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KittyvonCupcake

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About KittyvonCupcake

  • Rank
    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. KittyvonCupcake

    Valucre music thread

  2. KittyvonCupcake

    Church On The Hill [Barbarian Raider Attack!]

    [Mysterious Grove: the Tomb Raider Edition] Like a doe caught in the glare of sudden light, Ioreth became fixated and frozen the moment unexpected darkness flooded the room. There were eyes, there were faces, there were claws---all tangled, amorphous. One exhalation of air and she would feel them scraping across her skin. Without the intention of doing so, she held her breath and waited, her limbs locked into place. It was an animalistic sensation of danger that warned her to the creature’s presence, when all she could hear was the sound of her heart fluttering in her chest and all she could see were shadows swirling in the dark. Everything else ceased to exist. There were two points in the universe: herself, and the presence of death. But before her nerves could release her legs from their self contained prison, Constans screamed fire. While the look of shock on her face was sufficient enough to lure over the shadow creature, her current expression of surprise could have drawn out its twin. She let out a startled cry, buried her sensitive eyes into her forearms, and twisted away from the oncoming flames. Because of this, and the temporary blindness that occured from the abrupt change of light, she failed to witness how Constans spared her from his magic. The heat soon faded, leaving only the inhuman clamor that arose from the shadow creature. “Did you swallow a fucking dragon?” she retorted in response to the priest’s wink. “I---what? You! It…” That frustration was soon forgotten, as was the weakened creature on the floor that made an effort to quench the fire that consumed it, when Constans lurched forward. Ioreth was quick on her feet once more. It seemed that whatever internal disquietude that set paralysis upon her before had been burnt away. Her left arm settled protectively over his back and her right hand held the priest’s arm steady as he bent over from another attack of nausea. He must feel his magic somatically, she thought. The idea that something unnatural was physically inside of his stomach did not occur to her even once. Bad chicken from the feast would have made more logical sense than that. It was a lack of control, his power could be eating him alive from the inside. Ioreth gathered the quiet inside of her as the green flames began to fade and another round of pain seized over the priest’s body. Healing magick manifested itself in her mind as picking flowers in an overcast field: she willed over serenity and stillness and yanked them from the earth. A faint white-lavender glow flowed from her hands to material of Constans’ doublet. She could only take away a fraction of his pain. The pressing circumstances of their environment prevented anything further. Soon, the soft incandescence from her hands became the only source of illumination in the underground chamber. Cautiously, carefully, she guided Constans down to the stone floor and willed the darkness to come. This time, she was ready. She planted her feet firm and imagined them as roots. She pressed her palms together and brought her hands to the runic tattoo on her forehead. She exhaled, and she waited. It did not take long for the shadow to reassemble itself. Even less time passed before it charged at the elvish woman, but it was Ioreth that struck first. Her fingers were talons that plunged into its torso. Something out in the periphery of her mind registered how it struggled in her grip, but it faltered at noting the scrapes it left along the exposed skin of her arms and chest. Sensations of discomfort meant little where she was now. How can one describe what it is like to enter a shadow? She felt upside down: the most primitive functions of her mind interchanged with the highest level of emotional and logical processing, but it did not seem to matter. There was no cold, no heat. Only absence. She pressed further, beyond the surface, her wrists now submerged in the darkness. The light was gone. Ioreth’s eyes were pure black, and she heard softness drag over twigs. They are trapped. I know, Ioreth said, wordlessly. Moths. There were moths made of dust behind her, and a headdress of bird skulls, all hidden beneath the layers of faces that churned around her in the calignosity of the black chamber. Shadows coursed through her fingertips and up her veins. They etched lines beneath her skin and coiled in her chest, and all she could see were faces made of obscurity. It binds them here. Take it, and they are yours. And so she did. There as an object as smooth as stone where the shadow creature’s heart should have beat, and Ioreth plucked it from its chest. It did not cry out. It sighed and fell forward. Cradling the object in one arm, her free hand glowed with violet-white light. When the light made contact with the shadow creature, it burst into nebulous twilight and disappeared, taking the faces with it. What remained was a different variety of darkness: it was the kind that smelled of loam and earth, the kind that settled over everything with a muffled repose. It was a tomb’s darkness, but not a hungry darkness that threatened to crush anything that disturbed it. All, for now, was still. “Come, cara.” Had he required assistance, Ioreth would have guided Constans to his feet. “I bought you a gift for being such a good lantern.” @Vansin
  3. KittyvonCupcake

