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KittyvonCupcake

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KittyvonCupcake last won the day on April 20 2015

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About KittyvonCupcake

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    Devotee
  • Birthday April 18

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  • Gender
    Lady
  • Location
    The Moon of Titan
  • Interests
    Hungry ghosts, the roar of the sea crystallized and shattered thrice for good luck, poorly recorded punk music.

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    KittyvonCupcake#0467

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  1. “What are these creatures?” asked a voice in a language like a tangled network of roots laced beneath damp soil. His companion held up a taloned hand. A rumble permeated the quiet between them, filled with the thunder of heavy footfalls and the squeal of a frightened calf. They waited for the metallic tang of blood to intermingle with the scent of oncoming rain and leaves. Their fingers and toes curled around the branches of their vantage point in the trees like curved hooks. It did not come, and there was relief in the Mork’Ouths’ gold flecked eyes. “Human,” replied the other, for everything with flesh like a furless animal that walked upon two legs was human. “They are visitors here. Do you notice?” It was easy for the native Mork’Outh to judge whether someone was a visitor, as only visitors carried weapons designed in such a manner. The first nodded. The leaves braided in his vine-like hair bobbed along with his head and he flicked them behind the arc of his left horn. “I should like to know what else they are.” Though the elder hunter said they were human and they were visitors, there were stark differences between the three intruders that the younger Mork’Outh found significant. When observing wild creatures, he was told to take note of how the animal moved and interacted with its surroundings and its brethren. A Mork’Outh’s laugh is the sound of rain pattering on orchids. “Go, E’naki,” said his mentor. “Watch. Learn what you may. If you approach, take caution. Not all humans are benevolent.” The younger Mork’Outh took these words to heart. Or, at least, he tried. He was the shifting of vines overhead, he was the eyes peering beyond the fronds, he was the reason Ioreth kept a tightened grip on the packhorse’s lead and scowled over her shoulder. She could never quite discern what it was that traveled above them. At times, she would catch a glimpse of a limb seizing hold of a branch before a darkened figure swung itself upwards behind the veil of brilliant green foliage. While walking alongside the riverbanks provided some relief from the claustrophobic cluster of jungle plants, it allowed for swathes of sunlight to illuminate their pathway. Even with her pupils constricted to thin slits, distances were reduced to an uncomfortable glare. Ioreth’s internal agitation simmered to a dangerous degree—altering her natural rhythm for a human’s diurnal schedule, carving their way through this thickened atmosphere of damp humidity, the jeers of birds with oversized beaks—it all weighed upon her and she suddenly craved the security of her plush bed in the quiet of her cabin as strongly as she craved the isolated savagery of the wilds back at the inn. She slid a cryptic look towards Viscerex, wholly ignorant of the shifting duality of her desires. Massive butterflies the size of house cats landed upon lotus flowers that bloomed upon the river’s placid surface. Sunset orange powder from their wings flaked off on the white flowers. They hovered and drifted lazily above, floating along the irriguous air like honey. Ioreth struggled with the urge to bat one away as it encircled her hair before meandering back to the lilies blooming along the water’s edge. E’naki could not help it. The frustration across this odd visitor’s marked face drew out a laugh, audible to even those down upon the ground. Although it could have been mistaken for the slow churn of the jungle’s river, his eyes happened to make contact with Ioreth’s. Although not spoken, her question was similar to his own: What was that creature? As if to answer, E’naki released his grip upon the branch above them and landed softly in the grass beside Holly. A Mork’Outh would say that a human is a like a smaller and softer variation of themselves. When he rose to his full height, he stood a foot taller than Viscerex. Wooden protrusions similar to his horns sprouted along down his spine, each arched spike a shade of mahogany deeper than the rough bark that covered his skin. He wore nothing but a pair of softly woven pants that ended beneath his bent knees. Slender white vines interlaced themselves along his horns and upon his head like a circlet. An ivory flower bloomed at its center, its petals draping along his forehead. It was this flower that he tapped at with a talon before his voice was heard inside their minds. “Greetings, visitors. What is that you brings you into our land? You.” His golden eyes widened at the sight of the burns that marred Holly’s skin. “Do those cause you pain? And you!” E’naki sidled along Viscerex in a sideways creep only an inch out of an immediate arm’s reach, his head tilting to peer beneath his helmet. “What made you choose to scare the Rixnour, instead of killing them? You carry weapons. And the green fire—why?” When he spoke, one could hear the Mork’Ouths’ arboreal tongue but understand it in the language closest to their hearts. To Ioreth, his rapid questions were translated to Duendaic. Her curiosity was immediately enthralled. Her pride, however, dragged it down to a disappointed flatline when E’kani abruptly ceased his examination of Viscerex to remark, “Pointed eared human, you appear tired. You should sit.” The leader of this group, E’kani decided, was obviously not her. He turned back to Viscerex and Holly, and thumped his closed fist upon his chest. “My name is E’kani,” their minds’ voices said. “May I learn of your names and your purpose?”
  2. Your little faun is adorable.

