Murmurs of Old

All about Cadomyr and its Guilds. / Alles über Cadomyr und die Gilden in Cadomyr.

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Post by Kraex » Wed Jan 27, 2016 8:41 pm

Murmurs of Old

His yellow eyes denote the change and mourn the loss of what once was. Amongst the hustle and bustle few faces remain the same and even fewer new ones had taken their places. The weathered orc, hardened by battle, attends to his duties despite Cadomyr's seasons of change. Truth be told he didn't mind keeping his head low especially after his botched campaign against the orc hordes fixated on Cadomyrian trade caravans. For six long years he'd tried to stabilize routes for foreign trade, but in the end he’d failed and was relieved of duty. He'd received no hero's welcome upon his return, only a demotion and a home filled with empty streets. Months, however, had past since then and he’d once again found himself settling into old routines.

Days spent mining, digging in the sand, and sharpening his skills in training bouts as well as on the battlefield provided plenty of time to observe and experience the New Cadomyr. Whilst his esteem with the nobility lie in question he found great comfort in the awe and greetings of the merchants and commonfolk. For years he’d ensured their safety and prosperity and to receive their warm salutations encouraged him tremendously. Never before had he truly felt at home, except in Cadomyr. Despite being an orc his presence mattered, his values commended, and the green hue of his skin largely overlooked. Certainly there were times, private moments, he mourned the kinship of his race, but a traditional orcish clan would be damn near impossible to sustain under the control and oversight of the factions.

Whatsmore, the Queen had willingly, graciously, opened Her gates and storehouses to the Gobaithian refugees nearly a decade ago. To this day Her actions and the speech she’d given to them and the fair people of Cadomyr provided the means and vision to overcome his past failures and resounding destitution. Under Her leadership his god given talents were utilized and cultivated. For Her he would die upon his sword without a second thought should She ever require. Thoughts such as this fueled his angst against people like Tyan, Guy, and Fooser, people that knew first hand the grace and benevolence of Her Majesty.

How flippantly their allegiance had changed when their ambition and ideals no longer aligned to the will of the crown, the will by which they ascended in the first place. Anger burned in his gut at the thought of them leaving for Galmair but memories, experiences that bind individuals together, and the Majesty’s will abated further need for confrontation. So alone he contemplated what course would lead him into the future, besides orders and duty. It was then, late one eve, that the huntress Ruzusss provided a spark. She’d mentioned wishing that there were more people like Kraex in the city.

The more he thought about her words it dawned on him that as a knight of Cadomyr he’d never taken any pages. Previously as a member of the Crimson Order taking a page wasn’t necessary since the Order always had an influx of newcomers in need of training and guidance. With a little more thought he connected his past to the present and a want formed. A want to give people the same chances the Queen gave him so long ago, a chance to serve the greater good and reap the rewards of a lifestyle comprised of honor and duty. Together with trusted friends of Cadomyr Kraex lays out his plans and means of execution to find the noblest and earnest individuals.

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Post by Kraex » Wed Jan 27, 2016 8:46 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

For those that seek and display the traits and heart of a knight there are eyes upon you in the lands of Cadomyr. Beit the youngest lad or lass or a wayward traveler seeking a home your deeds and words are recognized. By the sweat of your brow and service should you receive the honorary title of Page in Cadomyr an opportunity arises. For those that struggle to find their way in Cadomyrian society but show a tenacious spirit and speak with honor you too may receive the same opportunity. Kraex’s contacts search and vet out prospects thoroughly to try and insure potential candidates meet a criteria: ideally citizens of Cadomyr or only loosely affiliated to another faction, no history of being a member of a guild, free of a criminal record, and honorable in speech as well as action. If chosen, a message will arrive into your possession with merely a few lines:
Aspire to Knighthood.
Heed the Customs.
Seek and instill Her words.
04th Findos 38
((Open RP to all that meet the criteria in the thread))
Last edited by Kraex on Sat Feb 20, 2016 8:45 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Post by Tyan Masines » Wed Jan 27, 2016 11:53 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

"Traitor", the guardman murmured as Tyan passed by. Tyan stopped, and turned his head to look at the man. It was a young lad, probably eighteen or nineteen years old, and he was flying Cadomyr colors and the typical guard uniform. The lad pretended to not notice Tyan's gaze, and spat on the hot stone floor. Tyan moved on. He passed the marketplace and went to Molitor, whom he still supplied from time to time. Fulfilling orders for the caravans had always been lucrative, and Tyan had always thought of Molitor as a friend. However, conversations had become more formal and less jovial since Tyan had moved to Galmair, even with those individuals he had formerly known well throughout Rosaline Edward's realm.

"Ten sapphire rings, as ordered. Thank you, Masines", Molitor said and took the fulfileld order down in his books. Once he got paid, Tyan thought to do some small-talk, catch up with the merchant.

"How's the wife and kids?"
, he asked. Molitor nodded.

"Happy and healthy. Dread the coming of Mas", the merchant answered.

Tyan nodded as well. There was a moment of awkward silence between them.

"Well, I gotta go", Tyan finally said with a light smile on his lips and went to leave. Molitor waved goodbye and turned his attention back to his bookkeeping after. The marchant's reaction was represenatative for most people around Cadomyr, when Tyan conversed with them. Distant. Sometimes even cold. As if putting your name down on the citizen's list of another town suddenly turned you into a new person, an entirely new character.

Maybe it did.

Tyan felt it as well. Sure, there weren't many people of his 'old crew' left in Cadomyr and those who were actually still around had grown distant even before his relocation to Galmair. He respected S'rrt and hoped the lizardman would always share that feeling, but they were hardly 'brothers'. Their relationship had always been rather practical, focused on both their duty in Cadomyr. As for other people, the divide between him and Annabeth was widely known, Sarney had only rose to power during the time of Tyan's absence, Guy had left for Galmair, Salathe had left for gods-know-where -- and then there was Kraex.
Both of them had orbited Salathe back when the refugees were still pouring into Illarion, and had become the founders and leaders of the Crimson Order. Salathe had been Grandmaster, having the last say. Although the three of them had always been equal, naturally Tyan and Kraex had bonded more to one another than any of them had bonded to Salathe. This was true for Tyan at least, as he could not speak for the orc. It was probably for that reason that the two of them were still able to jest and talk normally, something Tyan could no longer do with other Cadomyrians. Tyan had asked Kraex to move as well, of course, but the strict No of the orc had quickly confirmed Tyan's expectations: Kraex was, above all, loyal. And different than Tyan, who would drop loyalties if those he granted them would screw him over, whereas Kraex seemed to possess true loyalty. Serving your superior well when serving was easy was something most people could do.

