Random Stories and Fragments

[thomas.berubeg]

Quickly written after reading something earlier in the thread about mistforms.

The meeting had been going on for days, and he had gotten bored. No, not bored, he just needed a breather. There was only so much talk of quotas and numbers and processes one could put up with before too much was too much. Honestly, he was surprised that he had cracked first. Generally, Mr. C was the one with no patience. But then again, Mr. C was undoubtedly asleep, snoring softly as the others discussed the Merger. Mr. M loved this stuff, of course, Loved nothing more than this talk of Quantities and Unity and Paradigms and Synergies. All meaningless BS, of course, but, if it made him happy…

He got up quietly and walked towards the porch of the meeting house. It was dark, and he looked out over the flat plains, any feature lost in the inky, starless darkness. Absently, he wondered what was out there, in the darkness, what kind of stories the dark could tell, if it could speak.

“E? are you here?” Mr. A put his arm around Mr. E’s shoulders. “Are you alright? We missed you in there. M’s finally done talking. We’ve agreed, and the Merger has been signed. We just need your Agreement before Ms. C can tell her people to get started. She says she also has some agents ready to open some new markets for us, that she’ll dispatch as soon as we’re ready.”

“I’m fine, I’ll be right in.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just musing. Wondering if this is the right thing, here. If what we’re doing is right.”
“You can’t deny that it’ll give us a huge edge over our competitors.”

“No, No, I suppose I can’t, but still… This feels like a betrayal of our principles. We’re here for a reason, right?”

“It’s just streamlining and officializing the process. Are you coming in? or are you having second thoughts?”

“I’m coming. Don’t worry about me, I just need a second to think.”

“Take your time.” Mr. A smiled at E. “Just not to long. You know how Ms. C hates to wait, eh?” And with that, Mr. A walked back through the doors into the house. Mr. E leaned against the railing of the porch, gazing out at the empty darkness, and coming to a decision, exhaled a long sigh, and turned back towards the inside, and the others waiting.

In the darkness, Mr. E’s breath mingled with the dust and ash, and drew from it the memories of it’s forgotten people, half formed images of a race long past, going about long abandoned tasks..

At the door, Mr. E looked back at the outside and smiled. “Much better,” he whispered to himself.

 

[Diamondeye]

Spoiler Chronicles of Erebus, the assassination of Capria :

The Bannor champions, besters of hell and
In combat unmatch'd, their arms only weak
In comparison to their heart, their skin
Toughen'd by the torturous demon flames,
Held alone the frontier against armies
Of both demonic kin, servants of the
Dread Hyborem, in hell crown'd as king,
And of Winter elves, masters of guile
And in deception match'd even Esus,
Angel of deceit himself, divine.
These troops so valiant, each of them worth
Sevenfold any other mortal soldier,
Were led by but a girl, Capria pure,
Looking not more than twenty summers old
And innocent as golden-hair'd sister
Sironian, yet her innocence purg'd
From her childhood by hardships so cruel that
Few mortals ever experience so,
Perhaps only wife of the brightest of
The Elohim, burnt alive by Amure
Torturer so heartless and cynical,
The sight of this girl on the battlefield,
Rais'd many Bannor warriors even
Above their legendary virtuous fight,
And deni'd the harbingers of evil
Even the slightest advance onto
Unspoil'd soil Erebusian, yet now
We find her in silent prayer, sitting
Humbly in her tent, no more lavishly
Sewn than that of the lowest squire so poor.
Kneeling in her praise of Junil divine,
She mortal and him immortal, yet both
Beacons of hope for the Bannor army.
Her death sought by many an ill-doer,
Yet alive and well, until this very
Night, for outside, evading the gazes
Of even the Bannor guards, vigilant
As the ravens of Cabal Tenhare,
Adventurer renown'd in all Midgar,
Capital of the Grigori, symbol
Of what free men can accomplish, without
The aid of Gods or of Angels divine,
Yet led by Angel himself, Cassiel,
Father of the Grigori peoples all.
This elf of Winter, Alazkan of name,
So silently enter'd the Caprian
Tent, that no noise reach'd her ears, his knife drawn,
Yet he stops and casts a gaze inquiring
On his target, of body fair but girl,
Of heart and valour proven as adult
By far, never tiring, arm of Junil,
Contemplating what can mold a child so,
Other than the malicious flames
That even he, master of poisons, can
And will not produce, his heart suddenly
Filled with proper respect for this fair girl,
A single sentiment pure in his heart
So long filled with only deceitful fraud
And falsehood complete, blacker than the night.
Yet with foul intent his legs bear him to
The sitting girl general, his arms with
No mercy lead the knife to her fragile
Throat and cut, spilling the blood by demons
Craven, yet now by mortal spil't so gruesome,
Soaking the simple mat that now serves
As her resting place in death as it did
When she breath'd air pure and slept like common
Man or woman, although ruler in truth.
And as the elf, misdeed done, not undone
Ever, returns to the shadow of night,
Waiting for word of her death to infect
The Bannor camp as vilest of poisons,
Even Junil, God most controlled of all,
Cries for poor Capria, too early claim'd
By death after living so long in Hell,
Yet even this foulest of attempts fail'd,
For the Bannor fought on with renew'd rage,
Their tears fueling a crusade holy,
Bent on vengeance on demon and elf
Alike, and to impose judgement on he
Who had slain a soul so pure in cold blood.​

