY234 • 15m ago @COYCROWLEY234 Has just left the: Redstar Café and Bistro! REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE Crowley @COYCROWLEY234 • 10m ago @COYCROWLEY234 Has just entered the: Stalwart Heart Public Hospital, Emergency Ward! REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE Rozharon Paralios @EmpressOfficial • 1m ago @LARGELADLANIUS Hands off my man or I'm conquering the islands again, starting with Noviria. 1 REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE lanius @LARGELADLANIUS • 30s ago @EmpressOfficial kjadfoir cfalskdsadlkh alkdashnaslkd KJADSHFBASLK.ASKJASD 1 REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE Adrya @ADRYAACROSXVII • 1s ago I'd translate for you @EmpressOfficial but literally nothing in that message is allowed past the profanity filter. REPLY GRUMBLE LIKE SHARE
  10. Samø

    Power in Death

    The olea trees burned. Filled his senses with their sickly-sweet immolation. His trees. He'd grown them for his father, they had always been his favourite. Fire. Fire and blood. That was how his world was going to end. He was going to drown himself in it. Washed away in a deluge of destruction brought on by the death of the Tyrant king. Ash choked the air from his lungs, acrid and cold, it clings to his flesh. Stings his eyes. He heard screaming. Of men. And of horses. Ophelia's courser. Brutus, she'd named him when he'd carried the freshly born foal in his arms and presented it to his sister as a gift. She loved to ride him. More than anything, she loved that horse. Orange flames danced across his alabaster coat, charring it black. Pain brings the beast down. The beasts pain ends with an steelclad hand resting itself upon it's snout and a blade being pushed through it's heart. He whispers something to Brutus but he doesn't know what is said. Grief renders him deaf and motionless. Then those tendrils come back to him. Endless, towering limbs lined with talons designed to grab prey and never let go. Stagnant, cold water surrounds him. Yet he breathes. Floats in a void of brine and... Rage. His. Someone else's. Someone much, much worse than him. Below, a thousand upon a thousand eyes open their lids and gaze their antediluvian gaze up to him. He stares back. His bones rattle as a tremor emanates from the horror. A laugh, he realises. "LANIUS. CHIMAERA. WE ARE TWO AND ONE." Willbreaker bellows. It's baritone resonates with the power of a typhoon. Rattles his bones and threatens to shake them to nothing but splinters. Something shifts behind him. Coils around him, consumes what little light penetrates the deep abyss that engulfs him. He does not shift. He does not stir. Fear is beneath him. Bravery is for those who feel fear, Lanius. Dridak speaks to him through memory - the echo of his voice rings hollow in his mind. Willbreaker recoils. Willbreaker loathes his father. The memory of him. The sanctity it brings to him against its constant clawing and renting of his mind. Lanius looks the monstrosity in the eyes and bares his teeth into a smile. "YOU ARE BROKEN, WIELDER." "I am Lanius of Thraece." He responds. "NO. NOT FOR LONG. NOT WITH ME. YOU-" Finally that writhing tentacle that spiralled around presented it. The blade. What had been wrapped in his father's bloody toga alongside Marrow. Wedged deep into the fetid flesh of the creature's limb. Lanius felt his hand go towards it. "YES." Willbreaker screams. Felt fingers wrap around its handle. "FEED ME YOUR VENGEANCE." ... And clasped tight. "WE WILL BE WORSE." Muscles ache. Burn with the motion of killing. A butcher's arc is brought down low, and another man dies. Again and again. The oathblade revels in it all. Drinks deep what is given to it; red, warm and dripping from the smooth surface of his blade. Another dies. Smashes against the shieldwall the remnants of his father's legion have formed at the gate of his fathers- Adrya's casta. One more lost amidst a never-ending tide of flesh, bone and steel. Unending, they press against their shieldwall. Where one legionary falls, his comrade steps over his body and takes his place. Without pause or complaint. They answer their brother's death with stabs from their gladius. But there aren't enough. Noviria's carmine warriors were faltering. Being taken apart, one at a time. Two times the Black Knights have charged. Two times have they sent them running back to reform and do it again. This would be the last time. The epoch of the end. Again, the wave of warriors surged towards him. Blades and armour glinting against the mid-day sun. Their footsteps sound like a thousand war drums beating in unison. Home burning behind him, red-light flickering its long shadows over the dead and dying, Lanius roared his last. "We have dug our graves here." Lanius raises Willbreaker high. "Come," "Bury us."
  11. original meme context (also like wade's stuff its finger lickin good)
  12. "Now," She reiterates it as though she'd spoken it as thousand times before- "Don't eat anyone whilst I'm gone." -and not once had the message stuck. Whether the words were directed to her crew or the ship, it was a complete mystery. Perhaps she meant to tell both. Both had eaten people before. But where the Widow enjoyed evisceration in a more secluded manner, her crew were more prone to public acts of... gorging. Nevertheless, she departed both of them with a smile and a wink. She wouldn't be long gone. She knew it. As did the crew, as did the Widow. Etheral eyes bore their hatred into her back as she made her way off the polyp-infected gangplank. Seashell spurs sang with each step. Her gait was wobbly and shaken. From alcohol or an unfamiliarity with land, it wasn't possible to say for sure. Even still, she made her way towards the gathering quickly enough. Beyond the occasional perplexed look from a passerby, she didn't garner enough attention to compromise the planned heist. Whalefall even seemed to sing quieter. A low and droning wayward tune. And then M'yr began talking of plans. Breaking and entering. Even a grapple hook and something about a roof? She cocked an eyebrow and shot the man a confused look. "You're better at this burglary business than I thought, poppet." Then she shrugged. "Luv." Slake shot him one of her looks. The sort she made after thinking, which rarely meant anything good. "You are most definitely the brains of the operation," And brought up an index finger. "But it would seem to me the planning of the crime itself might be better left to more... experienced minds?" Slake looked at Jack. She'd assumed the desperado might know a thing-or-to about being in the wrong place for all the wrong reasons. "Saucy Jack here seems like the best sort to decide. That's my vote, anyway."
  13. Samø

