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Azazel's Fall

Azazel's Fall

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For a thousand years Azazel, the Prince of Darkness has been biding his time. He had fallen, but now he will rise again. And his goal is to reduce the world to ashes.

1,606 readers have visited Azazel's Fall since Dashmiel created it.

Introduction

NOTE:THIS RP IS NOW OPEN. YOU MUST READ BOTH OF THE INFORMATION OOC THREADS BEFORE SUBMITTING A CHARACTER.




After the ending of the creation of Gaia and the realm it occupied, The Creator decided that He had no desire to partake in the existence of His realm. He decided to instead create two supreme beings to watch over His world for Him. He made them both in the direct image of His countenance. One to be the embodiment of His ultimate kindness and goodness, whom He named her Yertreis, and of all beings in His universe she was the most beautiful of all. Every single word of beauty, ineffable or otherwise, derived from her being, and trickled down by her later angels into the world. The other He made in the image of His sublime power and unmentionable wrath. This one he named Azazel, and like his other half, Yertreis, he was beautiful beyond description, and the embodiment of what was to be known as masculinity. Yet, by his own nature as was intended by Him, his mere presence stirred fear upon all who did not bow to his command. And thus, having made His two Reagents, He withdrew from His universe, and disappeared to whence He came.

For Millennia uncounted, Yertreis and Azazel ruled among the heavens, each balancing the powers of the other. Gifted with their Father's powers of creation, they continued his work upon the cosmos. Together, they created the Seraphim to populate the heavens and do their bidding, and the Demyans to uphold their laws and carry the responsibility of protecting the souls of their subjects. All was perfect upon Eden, the name they chose for what later became known as the heavens. However, there was one thing that from the beginning made the whole affair destined to fail. Whether because it was a flaw in the design of The Creator, or a part of His plan all the time, Yertreis and Azazel both carried the intelligence of the Creator, and most importantly of all the things he had endowed them with, free will. To this day, none know who struck first or why. Some say Yertreis and Azazel disagreed upon the matter of Man, for she wanted yet another creature of light, and Azazel wanted Man to carry evil before all else, but somehow, Man ended up being a creature of both, and thus gained a free will. Whatever the real reason, Azazel and Yertreis had a tremendous disagreement, and for hundreds of years, the heavens rang with their fury at one another. Then suddenly, without explanation, the balance that was perfect was broken, and whether Yertreis gained a moment of evil, or Azazel gained a moment of weakness was never ascertained. Azazel found himself exiled from Eden, which itself was split into three parts. Heaven, The Middle Ground, and Hell. The power of creation was torn away from Azazel, among with his godly form, and he was forced to take refuge in Hell from time immemorial. The Master Plan was no more, as far as the Created could tell and the universe was in chaos. Meanwhile, Azazel slept, weak and broken, left in the care of his three trusted Seraphim’s, made by him in his own fashion, and the Demyans who had more in common with him than her.

For a thousand years Azazel slept, and when he awoke, he was furious to see what he had been reduced to. He could no longer create with a thought, or bend by his will. But his nature was unchanged, and his power though diminished, still was a force to be reckoned with. And thus the battle of Hell against Heaven began. Azazel, the Prince of Darkness, feared by Man and Seraphim alike, and Yertreis, sole mistress of the heavens. Azazel vowed to reduce the world to ashes, and bring forth the evil of Yertreis to light, while she deemed him evil, and bowed to imprison him for eternity. And in the midst of it all, stood the many creatures of the underworld, middle world, and over world. Two sides, two causes, or so it seemed, for who can really judge the will and thoughts of the only two true Immortals?

Toggle Rules

Due to the fact that this will be a "Serious" and "Mature" role-play, I expect any who wish to participate to act accordingly in character. If you are a joker by nature, but wish to role-play a serious Dwarf, make sure he doesn't skip from place to place while humming the theme of Miley Cyrus's latest single, or whatever kids are into these days.

There will not be a one-liner EVER. I simply will not tolerate them, and by joining the RP you are consenting to this. There is simply no excuse to a one-liner in here. Two paragraphs at least, and if that is all you can really manage, I fear for Humanity's power of creation, but alas, I'll take you.

Also, posts should be descriptive, literate, and consist of more than just dialogue or action. This is a very character driven roleplay, and as such, you are literally limited only by yourself as to how much material you are able to create.

No Godmodding, in any form, without the consent of the other role player. Draining the blood of NPC 48, perfectly fine. Biting into Johnny the Knight's Jugular without him having a chance to defend himself, very very bad.

Cursing is allowed in character as much as you want, within reason. Last I checked, nuns don't curse much, so if you role-play one, watch the language. If on the other hand you're a sailor...

And lastly, by all means, if you feel like it, have romance, but try to keep it real (and within the site rules of course, the guidelines for Adult content will be strictly observed, and failure to follow them will result in removal from the RP.) Even love at first sight requires some substance.

I don't really care what you do outside of these rules (And within the site rules), as this RP will be very open. All that I ask is that you keep it realistic (Fantasy wise, if that makes sense, if not I'll let you know when you slip), and don't be afraid of the darkness.

I do however, hold the power of final say in any matter regarding the rules naturally, and by joining, you consent to respect them to the best of your ability and the smallest extent of my tyranny.

The Story So Far... Write a Post » as written by 6 authors

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The Fallen God, Azazel
The Grand Cathedral, City of Bellanuva




The night was starless and frigid as usual midwinter nights do in the city of Bellanuva. It was a night of the full moon on the 16th of the month of Trivarin, on the year 1125 by human reckoning. It was also the 1132th year since the fall of Azazel. Presently, the Bellanuva Clock Tower had just struck the 9th hour past noon with it's triple chime signifying the start of the final religious gathering of the day in the Cathedral of Light where it was located. Over six hundred souls were gathered for the ceremony in the main hall of the cathedral. Needless to say, of the six hundred perhaps ten were truly pious and pure of heart. The rest of the congregation were sinners, murderers, low-lives, nobles, and overall posers in search of appearing higher than their peers. As the chorus of young virginal girls handpicked by the Archbishop all in the interest of lascivious views began chanting the opening prayer, Azazel, Prince of Darkness, jumped silently from the clock-face of the tower where he had been sitting.