Working with classic Milton-ish prosaic epic. Each line ten (spoken) syllables, no rhymes. What do you think?

 

[Krschtschn]

After reading a lot of FFH stories, i thought i should give it a try myself and i hope the result is accaptable. It's inspired by my recent game. (I just hope everyone is familiar with the Scions of Patria)


Captain Teranus was recapitulating his preparations. Recent report indicated that the Scions would come this way to attack Torrolerial. His army was ready for battle and eager to send the undead were they belonged, but he needed more information. Which troops would the Scions send? And how many were going to attack?
He turned around as someone entered his tend. A scout brought the new reports. He read them. And read them again. He looked up and asked the scout “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “But it doesn't make sense!” “It's what I and others saw. There is no doubt about it. The Scions just sent a battalion of necromancers.” It didn't convince him. “The Emperor may be arrogant, but he must know we would tear them apart.” “That is yours to judge, I just brought the information.” And with those words the scout left.

Later that evening, the scion army arrived and set camp in the plains. Teranus seized the opportunity to look at them himself. It was odd, but the reports seemed to be right. On the slope of his hill was a camp with a hundred necromancers. No army. No archers, siegeengines or principes. Just a group of mages. An impressively big one, but still just a group of mages. He ordered his army to get ready for battle. This should be dealt with before they could start some kind of ritual or whatever else they intended.

When he gave the command to attack he looked at the scions camp. It looked like they were in a hurry, as if they weren't ready. Good. He started charging himself, along with his men. The necromancers now stood in a row, everyone of them with his sword held high and a man in front of him. A man in bannor uniform. A mage with a bronze mask gave a signal to the other scions and they executed the bannor soldiers in front of them. Teranus and his men were enraged by this cruel display of power and went even faster, but the scion mages just started chanting. A green wave formed and hit the charging bannor. Captain Teranus looked around but couldn't see any effect. As the next wave hit, some men next to him fell down in full swing and didn't get up again. Even more fell with the next wave. With every wave more of his men died around him. When he finally reached the scions he was alone.

The last thing he saw was Torrolerial. He was standing in a line with other bannor soldiers, behind him a mage in a bronze mask.

 

[MacGyverInSpace]

tend = tent
Not bad, but i
I'd like to see the Cap't take out at least one mage....
Can't wait to see the true Bannor response...

 

[WarKirby]

Tarquelne wrote a nice story here: http://forums.civfanatics.com/showthread.php?t=335081

 

[Valkrionn]

Spoiler Paradise :

Everything was destroyed. Johnathon's home city had been turned to ash by a single, terrible man who dressed as a king and warped minds with words. His family was dead. The Bannor empire was crumbling, and he knew it. The Hell they had escaped those many years ago had come for them, and this time, it was succeeding. But Johnathon had escaped, and fled to seek the single glimmer of hope that shined in the black night of the living hell Erebus had become.

He and a ragged band of survivors were seeking something that was only spoken of in whispers and rumors: the Paradise. A land untouched by Hell, if only they could slip unnoticed through Balseraph territory. It was probably a rumor, a fool's dream, if not an outright trap. But what else was there? Foolish dreams, at least, were better than despair. Those who died did so believing that their children, brethren, or friends might make it to Paradise instead.

Nobody prayed. Junil had failed. Lugus had forsaken them. Kilmorph gave nothing. Some had even turned in desperation to the Overlords, but they had also given up Erebus to the might of Agares. But it was said that even Agares himself could not touch Paradise.

