Winning Vote: said:
[X] Plan Child Sees the Clearest, Fullbeard Sees the Farthest, Elder Sees the Most
-[X] [Clearest:] Child
-[X] [Farthest:] Fullbeard
-[X] [Most:] Elder
━<><><>< 472 A.P. ><><><>━
You grab the figure of the child, marvelling its craftsmanship while turning it in your hand to examine it for some hint or sign of what to do out of obligation.
The feeling of eyes on you intensifies.
To no one's surprise you find nothing, and with a sigh you turn your gaze back at the empty alcoves. There are too many ways for you to read these words to easily pick out a definitively correct answer. Was clearest, for instance, in terms of a Dwarf unburdened by bias or preconception? Or was it in the sense that one saw the path forward? You could make that latter argument for the farthest as well truth be told, and the same sort of problem arose when figuring out what Thungni meant by "most," too.
Ambiguity, the fence-sitter's draught. Bah!
With a grumble in your throat and the realization that any answer you give has equal chance of being right as the other, you follow your gut and plant the figure on the leftmost alcove.
That leaves you with two, you think as you turn back to the remaining figures.
Taking one in each hand, you futilely switch your gaze between the two of them for a moment more before shaking your head.
"I don't understand a damn thing about this one," you mutter grumpily.
Turning back towards the empty alcoves, you place the figure of the Elder under "most," and the Fullbeard under "Farthest," before stepping back until your back meets the wall.
The feeling of
eyes on you is inescapable and cannot be ignored anymore, having grown from a feeling in the back of your mind to an all encompassing presence that's more reminiscent of a wazzok who's so close you can feel their beard bump against you.
You feel the frown on your face deepen as you quietly wait.
What now?
Then the girl doll's eyes glow luminous white and it hits you like a hammer blow to the dongliz.
━<><><><==><><><>━
A child boldly, but quietly, marches towards her goal, ignorant of the danger of the world beyond the safety of stone. Her pigtails bouncing with each step she takes down the tunnel.
Light, enchanting, glittering light, shines at the end of the tunnel she walks. It is brilliant and more enticing than her mother's cooking. Everytime she looks in its direction it shimmers like gold to her. The light of boundless opportunity, not that a child's mind would see it as such. She knows only it is warm, it is inviting, and it feels good to be near like a fire after a long day spent wandering the mountainside with her parents and brothers.
The pitter patter of her steps echoes down the long, cold, corridor.
She should not be here.
But not even the threat of her father's gentle grumbling can dissuade her tonight. Now is the time for bravery and daring!
She walks for, what feels to a child not even a decade old at least, an age and an eternity. Each step getting her closer and closer to the light until she is but a handspan and a half away from touching the brilliant glow
coming from the door.
A huff of surprise escapes her lips as she feels her body be lifted up and upwards until she stands face to face with the brilliance. Yet, she can only enjoy the sight for a moment before she is turned fully around to come face to face with a quirked brow and a bushy beard doing its best not to break out in a smile.
"What are you doing my heart?"
The light, she says, I wanted to see it, you say.
"Not yet, my heart. When your plaits are long enough to reach your back and your eyes reach my shoulders mayhaps." Her father says softly, tousling your hair.
You look down in disappointment, it's so nice and warm, she whispers sadly. Can't I touch it please?
Her father looks at her consideringly, then he makes a show of looking behind him for someone they both know isn't there. The act makes you chortle.
"If Grandmother asks, you'll need to tell her the truth. And you know she will make you help her grind flour again don't you? Are you willing to risk it?" he whispers conspiringly, eyes glinting with mischief.
You nod vigorously. The light, the light is worth the sneezing and aching arms you think. A fair trade as any to a mind so young.
Her father smiles indulgently at you, then shakes his head in exasperation.
"Ah you'll be the death of me. Fine Snorri, you may touch the—"
━<><><><==><><><>━
You gasp as reality asserts itself, holding yourself upright with a hand against the wall.
You are Snorri. Snorri, whose father is Klaus. Not her, not that mysterious child whose father's smile melds and shifts between your own da's face and the man in the vision.
You take a breath, then pale as the middle figure's eyes glow a familiar shade of white.
It is all you can do to steel yourself before you feel your mind get dragged under again.
━<><><><==><><><>━
Cold.
Winter has come to the mountains.
But bitter chill and cutting wind will not stop you from braving these slopes.
