Elementals: The Black Beast (Elementals 3 confirmed 2018)

[Constaniana]

I wonder what my duo should do next? :3

Well, some acknowledgement of the new character, Bursa, and heading down the middle tunnel on the right to see what Aldraniri found.

[Constaniana]

Also, I think I speak for all of us when I say d'awww at Tristan.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Also, I think I speak for all of us when I say d'awww at Tristan.

That means I must have done something right, then.

[Constaniana]

Also, I think I speak for all of us when I say d'awww at Tristan.

That means I must have done something right, then.

Tristan's an artist, a warrior, and a really sweet kid.

[Agritum]

King's Cross was just as big and busy as Christopher remembered it. But gone were the crowds of enthusiastic Britons waving jacks all over the way, waiting for their heroic, sparkling clean Tommies to embark in the war against the Huns. Instead, an equally big crowd of soldiers' families stood in the railway station's waiting area, trembling at the sound of an incoming engine.

With a loud whistle and a puff of white smoke, the train activated its brakes, stopping the flow of carriages behind it. The crowd of impatient mothers, sisters, wives and lady-friends instinctively approached the doors dividing them from the passengers of the train.

And then, the wagons opened. Out of them flowed a mass of strained men, covered in the mud of an hundred days of battle, their uniforms only a bleak memory of the sparkling clean tunics they wore before taking the train to France.

Christopher remembered that day: he was in the first row of soldiers entering the wagons, the one of the volunteers. His handsome blonde hair was covered by a smooth, shiny helmet. His rifle was polished, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight. The girls swooned at him, his mother eagerly waved a tissue and a small flag in her hands, and a small, humble brunette private looked up at him, like a young squire looking up to a blue-blooded knight.

His name was Andrew. He was a Tyke, from Sheffield, exactly. And a poor, working-class one, at that. Surely an amusing sight for a posh Chelsea boy like Christopher.

The poor blighty soul had been left by his lassie for a very vivid native of Eire, leaving him alone. He was an orphan, with no one to support him economically or morally, and some of the war propaganda had got to his head. Christopher didn't know if he had decided to become a volunteer out of sudden patriotic spirit, a drive to accomplish something in his life, or just to seek death on the battlefield.

That said, during the whole journey to the battlefields of Somme and Verdun, Andrew revealed himself to be a quite sensible and imaginative man. He would murmur how the chimneys of factories of London looked like arcane spires of sorcerers and magicians, from a distance, and of how the sea of the Channel would have been the perfect spot for Poseidon to build his underwater realm. Christopher wasn't bothered by his fantastical musings: they were bizarrely interesting, and Andrew was pretty much a plain, ordinary man from Sheffield, outside of that.

When they arrived in France, it was snowing. Andrew wasn't bothered by the cold: rather, he liked remarking how the girls of the place, covered in snow from head to toe, looked like maidens of winter and ice. Christopher always smiled at Andrew's description of women: he was never vulgar, and quite tactful in all his comments, in an almost extreme way. He didn't even seem particularly irate of his girlfriend's betrayal: rather, he just seemed to feel alone and remorseful of not having been capable of keeping their love blossoming.

Christopher would use the occasion to speak of his own ladyfriend: a charming girl from the south of London, of relatively humble upbringing, but blessed with a commendable intellect for a woman. He had met her during a polo game he was playing in. Andrew was incredibly fascinated with the story.

While there, Andrew took affection for a particular prostitute: a redhead French gal with a very ample bosom, and truly a flower of a personality. Christopher puritanically decided against spending time with the women of the night, but he would always listen to Andrew's heartfelt talks about how he loved that one girl. The girl too apparently liked him. She even kissed him when the train to the front departed.

The front was hell on Earth. Forced to live in a muddy and unsafe underground trench, constantly bombarded by the German artillery and with clouds of mustard gas floating above their heads, Christopher and Andrew spent days of extreme misery and suffering. But even then, his imagination bloomed like the poppies in the fields. The Tommies were now like the human armies of Gallia fighting against Tenaembra, the mustard gas was exactly like the dark tendrils of the evil God, the biplanes were fiery dragons, the bombs were like destructive spells of war, and all of it was part of a great war to save Gaiaca from annihilation. One one occasion, he even hallucinated, calling Christopher a "Sir" and seeing him as some sort of shining paladin.

During the long nights in the trench, he would write, and write, and write even more. Christopher, increasingly worried about Andrew's mental well-being, would try to make him stop and get a rest. But Andrew never listened to him: the book he was writing was vital to him. It was the only way he could escape our mundane world of plight and sorrow, and refuge himself in a magical land where justice could actually triumph and men could manage to break the chains of pain and strife.

The day to go over the top finally came. Christopher raced over No Man's Lands with his comrades, a bullet quickly reaching his leg and knocking him down in the mud. The last sight he saw before blacking out was Andrew, charging at the Huns like the fiercest of warriors, and getting mangled horrifically by machine gun fire.