He landed without sound or injury despite the fall of over a hundred feet in height. Among the gravestones of the graveyard where he chose to land he would have looked like the very embodiment of the Devil to any observer. Which was just as well for him, for that is exactly what he was. Standing at six feet, six inches, with skin as white as marble he resembled a tall living statue not unlike the angels among the tombs of the wealthy who were buried there. He was clothed all in black, black trousers, black tunic top, black shoes, and a head of long jet black hair. Upon his neckline shined a necklace of what appeared to be silver or platinum to the casual observer, with a phial made out of a hollowed diamond which glowed with an otherworldly light. Upon his waist on his left side, by means of a string of human finger bones strung together by a fiery strand of the hair of one of his beloved Damned Ones hung a simple looking short sword, currently resting withing a sheath fashioned after the wing of a dragon with polished jet sinews. His blood-red eyes scanned with names on the tombstones as he slowly walked from where he had landed towards the Cathedral gates. "So little a count of names. It is high time I made the angels at the gates a bit more busy. Still, it is not my fashion to simply end without a great statement being made. Death, how beautiful I can make it." were Azazel's thoughts as he made his way to the side gate of the cathedral and exited the graveyard. He silently walked, seeming to glide his way towards the towering high wooden doors at the front of the church and stood before them just as the final verse of the first prayer was sung:

Ut vires deus servo nos,
quod augeo nostrum ago,
quod diabolus est inops ut vulnero!



As the chorus died down, the Archbishop himself stood in front of the altar, and began his special sermon. Azazel could not help but to smile at how marvelous man was as he listened with perfect clarity from outside the beautiful carved doors. Here was a truly evil man, speaking to his equally evil peers about rejecting the evil temptations of the devil. According to the holy Archbishop, the foundation of all their troubles, of all the evil in their world was all the work of the devil. Azazel found this extremely entertaining. "They blame me for their own deeds! Oh, how shallowly they speak of me, who created half of all that they are. They dare denounce their very nature, their propensity for the sin they all love so much! And to think I thought them a good idea. But alas, amusing at least they are!" thought Azazel with mirth. It was a favorite past-time to hear the ridiculous thoughts of Man. That and hearing their beautiful screams. And the twisting of their fragile minds, and the corrupting of the souls. Not that it took a lot of work, as most of them were already corrupted. He was in the process of beginning to laugh in his melodic way when he heard the sermon turned to something which deeply angered him.

"And it is by the power of that atrocious beast! By that foul and terrible creature! That abomination! That Divine Joke, that evil which corrupts the hearts of men! So you must all repent! Repent from sin! Shun all evil thoughts! Let not the ugliness of the Devil perverse you!" shouted the Archbishop at the top of his lungs, as he brandished a golden cross high in the air. This infuriated Azazel, not because he was called evil, but because he was called ugly. He, the most beautiful and handsome of all beings considered male. The very essence of masculinity sought after by virgin and angel both. Azazel could feel his wrath aroused, and he welcomed it. With a reverberating boom, the huge wooden doors burst open before him. The entire congregation was stunned into silence as He slowly walked among the numerous and long pews towards the Altar. As he made it past the front pew, the Archbishop began denouncing him as a demon from hell, and waved a cross in the air before him.

"Demon from hell you call me? Pathetic human, you are in the presence of he who created all the evil within you! Who gave you your very blood! Look upon my visage and despair! Ugly you called me! A Divine Joke you named me! An atrocious beast you denounced me! It is by my very will that you do the things yo do. Every morning when you have your way with your chorus girls, it is I who gives you his blessing! And you dare call me an ABOMINATION!" said Azazel in his eerily bone-chilling melodic voice. His body showed no sign of strain from shouting, and yet his voice boomed forth in a powerful echo from the high ceiling of the cathedral. The Archbishop ridiculously step forward, shaking and thrusting the cross into Azazel's chest. He held it there for a moment, as if expecting Azazel to burst into flames. With a vicious laughter Azazel took the cross from the Archbishop, and as he began to cower away licked it. The sign of his obscene act stirred some life into the mass of people within the church, and some got up and ran to the open doors. As they made their way to them, flames consumed them and reduced them to ashes within seconds. The entire church perimeter was aflame, and the fire slowly and seemingly deliberately spread it's way upwards but not inwards, containing everyone within their seats.

With another bout of laughter Azazel glided towards where the Archbishop lay cowering in fear with his back to the altar. The hand that was not holding the cross was raised slowly upwards, and the Archbishop was suddenly raised upright, with his feet inches off the floor. With a beckoning motion of Azazel's hand, the Archbishop was pulled close to where Azazel stood. "Look upon your leader, O pathetic souls. He who claimed was a link to your god. A loving gentle god. I wonder...where is this god now? Why does it not strike me now? You see, the only god in this hall is I! Azazel, Prince of Darkness! A shame however, none of you will live to spread the news." said Azazel to the general terror of the people gathered in the church. The young men and women were just beginning to realize the reality of their plight, while the children and old were still too stunned to scream in terror. "As for you, my Archbishop, you sought to burn my sin with your cross. I wonder, will you pass the same test?" said Azazel as he thrust the cross towards the chest of the Archbishop. Immediately he burst into flames, and slowly he burned to death in front of his followers. His skin slowly cooked, and the fluids drained from him and sizzled to the floor. His eyeballs exploded, and his flesh was cracked. Finally, when he was nothing but a charred skeleton, Azazel let him drop and turned back to the people. "Now my children, let us all go to hell shall we?" declared a smiling devil. The final screams of terror included the children and elderly, and the great flames roared to life and engulfed them all.

A mere hour later, Azazel stood once again upon the clock tower, admiring his handiwork. Row upon row of men still tried to smother the still roaring flames with buckets of water. Skeletal limbs could still be seen among the charred remains of the fallen walls.

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The Cursed Seraphim. Olive.
City of Bellanuva



As far as trying to blending in goes, Olive was usually pretty damn good, but as of now, she was only being ignored because of the sour look and miserable appearance she currently sported. And just as though she were a bratty child, she was given no attention whatsoever. Her feet stomped through town, gods she was mad, her frown even reached almost all the way down her chin, her eyebrows shoved together in the manner of an ape. She kicked dirty and dust up on purpose, and did not move out of the way for anyone. She picked a fight about five minutes ago, but it ended with nothing once the King’s Guards showed their ugly mugs to the scene. Her misplaced anger, which was more like depression lately, was left un-quelled and unchecked.

The reason fro the black cloud fallowing over her head was due to an incident where no one would care save for her. Murder was a usual occurrence, especially in the place where the poor were at, which was where the Church’s library was. It happened maybe two weeks ago, and not a soul had visited the makeshift grave she had dug for him. Though now that she thought of it, Bemouth hadn’t mentioned anyone he was friends with and had no visitors that she knew of. So what had the Priest and Street Rat been to each other? Had they each been their only friend? Probably. Worse yet, she couldn’t go back to face his grave after what she did. Tracking down a person and killing them in rage was something she had thought would make her feel ok again, but she just felt worse. Blood was on her hands once more, and this time it really was her doing. Bemouth would be so disappointed in her.

“Hey!”

