@SilverCinny
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TOPIC | [MOVED]
@lightslikestars
I HAS FINISHED MORTISA!
Do you even know what hate can do?
How it festers in your soul, consuming your will
To demolish, end, devour and kill
How they scream, oh how they beg
Watch them tremble amid their web of lies
The locks click shut and the coffin closes
And slowly they wither and die
Clink clink goes their jingling chains
Screaming deep below
Listen to the slain scream
Listen to their song of woe
Seven feet in the earth below
Abandoned beside Hell’s lonely road
Hear them sing their song of woe
Of an age long ago
What do you know of the creatures of the deep?
The ones that awaken and the ones that sleep
The names we dare no utter under our breath
The ones who do not kneel to life nor death
Of ashes and ruins,
Of blades and blood
Of coffins and bones
Of heartless love
Listen to those who fell long ago
Listen to those seven feet below
Listen to those in heaven and hell
Listen to their song of woe.
What do you know of death? The end of life, of existence, yet the gateway to another anew. Sometimes welcomed, sometimes shunned. The laws of nature that could not be denied.
Then imagine a dragon who dares. Who dares to mock creation and destruction, who dares to taunt the very gods themselves. Imagine revival and resurrections in the cruelest of ways, the souls forced back into their hosts in a harsh mockery of true necromancy.
Such a dragon would be Mortisa.
Mortisa, the undying. Mortisa, the Mortician.
As beautiful and terrible as the Augurs, whenever the Mortician shows up, death and vultures are soon to follow. Whether it be by blade, poison, disease or accident, no dragon who has been contacted by Mortisa lives long.
The mortician never bothers to speak louder than a whisper and even when she does whisper, it brings nothing good. Any who do not heed her warning find themselves regretting their ignorance.
No one knows the reason behind her twisted deeds, her hunger for death and destruction. Some say it is vengeance for her lost children, others say it is simply her duty. Still some whisper that Mortisa simply is death incarnate, bringing pain and destruction alongside with her words.
But evil is made, not born.
Long ago, Mortisa was loved for her beauty, and adored for her grace. As the daughter of a gravedigger, Mortisa was surrounded on all sides by death and grieving.
She vowed to destroy death, or at least delay it to the best of her ability.
Years later, the bright bright girl became a Healer, with magic as bright and beautiful as the Lightweaver’s own exalts themselves. She spared the dying, and banished death to the furthest realms. Wounds healed at her command, and the laws of life shattered before her, kneeling to the dragon who dared to mock the laws so openly.
They were not pleased.
Until one day, Mortisa crossed the line.
She revived a corpse with white magic, binding their souls and erasing their wounds. The mortals kneeled in awe in front of the dragon who had accomplished all this so openly, daring to challenge the very foundations.
That night, Mortisa paid for her magic.
No magic could truly revive the dead, and no mage should be ever capable of wielding it.
Mortisa could only watch in silent horror as her children slowly began to waste away in front of her.
At first, it was slow. Merciful.
But ever so slowly, the screams began to sound.
One by one, her children withered away before Mortisa, rotting away in front of her. Her magic did nothing against this curse.
Mortisa was forced to watch her children die in front of her.
One by one, they fell into the darkness.
Just.
Like.
Her.
That night, something broke inside of Mortisa.
That night, something snapped.
Mortisa was no longer the cheerful healer she had once been. She was a cruel dragon, forged from blood and hatred. She was a broken glass vase full of edges and vengeance, overflowing with hatred and death.
The Healer became withdrawn, obsessed with death and the dying. Slowly,bit by bit, Mortisa lost her soul as the pain ate her away. The corruption fed on Mortisa’s hatred and lust for vengeance, and day by day her magic changed.
The Healer became the Mortician.
Mortisa could sense death from afar like a vulture seizes its prey, and could detect misfortune from a mile away. As Mortisa withdrew, her spells began to warp as well.
Healing spells became twisted blood magic, with regeneration sapping the very souls and essences of her patients. Her potions became Draughts of Living Death and Vials of Conquering Corruption, only a few among her collection.
Day by day, the bodies piled up. Children died in their cribs, swept away by plagues and floods. The legend known as Mortisa made herself known.
The mortician was fascinated with mortality and death, plagued with memories of the withering of her children.
Mortisa made her name throughout the land as a ruthless dragon made from bones and necromancy. The legends that whisper her name whisper it in fear and mild hatred. The Healer is no longer one with the light. She has long since been consumed by the darkness.
As Mortisa's soul twists into something far darker and deeper than before, her friends and allies around her suffer the consequences of dark magic.
Their lifespans slowly drained away, until it was just Mortisa and her bloodied family left standing among the corpses.
She did not regret what she had done.
She did not look back.
For she is Mortisa, the Bringer of Death. For she is Mortisa, the Mortician.
When bodies begin to pile up and the dragons begin to falter, you will know that the Mortician has arrived.
With her coming heralds the bringing of death and destruction.
While dragons die and burn around her, Mortisa simply watches.
Mortisa simply watches from atop her throne made from blood and bone.
I HAS FINISHED MORTISA!
Do you even know what hate can do?
