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The Holy, Ever-turning Wheel
The Ouroboros of Steel

North of Anatar, the eastern possession of the Dragon Veles


Another kingdom had fallen.
The Dragon’s tributaries blew their trumpets on their walls, sounding alarm to the distant south.
Their hollow choir resounded far over untamed fields. A score of sound so vast had seldom been heard in this region, and all denizens of these lands knew, and trembled, about a great foe unlike any before had come upon them.

Down from the hyperborean midnight mountain a new people descended for slaughter. They arrived from beyond Anatar, driven by whips and the pounding of thundering wheels.
Their vanguard was a consuming flame, as they came blazing through the green valleys to leave smouldering desolation in their tracks.
Once green and pleasant lands, now its peaceful earth is defiled by the nomad claw -- its radiant settlements rendered smoking ruins.

The landed armies could not stand; as blades of grass the touch of hooves trampled them.
These northern savages -- these hyperborean charioteers were known as the Schayan. And those misfortunate to come into direct contact with them saw them as an ungodly and barbaric race of wicked men. The invasion had been ongoing for less than a week, and already many met a violent end. The local leaders were captured or routed, their wives and children held as hostages and trophies, among them King Makhawon’s family. They took food and cattle, and burned most else. The Schayan savages have no concept knowledge of currency. They cannot be bribed with gold, and they cannot be battled without external support, without the patronage of the gods, without a fell overlord...

They took what they could, burnt the rest, and mysteriously as the Schayan had come -- they disappeared. They had no interest in the Dragon’s domain, for they merely sought to singe his pride before pushing onward to an eastern horizon.
Their true aim lay far, far away. Beyond mountains, valleys, forests, dunes and fire. Their patron Sky-father, Dyauphater his name, had promised the Schayan their own Kingdom by the sea in a fertile river delta, in a great valley flanked by impregnable mountains. A land of immortality, a land of gods. The Schayan were wholly convinced that this strange and far-away land they had never even seen is their birthright. And so they cannot dawdle in some fell serpent’s domain. They answer boldly the call of their great destiny!

The great host was led by a chieftain that the Schayan dubbed ‘the Sky-King’. His name is Appareimos -- the champion who had united the tribes, and thereafter elected by the chieftains to lead their coalition, before setting them on this great journey. They were drunk on visions of glory, adventure and unknown lands. So drunk that few truly grasped the likelihood that they ride only to their doom. But no doom in Anatar can daunt the Schayan, and they ride to meet their fate manfully. Under the Sky-King’s stalwart leadership the Schayans will pass the trials of Anatar and reach the promised kingdom by the sea.

Leaving a trail of smoke and defiled fields scarred from a thousand wheels, the host of Appareimos comes upon the Northern Borderlands of Akkylonia…
It is here, after months of scouring through valley after valley, that the Schayan host sets up their camp, and hold council. King Appareimos summons the elders and chieftains.

‘’We are now at the precipice of the immortal lands of Akkylonia. Tales of their exploits are known the world over. What glory when we show the world that we have surpassed these people in battle! We can become immortal in these lands. ‘’
These were lines used to commence the meeting in the Sky King’s yurt, uttered by Rival Chieftain Regiokartos.
The King’s foremost shield bearers and companion confidantes assembled there with him, as their council determines the path the Schayan should trek.

Appareimos grunts, his mind traversing the realm of doubt.
‘’Akkylonia is not our Kingdom by the Sea. We must not lose sight of the true objective, and commit our hearts and minds to that. We can not dawdle or challenge doom prematurely.’’

‘’Doom?’’ The chieftain snarls in disdain.
‘’This had best not come across as fear to the follower tribes. Your strength is the reason that brought them together. Do not fail them through cowardice.’’
‘’Cowardice? I am well beyond that. Do not lecture me on this, you goblin.
It’s not death that daunts me. Rather the state of the Schayan people’s soul… For the heavens assigned us one great domain as ours in specific -- not just any. We must not deviate from Heaven's Will, doom or no. Whichever path we so choose; doom comes all ways, be sure of that.’’


On this, Regiokartos proclaims with bellowing voice:
‘’So? SO? Then we shall greet it with blade and fire! As we have always done!’’

‘’Yes, we shall… Regiokartos.’’ The High King twiddles with strands of his brownish beard as he looks at the rival chieftain with a coy, petulant gaze, and Regiokartos immediately flinches back with mistrust.
‘’The Schayan people need a doomdriven warlord as yourself to detour into the Kingdom by the Sea through the eastern route, as the bulk of the Host will traverse Akkylonia. Surely the fiercest among the Schayan chieftains can’t be daunted by this.’’