True loyalty was determined in times of dire trouble.

In a way, Tyan was a traitor and he knew it. He had not shared anything from Cadomyr that had been discussed behind closed doors with his new affiliates from Galmair, true, but then, he had not been inside the inner circle of power in Cadomyr anymore anyways. He was not a traitor to Rosaline's realm, but a traitor to himself. To the oath he had once sworn before the altar of Zhambra. One could claim it had been an oath for the Crimson Order -- and the Crimson Order was no more -- but it would still be a holy vow he had broken. For himself, closure of this flaw had already been provided: Before his long absence, he had thrown the holy sword of Zhambra, one that had been granted to him by one of the god's avatars during an expedition, in front of Her Majesty's feet. Back then, he had aknowledged that he was not worthy of the weapon or what it symbolized, for the official and personal vows he had broken. Zhambra was about loyalty, and strictly speaking, Tyan was not a loyal individual. Not in Cadomyrian terms. He knew this now, but he had tried to hide it.

Even from himself.

Closure was a strange thing. So many people were afraid of closure, of an end. They gripped tightly to what they had, their belongings, position, title, their very way of life, even if those things they hung on to were slowly destroying them. There was a moment in everybody's life when they decided that things were perfect the way they were right now, and they would from then on attempt to freeze that moment in time, they made a vow to themselves and the world that nothing could ever change anymore. In this very moment, people threw their lives away. And they would fight ferociously against change, against their very salvation, from that moment on.
Tyan had never been afraid of change. In fact, he embraced it, longed for it. True, maybe he was a coward, afraid of getting too close, to anyone or anything. The way he saw it, he was brave and cowardly at the same time -- always leaving some door open, but not afraid of stepping through as well.
All the contemplating had lead to one very real confession Tyan had made to himself a while ago. He had never belonged in Cadomyr. He was no knight in shiny armor, no avatar of loyalty and civility. He had tried to be, had tried to freeze that moment in time, but it had always nagged him, had always tugged on his soul. And suddenly, there was true wisdom in one of Cadomyr's principles -- Remember as whom you were born, know your place. It was not merely a decree to determine social status.

It was an avowal to protect oneselfe's soul.

Things in Galmair weren't even much different to those in Cadomyr. No town and no person was protected from potential corruption of power. But still, Tyan felt he could breathe again now that he walked the snowy streets of the Don's realm. He was able to be honest with himself again, and thus, Galmair felt like a place more honest to him than Cadomyr ever had. He did not want to judge Cadomyr or condemn it, for he held no bad feelings for the place in his heart, especially not now since he had gotten some distance to it. He still asked himself whether the power struggle between houses in the desert realm would truly serve Cadomyr's purpose, and the teachings of Zhambra. He knew the orc shared his feelings in that matter. In Galmair, everything was as raw as the mountains that surrounded it -- even its truths. If a deal did not further the Don's wealth, it was not a deal at all. One could like that or not like that, but one could not deny the fact that it was a simple and honest truth.

In Cadomyr, truth had always been somewhat murky.

As he left for the gate, Tyan spotted a chinseled badge that had been flushed into a wall. Wind carrying sand had battered its features, but he could make out that it had been a honorary badge for when the Crimson Order had become the official army of Cadomyr. He thought of that time, when things were easy, when service was easy, when Salathe was still around, when Kraex and Tyan were still practicing day and night, when Cadomyr's tavern was buzzing with life every night and Tyan would sing many a song, when Josephine was alive, when Guy was still a proper knight, when Galmair was the greedy enemy, when Runewick was the weird neighbor and when Cadomyr had been the beacon of light and hope it was set out to be. He thought of a time when life and truth came easy, when everything seemed to work the way it was supposed to. Had it all gone to shit? No. It was simply over. It had all become something else. That was neither good or bad inherently. Don't cry because it's over -- smile because it happened, Tyan thought to himself, and smiled.

Yet the battered badge left a distant feeling of sadness and nostalgia in Tyan's heart. Did he want to turn back time and make it so things would never have changed? Again, no. But he'd give a lot to have it back for just one day.
He left Cadomyr, humming the melody of the Crimson Tide song he had written for the Order back then. And while he did, he remembered a saying he had once read in a book. 'If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.' But life was not a book, a story. Life was change. Time was change. And time never stopped. They were people, all of them. People were not songs, people were not sermons, people were not stories.

People were always just people.

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Post by Kraex » Mon Feb 08, 2016 9:49 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

Anthar’s smirk did not go unnoticed from the corner of Kraex’s vision. The elf had always been a cheeky fellow, one of few that could toe the line between honor and impudence. Kraex had always found his brash straightforward approach refreshing, the kind of person that wasn’t afraid to speak plainly, directly. Such traits served him well as the Queen’s chancellor, and despite their racial divide Anthar and Kraex had always worked well together. Evidently, though, Kraex’s third hefty donation of the month had agitated Anthar who was now hastily updating his ledger with a subtle scowl.

As Kraex turned from the donation platform he attempted to nonchalantly dismiss his overzealous contributions with upward palms and a halfhearted shrug but Anthar cut straight to the matter, true to form, “Now if you only had the taxable surety to go with that bleeding heart of yours.”

Kraex simply grunted not having a clue what the chancellor was trying to tell him. Eager to avoid further interaction with Anthar the unburdened orc hastily made his egress after a stately bow. To Kraex’s good fortune Anthar did not pursue further conversation and allowed the knight to leave the palace in peace.