How it festers in your soul, consuming your will
To demolish, end, devour and kill
How they scream, oh how they beg
Watch them tremble amid their web of lies
The locks click shut and the coffin closes
And slowly they wither and die
Clink clink goes their jingling chains
Screaming deep below
Listen to the slain scream
Listen to their song of woe
Seven feet in the earth below
Abandoned beside Hell’s lonely road
Hear them sing their song of woe
Of an age long ago
What do you know of the creatures of the deep?
The ones that awaken and the ones that sleep
The names we dare no utter under our breath
The ones who do not kneel to life nor death
Of ashes and ruins,
Of blades and blood
Of coffins and bones
Of heartless love
Listen to those who fell long ago
Listen to those seven feet below
Listen to those in heaven and hell
Listen to their song of woe.
What do you know of death? The end of life, of existence, yet the gateway to another anew. Sometimes welcomed, sometimes shunned. The laws of nature that could not be denied.
Then imagine a dragon who dares. Who dares to mock creation and destruction, who dares to taunt the very gods themselves. Imagine revival and resurrections in the cruelest of ways, the souls forced back into their hosts in a harsh mockery of true necromancy.
Such a dragon would be Mortisa.
Mortisa, the undying. Mortisa, the Mortician.
As beautiful and terrible as the Augurs, whenever the Mortician shows up, death and vultures are soon to follow. Whether it be by blade, poison, disease or accident, no dragon who has been contacted by Mortisa lives long.
The mortician never bothers to speak louder than a whisper and even when she does whisper, it brings nothing good. Any who do not heed her warning find themselves regretting their ignorance.
No one knows the reason behind her twisted deeds, her hunger for death and destruction. Some say it is vengeance for her lost children, others say it is simply her duty. Still some whisper that Mortisa simply is death incarnate, bringing pain and destruction alongside with her words.
But evil is made, not born.
Long ago, Mortisa was loved for her beauty, and adored for her grace. As the daughter of a gravedigger, Mortisa was surrounded on all sides by death and grieving.
She vowed to destroy death, or at least delay it to the best of her ability.
Years later, the bright bright girl became a Healer, with magic as bright and beautiful as the Lightweaver’s own exalts themselves. She spared the dying, and banished death to the furthest realms. Wounds healed at her command, and the laws of life shattered before her, kneeling to the dragon who dared to mock the laws so openly.
They were not pleased.
Until one day, Mortisa crossed the line.
She revived a corpse with white magic, binding their souls and erasing their wounds. The mortals kneeled in awe in front of the dragon who had accomplished all this so openly, daring to challenge the very foundations.
That night, Mortisa paid for her magic.
No magic could truly revive the dead, and no mage should be ever capable of wielding it.
Mortisa could only watch in silent horror as her children slowly began to waste away in front of her.
At first, it was slow. Merciful.
But ever so slowly, the screams began to sound.
One by one, her children withered away before Mortisa, rotting away in front of her. Her magic did nothing against this curse.
Mortisa was forced to watch her children die in front of her.
One by one, they fell into the darkness.
Just.
Like.
Her.
That night, something broke inside of Mortisa.
That night, something snapped.
Mortisa was no longer the cheerful healer she had once been. She was a cruel dragon, forged from blood and hatred. She was a broken glass vase full of edges and vengeance, overflowing with hatred and death.
The Healer became withdrawn, obsessed with death and the dying. Slowly,bit by bit, Mortisa lost her soul as the pain ate her away. The corruption fed on Mortisa’s hatred and lust for vengeance, and day by day her magic changed.
The Healer became the Mortician.
Mortisa could sense death from afar like a vulture seizes its prey, and could detect misfortune from a mile away. As Mortisa withdrew, her spells began to warp as well.
Healing spells became twisted blood magic, with regeneration sapping the very souls and essences of her patients. Her potions became Draughts of Living Death and Vials of Conquering Corruption, only a few among her collection.
Day by day, the bodies piled up. Children died in their cribs, swept away by plagues and floods. The legend known as Mortisa made herself known.
The mortician was fascinated with mortality and death, plagued with memories of the withering of her children.
Mortisa made her name throughout the land as a ruthless dragon made from bones and necromancy. The legends that whisper her name whisper it in fear and mild hatred. The Healer is no longer one with the light. She has long since been consumed by the darkness.
As Mortisa's soul twists into something far darker and deeper than before, her friends and allies around her suffer the consequences of dark magic.
Their lifespans slowly drained away, until it was just Mortisa and her bloodied family left standing among the corpses.
She did not regret what she had done.
She did not look back.
For she is Mortisa, the Bringer of Death. For she is Mortisa, the Mortician.
When bodies begin to pile up and the dragons begin to falter, you will know that the Mortician has arrived.
With her coming heralds the bringing of death and destruction.
While dragons die and burn around her, Mortisa simply watches.
Mortisa simply watches from atop her throne made from blood and bone.
@lightslikestars
I HAS FINISHED MORTISA!
Do you even know what hate can do?
How it festers in your soul, consuming your will
To demolish, end, devour and kill
How they scream, oh how they beg
Watch them tremble amid their web of lies
The locks click shut and the coffin closes
And slowly they wither and die
Clink clink goes their jingling chains
Screaming deep below
Listen to the slain scream
Listen to their song of woe
Seven feet in the earth below
Abandoned beside Hell’s lonely road
Hear them sing their song of woe
Of an age long ago
What do you know of the creatures of the deep?