‘’Daunted? Me? Never.
My chariots will race you to the Sea. We shall arrive there long before you, mark my words, Sky King.’’


The Sky King beams with pleasure, before dismissing the council from his yurt. Then he calls for his daughter:
‘’Atyloppih! I need you as envoy to the Akkylonian King...’’
collab with @Oraculum

UNIFICATION OF TRANSTULANIA

Soiryndia: Miranid eastern frontier - February, 4907 YDC
Fourth Cycle of the Fararual Calendar - Season of the Scion



For many years the borderlands between the Miranid Satrapy of Ümre and the Unbroken Host ebbed to-and-fro the city of Kand since the Luminescent’s dynasty passed from the coil of V’landriel. For long the Miranids relied on local human Tzücoman command to stem the tide of the Unbroken Host’s expansion into deeper Transtulania, while Miran’s army advanced against the Monurchen dynasts in Outer Keychuria.

As the battle against the Unbroken Host was a personal vendetta for the Gurkani, Miran deliberately saved them for last, when he was at the peak of his nascent power… The Miranid men and beasts were hardened from a lifetime of warfare. With skill and courage they had fought at Miran’s side through these long years in the face of much adversity, and against some of the fiercest warriors native to Soiryndia. From the Gnolls to the various races of Men, to the Üarim and even the simian Monurchen -- each was now accounted a Miranid, a subject of Miran, and adept warlords all.

It was time to bring the last defiant regions of Transtulania into Miran’s fold, and thereby end this bloody reunification for good and all. The Son-in-law and avenger of the Luminescent bloodline insisted on leading the charge against the Apostate Prophet - this pretender ‘Godseer’ - in person... Even after a decade, his foot is still rendered lame from his fight against the Godseer’s champion; the long dead Husayim the Grey. A man of particular guile and aptitude, the Unbroken Host had surely not seen his likeness again. And with their greatest heroes succumbed, their forces stretched thin, and their armies exhausted, the Godseer’s Unbroken Host is now more vulnerable than ever.
In a grand spectacle of slaughter, the Miranids will now scatter his forces and reveal to them the weakness of their false God. The time to strike was now!

The Miranids had carved their way through Unbroken territory to advance directly to the seat of the Seer’s power. Their black and red double headed eagle standards -- a mockery of Yllendyr’s banner in Miran’s own bid for Empire -- protruded to the very gates of the capital of Letyeh. They had broken the Unbreakable, and cut a swathe through the dire ranks of the south. The screaming mobs of the despoiled that heralded the approach of the false god’s hosts had been felled; the braying savage hordes the Seer had led out of their untamed pastures were routed; even the terrible sworn legions of the Sijrdomen, the zealous warriors clothed in black and gold, had been beaten aside.
In truth, the advance had been most hard-fought at the frontier in the lands of Kand, where uncounted servants of the God-Seer still rampaged, and had become more and more easy as they pushed further into the domain of the Host.
The lands around them had been almost eerily desolate. Even under the ancient walls of the city of Letyeh, which had become infamous as the Throne of the Unbroken, only a small force had come forth to meet them, clamouring and bellowing fanatically, and what many had expected to be the apex of the war had ended in a short, if bloody struggle. Ultimately the Miranid Oliphaunts and their scores of cannons carried the day.
However not even the mightiest cannon in the Miranid arsenal was equipped against the city’s most redoubtable defense. It was not one that could be routed on the battlefield. Perhaps foreseeing the defeat of its guards, the master of Letyeh had cast a great enchantment over his capital. Flames coursed over the surface of its walls like skin lay over flesh, barring the way to all the gates with a blistering halo and towering over the citadel in a crackling dome. Though the stone below them appeared unharmed, no one could pass through that fiery barrier without being reduced to cinders. Not even the Miranid gryphons could soar through overhead.

This God-Seer was a mighty sorcerer indeed… But he is a deceiver, a false-god and apostate prophet. He stands no chance against the power of a true god, which the warriors of the old Luminescence will soon demonstrate.
When the Miranids came upon the burning barrier safeguarding Letyeh against the Miranid claw, they understood a specialist would be required to dispel the Seer’s blistering hex. As such Miran promptly called upon the new Arch Magus Antaxaxes to be brought over to the frontier.
However, curse that Deceiver Prophet! His little tricks and games had stalled the Miranid war effort by at least a few days, while they idly had to wait for Antaxaxes’ arrival. Even in the Unbroken Host’s obvious defeat, the seer denies Miran his rightful victory!

