scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
ROUND 7: STALEMATE (ERYON 3- NOYRE 2)
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Fantasy Anthroterra (1:1, closed, scantilycladsnail & ThieviusRaccoonus)
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ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Noyre hit the ground hard, metal scraping stone, breath ripped from his lungs. He tried to rise—one knee planted, gauntlet pushing against the soil.
Eryon was already there.
No words. No roar. Just purpose.
He reached down, massive hand gripping the lion’s armored wrist like a vice, ripping Noyre upward and slamming a headbutt into his helm with a sickening clang. Sparks flew.
The lion reeled—staggered—but Eryon didn’t stop.
With a snort of breath and eyes burning cold, he wrenched Noyre’s guard aside and drove the butt of his axe into the lion’s gut, hard, sending him crashing back into the dirt.
Not for spectacle. Not for rage.
Just judgment.
Still towering over him, Eryon exhaled slow, steady.
The stands erupted once more—the donkeykin’s war cry tearing through the air like thunder rolling off the mountains. Deep-throated chants in the old tongue of Brakarholt rose, rhythmic and fierce, the pounding of fists against chest and shield echoing like war drums. It wasn’t just support. It was kinship. Pride. Their captain stood tall—and through him, they all stood tall.
Above the din, from a nearby row, Silvano leaned back in his seat, flicking a kernel into his mouth with flair.
“Ooohhh, now the kitty cat’s really made him mad,” he quipped, voice sing-song as he crunched loudly. “This is getting spicy.”
Eryon was already there.
No words. No roar. Just purpose.
He reached down, massive hand gripping the lion’s armored wrist like a vice, ripping Noyre upward and slamming a headbutt into his helm with a sickening clang. Sparks flew.
The lion reeled—staggered—but Eryon didn’t stop.
With a snort of breath and eyes burning cold, he wrenched Noyre’s guard aside and drove the butt of his axe into the lion’s gut, hard, sending him crashing back into the dirt.
Not for spectacle. Not for rage.
Just judgment.
Still towering over him, Eryon exhaled slow, steady.
The stands erupted once more—the donkeykin’s war cry tearing through the air like thunder rolling off the mountains. Deep-throated chants in the old tongue of Brakarholt rose, rhythmic and fierce, the pounding of fists against chest and shield echoing like war drums. It wasn’t just support. It was kinship. Pride. Their captain stood tall—and through him, they all stood tall.
Above the din, from a nearby row, Silvano leaned back in his seat, flicking a kernel into his mouth with flair.
“Ooohhh, now the kitty cat’s really made him mad,” he quipped, voice sing-song as he crunched loudly. “This is getting spicy.”
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scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
GUARD
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
The dirt bit at Noyre’s back again, grinding into the ridges of his armor as he lay sprawled, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The helmet rattled around his head like a cage, ringing from the headbutt—his ears were still ringing.
That headbutt.
That damn donkey.
The lion groaned as he shifted, trying to rise. Every muscle screamed. His pride screamed louder.
He’d fought in pits nastier than this—streets bloodier, arenas colder—but something about this place was different. The weight wasn’t just in Eryon’s strikes. It was in the ground, in the air. That chant, that roar from the crowd—it wasn’t just noise. It was a wall of sound, pressing in around him, making the coliseum feel suddenly smaller.
He dug his gauntlet into the soil again, dragging himself upright by stubborn force alone. One eye caught Orlin watching from the cell on the lower tier, knuckles white around the bars, face unreadable.
The lion’s jaw clenched.
He rose.
Bent. Bruised. But not out.
He slammed the base of his mace against the ground once—clang—a guttural, wordless challenge.
ROUND 8: (ERYON 4- NOYRE 2)
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Noyre barely found his footing before Eryon was on him.
No charge. No flourish.
Just inevitability.
The moment the lion raised his mace, Eryon stepped in—shoulder first—slamming into Noyre’s chest like a landslide. Metal screamed. The lion staggered backward, mace swing faltering mid-arc as Eryon caught the shaft of it against his forearm, pushed it aside, and brought his axe up with brutal precision.
Crack. The flat of the blade collided with Noyre’s helmeted jaw, snapping his head sideways in a shower of dust and spittle.
The lion reeled—again—crashing to one knee.
Eryon stood over him like a mountain watching a storm pass beneath it, breath steady, unmoved.
Snorting through his nose, he rumbled low—stone scraping stone.
“You rise like mist... and fall like rain.”
No charge. No flourish.
Just inevitability.
The moment the lion raised his mace, Eryon stepped in—shoulder first—slamming into Noyre’s chest like a landslide. Metal screamed. The lion staggered backward, mace swing faltering mid-arc as Eryon caught the shaft of it against his forearm, pushed it aside, and brought his axe up with brutal precision.
Crack. The flat of the blade collided with Noyre’s helmeted jaw, snapping his head sideways in a shower of dust and spittle.
The lion reeled—again—crashing to one knee.
Eryon stood over him like a mountain watching a storm pass beneath it, breath steady, unmoved.
Snorting through his nose, he rumbled low—stone scraping stone.
“You rise like mist... and fall like rain.”
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scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
blade
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
The blow to the jaw sent Noyre’s vision lurching. Stars burst behind his eyes—flashes of white and violet blinding him behind the slits of his helm. The ground met him again, unforgiving, biting into his knee as the weight of Eryon’s assault thundered through his bones.
His breath came ragged, caught between the steel of his chestplate and the fire in his lungs. His grip trembled on the mace now—not from fear, but from wear. Every movement, every breath, cost more.
He was burning through it. All of it.
The crowd’s roar—not his crowd—pounded in his ears like war drums meant for someone else. His name wasn’t in their chants. Not even in their curses. He was a ghost here. Paid to fight. Paid to win.
And right now? He was losing.
The lion growled low, breath scraping his throat. He tried to rise, slow, one paw braced to the ground, tail twitching with frustration. He spat blood into the dirt beneath his helm.
ROUND 8: (ERYON 5- NOYRE 2)
His breath came ragged, caught between the steel of his chestplate and the fire in his lungs. His grip trembled on the mace now—not from fear, but from wear. Every movement, every breath, cost more.
He was burning through it. All of it.