The ones that awaken and the ones that sleep
The names we dare no utter under our breath
The ones who do not kneel to life nor death
Of ashes and ruins,
Of blades and blood
Of coffins and bones
Of heartless love
Listen to those who fell long ago
Listen to those seven feet below
Listen to those in heaven and hell
Listen to their song of woe.
What do you know of death? The end of life, of existence, yet the gateway to another anew. Sometimes welcomed, sometimes shunned. The laws of nature that could not be denied.
Then imagine a dragon who dares. Who dares to mock creation and destruction, who dares to taunt the very gods themselves. Imagine revival and resurrections in the cruelest of ways, the souls forced back into their hosts in a harsh mockery of true necromancy.
Such a dragon would be Mortisa.
Mortisa, the undying. Mortisa, the Mortician.
As beautiful and terrible as the Augurs, whenever the Mortician shows up, death and vultures are soon to follow. Whether it be by blade, poison, disease or accident, no dragon who has been contacted by Mortisa lives long.
The mortician never bothers to speak louder than a whisper and even when she does whisper, it brings nothing good. Any who do not heed her warning find themselves regretting their ignorance.
No one knows the reason behind her twisted deeds, her hunger for death and destruction. Some say it is vengeance for her lost children, others say it is simply her duty. Still some whisper that Mortisa simply is death incarnate, bringing pain and destruction alongside with her words.
But evil is made, not born.
Long ago, Mortisa was loved for her beauty, and adored for her grace. As the daughter of a gravedigger, Mortisa was surrounded on all sides by death and grieving.
She vowed to destroy death, or at least delay it to the best of her ability.
Years later, the bright bright girl became a Healer, with magic as bright and beautiful as the Lightweaver’s own exalts themselves. She spared the dying, and banished death to the furthest realms. Wounds healed at her command, and the laws of life shattered before her, kneeling to the dragon who dared to mock the laws so openly.
They were not pleased.
Until one day, Mortisa crossed the line.
She revived a corpse with white magic, binding their souls and erasing their wounds. The mortals kneeled in awe in front of the dragon who had accomplished all this so openly, daring to challenge the very foundations.
That night, Mortisa paid for her magic.
No magic could truly revive the dead, and no mage should be ever capable of wielding it.
Mortisa could only watch in silent horror as her children slowly began to waste away in front of her.
At first, it was slow. Merciful.
But ever so slowly, the screams began to sound.
One by one, her children withered away before Mortisa, rotting away in front of her. Her magic did nothing against this curse.
Mortisa was forced to watch her children die in front of her.
One by one, they fell into the darkness.
Just.
Like.
Her.
That night, something broke inside of Mortisa.
That night, something snapped.
Mortisa was no longer the cheerful healer she had once been. She was a cruel dragon, forged from blood and hatred. She was a broken glass vase full of edges and vengeance, overflowing with hatred and death.
The Healer became withdrawn, obsessed with death and the dying. Slowly,bit by bit, Mortisa lost her soul as the pain ate her away. The corruption fed on Mortisa’s hatred and lust for vengeance, and day by day her magic changed.
The Healer became the Mortician.
Mortisa could sense death from afar like a vulture seizes its prey, and could detect misfortune from a mile away. As Mortisa withdrew, her spells began to warp as well.
Healing spells became twisted blood magic, with regeneration sapping the very souls and essences of her patients. Her potions became Draughts of Living Death and Vials of Conquering Corruption, only a few among her collection.
Day by day, the bodies piled up. Children died in their cribs, swept away by plagues and floods. The legend known as Mortisa made herself known.
The mortician was fascinated with mortality and death, plagued with memories of the withering of her children.
Mortisa made her name throughout the land as a ruthless dragon made from bones and necromancy. The legends that whisper her name whisper it in fear and mild hatred. The Healer is no longer one with the light. She has long since been consumed by the darkness.
As Mortisa's soul twists into something far darker and deeper than before, her friends and allies around her suffer the consequences of dark magic.
Their lifespans slowly drained away, until it was just Mortisa and her bloodied family left standing among the corpses.
She did not regret what she had done.
She did not look back.
For she is Mortisa, the Bringer of Death. For she is Mortisa, the Mortician.
When bodies begin to pile up and the dragons begin to falter, you will know that the Mortician has arrived.
With her coming heralds the bringing of death and destruction.
While dragons die and burn around her, Mortisa simply watches.
Mortisa simply watches from atop her throne made from blood and bone.
I HAS FINISHED MORTISA!
Do you even know what hate can do?
How it festers in your soul, consuming your will
To demolish, end, devour and kill
How they scream, oh how they beg
Watch them tremble amid their web of lies
The locks click shut and the coffin closes
And slowly they wither and die
Clink clink goes their jingling chains
Screaming deep below
Listen to the slain scream
Listen to their song of woe
Seven feet in the earth below
Abandoned beside Hell’s lonely road
Hear them sing their song of woe
Of an age long ago
What do you know of the creatures of the deep?
The ones that awaken and the ones that sleep
The names we dare no utter under our breath
The ones who do not kneel to life nor death
Of ashes and ruins,
Of blades and blood
Of coffins and bones
Of heartless love
Listen to those who fell long ago
Listen to those seven feet below
Listen to those in heaven and hell
Listen to their song of woe.