Bellies need filling, and the mountain provides.
Though the blizzard is fierce you've a keen eye and those peepers spot what you've spent the better part of a tenday outside looking for.
A Mammoth.
Bigger than the hall your father and uncle hewed out of the virgin stone by half, its great furry bulk pushes through snow drifts like the ones you had to walk around for fear of sinking without a hint of effort.
A beast that big, you think, can feed you all for a long long while.
Meals like that mean you don't have to go out for a long time. Means time for you to spend on your own projects. A dozen on dozen designs fly through his mind, faster than you can read, but that he can recall with perfect clarity. Ways to improve the life of the common Dwarf, a dozen designs inspired by his boredom and distaste for wastefulness.
But that's thinking for later.
You reach a hand into the pouch dangling from your belt, cursing quietly to yourself as you clumsily fiddle with the round seeds with cold, slow fingers.
Eventually though you do manage to pull a seed out, and with well practiced ease put it into the sling's pouch and begin the laborious process of building the momentum needed to make its impact lethal to a beast as mighty as a mammoth.
There has to be a way to store this power his mind wonders even while his body goes through the motions, a better, more reliable method.
The man puts the thought aside as he aims at the mammoth, calculations for a dozen different things being run through in a couple of idle thoughts before he lets the seed fly, screaming through the air as it careens towards its target.
Bah, he can think after filling his belly, watching the mammoth fall with a loud thud that sends a cloud of displaced snow flying high into the air.
How will he get this home you think, before a roiling wave of heat travels up his neck and flushes his cheeks.
Right.
━<><><><==><><><>━
You come to with a pounding headache, opening your eyes to blearily see the bare stone of the cavern roof looking down at you.
"Ach my kruting head," you murmur.
That was unpleasant, incredibly so. Even as you attempt to recall what you saw the images and memories flow out of your mind like sand through the holes in a colander, leaving only vague impressions and throbbing agony in its wake.
You force yourself into an upright position then blink as you feel something wet land on your lip, and a quick taste with the tongue confirms that your nose is bleeding as well.
Lovely.
Just as you move to activate
Barak Azamar, the final figure activates and for the brief moment of consciousness before you are dragged away from your body you feel an inescapable, all consuming
heat wash over you.
━<><><><==><><><>━
He pops his back, holding back a groan as he fixes his posture and keeps the aches at bay.
Aches are an ever present companion to him these days.
From Aches of the body,
The stiff pop of arthritic joints, the stiffness of once-deft fingers, the malaise of tiredness
that suffuses his waking moments, only just kept at bay. Wounds from a long and struggle-filled life that throb and whisper when the temperature is too cold or too hot. The milky-eyed and bow-backed old man that he has become a far cry from the vim and vigour of his youth.
To Aches of the mind
Problems that had grown so complicated and intricate that they seemed insurmountable. The burden of responsibility reaching equilibrium with and now slowly overcoming his Will. Old challenges, once taken out of the youthful belief that they would one day be solved, only to bitterly realize in his twilight that they shall never be.
And Aches of the soul.
The sound of the burial vault opening and closing so often that they blend together. The sight of the Shrouds, so many shrouds, like an endless train of death. His Wives, his Children, his Grandchildren, and their own children and theirs and so on and so forth, taken by time or ill fate all while he remained. Immovable, too stubborn to lay down and die properly, and little else.
Yet.
Yet you persist.
For every ache, there is a boon.
Experience to the body.
The frantic pace and jittery extremity of youth replaced by the self imposed grace and efficiency that his body can maintain. Muscles so used to his labours that the great struggles of his youth are but rote memorization, no more difficult than breathing.
Wisdom to the mind.
'Knowing is in the doing, and I have done a great many things' your father once said. The experience borne from a thousand on thousand moments replaces the uncertainty and experimentation of youth. He cannot see, but now he does not need to. His work, though unfinished, has grown beyond you. Like a Hold is never truly completed, you realize now that some things find worth in their continuance and improvement.
And Balms to the soul.
For every burial, a birth. For every story that ends, another begins. He has seen so many, and to his joy each and everyone is different from the last in their own myriad ways. To see the passage of wisdom down the ages, witness to the growth of your loved ones and the struggles they overcome. Time is as much a gift as it is a curse. Foolishness, you find comes part and parcel with wisdom, bravery and cowardice. The former leads to the latter. One cannot truly learn without first failing.
