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[sup]ring a ring o' roses. a pocket fu[i]ll[/i] of posies. ashes, ashes. we all fa[i]ll[/i] down.[/sup]
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[center][color=9a9a9a]The govern is a dying, withering rule, individuals are sired on the solitary election of peers, the world around crumbling, dying, falling beneath the wiles and radars of the outer realm. Within, they all exist and pillage, living within a constant fear, the sort of inbourne terror and trembling anxiety that cords and laces young hearts in twines of malice and infant hatred of an unknown reaping. The Bad Lands, as they are eternally named, never a more befitting moniker for spires of pain and torture, and secrets of the misunderstood and those of the blessed means and fortunes. Young hearts live long now that the Way of the Hopeless has fallen completely, shattered away into the river below. Upon the crest of it's descent, there has been a long fallen infliction of power that has been christened anew, bringing with it old, dusted stories and tales of a past that saw to the subjugation of mortals. With their only way now out forsaken, the misunderstood and forsaken have come forth once again, to find ways of light and fortune, but being so young, so inflicted, and so distraught with the manifest of powers and wonder, it's a terrible wonder to how long they shall last.

And what means they can achieve to just simply [i]live[/i].[/color][/center]