Beyond the inner walls of the Queen’s palace a chill desert night greeted the fully armored orc. Loose sand chinked against his steel greaves and boots stirred up by a sweeping breeze. He felt a few wry grains notch their way into his boots, a common occurrence he’d learned to ignore. Tempted to avoid his errands for the night Kraex lingered by the palace’s portcullis reluctant to depart from the peaceful moment. He even managed to close his eyes and just feel for a change. Eventually, those feelings became tainted with anger, anger that had consumed him for weeks.

Engulfed by the source of his angst memories flashed before his eyes: the eerie glow of a magical axe trying to break through his chainmail, the heinous scent of stale beer and dwarven sweat, the boorish advance of tiny salk boots in the mire, and the ravenous expression of an honorless dwarf. Kraex forced his eyes open and felt the heave of his chest and the pressure in his temples. He needed to settle this bloodlust and kill Hew Keenaxe before he was lost to this rage.

Unfortunately, the trail of Hew’s whereabouts had went cold, but he had eyes and ears outside the walls of Cadomyr to keep him informed. So for now, he needed a distraction, and if Hew’s assault provided anything positive it was that he wanted more honorable people to keep by his side. Driven by purpose now, his brisk steps lead him first to his depot just outside the Unicorn Lion. On the ready he yanked out a bag that smelt of salted meat and made his way to Jeremiah Horanfeld. A sly grin formed on the man’s face before he bowed respectfully, which Kraex returned before dropping the bag at the man’s feet. After a deep grunt the orc remarks, “Onleeh da finest Ruzusss hab ta offa ‘Oranfeld. Meh sure joor wife beh tired up cook’n ja roasted fish and ham.”

Jeremiah chuckles before he responds through a smile, “You’re too kind Sir Kraex’Ju, and I wager that you’re quite right. I am ever thankful for your generosity, Sir.”

“Dink nuffin ub eht Jeremiuh, serbis fer serbis.” Kraex retorts with a dismissive hand.

As Kraex turns to leave Jeremiah halts his departure with a low, “Psst.”

The orc’s yellow eyes look over the man questioningly but remains silent with an expectant expression.

Jeremiah inclines his torso toward the orc and speaks out in a hushed tone. “About that opportunity you were offering I have two names that I believe meet your criteria. A young elven lass by the name of Kyrita and a fella named Hendrik Lionsfield. Both seem quite eager. If ye like I’ll ask around about them for ye?”

A rich grin formed on the orc’s face as he registered Jeremiah’s words and with a casual step forward he roughly hit the man’s pauldron with the open palm of his gauntlet. “Aye, aye Kraex hab met da Lionsfield one just a few days ago! So Kraex’ll put dis fella to da test, hur hur hur. As fer dis Kyrita one joo knows wuts to do. Meh wunt to knows all bouts hur.”

Without further comment Kraex lightly bangs on the man’s shoulder again before turning and attempting to head off his other errands. He'd have no such luck, nay even a prayer, as he almost immediately crossed paths with the vivacious and renowned Starling. To her end the night would verve most profoundly off course by the most agreeable set of circumstances and antics. To further the orc's merriment his favorite Galmairian also paid a visit, Tyan Masines. Years gone by stole the night away for the trio and the Unicorn Lion tavern would surely be buzzing with the tales of their shenanigans for weeks, possibly even months to come.

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Post by Kamilar » Thu Feb 11, 2016 2:29 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

A dark haired elfess wearing a serene countenance as lightly as she would a garment makes her way through the empty Cadomyrian streets. The market echoes with her footsteps and with the futile calls of the merchants. She smiles at each of them as she passes, her face a mask of concealed emotion. She slips easily into old habits, taking barefoot walks in the warm sand and combing the beach for seashells and bits of smooth glass.

In contrast with the past, now long hours, sometimes days will pass with only Severus for company. The elfess might be seen lounging by the pool staring meditatively, almost lizard-like, into a goblet of wine. Her reflections are interrupted briefly by the presence of others and she shares her company willingly but rarely her thoughts.

Carrying what remains of the bottle of wine, the elfess makes her way nightly to the inn, bringing quiet ends to quiet days. Throwing open the window to allow the sea air to breeze through, quelling the desert heat and intensity, she sits alone in darkness, finishing the wine in silent contemplation.

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Post by Tyan Masines » Fri Feb 12, 2016 5:40 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

"You're digging up sand?" The lizard took him to Cadomyr, and showed him. Dig up sand and sell it to a merchant. So he dug up sand, all day long. He hauled the heavy sacks to the market stall and looked at the merchant's face –- it could have been anyone's face. Shortly after, he was sitting in a tavern with a pond in the middle of it and it snowed outside. In the desert. He was playing the lute and singing a song, about lizards riding donkeys in Troll's Bane, about a Prince who wanted to seize the town and died in the end, about men tasting women without thinking of any consequences. A moment later, he was digging up sand again. Or fighting in the sand, just next to the faceless merchant, fighting all day. Kraex was there, and lizards, and humans, mostly. He recognized some, but their faces were blurry. One of the lizards split a table with his magical waraxe, and Tyan knew. A few other faces were there, too, faces who had not been around back then, and Tyan would have gone lucid at this point if not for the distraction, a distant murmur of a roar that sounded like a deluge. They went outside and witnessed a gigantic crimson tide at the horizon, coming for them, for the land, for everything. Crimson tide, crimson tide, sweeping over the land, a bard sang in tavern –- their old song. Tyan rushed for the gate, but suddenly there were steps, and he tripped, falling, but not ever landing.

He awoke from the fall. He was looking at the flipside of another bed. Bunk bed. Flat Irmorom, Galmair, he assured himself, as he had been flung back to reality from his dream. A dream of many things, old and new memories, intertwined. It had been one of those dreams you remember just after waking up, but you are not sure whether to smile or whether to grimace for having dreamt it.

He heard anxious mumbling from outside and people putting their armor on. It was still Mas. He had just wanted to lie down for a couple of minutes. Two more days, he thought. Only two more days. But just like two more minutes, or two more seconds for that matter, they could make a difference. It all depended on the circumstances and the moment, always.

