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Across dune and thirsty desolace, coming upon a craggy, mountainous landscape stood in tribal robes a lone seeker. Within their left a cracked staff and an olden parchment. They laid the staff onto sand searing, then drew a sword balanced and well maintained. Round and round the hilt a strong rope would be guided, then to it a finer and thiner line attached woven through the letter. Something felt quite odd, a shiver ran down the wanderer's spine. With a soft sigh, the sword was lifted and carried forth until the nearest rock. There, it would be stabbed next to the formation, into the sand and between the olden stone. Its blade would be treated with liquid mana, just as is, nothing more. Then, the being left after gathering the staff.

Transcript: "Osos qethe zaan Faaz; Kren, fin praan Aus. Aan zul lovaas ahst niin. Wah vo grik Aus. Haalvut hin zun, grind di Laan." - L'R
"Should you require, there's more to be derived. But only if there's an ample offer to counterweight such kindness."


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The deserts had long been seen as near-wastes by towering mankind. Little could be derived from there, and few mortal beings could survive. What could, however, are the Rahktari--a proud and noble race. They had crafted what no other creature could, and were masterful pirates. What these snakes could not create, they stole--through negotiation or otherwise.

What the child of Rohana did not understand yet, is the numbers the Rahktari have in their ranks. The Wardens of Mutajara had yet to face these creatures' most powerful weaponry. Siege towers were crafted, ballistae manufactured, all within a small camp, and unknown to the poor, pitiful men of Ta'shar. However, they had the knowledge of alchemy as well. With the capture of Tikhameru, the distant Naga cousins were able to create a horror beyond initial comprehension. With the failed creations, the Rahktari sent them down to the lower mines, stalling the Wardens in their effort to recapture the desert.

However, now the Florentians were becoming involved--in affairs they should not. New methods of crafting were being put together daily; however, they lacked a magical presence within their ranks. Sure, they could attack with cannons and alchemicals, but magic could go a far ways to secure a foothold in the desert.

The grasp of power is near-addictive for the ranks of the Rahktari. They grow by tens daily, and with their new technology, could soon be growing by the hundreds.

The Rakhtari need Hyssir.

Scouts within the tumultuous sands of the desert watched the dragonkin as he wandered off from the blade. They blended in well within the sands, lying down and remaining as still as a man in his grave. As soon as the man is out of sight, the sword is wrought from the ground and transported to their civilization: a camp, with miles of tunnels below. Both humanoid figures and Rahktari camp within, all wishing for a better life, and for survival of their own kind.

"Hrmn." An elven scholar, knowledgeable in magics, had begun studying the blade with the note. She did not understand draconic personally, however a few within their burrow did--those far more likely to comprehend dragons and their virtues. Surely, something could be offered to the dragonkin--something of great importance to him. A Rahktari begins penning a letter, to leave on a tablet of obsidian long-ago recovered, yet original writing lost.


Mu loost was hi paar. Bo wah mu, Kirr do Dov; mu prodah aan brit Kiin zeim un Fron.
We have what you seek. Come to us, Child of Dragons; we foretell a grand beginning between our kind.


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...And dawn 'ere broke, illuminating mountain and dune, city and desolate plateau.
Before the waking world's respite however, a soft and vaning moon traversed the briefly clear skies. Having felt the response with his own hands, those draconic carvings were more than alarming at first, yet somewhat soothing later. So he wandered and wondered. One way or another, there was gain to be gathered through this endeavour, and the Rak'thari are a people who are yet to be experienced in a fitting manner.
The path ahead traverses many mountains, low valleys, small basins and odd caverns dark and rigid. Where he heads is uncertain just yet, perhaps the deities know themselves... But he offered this service to Rohana, his image of Veltes and his Nehemoth. What the Rak'thari have for him at the ready is yet to be seen, but they will certainly be not underestimated. One blind danakov can do only so much... However, given the right circumstances and tools, he too can overcome what otherwise would be his demise. The goal was clear: One way, or another, this has to end. Soon.
...And dawn 'ere broke, illuminating mountain and dune, city and desolate plateau. There, where destiny is made- There, where love burns out, - There, where olden hearts beat their last he stood tall and faced the waking world and its sun. By then, a letter sat on the olden altar prepared for them; Embedded into the stone as if it was meant to be there. Yet nowhere the dragonling was seen. And nowhere he was. It was a letter, and not a foolish one.
"Noble kind yours is, so I hear. Sorrowfully, I have had no opportunity to meet one of your race. Perhaps soon such a day will come, but for now, business is business and I expect iron co-operation between us. With that being said, you will leave the required armaments buried at spots men previously prepared. Those will be worked on, and transferred back to the location you give me. No bullshit, straight to the point. I have no time for playing around. As a sign of willingness, I shall deliver first. For more, however, you will need to provide what you believe I desire in return for my troubles. Godspeed." - L'R @llmited


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"What a cruel thing war is... to fill our hearts with hatred instead of love for our neighbors."

The scouts had received Hyssir's message again. Many members of the higher council of the Rahktari felt as if it were a trap--the opportunity too good to be true. However, their advisers beckoned for their leaders to continue with the deal. If it were a scam, there is nothing to lose; however, should a mutual transaction be established, they could garner power that the Ta'shar could not imagine the reptiles having. They all agree, eventually.