The crowd’s roar—not his crowd—pounded in his ears like war drums meant for someone else. His name wasn’t in their chants. Not even in their curses. He was a ghost here. Paid to fight. Paid to win.
And right now? He was losing.
The lion growled low, breath scraping his throat. He tried to rise, slow, one paw braced to the ground, tail twitching with frustration. He spat blood into the dirt beneath his helm.
ROUND 8: (ERYON 5- NOYRE 2)
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
GRASP
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Grasp
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
ROUND 9: (ERYON 5- NOYRE 2)
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
GUARD
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
BLADE
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Noyre rose again. Somehow.
Breath ragged, armor dented and split in places, blood staining the edges of his mane where it spilled beneath the helm. He swayed, mace dragging through the dirt, every motion slower—heavier. His pride refused to break, but his body was already paying the price.
Eryon didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to.
Step by step, the Brakarholt warrior advanced—silent, massive, hooves thudding like war drums against the blood-streaked earth. Each pace closer felt like the collapse of a mountain, the arena smaller, the air thicker. The crowd barely breathed.
Noyre lunged with what strength remained, mace raised high—
But it was caught.
Eryon caught the haft mid-swing, bared his teeth, and ripped it from the lion’s hands with a snarl, tossing it aside like kindling.
Then came the punishment.
A headbutt. Another. The metal helm cracked.
A fist into the gut—armor buckled.
A knee to the chest—breathless impact, bones likely breaking.
Noyre collapsed to all fours, wheezing, blood spilling from the edges of his visor. But Eryon didn’t stop.
He gripped his axe and hauled it over his shoulder, standing above the lion like doom made flesh. He stared down—eyes cold, unmoved.
A moment passed. Silence thick as stone.
“For the blood you’ve spilled... for the coin you bled it for...” Eryon said, voice low, like gravel grinding underfoot. “Let your death serve the truth. There is no honor in how you lived... but I will give it to you now in how you fall.”
And with that, he swung.
The axe came down with the finality of thunder, splitting helm and skull in a single, devastating blow. Noyre crumpled, lifeless, the coliseum floor stained in crimson.
For a breath, there was only silence.
Then—eruption.
The donkeykin roared, a Brakarholt victory cry that shook the coliseum’s very bones. Fists slammed shields. Hooves stomped stone. It was not bloodlust—it was honor, kinship, pride. Eryon stood in the center, unmoved, axe in hand, like a carved idol of war.
Above, Mordecai watched, still as ever.
He gave a slow, slight nod.
“Well… there you have it,” he rasped, voice low, lips curling into something between grim satisfaction and inevitability. His head tilted slightly, hand resting for a moment atop Ephraim’s. Then his gaze shifted—sharp—to the holding cell where Orlin stood.
Unblinking. Waiting.
Breath ragged, armor dented and split in places, blood staining the edges of his mane where it spilled beneath the helm. He swayed, mace dragging through the dirt, every motion slower—heavier. His pride refused to break, but his body was already paying the price.
Eryon didn’t move fast. He didn’t need to.
Step by step, the Brakarholt warrior advanced—silent, massive, hooves thudding like war drums against the blood-streaked earth. Each pace closer felt like the collapse of a mountain, the arena smaller, the air thicker. The crowd barely breathed.
Noyre lunged with what strength remained, mace raised high—
But it was caught.
Eryon caught the haft mid-swing, bared his teeth, and ripped it from the lion’s hands with a snarl, tossing it aside like kindling.
Then came the punishment.
A headbutt. Another. The metal helm cracked.
A fist into the gut—armor buckled.
A knee to the chest—breathless impact, bones likely breaking.
Noyre collapsed to all fours, wheezing, blood spilling from the edges of his visor. But Eryon didn’t stop.
He gripped his axe and hauled it over his shoulder, standing above the lion like doom made flesh. He stared down—eyes cold, unmoved.
A moment passed. Silence thick as stone.
“For the blood you’ve spilled... for the coin you bled it for...” Eryon said, voice low, like gravel grinding underfoot. “Let your death serve the truth. There is no honor in how you lived... but I will give it to you now in how you fall.”
And with that, he swung.
The axe came down with the finality of thunder, splitting helm and skull in a single, devastating blow. Noyre crumpled, lifeless, the coliseum floor stained in crimson.
For a breath, there was only silence.
Then—eruption.
The donkeykin roared, a Brakarholt victory cry that shook the coliseum’s very bones. Fists slammed shields. Hooves stomped stone. It was not bloodlust—it was honor, kinship, pride. Eryon stood in the center, unmoved, axe in hand, like a carved idol of war.
Above, Mordecai watched, still as ever.
He gave a slow, slight nod.
“Well… there you have it,” he rasped, voice low, lips curling into something between grim satisfaction and inevitability. His head tilted slightly, hand resting for a moment atop Ephraim’s. Then his gaze shifted—sharp—to the holding cell where Orlin stood.
Unblinking. Waiting.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Orlin stared through the bars, frozen. Not breathing. Not blinking.
His fighter—his protection—was gone. Broken. Crushed. Carried off the field in pieces and blood. The cheers in the coliseum didn’t reach him. The chants were not for him. They might as well have been funeral bells.
“No…” he whispered. “No, no, no—” His hands gripped the bars so tightly his knuckles paled beneath his fur. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
He backed away from the gate like it might bite him, stumbling into the far wall of the holding cell. “You—this isn’t how it ends. I paid! I paid good coin!” His voice cracked, climbing higher, desperate, feral. “You saw how he fought! That lion—that thing! No one could’ve stood up to him! You can't—you can’t hold me to this!”
The crowd didn’t listen. Neither did the stone.
Above, Ephraim rose slowly from her seat beside Mordecai. Regal black fabric shimmered with silver accents as she stepped forward, her expression unreadable, a silhouette of judgment cast in the amber torchlight.
She didn’t speak immediately. She let his panic fill the silence.
Then, her voice rang clear through the arena—measured, merciless.
“By the laws of Wrath and Vengeance... the trial has been settled.”
Orlin froze. Breath caught in his throat.
“You were given your chance to prove your innocence. You chose a champion. He failed.”