And now Christopher was back in England, with a limping leg, a pair of medals and a dear friend buried under the earth of Belgium. But most importantly, he had managed to recover Andrew's most priced personal belonging: the tome where he wrote his stories. He wasn't going to let beautiful tales created by his friend perish in the oblivion of time.

A few months after Christopher's return a book named "Elementals" was published, attributed to the defunct Andrew Allister. After a rocky start, the sales started to soar, as all the papers talked about the beautiful world constructed by the fallen soldier. A few decades after, it became a fantasy classic. Almost a century after its initial publication, American filmmakers from Hollywood produced a successful Kolossal trilogy based on the books, introducing the millennial generations to the works of Andrew. Literature majors would discuss his life and the contents of the book, fanfictions would be written all over the internet, and Christopher's estate would fight a few lawsuit wars to keep the copyright to Elementals.

In the end, the dying imaginations of an humble Yorkshireman became the fantastical dreams of generations and generations of fans from all over the world.

[Zarkenis Ultima]

King's Cross was just as big and busy as Christopher remembered it. But gone were the crowds of enthusiastic Britons waving jacks all over the way, waiting for their heroic, sparkling clean Tommies to embark in the war against the Huns. Instead, an equally big crowd of soldiers' families stood in the railway station's waiting area, trembling at the sound of an incoming engine.

With a loud whistle and a puff of white smoke, the train activated its brakes, stopping the flow of carriages behind it. The crowd of impatient mothers, sisters, wives and lady-friends instinctively approached the doors dividing them from the passengers of the train.

And then, the wagons opened. Out of them flowed a mass of strained men, covered in the mud of an hundred days of battle, their uniforms only a bleak memory of the sparkling clean tunics they wore before taking the train to France.

Christopher remembered that day: he was in the first row of soldiers entering the wagons, the one of the volunteers. His handsome blonde hair was covered by a smooth, shiny helmet. His rifle was polished, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight. The girls swooned at him, his mother eagerly waved a tissue and a small flag in her hands, and a small, humble brunette private looked up at him, like a young squire looking up to a blue-blooded knight.

His name was Andrew. He was a Tyke, from Sheffield, exactly. And a poor, working-class one, at that. Surely an amusing sight for a posh Chelsea boy like Christopher.

The poor blighty soul had been left by his lassie for a very vivid native of Eire, leaving him alone. He was an orphan, with no one to support him economically or morally, and some of the war propaganda had got to his head. Christopher didn't know if he had decided to become a volunteer out of sudden patriotic spirit, a drive to accomplish something in his life, or just to seek death on the battlefield.

That said, during the whole journey to the battlefields of Somme and Verdun, Andrew revealed himself to be a quite sensible and imaginative man. He would murmur how the chimneys of factories of London looked like arcane spires of sorcerers and magicians, from a distance, and of how the sea of the Channel would have been the perfect spot for Poseidon to build his underwater realm. Christopher wasn't bothered by his fantastical musings: they were bizarrely interesting, and Andrew was pretty much a plain, ordinary man from Sheffield, outside of that.

When they arrived in France, it was snowing. Andrew wasn't bothered by the cold: rather, he liked remarking how the girls of the place, covered in snow from head to toe, looked like maidens of winter and ice. Christopher always smiled at Andrew's description of women: he was never vulgar, and quite tactful in all his comments, in an almost extreme way. He didn't even seem particularly irate of his girlfriend's betrayal: rather, he just seemed to feel alone and remorseful of not having been capable of keeping their love blossoming.

Christopher would use the occasion to speak of his own ladyfriend: a charming girl from the south of London, of relatively humble upbringing, but blessed with a commendable intellect for a woman. He had met her during a polo game he was playing in. Andrew was incredibly fascinated with the story.

While there, Andrew took affection for a particular prostitute: a redhead French gal with a very ample bosom, and truly a flower of a personality. Christopher puritanically decided against spending time with the women of the night, but he would always listen to Andrew's heartfelt talks about how he loved that one girl. The girl too apparently liked him. She even kissed him when the train to the front departed.

The front was hell on Earth. Forced to live in a muddy and unsafe underground trench, constantly bombarded by the German artillery and with clouds of mustard gas floating above their heads, Christopher and Andrew spent days of extreme misery and suffering. But even then, his imagination bloomed like the poppies in the fields. The Tommies were now like the human armies of Gallia fighting against Tenaembra, the mustard gas was exactly like the dark tendrils of the evil God, the biplanes were fiery dragons, the bombs were like destructive spells of war, and all of it was part of a great war to save Gaiaca from annihilation. One one occasion, he even hallucinated, calling Christopher a "Sir" and seeing him as some sort of shining paladin.