“Do you know who I am whelp? I am the Lieutenant of his majesty’s royal street guard! Do you think I’m going to let you off easy after pick pocketing me? Feel lucky it is only your hand you are losing!” A snarling voice belonged to a man in shining amour, not exactly a Prince Charming though, and definitely not a savior. The smaller child was quivering, about to wet himself begging the makeshift knight not to cut off his hand. The scene made Olive pause mid-stride, and set off to go do something stupid. She couldn’t let some kid get his hand chopped off, and she couldn’t have her face memorized by a Lieutenant. But she certainly could send him on a wild goose chase.

The man went to draw his sword, but found it wasn’t there, a sharp whistle drew his attention and he looked up, a light haired youngling with their back turned to him, using the sword, still in its sheath, to lean on casually. He looked back to his belt, only to find the rope holding it to his belt had been untied, rather quickly he had to admit.

“Good luck getting this back.” A still scowling Olive righted her stance and tossed the sword up, catching it in a show-off manner and then running off at a full sprint. The makeshift knight, flanked by his two lackeys, who until then had been leaning on the wall, muttered curses as they gave way to pursuit.

Olive looked back, she was losing them too fast, she slowed and allowed them time to catch up, though turned into an alley so as not to make it too easy on them. She was so busy looking over her shoulder that she failed to notice someone in the alley, this someone decided to stick out there boot, and trip Olive, making her face connect with the ground unpleasantly. “OOF… In the name of all that is holy, why!?” She turned her head to stare at the boot that tripped her, as the person had sauntered over. Olive got no response besides an amused chuckle; she stood up haughtily and brushed herself off. She gritted her teeth sharply and gave a strained smile to the stranger, who was strange enough to be called a stranger; guy had weird bug-eyes and moved his head like a bird, in sharp movements. He was studying her as though she were a new toy. “Here you go sir, a nice new sword for your troubles, have a splendid day!” She slapped his shoulders in a mock salutation and jogged off, having shoved the fancy looking sword-filled sheath into the man’s hands. He looked curiously at it before chuckling again.

“You must be her handiwork! Poor pitiful creature…” He shouted out to Olive, who was gone around another corner, her head popped back however, as she flipped the man the bird. “Don’t know what you mean you horse’s ass, but you look way more pitiful than-!” She ducked back around the corner, the guards had caught up, and upon finding the sword in the strange man’s hands they seized him. Olive snicked at her vengeance and slinked off again. She hadn't any clue what the man had meant, and certainly no clue that the man was actually a Demyan, a spy one to be specific, but she did know she must have looked pitiful. This did render her in a better mood however, as the rush was a pleasant feeling after successful teasing of the guards.

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The legendary son, Ororot

The Lord & Lady Tavern, Lantol, Aelvale

-------------------------------------------------------

At these heights in the mountains mid-winter nights were unforgiving. A dark grey billowing mass of clouds hung over the town of Lantol and a light snowfall fell over the land. Only the unfortunate or foolish were outside on a night such as this, those poor town guardsmen. Most others were inside taking shelter from the storm surely to come. At home, the church, or the tavern. Where wasn’t important as long as a fire was roaring and there was good company to be shared. Human, Elf, Dwarf, native or foreigner, it mattered not. The extreme cold had a way of bringing the bitterest of enemies together, even if only till spring. A plate of food, ale, and a nice warm bed seemed to help to. Needless to say all was peaceful for the time being.


“Aww!” The mother’s loud cry of despair rang through the Lord & Lady Tavern. “My baby! My baby is gone!” Tearing apart the crib in which her child slept just minutes ago tears flowed down her checks as the realization that her child had been stolen set it. “N… no” Was all she could mumble as she fell to her knees and wept.


Bursting through the door, room seventeen, the barkeep and several concerned patrons filed in. “Go warn the guard and check the back alley!” Shouted the barkeep as he noticed a window in the room was open, something the mother probably failed to notice in her grief stricken state. Quickly the tavern filled with the noise of stomping feet and the shouts of others as they formed search parties. Helplessly the barkeep stared out the window as one of the barmaids tried her best to comfort the mother.


Running barefoot, the pitter-patter of his feet the only sound he made, Ororot carried in his arms a bundle of blankets, wrapped in his robe sleeves. Quickly he navigated the back alleys, a left here, a right there, another left, another right, and so forth. Making it a few streets away from the Lord & Lady the town guard had sounded the alarm. “Fools.” Thought Ororot with glee. They would tear the town apart, entering every house, searching every shadow, overturning every stone, and even as going as far as searching the sewers if so ordered by their captain. Already the guards were pouring out of their barracks, still half asleep, organizing men into groups to begin searching. But for all their efforts they would surely be disheartened to learn they were to late.


Coming to a stop in front of a shanty, for the first time Ororot noticed the infant was whimpering. “Shh… it will all be over very soon, I promise.” Said Ororot comfortingly. Wrapping the blanket more closely around the infant he held it in one arm while he used his other to open the door. Inside there wasn’t much, a chair with his staff leaned up against it, a small simple fireplace that kept the temperature bearable. Drawn in the center of the room in what looked to be blood was a five-pointed star, inside a circle, inside a seven-pointed star. One of the countless symbols of Azazel, this simple symbol was a force to be reckoned with by those who worshiped Yertreis, but in the hands of a follower of Azazel could be a dangerous and powerful weapon. Ororot worshiped neither so every time he used such a symbol he risked angering the wrong ‘beings.’


Briskly Ororot stepped into the pentagram, a flux of dark energy overtaking him. “For you.” He said as he placed the child in the center star, his whimpering ceased. Lying there the child quickly fell asleep. Standing over the child he wondered for a second as to which method would be best. A second later he had decided, Soul Feast. It would be quick and relatively painless since an infant hadn’t much to offer. Placing a hand over the infant’s head and the other over his belly he began, at first with a faint chant, than with a forceful slam as his hands came down upon the infant. Instantly he was awoke, startled at first, than in intense pain the next. Breaking into a high pitch squeal tears formed in the infant’s eyes, their color quickly fading. Moments later it was over, the infant lay in the center of the pentagram dead, and Ororot was gather of his things. With his deed done he poked at the fireplace with his staff, dragging out several glowing red coals, leaving promptly as the floor beneath them began to burn.

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Hell's Steward.
The 9th Circle of Hell.



"Hotter you thrice accursed mongrel! You can't have flesh slough off bone without it being hotter! Damn you all, I should burn you along with them and be done with it!" bellowed the massive creature from it's throne of skulls. Sulfur and steam dominated the air, scorched earth and magma the floor. With a deep breath of anger, Vlak, the Prime of the Demyans and Keeper of the Seat of Suffering took in a large dose of that foul miasma which permeated hell and tried for the tenth time to not tear his underlings apart. As he continued to yell and berate, countless lesser demyans scurried about underfoot in a frantic effort to meet the demands of their taskmaster. His twenty feet tall frame upon a throne of bones, a good three feet of that gory horns, barbed tail lashing, and seven angels tied to stakes beneath him ready to be sacrificed. More or less the same image countless idiots would paint in the Middle World and display in Her churches. As always, Vlak had to stifle a chuckle at the irony of how right they were.

