Posts from Knights of Tezoth

Justice: ☀️, justice is an impressive word, but an empty one, and there's nothing to gawk at here either.

In response, the lady approves with a squeeze and a light shake of her small fist, as if to say "go for it!".

Alsira allows her head an impermissible moment of rest, and for an extra fraction of a micro-nanosecond closes her eyelids, thinking how wonderful it would be to lie like that on the lap of a dear grandmother or a beloved mother, but such fortune must still be earned in life, and she must have truly wronged the universe greatly in the previous cycle.

Then she smoothly moves from her knees to the couch, steps from the couch to the floor, from there to the now-familiar mirror to tidy her appearance, and only then to the lord of the library.

Wind: ☀️☀️, someday some Gloomy Sky or Dawn Steel will leave her with a broken heart and a child deprived of a father.

Most likely in Arca. The NPCs are weak, and crippling our own capital's troops isn't in character, let alone the girls. By the way, with the arrow it might make sense to go without a horse... Remind me, how many tiles are between us at the start?

- I've already said that we perceive most of our lives through our eyes and palms, and therefore there is nothing more romantic and alluring than the mutual touch of someone dear to your heart, which has nothing to do with chance encounters destined for us by fate or the whim of circumstance.

-- That was quite a spectacle, as if a cunning retiarius, a hero of the cruel arenas of the ancient East, had ensnared and bound the movements of a heavyweight murmillo fighter. Fortunately, the capital's physicians are skilled, and Mordred only became more zealous from the pain inflicted upon him by the arrows.
Having answered thus, Ambrose steps out for the next bout. And a voice, familiar since his coming of age, when his grandfather, on the occasion of his entry into adulthood, implanted a magatama into his ear — one of the many treasures of his lineage — again disturbs the knight's mind with an otherworldly voice, audible only to him. Ambrose always chalked up this foreign presence to his own excessive sensitivity — the very same he had recently expounded upon before Deus — but sometimes, as now, this voice screamed so loudly that it was surprising no one else could hear it.
"What a disgrace! Lost to a girl. A big fellow, twice as strong. In my life I never suffered defeats at the hands of women... Now atone for your mistake, maim this sly-faced one. Better yet, cut off his head and put it on a pike. Per the desert customs."
"That shall not come to pass today," Ambrose replied mentally, but arguing with the fierce spirit was, as always, of little use.
"Weakling. Worthy men killed for less. I don't like him. Neither do you. You want to win. So do I, for I was not granted that in my time. Listen to me and obey. Use the deadly strike. The Deadly Strike! THE DEADLY STRIKE!!!"
And Ambrose uses it, the fury of the ancients fills him, the cruelty of the unknown spirit guides his hand — straight at the opponent's neck the point of "Dominus" drives, piercing and rending metal, cloth, skin, and flesh. Pleasant gurgling sounds. Ambrose did not hold back his horse from trampling the fallen with its hooves.
"Well now, splendid. I am pleased." — the evil spirit fell silent for a time.
-- I am no stranger to unbridled violence either, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

Zedil, however, did not forget.

-- That was quite the spectacle, as if a cunning retiarius, a hero of the cruel arenas of the ancient East, had ensnared and shackled the movements of a heavy murmillo fighter. Fortunately, the capital's physicians are skilled, and Mordred only grew more zealous from the pain inflicted by the arrows.
Having answered thus, Ambrose steps out for the next bout. And a voice, familiar since his coming of age, when his grandfather, on the occasion of his entry into adulthood, implanted in his ear a magatama — one of the many treasures of his lineage — again disturbs the knight's mind with a spectral voice, audible only to him. Ambrose had always chalked up this alien presence to his own excessive sensitivity — the very one he had so recently expounded upon before Deus — but at times, like now, this voice screamed so loudly that it was a wonder no one else could hear it.
"What a disgrace! Lost to a girl. A strapping lad, twice as strong. In my life I never suffered defeat from women... Now atone for your mistake, maim this sly-faced one. Better yet, cut off his head and put it on a pike. After the desert customs."
"That shall not come to pass today," Ambrose replied mentally, but arguing with the fierce spirit was, as always, of little use.
"Weakling. Worthy men killed for lesser offenses. I don't like him. Neither do you. You want to win. So do I, for I was not granted that in my time. Listen to me and obey. Use the killing blow. The Killing Blow! THE KILLING BLOW!!!"
And Ambrose uses it, the fury of the anci filling him, the cruelty of the unknown spirit guiding his hand — straight for the opponent's neck the tip of "Dominus" drives, piercing and rending metal, cloth, skin, and flesh. Pleasant gurgling sounds. Ambrose did not hold back his horse from trampling the fallen foe with its hooves.
"Well, that's just splendid. I am pleased." — the evil spirit fell silent for a time.
-- I am no stranger to unbridled violence, and I am not ashamed to admit it.

Man, there's some serious mental issues here. Judging by the quest, everything seemed softer