Valor & Zeal Gaming

He nodded once again.

I see. Perhaps he may consider my request and accept this coin on your behalf, then.

The figure coughs into his sleeve. Excuse me. He then stands back by one of the mammoth columns in the wall and begins swirling coins in his hands.

A figure, ever-present but never-intrusive, appears behind the person twiddling coin.
"This is not the place to request of me anything, for it is the Deathand's sanctuary you are in now."

He paused a moment before continuing.
"You ask of me exactly what? You wish to know of the first war?"

Startled by the figure, the robed man jumps back slightly, then realizes who it is.

Not just know of the first war, sir, but tell of it. Myself and others like me, I mean. I'm sure it would unearth knowledge long forgotten as long as a few of us brought tales to the metaphorical table.

The figure visibly ponders the request.
"There is a thread in the forum for exile. Seek it out and speak your questions there. They will be answered."

The Psiclone is looking confused once again.

This thread is known to me, yes, but my point is one you may be interpreting differently. Surely the battles of the Zenith and the Desert cannot be the only ones fought in the war; what I am suggesting is that some of us may be able to shed some light on these forgotten fights. Heroes who's names are dust now could be reawakened with but a simple excercise of will and wordplay.

He pulls out a sheet of paper and demonstrates by scribbling a few sentences with a feathered quill.

The figure looks on, unamused.
"You suggest that you write the story? You and others like you? Clarify yourself. Do you want me to explain events to you, or do you want to write the events yourself?"

He begins to nod vigorously.

Yes, yes! Myself and other storytellers like myself would transcribe some event during the war, perhaps another battle in another place, and attempt to make known some forgotten tales. Just as the Deathhand speaks of the Zenith's Oblivion, perhaps the more lowly story-spinners such as myself could unite to bring to life our own tale of the Hallowed Order and the Bane of Eternity.

The dust around the figure begins to swirl a bit faster now.

The winds picked up as he opened the doors, fluttering the parchment in his hand. The Prophet marched through the great hall, in a more direct manner than usual, rather than the curious pace from before with wandering eyes, always observing and admiring the architecture and murals upon the walls. He immediately walked straight to the lord of the manor, himself.

"I have a request."

He held the piece of parchment out towards him.

"Although some of my guests do somewhat possess the 'talents' to do so themselves, I would be obliguided if it is prepared for their arrival."

"If it's not too much trouble."

The prophet bowed out of respect.

The Deathand leaned forward in his Onyx throne.
He gazed at the parchment and then sat back.

"So be it."

(Reserved)

The Deathand yawns, stretches his gaze into the realm of VZ, and blinks rather slowly.

"Do not mistake my Axe-mas spirit of kindness for blindness. I see what you did there Gypsy."
The Deathand leans forward in his throne and contemplates.
"By the waxing of the new year I suggest SOMEONE make some changes....or I will."

The Death Stalker, still leaning against the pillar, still unamused, speaks up.

"I apologize, Deathand, the Blasphemer was waxing poetic, and I nodded off for a moment. But that wasn't a total waste"

He lurches forward, his mind filled with wonder upon wonder.

"Lord Deathand, I know you have seen many a bloodied battlefield, and slain droves of worthy foes, and yet, these lands have laid silent for years, the land craving the blood it once was soaked in. I say this blood drought has gone on long enough."

"I propose a tournament of souls, a grand arena in which heroes from times and tales long lost may due battle, and their patrons reap the spoils. I put forth 213 of my own OP towards this endeavor, so what say ye, Deathand?"

[To be clear, I'm proposing either a tournament or an arena (brackets or just random 1v1 fights) done in RP form, in which the winner is decided honorably between the two authors, as a natural progression of the combat, and if that fails, the Deathand decides who, if anyone, wins. The combatants in this could, in theory, be anyone, but in particular I'd like to pull some of the characters from the Tangents that never got a full showing.]

The Deathand chuckles, rich and ugly.

"All in good time."

As the prophet emerged from a door off to the side of the hall, he had appeared in time to hear the words of the visitor talking to Deathand. Although he tried to hold it back, he couldn't help but laugh at what was being uttered. He cared not that he had attacked the prophet's historical reviews of the holiday at hand in a rather dead realm, but rather he laughed at his suggestion to the Realm's master. For he was actually REQUESTING A TOURNAMENT. Though the prophet knew full well that only the Deathand and one other would understand the humor in what was being said, it was in all respects the very definition of dramatic irony.

After much consideration I have bestowed a new title upon thee who have crafted a new Order.
Go forth and carry out thine commands.