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captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
CaptainButterBuns ~ Tired Gremlin
@captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
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Reposted by CaptainButterBuns ~ Tired Gremlin
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
#tavember Dat 18: Weak (2-3)
#aunaedorrot
Later on, once they’re forced to face Thorm and Myrkul. Aunae feelt it—the spirits' usual nosiness and chatter were gone. An unsettling silence blanketed them, a sign of something wrong; the dead do not hush without cause. Their silence screams of danger, of peace withheld. Without those voices haunting their mind, Aunae perceived the world clearly—they heard the raw, pained screams of Wyll, drowning in agony. “I must not intervene but…” They whispered, torn between restraint and duty. Summoning their resolve, Aunae rose once more. An icy, unwavering calm overtakes them as they step forward, approaching Wyll—not to heal, but to stand as a barrier between him and the Apostle. “The souls here seek peace. None may pass until justice is served for their suffering. Though my heart aches to help, my body is weak, and without action, their torment will endure,” Aunae spoke softly, almost to no one. Then, their tone shifted—raising their hands to the heavens as if in prayer. “Hear my voice. Lend me your strength. If you desire release, you must claim it—through force if need be! I am your vessel, your conduit. Use me! Grant these souls salvation through me, and let eternal peace be theirs!” The air around them thickens, swirling as if caught in a violent cyclone—hair and clothes whipped wildly by the unseen storm. Aunae’s very being radiates a sickly green light, unnerving and otherworldly. Taking a deep, steadying breath, they move with newfound grace, their dance charged with raw energy—an aura unseen before now. Their movements are fluid, natural, commanding—the ground beneath warps and writhes in response, twisted limbs of decay erupting from beneath their feet. The tormented spirits who hear the call rise from their graves, eager to fight for the freedom they crave. Suddenly, the party is bolstered with eight more allies—flesh and spirit, ready for the brutal clash ahead. “Do not play tricks on me, I beg,” Aunae whispered under their breath, desperation tinging their voice—hoping, praying that the spirits will be merciful for once. When no chaotic surge of magic erupts, Aunae understands the spirits and them were on the same page. The three forgotten gods must be stopped—before it’s too late. Ceasing their dance, Aunae steps back, positioning themselves in front of Wyll once more—arms open wide, inviting chaos. Without another command, the newly risen corpses unleash a deafening, ungodly roar and charge at the remaining necromites in unison. “You are no god,” Aunae’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixes on Myrkul—though they know it is only an avatar of him. “Only the pale, disgraced ghost of one,” they declare, voice fierce with defiance. “You have no place among mortals. Return to your domain.” As he pushed himself up to his knees, Wyll couldn’t help admiring the beauty and powerful words of the necromancer in front of him. They had intervened, protected him in a sense, putting themselves in harm’s way. “A god, no. His very own Apostle, and by his hand,” he paused as the bony digits curled into a fist, “you will be the ones left to regret.” The skeletal head turned and gazed upon the battlefield, seeing the new comers all thanks to Aunae. “These worthless weak souls shall remain here in this tomb, an everlasting reminder of their foolishness to turn their back on the God of Death.” In the blink of an eye, the fist lashed out at Aunae and Wyll, an explosion of pain and ice cold fury setting into their bodies. The worlock pushed himself closer to Aunae now, bringing them to the ground with him. As the cold was setting in, he managed to shield them with his own body. Becoming chilled, his movements grew slower. Aunae remained standing tall and unwavering, like an ancient oak rooted deep in the earth. They refused to move, already immersed in preparing another spell with the unwavering aid of their spiritual guides. The chaotic magic, momentarily subdued, bubbled within them, twisting and yearning for release—until suddenly, they found themselves falling, their body pressed beneath a warm, living weight. A chilling wind bit into them, sharper and more relentless with each passing moment. Aunae clenched their teeth, drawing a sharp breath as searing pain blossomed deep within and spread like icy tendrils creeping through their veins. Pain was no stranger to them; it was often a familiar companion, even a comfort. But now, every ache was a jagged tool aimed to harm and snuff out life itself. Too much was at stake—too precious to succumb to that dark sorrow, that torment lurking just beyond reach. With trembling resolve, they forced their eyes