Yes, you have a great many aches, and even in remembering the good you want nothing more than to put down the burden, but today is not the time to depart.
Not yet.
One final work
to be done.
You close your eyes and imagine.
~~???~` gifts to leave behind, each their ow̴̜̦͂̎n̸͔̉͝ ̷͎͠š̷̳̯̿ḙ̸̪̌̆r̵̪̰̈ĭ̶̝̟̀è̴̤͈̄s̴͈̹͠ ̸̲̥̈́̔ó̷͉͒f̷̹͌̃ ̴̛̱̈t̴̺͊r̸̗̤̓i̴̫͎̿a̸͉̯̓ḷ̶̡̽̐s̷̹̗̅͝.̸̞̝͛͝ ̷̖̭̒Ṛ̴̥̰̀̆̀͛̒̈́̇͠͠l̷̮̙̺̺̫̑̒͂̅̈́͐n̵̦͉̥̦̽͛̽̂̐̀͌̓̽͊̕̕͝-̸̛̱͙̮͇͇̞͎̝͍̲̹͎̘̪̈́͊̉̌̆̇͆̆̈́̐̔̊̔͊ụ̴̪̦̯̪͍̼̥͎̄̏͐͜͝-̴̦̿̂̉̆̏̚͝?̴̨̧̩̟͈̦̠̭͙̫̰̱̿͑͋͐̈́̊͌̆̋͠͝_̶̨̛̟͇̮̞̯̻̻͚͆̂̏̋̾̾̋͛̊̇̈́͜ͅͅ?̴̨͚̲̟̥͔͇̲͍͚͋̔̑͋͜͠ͅ ̸̨̡͚͙̭̦̹͕͚̗͕̩̽͌͗̉̑̈́͌̊̓̄̓̿s̷̡̢̙̗̣̮̝͖̜̭͝?̸̢͈͍̫̮̙̠̘̺̮̲̳̳̥̀̀͑͑̍̇̓̆͝?̷̧̡͎̞̮̘̠͉͍̈͒̒̿̓͋̕͝͝͝ͅ~̴̩͑ĩ̷̛͎̩̲̠̙̮̺͋̈́̓̈͑̑s̶̡̳̟̮̎̐̃͋̈́͆͑̍̚̚i̵͕̋̑͌̈́̿̍̈̍̓̚͜-̷̖͕̰̱͖̊̅́̆́?̸͔̄͒̔͑̔̑̑̕͝n̷̡̫͉̳̲͎͙̻̣̩̦̰̒͛.̸̨͚̱͚̞̺̼̗̦̖̪̳̦͍̙̽͘ ̸̯̱͎̣̪̟͔͈̀̄̉̔͂̑̏́͆̌̇̆͝͠ͅḽ̸͚̱̗̘͈̮̐̿͠ị̴̜̗̬̥̜̣̬̙̠̯̻̼̳̅̋̌̈́͂̈́͐̊̊͐̕͝͠͠l̴̼̪̖͇͔͇̜̙̰̱̃̏̋͛ņ̸̱̻̥̗̭̩̠̹̖̹̩̾̒̅̔̉̇̏̐́̈̇̍̚͝e̶̠͇̣̻̭̭̬͚̳̣̜̥͗͜ͅ ̸͚̣̖̺̝̲͕̏̓̒̀͗̀̔͐̚͘̕j̶͓͓͐͊̊͊̔̓̚͘͝b̸̧̄̀͋̋̊̒~̶̨̩͔̙̱̮̞̔̓͆͒͑̎̈́͘̚ͅ~̵̧̢̧̡͇̫͖̝̠͋͑͊̈́̀͆͌̽ͅ?̴̧̲̘͉͍̥͚̯̟͉̍̉~̶̡̧̨̨̙̭͓̣̯͎̣̭̞̓̾̋̂́̽̈̍̃͑̚ͅĺ̴͙̯̱͙̼̪̯̖̭̭̮̳͈̗̦̀̂̑̀̀̇̎̈́̿̂̈i̵̛̦̦̖̭̰̞̐͂̀ͅh̸͚̹̰̤̺͔̭͎̠̳͇͚̣̯̎ ̷̣̟͔̳͔̣͓̩̄͂̾̏͌̓́̈́̈͘c̸̨̡̞̼̟̭̣͗̄̔̃̀ļ̷̯̯̠̖̗̝̘̤̭͒̏̉͒̆̂̚n̵͔͇̰̾̀̾̆̅̇?̵̨̧̣̖̞̺͕͕͙̑̏̒̈́̋̇̄́~̵͉͍̝͙̞̮͈̱̟͈̽̈́͒̂̆̓̕ŗ̸̨̛̛̥̫͍͚͈̯̜͚̯͚́̐̀̀̈͆̏̈̀̓͠ͅe̴̤̥̞̺͛c̸̛͉̞̲͕̘͕͉̫͖̜͋̍̈́ͅl̵̲̅̃́̔̂̿̂̎͝
Return to yourself Klaus' Son. Lest ye be unmade.
