Lore

Alone, the Chloromancer roamed the dark sea. Were those seconds, or were they entire eons passing right before his eyes? Waves crashed upon the cold hull of the steerless metallic ship, yet no matter how much it rocked, the ship would never sink. No matter how often he tried, he could not jump into the dark waters below. With his book of memories held close against his chest, Zerathur hummed songs of old, and another voice joined his chorus. Sat upon the taffrail, The Traveler examined the o...

You’re alone in your home. The storm outside is spilling something fierce, but lucky for you, you’re in your nice, warm house watching a bit of TV while the rain spatters against your window. Unfortunately, strong winds have taken out the picture of the TV. It’s all static… You sit, you wait… and it still doesn’t come back on. Perhaps now’s the time to turn it off and go to bed? That seems to be the appropriate thing to do. It’s not late, but it’s well within bed time parameters. With the thou...

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. ...

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 ...

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...

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 ...

Waves crash upon the golden sands of the Southern Shores. Seagulls fly above, silent fireworks explode in the distance. His shoes sink into the damp sand, and the maritime breeze of the early evening fills his lungs. "Zera?" A feminine voice calls out, prompting him to turn his head to look over to its source. Even though she was heavier than him, the changeling mare skips next to him with unparalleled grace, not leaving a single mark where she stepped. Her purple mane flows along the win...