    Describe your character in one sentence

    Draug Rhavon A disgruntled man with pointy ears and a shaggy dog that is on a mission to read All The Books.
  4. KittyvonCupcake

    Floracle Flower Shop and Apothecary [hub]

    It was precisely two hours and forty three minutes past dawn, and Faerin Rhavon was awake. This statement may not sound like anything out of the ordinary. After all, many are typically wide awake and active in the glow of the morning sun. Businesses have just began to open, freshly brewed coffee was poured into waiting mugs and breakfast has been consumed whilst scanning over the most recent edition of the Daily Weekly. For diurnal creatures, being awake two hours and forty three minutes after dawn was exceptionally average. For persons of the nocturnal persuasion, however, being out in the crisp sunlight felt slightly uncomfortable, particularly when this person of the nocturnal persuasion was thoroughly exhausted from several days worth of endless travel. As mentioned above, this person was Faerin Rhavon, and he was tasked with an important job. There was a note in his pocket and he was supposed to deliver it to a woman that oversaw a flower shop. It was this note that took the young Duendaic elf out of Hell’s Gate and into the portside city of Casper. The megacity of Hell’s Gate, where everything was shiny and chrome and neatly contained, was a sharp contrast to the bustling Casper. The first night in Casper was dedicated to wandering the sloping streets. Faerin drifted through junker’s markets and brushed his long fingers against scrap magitech. He dined on fish that were caught moments ago and grilled in the open sea air. He walked along the port, admiring the ships anchored at the docks. He envisioned himself on a journey to distant lands, on islands populated by vampires and countries that floated in the sky and places where peaks of mountains scraped the belly of the sky. Submerging into a new hive of human life often felt akin to swimming in the winter sea: you can dip your toes into the water, but it is best to get over the shock as quickly as possible. All in all, that night was a raging success. He had only been mugged once, after stumbling out of a pub that exuded the aroma of faded old horse piss. The joke was on them: souvenirs, seafood, and spirits ravenously consumed his pocket money. The burgeoning young boxer accepted and exchanged blows with an impersonal good cheer, though his internal positivity could have been aided by the copious amounts of ale that fell down his throat. It was not until well after 3:00 AM that Faerin Rhavon managed to disentangle himself from his unfriendly new acquaintances and stumble back to his room at the Blue Siren Inn. He washed up, examined the ceiling, and began to drift off to sleep until the sun rose and housekeeping unceremoniously pounded on his door. They did this not because the maid disliked him, although she certainly did, but because he had asked for a wake up call so that he could deliver the note in a timely fashion. Groaning, he arose like a reanimated corpse, opened the door, and shuffled down the hall and out the lobby. It was then that he realized he was not wearing any pants. Fortunately for Valentine and Caspian, the elf standing in front of the Floracle wore pants. They were slim fit and dyed a deep red that clashed with the magenta hue of his ruffled hair, but they covered all the important parts. He had elected to encase the rest of his lanky frame in a loose white shirt. An oversized scarf that appeared as though he had folded up a Banjari tapestry was tossed around his shoulders, a pair of round sunglasses perched on his bruised nose, and he wore wraps around his feet as opposed to those restrictive unholy things known as shoes. While Faerin, to speak frankly, managed to lose track of his true age, it is safe to state that he was exiting the cusp of adolescence and is now tumbling into the vaguely disappointing realm of adulthood. Even with his height---he stood at six feet tall and six inches, provided that his shoulders did not slouch---and his expansive collection of blackwork tattoos, he appeared to be no older than nineteen. This pink haired pointy eared elfboy, complete a swollen lip and the psychic aura of someone quite used to existing in a state of intoxication, was what entered Valentine’s floral domain. He seemed at peace with plantlife. While he didn’t regard it with great marvel, there was still a noticeable amount of intrigue directed at the hanging ferns and blooming orchids. The Oiche Duende were nature dwellers, creatures born of the moon and of the wilderness, and so Faerin found an ancestral comfort here. Stifling a yawn, he took his time meandering through the botanical displays before he reached the back counter. With lacerated knuckles and restlessly clever fingers shoved into his pockets, Faerin cleared his throat once and cocked his head slightly to the left. “Is Valentine Marie here?” he asked. The lilting rhythm of his voice combined common Terran with the flowing melody of the Duendaic tongue, and it betrayed a touch of shyness stuffed behind the swagger he wore like a brand new coat. “I have a letter for her.” The letter in question, slightly crumpled from being stored in Faerin’s back pocket, slumbered inside an envelope of creamy cardstock. Once opened, it would reveal a short message written in flowing hand on quality stationery that read as follows: To Ms Valentine Marie, Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Ioreth Rhavon, and I specialize in retrieving rare tomes and artifacts for a business called Book|Ends. One can consider me a botanical enthusiast, but sadly business matters have prevented me from attending the grand opening of your lovely apothecary. It is instead that I present to you my cousin, Faerin. Do be gentle in your initial judgement of him. He is trying his best, I am sure. While business matters have called me away from Casper, they are what pull him here. I require a few elusive ingredients that I have heard you keep in stock. These include wakeflower tea, a wormwood charm, and myrtle incense. If these are meant to be kept hush hush, I do apologize. It is my job to find things, after all. Now I understand the value of such objects, and so I offer you a new employee for your more unusual tasks: Faerin. He is much brighter than he looks. He has been trained with elemental magicks and natural manipulations, and he is familiar with the Terran Wilds. Keep him busy enough and he will refrain from following his nose into trouble. Please, let my dear cousin know if this arrangement works for you. There are few objects that I can trade, as well. Have you ever read Lucida Tagete’s International Herbalogical Lexicon? I happen to have a first edition copy in mint condition, alongside her own hand drawn illustrations bound in a moleskin journal. Yours truly, Ioreth Rhavon, Hireath @roboblu
  5. KittyvonCupcake

