Friendship Letters

Eadil is a Necromancer. It is common in his kind's folklore for healers and medics to arrive too late to save the heroes who've fallen in the great battles of old, those born with the natural affinity of healing often mocked as 'healers of the dead': A pejorative term turned official with the consolidation of the Velgraviran Empire. As he stares at the skulls piled upon his desk, he curses the irony. He wasn't here to help those who needed it when they were hurt, much like the 'Necromancers' of ...

I'm still unsure of the amount of days I've spent on this project of mine. Sometimes hours blend with days. Days blend with weeks. And weeks blend with months. Regardless of how long I've spent on this project, it'll soon be fulfilling its purpose. Lord Somber must be killed. This is the right course of action. A monster such as him shouldn't be allowed to breathe within this world, much less rule a Kingdom. No....This Kingdom deserves better. Better leadership. These parasites we call civil...

Wander for long enough, and it will find you, for the forest hungers just as every living thing does. There are many different tales told by many different tongues. Each carries a measure of the truth, muddied though it becomes in the telling. Many are kind enough, speaking of the healer who came for four months to tend the ill, asking only a small fee, or of the mysterious adventurer who could locate anything or anyone with a few words. Some talk of a fae being, a benign entity of a magical fo...

Another turn, another wall of thorns. Another path that leads nowhere. By now, Mirror has grown to expect it. She turns back the way she came without so much as a sigh to show her discontent. The warm summer air is bordering on stifling, now, with the thick sweater that hangs almost to the forest floor on her thin frame. Mirror is drowsy, and separately, she is tired. Tired of seeking a way out of her own home. Drowsy from the lull of crickets, little light, and warmth. The thought of laying ...

Silence. Silence is the subject I have learned about my entire life. My name is Dr. Shila Shulziker, but those in my way call me Death. I turned the sound off when it needed it. I make those who are so full of themselves: Powerless. Fearful of what comes next. Toying with my food. Like a confident predator stalking its prey. God can't silence the world, so I will. Shila would be walking into what looked like a once abandoned house. The floors were creaky, and the air was thick with dust. ...

Admittedly, I wasn't smart by the end of it all. It was all my fault. I was too involved with those children. I wish I were heartless... I hope they didn't have to see me suffer anymore, for it makes them weep. I was hardened by each loss, but what progress have I made to have it squashed into the floor? No more, I swore. I will take on this burden, no matter the cost to myself. What is a cut on a wrist or botched subject if it means another life is preserved even for longer? The answer: It is t...

TWAS THE MONTH OF CHRISTMAS (Poem was made for my Toyhou.se, but enjoy.) ---------------------------------------- 'Twas the month of Christmas, when all thro' Toyhou.se, Many creatures for sale, even a mouse; ...

Dies for every mare, kisses every man, Laid every mother, drools at every pan. ...

Polo sat there wanting to run from what he was looking at but can't he was chained up away from the computer as Sivanro said "Okay Sheep started typing out the story and don't stop." Polo looked at the screen in pure pain like the one meme that has Mr.Increadible. Sheep starts working on the sequel as Sivanro eats popcorns. detetive honse was sitting on the char outside watching the mini fridges as the song of ptsd start playing as depress hors was using his wings as a hlicopter while holdin...

"Why did you write this cringe Sheep?" Polo asked as Sivanro looked at the screen then, throws up in the trash can for he seen what was the worst story in history of fanfiction. Five hours ago on depress horses computer Sheep start working on a story that cause art to be made of it that made me regret even writting this whole thing out. Detetive horse breaks into depress horse house for a fridge that had milk in it. "Oh fridge sempie how i missed you" Carmine sandiago (the red horse that...

I never thought myself a writer. In truth, I never thought myself expressive at all. In being alone I forgot, perhaps, what it was to have someone to whom a fleeting moment may be explained, to be understood. Pen and paper make poor substitute for the beloved, but they are all that is left to me here, and so I shall write. Not a week may go by without that awful thought. It plagues me day and night, an abyss that I should jump into by ever entertaining, and somehow a siren’s call that I long ...