What do you know of death? The end of life, of existence, yet the gateway to another anew. Sometimes welcomed, sometimes shunned. The laws of nature that could not be denied.
Then imagine a dragon who dares. Who dares to mock creation and destruction, who dares to taunt the very gods themselves. Imagine revival and resurrections in the cruelest of ways, the souls forced back into their hosts in a harsh mockery of true necromancy.
Such a dragon would be Mortisa.
Mortisa, the undying. Mortisa, the Mortician.
As beautiful and terrible as the Augurs, whenever the Mortician shows up, death and vultures are soon to follow. Whether it be by blade, poison, disease or accident, no dragon who has been contacted by Mortisa lives long.
The mortician never bothers to speak louder than a whisper and even when she does whisper, it brings nothing good. Any who do not heed her warning find themselves regretting their ignorance.
No one knows the reason behind her twisted deeds, her hunger for death and destruction. Some say it is vengeance for her lost children, others say it is simply her duty. Still some whisper that Mortisa simply is death incarnate, bringing pain and destruction alongside with her words.
But evil is made, not born.
Long ago, Mortisa was loved for her beauty, and adored for her grace. As the daughter of a gravedigger, Mortisa was surrounded on all sides by death and grieving.
She vowed to destroy death, or at least delay it to the best of her ability.
Years later, the bright bright girl became a Healer, with magic as bright and beautiful as the Lightweaver’s own exalts themselves. She spared the dying, and banished death to the furthest realms. Wounds healed at her command, and the laws of life shattered before her, kneeling to the dragon who dared to mock the laws so openly.
They were not pleased.
Until one day, Mortisa crossed the line.
She revived a corpse with white magic, binding their souls and erasing their wounds. The mortals kneeled in awe in front of the dragon who had accomplished all this so openly, daring to challenge the very foundations.
That night, Mortisa paid for her magic.
No magic could truly revive the dead, and no mage should be ever capable of wielding it.
Mortisa could only watch in silent horror as her children slowly began to waste away in front of her.
At first, it was slow. Merciful.
But ever so slowly, the screams began to sound.
One by one, her children withered away before Mortisa, rotting away in front of her. Her magic did nothing against this curse.
Mortisa was forced to watch her children die in front of her.
One by one, they fell into the darkness.
Just.
Like.
Her.
That night, something broke inside of Mortisa.
That night, something snapped.
Mortisa was no longer the cheerful healer she had once been. She was a cruel dragon, forged from blood and hatred. She was a broken glass vase full of edges and vengeance, overflowing with hatred and death.
The Healer became withdrawn, obsessed with death and the dying. Slowly,bit by bit, Mortisa lost her soul as the pain ate her away. The corruption fed on Mortisa’s hatred and lust for vengeance, and day by day her magic changed.
The Healer became the Mortician.
Mortisa could sense death from afar like a vulture seizes its prey, and could detect misfortune from a mile away. As Mortisa withdrew, her spells began to warp as well.
Healing spells became twisted blood magic, with regeneration sapping the very souls and essences of her patients. Her potions became Draughts of Living Death and Vials of Conquering Corruption, only a few among her collection.
Day by day, the bodies piled up. Children died in their cribs, swept away by plagues and floods. The legend known as Mortisa made herself known.
The mortician was fascinated with mortality and death, plagued with memories of the withering of her children.
Mortisa made her name throughout the land as a ruthless dragon made from bones and necromancy. The legends that whisper her name whisper it in fear and mild hatred. The Healer is no longer one with the light. She has long since been consumed by the darkness.
As Mortisa's soul twists into something far darker and deeper than before, her friends and allies around her suffer the consequences of dark magic.
Their lifespans slowly drained away, until it was just Mortisa and her bloodied family left standing among the corpses.
She did not regret what she had done.
She did not look back.
For she is Mortisa, the Bringer of Death. For she is Mortisa, the Mortician.
When bodies begin to pile up and the dragons begin to falter, you will know that the Mortician has arrived.
With her coming heralds the bringing of death and destruction.
While dragons die and burn around her, Mortisa simply watches.
Mortisa simply watches from atop her throne made from blood and bone.
@skyfrost Holy Plaguebringer, that is absolutely amazing! I felt completely chilled to the bone reading it. You have a terrific way with words. Thank you so so much for writing some terrifying, awesome lore for her!!
@skyfrost Holy Plaguebringer, that is absolutely amazing! I felt completely chilled to the bone reading it. You have a terrific way with words. Thank you so so much for writing some terrifying, awesome lore for her!!
@SilverCinny
“Yes, Ziraura.” The Skydancer bows, smoke hissing around and briefly masking his features. Irondusk was silent as he watched his leader and best friend leave, the smoke from a recent experiment still bubbling and writhing. If Ziraura had peered through the smoke, he would have seen the mutilated and burned body of a Maren that had wandered far too close for the Skydancer’s likings. If the familiar had been alive before, it certainly wasn’t by now. Sighing, Irondusk contemplated bringing it to Carys the healer(perhaps a favor for a friend?) before deciding against it. The failed experiment could be eliminated along with the rest.