During the long nights in the trench, he would write, and write, and write even more. Christopher, increasingly worried about Andrew's mental well-being, would try to make him stop and get a rest. But Andrew never listened to him: the book he was writing was vital to him. It was the only way he could escape our mundane world of plight and sorrow, and refuge himself in a magical land where justice could actually triumph and men could manage to break the chains of pain and strife.

The day to go over the top finally came. Christopher raced over No Man's Lands with his comrades, a bullet quickly reaching his leg and knocking him down in the mud. The last sight he saw before blacking out was Andrew, charging at the Huns like the fiercest of warriors, and getting mangled horrifically by machine gun fire.

And now Christopher was back in England, with a limping leg, a pair of medals and a dear friend buried under the earth of Belgium. But most importantly, he had managed to recover Andrew's most priced personal belonging: the tome where he wrote his stories. He wasn't going to let beautiful tales created by his friend perish in the oblivion of time.

A few months after Christopher's return a book named "Elementals" was published, attributed to the defunct Andrew Allister. After a rocky start, the sales started to soar, as all the papers talked about the beautiful world constructed by the fallen soldier. A few decades after, it became a fantasy classic. Almost a century after its initial publication, American filmmakers from Hollywood produced a successful Kolossal trilogy based on the books, introducing the millennial generations to the works of Andrew. Literature majors would discuss his life and the contents of the book, fanfictions would be written all over the internet, and Christopher's estate would fight a few lawsuit wars to keep the copyright to Elementals.

In the end, the dying imaginations of an humble Yorkshireman became the fantastical dreams of generations and generations of fans from all over the world.

Clearly this means that Aldraniri/Alselia OTP. -Nods-

[Constaniana]

King's Cross was just as big and busy as Christopher remembered it. But gone were the crowds of enthusiastic Britons waving jacks all over the way, waiting for their heroic, sparkling clean Tommies to embark in the war against the Huns. Instead, an equally big crowd of soldiers' families stood in the railway station's waiting area, trembling at the sound of an incoming engine.

With a loud whistle and a puff of white smoke, the train activated its brakes, stopping the flow of carriages behind it. The crowd of impatient mothers, sisters, wives and lady-friends instinctively approached the doors dividing them from the passengers of the train.

And then, the wagons opened. Out of them flowed a mass of strained men, covered in the mud of an hundred days of battle, their uniforms only a bleak memory of the sparkling clean tunics they wore before taking the train to France.

Christopher remembered that day: he was in the first row of soldiers entering the wagons, the one of the volunteers. His handsome blonde hair was covered by a smooth, shiny helmet. His rifle was polished, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight. The girls swooned at him, his mother eagerly waved a tissue and a small flag in her hands, and a small, humble brunette private looked up at him, like a young squire looking up to a blue-blooded knight.

His name was Andrew. He was a Tyke, from Sheffield, exactly. And a poor, working-class one, at that. Surely an amusing sight for a posh Chelsea boy like Christopher.

The poor blighty soul had been left by his lassie for a very vivid native of Eire, leaving him alone. He was an orphan, with no one to support him economically or morally, and some of the war propaganda had got to his head. Christopher didn't know if he had decided to become a volunteer out of sudden patriotic spirit, a drive to accomplish something in his life, or just to seek death on the battlefield.

That said, during the whole journey to the battlefields of Somme and Verdun, Andrew revealed himself to be a quite sensible and imaginative man. He would murmur how the chimneys of factories of London looked like arcane spires of sorcerers and magicians, from a distance, and of how the sea of the Channel would have been the perfect spot for Poseidon to build his underwater realm. Christopher wasn't bothered by his fantastical musings: they were bizarrely interesting, and Andrew was pretty much a plain, ordinary man from Sheffield, outside of that.

When they arrived in France, it was snowing. Andrew wasn't bothered by the cold: rather, he liked remarking how the girls of the place, covered in snow from head to toe, looked like maidens of winter and ice. Christopher always smiled at Andrew's description of women: he was never vulgar, and quite tactful in all his comments, in an almost extreme way. He didn't even seem particularly irate of his girlfriend's betrayal: rather, he just seemed to feel alone and remorseful of not having been capable of keeping their love blossoming.

Christopher would use the occasion to speak of his own ladyfriend: a charming girl from the south of London, of relatively humble upbringing, but blessed with a commendable intellect for a woman. He had met her during a polo game he was playing in. Andrew was incredibly fascinated with the story.

While there, Andrew took affection for a particular prostitute: a redhead French gal with a very ample bosom, and truly a flower of a personality. Christopher puritanically decided against spending time with the women of the night, but he would always listen to Andrew's heartfelt talks about how he loved that one girl. The girl too apparently liked him. She even kissed him when the train to the front departed.

The front was hell on Earth. Forced to live in a muddy and unsafe underground trench, constantly bombarded by the German artillery and with clouds of mustard gas floating above their heads, Christopher and Andrew spent days of extreme misery and suffering. But even then, his imagination bloomed like the poppies in the fields. The Tommies were now like the human armies of Gallia fighting against Tenaembra, the mustard gas was exactly like the dark tendrils of the evil God, the biplanes were fiery dragons, the bombs were like destructive spells of war, and all of it was part of a great war to save Gaiaca from annihilation. One one occasion, he even hallucinated, calling Christopher a "Sir" and seeing him as some sort of shining paladin.

