With all the tension and activity in the Autumn Country, the frequency of culinary gifts have increased throughout the various villages. A few folks tell tales of seeing a massive house shaped shadow skittering through the dark woods, weaving it’s way through the trees.
In the Keep of Painted Leaves, hidden in a place only the King of Autumn would wander, a large and freshly baked pumpkin pie sits, the wafting aroma filling the air around it with a warm nostalgic feeling of harvest’s past and merry celebration.
In a deep, windowless hall lost in the bowels of the castle, The Autumn King paces. Every now and then a leaf flutters down from his beard as he walks no where fast, clearly considering many important matters. Eventually his pacing stops. He has caught a whiff of some delectable pastry. He turns and finds it sitting in a wooden table that seems to have been crafted from living wood. He carves himself a slice of the pie, and takes a bite.
*Cut for EJODM* Out of the ghoul gate steps the oversized figure of a Son of Amina. Somehow, he is able to squeeze a twelve foot tall frame out of the tombstone door. Two ginormous eyes of cold, yellow light shine out of his face. He is dressed in a loose tunic that used to be white but has been stained with yellow mold. Brown canvas pants clad his bow legged legs and dangling from his huge ears are a fork and a knife, hanging as earrings.
“Amina does not take kindly to attacks on her family.”
"Amina can not take kindly all she likes, scum." Fahkar raises his blade, the dawn light spilling over the Son and the Ghouls, the latter of which are paralyzed. A soft, feminine voice seems to emanate from the blade. "Fight and suffer a terrible fate. Surrender yourself and you will die quickly. I recommend the second option."
"I have nothing to surrender. Nothing at all. A fright must fight!" The fork and knife hanging from his ears swing wildly as he lunges forward. His long, muscular arms swing wide and his grubby fingers ball into stone fists that leave craters in the earth when he slams them to the ground.
"Suit yourself..." The blade mutters. Fahkar grimaces under his deep hood, Muttering something. Suddenly, a long rope, glowing orange, seems to jump from his hand, darting forward to wrap around the monster's neck. DEX save please.
13
He cries out as he sees the rope fly at his neck, “Be this necklace or noose, I say no thank you!”
A very stout, ferret-like humanoid walks out of the woods before the Keep, his spiral eyes looking around in ponderous wonder. He couldn't be more than 4 feet tall, and he's dressed in loose, minimalist, white and purple clothing, reminiscent of a bathhouse employee uniform. However, he is also equipped with heavy armor plating that is mostly hidden by his soft outfit and equally soft physique. He wears purple makeup, including freckle-like markings and heavy eyeliner. Images of spirals are very frequent on his clothing, almost like some sort of holy symbol or corporate logo.
On his back is a massive white metal box that radiates warmth. Clearly visible seams imply that it is designed to fold out into something more functional. "Wow... the Keep of Painted Leaves..." He mutters, staring in awe.
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Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
With all the tension and activity in the Autumn Country, the frequency of culinary gifts have increased throughout the various villages. A few folks tell tales of seeing a massive house shaped shadow skittering through the dark woods, weaving it’s way through the trees.
In the Keep of Painted Leaves, hidden in a place only the King of Autumn would wander, a large and freshly baked pumpkin pie sits, the wafting aroma filling the air around it with a warm nostalgic feeling of harvest’s past and merry celebration.
In a deep, windowless hall lost in the bowels of the castle, The Autumn King paces. Every now and then a leaf flutters down from his beard as he walks no where fast, clearly considering many important matters. Eventually his pacing stops. He has caught a whiff of some delectable pastry. He turns and finds it sitting in a wooden table that seems to have been crafted from living wood. He carves himself a slice of the pie, and takes a bite.
The Autumn King has never had a pie so comforting and delectable. As he savors the first bite, fond memories of harvests past and warm celebration in the mists of the decay and chilling Autumn winds fill him. He recalls his early years, his first grand feast, the smiles and laughter of his subjects as they revel in the wondrous food and company.
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
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Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
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Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
It continues to back up, but still does not flee from view, still watching.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
It continues to back up, but still does not flee from view, still watching.
The sky starts to darken, lightning flickering in the clouds. The storm that is brewing is visible throughout the whole country. "Back off, now."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
It continues to back up, but still does not flee from view, still watching.
The sky starts to darken, lightning flickering in the clouds. The storm that is brewing is visible throughout the whole country. "Back off, now."
"...No... NO!.." Seeing the sky grow cloudy, Helianth is filled with panic. They frantically scurry in the sun's direction, over a hill and out of sight.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
It continues to back up, but still does not flee from view, still watching.