Perhaps this alchemy experiment wasn’t the best idea with a Maren. Irondusk slashed his claws along the still thrashing creature, Eliminating the failure and throwing the remains in a nearby vat of acid. The acid was simply sodium hydroxide and potassium hydroxide, or a common strong base known as lye. When heated to 300 degrees, said solution can turn a body into tan liquid with the consistency of mineral oil in roughly 3 hours, assuming that there were no interruptions and no magical influence. A merciless funeral perhaps, but it was far better than ending up like them.
The survivors.
Scarred and marred by Irondusk’s magic, wounded so deeply that not even the most skilled of healers could stitch that back together. Their minds were as charred as their bodies, mindless beasts that clawed and snapped at the cages and bit the hand that fed them. Experiments he kept from Kiara, he could never harm Kiara with knowledge of what resided under his laboratory.
He was on the edge of something here, he knew it, something beyond the gods, something made from pure chaos and insanity. He knew that if he found it it would spell madness and destruction for his loved ones but if he were to let go madness would claim him far faster.
And so Irondusk set back to work….
Hm...perhaps a Serthis this time?
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((What do you think?))
“Yes, Ziraura.” The Skydancer bows, smoke hissing around and briefly masking his features. Irondusk was silent as he watched his leader and best friend leave, the smoke from a recent experiment still bubbling and writhing. If Ziraura had peered through the smoke, he would have seen the mutilated and burned body of a Maren that had wandered far too close for the Skydancer’s likings. If the familiar had been alive before, it certainly wasn’t by now. Sighing, Irondusk contemplated bringing it to Carys the healer(perhaps a favor for a friend?) before deciding against it. The failed experiment could be eliminated along with the rest.
Perhaps this alchemy experiment wasn’t the best idea with a Maren. Irondusk slashed his claws along the still thrashing creature, Eliminating the failure and throwing the remains in a nearby vat of acid. The acid was simply sodium hydroxide and potassium hydroxide, or a common strong base known as lye. When heated to 300 degrees, said solution can turn a body into tan liquid with the consistency of mineral oil in roughly 3 hours, assuming that there were no interruptions and no magical influence. A merciless funeral perhaps, but it was far better than ending up like them.
The survivors.
Scarred and marred by Irondusk’s magic, wounded so deeply that not even the most skilled of healers could stitch that back together. Their minds were as charred as their bodies, mindless beasts that clawed and snapped at the cages and bit the hand that fed them. Experiments he kept from Kiara, he could never harm Kiara with knowledge of what resided under his laboratory.
He was on the edge of something here, he knew it, something beyond the gods, something made from pure chaos and insanity. He knew that if he found it it would spell madness and destruction for his loved ones but if he were to let go madness would claim him far faster.
And so Irondusk set back to work….
Hm...perhaps a Serthis this time?
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((What do you think?))
@SilverCinny
“Yes, Ziraura.” The Skydancer bows, smoke hissing around and briefly masking his features. Irondusk was silent as he watched his leader and best friend leave, the smoke from a recent experiment still bubbling and writhing. If Ziraura had peered through the smoke, he would have seen the mutilated and burned body of a Maren that had wandered far too close for the Skydancer’s likings. If the familiar had been alive before, it certainly wasn’t by now. Sighing, Irondusk contemplated bringing it to Carys the healer(perhaps a favor for a friend?) before deciding against it. The failed experiment could be eliminated along with the rest.
Perhaps this alchemy experiment wasn’t the best idea with a Maren. Irondusk slashed his claws along the still thrashing creature, Eliminating the failure and throwing the remains in a nearby vat of acid. The acid was simply sodium hydroxide and potassium hydroxide, or a common strong base known as lye. When heated to 300 degrees, said solution can turn a body into tan liquid with the consistency of mineral oil in roughly 3 hours, assuming that there were no interruptions and no magical influence. A merciless funeral perhaps, but it was far better than ending up like them.
The survivors.
Scarred and marred by Irondusk’s magic, wounded so deeply that not even the most skilled of healers could stitch that back together. Their minds were as charred as their bodies, mindless beasts that clawed and snapped at the cages and bit the hand that fed them. Experiments he kept from Kiara, he could never harm Kiara with knowledge of what resided under his laboratory.
He was on the edge of something here, he knew it, something beyond the gods, something made from pure chaos and insanity. He knew that if he found it it would spell madness and destruction for his loved ones but if he were to let go madness would claim him far faster.
And so Irondusk set back to work….
Hm...perhaps a Serthis this time?
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((What do you think?))
“Yes, Ziraura.” The Skydancer bows, smoke hissing around and briefly masking his features. Irondusk was silent as he watched his leader and best friend leave, the smoke from a recent experiment still bubbling and writhing. If Ziraura had peered through the smoke, he would have seen the mutilated and burned body of a Maren that had wandered far too close for the Skydancer’s likings. If the familiar had been alive before, it certainly wasn’t by now. Sighing, Irondusk contemplated bringing it to Carys the healer(perhaps a favor for a friend?) before deciding against it. The failed experiment could be eliminated along with the rest.
Perhaps this alchemy experiment wasn’t the best idea with a Maren. Irondusk slashed his claws along the still thrashing creature, Eliminating the failure and throwing the remains in a nearby vat of acid. The acid was simply sodium hydroxide and potassium hydroxide, or a common strong base known as lye. When heated to 300 degrees, said solution can turn a body into tan liquid with the consistency of mineral oil in roughly 3 hours, assuming that there were no interruptions and no magical influence. A merciless funeral perhaps, but it was far better than ending up like them.