And so a few days did pass, till at last the Fararual Arch Magus dawned in the company of many Luminescent Magi. With his golden skin, arcane scepter and flaming hair, the Fararual wizard is surely a rare and imposing sight, not least when he in great spectacle smote his rod into the dome’s fiery surface. And with much chanting, prayer, twirling and a generous use of ritual incense, the inferno shielding Letyeh began to lose potency…

The gates of Letyeh were bared and deserted. And seeing this, a choir of deafening and trembling Üarim war trumpets resound as hellish braying from atop the Oliphaunts. The leading Tzücoman Warchief in his red dotted black cloak of Miranid heraldry, issues prompt command:
‘’Western clans! Clear the Letyehan walls!’’
The Üarim General follows with his own command.
‘’Satrap retainers! Clear the Letyehan streets!’’
The Fararual Arch Magus ends the series of commands by barking an order of his own.
‘’All Luminescentines! Clear the Letyehan skies!’’

Under flaming hail, dust of hooves, smoke from gunnery, the screaming and snorting of men and beasts, barrages of arrows and the clinking of steel from warbands of men, the Miranids stormed the Unbroken Host’s capital.

The city had once been the richest and most magnificent in Umar-Jahan, and though not as ancient as the monolithic abodes of the first Fararuals, the spectacle within its walls was venerable as well as opulent. Its sharp-angled buildings of red desert stone rose proudly in simple, yet imposing shapes. After the custom of southerners, its arches were few and rounded, and reliefs decorated the doorways of the greatest structures. Though many of them were defaced, no doubt to remove old symbols of faith, some temples and pillars, palaces and barracks bore fresh carvings of suns inlaid with the Host’s triangular sign, surprisingly well-crafted and elaborate for having been left by an army of furious zealots.

But, these houses, towers and any stations of office all lay deserted, as though they had been ransacked by savages before any subject of Miran ever could lay a finger on Letyehan property. And furthermore, not a single soul was to be sighted. Did the Unbroken Host pillage their own city? Once more the Miranids were left confounded. Though they were repeatedly supreme in the field, at every turn the conniving Seer and his Host manages to be ahead of them in guile.
‘’The city has been evacuated. The fiery dome was but mere diversion put in place by great sorcerery.’’ The Magus must regretfully state to the lines of fighting men.

‘’Axbak-Camen damn those goat fondlers to inferno! Where is our rightful booty?’’ The first of the Miranid warbands lament indignantly, seeing their prizes being denied to them.
‘’We had to wait three days FOR THIS?’’
‘’Pick through the rubble you lot! They might’ve missed a trinket or three!’’ The Tzücoman general screams, who had just whipped his Griffon over the gate to commandeer his men.

While bands of Tzücomen and Gnolls were tearing apart remnants to the buildings lining the interior streets, Miran’s personal Üarim cohorts advanced to the plaza and palace where the Hosts’ governing body was presumed to be seated.
Their eyes were naturally directed towards a great citadel at the centre of the city.
This citadel, once the dwelling of the illustrious Satraps of the south, loomed with the air of an impregnable stronghold. Though its windows were richly decorated to resemble so many watchful eyes, they were tall and narrow rather than broad. Its walls were smooth and polished, but thick and sturdy, and its roof peculiarly slanted to resist the strikes of catapults from more archaic times. The olden rulers of the city had evidently thought well to be twice safe within their walls, and it was clear that whoever held the palace could have withstood a siege. Yet its mighty iron doors were ajar, and silence hung within its drowsy halls.

Some of the Miranid hosts’ foremost and senior officials gathered in the boulevard before the citadel. Making sure no gnoll or another of the many savages in the army would desecrate the search for clues therein, the Üarim Satrap sent some of his own cohorts to scour the building in orderly fashion. Those men, carrying arquebuses and torches to light the way, trod through the iron doors, and through many dark winding stone hallways until they came upon the nethermost hall, the lair of the Godseer. Unsurprisingly; the entire way throughout the citadel it was devoid of life.