open. All they could see was the warlock’s face, contorted in suffering—his bravery shining through yet again, shielding the necromancer at great cost. Anuae would carry that memory with them forever. Gentle and cautious, Aunae brushed Wyll’s cheek as if seeking to soothe him. Their whisper, fragile yet filled with desperate yearning, escaped trembling lips. “Hold fast. I need… more time.” Despite the relentless assault, the unpredictable magic swirling within the drow intensified, fueled by the spirits who gifted it. Aunae’s only hope was a brief moment—a precious heartbeat—to channel it fully, to unleash its full potential. More time. How much longer could Wyll withstand? He wasn’t sure, but this was a request he needed to carry out. It was obvious Aunae had something up their sleeve, but the cold embrace of powerful dark magic was gripping the pair. The warlock slowly nodded as the sweat on his face turned into icy crystals. Wyll steadied himself, trying to control the shivering of his body and labored breathing. He stared straight into Aunae’s eyes, studying their color. They weren’t ruby like Astarion, but they were far more beautiful. He wouldn’t tell the vampire that or else suffer at the hands of their barbaric little tiefling. Or a meltdown from the bloodsucker himself. Far more beautiful. Magenta that dazzled like the stars in a night sky. Twinkling softly but bright enough to capture his attention. Wyll hadn’t realized it, but his hand cupped their cheek as he continued losing himself their orbs. Aunae’s smile was fragile, tinged with sorrow, as the once-soft voices that haunted their mind began to swell with renewed force, swirling within like a hellish storm of tormented souls cursed to suffer for eternity. With that pain came an unimaginable power—building, fierce, threatening to explode. “Stay… stay strong,” Aunae whispered, their voice growing raspy and faint with each passing second—yet not from the cold. “No matter what comes…” Gently, their thumb brushed Wyll’s cheek before falling away, their hand feeling heavy—like a stone—hitting the ground. Magenta eyes flickered closed, surrendering to darkness. The necromancer froze completely, stiff and unmoving. “Au…Aun…Nae?” Wyll stuttered through chattering lips. Gently, due to being frozen himself, he shook their shoulder. Nothing. Meanwhile, the Apostle’s concentration was nearly broken as soulless voids that may have once held eyes, never left Dame Aylin. The cold, threatening aura of his spell upon the warlock was diminishing, until finally, it was gone. The warlock and the one he was shielding meant nothing to Myrkul any longer. The group were falling one by one, which would make it easier to deal with Aylin. With that thought in mind, he would enjoy ending her. The large skeletal blade went soaring through the air, but it failed to connect. Thorm should have had his good for nothing accomplices pluck the Dame’s wings before locking her up. But that thought had dissipated when a loud roar suddenly sounded. Myrkul turned to the source of it, seeing the necromancer’s aura visibly changing and conjuring up an absolute abomination.
November 19, 2025 at 7:46 PM
Reposted by CaptainButterBuns ~ Tired Gremlin
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
#tavember Day 18: Weak (3-3)
#aunaedorrot
“What the hells now?” Frans snapped out of his daze and scrambled to his feet, narrowly dodging a massive crack splitting the ground open in a furious tremor. He was driven back further, his steps quickening as he caught sight of wispy smoke billowing from the fissures, swirling like an ominous fog. A chilling, unnatural sensation crawled over his skin as he watched the smoke grow denser, larger—until it blotted the area with its grotesque mass. Was there really a face within? There was. Several. The twisted, contorted visages reflected within the ghostly cloud, their silent screams distorted by the endless suffering. Dread seized Frans’s heart, and his body froze in place. Dame Aylin was preparing to strike when a tidal wave of necromantic magic suddenly engulfed the room. For a moment, she wondered what new horrors Myrkul had unleashed. Yet a quick glance told her it was far worse—an incorporeal mass of tormented souls, ravenous with vengeance, seeking sweet revenge for their endless suffering. Centuries had passed since she last faced a caller in darkness. And yet, it remained just as horrific. “Join! Us! Suffer! As! We! Have!” The room trembled under the deafening roar of a thousand voices, like thunderous kungs echoing through the darkness. These cries were not coming directly from the tormented spirits lost in the fog of despair, but from Aunae’s very lips—their eyes snapping open once more. Gone was their haunting magenta; now replaced by a sickly, neon green glow—an eerie, lifeless hue born of the spirits that had seized the necromancer, taking over their body in their relentless grip. “Devour! All! End! It! Now! Consume! Release! Freedom! Peace! DEATH!” That final word shattered