During the long nights in the trench, he would write, and write, and write even more. Christopher, increasingly worried about Andrew's mental well-being, would try to make him stop and get a rest. But Andrew never listened to him: the book he was writing was vital to him. It was the only way he could escape our mundane world of plight and sorrow, and refuge himself in a magical land where justice could actually triumph and men could manage to break the chains of pain and strife.

The day to go over the top finally came. Christopher raced over No Man's Lands with his comrades, a bullet quickly reaching his leg and knocking him down in the mud. The last sight he saw before blacking out was Andrew, charging at the Huns like the fiercest of warriors, and getting mangled horrifically by machine gun fire.

And now Christopher was back in England, with a limping leg, a pair of medals and a dear friend buried under the earth of Belgium. But most importantly, he had managed to recover Andrew's most priced personal belonging: the tome where he wrote his stories. He wasn't going to let beautiful tales created by his friend perish in the oblivion of time.

A few months after Christopher's return a book named "Elementals" was published, attributed to the defunct Andrew Allister. After a rocky start, the sales started to soar, as all the papers talked about the beautiful world constructed by the fallen soldier. A few decades after, it became a fantasy classic. Almost a century after its initial publication, American filmmakers from Hollywood produced a successful Kolossal trilogy based on the books, introducing the millennial generations to the works of Andrew. Literature majors would discuss his life and the contents of the book, fanfictions would be written all over the internet, and Christopher's estate would fight a few lawsuit wars to keep the copyright to Elementals.

In the end, the dying imaginations of an humble Yorkshireman became the fantastical dreams of generations and generations of fans from all over the world.

I was honestly tearing up a wee bit by the end. Absolutely fantastic.

[Agritum]

King's Cross was just as big and busy as Christopher remembered it. But gone were the crowds of enthusiastic Britons waving jacks all over the way, waiting for their heroic, sparkling clean Tommies to embark in the war against the Huns. Instead, an equally big crowd of soldiers' families stood in the railway station's waiting area, trembling at the sound of an incoming engine.

With a loud whistle and a puff of white smoke, the train activated its brakes, stopping the flow of carriages behind it. The crowd of impatient mothers, sisters, wives and lady-friends instinctively approached the doors dividing them from the passengers of the train.

And then, the wagons opened. Out of them flowed a mass of strained men, covered in the mud of an hundred days of battle, their uniforms only a bleak memory of the sparkling clean tunics they wore before taking the train to France.

Christopher remembered that day: he was in the first row of soldiers entering the wagons, the one of the volunteers. His handsome blonde hair was covered by a smooth, shiny helmet. His rifle was polished, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight. The girls swooned at him, his mother eagerly waved a tissue and a small flag in her hands, and a small, humble brunette private looked up at him, like a young squire looking up to a blue-blooded knight.

His name was Andrew. He was a Tyke, from Sheffield, exactly. And a poor, working-class one, at that. Surely an amusing sight for a posh Chelsea boy like Christopher.

The poor blighty soul had been left by his lassie for a very vivid native of Eire, leaving him alone. He was an orphan, with no one to support him economically or morally, and some of the war propaganda had got to his head. Christopher didn't know if he had decided to become a volunteer out of sudden patriotic spirit, a drive to accomplish something in his life, or just to seek death on the battlefield.

That said, during the whole journey to the battlefields of Somme and Verdun, Andrew revealed himself to be a quite sensible and imaginative man. He would murmur how the chimneys of factories of London looked like arcane spires of sorcerers and magicians, from a distance, and of how the sea of the Channel would have been the perfect spot for Poseidon to build his underwater realm. Christopher wasn't bothered by his fantastical musings: they were bizarrely interesting, and Andrew was pretty much a plain, ordinary man from Sheffield, outside of that.

When they arrived in France, it was snowing. Andrew wasn't bothered by the cold: rather, he liked remarking how the girls of the place, covered in snow from head to toe, looked like maidens of winter and ice. Christopher always smiled at Andrew's description of women: he was never vulgar, and quite tactful in all his comments, in an almost extreme way. He didn't even seem particularly irate of his girlfriend's betrayal: rather, he just seemed to feel alone and remorseful of not having been capable of keeping their love blossoming.

Christopher would use the occasion to speak of his own ladyfriend: a charming girl from the south of London, of relatively humble upbringing, but blessed with a commendable intellect for a woman. He had met her during a polo game he was playing in. Andrew was incredibly fascinated with the story.

While there, Andrew took affection for a particular prostitute: a redhead French gal with a very ample bosom, and truly a flower of a personality. Christopher puritanically decided against spending time with the women of the night, but he would always listen to Andrew's heartfelt talks about how he loved that one girl. The girl too apparently liked him. She even kissed him when the train to the front departed.

