Yay! I figured given your signature a dragon assumption might be on brand. 🐉😁
Mokley Member
aka windyfiend
STATUS: I would like two months alone in the forest in a comfortable cabin with good wifi and a stocked library please and thank you 3 mos ago
- Last Seen: 1 day ago
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
- Posts: 2866 (0.67 / day)
- VMs: 2
-
Username history
- Mokley 12 yrs ago
-
Latest 10 profile visitors:
-
Most recent →
Shifter_Master,
Neziul,
Iluvtoji,
IAmTheIsland,
Bugman,
Passable Writer,
Fetzen,
Not a Sayan,
Stanifly,
Haha
Status
Recent Statuses
3 mos ago
Current
I would like two months alone in the forest in a comfortable cabin with good wifi and a stocked library please and thank you
3
likes
4 mos ago
the library just gets more amazing.
2
likes
5 mos ago
brb my reality is being challenged
1
like
6 mos ago
One more day.
1
like
6 mos ago
Anemia sucks. I feel like there's an invisible vampire sucking my energy through a straw.
Most Recent Posts
Some liberties have been taken! I am also incredibly tired so may do some minor edits tomorrow, but a thing has been written!
At the royal command-- while the cavern walls echoed with the tinny shriek-alarm and the Älvenkryp's corpse seeped fragrant water that pooled viscous at their ankles --Rook dropped the shard into the water at his feet with a bright *plunk* and hiked deeper into the cavern. He hoped the damn thing had fallen into the crevice of a broken mana cluster or shattered on the stone, anything to make the royal hunter's life just a tiny bit less pleasant. He was fairly certain that the powers of that shard were horrible and useless. Perhaps he would get to see her accidentally trigger it on herself. His face twisted between amusement and disgust.
The Älvenkryp deflated like a punctured water balloon. The arms were shriveling, the fingers cramped and stiff, while smooth salty water gurgled over the mummifying shoulders and elbows. The water swirled and sloshed against the mana crystals. Blue sparkles spun and shimmered on the surface, casting a pale shifting glow upon the collapsed remains of the monster.
The shrieking noise was coming from beyond a crevice of smoothed rock, like a thousand hands had worn it away with constant passage, where the mana crystals shone closer and brighter. Rook could feel the push of energy tingling on his face, so he sheathed his sword and pushed the helmet back onto his head. Inside, clear air circulated with the alertness of pure oxygen and a wide view of his surroundings fed directly into his senses. He could see the royal hunter, the pooling beast with its dried brittle limbs, and the shrieking thing among the crystals.
Rook slipped inside the narrow smoothed crevice and clambered between the mana crystals, warm and shimmering under his hands, until he laid a boot on one of the bright crystals and looked down to see an ugly pink thing with reflective blue scales sparkling on its face and tail. It had its mouth open like a baby bird while its long body wormed in distress.
His hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword, but he paused short of unsheathing it. This thing didn't look anything like the Älvenkryp, and it was almost too small to hide a mana shard. But if it wasn't a new Old One, then what was it? The elders on the mountain had never mentioned another thing in their stories. Maybe this was something that the Älvenkryp had stolen, something that belonged somewhere else. Or perhaps it was the dangerous creation of the Old One, or a source of its power. With the hilt of a hunting knife he poked the loud little monster to see if it would spit fire or slither away. If he didn't know better, he might think it looked a little like a-- but no, the current state of the planet was inhospitable to dragons: mana had long ago been absorbed into the ground and no longer floated freely in the wind. Even if dragons weren't extinct, they wouldn't be able to breathe in the magic-stagnant air. The mana crystal hummed under his palm.
Meanwhile, the watery ripples on the cavern floor were quickly rolling into waves. A hiss of current foamed in through the entry passage through which they had come and was rising rapidly. Mana shone and shimmered, making the rising water glow pale blue. The walls shifted. Fissures in the rock shone brightly like veins of starlight. The deflated remains of the Älvenkryp floated on the frothing surface.
Water sloshed at Rook's knees while he dug his knife into one of the mana crystals, carefully prying it out of the stone without entirely shattering it. He shoved the crystal inside his jacket then, holding his breath, cradled the little monster into his hands to do the same.
