Year II; sun quarter

6.04.19 Velan is officially open for rping! [read more!]. As an effect of Velan's opening, a famine has struck Iilahein! [read more!]

5.18.19 We are holding auditions for positions in Velan, an upcoming area of Salhari, and for the new leader of Felniir. These auditions will run until 5/31/19. [Felniir audition] [Velan audition]

5.05.19 From 5/5-5/12, we are having an activity check. Any character's that are not put on the safe list will be put back into pending and have to re-apply for accpetance. [read more].

5.02.19 We have appointed Asra as our new moderator. Thank you everyone for your applications!

4.23.19 We are looking to add one moderator to our staff team! [read more].

4.22.19 We are going to be cleaning out any unfinished accounts on the 1st of May. If your account is older than 60 days and it has not been posted for acceptance, it will be deleted.

4.15.19 A tomb emerges from the sands. [investigate].

4.2.19 The life veins are now vulnerable until 4.12.19. Come test your fate.

3.21.19 Until our population is at a more stable spot, Sola's are banned until further notice. If you would still like to have a Sola, you can create a lunari and wait until the life veins are open to try your luck. Speaking of making a lunari, we are holding a lunari incentive! You'll also get extra rewards if you put that lunari into Felniir. [read more!]

3.13.19 A new herb system is in the works. [read more]

3.8.19 We are currently looking for event managers. If you are interested, feel free to put in an application here. We will review all applications on the 13th.

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Sulfur :: Meredy
Latest post by Jâçkal posted 9 hours ago
Everything Comes Up Roses [Immortality]
Latest post by Aer posted 11 hours ago
Wounded Bird
Latest post by Limbo posted 11 hours ago
Undead Fellowship
Latest post by Limbo posted Yesterday, 11:02 PM
A blind world
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Daemona | 5.16.19 The demon queen calls her horde, bid her urgent summons. [read more!]

Felniir | 3.18.19 The mighty ache to soothe their hunger. [read more!]

Krein | 4.2.19 The new Adonai calls to his people; a ray of hope in their time of abaondoment. [read more!]

Nakai | 5.02.19 Pagan rituals welcome in the new year and a feast fills the hungry bellies of our people. [read more!]

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Have you accomplished something that deserves a reward? Perhaps you're looking for something to earn a little more cash that is staff hosted? Welcome, then, to our updates & events board where you can request that staff award you those trinkets and do-dads, or find staff hosted contests.
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Come, meet our insect collection of grovelling jesters and haughty kings. Here you can find any information about the current hordes and those rising from the sands of hardship to make their name known among the stars.
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Come, sit, tell us how your day went. Blow off some steam and converse with our humble community. Here you may also post if you plan to take an absence though we do hope you make it back soon.
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Offer us something juicy, give us something enthralling and make us drool in mere titillation for what your character can offer. You may also keep log threads here as well but we ask that you only have one per character.

