The caves are where it all started. They allowed the first wandering wolves access to the land of Blossom Forest, and afterward housed the monster that had threatened the earliest of inhabitants. The heroes had slain it, yes, but in doing so had also closed off one of the pathways in the caverns, magic blocking one of the many exits to Blossom Forest. But over the years, the original spell has weakened and now the way is clear. What will not only crawl out of the caverns, but erupt from it? The caves now thrum with the ever growing magic wellspring as it spreads out into the land. It is from here that the first vampire of Blossom Forest was corrupted, and it is here that any subsequent vampire will be born. To traverse its paths is dangerous - there is an almost impenetrable darkness, and in that abyss lays many secrets - hidden holes one could fall through, weakened floors, and then of course there is the labyrinthe itself. No one knows what the deeper levels hold - no one has traveled them and survived to tell tales. Not even those who call this place home dares to test their luck by going in deep, deep, deeper. The magic exuding from this place has rearranged the lands - moving packs, changing the terrain. Here the cave looks the same but it is not - it is more dangerous than ever. In addition, outside the mouth of the cave the sacred stones that once stood erect in another place now stand guard. They are colored the most beautiful arrangement of jewel tones, and almost appear to be made of gems themselves, no longer the dull grey they once were. It is within them that all official fights must take place - at the Blican Orlege. Welcome to Drylic Cofa...

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OF A DEMON
IP: 99.195.162.162




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By the time the trio had reached the caverns Filius' legs were shaking and he'd sunk into an abysmal pit of bitterness. The moment they'd crossed the threshold into the caves he'd collapased and refused to move, eyes darker than the clouds. Damn the rain. Damn the sickness. Damn his weakness. Sometimes it seemed sweeter, the prospect of giving up, than to sit and lay down and stand still and chase his tail to pass the time when there were wars to be fought; if he was to waste his life doing nothing, why not commit death to nothingness too? The longer he wasn't doing the bigger the oppourtunity for the past to catch up with him, not that that was neccesarily a bad thing. At the very least memories would fill the chasm of idleness in his chest. Thunder rumbled passively outside while wind battered trees and lightning chased rabbits from their bushes. How lucky, he thought dismanlly to himself, storms were. Deum revisited these pools of despair often, steadily fueling their existance by mainting a constant air of misery. Feeling sorry for himself was a talent he was very, very good at. Being angry at everyone was a talent he was even better at. And It wasn't that he was genuinly upset by death or handicap or the rain- most of the time he was just bored and dramatic. He wasn't at war anymore. Being serious wasn't necessarily helpful, especially when there was actually something to be grave about. So he groaned and moaned and snarled and bit and pretended and played at, and howled and cried and grumped and moped and sighed, because if he wasn't making a game of it then it would stop being fake.



BECAUSE I AM THE SUN,
AND I AM THE MOON.
I WILL SWALLOW YOU WHOLE,
I WILL SPIT YOU OUT,
I WILL BURN YOUR EYES,
AND I WILL CAST AN EVERLASTING DARKNESS,
OVER THIS BARREN FUTURE,
THAT YOU CALL HOPE.




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