Ţ̴̧̳̝̻̠͉͙̱̩̺̊̊̽͒̌̈́͗̌̀͐͊͛͘̚ḥ̸̳̺̦̜͇̤̗̠̟͖̃̉ě̸̖̙̠̥̦̲̯̜̗͙͕̈́̆̄̇́̅͘͜ ̵̛̩̜̯͈̥̼̟͍̪͈̐̐̏̐̈́͑̀̔́̕̚r̶̨͇͇̖̣̠̜͇̖̭̬̫̅̈́̇̋̔͜ȗ̵̧̫̋̑̑̽͆̄ṋ̸̠̖̭̫̺͓̥̳̪̰̏͌̽͛̾͗͝ē̴̩͔͗̈́͑͂̏̈́̒͂̿̏̀̆̈́̕s̷̡̖̰̟͕̝̠̪̙͔͚̤̠̭͐̓̉̀̃̉͛̾̐͌̈́̚͝ ̶̙͚͙͇̘͚͚͓͊̄̄̔̎̇̕g̴̢͈͈̘̥̮̭͔̜̓̓̈͂̑ḽ̴̙̜̞̒́̐̓͛͗o̶̢̡̧̢̺̟̫̣̬̩̖̳̺̽͑̐̅͛̾͋̄̓̾̏ͅẅ̵̧̩̘̦̜͉́̈́́̋͌̓̏̈.̴̧̧̛̟̗͉̲̗̬͕̝̲̯̘̤͆̅̄̊̍͜ ̶̩͓͔͛̏͗̓͘T̴̝͔͙̞̻̟̰̯͌̋̽́͂̓̅̈͑͂̔̂̚h̷̡͚̟͔͙̗̥̠̤̞͛̀̉͌̋̈́̕ͅͅe̵̡͓͚̞͎͓̻̯̥̜̽̅̓̒̒͜͜͝ ̶̰̗̮͈̟̰̟̬͎͇͎̙̈́̇̀̉̈́̓́͂͑̇̀͘͜ͅR̸̫̖̻͔̮̄̈̈́̇̈́̆̈́̊̈́͛̌̏ų̸̡̛̬̘̰͙̺͚̔̀̅̆̽̀̄̚̚ṉ̷̨͚̰͈̜̹̩̳͔͑̎̋̽͊́̐̑̑̍̓̈́͘͝͠ḕ̶͇̠͍̍̃͌͑̓́́̇̕s̶̳͙͔̬̠̖͎͔̔ ̵̰͔̯̝̘͒́̂̂͂̽̿̇̋̉́ͅḠ̶̨̧̡̪̯̫͈̠͘l̸͈̼̥̜͍̦͕̦͓̣̯̬̳͑̓̍͆̽͐̐̆̈́̆͘͝o̷̳̻̬̻̼͌̒̊́͌̔͒w̸̛̤͇̻̜̖̥̱̻̹̳͂̽͆̂̑̇͗͒̚͜͝.̸̢͔̹͇̣̹̯̠̘̆̐̊̈́͋̅̚̕ ̵͙̍T̵͖̃̈́͗́̐͛͂͌Ḧ̶̨̻̹͉͔̙̼̑̎̄̈́͗͝͝E̴̡̞͕͛̈́̊̓̈́͐͊̕͝ ̶̨̡̡̡̩͔͎̆̉̐̆͛͐̑̊̈́͊͘͜͝Ŕ̵̡̠̜͔̜̤̥̫̝̬͍Ũ̶̜̯̈́̔́̃̾̑̎͆͊̕̚͘N̸̜̭̅̈́̈́̉̇̒͂͆́͛́̓̓͘͝ͅĘ̶̛̯̮͍̮̊̄̉̀̿̏͐́̌́̕͘͜͝Š̶̪̞̰̳̩͐̓̋͆̊̈́́͐̈ ̵̧̮̘͓̤̼͚͔̖̤̺̰̻͇̰̿̀̎́̾͌͆Ǵ̷̨͔̰̪̿̒̽Ļ̸͉̮̤̈̈́͋͑̅̂̕Ỏ̵̘̠͛̈́͗̓̈́̕̕W̴̡̨̧̧̥̟̫̣̬̋͆̽͗̚͜ͅ.