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Sanity is not statistical.

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Been busy. Hopefully by this weekend, I will catch up.
Thunder thrice asunder rang and swept over the cleric, gurgling time as the morn beamed and the noon burned. The usual consequence of slumber prompted birds building in song early and bees bustling from rotten lily to pushing daisy, as she tilted, falling backwards. This enterprise was not of Evermeet whereupon the Tel-Quessir would mount a graceful planar stairwell into the Feywild, adjourning from the mortal cares of one’s existence, to be ruled by grace and justice in the next. No, but a destined thud accompanied by a sweet fragrance which filled her celestial body as her feet became limp. The commerce of constitution compromised as the id’s sanctions upon the ego briskly flew away, imparting tranquility of a soul serene, conducting the pleasing scene of a visual forest, as her armor slammed into the ground near the monster slayer’s boots.

Her lips were soon adorned with a lurid blue, as the rosy ocean of color washed from her cheeks, throned on the overthrown setting of the librarian’s consciousness. Her remnant exhalations were mild cemeteries, full of bones which jostled when the tomb of her face, resurrected a wind, every now and again, that howled in and out, between the teeth of her living corpse. The armored scarecrow laid still, cold and sticky, like malleable clay, still fresh with the moistness of frailty. The delicacy of life, barked with a snooze, intermittently suggesting her bed, adopted as the reliquary's threshold of the looming Green Man, married the dark river of purple which filled the surreal sight in the verdant foliage she spiritually pranced upon, within the other bizarre side of events. The penetrating dampness of violet leaves and somber colors of an embittered winter soon engulfed her fastened mindscape, pricking and taunting her with a needle of autumn death, sewn as a black blanket, which covered her mental sanctuary as she physically kept prone and audibly mournful, afore Theodore.

The boisterous nature had fantastically changed seasons, as whiteness avalanched around the now elder elf, no longer ornamented with a youthful, angelic body, but tempest tossed, as a cloaked admiral, long-forgotten, entered, bearing a long familiar sickle.

Her very own patron's scythe, stood, facing the amnesiac in the requiem of her coerced dreams.

It waited, calmly, as icy sighs emitted from the frenetic frame, beknighted no longer of hope and glory, but the barren snow of terror that plagued nightmares. Abruptly, tendrils of murky miasma blew past the shadowy figure, into several whirling dervishes that coalesced into a hurricane of exercised emotion and exorcised demons, lost to the darkness, garnished by the contrast of polar hues that surrounded the silent screams of the soporific trance fervently bewitching Wick with waxed flames that ever smothered faith in the Light, once ignited in the Aasimar, one birth ago.



@The Harbinger of Ferocity@Hekazu@JBRam2002
@scifidude47 Will post tomorrow. Hopefully.
They were all dismissed.

However, an eerie, aching plummet of discordance in the pit of his stomach rivaled the sea sickness which once plagued most of the stowaways upon his ship, the Iron Flute. It churned the waves of acid that crashed upon the rugae of his stout gastrium. The druid sensed the ravenous appetite for zealotry and fanaticism, able to deliver the edge of unsolicited bites upon any that stood against the hoard. He hoped appealing to such insanity could lower the palisades of suspicion, but the old man remained fretted with doubt.

His dragon fanged staff, a compelling testament of his commitment, aided his frail footsteps back to the mess tent. Judgement, summoned into existence again above, forked the heavens, acclimating to the surroundings of the encampment afore nightfall.

But this time, for work.

The pirate imagined, for a mere moment, a potential destruction of all available rations, but realized that until the safety and security of Leosin and Brannor were clinched, their escape could be compromised. Once more the flap of the make-shift cafeteria was lifted as Torus entered with a light purpose, compared to the meandering before.

"My name is Torag. Morndath has assigned me here." His curt vernacular awaited their response for instruction.

@Hekazu
Good thought. Time to find the monk.
An entropic gasp infused the arena of a worn day, now with a darker ambiance, multiplying and releasing shades of titans elapsed and behemoths forgotten, around an enlightened pirate and the wielder of Hela. A feline monk scurried between the pair of duets, with daft paws. A monster slayer lay stricken on the floor of a reliquary, with the sleep of defeat, dreaming of a dawn never to come. The emerald nightmare before them did not fancy death upon their fragile constitutions.

The Green Man had mercy. Why?

He spared her a blow and sated a fatal strike against Theodore, a lover of righteous secrets and bearer of reticent amends. He was a templar, not unlike the knight they all now faced. However, his sworn masquerade was not to his morals, evidently transparent in honesty and loyalty, never forcing an estimation of moral stance or questioning his maxims of ethics, from his allies. At present, though, the war cleric’s body strewn upon the dust sprawling under their feet, peppering and provoking a priestly recompense from the diviner. The warlock crouched over him, gracing his unconscious physique with a shadowy stroke, dimly caressing beneath his ghastly visor.

Cheek. Chin. Throat. All moving subtly.

Evidence, the man was still alive.

Ignoring the threat looming above and abroad, the ancient librarian whispered in his ear as she gifted the supine, girded frame with vitality and stamina, a blameless order from the smoldering chaos.

“A twined requiem of fire boils inside, awaiting your next, glorious advent. Time to transcend, friend.”



@JBRam2002@The Harbinger of Ferocity
Posted.
“Rakja Fleet? That’s an unfamiliar moniker. Come, march alongside me.”

They both left Creft’s office, swiftly at the General’s beckon, all the while ACASIAS had already harmonized a collation of the predominantly mentioned humanoid races combined with phonetic etymologies of Rakja.

> COMPILING

Soon, an Earthen list was digested visually and comprehensively.

> SORTING

Rakja or राजन् in Sanskrit, is a word for monarch in a southern hemispheric dialect of the planet, the word specifying and denoting of a princely ruler within Asia, one of seven continents of this lonely, insignificant world. It carried a title of nobility during their pre-atomic age. Specifically, the Das Rakja refers to the battle of the ten kings, from an ancient sacred collection of Vedic hymns, a seeming precursor to the Mahabrata, an epic fancy of demons, sages, and the great four pursuits of purusartha or पुरुषार्थ.

Dharma.
Artha.
Kama.
Moksha.


These four concepts of human aspiration and metaphorically breaking the chain of slavery that the great wheel of time purported through a nirvana. Religious references were provided and explained in further detail on many monitors visible only to Vropda, as their footsteps took a corner.

Was he attempting to swindle them, with such a subtle hint from Zelthis’ favorite culture? Maybe he was here to liberate the shapeshifter? What other references could there be?

> COMPILING

Rakja - collective term for fruit brandy in Europe, the continuation of the aforementioned land mass

> COMPLETE

As they approached her lab, she silently hummed like one of the many drones, a pitch which opened a retinal scanner.

“Welcome, Jace! To my playground. How about we provide you with some modifications? Hmmh. A few enhancements before we engage these slavers of yours? Please step forward and position your face in front of the infrared detectors.”

@Hekazu@scifidude47
Should we reinvigorate the Discord Channel?
So...

Escape with both Leosin and Brannor. With or without murdering?
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