    The Search for a Sword [B|E & Co.]

    Much to Hanya’s chagrin, Ioreth was a less than ideal mistress for motorbikes. With little patience and what could perhaps be hastily buried kamikaze streak, she would urge her machine onward to top speeds without granting the mana reserves enough time to properly warm the previously idle engine. She would take hairpin turns, bounce over curbs in the city and stones on the road, and seemed to believe that breaking only worked when one had to grit their teeth and turn in a tight semicircle before halting to a stop. This is why she prefer motorcycles over horses: living things required more care. It may have been the company of two living things that influenced her to ride with more caution than usual. Even with the wind blasting over the aerodynamic curves of her black helmet and the sloping hills of the plains that signalled an exit for Hell’s Gate blurring along the road, her gloved fingers twitched along the handlebars. Why be fidgety, when in a state of accelerated motion? Ioreth was involved in a complex love affair with travel. The purpose of this journey was to get from Point A to Point B, and she would prefer to enter Point B as quickly as possible. However, she would inadvertently find herself cascading into moments of pure perfection, where the sensation of freedom hit an apex and no longer felt quantified, where the world stretched out before her feet and she no longer had a Point A to remember and a Point B to anticipate. She defined herself by her responsibilities, and she longed to be free of them. Duendaic elves call their experiences and their purpose the Path. Even when they wander, their Path leads them to the place that they are meant to go. One was never truly lost, even if obsolescence was all one coveted. The Path also presented a challenge for the more stubborn Duende. The younger elves, like Faerin, often balked at the idea of fate. If life was prewritten, what could they twist and subvert in accordance to their will? The Leper was the Leper, and Ioreth an elf woman, and Stello a human man, but how much of that could they change? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. Guided by an internal map, Ioreth began to pull off road, away from Langley Keep and towards the fields that would lead her companions to the river. She allowed her Range Prowler to slow to a steady purr before pausing on the plateau. The helmet had been popped off from her head and placed atop the extra survival gear stashed comfortably away in the sidecar. Luxurious warmth from the summer sun soaked into her black clothing and she took a moment to reach her arms overhead and arch her back into a stretch as Stello rode up to her side. “Do the Banjaro or the Duende set up near the River Sine?” he asked. “Because that sounds like a nice place to spend a night.” “Mmhmm.” She nodded while squinting in the afternoon light. Her pupils had shrank back into vertical slits. “Traders like to camp near the ferryman and merchants will dock their houseboats there. It is a good place for travelers. You know,” a light flickered in her eyes with the flash of an idea, “Banjari bands are often in need of a capable blacksmith, and they alway look after their friends. Bat your eyelashes at a few of them and you may just have some new contacts.” When the Leper laughed, Ioreth could not help but answer with a grin. They rode well enough on the road, even in areas where the Terrenus government had neglected to address the potholes and general wear and tear, but the Wilds were a different story. The grassland that stretched before them would provide a suitable prerequisite before they were weaving through the forests. Hanya would have told the boys to hold on to their tits. Ioreth merely gave a little shrug and asked if they were ready to proceed before swinging back into the saddle. The first hour off road was the roughest for beginners, but Hanya made sure to tweak the suspension of her bikes so that they did not feel as though their teeth would rattle out of their skulls. Before Stello and the Leper departed with their spellcycles, they were advised to stand when the terrain