  3. So, basically, what you're saying is that I can hire you for some artwork.

    Right?

    ... Right?

    1. Alexei
    2. KittyvonCupcake

      KittyvonCupcake

      Of course, my friend!

      Step into my office and tell me what you're looking for.

    3. KittyvonCupcake

      KittyvonCupcake

      (Also hi Alexei I see you there)

  4. @Witches Brew, @Ink Fox, and I are all a part of a fun little section in Terrenus called Coth. Witchy, Inky, and I also like to draw. With Inky’s prompting, here’s a little showcase of our Coth related artwork. 💕 Finished Pieces Sketches & WIPs
  5. Hi, Asphodel! Welcome to Valucre. The New Member's Guide is a great resource. If you have not flipped through that, I would highly recommend taking a look at it. I've also been here for a wee bit, and might be able to show you those ropes you mentioned. What kind of stories were you interested in telling?
  6. Ioreth listened in composed quiet, her body swaying along with the natural rhythm of her mare’s rolling gait. She agreed with Scrapper; it was odd that the woman could not remember her name while the labels for other objects revealed themselves as they traveled through the forest together. Yet what she found more striking was Scrapper’s desire for vengeance. Ioreth felt her spine stiffen. Just precisely who was this woman, and what was she capable of? “And how do you plan on doing that?” Light amusement granted an air of playfulness to an otherwise biting question. The implication was clear: don’t make promises you cannot keep. She allowed her query a moment to settle before shifting slightly in the saddle. “Without knowing the circumstances of your misfortune, it would be unwise to attach hope to something so uncertain. We do not even know if what harmed you can be killed—whether in a conventional manner or by other means.” Silence fell, though Ioreth would have answered any questions asked by Scrapper with a brief attention. Ioreth’s focus was drawn internally as the heart of the woods tugged upon her own. It was a lodestone. Though distant, the sensation still pulled her in. Daylight stretched on until it reached past the afternoon. Golden rays intermingled with greenery, and the night elf stifled a yawn. “You are not the only amnesiac I have found,” she remarked by way of conversation. “There was another. He wandered into the fields of Coth from the forests and…” She paused to search for a dignified explanation of his actions, and found none. “...he was talking to a farm animal. He seemed to have forgotten what a person was until he met me. While we did uncover his name and a memory of his past, it was not by a method within my control. The lands here are touched by magick—the same that renders your firearms useless.” They came upon a split in the pathway. With a gentle tap of the reins, Ioreth directed them down the left hand trail. Low hanging branches dragged themselves along the women’s shoulders and snagged at their hair. “It is said that a god is watching over Cothic territory; the village, the forests, the mountains to the north. This god makes his presence known,” she added with a tinge bitterness, “whether you believe in the status of his divinity or you do not.” “Whatever it is, that power is what reached through me to allow Zan to recover his name and what spoke to Constans before he sent me out here. It is my hope that we can find your name, as well. It is strange, how your identity seems to have been carved from you, spare from that feeling that caused you to name yourself Scrapper, but with time it will become clear.” The untamed wilderness gave way to a sun kissed glade. Willows grew along the banks of a glassy creek. Leaves drifted along the crystalline surface like little empty boats. Some dashed against the round stones that stood in the water. Others were ensnared upon fallen branches half submerged in the spring water. Silver minnows darted along the pebbles of the bank. “With time,” Ioreth echoed, “nearly all becomes clear. How are you feeling, Scrapper? I need to stretch my legs.” When she dismounted from her horse, she curled her toes into the spongy lichen and muttered something about her ass going numb under her breath before offering her assistance to get Scrapper back down to the ground. “We can rest here, if you need it. Are your injuries bothering you?”
  7. Notice how Mr. E's activity died down when both Ataraxy is AFV and Die Shize's presence on the site slowed. *pins more red yarn on the conspiracy board*