̶̞͕̲̟͊ ̵̛͍̑̓̑̈́̋̌̒̓̎̑N̴̢̫̺̥̣̤̺͉̳̞͙̣͌̑͛͆̈́͂̓̓͊̐̈́͂̎̄̋̕̚D̷̢̧̼̙̰̜͕̩̮̖͚̗͓̖͎̝̙̿̎̓͆͘̕ ̵̢̧̜̟̠̾̎̈́́̆͑̇͐͝G̴̨̧̳̼̺͕̝͈̈́͌L̴̖͓̀͆̋͋͋͂͌̌͜O̴̧̡̨̡̡̠͇̲̜͔͚̳̠̻̮͍̮͊̈́̈͝ͅẄ̸̢́̾̿̊͗̓͐̌̏̐̓͋̓̃ ̴̨̛̱͖̩͔̹͓̣͎͙̰̮͍͉͙̞͎͒͆́̂͊͆͌͆̅̀͆͜͠͝A̶̡͙̣̝̘͕̮̬̝͚̥̟͋͜ͅN̴̢̦̱̰̣̾̿̾͛̏͑̒͗͑̽̿̅̄̃͊͝ͅD̸̡̢̢̞͈̱̯̹̳̩̩̒̓̾̚͝ ̷͇̺̭̲͖̠̖̗͇̉̀̌̓́͌͛͋̑̈́̄̀̊͐͛̈́͝G̷̛͇͈̠͖̖̥̉̈̄́̔̿͌̓̄̇̋̇̿̽̚͠ͅL̶̛̝̱͎̠͉̰̙̉̈̊̽́̔̓̋̈́̇̈́́̋͐̈̋Ô̷̧̢̧̖̗̣̞̮͔͕̩̻͈̖̺͓̹̇͠W̵͔̼̍̾̒́͛̍̿̑͝͠ ̶̧̦̦̼̪̙̖̪͂̔̀̑Ä̴́̏̃̏̄͑͆̀̇́̀͗̃͝ͅN̷̹̞͓͇͔̬̬̻̜̯̼̥̫̯̳̈́̈́̅̃̇̉̋̄̓̍́̄͆͑̕͝D̷̨̡̛̹̱̹̮̠̝̭͓̮̻̟̝̘̔͊̋͌̋͂̄̈͗̈́̾̿̄͗̚͜͝ ̸͍̖̯̝͙̯̞͍̣̂̀̈̍̔̐̎́̒̇̎̀̽̕͜G̷̛̱̝̺̏̈́̈̃̇̌̚͝L̷͓̪̝̣̺̰̖͍̟̰͕̘͖͐̀͑̉̎͛̋͋̉̏̄̚̚Ǫ̵̡̨̛̩͖̜͇̯͔̬̝̻͇̟̮̪͈̍̃̂̅͛͠W̵̧̯̞͖̱̣̖͓͙̱͎̲̮̉̒̐̅͌̓̿͋̓͊̔̕̕͠Ả̸̢̢̧̛͍̹̯̖̺̱̙͇͕̖̰̰͑̒͌͘̚͝NDA̴̪͈̬̟͎͍͑̈́́̄̀̈́̏͊͋̄͐̃̈́̚͝ͅṆ̵̢̡̨̢̟̣̹̺̻̬͚̫̮̽̍̊͂̄͂́́͋̅̋̀́̌̆̔̅͘͜D̸̢̡̟͚̯̗̹̼̤̘͚̘͎̤̼͇̖̰͎́̏͐͗̈́̑̄͒̐̂̇̃̽͘̕͝͝͝ ̴̛̟̥̗̱͕̳̳̮̠̠̘̟͔̃̋̊̿͐̄̈́̈́̔̓̕͝͝͝͝ͅͅĠ̴̨̢̛͈̩̞̟̻̖̩̪̟̱̲͔̙̥̝̔̇̋̎͛͛͐͆̀̍̈́̇̈́̑̅̔̆͝͠L̸̡̧̢͓̟̝̬̗̞̞͕̜͍͈̻̞͚̭̹͉͔͂ͅǪ̷̡̡̘̲̰̞͖̹͎͉̖̰̮͕͔̫͔̼͈͇͚̟̝͚̻̅̉̆̒́̂́͆͋̎̔̇̆̿̓̈́́͐͒͐͒̐̎̔͘͝W̶̫̭̘̦̹͉͇̬̖͈̩͚̲̹̦̥̲̭͗͐̓̔͌̿̍̿̑̅̅̍̿̚̚͝ ̸̡̰̝͖̯͚͔͔̯̓́̈͝͝A̵̡̢̧͕̦̭͔̬͚̞͙̲̦̬͚̱͊͊͒̔̔̀́͒̆̈́̿̇́͊͘͝ͅͅͅN̴̤͚̙̙̬̺͑̉̎̇̇͌́̉ͅD̶̨̖͙͍̞̣̼̻̪̓̂̆̎͊́̎̔͂́̇͝͝͝͝ ̶̬̬̥̟̱̦͖̗̮̰̫̼̱͓̯̤͕̄͐͗ͅĞ̵̢̛͖̟̖̫͍̜͈̥̹̱̖̩̖̰͚͇͚̫̳̳͇̯̣͆͛̓̿̕̕ͅL̴̨̳͙̥͇̙̪̲̼̪̩̫̗̝̦̫̾̄́͛͐̐̑̊̈́͌̓͗͌̈̇̎̌̆ͅỚ̸̢̨̜̮͇̖̬͈͖̫̙̻̱͍̗̼̣̄̌͋̌̉̉̓͜͜ͅẄ̵̢̝̻̥͚̥̬̰̘̪́̈́͑̌̒̆́͝ ̶̫͎̗̠͒͐̽͐̐̆̈̃̚A̴̩̠̳̟̳̲̱̼̺̖̟̠̥̫̪̰͓̎͐̀̒͑͌̅̋̅̔͗̏͂̄́̔͐̓̌̆̕͘͘͘͘N̸̛̛͓̜͔͖̦̖̠̹̘̥̟͕̬̤͚͖͗̀̿͐̀͐͐̊͗̉́̈́̐͂͘̚͜͝͠͝ͅD̶̰̪͔̤̩͙͇̘̤̻̳͕͎̞̺͙̑ ̴̨̛͍͈̘̖̘̻̼͖̗̩͇͙̭̝͓̳̉͛̽Ĝ̸͈͍̳̣̻̹̟͔̩̟̈́̓̒̿̈́̋̇͋̎̏̂̏̉͐̆͝L̷̡̡̢̙̤͇̠̗̩̤̯͖̝͍̗͚̘͉̹̜̲̥̟̗͖̗̂͂̔͐͂̈̇͆̀̀̄̓̔̆̾̔̍͆͂̃͜͝͠ͅŎ̶̢̭̬͖̮̭̔͌́̀̉̅͌͆̽͋́̂͑̍̌̅̽̈́͒͘͘͠͝͝͝͠W̶̢̛̜̩͇̻̓̉̎̃̓͌̀̈́̓̆̄̊̀̕͜͠À̵̢̢͕̪̹̞̙͔̳̺̭̥̞̣̠̩̭̮̯̭̫̟̐͛̑̊̃͊̈́̎̂̇̇̔̍̋͌͌͛̈́́̏̕̕̕͠͝͝Ṅ̴̴̵̷̴̴̸̵̵̵̶̸̵̴̵̶̵̶̵̴̴̶̸̸̵̷̶̶̸̴̷̶̸̸̸̸̶̵̸̵̵̴̸̵̸̷̸̵̨͔̩͓̼̻͓̘̙̳̰͎̤̻̱̱̪̬͐͗̿̈͆̋̂͆̉͑̀̊̅̇͋̿͗̾̕̕̕͜͜͠͠ͅD̶̵̷̷̵̷̸̶̸̸̴̶̶̵̷̴̵̸̴̶̘̖͈̩̺̆̌̏́̔̿̏̄͌̽̚̕G̴̷̵̵̸̵̸̸̸̴̷̸̴̴̶̶̶̷̵̶̸̷̴̸̸̸̷͚̽̉̄̈́̋̈̌̇͐̌̾̀̾̓̿̐͒̊̒͘͠͠͠L̵̵̸̵̷̵̷̵̷̷̶̷̷̶̵̵̴̷̸̵̷̸̶̴̴̵̴̴̶̵̶̸̵̶̵̸̡̡̢̨̨̤̜̜̩̙̯̬̝̯͓̳̹͖̻͖̤̜͋́̏̓̽̅̐̉͝͝ͅO̴̷̴̸̴̵̵̸̸̷̴̵̷̵̷̶̶̶̴̴̸̶̷̸̵̷̵̸̷̵̷̶̷̵̵̵̶̷̸̴̸̦̗̯̭͔̜͔̤̩͍̜͚̯̹̟̭̝̩͒̈̍͑̏͛̄̇͐́̋̂̀̒̉̈́̐̈́͠͝Ẅ̵̵̸̷̴̶̶̵̶̸̶̴̸̶̷̸̴̵̴̨̛̩͕̲͙͖̘̮͙́͗̀̌̕̚A̷̷̷̶̴̷̴̷̵̶̴̷̸̵̴̵̵̷̵̵̸̴̴̵̸̵̸̴̵̶̶̸̷̶̸̛̮̮̣̭̗͕̫͈̝̯̩͂̓̉́͐̅́̎́͌̑̇́͋̑̀̊͝͝͠N̷̵̶̵̷̸̴̵̴̶̷̶̵̵̶̸̶̷̸̶̴̶̷̸̴̴̵͈͍̦̜͖̻͎͓̤͓̪̞̖̜̭͈̤̙̖͊̌̃̆͜D̸̶̴̴̷̶̸̸̸̶̞̪͙̳̬́̓G̸̶̷̶̵̷̴̷̴̶̶̵̸̶̸̶̷̸̵̶̸̶̷̸̶̴̷̵̴̴̷̴̦̯̗̠͉͎͇͓̺̠͌̅̾̉̋̇̈́̐͆͂̈́̆̌͂̕̚