Indeed, even in that innermost sanctuum, only the dead awaited them. Strewn across a gilded table, whose surface glimmered in the light of four braziers, was a veneer of ash, fine and macabre. For a moment, the party stood hesitantly upon the threshold, peering into the shadows between the flickering flames; for each of the men thought he had glimpsed, for the briefest moment, a pale, fleeting vision in that uneven darkness - a distant and distorted simulacrum of a familiar face. Kindred, lovers, brothers in arms twisted and faded in the illusory penumbra like tortured spirits, and though the ephemeral nature of these sights betrayed their unreality, born of the solemn tension and eerie sorcery that alone dwelt in the deserted palace, they were troubling none the less.

And as the vanguard hovered uncertainly by the entrance to the deep chamber, awed by the larval visages they thought they saw, a new, still ghastlier emanation began to gather in the unhallowed sanctuary. The braziers’ light twisted strangely over the ash-covered table, and an impalpable wind seemed to disturb the cremated remains, though the air was ever as heavy and silent. Motes of strangely drifting dust and sparks refracted from thin air wove themselves into a dimly glowing cloud, which steadily took shape. It was in some ways akin to the fabled Efreets the Transtulanians had sometimes heard of in tales, just as ethereal and otherworldly, but its form was a hideous mockery of such noble beings of myth. Pale and stunted, it had many gnarly arms, most of which hung deadly along its sides, and seven heads of uncertain smoky features eyelessly gazed from its hunched shoulders.

He consigned us to doom and torment,” the spectre whispered in a congeries of faint, broken voices, “Beware, lest he condemn all you know to the same.” And with those few ominous words, the tortured echoes of the last rulers of Umar-Jahan finally passed from the world, and the evil presences in the chamber were dispelled.

The Üarim vanguard leave the citadel to report their findings. Even for all their discipline, it was nevertheless evident they had been unnerved by their findings. But they carried themselves manfully all the same.
Hearing the report, the Satrap looks to the Arch Magus.
‘’We have searched the building, and it should come not as surprise that naught was recovered.’’

‘’Those spirits -- Doubtless say I, it is the Sinner Seer’s attempt to recreate the efreet. A reminder not to tinker lightly with ghosts of the dead, as they carry an unspoken will that overshadows the conjurer.’’
Antaxaxes exclaims with a sonorous lament.
‘’The Gurkani had best been brought awares of the foe’s elusion - though pleased he won’t be! For now the breath of the Gods hangs unbroken. From their high thrones, their star orbs shall seem only a burning and a fever. Until the hunt for the Apostate Seer, who has so brazenly profaned the cosmic order -- first against the Luminescent dynasty, now against the dead -- is resolved to final completion.’’

Though it was an empty and largely ceremonial victory, the Miranids hoist their banners in the fashion of conquerors, over the walls and citadel of Letyeh. The battle is won, but the war continues on.
The Miranid Empire


Motto: IN RECTITUDE LIES SALVATION

The double-headed eagle was based on the eagle of Yllendir, whose colony the Miranids had come into contact with. Miran had adopted the double-headed eagle as coat of arms for his own aspiring empire; one to rival Yllendir.


Daaaad, Zero won't stop jerking off...!

Also I am eight, Serp's lucky number which I claimed, foreshadowing the ultimate defeat of Veles.
Dyauphater



Dyauphater on his celestial Chariot


Hey
Wow Elvarren came to my mind 2 days ago thinking 'shame that nothing came of it'
Final post is up, after months of forgetting. We are done now... with a cliff-hanger of sorts.
Farewell friends!
Captivity and interrogation

Collab between Grijs and Oraculum


The sun retreats behind the somber grey clouds at the end of another chilly day in the Visandzan mountains.
Four night Einhard had passed in captivity, and by the filth in his cage the Paladin’s sorry state is starting to show. Crusts of dried blood are on Einhard’s blue and inflamed face from the beating he received the evening before, and the cup of Einhard’s ear had been cut off by the Gastald Liutpertus when the Paladin refused to talk. Paired with the malnourishment from being critically underfed, slowly the Paladin feels hope receding, and death approaching.

‘’I’m not done with you, Chlotar swine… I WILL make you talk, one way or another.’’ Liutpertus hisses at him as he locked the cage and withdraws to the outposts’ interior.

For now the Lamperts have called it a day, and most of the outposts’ garrison retreated back to the central hearthfire, or their tents, with only a few sentries remaining to stand watch.

Silence fills the camp’s premises. Einhard hears only the throbbing pulse of his bleeding and mutilated ear, and a soft, distant howling wind soaring by the mountain tops.