"M-m-m-masteeer. Th-th-the F-f-fiery br-brew izhh r-r-ready." groveled some underling or another to Vlak as he pondered whether or not to gift His Workship with the wings of the angels. Since time immemorial a garrison of Angels had been kept in Hell, to gather those souls bound to Heaven, or The Great Farce as Vlak liked to call it. It would be sweet news to deliver to Him. No longer would Angels be tolerated in His domain. For now on, all mortal souls belonged to Him. For now on, All mortals would burn in hell.

"Good. Roast them. Actually, you over there! I want to smell burning feathers before I'm done snacking." bellowed Vlak as his powerfully clawed hand snatched the nearest demyan and squeezed. A quick snack accompanied by the lilting dying screams of what many believed to be creatures superior to his ilk. Vlak was most pleased.

"Save the bones for Cerb, and make sure you idiots don't get eaten when you go feed him. It's getting tiresome having to replace your worthless hides. Hell has truly gone to hell I swear...I ought to go up and cull the numbers a bit...again, but no time, no time...." droned a pensive Vlak as he slipped into the fiery depths of Hell, to that place where only he, Them, and Him could go. The stage was set. It was time to prepare for His Master's servant.

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#, as written by Erroll
Lucero, Deceiver, Demyan, Single
Walden's Tavern and Inn, Bellanuva


"Of course, my dear. Anything you want."

What woman wouldn't want to hear that voice, smooth is velvet, whispering those words in her ear? Wrapped in warm arms, swaddled in fine satin sheets it makes the bitterness of sin so sweet. Use the word love and it's justification for anything. Forsaking your vows, abandoning your family, leaving your little ones crying in their beds longing for the gentle voice of their mother to lull them into sweet dreams. That's what's so pathetic about humans. They never know what they really want and always want what they can't, or shouldn't, have. They want goodness, safety, kindness and nobility but they crave satisfaction, cruelty, debauchery, humiliation. Lucero is just the one to give it to them... for a price.

"We'll be gone in the morn. I'll give whatever your heart desires. I'll clothe you in silks, cover you in jewels, my little doll. I'll..."

Blah, blah, blah, ect, ect. The fact is, he's bored. He thought this would be a rousing chase. She had seems so good natured and honest. A wife and mother. Cross carrying, say your prayers at morning, noon and night, dyed in the wool church goer. But it all fell into place too easily. From fashioning a look that caught her eye, the classic blond nobility type, to getting her alone to getting her in bed. After the first lay, it wasn't a challenge at all. It's his own fault really. He's just too good at this. Maybe he should tone down his skills a little. Would that help? Is he too handsome, too courtly, too princely?

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" There's a murmur of acquiescence from, what's her name again? Amanda... Amantha... "Ammie, dearest."

It was Am-something or other because he didn't get an objection from calling her that. He really ought to finish this now. She's already damned herself ten times over but he's an indulger, of himself of course and a soul is a soul. That's the problem with gathering souls. The truly pure of heart don't just hand you their souls. You always have to tarnish and corrupt a human soul before they're ready to give it up. The one thing of any value these idiots truly possess and they'll give up for the simplest of pleasures. Just think what he could do with an untarnished soul. Just the thought of the power it would give him makes him clutch his bed partner tighter bringing a delight chirp from her lips. But alas, his skills are not up to that sort of challenge. Only the truly great are skilled enough to get the pure of heart to relinquish their soul willingly. Perhaps not today, perhaps not soon but a Demyan can dream, can't he?

In the meantime, back to business and despite the ease of it all, he does love what he does. What's that they say? Love what you do and you'll never work a day in your life. When he isn't running the gambit of Demyan society, he does love his work. Some are born for violence, for tearing bodies limb from limb and glorying in the drinking of blood. He can respect that. It's just not his lot in this life. He was born to manipulate and deceive and thanks be to Azazel that there is sin and evil enough in the world for him to work his own small wonders.

"You will be mine, won't you? Mine, body and soul?"

There's actually dramatic pause. It's great when they do that! Then a sweetly whispered "Yes...". So sweetly in fact if his heart wasn't ice, he wouldn't sit up and reach for the pillow upon which his head was just resting. He wouldn't use it to smother her screams as his other hand reaches into her chest. Not so much into her chest as through it. Lucero roots around within her being none too kindly or gently. She doesn't deserve gentle. Shredding, clawing and tearing that shining orb from within her as she struggles and sobs and screams out of the pain into the muffling feathers of the pillow.

He leaves the lifeless body in the room. Some cleaning person or other will find it eventually. There's not a mark on it. He's not the garish type. Not that he wouldn't rip a body to pieces to get a soul if he had to but then, his nice clothes would be ruined. No one will be able to find the handsome, blond man she came in with. He always looks completely different. Anyone looking at him will see a kindly old woman making her way home for the night. Now that's done, time to find more prey. In Bellanuva, there's always more prey to be had.

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The Cursed Seraphim. Olive.
City of Bellanuva, Cathedral


So Olive decided something today…birds could go to hell for all she cared. Her sporadic ‘ows’ and ‘eeps’ were fallowed by flailing arms as she tried to fend off her winged attackers. For some strange reason her head was being assaulted by a swarm of at least ten crows. They drove her further and further away from the Cathedral. She had no idea what triggered this sort of behavior, but it only made her scared, especially after the sight she had just seen.

The Cathedral, the largest and most decorated building in all of Bellanuva, was in the process of burning into a crisp, the smell of ash and the burning bodies was sickening, and the people who had tried to put the fire out had to watch hopelessly and let it run its course, for there was no quelling it. Olive had no ties to the Church personally, but all those people burned to death? People were weeping, weeping and staring. Somehow tragedy brought a group on onlookers together, and they had started to pray, wondering why their loving God would allow such a thing. It was then that Olive had begun to think of them as foolish. The events here on the earth were of no fault or concern but to those who walked on it. Man had free will, and choice brought forth things that were both good and bad. Priest Bemouth had taught Olive that a long while ago, she had found his words made sense, and lived by them.

But back to the damn birds, they had swooped down from nowhere it seemed and began violently attacking her, corralling her away from the church. These birds were actually low intelligence Demyans who had felt the presence of their Lord, and sought to drive away anything that might interfere with the fire, like someone with a strong Magical signature. Someone like Olive, of course she had no idea she was being berated by Demyans, or the reason, she just started yelling curses at them and hitting them in any way she could. She ran down the stone street and made a sharp turn, bumping into an old woman by accident due to her flailing.