By the time he'd managed to secure the shrieky thing and the crystal together against his chest, the blue glowing water in the crevice had risen to his elbows and was gushing in from the main cavern. Surely the royal hunter, he thought as he pushed and swam against the tide, had escaped long ago.
The Älvenkryp deflated like a punctured water balloon. The arms were shriveling, the fingers cramped and stiff, while smooth salty water gurgled over the mummifying shoulders and elbows. The water swirled and sloshed against the mana crystals. Blue sparkles spun and shimmered on the surface, casting a pale shifting glow upon the collapsed remains of the monster.
The shrieking noise was coming from beyond a crevice of smoothed rock, like a thousand hands had worn it away with constant passage, where the mana crystals shone closer and brighter. Rook could feel the push of energy tingling on his face, so he sheathed his sword and pushed the helmet back onto his head. Inside, clear air circulated with the alertness of pure oxygen and a wide view of his surroundings fed directly into his senses. He could see the royal hunter, the pooling beast with its dried brittle limbs, and the shrieking thing among the crystals.
Rook slipped inside the narrow smoothed crevice and clambered between the mana crystals, warm and shimmering under his hands, until he laid a boot on one of the bright crystals and looked down to see an ugly pink thing with reflective blue scales sparkling on its face and tail. It had its mouth open like a baby bird while its long body wormed in distress.
His hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword, but he paused short of unsheathing it. This thing didn't look anything like the Älvenkryp, and it was almost too small to hide a mana shard. But if it wasn't a new Old One, then what was it? The elders on the mountain had never mentioned another thing in their stories. Maybe this was something that the Älvenkryp had stolen, something that belonged somewhere else. Or perhaps it was the dangerous creation of the Old One, or a source of its power. With the hilt of a hunting knife he poked the loud little monster to see if it would spit fire or slither away. If he didn't know better, he might think it looked a little like a-- but no, the current state of the planet was inhospitable to dragons: mana had long ago been absorbed into the ground and no longer floated freely in the wind. Even if dragons weren't extinct, they wouldn't be able to breathe in the magic-stagnant air. The mana crystal hummed under his palm.
Meanwhile, the watery ripples on the cavern floor were quickly rolling into waves. A hiss of current foamed in through the entry passage through which they had come and was rising rapidly. Mana shone and shimmered, making the rising water glow pale blue. The walls shifted. Fissures in the rock shone brightly like veins of starlight. The deflated remains of the Älvenkryp floated on the frothing surface.
Water sloshed at Rook's knees while he dug his knife into one of the mana crystals, carefully prying it out of the stone without entirely shattering it. He shoved the crystal inside his jacket then, holding his breath, cradled the little monster into his hands to do the same.
By the time he'd managed to secure the shrieky thing and the crystal together against his chest, the blue glowing water in the crevice had risen to his elbows and was gushing in from the main cavern. Surely the royal hunter, he thought as he pushed and swam against the tide, had escaped long ago.
Though the cavern boomed and shook and shrieked and cracked, Rook-- snug in the dim silence of his hideous helmet --heard nothing. He felt it, though: like a tuning fork, the sword conveyed to his bones every strike and howl. He felt the silent explosion deep within the Old One's gullet, he felt the release of moonlight, and he felt the slightest shift of angle that heralded the monster's fall.
Rook planted a boot in the Old One's baggy flesh, yanked out the sword with a glugging squelch of goopy water, and dragged the dripping weapon behind him while he scrambled and clambered over a sharp cluster of mana crystals that, a moment later, shattered under the weight of the fallen monster.
With his back against the wall, Rook watched the dead mass for signs of movement or trickery. From afar he scrutinized the hundreds of wrists and fingers for twitching, but it seemed the thing was truly dead.
Only then did he pry his helmet off his head. His face felt immediately cold, and his ears stabbed by a rush of noise: the echo of roaring water outside, the residual thwoom of the monster's impact, and a faint shrill cry in the distance. He stretched his jaw, scrubbed a hand through his sweat-matted hair, wiped his sword on the sole of his boot, and approached the Old One with quiet guarded steps.
The first thing he noticed was that all the hands were the same. He'd expected limbs of different lengths, different ages, different shades of brown and beige to match the stories of the swallowed misfortunate. But these limbs were all nearly identical, differentiated by a few freckles and hairs but no more. He cut an incision around one of the arms and, through a goop of blubber, found that there was not a person attached to it, only more bones. He tried one more, just to be sure, but there was no one here to rescue, no swallowed victims to return to their villages.