The survivors.
Scarred and marred by Irondusk’s magic, wounded so deeply that not even the most skilled of healers could stitch that back together. Their minds were as charred as their bodies, mindless beasts that clawed and snapped at the cages and bit the hand that fed them. Experiments he kept from Kiara, he could never harm Kiara with knowledge of what resided under his laboratory.
He was on the edge of something here, he knew it, something beyond the gods, something made from pure chaos and insanity. He knew that if he found it it would spell madness and destruction for his loved ones but if he were to let go madness would claim him far faster.
And so Irondusk set back to work….
Hm...perhaps a Serthis this time?
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((What do you think?))
@laughingmagician
Rattle the chains, creaking of bones
Roaming the lands, forever alone
I fooled the demons, I mocked their flames
Dancing in the darkness, forbidden by the light
Forces who cursed my soul, they whispered my name
Legends and lies,
When the undying dies
A failing spark
Blackened heart
My eyes close
And hell roars
Have you ever thought of outsmarting a demon?
Jack certainly has.
Mischief runs thick in his veins, using his lies to get whatever he wants. Gods themselves are foiled by his foul plays.
“I fooled the Shadowbinder, it was quite easy wasn’t it?”
From a young age, Jack was never the most productive hatchling. He always dabbled in darkness and shadows while his friends and siblings played in the light. Growing up, Jack wasn’t exactly shunned, however he wasn’t exactly the most welcome. Anyone around him could sense something…wrong with Jack. Just… something off. Anyone looking into his eyes had the illusion of looking in something they couldn’t quite understand, of looking into the eyes of something that shouldn’t exist. Jack’s eyes always glimmered with the edge of mischief and greed, shimmering with the promises of misfortunes to come.
He meddled in other’s affairs, taking pleasure in discord and disgrace. The dragons hated him, feared him, and simply wanted him gone.
The Shadowbinder was no exception.
The Wildclaw asked the Shadowbinder to prove her divinity. Always wanting a good game, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack asked her to prove the fact she could transform and mimic other creatures of the shadows. True to her word, the Shadowbinder first turned into a Shadow Sprite, then a Murktooth Bramblekeep before finally turning into a Shimmering Pinecone. Jack, eyes bright with mischief, snatched up the Shadowbinder and promptly placed her in his pocket right next to a Light runestone, preventing her from changing back to her own form. He later agreed to release her under the conditions the Shadowbinder could not touch his soul if he were to die and would not bother Jack for a year. Left with no way out, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack left victorious that night, laughing to himself and planning his next great exploitation.
Shadowbinder fled home, back to the darkness and shadows. She never wished to carry out their end of the bargain, yet she knew that she had no choice but to do so.
For some reason long since lost to time, Jack once more challenged the Shadowbinder, this time to a race. It was only until after the terms had been made did the Shadowbinder realize that they were flying through a heavily Light populated area of the edges of the Sunbeam Ruins.
The presence of the Shadowbinder, especially in Light boundaries, was more of a declaration of war against Light, no?
Once more, Jack won(obviously, since the Shadowbinder couldn’t race in Light areas) on the terms that the Shadowbinder would not bother him for the next 10 years. Ah, the humiliation of being outsmarted by a mortal, not once but twice.
Soon after, Jack died, and whether it was from illness or murder or foul play was lost by the grains of time.
The Shadowbinder remained true to her word.
Jack’s soul was not taken and sent to the hells where he belonged, and no Judge would ever grant entrance to the heavens to such an unsavoury soul. Jack was banished, sent off with a burning coal and lantern, sent to wander the earth for the remainder of eternity.
Now, cold and alone, Jack of the Lantern wanders from here to there, and from there to here. When you hear a mischievous laugh and a dim glow in the distance, remember Jack of the Lantern, the mortal who had tricked a god.
Now, when you hear ghostly laughter and a vague figure, remember Jack the Wanderer, and remember what he did to deserve this fate.
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((Lore for Jack!))
Rattle the chains, creaking of bones
Roaming the lands, forever alone
I fooled the demons, I mocked their flames
Dancing in the darkness, forbidden by the light
Forces who cursed my soul, they whispered my name
Legends and lies,
When the undying dies
A failing spark
Blackened heart
My eyes close
And hell roars
Have you ever thought of outsmarting a demon?
Jack certainly has.
Mischief runs thick in his veins, using his lies to get whatever he wants. Gods themselves are foiled by his foul plays.
“I fooled the Shadowbinder, it was quite easy wasn’t it?”
From a young age, Jack was never the most productive hatchling. He always dabbled in darkness and shadows while his friends and siblings played in the light. Growing up, Jack wasn’t exactly shunned, however he wasn’t exactly the most welcome. Anyone around him could sense something…wrong with Jack. Just… something off. Anyone looking into his eyes had the illusion of looking in something they couldn’t quite understand, of looking into the eyes of something that shouldn’t exist. Jack’s eyes always glimmered with the edge of mischief and greed, shimmering with the promises of misfortunes to come.