She stepped to the edge of the platform, gaze hard as stone. “Your guilt is now fact. The city bleeds because of you. And for that—there must be reckoning.”
Orlin shook his head violently, stumbling forward. “Please. Ephraim—Lady Ephraim, I—I swear I didn’t—this is madness! I’m just a trader!” He called out, is hands flung outward, shaking, pleading. “You don’t have to follow the old rites. You could—you could pardon me. Mercy, there has to be—!”
And at that moment, the gate to his cell opened.
Orlin backed into the far corner, stumbling, shaking. “No. No—someone stop him. Please—please, Mordecai, you’re a scholar! You know this isn’t justice! I can help you—!”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Mordecai stood beside Ephraim, still as carved obsidian, watching Orlin’s desperation unfold like a farce. The weasel’s cries echoed hollow through the stone, but they landed on Mordecai’s ears like insult, not petition. His eyes narrowed. One hand coiled tighter around his cane, knuckles pale against the blackened wood.
“Pleading to me,” Mordecai rasped, voice low, cutting, “will get you nowhere.”
He stepped forward, the cane tapping once against the stone with purpose. His crimson gaze burned into Orlin—sharp, unyielding.
“You presume I do not understand justice? That I would weigh your worth and find it lacking, only to pardon it?” His voice dropped, more venom than breath. “We are Wrath and Vengeance. And in your final moments, you dare not just plead, but—”
His gaze flicked to Ephraim, cold fury flickering beneath.
“—Deny her judgment. As if I would ever overrule her. As if I am your salvation.”
A pause. His words fell heavy as iron.
“No.”
At that moment, Eryon approached—scarred, bloodied, axe in hand, a mountain given breath. He stopped before them, ready to deliver the final blow as duty demanded.
Mordecai lifted a hand.
Eryon halted, without question.
“No,” Mordecai said again, stepping past the warrior, his eyes locked on the trembling figure behind the bars.
“The trial is over. The blade has fallen. Now…” He crouched low, eyes level with Orlin, voice a hiss of judgment in the silence. “Now, Wrath will answer.”
Mordecai stood tall, shadow stretching behind him, jagged horns rising like spears across the stone. His tail lashed, low and slow, the controlled fury of a predator poised. At his feet, darkness stirred, crawling up the walls like smoke given form, shaping into a looming skeletal goat—its empty eyes locked on Orlin, silent and waiting.
With a fluid motion, Mordecai raised his cane overhead.
Click. A hiss. The hidden bayonet sprang free, gleaming red as sigils lit along the cane’s length—the goat skull, the grip, Mordecai’s hand—all glowing with the same pulsing, burning light.
One clean strike.
The bayonet sang through the air—then bit.
A red arc followed. Orlin’s final breath never left his throat.
Wrath had spoken.
“Pleading to me,” Mordecai rasped, voice low, cutting, “will get you nowhere.”
He stepped forward, the cane tapping once against the stone with purpose. His crimson gaze burned into Orlin—sharp, unyielding.
“You presume I do not understand justice? That I would weigh your worth and find it lacking, only to pardon it?” His voice dropped, more venom than breath. “We are Wrath and Vengeance. And in your final moments, you dare not just plead, but—”
His gaze flicked to Ephraim, cold fury flickering beneath.
“—Deny her judgment. As if I would ever overrule her. As if I am your salvation.”
A pause. His words fell heavy as iron.
“No.”
At that moment, Eryon approached—scarred, bloodied, axe in hand, a mountain given breath. He stopped before them, ready to deliver the final blow as duty demanded.
Mordecai lifted a hand.
Eryon halted, without question.
“No,” Mordecai said again, stepping past the warrior, his eyes locked on the trembling figure behind the bars.
“The trial is over. The blade has fallen. Now…” He crouched low, eyes level with Orlin, voice a hiss of judgment in the silence. “Now, Wrath will answer.”
Mordecai stood tall, shadow stretching behind him, jagged horns rising like spears across the stone. His tail lashed, low and slow, the controlled fury of a predator poised. At his feet, darkness stirred, crawling up the walls like smoke given form, shaping into a looming skeletal goat—its empty eyes locked on Orlin, silent and waiting.
With a fluid motion, Mordecai raised his cane overhead.
Click. A hiss. The hidden bayonet sprang free, gleaming red as sigils lit along the cane’s length—the goat skull, the grip, Mordecai’s hand—all glowing with the same pulsing, burning light.
One clean strike.
The bayonet sang through the air—then bit.
A red arc followed. Orlin’s final breath never left his throat.
Wrath had spoken.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
The chamber bore the weight of silence like a heavy cloak. Stained glass spilled red and violet light across long tables of dark wood, casting everything in the colors of blood and dusk. Oil lanterns flickered overhead, and from the tall windows, the hum of the city echoed faintly—Umbrafane still murmuring from the trial’s aftermath.
Mern Plumestride stood tall, shoulders squared beneath his sweeping mantle of charcoal silk and rust-orange thread. Embroidered feather motifs lined his sleeves—Flamingokin heritage, loud but softened with humility. He held no weapon, only a folded parchment in one hand and a tired expression drawn behind his practiced smile.
Before him sat three of Umbrafane’s most commanding figures—Ephraim, Mordecai, and Eryon—each bearing the solemn weight of what had transpired. Silvano was also present, of course, perched with his usual irreverent poise, tossing a nut in the air with idle rhythm.
Mern inclined his head, carefully respectful.
"Thank you," he began, his voice velvet-smooth, honed by years of crowds and conflict both. "For allowing me to speak so soon after... such a public conclusion."
He didn’t look directly at Ephraim or Mordecai as he spoke those last words—he knew better. They were flint, especially now.
"I’ll begin with praise," he continued, gesturing lightly with the parchment. "The rite was carried out lawfully. Tradition was honored. Wrath and Vengeance were invoked in full, and the people witnessed strength unmarred by hesitation."
He let that sit for a beat.
"But…"
His eyes flicked upward, meeting each gaze in turn—measured, never accusatory.
"...some among the laborer class—particularly those whose families relied on Orlin’s distribution networks—have voiced concern."
He paused again. Not for effect, but for caution.