To pass the time, the survivors swapped stories of woe; there were no other kinds. An elderly man, among the oldest of the group but still relatively healthy, said, “I hear the Doviello fell. Utterly destroyed. Never thought I'd be so sad to hear that news.” There were nods of agreement; the beastmen had been as fierce and unforgiving as animals, but at least they were better than the Infernals.

There was a time of silence, then another piped in. “They say there's a fourth horseman. It's only a guess... something has been leaving a trail of devastation worse than the other three. No prisoners, no survivors, villages just... disappear.” Things were getting worse and worse.

Said yet another, “can't be any nastier than the third. Disease and death followed him everywhere... I've only heard, people who actually see him tend to die horrible deaths from the diseases... provided he doesn't kill them first.”

A younger man put in what he'd heard: “they say the first horseman, the King, tried to invade Paradise.” Gasps and murmurs of horror. “But they killed him! Yeah, they killed him and took his crown! Been getting ready to do the same to the other two... three now, I guess.” Most wanted the tale to be true, but doubted it. Could the Horsemen be slain at all?

Said another, “even if so, what about the Balseraphs? They're near as bad as the Infernals. Think it's all just some grand game, love nothing more than torturing people. Break their souls, make them worship Agares so they can turn them into demons. But not before breaking their bodies and minds... entertainment, they reckon it is. Horrifying. Every Balseraph is just a demon in a human-shaped egg, says I.” Nods of agreement.

They'd encountered Balseraphs before, a few times, and each had been a desperate fight. The survivors couldn't afford to take prisoners or leave any Balseraphs to report their existence, and they dare not be captured alive themselves, so each encounter was a savage struggle to the death. After the first encounter, cannibalism had also become accepted policy; they couldn't afford to waste food or leave bodies.

There was a change in the plains of ash ahead. The eldest of the group smiled from ear to ear. “Come on!” he yelled as he ran, with suprising speed, towards what seemed to be another ashen plain. The rest of the group, inspired if somewhat confused, tried to keep pace.

When the old man reached the change in ash, he scooped the new stuff up. Except it wasn't ash. It was a strange, pure white powder, which the old man clumped into a ball and, grinning like a child, threw at Johnathon. It was cold, and upon touching Johnathon, began to turn into water. “Snow!” the old man yelled. “It's snow! It's been too long since I've seen snow!” He laughed and danced. “This is it! We've made it! The Illian Empire! Hell has no power here! Paradise!”

The air grew cold surprisingly fast as the group dragged itself towards the promised land. A rabbit, white as the snow around it, examined them. It was the first non-demonic animal they had seen for months, sometimes years. The youngest Bannor stared, half expecting it to bare razor sharp teeth, spit fire at them, or roar. But it seemed as frightened of them as they were of it.

A hunter, previously invisible, swathed in furs, appeared and speared the creature. He grabbed his catch, then noticed the ragged band approaching. “More refugees? By Auric... luckily for you, I've been told we need all the hands we can get, but first things first. Listen up, and listen well. I am to have you take the Oath.” The group stopped, and listened. “Do you agree to abandon your old gods?” The survivors nodded. One said, “they abandoned us first!” “So they did,” said the hunter. “Do you agree to serve Auric, in this world and the next?” Again, they gave their consent. “Do you agree to abide by the laws and customs of the Illian people?” And again, they agreed. “Then I welcome you...” the hunter couldn't even finish his sentence before the group cheered.

Just wanted to say that I'm finally getting around to using this for the White Hand religion.

 

[CCRunner]

Spoiler Chronicles of Erebus, the assassination of Capria :