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Post by Kamilar » Mon Feb 15, 2016 8:01 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

She sat brutalized and broken at the edge of the stream bed sheltered by forest shade, her pleading face dark with bruises.

Images drifted across the surface of the wine, mesmerizing her. The face of the past so similar, yet so strange.

She carried her battered body with straight-backed dignity, her bold strides concealing the depth of her disappointment.

Eventually she had made her way to the desert and began to heal. That was another time in another place but the parallels were so plain - like a distorted reflection of herself on the mirrored surface of the goblet. She asked herself, "Why this?" And yet she could not look away from the gnarled path of the past.

Surely there had been joy too but the only images calling out to her seemed to cross a vast distance in a voice wavering and faint, just one word distinguishable. "Survive."

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Post by Kraex » Thu Feb 18, 2016 4:23 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

  • Lancare Gossia
  • Anton Somers
  • Hendrik Lionsfield
  • Azure Lynch
  • Malrian
  • Kyrita
The list for potential pages looked promising, but then again Cadomyr had always attracted the young and eager fixated on making a name for themselves. For every ten the crown would do well to keep one for a calendar year and even fewer for life. The desert was no place for the faint of heart, but Kraex would do his part to make Cadomyr strong, stronger than it had ever been. As iron sharpens iron, Kraex would take whomever was worthy and put them through the crucible. He would show them what it took to be a knight which extended far beyond their prowess on the battlefield.

Knights of Cadomyr needed to exude the best of society, beyond reproach, eternally steadfast, devout to the living will of the gods, and nothing less would be acceptable. Her Majesty was worth his blood for it had been Her wisdom and strength that forged a land of unique qualities cemented in the security of tradition but driven by the ambition of Her faithful. Kraex had been proof of what Cadomyr could make true. People across Illarion, some Cadomyrians included but mostly those from other factions, criticized the Houses of Cadomyr and even his beloved Queen. Overbearing, unjust, power hungry, unguided were just a few of the words people had used to describe the inner workings of Cadomyr.

Kraex, however, had not been dissuaded for he had witnessed firsthand the wisdom and truth of the Chosen One. Her words the echo of his resolve:

“...the hideous trials of ignobility...”

“...endure it, and to retaliate against it to any extent that the unwritten laws of Cadomyr permit.”

“There will come the battle for our land - for all that Cadomyr is…”

From the parapets he oversees the endeavors of many, the toil of the ellect. For those willing to serve the time draws nigh.

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Post by Tyan Masines » Tue Feb 23, 2016 1:49 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

"It was about how spheres intertwine with sub-spheres with which they are connected to", the man with elfish features explained. Tyan wondered who the tall man was, whether he had always been what he was now. Secrets were a currency to some, a weapon to others. Personal secrets, the air of uncertainty some people kept about themselves appeared to be an end without means. Was it pride, the game of not letting anyone else see one's true self? A maze of riddles to determine who was worthy of getting to the core. Then again, most people would never find the solution to their very own secrets. Was it wisdom, as it read 'stop being who you were and become who you are', a constant struggle of the individual to figure out oneself in relation to the expectations and demeanor of the others? Or was it simple, plain and simple, history, something to be explored but not to be interpreted individually, but only in regard to something more recent?
Like a painting, a piece of art, the history of people was not to be judged, not even interpreted as such standing alone, but only from a vantage point, a point of view. We decided whether we'd make the effort to climb that vantage point, or to let this opportunity pass since we can not climb every mountain, can not understand every riddle in one single lifetime. It was our choice, always.

That part was different for Elves, of course. Tyan quickly shook his thoughts off while listening to the tall man and eventually, he moved on to discussing business. It turned out to be a success in his books. And he was eager to know more about spheres as well. He had been honest with the man, honest with everything in a world that had not been honest with him. At least, that was how he saw it. He liked being the other side, the one questioning what was. 'Always against the stream, Gynka boy', he thought to himself.

When he moved to Cadomyr to deliver something, he was in an extraordinarily good mood. The things seemed clear to him. The first word he walked into was treason, not aimed at him, but another, when he entered Cadomyr. There were so few of them left, yet people saw disdain and treason around every corner. 'You shall reap what you sow', he thought, not expecting anyone to understand. His only wish was to stay out of the madness for one night. He delivered the goods and witnessed something rare, at least he thought it was – an exhausted, or mayhaps unnerved, Baron of Cadomyr. He had liked the lizard before, its sternness, but eventually, their personalities had to clash. It was a history Tyan never let happen, for he left the realm. It was his understanding that the decision had been the most favorable for all people involved.

The lizard wondered why people could not be more like himself, and Tyan countered with a rather apathetic epigram about diversity and its merits; child's play to the former bard. The whole scene seemed to be all the more meaningful in retrospective, not in terms of Cadomyr or the specific people involved, but as a lection to all of them, to each any every one of them with no exceptions.

He went back to Runewick which still held copies of a book Tyan had once written. In the backmost corner of the library on the second floor, he found Tales of a Traveler and whished he would have been able to live after more of the collected wisdoms that were written down in the tome. Still wondering about the seemingly endless struggle of identity, of people, of groups and realms, why, the struggle of worlds, he flipped open a specific page.

"If there is to be peace in the world, there must be peace in the nations.
If there is to be peace in the nations, there must be peace in the cities.
If there is to be peace in the cities, there must be peace between neighbors.
If there is to be peace between neighbors, there must be peace in the home.
If there is to be peace in the home, there must be peace in the heart."

'Well', he thought about the words a priestess of Elara had once said during a mass in Salkamar, and he longed for a drink. 'Could you have possibly made the solution anymore difficult?'

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Post by Kamilar » Thu Feb 25, 2016 3:38 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

"Treason." Though she had weathered worse, if she was honest, the word had stung.

Already melancholy, the elfess retreated still further, now accepting no visitors. The waxing and waning darkness went unnoticed as she sat in solitary silence, her wine untouched on the table. Seeing behind the facade had been the study of a lifetime - or in human terms, several lifetimes. Her instinct had kept her alive and she trusted it.

She had longed for a home, a safe refuge for as long as she could remember. Many times she felt hopeful, "Maybe this time..." but somehow the reality eluded her. She carried the burden of the memories, like a weight against her heart - always hopeful and always disappointed.