͜͝ͅL̴̸̵̵̶̸̶̸̵̸̸̸̸̴̸̴̵̴̵̶̸̶̴̶̷̷̸̷̢̢̧̛̠̙̭̞͈͍͔̈́̍̓̿̈̎̈̂̎͊̆͂̚͠O̴̶̵̴̴̶̶̵̴̴̶̷̷̶̴̷̷̷̦͔̙͚͙̳͓̜̗̭̍͂̀͘ͅẀ̸̵̴̵̴̷̶̶̶̶̸̷̴̴̷̷̵̷̴̷̶̷̴̷̵̴̴̷̸̴̸̶̨̛̫͉̱̟̫̤͎̖́̊͆͛͆͑̓̇͒͐͌́̓̈́̐͠͝͝A̵̴̵̶̵̴̶̴̶̷̴̶̷̶̸̵̶̴̷̵̸̸̵̢̫͈͔̥̎͗͌̈́̄͂̀́̓̐̽̽́͊ͅN̴̸̶̶̵̵̸̸̴̶̸̸̶̶̵̶̵̸̨͔͈̟̐́̈̈̓̋̂͒͗͛̾D̸̴̴̵̸̶̷̸̸̸̷̴̴̵̵̷̸̵̴̶̵̷̶̴̴̵̶̶̷̶̵̵̼̟̤̩̰̙͎̳̩̭̙͋̂͌́͂́̀͛͑̀̂̽̏́̓̈͜͝G̷̷̴̶̸̵̴̵̶̶̶̶̷̸̶̶̷̸̵̸̴̷̴̶̸̴̶̸̸̴̶̷̸̵̸̨̡̢̼͇͚͍̦͇̼̖̩̯̹̠̺̘̝͖͓͇͍̯̃̋̂̿͆́̾̓̾Ļ̶̷̷̴̵̵̴̴̴̸̵̵̶̵̷̸̵̸̵̶̷̴̶̸̷̷̶̷̴̸̵̷̶̷̶̶̸̴̴̷̷̡̡͖͍̥͈̼̜͚̼͙̞̥̟̬̬͉̹̯̯͔͓͉͓͙̮̎̄̃̇̆̓͆͌̄͑͝Õ̴̶̷̶̶̵̵̷̴̸̷̷̷̶̷̶̷̸̸̷̵̶̴̷̶̴̸̸̶̷̵̸̶̶̸̶̴̴̵̵̡̡̨̢̢̰͙̹̞͍̫̮̝͙̯̝̞̪̘̞̮̦̦͗̐̿͒̈́͒̆̒̂̕͜͜͜W̸̸̴̸̵̸̶̸̸̶̸̴̵̷̷̴̶̶̷̷̷̵̶̸̵̶̴̶̵̶̶̵̷̴̨̛̛̻͔̑͗̈́͑̄̇͆̄́̃́͒̾̔̆̅̃̓̔̓̚̚͝͠͝ͅS̵̸̵̸̸̴̸̷̸̷̴̶̴̷̷̷̶̴̶̵̷̷̵̸̴̶̵͉̻͎̻̦͔̥͕̻̝̥̱͕͛̈́́͗͋̽̈́̾̓͜ͅO̸̴̶̷̸̴̶̷̶̴̶̵̷̸̸̡̡̝̙̮͎̜̬̫̼͋ͅB̷̸̴̷̸̴̴̷̷̸̴̶̷̶̵̵̷͙̠̆̍̅̓̽͊́͑̆́͠͠R̵̵̶̷̵̸̵̷̷̵̴̸̴̷̴̴̴̶̴̷̷̶̶̴̶̵̸̷̴̶̶̨̢̯͚͓̲̤͖̫̝̦̺̦͇͓̭̯͇͑͛̓̐̔̈́̕͜ͅͅĮ̶̵̸̷̷̵̸̶̴̵̵̵̸̴̴̵̵̷̷̴̵̵̸̸̴̴̸̵̸̷̶̸̷̸̷̷̸̷̶̸̵̩̠̱͉͕̠͔͕͕̬͓̥̼̞͇̙͈̲̥̐̅͒͆̈́̂͛̋͛̌̿̐̀̀͝͝͝ͅĢ̸̶̷̶̷̵̶̸̸̸̵̷̷̷̴̸̵̶̴̶̸̶̷̸̴̵̸̸̶̴̴̶̸̸̷̵̸̶̵̴̢̢̤͎̦̜̠̲͍͍̦͚̝̮͍̱̂̌͒̔̈́̐͑̒̀̑́͊̈́̉̾͋̚͠͝͠H̶̸̷̷̵̵̷̴̷̶̵̸̷̶̵̸̴̸̷̷̵̸̴̴̷̶̶̵̸̴̶̷̸̴̴̵̨̠͚͕̫̟̐́̋̅̅͆͗́̈́