The sky starts to darken, lightning flickering in the clouds. The storm that is brewing is visible throughout the whole country. "Back off, now."
"...No... NO!.." Seeing the sky grow cloudy, Helianth is filled with panic. They frantically scurry in the sun's direction, over a hill and out of sight.
Apollon takes a deep breath, making the clouds fade.
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Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
Apollon is sitting under a tree, resting. His breathing is ragged as blood trickles from his mouth. He digs in his satchel weakly, looking for something. His spear lays next to him, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
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Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
As fleeing turns to wandering, the sunflower's mad quest leads it at long last to the Keep of Painted Leaves. It lurks outside the fort's entrance, curious.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Apollon is sitting under a tree, resting. His breathing is ragged as blood trickles from his mouth. He digs in his satchel weakly, looking for something. His spear lays next to him, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
Leaves begin to drift down from the autumn painted branches. They drift slowly and lazily down in wide circles, landing softly in the grass. One of them is cartwheels and pin wheels above you, slowly descending upon your form, landing lightly on your shoulder.
Fang chewing, venom pulsing, poison stinging, ember searing, pain erupts on the small patch of you covered by the leaf. It radiates an agonizing sensation into your flesh.
With all the tension and activity in the Autumn Country, the frequency of culinary gifts have increased throughout the various villages. A few folks tell tales of seeing a massive house shaped shadow skittering through the dark woods, weaving it’s way through the trees.
In the Keep of Painted Leaves, hidden in a place only the King of Autumn would wander, a large and freshly baked pumpkin pie sits, the wafting aroma filling the air around it with a warm nostalgic feeling of harvest’s past and merry celebration.
In a deep, windowless hall lost in the bowels of the castle, The Autumn King paces. Every now and then a leaf flutters down from his beard as he walks no where fast, clearly considering many important matters. Eventually his pacing stops. He has caught a whiff of some delectable pastry. He turns and finds it sitting in a wooden table that seems to have been crafted from living wood. He carves himself a slice of the pie, and takes a bite.
The Autumn King has never had a pie so comforting and delectable. As he savors the first bite, fond memories of harvests past and warm celebration in the mists of the decay and chilling Autumn winds fill him. He recalls his early years, his first grand feast, the smiles and laughter of his subjects as they revel in the wondrous food and company.
He lets out an involuntary, joyous laugh. His candlelit eyes flicker with delight and he eagerly cuts himself another slice.
Apollon is sitting under a tree, resting. His breathing is ragged as blood trickles from his mouth. He digs in his satchel weakly, looking for something. His spear lays next to him, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
Leaves begin to drift down from the autumn painted branches. They drift slowly and lazily down in wide circles, landing softly in the grass. One of them is cartwheels and pin wheels above you, slowly descending upon your form, landing lightly on your shoulder.
Fang chewing, venom pulsing, poison stinging, ember searing, pain erupts on the small patch of you covered by the leaf. It radiates an agonizing sensation into your flesh.
Apollon hisses in pain as he brushes the leaf off, still looking for something in his satchel
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
With all the tension and activity in the Autumn Country, the frequency of culinary gifts have increased throughout the various villages. A few folks tell tales of seeing a massive house shaped shadow skittering through the dark woods, weaving it’s way through the trees.
In the Keep of Painted Leaves, hidden in a place only the King of Autumn would wander, a large and freshly baked pumpkin pie sits, the wafting aroma filling the air around it with a warm nostalgic feeling of harvest’s past and merry celebration.
In a deep, windowless hall lost in the bowels of the castle, The Autumn King paces. Every now and then a leaf flutters down from his beard as he walks no where fast, clearly considering many important matters. Eventually his pacing stops. He has caught a whiff of some delectable pastry. He turns and finds it sitting in a wooden table that seems to have been crafted from living wood. He carves himself a slice of the pie, and takes a bite.
The Autumn King has never had a pie so comforting and delectable. As he savors the first bite, fond memories of harvests past and warm celebration in the mists of the decay and chilling Autumn winds fill him. He recalls his early years, his first grand feast, the smiles and laughter of his subjects as they revel in the wondrous food and company.
He lets out an involuntary, joyous laugh. His candlelit eyes flicker with delight and he eagerly cuts himself another slice.
As the King enjoys another slice, a figure mostly obscured by the shadows observes quietly.