He meddled in other’s affairs, taking pleasure in discord and disgrace. The dragons hated him, feared him, and simply wanted him gone.
The Shadowbinder was no exception.
The Wildclaw asked the Shadowbinder to prove her divinity. Always wanting a good game, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack asked her to prove the fact she could transform and mimic other creatures of the shadows. True to her word, the Shadowbinder first turned into a Shadow Sprite, then a Murktooth Bramblekeep before finally turning into a Shimmering Pinecone. Jack, eyes bright with mischief, snatched up the Shadowbinder and promptly placed her in his pocket right next to a Light runestone, preventing her from changing back to her own form. He later agreed to release her under the conditions the Shadowbinder could not touch his soul if he were to die and would not bother Jack for a year. Left with no way out, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack left victorious that night, laughing to himself and planning his next great exploitation.
Shadowbinder fled home, back to the darkness and shadows. She never wished to carry out their end of the bargain, yet she knew that she had no choice but to do so.
For some reason long since lost to time, Jack once more challenged the Shadowbinder, this time to a race. It was only until after the terms had been made did the Shadowbinder realize that they were flying through a heavily Light populated area of the edges of the Sunbeam Ruins.
The presence of the Shadowbinder, especially in Light boundaries, was more of a declaration of war against Light, no?
Once more, Jack won(obviously, since the Shadowbinder couldn’t race in Light areas) on the terms that the Shadowbinder would not bother him for the next 10 years. Ah, the humiliation of being outsmarted by a mortal, not once but twice.
Soon after, Jack died, and whether it was from illness or murder or foul play was lost by the grains of time.
The Shadowbinder remained true to her word.
Jack’s soul was not taken and sent to the hells where he belonged, and no Judge would ever grant entrance to the heavens to such an unsavoury soul. Jack was banished, sent off with a burning coal and lantern, sent to wander the earth for the remainder of eternity.
Now, cold and alone, Jack of the Lantern wanders from here to there, and from there to here. When you hear a mischievous laugh and a dim glow in the distance, remember Jack of the Lantern, the mortal who had tricked a god.
Now, when you hear ghostly laughter and a vague figure, remember Jack the Wanderer, and remember what he did to deserve this fate.
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((Lore for Jack!))
@laughingmagician
Rattle the chains, creaking of bones
Roaming the lands, forever alone
I fooled the demons, I mocked their flames
Dancing in the darkness, forbidden by the light
Forces who cursed my soul, they whispered my name
Legends and lies,
When the undying dies
A failing spark
Blackened heart
My eyes close
And hell roars
Have you ever thought of outsmarting a demon?
Jack certainly has.
Mischief runs thick in his veins, using his lies to get whatever he wants. Gods themselves are foiled by his foul plays.
“I fooled the Shadowbinder, it was quite easy wasn’t it?”
From a young age, Jack was never the most productive hatchling. He always dabbled in darkness and shadows while his friends and siblings played in the light. Growing up, Jack wasn’t exactly shunned, however he wasn’t exactly the most welcome. Anyone around him could sense something…wrong with Jack. Just… something off. Anyone looking into his eyes had the illusion of looking in something they couldn’t quite understand, of looking into the eyes of something that shouldn’t exist. Jack’s eyes always glimmered with the edge of mischief and greed, shimmering with the promises of misfortunes to come.
He meddled in other’s affairs, taking pleasure in discord and disgrace. The dragons hated him, feared him, and simply wanted him gone.
The Shadowbinder was no exception.
The Wildclaw asked the Shadowbinder to prove her divinity. Always wanting a good game, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack asked her to prove the fact she could transform and mimic other creatures of the shadows. True to her word, the Shadowbinder first turned into a Shadow Sprite, then a Murktooth Bramblekeep before finally turning into a Shimmering Pinecone. Jack, eyes bright with mischief, snatched up the Shadowbinder and promptly placed her in his pocket right next to a Light runestone, preventing her from changing back to her own form. He later agreed to release her under the conditions the Shadowbinder could not touch his soul if he were to die and would not bother Jack for a year. Left with no way out, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack left victorious that night, laughing to himself and planning his next great exploitation.
Shadowbinder fled home, back to the darkness and shadows. She never wished to carry out their end of the bargain, yet she knew that she had no choice but to do so.
For some reason long since lost to time, Jack once more challenged the Shadowbinder, this time to a race. It was only until after the terms had been made did the Shadowbinder realize that they were flying through a heavily Light populated area of the edges of the Sunbeam Ruins.
The presence of the Shadowbinder, especially in Light boundaries, was more of a declaration of war against Light, no?
Once more, Jack won(obviously, since the Shadowbinder couldn’t race in Light areas) on the terms that the Shadowbinder would not bother him for the next 10 years. Ah, the humiliation of being outsmarted by a mortal, not once but twice.
Soon after, Jack died, and whether it was from illness or murder or foul play was lost by the grains of time.
The Shadowbinder remained true to her word.
Jack’s soul was not taken and sent to the hells where he belonged, and no Judge would ever grant entrance to the heavens to such an unsavoury soul. Jack was banished, sent off with a burning coal and lantern, sent to wander the earth for the remainder of eternity.
Now, cold and alone, Jack of the Lantern wanders from here to there, and from there to here. When you hear a mischievous laugh and a dim glow in the distance, remember Jack of the Lantern, the mortal who had tricked a god.