The front was hell on Earth. Forced to live in a muddy and unsafe underground trench, constantly bombarded by the German artillery and with clouds of mustard gas floating above their heads, Christopher and Andrew spent days of extreme misery and suffering. But even then, his imagination bloomed like the poppies in the fields. The Tommies were now like the human armies of Gallia fighting against Tenaembra, the mustard gas was exactly like the dark tendrils of the evil God, the biplanes were fiery dragons, the bombs were like destructive spells of war, and all of it was part of a great war to save Gaiaca from annihilation. One one occasion, he even hallucinated, calling Christopher a "Sir" and seeing him as some sort of shining paladin.

During the long nights in the trench, he would write, and write, and write even more. Christopher, increasingly worried about Andrew's mental well-being, would try to make him stop and get a rest. But Andrew never listened to him: the book he was writing was vital to him. It was the only way he could escape our mundane world of plight and sorrow, and refuge himself in a magical land where justice could actually triumph and men could manage to break the chains of pain and strife.

The day to go over the top finally came. Christopher raced over No Man's Lands with his comrades, a bullet quickly reaching his leg and knocking him down in the mud. The last sight he saw before blacking out was Andrew, charging at the Huns like the fiercest of warriors, and getting mangled horrifically by machine gun fire.

And now Christopher was back in England, with a limping leg, a pair of medals and a dear friend buried under the earth of Belgium. But most importantly, he had managed to recover Andrew's most priced personal belonging: the tome where he wrote his stories. He wasn't going to let beautiful tales created by his friend perish in the oblivion of time.

A few months after Christopher's return a book named "Elementals" was published, attributed to the defunct Andrew Allister. After a rocky start, the sales started to soar, as all the papers talked about the beautiful world constructed by the fallen soldier. A few decades after, it became a fantasy classic. Almost a century after its initial publication, American filmmakers from Hollywood produced a successful Kolossal trilogy based on the books, introducing the millennial generations to the works of Andrew. Literature majors would discuss his life and the contents of the book, fanfictions would be written all over the internet, and Christopher's estate would fight a few lawsuit wars to keep the copyright to Elementals.

In the end, the dying imaginations of an humble Yorkshireman became the fantastical dreams of generations and generations of fans from all over the world.

I was honestly tearing up a wee bit by the end. Absolutely fantastic.

I'm honoured.

It also kinda explains why the setting's tech is quite undecided between the early 20th century and the jolly England of the 19th.

[Constaniana]

King's Cross was just as big and busy as Christopher remembered it. But gone were the crowds of enthusiastic Britons waving jacks all over the way, waiting for their heroic, sparkling clean Tommies to embark in the war against the Huns. Instead, an equally big crowd of soldiers' families stood in the railway station's waiting area, trembling at the sound of an incoming engine.

With a loud whistle and a puff of white smoke, the train activated its brakes, stopping the flow of carriages behind it. The crowd of impatient mothers, sisters, wives and lady-friends instinctively approached the doors dividing them from the passengers of the train.

And then, the wagons opened. Out of them flowed a mass of strained men, covered in the mud of an hundred days of battle, their uniforms only a bleak memory of the sparkling clean tunics they wore before taking the train to France.

Christopher remembered that day: he was in the first row of soldiers entering the wagons, the one of the volunteers. His handsome blonde hair was covered by a smooth, shiny helmet. His rifle was polished, the metal parts glinting in the sunlight. The girls swooned at him, his mother eagerly waved a tissue and a small flag in her hands, and a small, humble brunette private looked up at him, like a young squire looking up to a blue-blooded knight.

His name was Andrew. He was a Tyke, from Sheffield, exactly. And a poor, working-class one, at that. Surely an amusing sight for a posh Chelsea boy like Christopher.

The poor blighty soul had been left by his lassie for a very vivid native of Eire, leaving him alone. He was an orphan, with no one to support him economically or morally, and some of the war propaganda had got to his head. Christopher didn't know if he had decided to become a volunteer out of sudden patriotic spirit, a drive to accomplish something in his life, or just to seek death on the battlefield.

That said, during the whole journey to the battlefields of Somme and Verdun, Andrew revealed himself to be a quite sensible and imaginative man. He would murmur how the chimneys of factories of London looked like arcane spires of sorcerers and magicians, from a distance, and of how the sea of the Channel would have been the perfect spot for Poseidon to build his underwater realm. Christopher wasn't bothered by his fantastical musings: they were bizarrely interesting, and Andrew was pretty much a plain, ordinary man from Sheffield, outside of that.

When they arrived in France, it was snowing. Andrew wasn't bothered by the cold: rather, he liked remarking how the girls of the place, covered in snow from head to toe, looked like maidens of winter and ice. Christopher always smiled at Andrew's description of women: he was never vulgar, and quite tactful in all his comments, in an almost extreme way. He didn't even seem particularly irate of his girlfriend's betrayal: rather, he just seemed to feel alone and remorseful of not having been capable of keeping their love blossoming.