For hours he sat there, the once proud and honourable Paladin, now cowed by the evils of his fellow men, surrendering to a miserable fate in the dead of night.
Most of the Lampert garrison is asleep, save for the night shift shuffling on and by the sentry towers.
Yet more hours pass, when finally Einhard can sense footsteps approaching his cage...
He does not bother to perk up.

‘’You sad man sitting in defeat. You are Paladin Einhard from the Chlotar Kingdom, is that correct?’’
The voice of a woman.
Einhard looks up at the approaching form, saying nothing in return.
‘’Have you succumbed, or do you yet have some spirit in you? Your people need your strength, Paladin.’’
Einhard responds, “Chlotar men don’t forget easily.” He pauses as he straightened himself. “I will do my duty as my fathers before me. Our vow to Godas has never been broken in my line.”

The woman nods.
‘’On the subject of fathers… I see that my own father’s men have not been kind to you. But I am not as them… so listen to me, and I will do my best to set you free.’’
As the woman spoke these words, Einhard takes notice of the embellished garments, furs and jewels adorning her. And it finally dawns on him: this woman is a Lampert royal!
‘’My name is Dalgiserata, namesake of my father Dalgiserius… I believe you’ve been acquainted with him, a little.’’
‘’What do you want?’’ Einhard snarls at her.
‘’Justice for both our Kingdoms. We are not your true enemy.’’
Einhard just looks at her incredulously as though she takes him for a fool.

‘’Let me have an audience with your King Cauroman. If it is at all possible to avoid war, we must do everything in our ability to make it so… Wouldn’t you agree?’’
Sighing, the Paladin leans up. Einhard has always been a reasonable judge of character, and has a nose for the smell of liars. Locking eye contact, he makes attempt to read her sincerity. …By the looks of it, she seems serious. Her face is beset with concern -- a quiet melancholy. Does she really care?

‘’All this death and turmoil will not be necessary, we will only wind up weakening one another.’’

Einhard takes a deep breath and gives reply; “Every Chlotar, from babe to crone knows not to trust a Lampert, just two-legged snakes looking to sink their fangs into you.” Einhard shifts forward towards Dalgiserata, “How do I know you weren’t sent here by your father in witchcraft inspired plot to kill my lord?”
Dalgiserata sighs. ‘’I knew bartering with you would not be easy. As a gesture of good will, I feel you are entitled to know just who had betrayed you..
Odo, the chief of Rudinberg, had been harbouring Lampert agents and providing information to my father for the past three years now… That is how we knew of your coming. That is why you are here now.’’


“Odo broke bread with me and my shield maiden, he swore an oath to King Cauroman, one would not anger Godas in such a manner.” Einhard spat back at her.

‘’Laiamicho, come here.’’

A lanky, handsome man with dark curls and a shaven face appears besides the Princess, and Einhard recognises him immediately. He was at Odo’s side in the hall of Rudinberg!

‘’Hello again, good Paladin of Chlotaringen. It appears we meet under different circumstances now.’’ The man, Laiamicho is his true name, gives a sly smile.

Dalgiserata speaks again.
‘’He is my most trusted servant. His loyalty cannot be questioned..’’ She says, after which Laiamicho follows:
‘’Sadly the same can not be said for Odo’s loyalty to your King Cauroman.’’

The Paladin and the Princess lock eye contact again, and in the moment Einhard knows not how to respond. He opens his mouth, but is immediately interrupted by the princess.
‘’If your king is indeed the honourable man he is known to be, tell him everything. Tell him about Odo. and tell him about my request...

If war can at all be avoided, this is the only way. Will you do this, Paladin?’’


Einhard is still perplexed, overcome with a variation of feelings… Confusion, to name one. Disbelief, and also revulsion -- revulsion for himself that he let himself be betrayed, and that his lack of vigil has endangered Chlotaringen’s entire war-effort. He knows not how to respond to the Lampert Princess’ offer, and neither is he given the chance, for in that moment he could sense the approaching footsteps of someone else coming out of the dark.

A group of figures draped in dark cloaks strides into the tent, glints of reflected firelight in their folds betraying the blades they carry at the ready. Faceless as shadows in their hoods, at first sight they barely appear human, filing behind one whose head is distorted in a monstrous insectile visage. Only at a closer look reveals that it is Dauraulf wearing his Locust-head helmet. The others bear similar countenances on amulets of roughly graven wood.

