He smiles, “You’d be surprised by how many people are just as confused as you. I very much like your game.”
"Oh goody thank you! I greatly enjoy being able to provide the rule followers with my apples. I hope it's alright if my fellow Barrels and I stay here, in your land? It fits our wants and needs very nicely. We can even attend any royal parties you have, and things of that manner, since we can provide fun and food."
"Of course you may. You'll fit in perfectly. You may set your barrels up just about anywhere you like. How many of your kind are there?"
Apollon is slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
Apollon is slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
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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 slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
Apollon is slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
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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 slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
He stands silent for a long time but eventually a tired, cold voices drifts out of the scarf, "I might be anyone and everyone... but only one of them all would be true... and that person is so old and tired... that he doesn't care to try to remember."
Apollon is slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
He stands silent for a long time but eventually a tired, cold voices drifts out of the scarf, "I might be anyone and everyone... but only one of them all would be true... and that person is so old and tired... that he doesn't care to try to remember."
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
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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.
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
He stands silent for a long time but eventually a tired, cold voices drifts out of the scarf, "I might be anyone and everyone... but only one of them all would be true... and that person is so old and tired... that he doesn't care to try to remember."
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
He stands silent for a long time but eventually a tired, cold voices drifts out of the scarf, "I might be anyone and everyone... but only one of them all would be true... and that person is so old and tired... that he doesn't care to try to remember."
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
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.
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
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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.
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
The air here is cold and hollow, but there is the distant smell of fire and pumpkins and dinner tables filled with food. The farther down the hall you walk, the thicker the carpet of leaves. Massive columns spiral up into the ceiling where the reddened leaves spiral down out of the darkness. The walls and columns are covered in carvings of skeletons and bearded men and dancing women and cornucopias spilling forth food and flying geese and sweeping reapers and balding branches and crooked hags and clouds with bulging cheeked faces blowing all the images up into a conglomerated storm of memories. Before you, two tall doors are cracked open slightly a bright light spills out onto the carpet of leaves.
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
The air here is cold and hollow, but there is the distant smell of fire and pumpkins and dinner tables filled with food. The farther down the hall you walk, the thicker the carpet of leaves. Massive columns spiral up into the ceiling where the reddened leaves spiral down out of the darkness. The walls and columns are covered in carvings of skeletons and bearded men and dancing women and cornucopias spilling forth food and flying geese and sweeping reapers and balding branches and crooked hags and clouds with bulging cheeked faces blowing all the images up into a conglomerated storm of memories. Before you, two tall doors are cracked open slightly a bright light spills out onto the carpet of leaves.
He looks for anything or anyone that looks to be a threat
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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.
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
The air here is cold and hollow, but there is the distant smell of fire and pumpkins and dinner tables filled with food. The farther down the hall you walk, the thicker the carpet of leaves. Massive columns spiral up into the ceiling where the reddened leaves spiral down out of the darkness. The walls and columns are covered in carvings of skeletons and bearded men and dancing women and cornucopias spilling forth food and flying geese and sweeping reapers and balding branches and crooked hags and clouds with bulging cheeked faces blowing all the images up into a conglomerated storm of memories. Before you, two tall doors are cracked open slightly a bright light spills out onto the carpet of leaves.
He looks for anything or anyone that looks to be a threat
In this antechamber, there is just you and the carvings on the walls. You do hear movement and quiet chatter coming from the next room though.
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
The air here is cold and hollow, but there is the distant smell of fire and pumpkins and dinner tables filled with food. The farther down the hall you walk, the thicker the carpet of leaves. Massive columns spiral up into the ceiling where the reddened leaves spiral down out of the darkness. The walls and columns are covered in carvings of skeletons and bearded men and dancing women and cornucopias spilling forth food and flying geese and sweeping reapers and balding branches and crooked hags and clouds with bulging cheeked faces blowing all the images up into a conglomerated storm of memories. Before you, two tall doors are cracked open slightly a bright light spills out onto the carpet of leaves.
He looks for anything or anyone that looks to be a threat
In this antechamber, there is just you and the carvings on the walls. You do hear movement and quiet chatter coming from the next room though.
The Hunter moves silently to the next room.
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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.
The graveyard grim, a large black doglike humanoid, naps in the graveyard on palace grounds. It's full of ghosts, some sleeping, some talking in breathy voices, and some gathering around a shallow grave where felicity sits
Thint slowly descends, gives the dog humanoid a small pat, and approaches Felicity. "How have the past few days treated you? I noticed you never seemed to call for me. If you did, I am terribly sorry."
she sighs. "Nothing happened to me that wasn't my fault" she gives a pained smile The grim looks indignant, but his wildly wagging tail says otherwise
Thint sits down next to her, careful not to knock over any gravestones. "What happened?"
