Error 420
One Thousand Club
What lies before us, surely, is greatness. Our fates are all spinning infinitely with the entropy of potential, throwing us headfirst into the currents of destruction, loss, triumph, and glory. We stand at the crossroads, beckoning the Fates to propel us into greatness, and provoking them to drag us into darkness. We stand here, today, as every day. And what decides our fate, our path to greatness, is unity.
-Aethlfard the Broken, the Tome of Pain
The river flows over you, dancing coyly. Its current swirls around your body, coming to life as it passes over your skin, playfully gliding across intricate tattoos and scars from years ago, from your life before the cabin in the wilds, the field of forget-me-nots by the river through the mountains. It is a life you have no memory of, nor concept of what may have occurred. Magic swirls freely from your fingers, the unfiltered powers of the realm of dreams, the blue tendrils of the fae. The Spirit of the River flows out from these tendrils, appearing before you. She smiles her regular, serene smile, her smooth features rippling softly, as though pulled by their own currents. Her formless figure vanishes as you surface, refreshed by magic. You clamber onto the banks of the meandering river, and get your bearings.
You don your robes in the wide expanse of bright blue flowers amidst the green grasses, massive green hills like burial mounds surrounding on all sides, seeming to reach up the low-hanging stormclouds above, swirling and preparing for a dance of lightning and rain. You race towards your cabin in the middle of the clearing, reveling in the feel of the wet grass on your bare feet. The cabin is little more than a dilapidated shack, made of half-rotted oak, but it is more than enough for you. It keeps you and your books safe from the elements. However, standing by the door, as ominous as the clouds up above, there is a scarlet robe, hung on broad, powerful shoulders, a figure of at least 7 feet. As you slow your approach, it speaks, its voice harsh and powerful, scolding and demanding.
"Maelstrom. You were not in your cabin." Before you can interject, it continues. "I do not know what you are trying, boy, but I do not take failures like this lightly. I am your keeper, not your mother." The figure turns, revealing her sharp features you recognize, her grey skin a dreary reflection of the sky above. She's staring into you with crystal blue eyes, cold and heartless, into your soul. She reaches for her belt, producing a metal dagger and throwing it to you. You catch it as she produces another dagger. "Now, Maelstrom. Let us begin. Strike me, if you can."
[You should read the Journal, the Lore thread linked above.]
-Aethlfard the Broken, the Tome of Pain
The river flows over you, dancing coyly. Its current swirls around your body, coming to life as it passes over your skin, playfully gliding across intricate tattoos and scars from years ago, from your life before the cabin in the wilds, the field of forget-me-nots by the river through the mountains. It is a life you have no memory of, nor concept of what may have occurred. Magic swirls freely from your fingers, the unfiltered powers of the realm of dreams, the blue tendrils of the fae. The Spirit of the River flows out from these tendrils, appearing before you. She smiles her regular, serene smile, her smooth features rippling softly, as though pulled by their own currents. Her formless figure vanishes as you surface, refreshed by magic. You clamber onto the banks of the meandering river, and get your bearings.
You don your robes in the wide expanse of bright blue flowers amidst the green grasses, massive green hills like burial mounds surrounding on all sides, seeming to reach up the low-hanging stormclouds above, swirling and preparing for a dance of lightning and rain. You race towards your cabin in the middle of the clearing, reveling in the feel of the wet grass on your bare feet. The cabin is little more than a dilapidated shack, made of half-rotted oak, but it is more than enough for you. It keeps you and your books safe from the elements. However, standing by the door, as ominous as the clouds up above, there is a scarlet robe, hung on broad, powerful shoulders, a figure of at least 7 feet. As you slow your approach, it speaks, its voice harsh and powerful, scolding and demanding.
"Maelstrom. You were not in your cabin." Before you can interject, it continues. "I do not know what you are trying, boy, but I do not take failures like this lightly. I am your keeper, not your mother." The figure turns, revealing her sharp features you recognize, her grey skin a dreary reflection of the sky above. She's staring into you with crystal blue eyes, cold and heartless, into your soul. She reaches for her belt, producing a metal dagger and throwing it to you. You catch it as she produces another dagger. "Now, Maelstrom. Let us begin. Strike me, if you can."
[You should read the Journal, the Lore thread linked above.]