Spreading across the northern claim of Salhari begins the sweltering, billowing sand's of the saharian plains. Arid tongues yearn for the crystalline beckon of glistening ale's, of soothing water's long denied as the cascading droplet's of pelting rain's are a rarity in this moor of overbearing suffering. The casting shades of emerald laced brush have withered into naught more than life-less shrubbery - there is but one salvation from the glowering array of gilded sun's. Upon the vista lies the snows of Iilahein and the acclaimed mountain's where many of the lunari and devil-kin reside. It is the border between the two world's and only those of a fools musing would venture beyond the shadows. These lands are forever wild and lay far from the reaches of kings and law.
Beyond the desolation flat's of sahara majesty lies a land of veiled, exotic beauty whose charming radiance is shrouded behind relentless, whipping gales that howl in lamenting woe. Like a primordial beast ravenous for liberation it beckons to one that would lift this curse and offer salvation to a spirit encumbered. Caged within the evermore vexation of Gaia's foul embrace are the unfortunate vagabonds of this terrain lost in time lest they truly know the sordid cipher's within the shifting dunes. Vicious, unforgiving storms blow and alter the layout of the surging sands in a consistent cycle, something that makes this place of barren dissolution a paragon jewel during times of marching war. It is not a place accommodating towards those of crumbled resolution for it is trying, pushing and merciless in its claim of precious vitality.
Deliverance from the sweltering desert comes in the form of Raisbel pass, a place of ancient times where war's of old were fought and demon's once staked their avaricious claim within firm sands. No longer do these surrounding dunes and stalwart mountains soak in the blood of the unfortunate as if it were a saccharine opium; this place stands as a monolith to serenity and the last home of true seraphim lords that play no part within political corruption. In part they blame it upon the serenity of the land and the lavished abundance it offers. Sentry pillar's of steep stones cast their looming shades upon the drifts that welcome the vibrant sheen of flourishing petal's and swaying grasses. Along the base of the towering columns a miniscule rill courses from the Nadine Oasis and breathes life into the otherwise arid expanse of the desert. It serves as the borderland between blissful Nirvana and scorning Hell for beyond the mountain pass lies the highly sought paradise of the oasis.
Deep amongst the ravenous wilds - nestled beyond the crests of sweeping sands - majesty awaits down-trodden vagrants eager for respite against the unforgiving north. Beatific wonder meets the roving caress of awe-struck gazes by means of blossoming buds that flourish and plume in exotic array that are both an image of immaculate conception and hellish horror's. Such beauty is fully capable of robbing the careless blind of precious breath for the intoxication of floral bouquets are not to be trusted. As if it were naught but a fever dream, an illusion born to a mind reeling with desperation, the glistening shores of Adam's ale sits amongst a pool of brazen azure. Quieted falls lavish the basin's voracious appetite from towering spires of crystalline composure that are enveloped within the cast shade of thickened canopies and jungle brush. Here, it is the fortress of placidity, a haven for seraphim lords and the divine; this is the land of salvation and palace of corruption.
Revelling exotica, a pristine, lavished world of untold artistry immaculate as it gleams with the wildened, diamond rush of cobalt blue that seemed to stretch on and on for miles to come across rolling hillsides bathed deep in the steaming torridity of enigmatic venture that beckons with come-hither sway laced with the provocation of the unknown. Lucent waters of swollen, crystalline streams meander through abundant, softened verdant parting out around a broad river, the sloping banks lined heavily with towering tree with gnarled roots curling out across the rushing course in an elongated stretch that lines the waterfront with intricate, underground groves. It is meant to provoke and contort the mind with a feverish desire of what can be sought through the morass scrubland with emerald splendour and indigo resplendence, an allure that astounds with the avarice to tame such unbridled regalia.
The dead walk here, a scattered disarray of morbid fantasia that causes the brittle strings of encroaching mortality to stammer, to pause and listen in belittling nausea, a sickening fear that looms in heaving miasma through the shattered remnants of skulls and sullen crossbones. Decay is prominent, an open grave left to the elements and an elusive darkness permeates the air in a heavy breath of thickened smog. Even the earth itself is rotting, fading away from life's edge as its flesh cracks, crumbling away with the softest of touches upon tender lips, however it is hard beneath the feet, a vicious affliction to tread upon in some areas in which the long since corroded and congealed blood of the dead and dying does not seep and soften into all. In the centre of this accursed haven of the damned lie a behemoth, the twisted and gnarled bulwark mountain of an ancient dragon, a morbid flame resting within the spire of an empty ribcage that heralds where the great heart of the mammoth used to rest.