"It’s not that they dispute the ruling. No one dares call the trial unjust. But there is unrest in the corners of the market district. Fear, mostly. Confusion." His fingers brushed the edge of the table. "Orlin employed hundreds. His family’s orchards supplied more than fruit—they were a symbol. A tie to stability. Some Riftkin even mourn him."
Another pause.
"I’ve heard whispers in the dyeing guild. In the glassblowers’ halls. Some say, if it can happen to him, what shield is left for the rest of us?"
He didn’t blame them. But he didn’t excuse them either.
Mern straightened slightly, clearing his throat with quiet resolve.
"I know the vision of Umbrafane was never meant to be safe," he said, voice firmer now. “We were forged in fire and we’ve walked through ash to stand here. But we must remember: laborers are the lungs of this city. If they feel silenced, or worse—disposable—then their faith begins to crack."
He looked at Ephraim now, finally, his voice softening again.
"I don’t bring this forward to challenge what was done. Only to suggest... clarity. A gesture, perhaps. A message. Something to remind them that revolution is not a guillotine—it is a rebirth. And rebirth feeds its people."
He folded his hands over the parchment and inclined his head again.
“I am yours, as I was elected to be. Let me help you hold the people’s faith.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Mordecai’s voice broke the silence like a knife through cloth.
Measured. Low. Icy.
“Faith,” he began, tapping the head of his cane against the table with deliberate rhythm, “is not the birthright of the fearful. It is forged. Shaped. Like iron in flame.”
His crimson eyes flicked to Mern, unwavering.
“They mourn a symbol,” he continued, voice sharpening. “But symbols rot. Orlin was not a shield. He was a mask. A dealer in poison—one who fed them with one hand, and bled them with the other. And now that he has been stripped away, they are left with fear... because they relied on him instead of us.”
A pause. The air thickened.
“And that,” Mordecai said, voice like frostbite, “is a mistake I will not allow them to repeat.”
His hand flexed on his cane, shadows curling faintly beneath the table’s edge, like something coiled and waiting. Then—
A flicker of consideration. Calculated. Inevitable.
“But clarity,” he admitted, “has its uses. Fear cracks. But fear guided—directed—can become something... loyal.”
He leaned back, the cane tapping once more, and turned his head toward the most obvious solution in the room.
“Silvano.”
Cue dramatic peanut crunching noises.
Silvano leaned dramatically forward, one leg on the table, a grin already plastered across his face like it lived there.
“Ah, finally! My talents are recognized.” He flourished a hand, nearly knocking over an inkwell, and pointed to Mern. “See, what our feathered friend here is really saying is: the people need hope, theatrics, and possibly a musical number. Who better than me?”
He stood, cloak fluttering unnecessarily. “Allow me to be the ambassador of Wrath! I shall bring laughter, light, and low-risk explosions to the masses! I’ll spin the tale, feed them charm, give them something to cheer about while remembering who’s really in charge.” He shot Mordecai and Ephraim finger guns. “You guys. Obviously.”
Mordecai stared.
Unblinking.
Silent.
Then—he sighed, like this was the price of power.
“You will do nothing without my approval.” His voice was steel. “No explosions. No songs. And if I hear so much as one verse about ‘merciful Wrath,’ I will rip the lute from your spine.”
Silvano’s grin widened.
“So… light explosions, then.”
Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.
“Silvano.”
“Understood. Controlled chaos. Got it.”
A long pause.
Then, finally, Mordecai turned to Mern, voice flat.
“You wanted a gesture. Fine. Let him be the face of it. Let the people laugh. Let them celebrate. But when they do…”
His gaze returned to Silvano—cold, commanding.
“…they will remember what happened here. And they will thank us for not allowing it to happen again.”
Silvano clapped once, spinning theatrically.
“Oooh, now that’s the spirit. Fear and fun—my favorite combination!”
Eryon just stared at Silvano.
Mordecai glanced to Ephraim, himself clearly tired with everything.
Measured. Low. Icy.
“Faith,” he began, tapping the head of his cane against the table with deliberate rhythm, “is not the birthright of the fearful. It is forged. Shaped. Like iron in flame.”
His crimson eyes flicked to Mern, unwavering.
“They mourn a symbol,” he continued, voice sharpening. “But symbols rot. Orlin was not a shield. He was a mask. A dealer in poison—one who fed them with one hand, and bled them with the other. And now that he has been stripped away, they are left with fear... because they relied on him instead of us.”
A pause. The air thickened.
“And that,” Mordecai said, voice like frostbite, “is a mistake I will not allow them to repeat.”
His hand flexed on his cane, shadows curling faintly beneath the table’s edge, like something coiled and waiting. Then—
A flicker of consideration. Calculated. Inevitable.
“But clarity,” he admitted, “has its uses. Fear cracks. But fear guided—directed—can become something... loyal.”
He leaned back, the cane tapping once more, and turned his head toward the most obvious solution in the room.
“Silvano.”
Cue dramatic peanut crunching noises.
Silvano leaned dramatically forward, one leg on the table, a grin already plastered across his face like it lived there.
“Ah, finally! My talents are recognized.” He flourished a hand, nearly knocking over an inkwell, and pointed to Mern. “See, what our feathered friend here is really saying is: the people need hope, theatrics, and possibly a musical number. Who better than me?”
He stood, cloak fluttering unnecessarily. “Allow me to be the ambassador of Wrath! I shall bring laughter, light, and low-risk explosions to the masses! I’ll spin the tale, feed them charm, give them something to cheer about while remembering who’s really in charge.” He shot Mordecai and Ephraim finger guns. “You guys. Obviously.”
Mordecai stared.
Unblinking.
Silent.
Then—he sighed, like this was the price of power.
“You will do nothing without my approval.” His voice was steel. “No explosions. No songs. And if I hear so much as one verse about ‘merciful Wrath,’ I will rip the lute from your spine.”
Silvano’s grin widened.
“So… light explosions, then.”
Mordecai’s eyes narrowed.
“Silvano.”
“Understood. Controlled chaos. Got it.”
A long pause.
Then, finally, Mordecai turned to Mern, voice flat.
“You wanted a gesture. Fine. Let him be the face of it. Let the people laugh. Let them celebrate. But when they do…”
His gaze returned to Silvano—cold, commanding.