Noriesi himself decided to gather the ballistae bolts to test Hyssir's capabilities; he knew that no one had wanted to work with their society before. Ten iron ballistae bolts had been gathered in a rudimentary fashion, and those bolts were to be transferred to the previous site for Hyssir's taking. What could the Danakov create for them? Weapons of destruction, for use in sieges? Perhaps anti-personnel ammunition. They didn't know, but the possibilities excite the Rahktari--and they wait, anxious, yet welcoming.

Included with the bundle of ammunition is a map. It shows a pin of where Mutajara is, their current meeting site, and where the Rahktari camp lies--if it were their true camp, however, is a different story. Either way, it's clear the snakepeople are interested in a relationship with the man. Magic is powerful, and these creatures could use it among their ranks.

No letter is penned back. They simply assumed the transaction is understood.



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All was set. With a traveler's backpack on their back, the wanderer set off through desolace and bygone eras' structures into Elven Lands. Ten should be enough, the being thought to itself, enough to fend off the lich or perhaps necromancer... Uncertain, yet into the thicket and dense forest the traveler ventured and to the place discussed between them and the Elven Queen. The time was nigh, the fateful day has cometh. Should there be more delay, the end goal might end up being endangered. The transaction was acknowledged.


Desert Cataphract Man
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This world was not made for Life. I am Eternal Inertia. The First Nothingness.
All Wisdom is Lies, for I seek only Lies.
Light seeks the Dark for reasons itself It cannot fathom.
Only Death awaits you my friend.
And stretches an open Hand.
Come. Let me whisk you away. Let me show you Nothing.
In all of its dark magnificence.


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The Southern Heresy is now afoot once more. Who the first was now walks the land again, and no more. A new heir has been chosen, a new prince crowned to represent olden scale and that of the new world. In Erzin'lah's glory, in remembrance of the ancient paths, Wur has come to an end in imprisonment. Now bound to the will of the gem adorned wanderer, he steadily rises up toward North to fulfill his end of the bargain.

Time, however, is not on the wanderer's side. Within Folset's depth, a crystalline foe nurtures itself within an unwilling host...



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And unto you…

… A world of burden I bestow. With all its vice, every ounce of strife, and the ambition which resides wherein. Victory is yours eternal stone, cold and silent. Glory to you, many petals picked from roses pave the path which your fate leads you on. I, now, stand aside and grant you free passage for what you achieved is beyond expectations and morality. Praise be oh sweet kiss warm and titillating, burning and desire enticing. Beatified purpose, beloved hands, I seek your persistence no longer. It has been prophesized since ancient times… That, what I may never understand.

Here’s to you, man of desire:
You know the price.
- L’R
Within the Palace once so white and clean now resides a purpose larger than its late inhabitants’. A desire, a goal sanctified by sweat and thought, a unified will of many who thrive toward a collective salvation. Within this premise rests an exhausted form in the Queen’s care, nurtured and healing with each passing night and day.

Crystalline formations sprout from every inch of the being’s body. It is broken, infected to the very core, yet still holding onto that odd curly staff which Foli’s Apparition left behind. Upon approach, its lilac gaze visibly catches something, and as the nurse closed in, several crystals broke off and unto the floor they plummeted.

A slow process began. Layer by layer shields depleted and vanished until there was nothing more, but the body and its illnesses. From within, heading toward the outside world the corpus was cleansed, its wounds mended one at a time. And by late night, it was all done. Sickness contained, body cured, yet spirit still warring.

So we few…

… May see what comes far after our actions in the future. A world identical in integrity, a land undisturbed in its day by day life, but beneath the endless tides of grass and trees, lakes and hills, craggy mountains and impassable reaches will reign a different will. We walk different paths; Each one of us thrived on their own, however, this time I surmise that a change in mindset is required. Thus I set out to unite the three broods, to establish a common ground and a living relationship between all our peoples. Like the wanderers from before, I too bear the mark of the prophets, but to what end… I may never understand.

So here is to you, Venerated Three:
Fire, Ice and Earth. We still hear you.

And there he stood upon sand and dune, upon dry marrow and melted stone. Between his hands his crown. Not almighty, not a ruler who is famous for a seas of riches or power beyond all that exists, not even an owner of great kingdoms or so… Yet the next in line to serve a purpose.

There, lone on top of a solitary dune he held that crown to his chest and shakily traced across its form with fingers still ridden with bits of crystalline garments. And there, lone on top of that dune he recited a prayer, for he was afraid, and he was frightened, and terror surrounded him like shadows beneath Ombra’s beryl coat.

Unworthy, simply one of the many, no one. Now, nothing stood between him and that shadow which looms over the last piece.

And at last, he exhaled and regained resolve.

Here's to you, Warrior Kings of Tyr;


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Hard fell the snow upon endless plains cold.
Fog hid a beryl horizon, wolves howled and
Herded critter and wanderer alike southward.
Arrival to the Midlands was a day full of rain,
Empyreans crackled, rumbled and snarled at
The passing force. With a good reason at that.
Into the south, the Summerlands they went.
Without clatter and noise, across and on sand,
Dune and sunforsaken shadow. To the Rakhtarii.

Nooks and olden passages, structures from an
Age now bygone and forgotten. These are what
He prefers, for they sing and tell tales of times
Way out of his reach. And upon approaching the
Site, he settled beneath the ground, glancing at
The souls passing and whirling through sand and
Dune. Wards set, staff in hand, he awaited silent.

A final letter would be brought to 'N'. On the parchment's center lay a few words:
"Transaction complete.
Now we weave."
- L'R



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