the silence with a ferocious scream, a deafening cry of suffering—an echo of a thousand deaths bleeding into one. It tore through the necromancer’s strained vocal cords, echoing the agony of a whole forsaken town of vanquished lives. And then, as if the horns of war had been sounded, the call rang out loud and fierce, as the cloud of lost souls charged forward—raw with fury, unyielding—straight at the Apostle of death, ready to devour all within its path. Wyll had no idea what was happening. One moment he thought Aunae had died, and the next moment they’re summoning something so terrifying. He stared into their green orbs, listened to the words they spoke, the torment of others who had died at the hands of their once ruler. A low, audible growl was heard. The source? Myrkul. But this was not Myrkul. The Apostle, though taking on the visage of a god, was not one at all. Familiar faces of those who once looked up to, put all their belief in Thorm. Those would tend to their crops, meet at the well for a chat, start a family, tended to and loved the land now cursed out of selfishness, were all staring at the visage with contorted terror. Myrkul needed a plan, something to slow down the Callers coming his way. It needed to be slowed down. As he did with the warlock, Cold Embrace was once again used, but at this point, the Apostle’s concentration wasn’t where it needed to be and the spell failed to produce anything. Out of frustration, the scythe of Myrkul soared through the air and towards the Callers. It was perfectly clear that the Apostle was losing his composure. Myrkul's scythe cut through the air--right through the coming fog, deterring it none nor slowing its charge as the blade passed right through. “DIE! WITH! US!” Aunae’s voice strained to its breaking point, their screams contorted and echoing with raw intensity of the souls using them to speak. Their body was stiff, trembling in pain, red tinted tears threatening to spill from luminous, haunted eyes. The trickle of blood glistened from their left nostril. All who remained in the path of the Callers were swiftly consumed, joining the tormented ranks of the damned, disappearing into the thick cloud as if mere vapers. Nothing could halt the relentless desire of those spirits—to drag down the one being they yearned to send to hell—Katheric Thorm, the man who betrayed them all for his own kin’s salvation. Then the echoes of a thousand voices groan, the sound bittersweet. “It…is…finished…” Aunae’s lips parted one final time as they took a swallow breath, then they went silent as the fog dispersed, leaving nothing behind but the twisted, mangled corpse of the man this village had lost faith in. One final breath. Magenta eyes, once aglow with supernatural power, roll back, and the drow’s head lolls to the side. The crimson sheen of blood glistened on their amethyst skin, still dripping from their nostrils, the corner of their still parted lips, and rolling down their cheek a single scarlet tear from eyes that simply stared at nothing. “Flashy, yes. Unnecessarily elaborate? Quite. There is no denying that it did accomplish the job.” Minthara stepped over a fallen zombie on her way to investigate the necromancer, curiosity getting the better of her as she spared a glance towards where Thorm’s own body lay, unmoving and broken. Stopping beside Wyll, she turned her gaze to the other drow, quickly noting the vacant stare and lack of breathing. “Such power comes at a price not many are able to pay. Ultrinnan. Dosst aphyon orn naut tlu wun ist'a whol l'ilhar orbb wun aphyon caballin mzil ilta waelin. Nindol or'shanse orn tlu ajakkol.” (Victorious. Your death will not be in vain for the mother spider, for in death, she nourishes many of her young. This sacrifice will be remembered.) “Come, there is nothing that can be done,” Mithara added, turning on her heels to go search Thorm’s body. But before she took a step, the air grew heavy once more, sending a chill down her spine. Aunae’s stiff body suddenly jolted and spasmed, their back arching as if struck by lightning. Another twitch had their head rolling to guide their lifeless eyes to look directly up. The roar of wind, unnatural and fierce, tore through the group like a storm, howling like a tortured scream as it swiped over Mithara and right through Wyll before slamming into the necromancer’s contorted body. Then all goes still, Aunae’s body going limp once more. After a few heartsbeats, Aunae gasped loudly, sucking in a large breath. They lay there, panting and gasping for air for a moment before calming down as realization sinks in past the fog of confusion. Calming their own breathing, the still quite alive necromancer rests for a moment. “All is…as it should be.” Their voice was raspy, barely audible but still there and of a singular presence: their own. Although, their lips obeyed their command to speak, their body was not as obedient as it refused to move. The necromancer had pushed their limits too far and would have to face the consequences.