“…they will remember what happened here. And they will thank us for not allowing it to happen again.”
Silvano clapped once, spinning theatrically.
“Oooh, now that’s the spirit. Fear and fun—my favorite combination!”
Eryon just stared at Silvano.
Mordecai glanced to Ephraim, himself clearly tired with everything.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Ephraim sat still—regal, upright, cold.
She hadn't moved once during Mordecai’s address, nor when Silvano began his usual theatre. But her eyes—sharp, violet, ancient—tracked every word. Every gesture. Every ripple of defiance dressed in performance.
Now, her gloved fingers tapped once on the arm of her chair. Just once. The metal ring on her middle finger struck the wood with a faint clink—the kind of sound that made people stop breathing.
She turned her head, ever so slightly, toward Mern.
“I appreciate your... tact,” she said coolly, her voice honeyed iron. “You brought dissent to the table without dripping blood across the floor. A rare trait these days.”
Then her gaze shifted to Silvano—not turning, but glancing, like a predator deciding if the noise behind her was worth noticing.
“You will entertain them,” she said, tone like silk stretched over blades. “But you will also remind them, Silvano. Of the law. Of the cost. Of what happens when loyalty bends toward convenience.”
Her eyes cut to Mordecai, just briefly. There was no warmth in it—only agreement, deeply etched and long understood.
“Let them laugh,” she continued. “Let them dance in the streets. I want full market days. Lanterns. Wine.... non-poisoned at that; You can sing about vengeance with a smile, if that’s what makes them cheer.”
A pause. Her smile sharpened—measured, perfect, deadly.
“But if even one verse makes them believe we are merciful… You will not be singing again.”
She hadn't moved once during Mordecai’s address, nor when Silvano began his usual theatre. But her eyes—sharp, violet, ancient—tracked every word. Every gesture. Every ripple of defiance dressed in performance.
Now, her gloved fingers tapped once on the arm of her chair. Just once. The metal ring on her middle finger struck the wood with a faint clink—the kind of sound that made people stop breathing.
She turned her head, ever so slightly, toward Mern.
“I appreciate your... tact,” she said coolly, her voice honeyed iron. “You brought dissent to the table without dripping blood across the floor. A rare trait these days.”
Then her gaze shifted to Silvano—not turning, but glancing, like a predator deciding if the noise behind her was worth noticing.
“You will entertain them,” she said, tone like silk stretched over blades. “But you will also remind them, Silvano. Of the law. Of the cost. Of what happens when loyalty bends toward convenience.”
Her eyes cut to Mordecai, just briefly. There was no warmth in it—only agreement, deeply etched and long understood.
“Let them laugh,” she continued. “Let them dance in the streets. I want full market days. Lanterns. Wine.... non-poisoned at that; You can sing about vengeance with a smile, if that’s what makes them cheer.”
A pause. Her smile sharpened—measured, perfect, deadly.
“But if even one verse makes them believe we are merciful… You will not be singing again.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Silvano kept his grin—wide, dazzling, insufferable—as he leaned lazily against the table, arms tucked behind his head like a man reclining on a ship’s deck, not a war council.
“Huzzah! A performance!” he announced, voice too loud for the room’s gravity. “Truly one of depth, nuance, and above all else—truth.” He gave an exaggerated wink—one eye squinting so hard it was almost a twitch.
Mordecai didn’t flinch.
Just glared.
Silvano waved a paw dismissively, chuckling. “Ooooh, relax! Come now, you can trust in me. I am the beacon of subtlety, the herald of tact, the—”
He leaned forward, grinning wider, voice dropping into a conspiratorial stage whisper.
“—crowd favorite, if we’re being honest.”
No one responded. The silence stretched.
Eryon shifted beside him. A slow, deliberate motion—thud. His hoof slammed down atop Silvano’s paw with a meaty crack.
Silvano’s fur bristled violently, mouth opening in what was surely about to be a theatrical scream—but he clamped both paws over his muzzle, eyes wide in muffled agony.
Eryon didn’t even look at him.
Just calmly raised a fist under the table and lightly punched him in the side.
A warning.
Silvano froze, shoulders sagging in defeated silence. A long, drawn-out muffled sigh escaped through his fingers.
“Alriiiiight,” he muttered, dragging the word like a child forced into chores. “I hear you. Don’t go off path. Cheer them up. Remind them of the law. Wrath and Vengeance. No singing about mercy. No explosions. Got it.”
He slumped slightly, then perked again. “Can I at least wear the cloak with the flame pattern? I—”
Eryon glanced.
Silvano shrank.
“Okay. No cloak.”
Across the table, Mordecai felt Ephraim’s composure coil—her presence like drawn steel, seconds from snapping. Without shifting his gaze, his tail flicked beneath the table—lightly tapping her leg, grounding.
A silent gesture.
Ignore him. It's Silvano.
Silvano grinned sheepishly, paws now tucked firmly out of hoof’s reach.
“Honestly,” he mumbled, “you people have no sense of pageantry.”
Mordecai ignored him, turning back to Mern. "Well? Also, keep an eye on him." He glanced back to Silvano.
“Huzzah! A performance!” he announced, voice too loud for the room’s gravity. “Truly one of depth, nuance, and above all else—truth.” He gave an exaggerated wink—one eye squinting so hard it was almost a twitch.
Mordecai didn’t flinch.
Just glared.
Silvano waved a paw dismissively, chuckling. “Ooooh, relax! Come now, you can trust in me. I am the beacon of subtlety, the herald of tact, the—”
He leaned forward, grinning wider, voice dropping into a conspiratorial stage whisper.
“—crowd favorite, if we’re being honest.”
No one responded. The silence stretched.
Eryon shifted beside him. A slow, deliberate motion—thud. His hoof slammed down atop Silvano’s paw with a meaty crack.
Silvano’s fur bristled violently, mouth opening in what was surely about to be a theatrical scream—but he clamped both paws over his muzzle, eyes wide in muffled agony.
Eryon didn’t even look at him.
Just calmly raised a fist under the table and lightly punched him in the side.
A warning.
Silvano froze, shoulders sagging in defeated silence. A long, drawn-out muffled sigh escaped through his fingers.