became too uneven. “It’s a physics thing,” she said in a tone that made it clear that, while she knew what she wanted to say, she had no idea as to how she could sufficiently explain it. “You stand up and then the gravity goes phwoop and then you can steer better.” There were three key notes that she imparted to them: keep your ride smooth, don’t slouch, and pay attention to your surroundings. After that, and after shooing Faerin back indoors after he began shuffle down the porch after them with the look of child that was not invited to the ice cream shop displayed on his bruised features, she clapped them each on the backs and told Ioreth to not let them die. It was this promise to her friend that bubbled up in Ioreth’s mind when she noted an odd mound to the east. It looked like a molehill, if the mole were the size of a wyvern. She slowed her range prowler and signalled for Stello and the Leper to ride parallel with her. Once they were by her side, she gestured towards the disturbances in the earth. The soil here had a reddish quality, contrasting with the shades of ochre and sage that dominated the plains. Without her bare feet pressed to the ground, she felt blind to the world that lay hidden beneath the roots. She tried to warn that something felt strange, but the wind snatched away her lilting voice. With a touch of acceleration, she returned to the head of the triangle and rode on. Strained silence lasted for another twenty minutes before the earth burst behind them. Dirt rained from above. A mixture of soil and now upset plantlife fell onto the riders and their luggage, but the crumbs of terra firma were of little interest in comparison to the creature that now grimly observed the trespassers of its territory. All air seemed to be absorbed back up into the atmosphere. Milliseconds ticked by, but the frightened mind can absorb a great deal without much conscience effort. Unfortunately, it was often in a chaotic matter that these memories were composed, and so Ioreth had only a disorganized impression of the behemoth behind them before she let out an ungraceful shriek and rocketed forwards. The sun glinted off the metallic carapace of its cone-like head, and it thundered into a pursuit. Its claws ripped apart the earth as it chased the three riders. Even the roaring beasts of Hanya’s machines strained to put more than just a less than adequate distance between predator and prey. Though her heart was thundering in her throat, enough space existed for Ioreth to string together a shouted sentence that looked like this: shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit The landshark ran on, its yellow eyes glancing back and forth between the Leper and Stello. It was as if it were unable to decide what would make the best appetizer and what should follow as the entree. The chase aided its already ravenous appetite. Food always tastes better after a satisfactory hunt. It slowed once, and only once, so that it could release a bloodcurdling roar. It stamped its claws against the earth in a manner that would have been charming when seen on glacial fox, but was instead terrifying on a giant hungry rock with legs. “Ithe nuatha!” Ioreth exclaimed, as if the men she traveled with were suddenly interested in a quick lesson on the Duendaic names for Terran monsters. She then abruptly swerved to the left, hoping to trip the creature up with a serpentine motion. “They should be in the Wastes! Why is it here?” It was possibly the wrong time to dedicate any amount of concentration towards such an inquiry, as even Ioreth abandoned this thread of thought and focused her energies into driving her range prowler like a motorized sidewinder. Forcing her voice into a bellow that would have made Hanya proud, she shouted, “If we cannot outrun it, ride off and let me deal with it.” Though trees were sparse in the plains, enough desperation could provide the fuel needed to manipulate the flora of this land into a trap for the creature. Exhausting as this option may be, what other choice did she have? For now, she grimly rode on away from the creature that threatened to devour them whole.
  6. KittyvonCupcake