“OH DUNG, are you alright ma’am?” Olive steadied the old woman with both hands; she looked like one of those kind grannies with a warm home and baking skills that could make a chef envious. Olive quickly let her go and looked around sharply, remembering her pursuers. But they were suddenly gone. “That’s strange…a flock of crows were berating me moments ago.” Her eyes squinted as she paused, rubbing one of the many thin scratches on her face with bitten and sore fingers. Her pause lasted dramatic moments before, “Ah well, I am not going to complain about them going at least. Not as though I want to be bird feed.” She shrugged, her expression going back to the bland normal as she passed up the old woman. “Have a nice night ma’am! And watch out for crows!” She waved behind her, taking off at a run down the alley the old woman had come from.

Olive had planned for that to be the end of that, but it wasn’t even a full minute before the crows seemed to simply jump from the shadows and go at her again. “ARGH! AWAY WITH YOU!!” It sent her running right back towards the area where the old woman had been, she had not gone far and it took no time at all for Olive to catch up with her again, and again, strangely enough the crows seemed to disappear as Olive approached the elderly woman. She walked behind her, panting and looking about in an undignified manner. “Ma’am…” She said weakly, “Do you mind if I walk you home?” At this point Olive did not care why the crows were disappearing around the old woman, she simply cared that they stayed away from her.

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The afternoon sun sat quietly in the sky as its rays brightened the normally glum hill leading to the spacious Vernon estate. A light, playful, sweet-smelling nature air began to blow at a steady pace, playfully uplifting dead leaves and dirt and scattering them beneath the towering, lush trees that covered the area. It was a gorgeous, golden day, yet a mundane one for the 16-year old owner of the land.

Laila Vernon sat atop her balcony overlooking her deserted garden with disdain. Weeds had begun to sprout in small patches, and in some places there was just infertile dirt. She had wanted something planted there, but she was uncertain of the flowers that should be placed. A light sigh escaped her lips as she pondered over what she should do now. It’s not like she ever left the land, and she was becoming rather bored. It was a common occurrence here, boredom. She had put up with it her entire life.

“Would you favor a glass of cider, my lady?”

Standing at the entrance of the balcony was Aldwin, holding a tray that was topped with a glass of a dark liquid, and a plate which housed a few pieces of sliced figs. He grinned at his young master serenely before making his way to the table where she sat. Aldwin was a tall man, in his mid forties, with dark but graying hair, and grey eyes that were filled with wisdom. He wore a black, fitting waistcoat that meshed well with his muscular physique and black breeches that clung to his legs. He placed the tray on the table, awaiting her response.

“Thank you.”

Laila picked up the glass delicately and took a sip. After several moments of quiet, she placed the glass back on the tray, and resumed staring out at the pitiful garden again.

“Is the cider not to your liking, my lady? You usually enjoy it.”

“No, its fine,” Laila responded, staring unblinkingly at the unwanted weeds in her garden. After a moment's pause, she spoke. “I was just thinking. About this current situation.”

Aldwin noticed she was staring out at the garden. “If you would like, I could go out and fetch some seeds from the market. I could be back before sundown and have them sewn by tomorrow morning, if that is your request.”

But even as he spoke, 16 years of experience had shown him that it wasn’t the garden that was the issue. He saw the unmistakable look of boredom and sadness in her eyes.

“It’s not the garden after all, is it, young master.”

Laila craned her neck toward him, smiling. “Aldwin, I am the master of the Vernon estate, and me alone. It would be silly to abide by rules that were set out for me so long ago.”

So he had been right; His young master wanted to see the outside world. She may not have said it directly, but he completely understood. Bowing, the man-servant smiled broadly as he spoke. “Young master Laila, if it is your request, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.”

Laila couldn’t help but grin as well. “Then I will give you my wish: I wish to visit the city of Bellanuva. Have the horses drawn and be ready to depart in 10 minutes.”

Aldwin bowed deeply yet again. “Of course,” he said before turning and walking back through the entrance of the balcony. His heavy footsteps echoed throughout the house as he headed for the stables.

The big oaf of a cat, Percival, had awoken from his third nap of the day, and gave a sleepy “mee-ow” as he rubbed his back on the table’s legs. Laila stood up from her chair, breathing in a deep breath. “My parents tried to shelter me, but they are gone. I appreciate the protection, but I am almost an adult.” She flapped her beautiful, mismatched wings, bending her cream colored wing to fit in her hand. She caressed the wing gently for a few minutes silently. Finally, she spoke once more. “It will be fun, I bet, visiting the city.” With that, she turned and headed to the outside, the big cat right at her heels, where the horses would be waiting…

An hour later, Laila Vernon arrived at the city of Bellanuva.

Stepping out of the hand-made wooden carriage drawn by the horses, Laila began to slowly walk into the city, head held high-

"Madam."

Aldwin hopped off of the horses, standing upright and holding his young master's golden, glimmering pendant that was inherited from her mother. "Your heirloom."

Laila allowed the manservant to place the valued pendant around her neck. Instantly, her wings shrank into her body. "Remember that this pendant is only useful until the sun runs out. After that, your wings will be completely visible. By the looks of it, you won't have too much time in the city before we must depart." Aldwin smiled. "I will be awaiting your return. Do not worry," he said, grinning once he saw her frown up. "I'm more than sure you don't want an old man hobbling behind you. If you need anything, I will be there instantly; until then, I must fetch a few things from the market."

Percival hopped out of the carriage finally, yawning and trotting over to where Laila was, and they began to walk. "I guess you'll have some company afterall," the butler laughed. After a few minutes of silent walking, they both stopped in front of a big building. "Please my lady, do enjoy yourself. Might I recommend stopping inside of the Arcanium University? You'll be pleased to know that your mother used to work here." Aldwin smiled once more, taking his master's long silence as his cue to leave.

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#, as written by Erroll
Lucero, Deceiver, Demyan, Single
Near Kingdom Street, Bellanuva


They say idle hands are the devil's workshop. That can't be true because Lucero keeps himself constantly busy and his hands are continually doing the devil's work. Who has time to be idle when there is so much work to be done. So many souls practically begging to be corrupted. If he didn't look the part of an old woman he would have a decidedly pleased spring in his step. He's just gobbled down a yummy soul and there's certainly an aura of power and oppression in the air. The news of the fire is on everyone's lips. Disasters like that are a feeding ground for Demyan ambitions. It always bring a pall over the area. Those negative emotions are a Demyan's playground. Since he was not in the area when the fire happened, he's not aware of exactly who caused the fire but just the residual energy is powerful, delicious even. It may have even been a Prime or maybe even The Prime, Vlak. That thought sends a shiver through him. The only times he's encountered residual energy from that august entity is after a culling. Vlak was respected even revered by the Demyans as Azazel's creation and appointed caretaker of Hell. Among the Demyans respect equals fear.