  8. It was undoubtedly an eventful day for the horse master. As personable as Constans was, the Father was the Father, and he was here because a miracle happened on Dale’s plot of land. A miracle. And now the Father needed a wand of hazel wood. Dale Thimmick was not a man of words. He could offer no poetic eloquence to illustrate his feelings, and instead made do with rubbing the back of his head while letting out a low whistle. Such commotion, indeed. A miracle. Still, it was good the Lady had awoken. From his daughters’ shared room, Dale’s voice could be heard as he walked outside his home until the door swung shut behind him. “Sabine,” he called out, “where did you scamper off to? Do you remember if that tree by Old Wilma’s home was a walnut or hazel? What are you giving me that face for, girl, the Father ne—“ It was all noise to Ioreth, meaningless noise. When Constans had first entered the room, she offered no indication that she recognized him until she felt his hand upon her back. Was this reality, then? It had to be, even as her neck ached where it had been twisted in the wrong direction. She tried to laugh at his jest about the garden, but it came out as a near sob. Her hands shook too much to hold the cup on her own. With Constans’s help, it was set down upon the end table and her quivering hands returned to her lap. “I goaded him,” she confessed in a raspy whisper. The Cothite god had always been an it, a spirit, “your god.” Ioreth glanced up at Constans and slowly blinked away pained pinpricks of tears from eyes as green as serpent's venom. “I’ve been challenging him, all in my thoughts. I never expected...he went inside my mind, Constans.” “I saw you there.” Her trembling fingertips rested lightly upon his chest, as though she expected an illusion and not her friend’s solid form. “Your heart had been cut out.” “I was shown a village, it…It’s all connected, but I cannot see the pattern yet.” Ioreth took a sip of water to wash away the remaining taste of ashes, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, and tried to explain. “This morning, I found a man in the fields. He was tall, of orcish blood, with no memories to speak of. I thought of him, and then it was as if I were transfixed. My legs moved of their own accord until I was in the field. Then the fire came. “It was difficult to see the village clearly. I remember the sky being a blackened swirl, although it may have been smoke. I could see mountains, like those to the north. Most of the dwellings were destroyed,” she said emptily. Flashes of mutilated bodies staring back at her with pleading eyes caused a shudder down her spine and another wave of nausea. “I’m not certain what attacked it. There were shadows of things, I saw talons and teeth...and I thought I saw that man from the fields on a horse, but it was strange. The living looked like wraiths. Only the dead were clear to me. I felt compelled to stop and look into each face. I had to.” Ioreth stared at her hands. “I remember them all. Their eyes were open and I had to close them. Why do you think he made me do that? What came later,” she sighed, “was a direct warning. You, Viscerex, Mythandriel. Dead. I saw my father. He was there. It was not a dream, that’s why I—“ Guilt intermingled with horror as she swiftly leaned over to the other side of the bed and emptied the contents of her stomach upon a clumsily half-finished crocheted quilt. “Your god,” she growled between dry heaves, “is a pain in the ass. Why did he decide to bother me?” @Vansin
  9. “What do you think?!” Suspended in disbelief, the turbulent tangle of her thoughts were placed aside to make room for the booming cheers and alien light of two violet suns. The unfamiliar need to be fully absorbed before deeper meanings were teased out from its depths and her opinion casted, for her initial impression was not wonder, but an animal’s fear. It churned beneath the steady examination of the adoring blue creature’s mucilaginous forms, it writhed with suspicion at the wizard’s satisfied smile. My darling...Akemanah...welcome home! With her arm in his, Ioreth glanced at Nisnav’s shoulder and met Vert’s eye. It blinked. “Fascinating,” she managed. The inner self flinched at Nisnav’s unwelcome grip upon her arm, the outer excused it as a mere demonstration of politeness—a manner in which to guide her down the steps of the ziggurat and through the swarms of beings that pressed in closely around them. Their previous interactions had been purely centered around the exchange of knowledge, each conversation a demonstration of the wealth of Nisnav’s mind and the transcendence he assumed over the expansive world of magical theory. He had always been eloquent and unfailingly courteous, ever the dispassionate intellectual. And, importantly to Ioreth, he gained both her respect and her trust. Yet this wizard, with his face made whole by his homunculi and who spoke with a laughing pride at a festival she assumed was in his honor, was someone else entirely. A false smile met his shout. “A festival? Had I known, I would have worn something finer.” It was as if she had been flung into a faerie’s tale; the wise and cold fae lord with a hidden face learned her name, entwined himself around her heart’s desires, and led her through a mirror to his secret world. And what strange beauty his world contained. At the foot of the ziggurat, she paused to take in the land that stretched beyond them. There was an order, an artistry, that she had not seen in