By this time he was nearly covered in sticky pus, but at least it didn't stink. It smelled almost like rosemary. He sloshed through the growing puddle toward the head, where he planned one more autopsy in pursuit of the mana shard that should be embedded there.
The mana shard was the crystallized essence of the Old One: it was the core around which the rest of its shape attached and materialized and moved. Technically, a mana shard left alone for a hundred years would begin to grow anew, but none of them were allowed to remain stagnant so long. It was a mana shard embedded in his sword that hummed that destructive pitch, and another in his helmet that could, among other things, block every drop of sound. This one, he assumed while he sliced into the empty space that used to be the face of a screaming child, probably would grow more arms or something equally grotesque.
He palmed a sharp blue stone and rubbed a sleeve across his forehead, which only succeeded in smearing more goop on his face. He squinted into the dark in the direction of the tiny alarm.
"Sounds like a pig," he commented, picking up his helmet. Surely it was some animal trapped inside, maybe kept for the monster's midnight snack. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was calling. His grip tightened on his sword as he clambered over the mana clusters toward the noise. "There was only supposed to be one of these things, right?"
The last thing he was prepared to deal with was a mass of many-armed monsters swarming down in response to the shrieking call.
Rook planted a boot in the Old One's baggy flesh, yanked out the sword with a glugging squelch of goopy water, and dragged the dripping weapon behind him while he scrambled and clambered over a sharp cluster of mana crystals that, a moment later, shattered under the weight of the fallen monster.
With his back against the wall, Rook watched the dead mass for signs of movement or trickery. From afar he scrutinized the hundreds of wrists and fingers for twitching, but it seemed the thing was truly dead.
Only then did he pry his helmet off his head. His face felt immediately cold, and his ears stabbed by a rush of noise: the echo of roaring water outside, the residual thwoom of the monster's impact, and a faint shrill cry in the distance. He stretched his jaw, scrubbed a hand through his sweat-matted hair, wiped his sword on the sole of his boot, and approached the Old One with quiet guarded steps.
The first thing he noticed was that all the hands were the same. He'd expected limbs of different lengths, different ages, different shades of brown and beige to match the stories of the swallowed misfortunate. But these limbs were all nearly identical, differentiated by a few freckles and hairs but no more. He cut an incision around one of the arms and, through a goop of blubber, found that there was not a person attached to it, only more bones. He tried one more, just to be sure, but there was no one here to rescue, no swallowed victims to return to their villages.
By this time he was nearly covered in sticky pus, but at least it didn't stink. It smelled almost like rosemary. He sloshed through the growing puddle toward the head, where he planned one more autopsy in pursuit of the mana shard that should be embedded there.
The mana shard was the crystallized essence of the Old One: it was the core around which the rest of its shape attached and materialized and moved. Technically, a mana shard left alone for a hundred years would begin to grow anew, but none of them were allowed to remain stagnant so long. It was a mana shard embedded in his sword that hummed that destructive pitch, and another in his helmet that could, among other things, block every drop of sound. This one, he assumed while he sliced into the empty space that used to be the face of a screaming child, probably would grow more arms or something equally grotesque.
He palmed a sharp blue stone and rubbed a sleeve across his forehead, which only succeeded in smearing more goop on his face. He squinted into the dark in the direction of the tiny alarm.
"Sounds like a pig," he commented, picking up his helmet. Surely it was some animal trapped inside, maybe kept for the monster's midnight snack. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was calling. His grip tightened on his sword as he clambered over the mana clusters toward the noise. "There was only supposed to be one of these things, right?"
The last thing he was prepared to deal with was a mass of many-armed monsters swarming down in response to the shrieking call.
As much as he despised the Royal Hunters, he had to credit that shot: the Old One's mask popped neat as a bottle cap. The porcelain face-- with its mocking smile and empty eyes --crashed and scattered among the dimmed crystals. The fight should be over. That mask was its life force, its source of power, the difference between a monster and a mass of dead limbs.