The Bannor champions, besters of hell and
In combat unmatch'd, their arms only weak
In comparison to their heart, their skin
Toughen'd by the torturous demon flames,
Held alone the frontier against armies
Of both demonic kin, servants of the
Dread Hyborem, in hell crown'd as king,
And of Winter elves, masters of guile
And in deception match'd even Esus,
Angel of deceit himself, divine.
These troops so valiant, each of them worth
Sevenfold any other mortal soldier,
Were led by but a girl, Capria pure,
Looking not more than twenty summers old
And innocent as golden-hair'd sister
Sironian, yet her innocence purg'd
From her childhood by hardships so cruel that
Few mortals ever experience so,
Perhaps only wife of the brightest of
The Elohim, burnt alive by Amure
Torturer so heartless and cynical,
The sight of this girl on the battlefield,
Rais'd many Bannor warriors even
Above their legendary virtuous fight,
And deni'd the harbingers of evil
Even the slightest advance onto
Unspoil'd soil Erebusian, yet now
We find her in silent prayer, sitting
Humbly in her tent, no more lavishly
Sewn than that of the lowest squire so poor.
Kneeling in her praise of Junil divine,
She mortal and him immortal, yet both
Beacons of hope for the Bannor army.
Her death sought by many an ill-doer,
Yet alive and well, until this very
Night, for outside, evading the gazes
Of even the Bannor guards, vigilant
As the ravens of Cabal Tenhare,
Adventurer renown'd in all Midgar,
Capital of the Grigori, symbol
Of what free men can accomplish, without
The aid of Gods or of Angels divine,
Yet led by Angel himself, Cassiel,
Father of the Grigori peoples all.
This elf of Winter, Alazkan of name,
So silently enter'd the Caprian
Tent, that no noise reach'd her ears, his knife drawn,
Yet he stops and casts a gaze inquiring
On his target, of body fair but girl,
Of heart and valour proven as adult
By far, never tiring, arm of Junil,
Contemplating what can mold a child so,
Other than the malicious flames
That even he, master of poisons, can
And will not produce, his heart suddenly
Filled with proper respect for this fair girl,
A single sentiment pure in his heart
So long filled with only deceitful fraud
And falsehood complete, blacker than the night.
Yet with foul intent his legs bear him to
The sitting girl general, his arms with
No mercy lead the knife to her fragile
Throat and cut, spilling the blood by demons
Craven, yet now by mortal spil't so gruesome,
Soaking the simple mat that now serves
As her resting place in death as it did
When she breath'd air pure and slept like common
Man or woman, although ruler in truth.
And as the elf, misdeed done, not undone
Ever, returns to the shadow of night,
Waiting for word of her death to infect
The Bannor camp as vilest of poisons,
Even Junil, God most controlled of all,
Cries for poor Capria, too early claim'd
By death after living so long in Hell,
Yet even this foulest of attempts fail'd,
For the Bannor fought on with renew'd rage,
Their tears fueling a crusade holy,
Bent on vengeance on demon and elf
Alike, and to impose judgement on he
Who had slain a soul so pure in cold blood.​

Working with classic Milton-ish prosaic epic. Each line ten (spoken) syllables, no rhymes. What do you think?

Great job. The only thing is that you used "verb'd" a lot which I thought was kinda unnecessary but what do I know? Seriously Diamondeye, you're an amazing poet, especially since you're not a native english speaker.

 

[Diamondeye]

Great job. The only thing is that you used "verb'd" a lot which I thought was kinda unnecessary but what do I know? Seriously Diamondeye, you're an amazing poet, especially since you're not a native english speaker.

Gee thanks man. I used the contruction you mentioned to make sure to the reader that the last vowel is not spoken (since each line has the same amount of syllables).

Glad you liked it. I am thinking of writing more in the same style.

 

[Diamondeye]

Spoiler Chronicles of Erebus, Battle of the Seraphic Pyre :

In the years of strife, when I was younger,
And wrote my legacy with sword in hand,
Instead of this quill, I now do command,
Smaller and lighter, yet with much more weight,
When hot blood and anger righteous ran
In those veins broad, now calm'd by passing years,
And I serv'd my time among the Bannor ranks,
We were once sent to a jungle, foreign.
There to face the orcs, ancient Bannor
Fallen from grace with their patroness Bhall,
And by this descend bereft their stature,
Their nature pure and human origin,
Yet still of Nemed's blood and sacred soul,
So commanding magic, Amurite force.
And so we march'd, in jungle dense and moist,
Ignoring heat and insect bites, trained
In discipline and obedience strong,
Towards a massive temple, erected
In purest stone and to Fallen Goddess
Dedicated, the Seraphic Pyre.
When we arrived, we stood amaz'd as one,
For the pyramid towerèd so tall,
That it almost equall'd spires sacred
Of the Cathedral of Sabathiel,
In Junil's honor built in our homeland.
And on the top of the Pyramid tall,
A magnificent flare blaz'd undaunted
Bold as Lugus himself in midsummer days,
Illuminating land and ocean
And bathing the world in pleasant colour.
Yet this flame seem'd crueller, surely tainted
By the fall of its Deity and Patroness,
And its light seem'd to us gloomy and wicked.
So dazèd by the sight we Bannor stood,
That we at first could not see betwixt trees
Movement subtle, as an elf moving fast,
Yet this movement, when finally detect'd,
Prov'd soon to be of orcish origin,
For the fallen Clan, of Embers namèd,
Defendèd their shrine with grim devotion,
Almost as we would have, had it been ours,
And from the trees now flew arrows ablaze,
Scatter'd as the thoughts of King Perpentach,
Yet like his mind with much impact and force,
And as they hit, we quickly brac'd ourselves,
Raisèd shields, those Junilic barriers,
Sacrèd by protective use, to save lives,
And found our weapons, in steel cast precise,
Those forgèd blades of war, sharp and cruel.
And with good reason, for soon from the trees
Hordes of the savage orcs came in charge
Seeking to maim and sever ev'ry man
And woman in Bannor uniform clad.
The fight was hard and longer than prayer,
For almost an hour the battle ragèd
Until with arms weary and many dead,
A retreat was forc'd, until then unseen
In Bannor history for centuries.
It was that day that show'd me war's cruelty,
For those friends slain that day, in jungle lost
To proper burial denied, for what
Cause fell? Although many an orc was slain,
No gain was from this bloodshed harvestèd,
For the Pyre was never claim'd by us,
And still stands, deep in jungle wild and warm,
As a monument to fallen faithful.