the cities of Terrenus. She came from a world of black forests and cold metal, broken apart only by fields of rolling green and the seething sea. Artificial colors were often too bright for her to comfortably behold, suited as she was to twilit darkness. Yet this place, illustrated by an alien’s palette, seemed to welcome her, bathed as it was by light the same color as her eyes. Twisted monuments of shimmering metal reflected rays of amethyst sunlight, leaving shimmering impressions of heliotrope upon the buildings made of stone. The constructions were seamless, as though they had risen from the earth. Numerous dwellings were domed with gleaming basilicas and decorated with spiraling mosaics. Fireworks still continued overhead, arching colors exploding against the sky. Their ghosts refracted in the channels of green water that snaked through the streets. She yearned to see the park filled with copper hued trees that grew in slender corkscrews more closely, yet a subtle rise in pressure from Nisnav’s grip upon her arm broke the spell. Her lagging footsteps picked up in pace to match his stride. How often, she wondered, did terror lurk beneath beauty in folklore and faerie stories? When Nisnav glanced down at the top of her head, there was an edacious longing in his eyes that he hid with an attentive smile. He was her only way home. “What is this place?” she asked, raising her voice above the continued supplications of the rapturous blue people. “How did you find it?” Other figures with metallic skin stood apart from them, often in the doorways and at the balconies of buildings painted cyan. They were taller, with concave torsos and stilt like legs that bent backwards at the knees. While the gelatinous blue people burbled with simplicity, there was a cleverness in their tapered golden eyes, present even as they bowed their long necks to Nisnav and his new companion. Multicolored feathers flowed from their narrow heads like hair. There was another question burning on her tongue, after listening to his answers and following him down to the heart of this civilization; one that formed when she happened to look back and see what was at the top of the ziggurat now that distance provided enough space for a clearer perspective. She slipped her arm from his and returned it to her side. Even beneath the cloth of her sleeve, her skin crawled and itched and burned. Her other hand rested where his once lay upon her arm. “That statue up there...Is that you? ‘Akemanah?’” Any answer he decided to indulge her with would have to be accepted, for it was not this spot on the street framed by carefully cultivated gardens of fleshy red succulents that grew before two twirling parallel towers as violet as the suns that Nisnav wished to show her. She followed him further and further into the city until they stopped before a soaring aurelian gate. One could peer through the intricate geometric formations crafted in the gate to capture a glimpse of the splendor that lay beyond the gate and its formidable wall, yet it was not merely a glimpse that Nisnav’s would offer Ioreth of the estate. She winced when he looped his arm through hers once more, and cursed herself for allowing a demonstration of her disquietude to slip through the cracks of her composure. Had he sensed her reluctance to step beyond these walls, her consideration of how far she could run back to the ziggurat before either he or his legion of blue beings seized hold of her? Defiance tilted her chin upwards, pride carried her through the gates as they swung open for the wizard, yet even defiance and pride were not immune to the charms of exquisite beauty. Ivory trees were lined perfectly around emerald pools. Amphibious creatures with snub heads and serpentine bodies glided through the glassy water and rested upon floating stones on the surface. More people with metallic skin loitered along the lawn. A few bore wing-like appendages that stretched from their wrists to their shoulder blades. These were covered in feathers the same hue as the crested displays on their heads. While all the lissome feathered creatures wore draped vestments dyed in rich pigments, the winged ones were decorated with ornamental gold. The others showed deference to them, though all were quick to bow to Nisnav. One approached, an elder being with sanguine plumage and a thin circlet of bronze upon his high forehead. Robes of crimson enfolded his frame beneath layers of iridescent fabrics. He had a small downturned mouth and the slightest indication of a nose above his flared nostrils, and he kept his tawny eyes upon the ground as he addressed Nisnav with another sweeping bow. “Akemanah, welcome back home. How may we attend to you and your—-“ he glanced up swiftly to look over Ioreth “—-guest?”