    Valucre music thread

  7. KittyvonCupcake

    Named spells for Terrenus ft. you

    Are solo threads acceptable for the spells, or can it just be a spell that was mentioned in a previous thread? Book|Ends uses a transportation spell for paperwork and requests, but I've only written it out as a rather basic description in a few different threads.
  8. KittyvonCupcake

    General chat thread

    I would like to write everybody letters. Everybody. All from Draug, with all of them written in a way that not-so-effectively conceals that he just wants new frands to read books with.
  9. KittyvonCupcake

    Church On The Hill [Barbarian Raider Attack!]

    Something was It was Something “Far a bheil…?” The ringing in his ears it the light too bright it Fire. There was something in his lap. He pushed it off and it began to protest before she remembered something important and she rose from the earth, jabbering something in garbled Terric, ignoring how he shook his head and placed a hand against his aching brow. It was all too much, this noise. Draug Rhavon lurched to his feet. His arms flopped like jellyfish as he made an attempt to bat away the woman’s grasping fingers, but she clinged to him as though she were drowning at sea and he stumbled beneath the sudden pressure on his chest. Words were scraped from her tongue and they stung like nettles. His head was a balloon that threatened to burst. One step, then two---his weight was caught against a tree. He leaned into the trunk until the world ceased careening and the cotton that had been stuffed into his brain was vomited out onto its roots and his voice crawled out of his throat with a choking growl. With one arm against the trunk, the other jabbed out with an outstretched hand. “Shlainmea!” Blank shock consumed the blonde woman’s stare. She had been asking about Prila---surely he could find her, was it not his job to find lost things?---and now… “Shley-what?” He shook his head once more, either in irritation or to clear out the tinnitus that was waging war with his sensitive ears, and staggered back to his seat. His blade was there, still sheathed and in the company of two empty wine bottles. Flames roared from the rooftops and licked the night sky, their hunger insatiable. Something was wrong. Closer, and closer, the perspective was off---his head swayed, where did it...? Instinct took over. It forced his body forward, it knocked the woman to the ground and kept one hand over her neck as the houses behind them were set ablaze. Debri flew overhead and scattered across the grass, some leaving singed lacerations in the lush greenery. The elvish man groaned and unceremoniously hauled Prila’s mother upright. He told her to go, but where could she go? Chaos was all around. Screams punctuated the smoky air, drowned out only when another projectile met its mark after being flung from the forest. He stood alone, watching the priest’s village transform from a place of revelry to a place of terror. “Andras!” he bellowed, as the vowels clattered against his teeth and melted. “Ioreth?” They did not answer. Through the power of sheer frustration, his legs managed to move with some semblance of coordination. They carried him away from the burning homes and the tree and the chair that he could not recall dragging out to this patch of the village that he did not recognize, away from the horses rearing with terror in the stable and the redfaced man that attempted to free them, away from the father running with a babe in his arms and the cat that hissed beneath a bush. This was all wrong. It was meant to be a simple meet and greet: he would drop off the tutors and fuck off to Blairville where cash awaited to line his pockets. But this? He paused, head throbbing, by the bonfire. All the people around him ceased to exist as individuals. They became one mass of noise, a seething riot of confusion, and it was not until an extension of this mass had tentatively touched his shoulder before he could register a familiar face. It was Ru. Tousle haired and tawny skinned, the young half-elf tutor forced his gentle voice into a shout so that he could be heard over the village’s din. “What do we do now, sir? Should we try to fight them off or…?” Though the end of his question wandered off unspoken, Draug understood. It was not their fight, but running was a choice that left behind a bitter taste during its initial consideration. Being the hero was an appealing option, until one took the time to consider the factors of a possible battle. He knew nothing about their assailants. What they were, how they fought, or how many of them hid beyond his sight were all mysteries. Rushing out to the parameters of town, barely sober and armed with a scimitar, was entirely out of the question, even he had the aid of his three mercantile guards. During this moment of stillness, cast in a dual glow from the bonfire and the burning homes, Draug Rhavon devised a plan. “Find Eá,” he began, “and tell her to meet with me here. You should be capable of assisting with a warding spell. The three of us can cast it, but we need a place that can contain these people. At least the children. If we can only help a fraction, then so be it. Andras will be with the caravan and the saoghail. Tell them to stay off the roads and find a way out of here. One can remain if they wish it, but no more than that.” He paused, his pale eyes glancing over the burning homes in the near distance. When he shut his eyes, he traveled back over decades and was deposited before two graves on a hill. One mound of earth was shorter than other. Before Ru could leave, Draug stopped him another request. “If you see Ioreth, tell her to run. She does not need this.” "Not again."
  10. KittyvonCupcake