*Just a quick question. How would you say these two's relationship can be summed up as? I just want to make sure we're on a similar page.*
*Parental?*
"I just got sad. I wandered further than I ought have and though I was happy for a little while, It didn't last" *btw she becomes more 'dead'(ie, decaying, getting scruffier, leaving decomposition fluid everywhere) when she is sad. Sort of a metaphor for early-onset depression ig.*
*Ok. same page.*
"It's ok to feel sad, and it's ok to be curious, but if you let it quite literally destroy you, then it is, well, unhealthy. Let's get you out of that grave." Thint reaches with a claw for Felicity to grab.
she does so, waving at the ghosts in the graveyard and the grim. "I'll come back"
Thint smiles at this. "You've made a few friends here?"
"Yes" she smiles a little as a few ghosts wave back
"It's good to have lots of friends. Especially around your age."
"According to the grim, I'm Three hundred and forty seven."
"Oh really? Almost as old as I was when I took my first kingdom. My point still stands, but more towards mental age."
"huh. I'm not quite sure how old I am that way" she climbs onto thint's scaly back
“I’m just going to assume it is around the age you look. Less I’ll be embarrassed.” She flaps her wings and takes flight.
Felicity nods.
*she looks about 9-10*
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I'm fry, and I make doodles. That's why they call me FRY DOODLES. Also no pressure but check out my YouTube channel (Fry Doodles) Soli Deo Gloria(Sed servus eius crustulum vult) I'm a disabled, neurodivergent, artsy dumpster fire, and somewhat of a clown. But, I'm also god's favorite princess and the most interesting girl in the world. Crafter of Constellations, vocaloid enjoyer, waluigi’s #1 fan, space alien, danganer of ronpas, and certified silly goose
You step through the doors and into the throne room. Huge pillars hold up the vaulted ceiling and vines and branches of fruit circle the structures. Along both sides of the room stand the Autumn Court. Wolf headed nobles in decadent clothing, withered crones with scaly bird feet, wooden skeletons, pumpkin headed ghouls, and so many more watch you in silence. A tall thin automaton rabbit checks his watch, a man dressed in black robes looks out at you over the paper bird beak strapped to his face with twine, a thin man in a tweed suit holds an armful of books watches you through round spectacles and a sparrow sits perched on his shoulder. A familiar looking man draped in shadow smiles at you and vanishes in the blink of an eye. A raccoon with a broad grin winks at you from the audience
All the way at the other end of the room, sits the Autumn King on his throne, which looks like it was carved from the trunk of a massive, dead tree. In one strong hand he grips a moon sickled scythe and the other strokes his autumn leaf beard. His jack-o'-lantern helmet grins at you from where it sits at his feet. His chest is armored in pine cone scales and his shoulders are draped in goose feathers. Three massive, red Fox Hounds sit at his birch bark boots. He watches you with eyes that shine like candlelight out of a pumpkin's eyes.
A thin red carpet of fallen leaves stretches from where you stand all the way to the foot of his thrown.
You step through the doors and into the throne room. Huge pillars hold up the vaulted ceiling and vines and branches of fruit circle the structures. Along both sides of the room stand the Autumn Court. Wolf headed nobles in decadent clothing, withered crones with scaly bird feet, wooden skeletons, pumpkin headed ghouls, and so many more watch you in silence. A tall thin automaton rabbit checks his watch, a man dressed in black robes looks out at you over the paper bird beak strapped to his face with twine, a thin man in a tweed suit holds an armful of books watches you through round spectacles and a sparrow sits perched on his shoulder. A familiar looking man draped in shadow smiles at you and vanishes in the blink of an eye. A raccoon with a broad grin winks at you from the audience
All the way at the other end of the room, sits the Autumn King on his throne, which looks like it was carved from the trunk of a massive, dead tree. In one strong hand he grips a moon sickled scythe and the other strokes his autumn leaf beard. His jack-o'-lantern helmet grins at you from where it sits at his feet. His chest is armored in pine cone scales and his shoulders are draped in goose feathers. Three massive, red Fox Hounds sit at his birch bark boots. He watches you with eyes that shine like candlelight out of a pumpkin's eyes.
A thin red carpet of fallen leaves stretches from where you stand all the way to the foot of his thrown.
The Hunter places the butt of the spear on the ground, making a loud clacking noise. The Hunter takes a deep breath before saying, "King of Autumn...I am Apollon the Flame of Frenzy. You shall fall by my hand to end your oppressive rule. Those who side with you to protect you shall fall by my hand as well. Heed my warning, surrender and you'll have a quick and painless death. Don't surrender and your pain will be tenfold of the deepest depths of Hades."
"Of course you may. You'll fit in perfectly. You may set your barrels up just about anywhere you like. How many of your kind are there?"
Apollon is slowly approaching the castle gates, taking his time. He whistles an eerie tune as he spins his spear in hand.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
A chill clings to the air as it blows by you in a steady, constant stream. When you stop and pay attention to it, you realize that it is blowing towards you from the Northwest. The same direction as the castle. Dry, dead leaves skitter about your heels and cling to the tall yellow grass that grows along the side of the road. The way is empty save for one lizard the size of a horse and covered in glittering, bejeweled scales that slithers by through the grass and is gone in an instant. Dark clouds have mounded up in the horizons, ominous atmospheric mountains. Over the next hill, crouches the Keep of Painted Leaves. Built of bricks the color of dying trees, the keep has countless spires that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. Through some of the many windows shines golden, warm light. Others are filled with deep, musty darkness. You glimpse a shriveled corpse or two watching you from the shadows of those windows. Crows flutter about the castle like flies around a fresh carcass. The door to the Keep is wide open, as it always is.