But beneath that mask, howling out of black smoke with a watery shine of mana, cried the tear-streaked face of a wide-eyed child. Its many hands stretched for the hunter's wings, mana gathering and shimmering in each writhing palm. In less than a moment, that Hunter's hands would join the rest in the mass of wriggling fingers.
A cloud of warm, soupy mana enveloped the Royal Hunter and eased her wings closed while it tugged her gently down from the ceiling. The hands gesticulated wildly but did not touch her, as if she were a deadly spider that the Old God was desperately trying to shoo out of its house.
The voluminous blubber was too thick to slice through with any expectation of slowing it down, so Rook slammed down the visor of his helmet (his world clapped into silence, broken only by the perpetual ringing in his own head), charged the beast and slammed the sword hilt-deep into the wobbling trunk like a pin into jelly. The monster, predictably, flinched. Rook pressed his thumb against a yellow crystal in the hilt and braced for impact.
The blubber rippled. The black smoke shuddered. The mana holding the winged Hunter constricted and condensed the air around her then suddenly released her while the deep shockwave tone of a tuning fork swelled to fill the cavern. The Old God vibrated with the noise, all its thousands of hands shaken out and convulsing, as if its ability to move was interrupted by the bone-shaking sound. Its oily skin shook so rapidly that the creature was a shining blur.
Stalactites, shaken loose, dropped from the ceiling in a rain of crumbling stone, and the ear-splitting noise was only getting louder, though dampened inside the blubbery beast. Rook couldn't hear it, but his body shook with it. Though his arms felt like jelly and his heart stuttered erratic he kept his grip, one eye on the Royal Hunter. He couldn't keep this up for more than a few seconds.
But beneath that mask, howling out of black smoke with a watery shine of mana, cried the tear-streaked face of a wide-eyed child. Its many hands stretched for the hunter's wings, mana gathering and shimmering in each writhing palm. In less than a moment, that Hunter's hands would join the rest in the mass of wriggling fingers.
A cloud of warm, soupy mana enveloped the Royal Hunter and eased her wings closed while it tugged her gently down from the ceiling. The hands gesticulated wildly but did not touch her, as if she were a deadly spider that the Old God was desperately trying to shoo out of its house.
The voluminous blubber was too thick to slice through with any expectation of slowing it down, so Rook slammed down the visor of his helmet (his world clapped into silence, broken only by the perpetual ringing in his own head), charged the beast and slammed the sword hilt-deep into the wobbling trunk like a pin into jelly. The monster, predictably, flinched. Rook pressed his thumb against a yellow crystal in the hilt and braced for impact.
The blubber rippled. The black smoke shuddered. The mana holding the winged Hunter constricted and condensed the air around her then suddenly released her while the deep shockwave tone of a tuning fork swelled to fill the cavern. The Old God vibrated with the noise, all its thousands of hands shaken out and convulsing, as if its ability to move was interrupted by the bone-shaking sound. Its oily skin shook so rapidly that the creature was a shining blur.
Stalactites, shaken loose, dropped from the ceiling in a rain of crumbling stone, and the ear-splitting noise was only getting louder, though dampened inside the blubbery beast. Rook couldn't hear it, but his body shook with it. Though his arms felt like jelly and his heart stuttered erratic he kept his grip, one eye on the Royal Hunter. He couldn't keep this up for more than a few seconds.
Aw thank you!! 😄 Happy New Year! I also am running around like a crazy person with Things for the next week! Hope you're getting some time to relax and look forward to 2026!
The moment Rook stepped into the greater glowing cavern, he forgot the reason he was there.
His sword grip slackened. He pushed back his visor to better see the clusters of mana that jutted shining from the floor, the ripples of light in the walls. He could feel them humming in his bones like the pale stones that pulsed in a dark library long ago. He could almost see the silhouette of that child against the cold wall, a shining blue stone cupped in both hands.
A whisper echoed softly, and Rook had turned toward it when a crash of splintered crystal exploded by his ear. His heart thrummed to action; he faced the escaping wisps of magic with a guarded stance, sword at ready, before his mind caught up to instinct. A crossbow bolt stuck deep in the rock behind the shattered dark crystal. Had she been aiming for him? No, a Royal Hunter wouldn't have missed that easy shot.