  10. I want to help. Neither approval nor displeasure lightened or darkened her violet eyes as they flicked over the woman’s once-bent form. An anticipated answer, yet one that left another question: what could she help with? And yet there was a palpable change in the lost bird with battered wings—a subtle correction of the woman’s posture, a spark in her gaze. “Scrapper, hm?” An odd choice of name, and one that twisted off her tongue as “Scraw-purr,” but it was a choice that offered a glimpse at what lay beneath the bruises and lost memories. “You are a fighter? Hold on to that fire, for I fear the path before us will reveal more than…” A curt nod was directed to the stag’s barren remains. “...that. Most would have shown fear in the face of something touched with decay. Not you.” Tell me what you fear and I shall tell you who you are. With a sly glint of a half-smile, she added, “‘You will survive this, provided you keep your composure. I have no intention of dying here. Neither should you. Now, then, if you look at the saddlebag with the embroidery—“ her hand gave an impatient wave to the leather pouch interwoven with a golden serpent “—there is some food to eat in there. It’s nothing substantial, only dried fruit and what’s left of the bread. Elvish food and bird food have their similarities.” Her laughter was light and self admonishing, though it dissipated as she turned to back to inspect the blackened grass and bleached bones. “You may eat some while I attend to this.” Most that traveled with Ioreth often came to the realization that she rarely asked someone to do something. She told them what she believed was right, and she would carry on with her own business with the expectation that the other party would fall in line with her suggestions. It was merely her way. As Scrapper showed no fear in the face of decay, Ioreth demonstrated a cold familiarity that bordered along a clinical nature. She was no entrail-minded witch that lurked in the wilds, despite what some may whisper about her back in the village. She looked upon the skeletal detritus and crouched beside it, a warped reflection of the burnt earth and ivory bones with her black clothing and pale silver hair. Her hands hovered above the remains. Her little finger twitched. Spells are slippery things to grasp, but all are imprinted with the signature of the one that spun them. Reading this signature was a matter of slipping forth from the limitations of one’s skin to touch the essence of the magick in question, a feat that sounded simple enough until one had to practice it. Fungi and spiderwebs and insect chitin met the flow of her spirit. A shudder of revulsion quaked down her spine, and she pressed along the edges of atrophy until she caught a glimpse of gnarled roots leeching the strength out of the earth. To move forward would have been to alert the unseen darkness of her presence. She retreated back to herself and fluttered open her eyes, her pupils constricting to slits from the light of the sunlit clearing. A sigh escaped her lips as she stood. The stag was not a herald of what lie at the heart of the forest, but a byproduct that wandered away. To here. Scrapper would have to be watched. While Ioreth did not feel a trace of the corruption upon her, the world here did not often operate upon the rules of circumstantial coincidence. “Come, I shall help you get in the saddle,” the elvish woman said with her hand outstretched. Once Scrapper was boosted in the saddle, Ioreth gestured for her to move back so that she may sit in the front. Though she rarely tolerated being touched, especially by a stranger, she made no notion of vexation should Scrapper need to hold on to her waist or lean into her for balance. “Are you comfortable enough? Should you need rest, we can set camp after sundown.” With a click of her tongue and a nudge of her feet against her mare’s sides, they left clearing and continued down the forest’s trail.
  11. My OOC goals? I wish to clone myself to increase my level of productivity. Practice more concept art. Possibly show the general Valucrian public, as well. Like any writer, continue to develop and improve my writing while staying true to my vision and style. If I could, I would simply open up my head and show you what I see and deposit all my feels into your little hands, but I cannot. Words will have to suffice---and I often struggle to find the most sufficient. Oh and finish expanding those lore pages I guess 🙃 (srry Book|Ends and pirate lords ilu) I'm not in the habit of revealing specific character goals (Spoilers, darling) but here's a few. For Ioreth, to reclaim herself and strengthen the bonds she has with those connected with her. For Draug, to make his mark. To frolic about in Coth. Frolicking is important. ANGST