Apollon is sitting under a tree, resting. His breathing is ragged as blood trickles from his mouth. He digs in his satchel weakly, looking for something. His spear lays next to him, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
Leaves begin to drift down from the autumn painted branches. They drift slowly and lazily down in wide circles, landing softly in the grass. One of them is cartwheels and pin wheels above you, slowly descending upon your form, landing lightly on your shoulder.
Fang chewing, venom pulsing, poison stinging, ember searing, pain erupts on the small patch of you covered by the leaf. It radiates an agonizing sensation into your flesh.
Apollon hisses in pain as he brushes the leaf off, still looking for something in his satchel
A brief flash of a needle sharp stinging feeling scorches your fingertips as you brush away the leaf. You feel the pain erupt on your knee as another leaf lands upon your leg. You notice that there are a lot more leaves fluttering down now. The tree is shedding its load with greater speed.
"An infinite amount..." he says, his strength returning as he backs up.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
In a deep, windowless hall lost in the bowels of the castle, The Autumn King paces. Every now and then a leaf flutters down from his beard as he walks no where fast, clearly considering many important matters. Eventually his pacing stops. He has caught a whiff of some delectable pastry. He turns and finds it sitting in a wooden table that seems to have been crafted from living wood. He carves himself a slice of the pie, and takes a bite.
13
He cries out as he sees the rope fly at his neck, “Be this necklace or noose, I say no thank you!”
"...Perfect..." It continues to approach.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
He raises his spear, eyes ablaze with rage. "Do not test me."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
A very stout, ferret-like humanoid walks out of the woods before the Keep, his spiral eyes looking around in ponderous wonder. He couldn't be more than 4 feet tall, and he's dressed in loose, minimalist, white and purple clothing, reminiscent of a bathhouse employee uniform. However, he is also equipped with heavy armor plating that is mostly hidden by his soft outfit and equally soft physique. He wears purple makeup, including freckle-like markings and heavy eyeliner. Images of spirals are very frequent on his clothing, almost like some sort of holy symbol or corporate logo.
On his back is a massive white metal box that radiates warmth. Clearly visible seams imply that it is designed to fold out into something more functional. "Wow... the Keep of Painted Leaves..." He mutters, staring in awe.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.
The Autumn King has never had a pie so comforting and delectable. As he savors the first bite, fond memories of harvests past and warm celebration in the mists of the decay and chilling Autumn winds fill him. He recalls his early years, his first grand feast, the smiles and laughter of his subjects as they revel in the wondrous food and company.
Helianth is silent, backing up slightly to be out of general stabbing range, but does not retreat any further. It continues to 'stare' at Apollon with a starving madness, determined in its mad quest to devour the very sun.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
"If you attack me you will regret it. You will fall and never feel the warmth of the sun ever again..." he snarls
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
It continues to back up, but still does not flee from view, still watching.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
The sky starts to darken, lightning flickering in the clouds. The storm that is brewing is visible throughout the whole country. "Back off, now."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
"...No... NO!.." Seeing the sky grow cloudy, Helianth is filled with panic. They frantically scurry in the sun's direction, over a hill and out of sight.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Apollon takes a deep breath, making the clouds fade.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
Apollon is sitting under a tree, resting. His breathing is ragged as blood trickles from his mouth. He digs in his satchel weakly, looking for something. His spear lays next to him, the tip gleaming in the dim light.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
As fleeing turns to wandering, the sunflower's mad quest leads it at long last to the Keep of Painted Leaves. It lurks outside the fort's entrance, curious.
Former Spider Queen of the Spider Guild, and friendly neighborhood scheming creature.
"Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders."
My pronouns are she/her.
Web Weaver of Everlasting Narrative! (title bestowed by Drummer)
Leaves begin to drift down from the autumn painted branches. They drift slowly and lazily down in wide circles, landing softly in the grass. One of them is cartwheels and pin wheels above you, slowly descending upon your form, landing lightly on your shoulder.
Fang chewing, venom pulsing, poison stinging, ember searing, pain erupts on the small patch of you covered by the leaf. It radiates an agonizing sensation into your flesh.
He lets out an involuntary, joyous laugh. His candlelit eyes flicker with delight and he eagerly cuts himself another slice.
Apollon hisses in pain as he brushes the leaf off, still looking for something in his satchel
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
As the King enjoys another slice, a figure mostly obscured by the shadows observes quietly.
A brief flash of a needle sharp stinging feeling scorches your fingertips as you brush away the leaf. You feel the pain erupt on your knee as another leaf lands upon your leg. You notice that there are a lot more leaves fluttering down now. The tree is shedding its load with greater speed.