    All is found

    “You’ll be like mother, yes.” Pitless eyes had stared through him as he had spoken. Unblinking, motionless. “She made you to be like her, little brother. But you are different. You want to give them the chance to learn. Cut away the strings mother has tied. That alone makes you very, very different to her.” That hand moved away from his shoulder. The echoes of pain and fear that it brought dissipated with it. “Besides. If it all goes horribly wrong, I can go about… “resetting” things.” Asterion smiled. Nothing upon his face gave an indication if that grin was borne of mirth or something more insidious. He let silence fall between them. Pallas needed his own thoughts now. To decide among himself. Asterion had said his piece and now it was up to his brother to quell the conflict burning inside of him. His own thoughts brought him back to his other siblings. Lenore still hated, or feared him. A strange, unfamiliar sensation panged in his chest at the thought of it. The seraph would have to set things right. Because it was the right thing to do. Because it was the right thing to do. Those words resonate in his head, spoken not by him but by Morrigan. The girl who had saved the family. Stopped him. Now she sought to fix him. Smooth his edges and make this world his home. Then he held it. Without realizing he’d plucked it from his pocket, that shard of amber rested in the palm of his hand. So warm. Not with the heat of fire, but with the swelter of nostalgia. Weaving roots of talika splay from his fingertips, probing. Where before he had submerged himself into the chaos of life itself, seeing with a thousand eyes, this was different. This was memory, recollection. A fragment of an venerable being. It had seen the Taen take shape. Seen the dam rise and quell the swell the the tides of The Deep. Seen Leviathans broken and bound. Seen fae turn to moss-stained bones beneath its roots. As he clutched the resin, felt its memories pour into him, clarity came to him. Taen. The being. Not the land. He shifts through the fugue of the withered talika, comes back to the present. “This world of yours.” Asterion mused. “It’s starting to make sense.”
  14. Samø