Now, when you hear ghostly laughter and a vague figure, remember Jack the Wanderer, and remember what he did to deserve this fate.
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((Lore for Jack!))
Rattle the chains, creaking of bones
Roaming the lands, forever alone
I fooled the demons, I mocked their flames
Dancing in the darkness, forbidden by the light
Forces who cursed my soul, they whispered my name
Legends and lies,
When the undying dies
A failing spark
Blackened heart
My eyes close
And hell roars
Have you ever thought of outsmarting a demon?
Jack certainly has.
Mischief runs thick in his veins, using his lies to get whatever he wants. Gods themselves are foiled by his foul plays.
“I fooled the Shadowbinder, it was quite easy wasn’t it?”
From a young age, Jack was never the most productive hatchling. He always dabbled in darkness and shadows while his friends and siblings played in the light. Growing up, Jack wasn’t exactly shunned, however he wasn’t exactly the most welcome. Anyone around him could sense something…wrong with Jack. Just… something off. Anyone looking into his eyes had the illusion of looking in something they couldn’t quite understand, of looking into the eyes of something that shouldn’t exist. Jack’s eyes always glimmered with the edge of mischief and greed, shimmering with the promises of misfortunes to come.
He meddled in other’s affairs, taking pleasure in discord and disgrace. The dragons hated him, feared him, and simply wanted him gone.
The Shadowbinder was no exception.
The Wildclaw asked the Shadowbinder to prove her divinity. Always wanting a good game, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack asked her to prove the fact she could transform and mimic other creatures of the shadows. True to her word, the Shadowbinder first turned into a Shadow Sprite, then a Murktooth Bramblekeep before finally turning into a Shimmering Pinecone. Jack, eyes bright with mischief, snatched up the Shadowbinder and promptly placed her in his pocket right next to a Light runestone, preventing her from changing back to her own form. He later agreed to release her under the conditions the Shadowbinder could not touch his soul if he were to die and would not bother Jack for a year. Left with no way out, the Shadowbinder agreed.
Jack left victorious that night, laughing to himself and planning his next great exploitation.
Shadowbinder fled home, back to the darkness and shadows. She never wished to carry out their end of the bargain, yet she knew that she had no choice but to do so.
For some reason long since lost to time, Jack once more challenged the Shadowbinder, this time to a race. It was only until after the terms had been made did the Shadowbinder realize that they were flying through a heavily Light populated area of the edges of the Sunbeam Ruins.
The presence of the Shadowbinder, especially in Light boundaries, was more of a declaration of war against Light, no?
Once more, Jack won(obviously, since the Shadowbinder couldn’t race in Light areas) on the terms that the Shadowbinder would not bother him for the next 10 years. Ah, the humiliation of being outsmarted by a mortal, not once but twice.
Soon after, Jack died, and whether it was from illness or murder or foul play was lost by the grains of time.
The Shadowbinder remained true to her word.
Jack’s soul was not taken and sent to the hells where he belonged, and no Judge would ever grant entrance to the heavens to such an unsavoury soul. Jack was banished, sent off with a burning coal and lantern, sent to wander the earth for the remainder of eternity.
Now, cold and alone, Jack of the Lantern wanders from here to there, and from there to here. When you hear a mischievous laugh and a dim glow in the distance, remember Jack of the Lantern, the mortal who had tricked a god.
Now, when you hear ghostly laughter and a vague figure, remember Jack the Wanderer, and remember what he did to deserve this fate.
Lore by Skyfrost(StormyOnVacation)
((Lore for Jack!))
@StormyOnVacation Holy hecking crap, that's so freaking good!! Oh my gosh!!!
I honestly love where you took it! I didn't even think of making him one to perform dark experiments, believe it or not, but considering the nature of my lair, it fits absolutely perfectly. I'm jealous!
This is so super good, I'm screaming. How much do I owe you?
I honestly love where you took it! I didn't even think of making him one to perform dark experiments, believe it or not, but considering the nature of my lair, it fits absolutely perfectly. I'm jealous!
This is so super good, I'm screaming. How much do I owe you?
@StormyOnVacation Holy hecking crap, that's so freaking good!! Oh my gosh!!!
I honestly love where you took it! I didn't even think of making him one to perform dark experiments, believe it or not, but considering the nature of my lair, it fits absolutely perfectly. I'm jealous!
This is so super good, I'm screaming. How much do I owe you?
I honestly love where you took it! I didn't even think of making him one to perform dark experiments, believe it or not, but considering the nature of my lair, it fits absolutely perfectly. I'm jealous!
This is so super good, I'm screaming. How much do I owe you?
| ........................................ | Scrolls Wishlist |
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@SilverCinny
My base price hovers around 40g/kt currently, although you can pay me anything you want!
@SilverCinny
My base price hovers around 40g/kt currently, although you can pay me anything you want!
@LaughingMagician
I only take payment after the lore is done, although pre-orders and part payments beforehand are fine.
I only take payment after the lore is done, although pre-orders and part payments beforehand are fine.
@LaughingMagician
I only take payment after the lore is done, although pre-orders and part payments beforehand are fine.
I only take payment after the lore is done, although pre-orders and part payments beforehand are fine.