November 19, 2025 at 7:46 PM
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
#tavember Day 18: Weak (3-3)
#aunaedorrot
“What the hells now?” Frans snapped out of his daze and scrambled to his feet, narrowly dodging a massive crack splitting the ground open in a furious tremor. He was driven back further, his steps quickening as he caught sight of wispy smoke billowing from the fissures, swirling like an ominous fog. A chilling, unnatural sensation crawled over his skin as he watched the smoke grow denser, larger—until it blotted the area with its grotesque mass. Was there really a face within? There was. Several. The twisted, contorted visages reflected within the ghostly cloud, their silent screams distorted by the endless suffering. Dread seized Frans’s heart, and his body froze in place. Dame Aylin was preparing to strike when a tidal wave of necromantic magic suddenly engulfed the room. For a moment, she wondered what new horrors Myrkul had unleashed. Yet a quick glance told her it was far worse—an incorporeal mass of tormented souls, ravenous with vengeance, seeking sweet revenge for their endless suffering. Centuries had passed since she last faced a caller in darkness. And yet, it remained just as horrific. “Join! Us! Suffer! As! We! Have!” The room trembled under the deafening roar of a thousand voices, like thunderous kungs echoing through the darkness. These cries were not coming directly from the tormented spirits lost in the fog of despair, but from Aunae’s very lips—their eyes snapping open once more. Gone was their haunting magenta; now replaced by a sickly, neon green glow—an eerie, lifeless hue born of the spirits that had seized the necromancer, taking over their body in their relentless grip. “Devour! All! End! It! Now! Consume! Release! Freedom! Peace! DEATH!” That final word shattered the silence with a ferocious scream, a deafening cry of suffering—an echo of a thousand deaths bleeding into one. It tore through the necromancer’s strained vocal cords, echoing the agony of a whole forsaken town of vanquished lives. And then, as if the horns of war had been sounded, the call rang out loud and fierce, as the cloud of lost souls charged forward—raw with fury, unyielding—straight at the Apostle of death, ready to devour all within its path. Wyll had no idea what was happening. One moment he thought Aunae had died, and the next moment they’re summoning something so terrifying. He stared into their green orbs, listened to the words they spoke, the torment of others who had died at the hands of their once ruler. A low, audible growl was heard. The source? Myrkul. But this was not Myrkul. The Apostle, though taking on the visage of a god, was not one at all. Familiar faces of those who once looked up to, put all their belief in Thorm. Those would tend to their crops, meet at the well for a chat, start a family, tended to and loved the land now cursed out of selfishness, were all staring at the visage with contorted terror. Myrkul needed a plan, something to slow down the Callers coming his way. It needed to be slowed down. As he did with the warlock, Cold Embrace was once again used, but at this point, the Apostle’s concentration wasn’t where it needed to be and the spell failed to produce anything. Out of frustration, the scythe of Myrkul soared through the air and towards the Callers. It was perfectly clear that the Apostle was losing his composure. Myrkul's scythe cut through the air--right through the coming fog, deterring it none nor slowing its charge as the blade passed right through. “DIE! WITH! US!” Aunae’s voice strained to its breaking point, their screams contorted and echoing with raw intensity of the souls using them to speak. Their body was stiff, trembling in pain, red tinted tears threatening to spill from luminous, haunted eyes. The trickle of blood glistened from their left nostril. All who remained in the path of the Callers were swiftly consumed, joining the tormented ranks of the damned, disappearing into the thick cloud as if mere vapers. Nothing could halt the relentless desire of those spirits—to drag down the one being they yearned to send to hell—Katheric Thorm, the man who betrayed them all for his own kin’s salvation. Then the echoes of a thousand voices groan, the sound bittersweet. “It…is…finished…” Aunae’s lips parted one final time as they took a swallow breath, then they went silent as the fog dispersed, leaving nothing behind but the twisted, mangled corpse of the man this village had lost faith in. One final breath. Magenta eyes, once aglow with supernatural power, roll back, and the drow’s head lolls to the side. The crimson sheen of blood glistened on their amethyst skin, still dripping from their nostrils, the corner of their still parted lips, and rolling down their cheek a single scarlet tear from eyes that simply stared at nothing. “Flashy, yes. Unnecessarily elaborate? Quite. There is no denying that it did accomplish the job.” Minthara stepped over a fallen zombie on her way to investigate