“Alriiiiight,” he muttered, dragging the word like a child forced into chores. “I hear you. Don’t go off path. Cheer them up. Remind them of the law. Wrath and Vengeance. No singing about mercy. No explosions. Got it.”
He slumped slightly, then perked again. “Can I at least wear the cloak with the flame pattern? I—”
Eryon glanced.
Silvano shrank.
“Okay. No cloak.”
Across the table, Mordecai felt Ephraim’s composure coil—her presence like drawn steel, seconds from snapping. Without shifting his gaze, his tail flicked beneath the table—lightly tapping her leg, grounding.
A silent gesture.
Ignore him. It's Silvano.
Silvano grinned sheepishly, paws now tucked firmly out of hoof’s reach.
“Honestly,” he mumbled, “you people have no sense of pageantry.”
Mordecai ignored him, turning back to Mern. "Well? Also, keep an eye on him." He glanced back to Silvano.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Mern Plumestride rose slowly, his feathered form casting a tall, elegant silhouette in the council chamber’s flickering lamplight. The din of Silvano’s antics faded beneath the weight of his calm presence—not forced silence, but an earned one. The kind a stage hushes for before the first note is played.
He smiled. Just enough.
“Let it be known,” he began, voice smooth as riverstone, “that I am… grateful to sit among those who have shaped what happened today. You led, even when the people were uncertain. That matters.”
His golden eyes flicked across them—Ephraim first, then Mordecai, a pause at Eryon.
“And I trust, as always, that when the fear fades… the truth will hold.”
A beat passed.
Then he drew in a breath.
“I have something else.”
His feathers shifted slightly, a ripple of restrained energy passing through them—an orator’s version of unsheathing a blade.
“I did not come alone,” he continued, glancing at the scroll tucked beneath his wing. “On the way here, I spoke with the field kin—those who harvest what’s left of the orchard lines near the southern low hills. Hard workers. Loyal to no title, only to seasons.”
He let the words hang, savoring their weight.
“They spoke of something strange. Something… masked.”
He smiled. Just enough.
“Let it be known,” he began, voice smooth as riverstone, “that I am… grateful to sit among those who have shaped what happened today. You led, even when the people were uncertain. That matters.”
His golden eyes flicked across them—Ephraim first, then Mordecai, a pause at Eryon.
“And I trust, as always, that when the fear fades… the truth will hold.”
A beat passed.
Then he drew in a breath.
“I have something else.”
His feathers shifted slightly, a ripple of restrained energy passing through them—an orator’s version of unsheathing a blade.
“I did not come alone,” he continued, glancing at the scroll tucked beneath his wing. “On the way here, I spoke with the field kin—those who harvest what’s left of the orchard lines near the southern low hills. Hard workers. Loyal to no title, only to seasons.”
He let the words hang, savoring their weight.
“They spoke of something strange. Something… masked.”
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Mordecai’s posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. His body stilled, shoulders tightening as he leaned forward over the table, the fingers on his cane drumming once, then stopping. His eyes locked on Mern like a blade poised at a throat.
“Something masked?” he echoed, voice low, clipped.
The air thickened around him, charged. He already knew.
His lip curled slightly as a low growl threaded beneath his words.
“Harlekin. Porcelain masks. The ones who attacked the city lines not long ago. You remember.” His gaze sharpened, drilling into Mern—not accusation, but demand. “You remember.”
A beat.
He glanced at Ephraim—briefly, sharply—then back to Mern, eyes burning with cold urgency.
“Don’t dance around it, Mern. Was it a hyena?”
His voice tightened—razor-thin.
“Tell me everything.”
“Something masked?” he echoed, voice low, clipped.
The air thickened around him, charged. He already knew.
His lip curled slightly as a low growl threaded beneath his words.
“Harlekin. Porcelain masks. The ones who attacked the city lines not long ago. You remember.” His gaze sharpened, drilling into Mern—not accusation, but demand. “You remember.”
A beat.
He glanced at Ephraim—briefly, sharply—then back to Mern, eyes burning with cold urgency.
“Don’t dance around it, Mern. Was it a hyena?”
His voice tightened—razor-thin.
“Tell me everything.”
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Mern unrolled the scroll at last—but didn’t need to read from it. His eyes were already far away, recalling the scattered reports passed from fieldworker to caravan runner, from elder to apprentice, like rumors clinging to the steam of a night kettle.
“He’s been seen along the orchard edges,” Mern began, tone steady but wary. “Past the frost line. Near the old glasswork ruins where the brine seeps into the earth.”
He laid the scroll down, tapping once with a clawed finger.
“They say he moves like someone half underwater. Graceful, but… slowed. His clothes are formal, strange. High collars, glass beads, deep-sea finery like it belonged to a drowned kingdom. He wears layers—not for warmth, but for ritual. Military in cut. Noble in posture.”
Mern’s feathers twitched slightly at the crown, his voice dropping.
“He has a lamp fused to his skull. Hanging from a spined growth—like a lure. Always lit. Always green. Even in daylight, it glows.”
He looked toward the others, eyes narrowing.
Name: Atticus the Anglerkin
Chronosphere of Origin: Oceania
Current Status: 4th Council Member of Poise
Affiliation: Harlekin
Ability – False Light
Atticus possesses the rare and dangerous ability to shapeshift—not just in body, but in presence. The eerie glow of the lure-lantern fused to his skull isn’t for vision. It’s the trigger. Those who fall under its green light don’t just see another face… they believe in it. He can mimic mannerisms, voices, and even the essence of another. His true gift is falsifying magical signatures—convincing even the divine that he is someone else.
Oceania – The Drowned Spiral
Oceania was once a radiant spiral of coral kingdoms and abyssal courts, each ruled by deepkin nobility who spoke in song and silence. Water wasn’t just a home—it was hierarchy. The deeper your bloodline, the higher your standing. Atticus was born from the lowest trench, where light never touched, among scavengers and silt-dwellers. But he was clever. And more importantly… pliable.
Above, Mercy reigned.
The deity of healing and second chances once walked openly in Oceania, known to all who swam those seas. Atticus watched from the dark, his bulb flickering green, as the kin above praised their savior.
