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The cheeseman

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About The cheeseman

  • Birthday 02/23/1876

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  • Member Title
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
  • Pronouns
    Don't you dare go Hollow!
  • Location
    Riding from World's End towards Tarwin's Gap, towards Tarmon Gai'don.
  • Interests
    INTJ-A

    I love reading, writing, and listening to music. I also greatly enjoy political theory, philosophy, and history. Specifically the Middle Ages. My favorite color is rose gold and my favorite fictional character is Túrin Turambar.

    "Tiresias, your clocks are slow
    Tiresias, would you know
    The gods are slow to forgive"

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  1. Little thing I wrote earlier.

    Spoiler

    Caesar

    ---------

    The dawn shone brightly on rank upon rank of steel. Helmets and spears glittered in the rising sun, making the Calamon Heights appear to glow, from a distance. Maelon had assembled nearly twenty thousand men from across the realms that remained free. Vunara, the capital city of the small kingdom of Bæryvun, lay fewer than a dozen miles to their South, fortified and prepared for a siege, if the assembled army failed. Across the heights to the North, arrayed in an unruly mob, was the force led by the demon called the Scarecrow. Perhaps it was a trick of the eyes, or perhaps it was the darkness of the Abyss, but it seemed that the light of the sun did not reflect off of the enemy—rather, it seemed that the light was absorbed and strangled. Maelon’s gaze lingered for a moment longer, his thoughts obscured with doubt and worry, before turning and making the short walk back to the tent he and his brother shared.

    The tent flaps hung loose, neither tied closed nor open. Brushing one aside with a gloved hand, the king ducked under the top of the opening, letting the flap fall back into place, gently pushed around by the rising breeze. Thaddeus did not look up from where he sat cross-legged, his greatsword laying unsheathed across his lap. Thaddeus had one hand underneath the blade, the other extended outward, palm up. His eyes cast down to the sword, his mouth moved silently in repetition of a wordless prayer, one that Maelon had heard more times than his own name.

    None of that, of course, was out of place. What drew Maelon’s eyes, though he had seen it before, were the lines of fire streaming from the lanterns to Thaddeus’ outstretched hand, and from his outstretched hand into his sword. Few times before had Maelon seen his brother do such a thing, as it took great focus and time, such as the two had not often had before battle. It was also a thing that Thaddeus was loath to do, as the great power coursing through him and the sword after the ritual grew at times of duress difficult to control.

     

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