Christopher would use the occasion to speak of his own ladyfriend: a charming girl from the south of London, of relatively humble upbringing, but blessed with a commendable intellect for a woman. He had met her during a polo game he was playing in. Andrew was incredibly fascinated with the story.

While there, Andrew took affection for a particular prostitute: a redhead French gal with a very ample bosom, and truly a flower of a personality. Christopher puritanically decided against spending time with the women of the night, but he would always listen to Andrew's heartfelt talks about how he loved that one girl. The girl too apparently liked him. She even kissed him when the train to the front departed.

The front was hell on Earth. Forced to live in a muddy and unsafe underground trench, constantly bombarded by the German artillery and with clouds of mustard gas floating above their heads, Christopher and Andrew spent days of extreme misery and suffering. But even then, his imagination bloomed like the poppies in the fields. The Tommies were now like the human armies of Gallia fighting against Tenaembra, the mustard gas was exactly like the dark tendrils of the evil God, the biplanes were fiery dragons, the bombs were like destructive spells of war, and all of it was part of a great war to save Gaiaca from annihilation. One one occasion, he even hallucinated, calling Christopher a "Sir" and seeing him as some sort of shining paladin.

During the long nights in the trench, he would write, and write, and write even more. Christopher, increasingly worried about Andrew's mental well-being, would try to make him stop and get a rest. But Andrew never listened to him: the book he was writing was vital to him. It was the only way he could escape our mundane world of plight and sorrow, and refuge himself in a magical land where justice could actually triumph and men could manage to break the chains of pain and strife.

The day to go over the top finally came. Christopher raced over No Man's Lands with his comrades, a bullet quickly reaching his leg and knocking him down in the mud. The last sight he saw before blacking out was Andrew, charging at the Huns like the fiercest of warriors, and getting mangled horrifically by machine gun fire.

And now Christopher was back in England, with a limping leg, a pair of medals and a dear friend buried under the earth of Belgium. But most importantly, he had managed to recover Andrew's most priced personal belonging: the tome where he wrote his stories. He wasn't going to let beautiful tales created by his friend perish in the oblivion of time.

A few months after Christopher's return a book named "Elementals" was published, attributed to the defunct Andrew Allister. After a rocky start, the sales started to soar, as all the papers talked about the beautiful world constructed by the fallen soldier. A few decades after, it became a fantasy classic. Almost a century after its initial publication, American filmmakers from Hollywood produced a successful Kolossal trilogy based on the books, introducing the millennial generations to the works of Andrew. Literature majors would discuss his life and the contents of the book, fanfictions would be written all over the internet, and Christopher's estate would fight a few lawsuit wars to keep the copyright to Elementals.

In the end, the dying imaginations of an humble Yorkshireman became the fantastical dreams of generations and generations of fans from all over the world.

Clearly this means that Aldraniri/Alselia OTP. -Nods-

Possibly.

I was honestly tearing up a wee bit by the end. Absolutely fantastic.

I'm honoured.

It also kinda explains why the setting's tech is quite undecided between the early 20th century and the jolly England of the 19th.

True. I'm always glad to have something fortuitous explaining inconsistencies with my stuff.

[The Grey Wolf]

Is this open?

Agri's post made me want to join for some reason.

[Altito Asmoro]

Is this open?

Agri's post made me want to join for some reason.

We have Agri?

[Constaniana]

Is this open?

Agri's post made me want to join for some reason.

Aha, another lurker reveals itself!

Well, I was thinking of closing it for the time being, since there's 9 PC's not counting my own, but I might be willing to accept another. What sort of character were you thinking of?

Is this open?

Agri's post made me want to join for some reason.

We have Agri?

Aye, Mi'lady has been in this since Day 1. Agri hasn't posted in a while because he's off on holiday in London.

[Altito Asmoro]

And by "throw his dog around" we mean...

Nevermind, not going there.

Is it possible to arms a musket?

What do you mean? Load it so it can shoot?

It is what musket useful for: Load it, aim it, fire it.

I ask out of curiosity.

[Constaniana]

What do you mean? Load it so it can shoot?

It is what musket useful for: Load it, aim it, fire it.

I ask out of curiosity.

Wait, are you asking if one of the muskets in the storage rooms would be loaded and stuff so Bursa could shoot it?

[Altito Asmoro]

It is what musket useful for: Load it, aim it, fire it.

I ask out of curiosity.

Wait, are you asking if one of the muskets in the storage rooms would be loaded and stuff so Bursa could shoot it?

Bursa can't, I just remember that he's an archer, not a rifleman

[Constaniana]

Bloody hell. I realized I had closed the tab with the oneshot response to Agri's work of art and couldn't find it in the closed tabs thing at first. I can't believe I nearly lost all that.