"Write a wish on the parchment for the new year." It had seemed so obvious but to her it was foreign and strange. She dug deep into her soul, her inexpert penmanship betraying her late education and she scribbled, "Peace, without and within." Always hopeful...

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Post by Lord Arcia » Thu Feb 25, 2016 11:49 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

The elf had spent months making fine shavings from a stick of wood, slowly forming the shape of a dagger. He admired the work that he had done.

Sitting at a table he places the dagger point first onto the table, leaving it perfectly balanced on the surface. Arcia carefully releases his light touch and watches his fine work fall over.

After many moments of silent contemplation he takes the dagger back up and replaces it on the table as before. He spins the dagger on the table like a top. The handle of the wooden blade pointed toward the ceiling. Just as he had seen so many times before done by children and their toys, the thing stood on the table spinning.

Under the watchful gaze of the elf it spins for what seems to him like an eternity until he finally takes up the wooden weapon and places it in his belt.


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Post by Azure Lynch » Tue Mar 08, 2016 12:44 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

The clashing of steel and iron ring through the desert. Bodies of bandits lay beneath the giant man's feet. The wind blowing the ragged cloak as he walks past heratio to collect on the bounty.

Heratio the giant man greets the knight

Azure heratio returns the greeting.

Azure members when he returned to his home in cadomyr after leaving for galmajr. Heratio wouldn't acknowledge he existed. As did most. Azure felt like a lone sheep amongst foxes and snakes. He had a few he could talk to starling. An elfess unlike most he met. Kind caring and mischievous. Then there was kraex an orc stronger than the walls of cadomyr. Honorable and honest. But after the month of mas azure proved he could follow orders and showed he is honorable. But azure knew this was a start of a long road ahead. Many still don't trust him. While others still feel hurt of the words he used to describe them. So all azure can do is to show them he is sorry.

After collecting his bounty he climbs to the top of the wall and leans against the edge. His mind wanders to his mother and her lies to his time in the cult., to find g out the truth about his past. Would things have gone different. Probably not. Azure who faith in the gods is struggling. Knows that nothing happens by chance.but know he has a family of his own and he will do right by them. He has nevered lied to his wife. Nor will he to his daughter. Azure is no longer a sheep but a wolf. A wolf of cadomyr. And would die for his family his Queen his allies. Azure is here to provide a new life better life for his family.

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Post by Kraex » Tue Mar 08, 2016 3:35 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

Exelous: "Starling. You have no evidence to throw such accusations that the Queen is an impostor. May I suggest you gather some before you walk the thin line of treason."
Starling: "If it's treason to say it out loud, then I'm a traitor and will face the penalty."
Ssar'ney: Ssz. Ssar'ney will repeat. He sspoke to her zziss day. Ssmelled fine. Looked tired.

Stupefied by the conversation, Kraex felt impaired, as if he'd been drinking or trapped in some bizarre dream. Here he was standing in the guardhouse of Cadomyr listening to words like imposter and treason dance around in the open air for all to hear. He couldn't process, even begin to fathom, the reason that such a conversation would occur in an open forum. Hadn’t there been enough seeds of discord sown amongst Cadomyrians? He felt rage ebb at his resolve, testing his honor as knight.

Starling had always been the type to speak her mind even in the face of scrutiny, a rare and admirable trait under most circumstances. Tonight, though, her words rubbed him the wrong way, and he’d nearly convinced himself to step away when Malrian, his page, further facilitated the inopportune gossip. Concerned for the reputation of one of his dearest friends and now his subordinate Kraex attempted to contend against the needless public skepticism. Alas, to no avail the knight eventually had to settle with an order to silence his page on the matter and left the scene in frustration.

Bedeviled with angst he stormed from gates of Cadomyr in the dead of night gripped by the need to annihilate something, anything. In such a way he was barbaric, but he’d learned to hide that part of him from most. Anger, always, led him to ravenous brutality of which a thousand seas could not quelch. Without so much as second thought his steps were carrying him to the demonic portals of Letma where an endless army of undead beings would thoroughly exercise his inner demons. He fiended for the release, the thoughtless embrace of battle. Instinct, training, and skill were all he needed, no social pandering or awkward exchanges. He was his axe, his shield, the pace of breath, firm footing, and keen eyes.

The elfess through ebony blue strands of silken hair offered that knowing wry grin, a wink, and tilt of her wine glass.

Kraex groaned as a massive zombie’s club made square on contact with his chestplate and propelled him a few feet into the rocky sand. Dazed but too seasoned to remain still the orc managed to use the momentum of the blow to perform a half roll backward and lept clumsily to his feet. Through his disorientation he managed to make out the zombie’s club harmlessly bash into ground before him. Axe still in hand the orc felt over his chest assessing the damage as he hastily made his retreat through staggered steps. As he drugged through the sand he mumbled and grumbled every curse word he’d ever learned. He was still alive and in good health but his mood had changed yet again.

Pissed that it was still night, that he was thinking of Starling, that he was thinking of her feelings, and all the while he was heading back to her. He needed to apologize and speak with her in private. Plead with her to consult him before she made such public outcries. He wanted her to be what he could not be, what people whispered to him in private conversations:

Lead a House.

He wanted nothing to do with such aspirations. He wanted to serve the Queen with the humility of a knight, follow orders, be the shield against the darkness. What’s more, he saw and bore witness to the crowds that gathered each time Starling held an event. Night after night she’d been one of few that had spoken of him rising to nobility, but in the back of his mind he always muttered, “No, you, you, you.”

Tonight he would tell her and offer his counsel to her to help her ascend to nobility. Although this is what he wanted, desired for her, in the back of his mind he couldn’t help wondering if she’d garnered grievances against her reputation tonight. Kraex figured time would tell and as he rounded the corner to Villa Rosaline he saw the look on Starling’s face as she opened the door to her villa. His stomach sank, he wanted to holler out to her, but no words came. In his hesitation she’d already entered, closed the door, and locked it. He’d hurt her feelings just as he suspected and his head sunk in silent guilt.

