Bittersweet Tea (1 Viewer)


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Curse of this, curse of that. Great magician someone, blessed of this god and ruler of that land. It all means so little to a blind man. From one world to another, south to midlands and into the North where blood is cold, much like those prophets and heralds who turned to stone in their failings, the six horned man too walks a path unbeknownst and likely misguided. With all flaws and missteps considered, and how long this journey has been so far, it is not that bad if we look at it with a grain of salt taken in.

Idle, Hyssir’larhaa rests on his bed of cushions, sipping a succulent and otherwise- usually, sweet beverage, but with an expression awry and ridden with distaste.
A dragonkin firstly, a broodfather secondly, and thirdly… a man of his word. And many a time this has caused him something dear, and some of his pride. It was so that he was given a trade deal, and it was accepted… Well, what else was there to do when an opportunity presented itself? That is where this path began to twist and curl, here and there even divide and run off in many different directions. Yet there was no halt, it did not matter which way was the right one to take… All of them lead to one point to be fair, it is just a question of time whether one earns their heart’s desire or not.
Stargazer... What are you planning?” he spat onto the fire, shivering a bit from the sour taste.
To trust the deal and not go back on his word… That is his policy. But here it has come to be that this base pillar shook as many questions rose about the Dragon from the North. Would it keep its word? Would it try and not beseech others to take the artifacts should it fail? If it truly required these and found them necessary, it would already have taken them by sheer force. So there is hope. But hope… is not this. This is not it in any sense, this is speculation and utter fiction… But will it be fiction when armies come and murder all you love? Will it be a lie, an unfounded slander when all burns around? Time, as it goes, will tell. And as sand flows in the hourglass down south, so does the day near ever so slowly when the deal is complete and the truth of this tale will become reality. And he sat there, still sipping on the now sweetened beverage. It wasn’t quite needed to be sweet, but time and day provided him with a certain mood and demand for taste. Not as haphazard as one would imagine, but still, a vicious and sudden explosion it can be when a touch of chaos enters order.


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Betwixt onyx talons shivers a captive scroll taken from a place ridden with depictions of toil and texts about life beyond expiration. A beryl, waxen seal adorns its front, a short ribbon moldy yet still regal pokes its tongue out mischievously. On a small pedestal the parchment remains still, albeit reluctantly so. On occasion a bony finger pokes out from within its seal guarded hold, sometimes shadows play on the walls and there also is an increase in nightmares within the hidden vault.

A simple sign rests on the pedestal this thing sits on. It says the following in plain common, elven, dwarven, kovish and olden draconic:

'Lethal danger. Do not open under any circumstance.'

Inaudible scribbling, scratching is heard a few paces away from the ominous view. In the vault’s damp atmosphere, a touch of sulfur and smoke revolves with an occasional burst of flame lighting the space in an odd platinum hue. A small box sits atop a large table. Atop its surface rests the image of a simple many legged animal from the Summerlands depicted. As the scribbling came to a halt, another platinum flame burst in the background. The parchment was gone, then the box would be opened on the spot.

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