Wait, are you asking if one of the muskets in the storage rooms would be loaded and stuff so Bursa could shoot it?

Bursa can't, I just remember that he's an archer, not a rifleman

It wouldn't be a good weapon for the circumstances anyway.

[Altito Asmoro]

Bloody hell. I realized I had closed the tab with the oneshot response to Agri's work of art and couldn't find it in the closed tabs thing at first. I can't believe I nearly lost all that.

Bursa can't, I just remember that he's an archer, not a rifleman

It wouldn't be a good weapon for the circumstances anyway.

Because?

[Constaniana]

Bloody hell. I realized I had closed the tab with the oneshot response to Agri's work of art and couldn't find it in the closed tabs thing at first. I can't believe I nearly lost all that.

It wouldn't be a good weapon for the circumstances anyway.

Because?

Well, it's a very loud weapon that would certainly make hostiles more likely to notice the group, though the Watchtower people seem to be aware someone is breaking in. Plus, the musket is slow to reload, so Bursa would probably be only able to get off one shot which could miss or ricochet and hit one of the fellow goodies. Muskets are used by Galllians in long lines with the intent being more focused on disorienting and harassing the enemy while the knights and swordsmen prepare to close the distance and properly engage them, which doesn't really sound like a tactic a bunch of magical misfits are going to use any time soon.

[The Grey Wolf]

Name: Flacht
Sex: ♀
Age: 16
Appearance:

Element: Fire
Skills: she knows how to make a man go crazy. Take from that what you will. She also knows how to cook, although some people claim death is preferable.
Personality: tries to keep cool, to avoid triggering her element. She is very creative and has a sense of humor, although she acts dull and nonchalant for the most part. She can act rather bipolar, one minute calm and collective, the next warm and cheery, and the third like she is going to grill you.
Weaknesses: despite her attempts to stay controlled, Flacht is an emotional person, like anyone else, and has a hard time controlling her emotions. Her element is highly erratic, which may be the reason for her bipolar personality.
Equipment, if any: none (at the moment.)
Bio: her parents were killed in a mysterious house fire, leaving her to be brought up in an orphanage before she was even out of diapers. The manager, an old woman, was rather sweet to the children, until she died when Flacht was four, leaving the orphanage to be run by Miss Kitsch, who made some of the children's lives intolerable. Luckily, the teacher didn't pay any special attention to her, although she did once strike her with a hickory switch. Furious, she came close to burning the teacher alive, who promptly fainted, before threatening to throw her out of the orphanage for being a "freak." Coincidentally, a short time later, the woman was found to have burnt to death in her bed, the official story being she dropped her pipe after falling asleep. The replacement was much more gentle and sympathetic with the children, and Flacht's fourteenth birthday was peaceful. The next year, she and another girl got into an immature fight, and Flacht couldn't control herself, the other girl receiving a third degree burn on her left cheek. In shock and horror, Flacht ran out of the orphanage and never came back.
Theme Song (Optional): might find something later.
RP Sample: Ye wha, mate? Ye discriminatin' against me cause I'm illiterate? Feck ye, mate, I hae a wife and nine children ta support.

Link #1.
Link #2.
Link #3.

[Constaniana]

Name: Flacht
Sex: ♀
Age: 16
Appearance:

(Image)

Element: Fire
Skills: she knows how to make a man go crazy. Take from that what you will. She also knows how to cook, although some people claim death is preferable.
Personality: tries to keep cool, to avoid triggering her element. She is very creative and has a sense of humor, although she acts dull and nonchalant for the most part. She can act rather bipolar, one minute calm and collective, the next warm and cheery, and the third like she is going to grill you.
Weaknesses: despite her attempts to stay controlled, Flacht is an emotional person, like anyone else, and has a hard time controlling her emotions. Her element is highly erratic, which may be the reason for her bipolar personality.
Equipment, if any: none (at the moment.)
Bio: her parents were killed in a mysterious house fire, leaving her to be brought up in an orphanage before she was even out of diapers. The manager, an old woman, was rather sweet to the children, until she died when Flacht was four, leaving the orphanage to be run by Miss Kitsch, who made some of the children's lives intolerable. Luckily, the teacher didn't pay any special attention to her, although she did once strike her with a hickory switch. Furious, she came close to burning the teacher alive, who promptly fainted, before threatening to throw her out of the orphanage for being a "freak." Coincidentally, a short time later, the woman was found to have burnt to death in her bed, the official story being she dropped her pipe after falling asleep. The replacement was much more gentle and sympathetic with the children, and Flacht's fourteenth birthday was peaceful. The next year, she and another girl got into an immature fight, and Flacht couldn't control herself, the other girl receiving a third degree burn on her left cheek. In shock and horror, Flacht ran out of the orphanage and never came back.
Theme Song (Optional): might find something later.
RP Sample: Ye wha, mate? Ye discriminatin' against me cause I'm illiterate? Feck ye, mate, I hae a wife and nine children ta support.