    All is found

    “Your world is very pretty.” Asterion mused, eyes painted in the reflection of the setting sun they rested upon. The luminous colours brought warmth to his pallour, life into black eyes. One could have almost mistook him for human. Almost. Pallas’ brother rested himself upon the grass. With his towering stature, he was eye-level with him. Silence fell between the two. A deep, heavy silence. Only the trilling of passing birds making their way to roost and the whispering of winds passing through waving grass broke through the hush. And then, Asterion laughed. Even that had changed. It didn’t sound so ragged. So broken. It sounded human. “I think you have it worse than I ever did.” His brother says through his laughter. “I only had to end kingdoms. You have to keep one going.” And then he paused. “But it’s inevitable. When I went into the forest, became part of it, it dawned on me. The woods are lovely, dark and deep and everyone has a role to keep. You’re contemplating what it means to be King, to rule. And whether or not you have a choice in the matter.” Those immense shoulders of his shrugged, wings rising and falling alongside the motion of them. “If not you, Taen would find someone else. If the forest cannot find wolves with which to ensure the health of a flock, it will find something else to fill the role. Choice or not, every kingdom needs a king. Every forest needs its wolf.” Passing winds made the black feathers of his wings dance as he spoke. “It isn’t a point of fate. Taen needs a king. The people need a king. And where there is a need, there will always be someone to fulfill it. So if you made your way into the throne by your own choice or not, it doesn’t matter. It would have happened regardless, little brother. There will always be a king.” Finally, Asterion reached outwards. A calloused, scarred hand hovered for a few moments. An unfamiliar gesture, yet the hand clasped itself around his shoulder and gave a squeeze with such gentleness that seemed impossible for Asterion to summon. “Stop worrying about ''whats`` and ''ifs`,` Pallas. You’re king. Worry about being a good King and not about being king.”
  15. Samø

    All is found

    Ina’iy was talking to Asterion. “The forest must burn some times. But most times it decides when to start the fire, not us. Lightning or sansiuk or wyrmbreath. What we do is only prune. Do you wish to try?” Try. Valucre was as much a stranger to him as he was to it. Yet he had felt influences. Weaving veins of the arcane that strobed their power throughout the world, reaching out and touching against his flesh, both material and immaterial. He had never tried to weave it, to shape and control it. How long had it been, since he had done much of what he had been made to do? Telesto had been discarded, tucked away and forgotten deep inside of him. An uncomfortable truth he would rather avoid than face. Still. Pallas was trying. To show him there was more to do beyond scourge and kill. Perhaps his brother was trying to avoid another uncomfortable truth about him. Asterion didn’t know. Part of him didn’t want to know. And yet, his hand went pushed outwards towards the looming trunk of one of the trees. The motion came as easily as breathing. Easier. His hand touched the world itself. In an instant, he dreamed of the wild. A storm of a thousand eyes, seeing through all at once. For one moment, he was nestled high above in the trees, singing to the rest of his flock. Another, he stalked down below in the undergrowth - maw wet and matted red from a kill he and his pack had taken. The flesh tasted sweeter than anything he had ever known. He and his kind howl at the setting sun. More eyes. More lives. He experiences them all at once. Loses himself in primal instinct and emotion. Asterion, what he is, becomes nothing more than a droplet in an oceanic tide of being. Wyldlight seeps into him as tendrils cast out from his fingertips and swarm across the entirety of Taen. Asterion lives, dies and lives again over and over. It’s too much. Overwhelming. He fights back, does as he had done before; bares his teeth and clenches his hand. The bark that he had been touching collapses in around his grip, exploding into splinters and sap. Asterion stumbles back, eyes glossy, maw dripping. “I…” He grunts. “Won’t be doing that again.”
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