Frettzo
Vec
Lord Zee
Double Capybara
<Snipped quote by BBeast>
I've tried, but after the long absence I'm honestly not that happy anymore about my Death god :/. I'll probably leave (unless, by some magical way I can make him reborn like the death-hungry bastard I want him now. But doing that plotwise would take several posts and turn him upside down completely).
Or one post. I mean, Vestec's hoards just descended upon his chosen people, destroying one half and corrupting the other. The race he had invested so much into and had such great plans for...any normal god would go absolutely baloney, to be honest. Wouldn't be surprised if they develop some kind of schizophrenic way of coping...
But if you aren't feeling it and you know in your heart that you are no longer able to commit, just let us know. We'll give you an honourable farewell, with something along the lines of 'Another one bites the dust' playing in the background, followed by a solemn recital by @Frettzo of the following poem.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