Whatever a being clearly far more powerful than he is doing Lucero most certainly does not want to interfere. He had been planning to find a secluded spot and make his way back to Hell but a strange presence coming towards him stalls him. He can easily sense the crows, Demyan menials on some task or other but then there's something else. What is it he's not quite sure. In the midst of his puzzlement is when the collision happens.

"Oh my word!" The old woman who is a Demyan shouts, as he is knocked unceremoniously on his plump old lady rump. "Goodness, me. I am sorry. I should not have been standing in the middle of the street lost in thought like that."

Even though it is the scrawny street rat that dumped into him, Lucero plays his part to perfection taking the blame for the accident and looking confused and befuddled as any old lady would in the same situation. He hobbles to his feet as the child at least has the good sense and manners to apologize and help a nice old lady steady herself. This seems to be the source of the confusing presence. There is something about her but she doesn't pop up as one particular thing or another to his senses. She doesn't give him much time to think as she runs off. Not that it matters. He's taken note of her now, likely the reason she was sent fleeing in his direction in the first place. He could always catch up with her in another guise later.

He was about to again make his way to a secluded spot when the scrawny street girl is chased back his way. Stupid menials! Those things have absolutely no finesse. That is no way, no way at all to start an introduction! You have to make it look natural. Having crows literally herd you to someone... too suspicious. Sure, no one is going to instantly think "Demyan" in such a situation but it's a variable you don't want to introduce. If she were to talk to the right person, a knowledgeable priest, a magician, an account of this encounter might spark a connection. Still, you work with what you get.

"Well, aren't you a delight?" The old woman replies with a bright smile. "Most children these days have no sense of responsibility and here you are offering to help an old bag of bones like me on my way."

There are things he had wanted to do but they can wait for this interesting turn of events. It's not everyday prey jumps right into your net.

"Are you familiar with Kingdom Street? It's this way." Guiding the child to a place he keeps. It actually use to belong to this old lady. He held on to it when he finished off her. Great place to hideout and hold up. "My name is Lattie by the way. It's so nice to meet you."

At first glance, the girl had seemed like your run of mill street urchin but a second look shows there's something more to this girl. Looks don't really mean anythinh to Lucero. Anyone else's look doesn't matter. His own looks matter immensely. Whether she's pretty or not is least important, though she's not half bad. He could pretty her up without too much trouble if he cared to do so. What he looks for are clues as to what sort of person she is. She's dressed as drab as any street rat but her skin has a glow of health to it so she's likely getting regular meals but she's out on the street being chased by crows and not working as a child of her station likely would be in a profession either honest or old. He prattles away like the old woman he appears to be leading the girl to a modest residence. It's small home among other small homes. A bit unappealing on the outside. Not unusual for an old woman with no one to help with the upkeep but the inside is cozy and warm.

"Would you like to come in for some tea and cakes before you head home as a thank you for helping me home?"

Whether she takes in the invite or not, he'll be able to keep track of her. He may not know what she is but she stands out to his senses. He'll also have to do some investigating about this child. Someone obviously has an interest in her. When he gets back to Hell he check his own resources and see what he can find out.

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The Holy Triumvirate: Adam, Cain, and Eve.
The Tower of the Sun and Moon, chamber of the Cradle of Magic, New Eden.





Light. Sublime and supreme light reined over all objects and beings in this realm. It was as if a million suns were being refracted by some great crystal, or a myriad of small crystals refracted some great sphere of light. Whichever was the case, the effect was aesthetic made physical. Every single facet of the light spectrum was in some perfect way visible. Everything was clear, and visibility was stretched to mind numbing levels.

Upon everything the light struck, there rose the most magnificent works of architecture that any mind could conceive. Here great columns of the whitest marble rose, carefully inlaid with stony roses that might as well be living, for such was the detail crafted upon them. Indeed, everywhere the eye turned too, the most marvelous of creations met the eye. Here there was a living beetle confusing a detail on the bottom of a column with it's brethren, there a statue of nymph in a small lake of immortalized diamond. This of course, was Heaven. New Eden as it was called by it's inhabitants. A land of peace, love, and righteousness. Or so everyone believed, for what is light without shadow for it to be measured by?

In the middle of it all, stood a magnificent tower of a size and scope that dwarfed all else in New Eden. It was made entirely of a white rock with veins of a platinum hued metal in which small diamond like crystals could be seen. In a great spiral it rose, far above the golden clouds of New Eden, at a height were even the passage of the common Angel was restricted. The tower opened up at the top much like a human made lighthouse would. Within this opening there were two stones, forever shining. These two stones were of a very great size, and to see them from afar was misleading. Each one measured many yards in diameter, and twice as many in height. Most curious of it all was the fact that they were not supported by the tower itself, but instead floated about in their chamber. Both were semi transparent, and slowly orbited around the room opposed to each other. One was made in the likeness of the sun, with many a long crystal spike revolving around it. The other was made in the likeness of a crescent moon, and whereas the sun stone was a light orange, this one was the color of quicksilver. This was the Tower of the Sun and Moon, and the point which the two great stones circled was the Cradle of Magic.

The Cradle of Magic was perhaps the most mundane looking of all the artifacts that New Eden contained. In the center of the chamber where the Sunstone and the Moonstone resided there was a large runic circle inscribed. This circle predated everything else in New Eden by a measure of time that even the Holy Three found hard to comprehend. It was written in a language unknown to all beings, save the Reagents. Not Adam, Cain, Eve, Abel, Lucian, nor Lilith could read it. It was meant holy for the immortals to read, and what it said was unknown to the Damned Ones and the Holy Three. At the perfect center of this circle there stood a lectern. Stood being a mere form of speech, for the lectern forever and unmovingly levitated exactly at the "Sectio Divina" of the distance which Yertreis's and Azazel's eyes were the moment they were created and upon their embrace awakened to first lay eyes upon one another. This was however, another bit of information only They knew. The lectern was made of two crystalline serpents which were conjoined at their tail and as they went around each other separate to the point where their heads rested next to each other, each one pointing in a different direction. One serpent was made of something akin to jet, but infinitely more powerful. The other made of something akin to diamond, but infinitely more beautiful. Atop the lectern, where the heads of the serpents joined to create the base where a book could fit, sat the origin of all magic. What was known to the only six who were ever allowed to enter the chamber besides the Reagents as The Magister Magus Grimoire.