The pale threshold of towering empires is nestled deep within the profound heart of the cascading moor line absent of excessive snow, and exposes the bare earth that lies beneath the listless drifts of ivorian stronghold and where the aureate sun can be seen acutely when it descends behind the narrowed peaks of piercing mountains, no man's land that was long abandoned by civilization unable to survive on its meagre offerings and left to corrode away in incisive silence on its grim own. The forceful rush of the caustic gales murmur solemn hymn, the lost, mournful echo of a forsaken testament to the blatant desertion, yet there still lies a reason why such a place is still sought out for acclaim. Gleaming spines of secular veins traverse the scape the berth of the barren tundra, of where immortality can be drawn out for the wayward price of death itself if particular ritual proves successful, and if one is willing to requite the reckoning.
Indigo giants, a soft nocturnal respite - a peaceful resplendence that lingers upon the edge of a dream; there in lies Stygwood Forest. Trees grow tall and wild, their canopies blocking out nearly every inkling of light from the heavens above and instead are drawn together in thickened weaving upon the top, silvern leaves a break from the howling winds of a merciless abyss and seem to shroud the world below in a looming siege of given sanctuary. Spreading from enraptured roots, veins of seeping amethyst weep in drawn beauty through darkened boughs, ebony giving way to a darkened azurian and lit from within with the bruised pallet. On the night of a waxing and full moon, the veins glow and pulsate with given light, illuminating the darkness the intricately woven veil overhead creates. The docile fragility of silkworm threads can be seen in daring suspension, lighting the forest with a delicate gleam in all hours and providing a soft were-illumination.
A frozen tundra, a hapless and savage front of chilling arctic and yet an immaculate palisade of immense ivorian splendour. Under the harrowed wrath of the huntress moon, it has thrived in relentless fortitude, the breadth of the sun's sweetened kiss never having touched virgin snows. The ice grew rampant and thick, a never fading ebb and flow of oceanic waters seeking escape below but never to fruition. However such action has caused the jut of crystalline fragments, drawn from whatever darkened depths lay below the surface in a reminder of graceful beauty. Jutting ice, and fragmented crystal monuments waiver within the light, along with the echoing creak and brittle cracking given below the frigid surface in a constant struggle for freedom never given through the suffocating grip of eternity.
There are countless tales of how hellish Iilahein's landscapes can be, contrived out of Gehenna itself and etched thick within the onerous terrain that only those of the tenacious determination can withstand the sinister force of its blackened, viperous reaches, a poison most would dare to call it in every single sense of the heated word. Yet, such tales have proven grotesque in their silent truth and the bloodied ravage that had been left behind to drench the entirety of edged summits. Precarious is the treachery of the stygian mountains covered in opaque white, and far more dangerous they are to venture out across within the thickened, howling hush of winter. Frigid is the vicious temperatures, violent are the conditions for vestige as the Sierra itself is far from capable of withstanding for much too long, or they too will become part of the ice and stone.
Etched deep within the frigid mountainside lies the gaping maw of a looming, open cavern, its sharpened egress lined with the weighted serration of glinting, permafrost stalactites that hang precariously from the low-hang of the ceiling in bared warning. Yet, if courage well marks the heart in slipping past the entirety of the warding, the cave itself opens up into a wide, spacious alcove, one constructed and worn to purpose with sharpened angles of worn stone. Spectrum mirrors glisten in pale lucidity from top to heaving bottom, a stretching labyrinth encased entirely in a thickened glissade of taintless ice. Glacial essence lavishes the entirety in a luminescent white, and upon the curving slope of the walls are remnants of visible tales that were painted there, of ancient history that is as timeless as the land itself, and what stories lie in deadened wait to be discovered.
Within the darkened recesses of mountainous fortitude lies the Abyssal rifts, a darkened testament to otherworldly prowess and monstrosity. For within these doorways the very darkness exudes, a rampant chaos driven by malicious tides of hostility. Wretched beings, conceived of nightmares and livid abominations dwell within the harboured niches between realities. Drawn forth by the flesh of the living, the savage lust for flesh consumption they loom into the world in ghastly disarray. Some of them harbour outward beauty, the frivolous sashay of flamenco hips that lure one to bend to their frivolous whims, others are hideous fiends, hellish to even lay eyes upon. All around the sparse portals lay a desolate scape ravaged by such contrived magic, laid into waste within the isolation of the piercing mountains and hidden deep within the solitude of wasteland valleys.