  12. The sterile title of this place, The Jungle Quadrant, was an inadequate consolation to its vivid coil of élan vital. Wild riots of color exploded in a swirling dance; elongated golden tail feathers drooped down from woven nests fixated in copper trees and succulent fruits swelled within arm’s reach. Flowers bloomed along the vines, thick with a hazy perfume. It was not for the first time that Ioreth was struck by the sensation of how small she was in comparison to the boundless span of the world unknown, and she regarded it not with fear, but a hushed reverence. Pulled along by a connection to something unseen and surrounded by wild immensity, Ioreth led them down a pathway carved naturally through the lush flora. The packhorse plodded along at her side, docile even when a piercing cry of a predatory bird rang out like a bell struck by a precise hammer above them. It seemed wholly unimpressed when Ioreth took a moment to examine scarlet flowers shaped like bowls that hung along parasitic vines. They were quite pretty, had it not been for the faint odor of rotting carrier and the amount of flies that had found themselves trapped within the flower’s bulbous bellies. Even the creatures of Taen were painted with the same palette as the plant life. Slender snakes that glittered like orchids settled upon low hanging branches. They peered out at those that passed from the feather-like offshoots of delicately wrought scales that surrounded their small black eyes. Animals akin to deer could be seen through the trees at a near distance. They walked upon graceful spindles and reached their elongated necks to lick the rainwater that collected in furling leaves. One turned its head, revealing a humanesque face with large eyes filled with a quiet intelligence. When Ioreth met its gaze, something imperceptible hovered in the stretch of space between them. They looked away—the animal with a silent understanding, the elf with unspoken questions. Hours passed. The sun crept its way across the sky, partially concealed by the jungle canopy. The late morning dazzled with emeralds. Noon brought about a more sluggish heat, yet still Ioreth pushed on. “We can find a place to rest and eat soon,” she explained, breaking the quiet between the companions. “See those fruits?” Her hand reached up to gesture towards amber hued fruits with bittersweet peels that hung from the top of low palm trees. “They call them xanthions. They are common here, and edible, too.” There were insects, of course, drawn to the sweat that dripped down their necks and the blood that pumped in their veins, yet the worst were repelled away by little pouches stuffed with herbs prepared by Ioreth’s cousin, Mythandriel, that were kept with the packhorse’s load of supplies and attached to Ioreth’s belt. The invasive species of insects that skittered into Taen from Terrenus found whatever concoction the budding herbalist designed unbearable. However, there were those that were more stubborn than the norm. Ioreth swatted away an overly curious dragonfly with an irritated scoff before the noise of heavy footfalls sinking into the earth made her come to a halt. Some information regarding Taen’s natural life had been recorded and since published. As one may anticipate, these books fell into the collection of Book|Ends and subsequently into the hands of Ioreth. Though not of the most exciting subject material, it was those that detailed out the known flora and fauna of each quadrant that Ioreth devoted thorough research. It would have been foolish to venture out without a basic awareness of what she could eat, and what could eat her. The rixnour was one such animal listed. Although the massive creatures chiefly preferred vegetation and scavenging off of corpses, hunting down those that tread in their territory to consume was not an unheard of event. One rixnour could be considered an intimidating sight. A group of rixnours, like the group that gathered in a clearing, could be considered an even more intimidating sight. There were three sunning themselves by a river filled with deep water, each measuring to around six feet tall at the top of their front shoulders. Their bulky, rhinoceros-like, bodies were covered with a green lichen. Platelets, thick and jagged, grew along their shoulders and flanks, perhaps as a protection against the natural predators that lurked with in Taen’s jungles. Though Ioreth’s connection with the horn urged her to cross through the clearing, the sight of a group of animals that measured taller than her own height caused her to pause their walk. “Rixnour,” she murmured, glancing up at Viscerex. He was the hunter—it was his insight that she desired.“From what I read, they are not the friendliest of animals and will attack if provoked, yet we do need to go across that bridge. Do you see it there?” Created by the Mork’Outh that dwelled within the jungle, the bridge was constructed of a curved log connected to the earth on either side of the river. Lichen similar to the mossy growth that covered the rixnour ran over the bridge, granting it the appearance of a curved log that fell precisely where it needed to be. Ioreth frowned and pushed away stray strands of hair from her face. “How do you think we can cross?”
  13. My post is going to be delayed until tomorrow or Friday night. I’m still shaking off a cold and it’s slowed down my writing. Sorry about that!
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