He did not believe in gods.
But he believed in opportunity.
The Mercy Masquerade – The Long Con
He crafted the mask slowly—voice first, then shape, then aura. He studied Mercy like a predator watching prey. And when the world broke, and Wrath rose in search of Mercy’s fragments, Atticus stepped forward in the dark… wearing her skin.
He whispered to Wrath in a voice not his own. He knelt. He offered visions, consolation, dreams. For years, Wrath trusted him—confided in him.
They called it penance. They called it healing.
Atticus called it practice.
He didn’t wield destruction. He redirected it. Kept Wrath calm enough to avoid annihilation. Not for compassion—for survival. He shaped events with false guidance. Rewrote fates with lies wrapped in mercy’s tone. And when suspicion finally stirred? When Wrath began to question?
He vanished.
Like light beneath black water.
When the world was eventually destroyed, he was destroyed by proxy, never facing a direct confrontation with Wrath.
“He’s been seen along the orchard edges,” Mern began, tone steady but wary. “Past the frost line. Near the old glasswork ruins where the brine seeps into the earth.”
He laid the scroll down, tapping once with a clawed finger.
“They say he moves like someone half underwater. Graceful, but… slowed. His clothes are formal, strange. High collars, glass beads, deep-sea finery like it belonged to a drowned kingdom. He wears layers—not for warmth, but for ritual. Military in cut. Noble in posture.”
Mern’s feathers twitched slightly at the crown, his voice dropping.
“He has a lamp fused to his skull. Hanging from a spined growth—like a lure. Always lit. Always green. Even in daylight, it glows.”
He looked toward the others, eyes narrowing.
Name: Atticus the Anglerkin
Chronosphere of Origin: Oceania
Current Status: 4th Council Member of Poise
Affiliation: Harlekin
Ability – False Light
Atticus possesses the rare and dangerous ability to shapeshift—not just in body, but in presence. The eerie glow of the lure-lantern fused to his skull isn’t for vision. It’s the trigger. Those who fall under its green light don’t just see another face… they believe in it. He can mimic mannerisms, voices, and even the essence of another. His true gift is falsifying magical signatures—convincing even the divine that he is someone else.
Oceania – The Drowned Spiral
Oceania was once a radiant spiral of coral kingdoms and abyssal courts, each ruled by deepkin nobility who spoke in song and silence. Water wasn’t just a home—it was hierarchy. The deeper your bloodline, the higher your standing. Atticus was born from the lowest trench, where light never touched, among scavengers and silt-dwellers. But he was clever. And more importantly… pliable.
Above, Mercy reigned.
The deity of healing and second chances once walked openly in Oceania, known to all who swam those seas. Atticus watched from the dark, his bulb flickering green, as the kin above praised their savior.
He did not believe in gods.
But he believed in opportunity.
The Mercy Masquerade – The Long Con
He crafted the mask slowly—voice first, then shape, then aura. He studied Mercy like a predator watching prey. And when the world broke, and Wrath rose in search of Mercy’s fragments, Atticus stepped forward in the dark… wearing her skin.
He whispered to Wrath in a voice not his own. He knelt. He offered visions, consolation, dreams. For years, Wrath trusted him—confided in him.
They called it penance. They called it healing.
Atticus called it practice.
He didn’t wield destruction. He redirected it. Kept Wrath calm enough to avoid annihilation. Not for compassion—for survival. He shaped events with false guidance. Rewrote fates with lies wrapped in mercy’s tone. And when suspicion finally stirred? When Wrath began to question?
He vanished.
Like light beneath black water.
When the world was eventually destroyed, he was destroyed by proxy, never facing a direct confrontation with Wrath.
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Mordecai watched Mern with silent intensity, the words sinking like hooks—but Wrath heard them loud. Heard him. The moment the name Atticus dropped, something shifted—a cold tension in the air, like the moment before a storm hits sideways.
Mordecai stiffened.
His claws dug into the cane—hard—a low growl bleeding into something deeper, ancient, furious. The shadows near his hooves rippled like tar, his mane bristling, fur alive with fury, spiking along his spine like jagged thorns.
Then—his voice cracked the air.
“Atticus...” Mordecai growled, his tone layered, his own voice twined with Wrath’s—guttural, burning, ready to explode. His eyes flared, crimson light searing as the third eye opened wide on his brow like a brand, unblinking, unmerciful.
He shot up from the chair—CRASH. The wood snapped as it fell, skittering across the floor. Shadows surged up the walls, warped, twisting, coalescing into the jagged skeletal form of a goat’s wrath, horns sharp, jaws agape.
Then Wrath spoke—loud, raw, DRAGGING.
“THAT lantern-headed, trench-born bottom feeder—” he snarled, voice shaking the air, “—that scaled-up liar with his slimy-ass fake grace, stalking around like he's somebody’s idea of nobility?”
His claws cracked through a cup on the table, shattering it in his grip—ceramic shards rattling across the floor.
“He’s not royalty—he’s rot. From the blackest silt at the bottom of the damn ocean. You want deep-sea? That bitch is SIX FEET deep in LIES, dressed up in stolen light like I wouldn’t see it for the FAKE he is!”
Mordecai’s breath came in snarls, his mane whipping with shadow. The room felt smaller. Tighter. The walls listened.
“He really thought he could wear Mercy’s face and feed me dreams like I was hungry for hope? Bitch, I INVENTED hope—and I BURNED IT when it lied to me!”
He slammed the cane into the floor—CRACK. The sound echoed, the table shaking.
“I should’ve ripped his face off his slimy skull the second he opened that fake-ass mouth. That ain’t a lure—THAT’S A DAMN LIE LANTERN, swinging around, begging someone to fall for it, and it WON’T BE ME, NOT AGAIN.”
His teeth bared, shadows snapping, the goat skeleton looming higher—clawing at the walls, watching.
“He ran like the coward he is—vanished like a little light in deep water. But let me tell you this—”
His gaze sliced to Mern, to Ephraim, to everything.
“He comes near Umbrafane again? I’m not just ending him. I’m ENDING THE DEPTHS HE CRAWLED OUT FROM.”
The silence afterward hummed, thick and charged, like the very air had to recover.