    Book|Ends [Hub]

    A Letter Addressed to Michael Commager, PeaceKeeper No 5 Delivered to Aspyn via Messenger Imp three weeks prior to event Though written in a slanted, but steady, hand on fine cardstock, there are a few thumbprints of ink smudged around the edges and a small crossed out list that reads: ---Call Romala Yanes//peach favor ---Flyer, Extra ---Snacks for Imp//dairy allergen ---Ugh Good Afternoon (Or Morning. Or Evening.), My name is Draug Rhavon, and I’m writing to you as a representative of Book|Ends. We’re a business out in Ashville with ties to collectors and scholars across the Terrenus. We sell Books. We do not typically sell Ends. I’ve had my sights set on a few growing territories out in Terrenus, and Aspyn is one of them. Book|Ends has recently begun a long term project in philanthropic work across the country. Our intentions focus primarily on the stabilization of Terran society, whether it be through providing quality education for neglected Terran villages, assisting with large scale efforts like the Prometheus Initiative in Blairville that are concerned with socioeconomic inequality of nonmagic users, or by encouraging trade in areas that do not have established connections with businesses centered in megacities. Here’s what I’m proposing for you: I would like to open an additional branch of Book|Ends in a settlement that has potential for growth. This branch will contain a portion of our collection (mostly mundane works, along with a percentage of enchanted tomes that present no danger to the general public) and a task force of retrieval specialists for excavating the ruins of Bi’le’ah. In exchange for our business, this branch of Book|Ends can be used as a community center. If subsidized by the Gaian Church, I can arrange for a handpicked selection of tutors available to the public for free. If not, these tutors will need to charge a reasonable fee to cover their living expenses. If you wish to make arrangements in person, allow me to invite you to our annual Read & Mead event. A flyer will be added so I don’t have to copy down the address for the umpteenth time today. Should you wish to speak to me, I'm the one with gray hair and pointed ears. Draug Rhavon P.S. I heard you like peaches. Don’t ask me how I know this, but you can ask me about how I harassed hired Ashville’s finest baker to cater for the R&M and about her peach galette. P.S.S. My sister also has gray hair and pointed ears. I'm the male variation of that. @amenities
  11. KittyvonCupcake

    Don't stop me now - Terrenus civil war, phase 3

    You guys are going to have to forgive me for barging in here, but... Oh poop my book store. @Vansin, do you have some room for some elves?
  12. KittyvonCupcake

    Church On The Hill [Barbarian Raider Attack!]