Something rumbled and hummed deep in the black spaces between the crystals. The air trembled. The pale blue light shivered on the cavern walls. In the distance, a sound like rain echoed in the empty depths, surging rapidly closer.
Rook couldn't see the Royal Hunter, but he tilted his glare in the direction the crossbow bolt had come from. So now the Old One was pissed, and it would be pissed at him for destroying that crystal. He flourished his sword and, with a snarl and a heave, he slammed the blade into another mana crystal that pulverized into escaping wisps of magic.
She had better be good with that crossbow or he would feed her to the monster himself.
The pattering rush of rain grew louder and louder, accompanied now by a sloshing sound like leather bags full of water.
Rook hopped up onto the jutting rock, the shattered remains of a mana crystal crunching under his boot. He drew a breath and roared loud, reverberating through the cavernous room: "COME OUT, COWARD!"
A gelatinous dark shape bulged out of a deep passage and stretched, threading along the wall and ceiling with the rainlike sound of a thousand hands on the cold stone. The cavern filled with a smell like cinnamon and rosemary as the creature whipped around clusters of shining mana crystals, shielding them with its long moving body while the mask of its porcelain face gunned directly for Rook.
Rook braced for impact, his sword held ready to shatter the moster's hollow expression, while he waited for the Royal Pain in the Ass to do something useful.
His sword grip slackened. He pushed back his visor to better see the clusters of mana that jutted shining from the floor, the ripples of light in the walls. He could feel them humming in his bones like the pale stones that pulsed in a dark library long ago. He could almost see the silhouette of that child against the cold wall, a shining blue stone cupped in both hands.
A whisper echoed softly, and Rook had turned toward it when a crash of splintered crystal exploded by his ear. His heart thrummed to action; he faced the escaping wisps of magic with a guarded stance, sword at ready, before his mind caught up to instinct. A crossbow bolt stuck deep in the rock behind the shattered dark crystal. Had she been aiming for him? No, a Royal Hunter wouldn't have missed that easy shot.
Something rumbled and hummed deep in the black spaces between the crystals. The air trembled. The pale blue light shivered on the cavern walls. In the distance, a sound like rain echoed in the empty depths, surging rapidly closer.
Rook couldn't see the Royal Hunter, but he tilted his glare in the direction the crossbow bolt had come from. So now the Old One was pissed, and it would be pissed at him for destroying that crystal. He flourished his sword and, with a snarl and a heave, he slammed the blade into another mana crystal that pulverized into escaping wisps of magic.
She had better be good with that crossbow or he would feed her to the monster himself.
The pattering rush of rain grew louder and louder, accompanied now by a sloshing sound like leather bags full of water.
Rook hopped up onto the jutting rock, the shattered remains of a mana crystal crunching under his boot. He drew a breath and roared loud, reverberating through the cavernous room: "COME OUT, COWARD!"
A gelatinous dark shape bulged out of a deep passage and stretched, threading along the wall and ceiling with the rainlike sound of a thousand hands on the cold stone. The cavern filled with a smell like cinnamon and rosemary as the creature whipped around clusters of shining mana crystals, shielding them with its long moving body while the mask of its porcelain face gunned directly for Rook.
Rook braced for impact, his sword held ready to shatter the moster's hollow expression, while he waited for the Royal Pain in the Ass to do something useful.
I am here, just going crazy irl -- post is incoming I swear! ⚔️
edit: btw that post was brilliant, I shall endeavor to match it!
edit: btw that post was brilliant, I shall endeavor to match it!
Team up with a Royal Hunter? A dark storm roiled in the back of Rook's throat, sulfuric at the idea of joining forces with a transmogrified weapon. He hadn't lost the shift of her fingers into talons or the way that unnatural sharpness slipped into the rock. How much power should the Crown be allowed to collect? Surely a power that belonged to the ancient earth should be distributed among the people, not hoarded by a single puppeteer.
At the same time, that purposeful power was keeping the Old Gods from claiming more victims, no matter the motive. If Rook failed alone, his wouldn't be the last pair of hands to be added to the monster's gait.
He braced against a whistling wall of wind. The water below seethed white and angry. The low and wide cavern entrance opened only a little farther below his feet, and his arms were getting tired.
"Killing blow gets the shard." It wasn't an agreement to work together, but it wasn't a refusal. If this meant he could knock out this Old One with fewer of his own broken bones and keep another God Shard out of the Crown's mana factory, he could tolerate playing nice with a chimaera.