̈́̋̇̅̇͗̋̐̃̌̑̄̈́̈͂̒̃͝T̵̷̸̶̶̴̷̴̷̶̶̴̸̵̵̷̸̶̴̴̴̡̢̳̠̖̙̤̣̱͈̟̙͎̽̐͝ͅͅL̵̶̴̷̵̴̶̵̸̷̷̷̴̷̶̵̴̴̷̷̵̶̶̷̶̶̴̵̶̡̯͖̰͍͙̦̤̰̩̊̋̑̀̏͐̐́̀̀̓͜͜͝͠͝Y̷̵̷̶̶̸̸̸̶̶̴̸̶̷̶̶̴̸̴̴̶̵̵̵̷̶̴̷̵̸̴̷̶̵̴̵̷̴̶̶̶̵̵̴̷̵̸̡̛̘̦̪̣̪̩̰̖͚̝̬͖̬̯̞̭͙͈͔̻̝̐̌̏̀̽̾̈̊̉͊̑͂̅͛̌̄̔͜͝͝ͅ
Mine Uncle's Gift can only do so much.
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You awaken to see your heir's worried face staring down at you though everything is red and hazy.
She says something, but you hear none of it.
You realize you feel rather tired.
Nothing a quick nap won't fix of course.
Just a nap though, there's work to be done after all.
You close your eyes and dream of glittering lights and warmth on your skin.
━<><><>< Khazalid Trivia ><><><>━
Dongliz - The parts of a Dwarf's body that are impossible to scratch
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No Vote, next Trial is like Cleaving thankfully for you.
AN: Heres a doot. Hope you enjoy since I know not everyone's a fan of Zalgo. As always don't forget to C&C. :^)