 

[Monkeyfinger]

Great job. The only thing is that you used "verb'd" a lot which I thought was kinda unnecessary but what do I know? Seriously Diamondeye, you're an amazing poet, especially since you're not a native english speaker.

Isn't diamondeye danish? Like every young scandinavian has native-level english skills.

 

[Kyzarc Fotjage]

DE's from Daneland?

 

[CCRunner]

Isn't diamondeye danish? Like every young scandinavian has native-level english skills.

Didn't know that... not surprising (my ignorance, not that they do that) since the only other language anyone where I live knows is Spanish and that's only when they're like first generation immigrants.

 

[Ekolite]

It's true that many Danes speak fluent English. I think they learn all it from quite a young age. Still it's pretty impressive to be able to write poetry in a language that isn't your native one, even if you are fluent.

 

[Diamondeye]

Isn't diamondeye danish? Like every young scandinavian has native-level english skills.

DE's from Daneland?

Didn't know that... not surprising (my ignorance, not that they do that) since the only other language anyone where I live knows is Spanish and that's only when they're like first generation immigrants.

It's true that many Danes speak fluent English. I think they learn all it from quite a young age. Still it's pretty impressive to be able to write poetry in a language that isn't your native one, even if you are fluent.

It's correct that I am Danish, and I would consider my English fluent. It's also true that the average Dane speaks an okay English, but - to be completely blunt - I am better at it than most of the people I know. I'm getting A+'s in both written and spoken English in school and prefer to read books in English if that is their original language.

The misconception that most of the Scandinavians speak fluent english might be from the fact that most of the Scandinaves on forums like this are the ones most exposed to the language (since this forum is in English). Computer games in general are in English and this was actually what helped me learn the language.

As a side comment, I learnt to read before starting in primary school and - according to an IQ test on Illustreret Videnskab, a scientific magazine I am keeping - am among the most intelligent percent of the Danish population.

 

[Dean_the_Young]

Modest as well, no doubt.

 

[Valkrionn]

Hey, a little pride is a good thing. I'd love to be able to say I can speak multiple languages (For some reason, even though my mother is German my parents never taught us both languages... Makes meeting the relatives rather difficult. It's a situation I've been meaning to fix.), I CAN say I'm also in the top percent intelligence-wise, according to an IQ test.

Which means absolutely nothing, unless you have the knowledge to back it up.

 

[Grey Fox]

Most danish people don't even speak fluent danish, so Diamondeye should be proud

 

[Diamondeye]

Modest as well, no doubt.

I'm not fond of being modest . If you give people the impression that you're worth nothing, don't be surprised if they end up thinking so.

But not being modest does not mean I don't have manners. It's not like I'm acting all condescending to others just because I know what I'm worth myself.

And Grey Fox:

 

[Skitters]

Inspired by Volanna being a Svart minor leader and Adventurer...

Spoiler :

Volanna surveyed the Grigori plains. It was a stark contrast to the lush woodlands she had grown up in. The sense of freedom coursed through her veins though as these plains offered a sense of opportunity that compared well to how the forests had begun to almost suffocate her.