The adorned helm turns from the captive to the Princess, the Farigai’s hoods following its motions as sword-points budge near them, before the mouth underneath lets out a half-voiced exclamation.

“Pest!” Dauraulf moves a step towards Einhard, blade now well in sight, but stops, glowering at Dalgiserata. “Treason in the King’s own camp! And by whose hand! From you-” he points at Laiamicho, “-there’s no surprise. Rotten mongrels always try to find a way to him, else we wouldn’t be on our feet day and night. But his blood! You’d throw out your father for the Chlotars?” By how he spits the last word, it is clear that is in itself a most grievous curse for him.

If nothing else, this encounter is all the more evidence to the Paladin at least, that the Princess was being honest. Or it’s a very elaborate ruse.
Carrying herself with strength, with no sign showing fear in the presence of her father’s most dreadful retainers, she retorts:
‘’You, from the Farigai. The likes of you should know better than to make such accusations. You serve the Royal Family, and what I do is for the good and survival of our Kingdom.’’

Scowling from the back, Laiamicho calls agitated towards Dauraulf.
‘’The prisoner is our business. Your presence here displeases her highness...’’ To add power to the statement, the armed escort draws his broadsword up from his sheath unto its point, halting a bare second from brandishing it fully.

“Pest and famine! You must think I have rot for a head that you’d have me believe that!” The Farigai leader points his sword at Einhard, his men moving past him into the tent, bristling with blades. “What good’s going to come from dealing with snakes and swine? If this isn’t treachery, you’ve gone mad. Be that as it may,” he steps forward, “we’re taking the Chlotar.”

At his signal, the cloaked men advance into the tent. While they carefully step around the Princess, avoiding so much as brushing against her, they are less considerate with Laiamicho, who finds the points of several swords inches from his throat within the blink of an eye. Under Dauraulf’s direction, they tug open the Paladin’s cage and roughly haul him out of it, the enfeebled prisoner’s weak resistance amounting to nothing as he is dragged out into the night. As his henchmen push their charge out between the tent’s flaps, the leader turns for the last time towards Dalgiserata.

“You’re lucky we’re more loyal to the royal family than anyone in this wretched land,” he sneers, “but remember we serve the King above all. Hope that this doesn’t reach his ears.”

The Princess stands mute and defeated as the Farigai take away her one chance at bartering for Lampertei's future. While Laiamicho only scowls at the men that had threatened him, though cold sweat is on his brow, betraying how scared he actually was underneath the swagger.

Einhard was burning with resentment, but he was unarmed and malnourished, weak. He could but imagine what perverse cruelties these freakish looking Lampert men sought to inflict on him.
The company of men with the prisoner trod down the mountain slope from where the Lampert camp was, southwards towards the green valleys of Lampertei. The wind ceased howling, as though the elements themselves stood watch of what transpired. Save for the torches of the Farigai men, they and Einhard were in total darkness. Darkness, until the first light of day broke through the eastern sky, beaming at the group of men. And following this first beam of dawn, two white wings soared past the mountain tops directly towards the Farigai. As it approached, the Farigai halted, sensing its approach, and looked towards it unnerved. From afar it looked like a seagull, except much bigger. Einhard looked up as well. A darkling after night time? That can't be. Is it a predator of heaven, preying on the enemies of God? None of them could grasp its form by the angle and sheer speed it flew with. Only when it got very close could they see what it was… a white stork? But they saw it was clutching a lance in its bird talon, and it had an oversized helmet on its head. Before they could contemplate how silly that made it look, the stork with its lance swooped down at Dauraulf.

‘’My King, the Horn is lost. As the cowardly Lamperts slew Mauger in ambush, Godas sent down an Angel to pick it up, and took the Horn to the heavens as to not let it fall in Lampert hands. It is no longer of this world.’’
Yet another Paladin speaks.
‘’An angel? I thought it was a white dragon!’’
taken from the Intro Post
Hey palls, not sure if anyone'll still be reading this, but since nothing had been OOCly said for literally half a year I figured i'll break the ice. I'm gonna wrap the RP up. There'll be 2 more posts and then.... I think we'll leave it discontinued.

Is there anyone still here?

Additionally, would it be an idea for me to give at least a summary of the possible endings I envisioned for the story? If the RP is over, spoilers don't matter anymore. Yea, I know, after prolonged periods without progress people quickly lose interest, that's how it always goes.
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