the necromancer, curiosity getting the better of her as she spared a glance towards where Thorm’s own body lay, unmoving and broken. Stopping beside Wyll, she turned her gaze to the other drow, quickly noting the vacant stare and lack of breathing. “Such power comes at a price not many are able to pay. Ultrinnan. Dosst aphyon orn naut tlu wun ist'a whol l'ilhar orbb wun aphyon caballin mzil ilta waelin. Nindol or'shanse orn tlu ajakkol.” (Victorious. Your death will not be in vain for the mother spider, for in death, she nourishes many of her young. This sacrifice will be remembered.) “Come, there is nothing that can be done,” Mithara added, turning on her heels to go search Thorm’s body. But before she took a step, the air grew heavy once more, sending a chill down her spine. Aunae’s stiff body suddenly jolted and spasmed, their back arching as if struck by lightning. Another twitch had their head rolling to guide their lifeless eyes to look directly up. The roar of wind, unnatural and fierce, tore through the group like a storm, howling like a tortured scream as it swiped over Mithara and right through Wyll before slamming into the necromancer’s contorted body. Then all goes still, Aunae’s body going limp once more. After a few heartsbeats, Aunae gasped loudly, sucking in a large breath. They lay there, panting and gasping for air for a moment before calming down as realization sinks in past the fog of confusion. Calming their own breathing, the still quite alive necromancer rests for a moment. “All is…as it should be.” Their voice was raspy, barely audible but still there and of a singular presence: their own. Although, their lips obeyed their command to speak, their body was not as obedient as it refused to move. The necromancer had pushed their limits too far and would have to face the consequences.
November 19, 2025 at 7:46 PM
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
#tavember Dat 18: Weak (2-3)
#aunaedorrot
Later on, once they’re forced to face Thorm and Myrkul. Aunae feelt it—the spirits' usual nosiness and chatter were gone. An unsettling silence blanketed them, a sign of something wrong; the dead do not hush without cause. Their silence screams of danger, of peace withheld. Without those voices haunting their mind, Aunae perceived the world clearly—they heard the raw, pained screams of Wyll, drowning in agony. “I must not intervene but…” They whispered, torn between restraint and duty. Summoning their resolve, Aunae rose once more. An icy, unwavering calm overtakes them as they step forward, approaching Wyll—not to heal, but to stand as a barrier between him and the Apostle. “The souls here seek peace. None may pass until justice is served for their suffering. Though my heart aches to help, my body is weak, and without action, their torment will endure,” Aunae spoke softly, almost to no one. Then, their tone shifted—raising their hands to the heavens as if in prayer. “Hear my voice. Lend me your strength. If you desire release, you must claim it—through force if need be! I am your vessel, your conduit. Use me! Grant these souls salvation through me, and let eternal peace be theirs!” The air around them thickens, swirling as if caught in a violent cyclone—hair and clothes whipped wildly by the unseen storm. Aunae’s very being radiates a sickly green light, unnerving and otherworldly. Taking a deep, steadying breath, they move with newfound grace, their dance charged with raw energy—an aura unseen before now. Their movements are fluid, natural, commanding—the ground beneath warps and writhes in response, twisted limbs of decay erupting from beneath their feet. The tormented spirits who hear the call rise from their graves, eager to fight for the freedom they crave. Suddenly, the party is bolstered with eight more allies—flesh and spirit, ready for the brutal clash ahead. “Do not play tricks on me, I beg,” Aunae whispered under their breath, desperation tinging their voice—hoping, praying that the spirits will be merciful for once. When no chaotic surge of magic erupts, Aunae understands the spirits and them were on the same page. The three forgotten gods must be stopped—before it’s too late. Ceasing their dance, Aunae steps back, positioning themselves in front of Wyll once more—arms open wide, inviting chaos. Without another command, the newly risen corpses unleash a deafening, ungodly roar and charge at the remaining necromites in unison. “You are no god,” Aunae’s gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixes on Myrkul—though they know it is only an avatar of him. “Only the pale, disgraced ghost of one,” they declare, voice fierce with defiance. “You have no place among mortals. Return to your domain.” As he pushed himself up to his knees, Wyll couldn’t help admiring the beauty and powerful words of the necromancer in front of him. They had intervened, protected him in a sense, putting themselves in harm’s way. “A god, no. His very own Apostle, and by his hand,” he paused as the bony digits curled into a fist, “you