Link #1.
Link #2.
Link #3.

1: Dang, her orphanage experience wasn't as fun as the other orphan chick we have.
2: I'm assuming this character is Galllian, seeing as a runaway orphan probably wouldn't have the means to arrange passage to the U.G.F. What part of the land is she from?
3: Snazzy RP samples, I must say.
4: This will upset the 2:1 male to female ratio with the characters. This RP really has no consistency in that area.
5: I like lists.
6: Also, edit, what the heck is up with that female symbol thing? What sorcery is it imbued with?

[The Grey Wolf]

Name: Flacht
Sex: ♀
Age: 16
Appearance:

(Image)

Element: Fire
Skills: she knows how to make a man go crazy. Take from that what you will. She also knows how to cook, although some people claim death is preferable.
Personality: tries to keep cool, to avoid triggering her element. She is very creative and has a sense of humor, although she acts dull and nonchalant for the most part. She can act rather bipolar, one minute calm and collective, the next warm and cheery, and the third like she is going to grill you.
Weaknesses: despite her attempts to stay controlled, Flacht is an emotional person, like anyone else, and has a hard time controlling her emotions. Her element is highly erratic, which may be the reason for her bipolar personality.
Equipment, if any: none (at the moment.)
Bio: her parents were killed in a mysterious house fire, leaving her to be brought up in an orphanage before she was even out of diapers. The manager, an old woman, was rather sweet to the children, until she died when Flacht was four, leaving the orphanage to be run by Miss Kitsch, who made some of the children's lives intolerable. Luckily, the teacher didn't pay any special attention to her, although she did once strike her with a hickory switch. Furious, she came close to burning the teacher alive, who promptly fainted, before threatening to throw her out of the orphanage for being a "freak." Coincidentally, a short time later, the woman was found to have burnt to death in her bed, the official story being she dropped her pipe after falling asleep. The replacement was much more gentle and sympathetic with the children, and Flacht's fourteenth birthday was peaceful. The next year, she and another girl got into an immature fight, and Flacht couldn't control herself, the other girl receiving a third degree burn on her left cheek. In shock and horror, Flacht ran out of the orphanage and never came back.
Theme Song (Optional): might find something later.
RP Sample: Ye wha, mate? Ye discriminatin' against me cause I'm illiterate? Feck ye, mate, I hae a wife and nine children ta support.

Link #1.
Link #2.
Link #3.

1: Dang, her orphanage experience wasn't as fun as the other orphan chick we have.
2: I'm assuming this character is Galllian, seeing as a runaway orphan probably wouldn't have the means to arrange passage to the U.G.F. What part of the land is she from?
3: Snazzy RP samples, I must say.
4: This will upset the 2:1 male to female ratio with the characters. This RP really has no consistency in that area.
5: I like lists.
6: Also, edit, what the heck is up with that female symbol thing? What sorcery is it imbued with?

2. Gallian sounds alright. Is Visalmarch alright?
3. I aim to impress.
5. Come, my young apprentice. I will teach you about this magic thing called "copy & paste."

[Constaniana]

1: Dang, her orphanage experience wasn't as fun as the other orphan chick we have.
2: I'm assuming this character is Galllian, seeing as a runaway orphan probably wouldn't have the means to arrange passage to the U.G.F. What part of the land is she from?
3: Snazzy RP samples, I must say.
4: This will upset the 2:1 male to female ratio with the characters. This RP really has no consistency in that area.
5: I like lists.
6: Also, edit, what the heck is up with that female symbol thing? What sorcery is it imbued with?

2. Gallian sounds alright. Is Visalmarch alright?
3. I aim to impress.
5. Come, my young apprentice. I will teach you about this magic thing called "copy & paste."

2: Ah, so she's a very southy Southemen lass. Sure. Just prepare to have some of the characters and locals possibly be biased against you.
5: How is it showing up as a picture even in this posting box?

[The Grey Wolf]

2. Gallian sounds alright. Is Visalmarch alright?
3. I aim to impress.
5. Come, my young apprentice. I will teach you about this magic thing called "copy & paste."

2: Ah, so she's a very southy Southemen lass. Sure. Just prepare to have some of the characters and locals possibly be biased against you.
5: How is it showing up as a picture even in this posting box?

I'm not sure. It's just a regular female symbol in mine.

[Constaniana]

2: Ah, so she's a very southy Southemen lass. Sure. Just prepare to have some of the characters and locals possibly be biased against you.
5: How is it showing up as a picture even in this posting box?

I'm not sure. It's just a regular female symbol in mine.

So it doesn't have the pink around it?

[The Grey Wolf]

I'm not sure. It's just a regular female symbol in mine.

So it doesn't have the pink around it?

I'm not seeing any pink.

It's worth noting that I'm on a tablet at the moment, not a computer.