The Origin of Magic was like the runic circle around it. Only Azazel and Yertreis could truly read it. However, all magic users were capable to the smallest extent derive some meaning from it. Every time a summoning was made, a spell was cast, or a prayer was granted, the perpetrator had unknowingly uttered a single syllable from the infinite number of words inscribed within The Grimoire somewhere in their spells. The stronger the being, the more power they could derive from such syllables. It was however the bane of all magic users that they could not recall which word exactly in all their spells was the one that derived from the Grimoire. This very small detail is what granted the Damned Ones and the Holy Three the power difference that was so great when compared to everything but The Reagents. They were not capable of understanding the book, but they could mimic it, and they could recall what each word did. Such a small thing is what made them so dangerous to everything else. In spite of this, they all still understood how pathetically small this was in comparison to the true power They had over it.


For over a thousand years the pages of The Grimoire had remained unmoved. Yertreis was presumably within her lair, the Ouroboros chamber, and her presence had not been felt in New Eden. And Azazel of course was finished for good, In hell where his evil belonged. But that had now changed. In their vanity The Holy Triumvirate-or Sanctus Triumviri as they called themselves- had not bothered to keep watch over the realms as was their purpose. Instead they had opted for a thousand years to do as they please, and rule the heavens as if they were gods. Adam and Eve were more often than not busy with each other, and Cain usually was content to spend his eternity writing and reading. Thus, they all though the world was good, and goodness reigned supreme.

Until the moment when the Moonstone and Sunstone reversed their orbit and The Grimoire's pages began to frantically turn by some unseen force.

"It cannot be. It is impossible. It MUST NOT BE." thundered the voice of Adam, Commander of the forces of Heaven.

"Merely wishing can not undo what has transpired. Closing our eyes will not change the undeniable truth" whispered Cain, Arch-Magi of Heaven.

"So it is...Our Dark Father returns to us...and Mother is nowhere to offer us Her succor..." moaned Eve, High Priestess of Heaven.

"We must gather our forces. We cannot stop the flow, not here at the source. But perhaps we can dam it somewhere farther down the line. If He was truly and fully risen, none of us would be standing here right now. He must have needs of something else, and we must deny him this. I shall summon our garrison in Hell, they might know more about this from their watch over His infernal creations." replied Adam gruffly.

"I must fetch our lost human forms. In retrospect, allowing a part of us to walk the earth unknowingly so that we need not be aware was not the best course of action..." Cain's voice was heavy with a sarcasm that was not lost on his brethren.

"If you mean to blame ME, I will have you know I had no choice in the matter! That infernal whore would have gained entry through the gates had I not allowed that part of my soul to be ripped free. It was your idea to simply do the same for your own laziness in your duties, so don't go around blaming me!"

"ENOUGH. We do not have time for this. Cain, go do what you must. Eve, you can't return to Gaia until you are complete once again. Instead, organize the Faith, and prepare another Prophet. We needs have a Champion of the Light in the middle world to act as our vanguard." interjected Adam.

As one, the Holy Triumvirate vanished and set about on their respective duties. Had they not been so rash, they would have noticed the ghostly form which floated over them, smiling.

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"The Earthbreaker", Giadon
The Northern Pass, the Road to Bellanuva

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There was a fell wind in the chill air. The cold was unnatural, chilling Giadon to the core even though it was midday. It felt as if an evil presence had blanketed the land. Evil incarnate was at work in this land. The light frost that permeated the ground crunched slightly underneath Giadon's mighty boot. The worn, cobbled road ran directly through a narrow canyon; it was one of the very few ways to reach Bellanuva from the Northlands. The path was severely unkempt, but that was understandable. There wasn't very many people who actually wanted to undergo the harsh trek into the icy wastes of the North. The walls of the canyon gave the road an oppressive feeling, as if you were about to be swallowed by the Earth itself. A lone crow swooped into the trench from the open sky and glided overhead of Giadon. The bird let out a single caw, the harsh sound echoing what seemed the entire length of the trench, as if a murder of crows flew by instead of one. Giadon quickly extended his arm towards the crow, his hand a fist with his forefinger and little finger pointing forwards towards the bird: the Ward against the Evil Eye. Giadon lowered his arm and crossed quickly himself. Even after being away from home for all these years, his mother's mannerisms still stuck strong with him.

The bird quickly flew out of the trench, with the sound of it's blood-curling caw still echoing about the trench, although faintly. Whatever suspicions of malevolence Giadon had were now confirmed. Crows had always been hailed as bringers of bad news, spies for Azazel, and even a sort of Demyan. To see one in such a lifeless surrounding, and only one of the cursed birds, was surely a sign. There was something sinister further along the road... but what, Giadon could not say.

Night fell, and still the trench stretched out in front of Giadon, with no end in sight. Although it went against his intuition, Giadon settled to the side of the path and began to prepare camp. A small, yet hearty, fire was quickly lit, and the last of Giadon's food stores were cooking over and near it: a few strips of deer meat, a small loaf of bread, and two handfuls of beans stewing in some water with some basic seasonings. Nearby, a flask filled with a drink the Northlanders called Hraun, a strong, spicy liquor that warmed the joints and heated the blood. Giadon had removed his armor, now garbed in a thick coat, fur leggings and boots, and a large fur hat. The night was black, and it bore down on Giadon's campsite. Even though the opposite wall of the trench was no more than ten feet away, it was completely hidden from view. It seemed as if there was nothing outside of the fire's light, only swirling darkness. A sense of unease had settled in Giadon's heart, and had since began to grow. It sounded as if there were things slithering in the dark; giant, unspeakable things that should never see the light of day, that no man should ever witness for fear of losing his sanity. Giadon was braver than most men, but even so, he could not deny the sensation rising up through him: Fear. He was able to contain it, but it was still there none the less: waiting for the perfect moment to come bursting out.

Giadon settled in for what he knew was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.
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Giadon's eyes snapped awake, completely aware of his surroundings. The fire was now barely more than coals, casting a dim glow on the campsite. The Darkness was even more oppressive, as if it were a living wall of malice. Giadon quickly sprang to his feet, his hammer Kivi gripped tightly in his hand. Just outside of the range of the fire, cloaked in the darkness, was a single set of eyes. The pure white pupils rimmed blood-red irises. The eyes were terrible and beautiful, causing a sense of ultimate despair and yet, they were irresistible. No matter how hard he fought it, Gideon could not look away. A single word floated through the air, cutting the silence as easily was a heated knife through butter. The word was in a language not known to any mortal, and for the rest of his days, Giadon could never repeat it, no matter how hard he tried. Even though he couldn't understand the word, it's intent was all to clear. The word instantly brought images of death, destruction, and ultimate suffering. The word personified Evil itself.