Yes. The Grigori would allow her to express her need to explore. No longer would her actions be stifled by the Unseelie court. No longer would she be bound to someone so wrapped up in playing politics that looked no further than to spite the Seelie court or to further bind the Unseelie court to Faeryl’s will.

The failings of the coup were heavy on her heart, but she owed it to herself, to Cavella, to Blerum to fulfil her potential. It was obvious she could not return to her homeland now.


Faeryl read through the report again. Volanna had escaped before she could be seized for trial. This had been a costly business, with some of Fearyl’s best placed spies having had to be sacrificed. It had been more than twenty cycles ago that she had first seen the potential for Volanna to be a rival to her in the Unseelie court. Volanna’s success in the field naturally drew admiration – admiration that may distract the Svartalfjar people from the tough choices that lay ahead. When Faeryl had chosen her course of action, Volanna had not even herself considered that she could perhaps exert the influence she was gathering for a real presence in the Unseelie court.

It had been necessary to build up resentment in Volanna. It wasn’t too difficult for Faeryl and her agents to make Volanna serve more time in the Unseelie court and steadily limit her expeditions. Each court session that passed would see Volanna stare longer into the woodlands. Each expedition granted would see Volanna become more feverish with anticipation and each return would see her eyes dullen.

Five cycles ago, on an expeditions Volanna had eventually been allowed to make, Faeryl’s agents had arranged for Volanna to encounter an injured Blerum – a Grigori minor adventurer.

It meant cutting short her own expedition, but Volanna brought her back to the Unseelie court for interrogation. It was on this return trip that Blerum began to recount her adventures to Volanna, and first planted the seed of the Grigori being a potential refuge to her.

Blerum was in the service of Faeryl, having successfully built up a minor reputation amongst the Grigori – but it was clear she lacked the talent to gather the influence to be of real practical use. Volanna – on the other hand – had all the ingredients to make her name as an Adventurer. From an early age it had been apparent that she was a particularly fine tracker, but more importantly she had a natural charisma and a gift for oratory – particularly when recounting her expeditions.

It was to Blerum’s surprise that she was quickly convicted for spying and put to death. But it had been necessary to both further encourage resentment in Volanna, but to also avoid the suspicions of the Grigori and the Unseelie court.

The next step for Faeryl had been to awaken Volanna to her potential as a political rival. This had necessitated the sacrifice of Cavella – another of Faeryl’s long term stooges who had been manipulated to be resentful of the Unseelie court and Faeryl in particular. Several agents were used to bring the two together, and to start gathering political support from other disgruntled court members. It was a satisfying side effect that the coup would also help remove some potential rivals that Faeryl had not been as successful at manipulating to her will.

At her later trial it was clear that Cavella was convinced it had been her own idea to attempt to assassinate Faeryl and those who supported her and stage a coup. Faeryl mentally noted to watch the progress of the agent that had done such a fine job.
As planned, an unexpected emergency had drawn Faeryl from her chamber as Volanna attempted to strike. Faeryl hoped that the sacrifice of several of her most trusted allies maintained the illusion that she had had a fortuitous escape.

Her agents amongst the conspirators then helped to spread panic as they fled. Volanna was the only one to escape – but it had been a narrow thing as Faeryl took a gamble that her skills would help her avoid the hunting parties. If Volanna were to suspect that she had been allowed to escape, it would have undone all the work.

It would take many cylces of course, but the hard work was now done - Volanna would build a reputation to rival the greatest of Grigori adventurers. That reputation would bring her to the attention of the Grigori court. It would be because Volanna herself would wholeheartedly believe in her own predicament that the Grigori would allow that reputation to build into influence.

Perhaps in twenty, thirty cycles, Faeryl could begin to reel Volanna back into the fold. Her Elven heart would, in time, long for her ancestral woods, the Unseelie court would seem welcoming rather than stifling. It would be just a matter of suggestion, and time. Then, with Volanna’s influence, the Grigori would be another puppet for Faeryl to use towards the unification of the Elven people.

It was because Faeryl could see beyond the next cycle, that she knew she was the only one who could lead the Elven people to their rightful place as rulers of Erebus.

 

[lumpthing]

I'm not fond of being modest . If you give people the impression that you're worth nothing, don't be surprised if they end up thinking so.

Not needlessly telling people how great you are doesn't imply worthlessness. However, doing so does imply you need other people's recognition in order to have a sense of your own worth (which is probably true of most people, but it's not generally something to advertise).