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The Road thread
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*beneath the soft shad of a bright green tree, a small figure lies. she wears a suit of blue, her natural purple skin only showing out at certain places. her Helmet lies to her side, allowing her long blond hair to flow from her head, along her shoulders. her bike is at her side, in a minor state of disrepair. as the noise of a traveler approaches from the east, Maari sighs and looks up*

Maari: ah, well, should probably be getting on...*gazing off into the distance* who is that?
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| September 10, 2016, 7:18 am
Quoting QuartzRoolz (Patrick ~)
*beneath the soft shad of a bright green tree, a small figure lies. she wears a suit of blue, her natural purple skin only showing out at certain places. her Helmet lies to her side, allowing her long blond hair to flow from her head, along her shoulders. her bike is at her side, in a minor state of disrepair. as the noise of a traveler approaches from the east, Maari sighs and looks up*

Maari: ah, well, should probably be getting on...*gazing off into the distance* who is that?

*satisfied that no-one cares about this thread, Maari sighs and gets up. she Quickly tinkers around with the insides of her bike, and hopped on. Ha'shuan wasn't far. that, and she needed a drink.*

Maari: do hope the pub isn't closed this late in the day.
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| September 17, 2016, 7:50 am
 Group admin 
*A large, hooded figure travels down the lonely road in the dead of night; though his features are obscured, his large, twisted silhouette belies his monstrous form. Heavy, growling breaths escape from his maw as he walks along, frosty mist bellowing from underneath the cloak.*
"...aahhh... my old friend... he who dubs himself Elder One... your end is soon..."
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| December 11, 2016, 10:47 am
 Group admin 
Days have passed since the fateful War on Darkness. The island still rings with celebration, and from coast to coast all who hear the message of victory are as joyful and carefree as is possible. However, far out on the grassy steppes, under a beating sun, a lone figure sits.

Daradun had left the battle after the fall of Sur'Kosh. No one had seen him go, and nobody had seemed to care, but that was alright with him. With all the rest of his colleagues fallen, there was nothing left for him in this world.

Across his lap sits a carved wooden staff, beaten and scarred by centuries of wear and tear. He also holds a faded leather pouch, out of which come faint, otherworldly aromas of exotic herbs and spices. Sighing, not from disappointment but from a feeling of finality, Daradun stands and strips himself of his armour, adding it to the small mound on the grass. Finally, he draws out a small tablet of ancient stone, and sets it atop the pile. Standing dressed only in a light tunic, he gives one final look around and confirms what he already knows will happen.

Daradun closes his eyes and draws his consciousness inwards, so far until all he is aware of is the tiny spark of light that is his spirit. And then, without a moments hesitation, he closes his mind, vice like, around the spark, and snuffs it out like a candle flame.

To an outside observer, they would have seen Daradun's body suddenly age centuries in a matter of moments. His spine and legs crumple, his chest shrivels like a dry prune, and his body sags forward like an empty sack. Yet before it can hit the ground, a breeze springs up, blowing the mummified remains of the shaman to dust and sand. Now, finally, the Sandmen are no more, and the last relic of the past passes out of Botana.
-----
Ramad wandered across the rolling dry plains. He didn't know where exactly he was going, only that he he was happy. He couldn't place why exactly, but there was just something special about the world today. Whistling a happy tune, Ramad broke into a skipping, bounding run across and over the vast grasslands.

A little while later, Ramad's eyes spotted a golden sheen over the horizon. At first taking it to be a fellow wanderer, he began to call out a greeting, but stopped himself when he made out the shape of an old, tattered helmet set atop a small cairn of what seemed to be golden rocks.

Approaching cautiously, Ramad saw that it was not a cairn, but the remains of who might have once been a great warrior, a pile of shimmering gold arms and armour, mounted with a sand coloured insectoid helm. In the front of the pile seemed to be embedded a plain grey slate of stone, but as he bent to get a closer look, golden words began to form in the stone.

Ramad sat there for hours, enraptured by the words in the stone. They spoke to him of a tale of sacrifice and bravery, trial and tribulation, of great heroes and monsters, and of the many great warriors who had saved their island from the darkness of the Makuta: Vos, Ramza, Qiav, Alphinaud, Fotoh, Fita, Krikarr, the Elder One, Lady Kahkan, and so many more.

Finally, the words slowed, and a single, last message appeared on the rock:
"Friend, Ramad, I knew you would come, I knew that you were a wanderer like me, one who had no place in this world. We are, were, very much alike, and I beg of you to take up my mantle, the mantle of storyteller and traveller, and to not let this tale fade from the memory of the Agori. Brother in spirit, though we sadly never met on this world, please, accept this responsibility, so that not me, but my friends may be remembered and not lost to history yet again. This is what I, Daradun, ask."

Ramad stood shakily, cradling the stone against his chest, and then reached down and picked up the old beaten staff and bag. Upon his head he placed the former travellers battered and wind-torn helm. The armour he buried in that spot, as it was not his duty to wear it. Then, with a new purpose, Ramad set off down a new path, into a new era in Botana's history.
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| March 15, 2017, 11:23 pm
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