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Post by Azure Lynch » Thu Mar 17, 2016 6:03 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

Azure nods to Starling, Lyrica, and Arica. as he enters the Unicorn Lion. he uncorks his wine pours him a glass and plays his panpipe. While playing he thinks of the past events. He is an initiate of the house of the dessert fox. a great honor he knows. He understands he has to prove his self worthy more than anyone. He hears the murmurs behind his back. "he will never do it. he will fail. Once a moshran follower always one." There are times Azure wants to just give up. but everytime he thinks of giving up. he sees his family. and he digs down deeper. working harder than he has ever before. he says to himself "no I will not quit. I will make my name mean something again. I am a lynch, I am a wolfsword. I am Azure."

Azure then smiles as his thought go to his lil sis Cora. Ah it was nice to see her. so excited about the baby. He told her that he was traing to become a knight. and she told him he would make a great one. then said she would too. Azure tried to convince her to move to cadomyr. but she said the bear would miss her. or she miss the bear. they talked some more.

Azure drifts off to sleep not noticing kraex nor the look lyrica gave him.

~azure smells blood. looks around he regonizes this place. its his old home village. he sees a crowd. they are calling someone names and kicking at him and throwing stones. Names like abomination, saying things like burn him. and then they tied the poor young man up. and drug him to a pole in front of the temple. Azure stares in shock as he now relaizes he is the one being tied to the post. pleading he his not what they call him. they ignore the pleas and light the fire as the fire starts to burn azure looks across the crowd. but it is not the towns folk he sees but the faces of the people he failed in the past. Yirida, raina, evie, uhuru, S'rrt, Annabeth, so many he hurt from his lies and his words. so much distrust. as the flames engulf him azure wakes up~

he looks around realizing he is alone. he rises and heads to see his wife and baby. A dream of the past yet not. he will talk to his wife about what it might mean.

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Post by Kamilar » Sat Mar 19, 2016 12:38 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

The hunger for power, the thrill of holding dominion over others was a sight all to familiar to the elfess and yet, like always, the rumors surprised her. In the voices of the present, she heard the murmurs of the past and the old habits, the years of training nearly forgotten in the recent relative safety kicked suddenly and irrevocably into gear. She felt that familiar grip on her gut as clear as a voice whispering, "You aren't safe here," and she knew it was time.

She looked around in the tavern, the market, the streets and buildings of town and met suspicion everywhere. Palace intrigue now replacing honor, the elfess contacted a few trusted friends, took an inventory of her purse then locked the door. Not even stopping at the depot, she headed out into the desert without looking back.

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Post by Tyan Masines » Sun Jun 12, 2016 3:38 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

He pushes the door shut and staggers towards the table, placing both his hands on it to keep his stance. He inhales and loosens his weaponbelt, trying to keep a stern face although nobody is there to watch. He sits on the chair next to the table and unsteadily grabs a bottle of rum, taking a hearty sip from it. He coughs and puts it aside. Clenching his teeth, he unfastens the leather straps holding his breastplate together, only to reveal a pierce in his flesh. His gray shirt which he keeps under the armor is soaked red from blood. He tries to feel the wound, assess the amount of bleeding. His skin and flesh have been pierced considerably, but the speartip of his foe missed the liver. Tyan knew that if the pierce had struck him only an inch or two further south, he'd bleed to death in this meager Galmair Inn room.

But he wouldn't. Not today.

He grabbed the bottle of rum again and took another hearty sip, before pouring an even bigger one on his wound; before drinking an even bigger one. With clenched teeth and one or two groans of agony, he began treating the stabwound, needle, yarn and rum being his sole companions.
The bottle was half empty when he began writing a variety of letters. He scribbled away, remembering the elfess on the walls, the elfess near the dark columns, all the people standing by when he was fighting the one who pierced him almost to death in the middle of Galmair. He finished one letter, a second, and suddenly found himself remembering his own words from tonight. "Nah. Just sounds like you've gazed into that abyss a wee bit too long." You're more right than ye know... more right than ye know...

He coughed, holding his patched up wound again. He took another large sip of rum and thought about why he had crawled out of bed today at all. To see how defences were going. To maybe have a drink with a bunch of fun people. The day had turned out quite differently. He wondered whether he should have stayed in bed. He felt that he was right about it all, but still -- he wondered whether he had to get involved. You're more right than ye know... more right than ye know...

He kept writing, but all the letters seemed in vain tonight. Everything that had to be said had been said. But because nobody was listening, everything had to be said again. He might have taken up Tales of a Traveler had he not known it by heart. "He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster... and when you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you." He wondered, though, whether some people were born as monsters or whether monsters were all made. Musings for another time.

He crumbled the letter he had written these lines on and threw it into the fire. The flame rose for a moment, devouring paper and ink alike. Words burned, memories faded. He turned his gaze to the other letters, finished, signed and sealed. And he remembered that street where he was stabbed by a friend, and where another had not helped. He picked the letters up.

The flames, they burned hight that night over strange dark columns. And Tyan, he fell into a deep sleep, clutching his wound, to awake another day.

Posts: 416
Joined: Fri Jan 18, 2013 2:11 pm

Post by Tyan Masines » Mon Oct 16, 2017 10:59 pm

Re: Murmurs of Old

Has there ever been anything more soothing than the sound of newly fallen snow crunching beneath your feet?

When the white has finally fallen all around (at least in Galmair), everything seems muzzled: Steps, voices, the chirping and rustling of the forests, even the hammers falling in the land's smithies seem to fall a little bit lighter this time of year. Gentler. The same was true for one's thoughts.

And yet winter was a time of cold, too, a time of danger and, mostly because of the recurring horrors of the month Mas, a time of suspense.

>> A unified Illarion? Took a while, didn't it, Masines? <<

>> Hrm. Yes. A while. <<

His meek and uneventful response given in Cadomyr's tavern had triggered suspicion and rightly so.

As he looks down on the packed bags in his depot, all of them neatly labled, he realizes that cleaning up this box -- which does not only store items, but memories as well -- was desperately needed. And while thinking, the muffled sounds of boots walking all around him through the fluffy snow resemble his thoughts. But all that happened, it did not matter, after all. He was only one man. One man's fate is not important.