will be the ones left to regret.” The skeletal head turned and gazed upon the battlefield, seeing the new comers all thanks to Aunae. “These worthless weak souls shall remain here in this tomb, an everlasting reminder of their foolishness to turn their back on the God of Death.” In the blink of an eye, the fist lashed out at Aunae and Wyll, an explosion of pain and ice cold fury setting into their bodies. The worlock pushed himself closer to Aunae now, bringing them to the ground with him. As the cold was setting in, he managed to shield them with his own body. Becoming chilled, his movements grew slower. Aunae remained standing tall and unwavering, like an ancient oak rooted deep in the earth. They refused to move, already immersed in preparing another spell with the unwavering aid of their spiritual guides. The chaotic magic, momentarily subdued, bubbled within them, twisting and yearning for release—until suddenly, they found themselves falling, their body pressed beneath a warm, living weight. A chilling wind bit into them, sharper and more relentless with each passing moment. Aunae clenched their teeth, drawing a sharp breath as searing pain blossomed deep within and spread like icy tendrils creeping through their veins. Pain was no stranger to them; it was often a familiar companion, even a comfort. But now, every ache was a jagged tool aimed to harm and snuff out life itself. Too much was at stake—too precious to succumb to that dark sorrow, that torment lurking just beyond reach. With trembling resolve, they forced their eyes open. All they could see was the warlock’s face, contorted in suffering—his bravery shining through yet again, shielding the necromancer at great cost. Anuae would carry that memory with them forever. Gentle and cautious, Aunae brushed Wyll’s cheek as if seeking to soothe him. Their whisper, fragile yet filled with desperate yearning, escaped trembling lips. “Hold fast. I need… more time.” Despite the relentless assault, the unpredictable magic swirling within the drow intensified, fueled by the spirits who gifted it. Aunae’s only hope was a brief moment—a precious heartbeat—to channel it fully, to unleash its full potential. More time. How much longer could Wyll withstand? He wasn’t sure, but this was a request he needed to carry out. It was obvious Aunae had something up their sleeve, but the cold embrace of powerful dark magic was gripping the pair. The warlock slowly nodded as the sweat on his face turned into icy crystals. Wyll steadied himself, trying to control the shivering of his body and labored breathing. He stared straight into Aunae’s eyes, studying their color. They weren’t ruby like Astarion, but they were far more beautiful. He wouldn’t tell the vampire that or else suffer at the hands of their barbaric little tiefling. Or a meltdown from the bloodsucker himself. Far more beautiful. Magenta that dazzled like the stars in a night sky. Twinkling softly but bright enough to capture his attention. Wyll hadn’t realized it, but his hand cupped their cheek as he continued losing himself their orbs. Aunae’s smile was fragile, tinged with sorrow, as the once-soft voices that haunted their mind began to swell with renewed force, swirling within like a hellish storm of tormented souls cursed to suffer for eternity. With that pain came an unimaginable power—building, fierce, threatening to explode. “Stay… stay strong,” Aunae whispered, their voice growing raspy and faint with each passing second—yet not from the cold. “No matter what comes…” Gently, their thumb brushed Wyll’s cheek before falling away, their hand feeling heavy—like a stone—hitting the ground. Magenta eyes flickered closed, surrendering to darkness. The necromancer froze completely, stiff and unmoving. “Au…Aun…Nae?” Wyll stuttered through chattering lips. Gently, due to being frozen himself, he shook their shoulder. Nothing. Meanwhile, the Apostle’s concentration was nearly broken as soulless voids that may have once held eyes, never left Dame Aylin. The cold, threatening aura of his spell upon the warlock was diminishing, until finally, it was gone. The warlock and the one he was shielding meant nothing to Myrkul any longer. The group were falling one by one, which would make it easier to deal with Aylin. With that thought in mind, he would enjoy ending her. The large skeletal blade went soaring through the air, but it failed to connect. Thorm should have had his good for nothing accomplices pluck the Dame’s wings before locking her up. But that thought had dissipated when a loud roar suddenly sounded. Myrkul turned to the source of it, seeing the necromancer’s aura visibly changing and conjuring up an absolute abomination.
November 19, 2025 at 7:46 PM
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
I just noticed the typo "the certain doom" but I'm keeping it because it makes me giggle.
November 18, 2025 at 8:57 PM
captainbutterbuns.bsky.social
I couldn't help it. Your beautiful photography was too perfect. ❤️
November 14, 2025 at 8:22 PM