    If Ioreth were ever to write a book, it would be an anthology of lists. One of these lists would don the title “Things One Never Wants to Hear Whilst Exploring Ruins Underground.” She could picture it quite clearly, in a twelve point serif font and printed on uncoated 80gsm paper: “There is something wrong with the shadows.” Of course there was something wrong with shadows. Had she walked into a tomb and was greeted by a brigade of friendly small animals and a fresh pot of Oo’Xorian tea, she would have been deeply concerned. Charmed, certainly, yet still concerned. Instead, she was here, and she was quite certain that something was reaching from an extended patch of darkness to grasp at her ankle as she watched the skittering shadow-man. She shook her foot as though she had met with a stray clump of seaweed while wading in a coastal bay, and considered Constans’ question. Why were they moving like that? The simplest answer---she did not know. She expressed that incertitude, and allowed the tangle of her thoughts to verbally unravel. “What are ghosts but memories?” she asked, walking over the discarded skull. “And, over time, memories can be corrupted. One no longer recalls the details, only the emotion beneath them. This emotion becomes amplified; anger becomes rage, contentment becomes euphoria. Affection to passion, sadness to despair. They forget who they are. They are fragments that are twisted.” Each step was quiet, deliberate, and considered with care. When it was dark, the atmosphere pushed back against her. When green light flooded the hallway, all was clear, spare the shadow limbs rapidly retreating back into the blackness. She paused, to study an engraving of figures with their hands outstretched as though beseeching the sky before her part time walking lantern blinked once more, and added, “If these are the remnants of the people that worshipped in this place, we might be able to set them free after we find what traps them here.” Darkness fell. No longer did it push her back towards the altar and away from this place. It grabbed ahold of her arms and it pulled. She dug her heels into the earthen path and it shoved at the small of her back. A flicker of green, and she stood, furious, nostrils flared, chest heaving, feet planted stubbornly apart. “Something,” she snapped, “yanked out my hair.” Not all of it, for plucking it all from her scalp would have taken a considerable amount of time, even if her head was in the capable hands of Coth’s chicken-plucking crones. There was, however, a noticeable section of now bedraggled hair that had been jerked from her braid. Guided by her temper, she was tempted to run back down to the goat’s skull and throw it at the nearest patch of wriggling shadows. Yet, it was the nearest patch of wriggling shadows that revealed the next room. At first, it was impossible to make out the rounded chamber’s features due to the thick layer of unstable penumbra that gathered like a swirling cloud. When the priest’s light illuminated the room, swaths of night fled the light, revealing a collection of faces carved into faces that were embedded along the walls and a central vortex of darkness. Slivers of black talons would reach out from the twisting column. Eyes wide, Ioreth watched with a mixture of dread and awe as arms would emerge from the column, followed by a shoulder and the indication of what could have been a head, before the figure was consumed back into obscurity. “What is that?” @Vansin
  13. Sorry about bailing out without saying anything, it was a pretty ridiculous thing to do on my part. I know I've asked your forgiveness already on certain things, just dint want you to think I wasn't going to at least try to not say something to attempt to smooth things over.

    1. KittyvonCupcake

      KittyvonCupcake

      Hey, it's quite alright! Life happens, and I completely understand. 

  14. KittyvonCupcake

    Library Zone OOC

    That was a lot of fun! Thanks for roping me into this one, Supes. When the cops come knocking on my door to know why I'm looking up internal bleeding, blunt force trauma, muay thai moves, fighting with a scimitar, and the optimal temperature for books, I'll know who to blame. 😉
  15. KittyvonCupcake

    The TOWER - Library Redux [closed]

    Fine. Let the Ice Queen ignore his advice, and let her kingdom grow over with mildew. The idea of all this knowledge gone to waste in the hands of someone that could not adequately appreciate the wealth she sat upon almost hurt more than his aching ribs. Almost. He spat a bloody glob onto the floor and glared at the snow. With the guardian gone, a portal formed to carry the Tower's outsider away. One more warning, and then he would leave. "Listen: I don't give a damn about you turning this Tower into a haven for screeching corpses, but I'm serious about these tomes. Some of these are ancient, most are one of kind, and the best bookbinder in Valucre won't be able to restore these after moisture sets in,. You can bet your bony ass that I'll spread the news to all the collectors out there that Reyna Frostbinder of the Vdaran Dragon Knights is destroying priceless works in her Tower, which just so happens to be full of the undead. Doesn't sound like much, until you realize that most tome collectors are rich pricks connected with the Gaian church, and I'm sure you know how they feel about your kind. Let me make myself clear, cara. Stop damaging the books." With that, the guardian of Book|Ends and his wolfhound stepped into the portal and left the Tower side by side.
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