>> If it is not, what is? <<

He can not endure those remembered words. And still, he discards them, or at least silences them, for the time being. He might have been overthinking matters anyway.
As he empties the neatly packed and labled bags into his depot, he speaks out loudly to himself. This is a mistake. Well, won't be your first, won't be your last. Deal with it.

Nobody will have heard, though. Because the snows are still falling.

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Joined: Fri Jan 18, 2013 2:11 pm

Post by Tyan Masines » Sun Oct 22, 2017 12:01 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

OOC disclaimer: The unfolding of events back then has been discussed and attuned with PO Jefferson Gray. The rest of the details of this casual meeting not long after the introduction of VBU were gathered from my memory.

The hot rising air distorts his vision in the distance. Through the leather of his boots, he can feel the soaring heat of the cobblestones which compose the road that leads to the citadel of Cadomyr. Sweat runs down his face, but most annoyingly, down his neck, tickling him. But he knows he has to endure, just like the sandstone walls of the jewel of the desert, Cadomyr, endure the hardships of the land. The sun is cruel on his pale skin. Perhaps the warmth of this place, this new land, could warm it up, rose it up a little. Or perhaps not.

He, the visitor, walks on. He passes market stalls offering thick blankets. He overhears: desert nights can be awfully cold. And the days, they are hellishly hot? Truly, this place was only pleasant and welcoming during moments of twilight.

The visitor passes by the large bald man guarding the citadel's gates. He finds another market and behind the stall of a peddler of herbs and fruit, a young man and an orc practicing with wooden swords in a sandy pit.
The visitor introduces himself. The young man claims to have been to Gobaith before the cataclysm, but does not know the visitor's name. What a pleasant surprise. For his name often triggered bad memories.

The orc leaves. The young man challenges the visitor. A duel. Because all those who were great warriors on Gobaith, the young man claims, are not worth anything in this new strange land. The visitor accepts the challenge. His daggers do not strike true. He bites the dust -- sand -- in fact, after a short tumble with the young warrior from the desert town. Following his well expected triumph, the young man is crookedly comforting. Don't worry about it. You'll catch up. Join us, maybe. The Crimson Order. We'll show you the ropes.

They talk a bit. The young man is very confident. About everything, especially the future. The visitor tells him that if something seems too good to be true, it probably isn't. The young man shrugs it off. >>I beg to differ.<< They part.

The following day, S'rrt K'shire told Tyan Masines, the young man, about Jefferson Gray, the visitor. That, at times, Jefferson had been a villain on Gobaith.

Gray disappeared from Illarion for a long time after the day of the duel in the sandy pit. Tyan would meet him again many years later. In Galmair. But none of it mattered at that time.

Because it was the Year 41 -- or at least -- very long ago. And history had yet to be made.

Posts: 416
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Post by Tyan Masines » Sat Oct 28, 2017 1:37 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

OOC disclaimer: All the conversations were 100% pulled from game logs from February 2016. I corrected typos and summarized some things that were posted in two sentences -- for the sake of legibility.


>> See, Tyan? I try to balance my anger into positivity... Is it working? <<

>> Er... Jefferson? Are you aware how farming and storms work? <<, Artimer asked.

>> Can't say I do, no. <<

>> He's not exactly a farmer. <<, Tyan observed.

On 22 Tanos 53, Tyan shifts in his bed. But the dream of the past, it continues.

>> And your attempts to channel your anger into more productive and presentable ways is warmly noticed, Jeff. <<

>> Thank you. <<

In his dream, he recalls a conversation at Galmair's market depot. It was snowing, because it was a new year. And Starling, the elfess, was standing on a pile of said snow. Everyone was wearing silly hats. For fun. It was a fun time. Only Jeff was spoiling the fun. Sometimes. And at other times, he was part of it. It was impossible to tell apart, really.

>> I actively need to simmer myself down so I do not make Galmair run red. <<

Who would have taken talk like this seriously when everyone was wearing hats?

>> Also, I'd probably kill most of the citizens here before I left. To prove how weak this place is. <<

Nobody was taking any of it seriously. Why would they. It was just talk. Just talk. Weird talk, for sure. But just talk. Artimer might have taken it seriously. But back then, that would just have branded him a buzzkill.

>> You are looking for variety and spice in life, then turning to the prophetic nature of Nargun would at the very least be interesting. Of course, you would be trading in a bit of your mind <<, Artimer stated.

>> I will seek the solace of Nargun once more. But my mind travels to darker places of war and anger. Since my blood fueled with the snake of Cadomyr I thought of Nargun less and relayed by my own devices. <<

>> My advice, concentrate on the matters at hand more than looking for some wisdom in the void. And your matters at hand are the Guard and the Syndicate. Groups with potential not fully used <<, Tyan advised.

It didn't work out, of course. None of it did. For one reason or another.

>> I shall give it two cycles. <<

>> Arr... <<, commented Advari Stonebog.

>> And then, on the third, I shall make my judgement. <<

But who are you to pass judgement, Jeff. Who are you.

Tyan awoke none the wiser. It wasn't so bad for once. Because nobody else had ever imagined the horrors that were theoretically possible would be reality now. History truly had a perverse tradition of repeating itself.

Posts: 416
Joined: Fri Jan 18, 2013 2:11 pm

Post by Tyan Masines » Mon Nov 06, 2017 1:18 am

Re: Murmurs of Old


He reads -- out loud -- to himself. "Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened." He smirks. Back then, when he had written the book he was holding, he had intended those lines of the postscript for the refugees of Gobaith. He had witnessed their grief of losing a place which had been dear to them, albeit it had also been sometimes called island of sorrow /and/ island of hope. It was possible, perhaps, that even a somewhat dark past could appear more bright when checked against the present. Believing such, however: Was it closure, or capitulation?

"Gloomy!" He once again says out loud and snaps the book shut. An angry student looks up from his book and at Tyan, issuing an unfriendly "Shhh!" while pressing a scraggy finger against his lips.

Tyan places the book back in the shelve and smiles apologetically at the student.

