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6/5/2025, 11:39:58 PM
>>6252031
>master is a force of nature
correct
>Rosandra better appreciate it
Rosandra has insofar made the lethal mistake of underestimating our beloved doofus... perhaps the hour of correction beckons
>>6252168
interesting points anon. I enjoyed how articulate was your post.
and now, the news...
# # # # # #
>>6252018
Seldom the stars shine upon the Night Land.
The planetary ring looms above, so close the mountain tips seem like they could scrape it, open more channels through the silver curtain, where the dark sky can be seen.
But tonight the night sky is clear, and see-through as glass. From above, the feverish light of the cluster of the Seven, huddled together, peeks through one of the channels.
And in the nearby village, the shadows seem to walk on two legs.
The inhabitants, still holding close the memory of that time when their horned saviour, that wingless angel that answers to the name of the Stilladìa and that perhaps once around these parts answered to the name of Lithala, have long-since began to gather in their enclosed homes, waiting for this also to pass.
The Night Lands are vast and merciless. Here the memory of the Epochalypse is still carved in the rotten land, in the gloomy sky. The opulence of Frigéia, the might of the Throne, the hope of the Holy Land — these are all far-away concept, faint ideas.
Bit by bit, the village grows silent, the voices hush, the candles dim. The washed-over remnants of mankind throw a blanket over their narrow shoulders and pray for another pale morning in a few hours, pray for the stars to look elsewhere.
And for most of them, this desire may get yet granted.
For the family of seven, whispering faint intonations under a single linen.
For the lovers entwined in their embrace, holding arm onto back onto shoulder, hiding their breaths into each other, so that the shadows may not hear them.
And for the lonely elderly woman who danced with the Stilladìa, who lies before her hearth, her wizened hands holding her final gift, the little carving she slipped into her pocket.
Not so for others.
[cont.]
>master is a force of nature
correct
>Rosandra better appreciate it
Rosandra has insofar made the lethal mistake of underestimating our beloved doofus... perhaps the hour of correction beckons
>>6252168
interesting points anon. I enjoyed how articulate was your post.
and now, the news...
# # # # # #
>>6252018
Seldom the stars shine upon the Night Land.
The planetary ring looms above, so close the mountain tips seem like they could scrape it, open more channels through the silver curtain, where the dark sky can be seen.
But tonight the night sky is clear, and see-through as glass. From above, the feverish light of the cluster of the Seven, huddled together, peeks through one of the channels.
And in the nearby village, the shadows seem to walk on two legs.
The inhabitants, still holding close the memory of that time when their horned saviour, that wingless angel that answers to the name of the Stilladìa and that perhaps once around these parts answered to the name of Lithala, have long-since began to gather in their enclosed homes, waiting for this also to pass.
The Night Lands are vast and merciless. Here the memory of the Epochalypse is still carved in the rotten land, in the gloomy sky. The opulence of Frigéia, the might of the Throne, the hope of the Holy Land — these are all far-away concept, faint ideas.
Bit by bit, the village grows silent, the voices hush, the candles dim. The washed-over remnants of mankind throw a blanket over their narrow shoulders and pray for another pale morning in a few hours, pray for the stars to look elsewhere.
And for most of them, this desire may get yet granted.
For the family of seven, whispering faint intonations under a single linen.
For the lovers entwined in their embrace, holding arm onto back onto shoulder, hiding their breaths into each other, so that the shadows may not hear them.
And for the lonely elderly woman who danced with the Stilladìa, who lies before her hearth, her wizened hands holding her final gift, the little carving she slipped into her pocket.
Not so for others.
[cont.]
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