As soon as the word had been spoken, the eyes vanished and the darkness lifted. Giadon was left standing alone, with his hammer in a death-grip, his hands refusing to let go. He stayed this way until sunlight began to awaken the rest of the sleeping world around him.

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The legendary son, Ororot

Inside the Lord & Lady Tavern, Lantol, Aelvale


Ororot casually stepped outside the shanty, closed the door behind him, and took off towards the alleyway behind the shanty. Turning right into the next alley he was able to catch a glimpse of the growing flames through a hole in the back wall. “Burn!” He thought with an overwhelming sense of joy. Having a personal hatred for Lantol it was no concern to him if the town were to be set afire. He was just “thinning out those against the cause.” Or that was what he said to justify it. As he continued the shouts of men could be heard from all around. They pounded on doors, busting in ones that didn’t open, accused people of kidnapping the child, and tore their houses apart in search for the child that in the end wasn’t there. The search was more a mad frenzy, the guards unable to search because they had to stop the others who were tearing the town apart in the search.

At the same time the child’s mother lay collapsed in her tavern room. Both the barkeep and maid had left; the barkeep to join in on the search, and the maid was obtaining nourishment for the mother. Two other maids and she were the only ones left running the tavern. With only the elderly and the strangers to these parts left there were a little over a dozen patrons. The tavern was filled with low spirits and not much conversation occurred.

Trying his best to go unnoticed it was a relief that he was noticed only a alleyways distance away from the Lord & Lady Tavern. With the whole town on alert the gate had surely been closed and were going to remain so. The fire would surely force them to open the gates so populace can escape. Lantol architecture consisted up mainly of wood with stone, only the castle was solid stone.

“Who goes there!?” Shouted a gruff voice that boomed out into the night. It was the barkeep. Six feet tall, he nearly matched Ororot in height, though he had far more muscle mass.

“I’m just a passerby on his way to the Lord & Lady.” Ororot replied with a smirk from beneath his hood. “I believe I’m close. Could you direct me in the right direction?”

The barkeep wasn’t sure what to think about the robbed and hooded man before him. He obviously looked shifty. Who else besides a shifty person would walk around on the cold snow covered grown barefoot? “I don’t accept rift-raft in my tavern. It’s probably best you just head back to where you came.” Said the barkeep with a shooing wave.


“Rift-raft… who me?” Ororot said as if shocked by the word. “I assure you I’m far above the rift-raft of the world… though I make not always look it.” He said as he lifted his robe slightly to shoe his feet clearly. “I may be barefoot, but I have money… real money.”

Wide eyed the barkeep just stared at the man, shocked. He wasn’t expecting him to be so civilized. “I’m… I’m sorry sir, please feel free to make yourself at home at my tavern.” The barkeep replied and pointed to the large building off to his left. “Its that building over there, you cant miss it. There is one thing though, a mothers child went missing from on of my rooms.” Without another word the barkeep turned and head down another alleyway.

With a quick simple nod in acknowledgement Ororot turned and head towards the tavern. The barkeep was either very wise or a fool. Approaching the tavern doors the atmosphere was thick with sorrow and mourning; a refreshing mood for him. “Not long now.” He muttered to himself as he entered.
Every eye in the place locked on him in a blink of an eye. Most just turned back around after seeing him while one of the maids approached. Quickly he took note of the thirteen patrons, the two maids, and accounted for the mother that was surely upstairs. A small party of adventures sat at the bar, eating and conversing between themselves. They seemed to be the only semi dangerous ones in the whole place. The others were either elderly or merchants with no weapons training.

“If you’ll take a table I’ll be glad to bring you some nourishment sir.” The maid politely stated as she pointed to the several free tables. “Is there anything in particular you would like?”

“Yes, a plate of boiled potatoes and a flagon of your finest. Please and thank you.” Ororot replied before turning and taking a seat at a table on the far end of the tavern. There wasn’t much light in the corner and he preferred it that way. The less people noticed him the better.

Minutes later the maid returned with a plate of potatoes, and flagon of the taverns finest, and a pint sized mug to go with it. “Will that be all sir?” She asked after placing the plate down and pouring him a pint.

“That will be all.” He replied and handed the maid a generous tip, a silver coin.

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Character Portrait: The Fallen God, Azazel
Character Portrait: Giadon "The Earthbreaker"
Character Portrait: Ororot Dularmme
Character Portrait: Lucero
Character Portrait: Laila Vernon

Newest

Character Portrait: Laila Vernon
Laila Vernon

"I will not allow the Vernon name die in vain, no matter what the cost!"

Character Portrait: Lucero
Lucero

Loyal to the cause and to his own cause. Give generously.

Character Portrait: Ororot Dularmme
Ororot Dularmme

I worship neither Yertreis or Azazel devotedly, though my deeds surely please Azazel rather than Yertreis.

Character Portrait: Giadon "The Earthbreaker"
Giadon "The Earthbreaker"

A mercenary of great renown, most remembered for his defense of the town Argetlam.

Character Portrait: The Fallen God, Azazel
The Fallen God, Azazel

AKA: The Prince of Darkness, The Dark One, The Devil, Lucifer, The Divine Joke, The Immortal, Corruptor of Souls. Among many others.

Trending

Character Portrait: Giadon "The Earthbreaker"
Giadon "The Earthbreaker"

A mercenary of great renown, most remembered for his defense of the town Argetlam.

Character Portrait: Ororot Dularmme
Ororot Dularmme

I worship neither Yertreis or Azazel devotedly, though my deeds surely please Azazel rather than Yertreis.

Character Portrait: Lucero
Lucero

Loyal to the cause and to his own cause. Give generously.

Character Portrait: The Fallen God, Azazel
The Fallen God, Azazel

AKA: The Prince of Darkness, The Dark One, The Devil, Lucifer, The Divine Joke, The Immortal, Corruptor of Souls. Among many others.

Character Portrait: Laila Vernon
Laila Vernon

"I will not allow the Vernon name die in vain, no matter what the cost!"

Most Followed

Character Portrait: Laila Vernon
Laila Vernon

"I will not allow the Vernon name die in vain, no matter what the cost!"

Character Portrait: The Fallen God, Azazel
The Fallen God, Azazel

AKA: The Prince of Darkness, The Dark One, The Devil, Lucifer, The Divine Joke, The Immortal, Corruptor of Souls. Among many others.

Character Portrait: Giadon "The Earthbreaker"
Giadon "The Earthbreaker"

A mercenary of great renown, most remembered for his defense of the town Argetlam.

Character Portrait: Ororot Dularmme
Ororot Dularmme

I worship neither Yertreis or Azazel devotedly, though my deeds surely please Azazel rather than Yertreis.

Character Portrait: Lucero
Lucero

Loyal to the cause and to his own cause. Give generously.


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