So spend your hours on What you think I've done wrong I know I'm in your mind I've been here way too long I want to spend my life With those who've done me right Your heart is frozen over I'm a four-leaf clover
So spend your hours on What you think I've done wrong I know I'm in your mind I've been here way too long I want to spend my life With those who've done me right Your heart is frozen over I'm a four-leaf clover
The night before, some in the village saw it. Some as they were taking their beasts back from market, or while hauling their carts homeward, or just stepping outside for a mere breath of fresh air. A teal gleam, like a tumbling fragment of chrysoprase, falling from the sky. Most swore it a shooting star and went on their way. Some, a bit more paranoid, called it an ill omen, and would relay the story to friends and families, likely to little reaction.
A smoldering crater pockmarks the frosted earth of the forest. Trees nearby are scorched, but not black. Their burns are like a varnish of verdigris. At the center of this hole in the idyll of nature lies a straggly-feathered person resembling a jackdaw. She is clad in layers of leather, bound by satin at her joints, embossed with flowery sigils sculpted from lead. A rondel with britannium blade is buried in her left ulnare, staining that wing with dark blood. Her face is unreadable and inhuman, eyes wide and glazed over. It’s impossible to tell if she’s conscious or just apathetic about her surroundings.
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she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
(I'm guessing he's whittling outside instead of getting woodchips on Kinsley's floor?)
Someone silently moves into view. It's a lizardfolk dressed in Venetian carnival colors, all oranges and golds and reds, stained and caked with mud and gore. He wears a rusted, dented helmet that covers his eyes completely, with no eye slit or holes in the visor. His mouth remains uncovered, and on his back are two old swords, in equally poor repair as the rest of his kit.
He doesn't seem to notice Lazarus at first, but with the next swipe of the knife he freezes in place, listening closely.
(I'm guessing he's whittling outside instead of getting woodchips on Kinsley's floor?)
Someone silently moves into view. It's a lizardfolk dressed in Venetian carnival colors, all oranges and golds and reds, stained and caked with mud and gore. He wears a rusted, dented helmet that covers his eyes completely, with no eye slit or holes in the visor. His mouth remains uncovered, and on his back are two old swords, in equally poor repair as the rest of his kit.
He doesn't seem to notice Lazarus at first, but with the next swipe of the knife he freezes in place, listening closely.
"You alright, sir?" The vampire asks, unamused
*Indeed*
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Hi everyone! I'm working up the will to finalize my signature, so... I guess this will be the signature for now
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*OOC I don't remember*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*Tired. I don't know why. Maybe I need to eat something.*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
*Wah 😭*
𝔾𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕠𝕡 𝕤𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕗, 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕤, 𝕡𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕞𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕝𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕔𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕚𝕟, 𝕜𝕚𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕚𝕟 𝕦𝕡 𝕒 𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕔𝕙
𝔻𝕚𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟 𝕢𝕦𝕚𝕔𝕜𝕤𝕒𝕟𝕕'𝕤 𝕗𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘
(is anyone on atm?)
So spend your hours on
What you think I've done wrong
I know I'm in your mind
I've been here way too long
I want to spend my life
With those who've done me right
Your heart is frozen over
I'm a four-leaf clover
*I am, kinda*
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
(Nvm I gtg)
So spend your hours on
What you think I've done wrong
I know I'm in your mind
I've been here way too long
I want to spend my life
With those who've done me right
Your heart is frozen over
I'm a four-leaf clover
*hallo*
*haberdasheries*
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
A scrawny half-elf is lurking around the outside of the tavern, having just crawled up out of a sewer grate
You guys are awesome and mean so much to me. And mean so much to each other.
The night before, some in the village saw it. Some as they were taking their beasts back from market, or while hauling their carts homeward, or just stepping outside for a mere breath of fresh air. A teal gleam, like a tumbling fragment of chrysoprase, falling from the sky. Most swore it a shooting star and went on their way. Some, a bit more paranoid, called it an ill omen, and would relay the story to friends and families, likely to little reaction.
A smoldering crater pockmarks the frosted earth of the forest. Trees nearby are scorched, but not black. Their burns are like a varnish of verdigris. At the center of this hole in the idyll of nature lies a straggly-feathered person resembling a jackdaw. She is clad in layers of leather, bound by satin at her joints, embossed with flowery sigils sculpted from lead. A rondel with britannium blade is buried in her left ulnare, staining that wing with dark blood. Her face is unreadable and inhuman, eyes wide and glazed over. It’s impossible to tell if she’s conscious or just apathetic about her surroundings.
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
'Um, hey there. You ok?'
You guys are awesome and mean so much to me. And mean so much to each other.
There is no answer. The newcomer’s beak slightly opens, and they let out a faint, gravelly groan. The blood on their wing is fresh.
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
The half-elf scuttles toward them and attempts to heal them
You guys are awesome and mean so much to me. And mean so much to each other.
*heal with what*
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
*anyone here*
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
*anyone?*
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
*magic healing, he is a Monk*
You guys are awesome and mean so much to me. And mean so much to each other.
*bump*
she/her since june 2025
trying to convert, still haven’t found a synagogue
queen of the desert dessert
fat scored off bone, hope singed from soul, blood drained from heart. now EAT, and relish that crunch of the viscera that you have made of me.
*This place dies so quickly without me sigh*
Lazarus is whittling a moose
Meroving is riding the timestream
Raphael is quilting
Hi everyone! I'm working up the will to finalize my signature, so... I guess this will be the signature for now
(I'm guessing he's whittling outside instead of getting woodchips on Kinsley's floor?)
Someone silently moves into view. It's a lizardfolk dressed in Venetian carnival colors, all oranges and golds and reds, stained and caked with mud and gore. He wears a rusted, dented helmet that covers his eyes completely, with no eye slit or holes in the visor. His mouth remains uncovered, and on his back are two old swords, in equally poor repair as the rest of his kit.
He doesn't seem to notice Lazarus at first, but with the next swipe of the knife he freezes in place, listening closely.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
Awake, impure, divine
Breathgiver of the Strugels
"You alright, sir?" The vampire asks, unamused
*Indeed*
Hi everyone! I'm working up the will to finalize my signature, so... I guess this will be the signature for now