Silvano slunk deep into his seat, and for once, he didn’t say anything.
scantilycladsnail
One Thousand Club
Mern didn’t move at first.
He sat—still, poised—though the crackle of shadow and flame licked dangerously close to his fine coat. The glow of Wrath’s fury shimmered in his eyes, reflected in his spectacles, and he blinked slowly, like someone watching a bomb detonate in real time. His breath came shallow, but his hands stayed folded atop the table, even as his throat bobbed with a swallow that felt like glass.
“Ah,” he said softly—his voice smoother than expected, but very, very measured. “So we... have confirmation then.”
Another heartbeat passed. He shifted slightly in his seat, just enough to reposition one wing—subtle, but distinctly defensive.
“I only brought the report because the farmers... well. They saw something. And it matched rumors. I thought it prudent that you hear it first.”
He glanced, very carefully, at the skeletal goat shadow still clawing across the stone like it wanted to chew reality. Then back to Mordecai.
“I meant no disrespect.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ll make certain my messengers avoid that district entirely then?"
He sat—still, poised—though the crackle of shadow and flame licked dangerously close to his fine coat. The glow of Wrath’s fury shimmered in his eyes, reflected in his spectacles, and he blinked slowly, like someone watching a bomb detonate in real time. His breath came shallow, but his hands stayed folded atop the table, even as his throat bobbed with a swallow that felt like glass.
“Ah,” he said softly—his voice smoother than expected, but very, very measured. “So we... have confirmation then.”
Another heartbeat passed. He shifted slightly in his seat, just enough to reposition one wing—subtle, but distinctly defensive.
“I only brought the report because the farmers... well. They saw something. And it matched rumors. I thought it prudent that you hear it first.”
He glanced, very carefully, at the skeletal goat shadow still clawing across the stone like it wanted to chew reality. Then back to Mordecai.
“I meant no disrespect.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“I’ll make certain my messengers avoid that district entirely then?"
ThieviusRaccoonus
One Thousand Club
Mordecai cackled—low, sharp, the sound scraping like iron across stone. The kind of laugh that didn’t hold humor—only threat.
“Oh no, no, Mern,” he hissed, voice still layered, Wrath dripping from every syllable. “There is no disrespectful. Everything you’ve brought here today? It’s been a gift.”
He gestured at himself—paws spread, shadows lashing at his feet like living blades.
“This—this is what Wrath is. What Atticus will remember, before he’s reduced to splinters and bone dust. He thinks he’s untouchable, skulking through orchards, glowing like some budget lantern in a brothel window—but no.”
His eyes burned—crimson, third eye blazing.
“Wrath sees everything. And Wrath watches.”
Mordecai’s fur still bristled, mane rippling like shadowed fire, but he straightened slightly—controlled, barely. He opened his mouth to speak further, hand raising—but faltered.
Pain cracked through him like lightning behind the skull.
He growled, low, feral, as one hand shot up to clutch his temple, claws digging into his own scalp. His tail snapped against the floor, his body tense, trembling.
“Atticus,” he snarled, the name like poison. “That spineless, no-depth, lantern-hanging, silt-slithering excuse for a sea slug. That bitch wears a mask because he knows what happens if the world sees him raw—nothing but rot underneath. Pretending to be Mercy? VENGEANCE? Please. That’s not her—that’s cowardice in makeup.”
His voice rose, rattling the glass in the lanterns.
“He got close, real close—and ran the second he felt real power breathing down his neck. Thought if he vanished, I’d forget. I NEVER FORGET. I carve my rage in time itself, and now I’ve got his name etched.”
His breath shook. His claws flexed, the table beneath him creaking under pressure. His body twitched, Mordecai struggling—barely there, as Wrath pulled at the seams.
He snarled, eyes flashing.
“Meeting... dismissed.”
A pause—then eruption.
“NOW!” he roared, voice splitting the chamber as he threw an arm toward the door, shadows crashing behind it like a wave.
Eryon obeyed.
Silvano, for once, didn’t joke. He was gone—cloaked tail flicking through the door like a white flag.
The air simmered with fury, and the room emptied like breath fleeing a corpse. Wrath stood—burning.
“Oh no, no, Mern,” he hissed, voice still layered, Wrath dripping from every syllable. “There is no disrespectful. Everything you’ve brought here today? It’s been a gift.”
He gestured at himself—paws spread, shadows lashing at his feet like living blades.
“This—this is what Wrath is. What Atticus will remember, before he’s reduced to splinters and bone dust. He thinks he’s untouchable, skulking through orchards, glowing like some budget lantern in a brothel window—but no.”
His eyes burned—crimson, third eye blazing.
“Wrath sees everything. And Wrath watches.”
Mordecai’s fur still bristled, mane rippling like shadowed fire, but he straightened slightly—controlled, barely. He opened his mouth to speak further, hand raising—but faltered.
Pain cracked through him like lightning behind the skull.
He growled, low, feral, as one hand shot up to clutch his temple, claws digging into his own scalp. His tail snapped against the floor, his body tense, trembling.
“Atticus,” he snarled, the name like poison. “That spineless, no-depth, lantern-hanging, silt-slithering excuse for a sea slug. That bitch wears a mask because he knows what happens if the world sees him raw—nothing but rot underneath. Pretending to be Mercy? VENGEANCE? Please. That’s not her—that’s cowardice in makeup.”
His voice rose, rattling the glass in the lanterns.
“He got close, real close—and ran the second he felt real power breathing down his neck. Thought if he vanished, I’d forget. I NEVER FORGET. I carve my rage in time itself, and now I’ve got his name etched.”
His breath shook. His claws flexed, the table beneath him creaking under pressure. His body twitched, Mordecai struggling—barely there, as Wrath pulled at the seams.
He snarled, eyes flashing.
“Meeting... dismissed.”
A pause—then eruption.
“NOW!” he roared, voice splitting the chamber as he threw an arm toward the door, shadows crashing behind it like a wave.
Eryon obeyed.
Silvano, for once, didn’t joke. He was gone—cloaked tail flicking through the door like a white flag.
The air simmered with fury, and the room emptied like breath fleeing a corpse. Wrath stood—burning.
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