The outskirts of Velan appear to be a mere wasteland of dried and cracked earth. The remnants of corpses linger upon its enshrouded province, the dirt itself dyed in the bountiful harvest of carmine to reflect the miasma of enigmatic vermilion mist that looms overhead. The air itself is arid and filled with the unnatural presence of heat on its ravenous breeze when carrion winds call from deeper within the abhorrent undergrounds. Mindless, lesser demonic presences are banished here to dwell in the shadow of the grandeur castle. They are forbidden from trespassing along its halls just as much as the soles of mortal heels. Their presence is made painfully known with the assortments of decaying and barren bones. Cleaving the badlands in twine is the serpentine majesty of a looming river, one both ethereal and solidified in reality. Its soft crystalline gleam is the only ecstasy of relief found here.
The river in the outskirts flows into the arms of molten flame and desolation in a canyon fall. The plummet ends one in the pit of the Molten Gorge, forging ever downwards and closer to the foreboding shadow of the demented palace. Here, the Red March patrol, a glissade of death wielded in their various forms and delectable skills. The myriad labyrinth of naturally eroded land bridges are littered with the rattle of restraining chains and the dilapidated formations of wrought iron spires that line the toppled walls that were perhaps once battlements lost to the ages and ruination of this seething realm. The gorge completes with the emboldened presence of the monolithic gate before the keep, much of the pathway looming in its vast umbral wake. This is the last palisade for mortal kin or any uninvited intruders to the citadel. Here, the grand guardians of Helforus's home will turn aside any wanderer who has managed to embark beyond the vermin filled outskirts - through word of mouth or the vehemence of unrestrained violence.
Cloveshire Keep is the fortified citadel of the damned. Its presence is vast and encompasses all range of sight, seeming to be the very endings of Velan's borders into the yawning expanse of the limitless void. The large dwelling surrounds the budding bloom of tended courtyards, a protective border for the sacred Sanctorum within the midst of its guise. It is here that the overwhelming presence of carmine mists materializes in its heaviest formation. The ruins and remains of the once great castle show the vestige imprints of its demise, of its plume to Gehena's landscape. The stone appears eroded, eaten and decayed with the morose passage of time, though often times the magic of illusion holds the prior glory and pride to adorn the skeletal corridors in the glorious banners of Helforus's guidance. Irritant, manic maids spend eternity polishing and sweeping the halls in ghastly requiem, unaware of their passing and the building filth that refuses to dissolve by their hand. Here, proud aristocratic fiends lurk, condemning without conscious the mortals above and the lesser life-forms within the outskirts. Therein lies Helforous's malevolent council.
The Shrine of the Sanctorum lies tucked deep within the battlements of the monolithic Keep. In the heart of the castle's majestic courtyard settles the entrance to the most guarded sacrament of the dead and their ghastly counterparts. The haunted capital is surrounded by vile blood blooms that replicate the efficiency of peace and beauty, a delicate landscape touched by the crimson mist's illusive prowess. In reality, the building is desecrated and discarded by the serene grace that swaddles it. The virile gardens are empty, beguiled with corpses and rot. This is home to the Maiden, and only Her guests are welcome to the halls sheltered in the perilous guise of soft-spoken details. The interior is cathedral-esque. It is a myriad of brilliant architecture, fueled by Gothic influence and held clean with scouring order. Within the grandeur of the main floor, lay the offering of archaic alter, its surface immaculate and pristine before the pews of reckoning and salacious offer. No mortal may pass through the antechamber unscathed by the debilitating sense of crippling dread that circulates akin blood, growing ever more fierce as one encroaches the territories of Helforus.
Their screams are deafening, deadening, chillingly shrill as they reverberate throughout the halls of Cloveshire Keep. It is the arena of the damned; it is where the scorned and innocent are sent to suffer and repent for their Earthly transgressions; their sins repaid in blood and tears. Here, the slaves, the mortality chained, grovel at their cages ever eager for a scrap of mercy fed by the malignantly cruel hand of their grinning masters. The unfortunate and the frail feed the endless blood wells, their gore slipping down the walls like fountains to entertain their sadistic keepers and satiate the hunger of the lazy, leeching vampires. The floor is set in smooth stone with beams leading to each wall and, for those truly wicked beasts, a pit opens wide between each beam which feeds into the heart of Helforus. A truly dastardly death for the unlucky soul awakening the ire of their demon lords.
From above, the bodies fall like wicked rain to feed the flames, the kindling of flesh smouldering throughout the brimstone and magma. The stench is welcoming to some, putrid and acrid to others as they stand before the monolith said to be the heart of Helforus himself. With each fevered pulse, it feeds the lava flow like veins of mortal scoria searing throughout living flesh. If there truly was a hell, this would be its epitome, its mirrored image cast in vile stone. Embers and sparks make this a dangerous trek for any brazen mortal who manages to reach the bottom of Cloveshire Keep. It is in this forbidden chamber in which the Maiden resides, watching over her lover's heart in hopes to keep it safe, to ensure that his return to this world is filled with violence and mayhem.

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