The past is the past and the present is the present, he thinks and nods to himself. The quoted lines, of course, had not only been for the refugees of Gobaith. They had been providence for his own future. Strangely enough. And although better people than him might have died or left since then, he was still around. And above all he was certain that justice was never found in being gloomy all the time. Especially when one was Tyan.

Around him, the muffled voices of pupils studying in the library of Runewick penetrate the otherwise perfect silence. Only the sea crashing against the shore and the waterfowls calling the mage's town's various canals home accompany the students in breaking the silence of the place. None of them mitigate the general tranquility of Runewick, though. It smells of old paper and noble wood, mixed with the salty air of the ocean. Tyan inhales deeply. It is the kind of smell he would never get fully used to, but which he would also not want to miss in his life.

While passing over the great bridge of Runewick to return to the city of stone and snow, he thinks of Gray. What else could anyone think about currently? But he is at peace with his path, because he knows that Gray has probably made his ultimate choice. Finally.

Tyan, however, had made his own choice a long time ago.

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Post by Kraex'Ju » Thu Jan 16, 2020 5:52 am

Re: Murmurs of Old

Deken Olfuer had been called a sand-rat his entire life. One does not easily overcome being born to a disgraced family in Cadomyr. Honor does not grow on palms, as the old adage goes. Couple his lowly birth with being a bastard and the fates came up snake eyes for Deken. Restoring one’s honor when no one even trusts you to pitch a chamberpot was a mournful lot.

Hard to believe four years ago, the coffers of his maternal grandfather dried up following his untimely death, reducing the Olfuers to begging and charity before the calendar turned. Grandmare, or Mare as she liked to be called, quickened to her husband less than a season later. Deken and his mother watched as Mare, bound in linen, dropped into the communal grave pit of Cadomyr, where all copperless peasants find end— nothing more than a priest’s passage and their tears to usher her to Cherga. Mare was one less mouth to feed, but even Cadomyrians have mercy for the elderly, the same could not be said for a sickly, supposed, harlot and her son. Cast from the city for their shameful filth, Deken and his mother groveled at the teleporter of the privileged and along the road to the harbour.

When their lips fissured like canyons, skin of prunes and leather, and their bodies gave to wither Deken’s mother decided to trade their last worthwhile commodity, freedom. Deken’s mother, suffering from Gynk Fever, would perish in the sand before they ever reached the slavers’ market. An emaciated boy of five with no prospects of survival would, undoubtedly, end the Olfuer’s ill-fated line. A line not too far removed from King Reginald’s glory, by which Relen Olfuer notched arrows in his liege’s army. My how far they fell from grace. Fatherless, now motherless, Deken roasted on sea of visions— loved ones, futures untold, far off bizarre lakes of certain death.

Days later he would awake in an orphanage, a striking ageless elfess on stool sat next to his bedside. She had hair of a raven, a smile divine, and mischievous eyes that turned her smile crooked. Words came from her lips but were unheard. By the time he regained his full strength, the elfess had vanished. He asked after her, but only one person claimed to know her name, Starling. Deken would never see the elfess again or confirm the identity but would dream of her regularly. Perhaps another mirage, a muse, or real flesh and bone, mattered not in the wash of time. As if sifting the dead weight of loss and loved ones were part of an elaborate malefic plan, the dial of fate began to turn for Deken.

In less than two years time, Maerta, one of several matrons in the orphanage, would come to the young lad of six, perhaps seven, to inform him he’d been summoned. Without hint as to why, she proceeded to chaperon him to an unpredictable meeting place, the ramparts of Cadomyr. Reasons for the summons raced through his mind: someone had found his father, he’d committed some unknown crime, the orphanage sold him into slavery, and a myriad of other half-cooked ideas plagued him. Last thing he expected was Maerta to open the gatehouse door to the battlement and find a massive orc, nobly dressed, cast in torchlight.

Lo and behold, though, his unadorned head smoldered mossy green as he stared out upon the Queen’s lands in pitch darkness. Apart from his greenish flesh, he mirrored members of the gentry depicted in the orphanage’s paintings. Timeless artifacts, paintings, statues, and the like, littered the orphanage, matrons called them reminders and each came with distinct lesson. Deken had heeded each, swore them into service.

“Meh fanks joo Maerta.” The orc did not turn to speak, his gaze held on the distant horizon. Soundless sprawls of lightning filled the distant sky. His tone warranted no response, and Maerta left without further look or word. Torchlight and lightning weren’t enough to lift the shadows off him entirely. His clothing appeared rich and dark, bloody red doublet and black tights. No hasty words were spoken, the boy unsure of what else to do approached the orc without invitation. He came with slow steady steps, like the stories of treading carefully toward a dragon’s treasure or a stern father.

Deken stopped short of the orc’s propped position, sandal strapped feet played over one another. Aware but unable to contain his nervousness, the lad fidgeted. The curls and sandy tone of the boy’s hair melded to brown near the crown of his head. Undersized and lanky, his formless white tunic and linen trousers accentuated his frailty. A sullen face and listless brown eyes made him appear older— harsh life’s imperfections.

Still speaking to the air, “Yoo will serb meh for nows, libble Deken.” The orc nodded to no one or himself before turning to face Deken properly. “Joo hab any quessions?”

Deken stammered. “I...I...why?”

“‘Cause dur be a god uh chaos in dis world boy.” His commanding voice from before left no room or need to respond.

Two years later, Deken would be back in Cadomyr, a different boy of nine. He came ahead of his master, to do his bidding. Any deed for Sir Kraex’Ju was an honor, the crazed but noble orc had singlehandedly, for no discernible reason— other than he could— saved him. He’d been a harsh father figure, but Deken had grown strong and knew how to labor for what he wanted.

All the boy needed was a chance and Sir Kraex willed one into existence. From a life of day after day begging for scraps to a single letter to the harbour master of Cadomyr setting him on a course to be a proper fisherman. The work was sunup to sundown but It was hard to complain with a full stomach and the ocean breeze to stave off a desert’s curse.

Little did little Deken know, however, the role and responsibility being laid out for him.

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