"Ah. Finally." he makes his way towards the keep, one hand in his satchel and the other holding his spear tightly. "Oh King, oh King. Does thou await me? Await death? Greet him as a friend for me." he sings
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
And now you stand at the threshold. The courtyard around you is littered with worn gravestones and several tall, black wood, bare branched, crooked trees stand like horrible crones. Huge oaken doors bound in heavy plates of studded iron open into a shadow draped hall littered with orange leaves. A short figure stands silently off next to one of the tombstones. The person is wrapped tight in a huge ragged coat. A tattered hat covers its head with a wide brim and its face is wrapped in an orange scarf. The figure does not move or speak as it watches you.
"Hello there." he says, watching the man, not moving either. "Who might you be?"
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
He stands silent for a long time but eventually a tired, cold voices drifts out of the scarf, "I might be anyone and everyone... but only one of them all would be true... and that person is so old and tired... that he doesn't care to try to remember."
"How paradoxical." he says, watching the man carefully. "Will you try to stop me if I enter the hall good sir?"
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
"No. No I won't." He says as a particularly cold blast of wind whips by, "I wouldn't attempt to stop one from partaking in pleasures I myself am excluded from."
The Hunter doesn't shiver at the wind. "Well, best of luck to you. Perhaps I shall visit you after my business here is done."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
The man stands there without a word before eventually muttering a few words that are nearly lost to the wind. "We'll see..."
The Hunter walks into the hall, his boots crunching on the leaves as he looks around. He takes a deep breath, breathing in everything.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
The air here is cold and hollow, but there is the distant smell of fire and pumpkins and dinner tables filled with food. The farther down the hall you walk, the thicker the carpet of leaves. Massive columns spiral up into the ceiling where the reddened leaves spiral down out of the darkness. The walls and columns are covered in carvings of skeletons and bearded men and dancing women and cornucopias spilling forth food and flying geese and sweeping reapers and balding branches and crooked hags and clouds with bulging cheeked faces blowing all the images up into a conglomerated storm of memories. Before you, two tall doors are cracked open slightly a bright light spills out onto the carpet of leaves.
He looks for anything or anyone that looks to be a threat
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
In this antechamber, there is just you and the carvings on the walls. You do hear movement and quiet chatter coming from the next room though.
The Hunter moves silently to the next room.
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
Felicity nods.
*she looks about 9-10*
I'm fry, and I make doodles. That's why they call me FRY DOODLES. Also no pressure but check out my YouTube channel (Fry Doodles)
Soli Deo Gloria(Sed servus eius crustulum vult)
I'm a disabled, neurodivergent, artsy dumpster fire, and somewhat of a clown. But, I'm also god's favorite princess and the most interesting girl in the world.
Crafter of Constellations, vocaloid enjoyer, waluigi’s #1 fan, space alien, danganer of ronpas, and certified silly goose
You step through the doors and into the throne room. Huge pillars hold up the vaulted ceiling and vines and branches of fruit circle the structures. Along both sides of the room stand the Autumn Court. Wolf headed nobles in decadent clothing, withered crones with scaly bird feet, wooden skeletons, pumpkin headed ghouls, and so many more watch you in silence. A tall thin automaton rabbit checks his watch, a man dressed in black robes looks out at you over the paper bird beak strapped to his face with twine, a thin man in a tweed suit holds an armful of books watches you through round spectacles and a sparrow sits perched on his shoulder. A familiar looking man draped in shadow smiles at you and vanishes in the blink of an eye. A raccoon with a broad grin winks at you from the audience
All the way at the other end of the room, sits the Autumn King on his throne, which looks like it was carved from the trunk of a massive, dead tree. In one strong hand he grips a moon sickled scythe and the other strokes his autumn leaf beard. His jack-o'-lantern helmet grins at you from where it sits at his feet. His chest is armored in pine cone scales and his shoulders are draped in goose feathers. Three massive, red Fox Hounds sit at his birch bark boots. He watches you with eyes that shine like candlelight out of a pumpkin's eyes.
A thin red carpet of fallen leaves stretches from where you stand all the way to the foot of his thrown.
The Hunter places the butt of the spear on the ground, making a loud clacking noise. The Hunter takes a deep breath before saying, "King of Autumn...I am Apollon the Flame of Frenzy. You shall fall by my hand to end your oppressive rule. Those who side with you to protect you shall fall by my hand as well. Heed my warning, surrender and you'll have a quick and painless death. Don't surrender and your pain will be tenfold of the deepest depths of Hades."
Ye old creator of characters
Tortured poet and writer
This mortal body is expendable, I will be released from my binding soon.
The Alexandre Meat Kings truck has arrived outside the Keep, and is dropping of copious amounts of canned meat. 4 cans for each denizen.
Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.
May each word that I speak be backed by each of my teeth.