Rook dropped the rest of the way, then swung a quiet landing at the corner of the cavern's mouth and tied off the rope for the way back. The water was close enough now that the rock floor glistened slick and spray misted the black inside. Just beyond the darkened wet rock, the cavern walls were covered in thousands of pale handprints.
Water, he knew from the elders, was vital to this Old One. Most of its body was water. It was sensitive to sound and vibrations, but its vision was poor. He tilted his head to peer up at the chimaera with a silent indication to keep quiet.
At the same time, that purposeful power was keeping the Old Gods from claiming more victims, no matter the motive. If Rook failed alone, his wouldn't be the last pair of hands to be added to the monster's gait.
He braced against a whistling wall of wind. The water below seethed white and angry. The low and wide cavern entrance opened only a little farther below his feet, and his arms were getting tired.
"Killing blow gets the shard." It wasn't an agreement to work together, but it wasn't a refusal. If this meant he could knock out this Old One with fewer of his own broken bones and keep another God Shard out of the Crown's mana factory, he could tolerate playing nice with a chimaera.
Rook dropped the rest of the way, then swung a quiet landing at the corner of the cavern's mouth and tied off the rope for the way back. The water was close enough now that the rock floor glistened slick and spray misted the black inside. Just beyond the darkened wet rock, the cavern walls were covered in thousands of pale handprints.
Water, he knew from the elders, was vital to this Old One. Most of its body was water. It was sensitive to sound and vibrations, but its vision was poor. He tilted his head to peer up at the chimaera with a silent indication to keep quiet.
The roar of the water, echoing out of the bottom of the chasm, masked the sound of a voice calling from above. Hey--
It was the movement of wings, a shadow flickering overhead, that drew Rook's initial attention. He expected a buzzard, maybe an eagle guarding a nearby nest against an intruder. He held still and nonthreatening against the rock face while he squinted up out of the shadow of the cliff.
The appearance of a winged person made his brain misfire for a moment, and he briefly wondered if those elders might have slipped something into his drink. Then his eyes adjusted: that familiar navy capelet, and especially the shining white mana stone, explained his new situation in infuriating clarity. A godsdamned Royal Hunter was chasing the same kill, and he was dangling on the side of a cliff like a spider. He would have much preferred the drugged drink.
"Go back to your pretty castle, Chimaera." He braced himself against the wall, an arm curled around the rope while he glared up at the figure hovering against the sun overhead. Those hunters that worked for the crown were renowned for their stolen appendages and grafted powers. From the perspective of the underground hunters' organization, the queen was killing off the beasts just to hack them apart and reassemble them into an army of superhuman puppets that would inevitably turn on them once the monsters were gone.
Rook leaned out from the cliff, gauged the angle down to the cavern mouth, and rappelled down another short drop. "Unless you plan to grow another pair of arms, this one's useless to you. Go home and claim you killed it. I'll take it from here."
It was the movement of wings, a shadow flickering overhead, that drew Rook's initial attention. He expected a buzzard, maybe an eagle guarding a nearby nest against an intruder. He held still and nonthreatening against the rock face while he squinted up out of the shadow of the cliff.
The appearance of a winged person made his brain misfire for a moment, and he briefly wondered if those elders might have slipped something into his drink. Then his eyes adjusted: that familiar navy capelet, and especially the shining white mana stone, explained his new situation in infuriating clarity. A godsdamned Royal Hunter was chasing the same kill, and he was dangling on the side of a cliff like a spider. He would have much preferred the drugged drink.
"Go back to your pretty castle, Chimaera." He braced himself against the wall, an arm curled around the rope while he glared up at the figure hovering against the sun overhead. Those hunters that worked for the crown were renowned for their stolen appendages and grafted powers. From the perspective of the underground hunters' organization, the queen was killing off the beasts just to hack them apart and reassemble them into an army of superhuman puppets that would inevitably turn on them once the monsters were gone.
Rook leaned out from the cliff, gauged the angle down to the cavern mouth, and rappelled down another short drop. "Unless you plan to grow another pair of arms, this one's useless to you. Go home and claim you killed it. I'll take it from here."
© 2007-2026