Description
An old, thin man of medium height is stooping as he clings to his staff for
support. The smell of a crude lifetime in the forest is unmistakable. His
unwashed and uncut white hair has formed into a natural crown of tangles and
snags. Under that crown, a strangely pale, gaunt face, leaves you with an
unwholesome impression. The once innocent-looking dark eyes are framed by the
crow's feet and frown lines of the disillusioned, the once hungry and savage
set is replaced by a deep unspoken sadness. A madman's smile that never
reaches his eyes is half hidden under the wild and bushy white beard that
covers his face. Just like the rest of his simple clothes, it too is full of
dirt, mud, leaves and lichen. An eclectic collection of various seemingly
senseless, trinkets are tied up on the various pieces of his equipment. Two
vine necklaces hanging around his neck draw your attention. One is the family
crest of Lidwych strung with two vampire ears, and the other is of an acorn
preserved in a large shard of pine amber. Two savage paint marks, one verdant
green and the other dark black, start above his brow, pass over each eye and
end into his beard. A third, pale gray paint mark is painted on his forehead
in what could only represent the Harvest Moon. A startlingly clean spot on
his right hand reveals a small and rather nasty looking scar.
Role
THE BROTHERS
Added Thu Feb 6 16:29:16 2020 at level 16:
Admund frequently thinks back to that dark swampy forest from where they
came. His memory is hazy, patched, unreliable. It bothers him not to have
a clear understanding of who they were, where they came from, what their
parents had hoped theyd become. Only a few things remain clear in his
memory. The most real thing is his Brother, Idmund. Only he is unmistakably
real and unmistakably his. Without Idmund, there would have been no surviving
the dark forest.
In brief glimpses of instruction or admonishment he vaguely remembers a
mother and a father, but he can hardly remember their voices and their faces
are just a mist along with the village that was maybe their home. He
remembers getting lost with is Brother in that dark forest. How or why that
came to be remained an unreachable fragment of memory. On their own they
survived, one day after the other. Foraging for bugs and plants during the
day and hiding from the unspeakably grotesque predators during the sleepless
nights. In that dark and marshy forest the instinctual brotherly love and the
simple and crude stubbornness of children helped them grow accustomed to
their surroundings. It thought them to rely on each other, to take care of
one another, and with time as they made the forest their home, the space
separating the two all but evaporated. There can be no Admund without Idmund.
Just as a heart can no longer beat with its other half missing.
They both shared a notion that they had to return home to their parents and
they kept searching for a way out, but there was no end to the dark woods.
There were no allies to be found. No humans, no elves, no mortals or Gods or
animals. There were only the predatory beasts, and the trees, and the bugs,
and the wind and the leaves. Admund would occasionally feel a pulling
presence grasping for his attention. A tugging, groping sensation would
overcome him along with a feeling of something trying to communicate. He
could never tell whether they were a friend or a foe and during the nights
when those pleas would be most intense it was dangerous to go searching for
an almost inaudible susurrus. By the time Admund understood that these were
the spirits that inhabit all of nature, reaching for him from the fringes of
the terrestrial realm, it was too late. The Beast had found them.
THE BEAST
Added Thu Feb 6 16:40:50 2020 at level 16:
The encounter with the Beast is one of those hazy memories. Admund struggles
between wanting to recall all of it and wanting to completely forget it. He
is certain that he remembers two things clearly. The first one is the terror
induced by those shining eyes. A feeling that clings to his soul like an
insatiable tick. Always there, always throbbing, always pressing, always
demanding, always threatening. The second is a horror to match the first.
How it came about, Admund doesnt clearly recall, but the Beast had made an
offer to let them leave the forest only if they were to agree to tricking
two other souls to take their place. If they failed, it would claim them
forever. The Beast would not be denied. The brothers struck the deal and
found themselves in the Void, stepping out into the Holy Grove to begin
their search.
The gravity of the bargain is not lost to Admund-it is horrifying. To trick
someone into taking his place is to lie. To tell the truth honestly is to
fail their bargain. Whenever his mind broaches the idea his soul recoils. He
remembers a hazy towering father, a clear admonishing tone: 'Do we tell
tales? No, not unless we wish for red rumps!' We do not tell tales. Admund
would want nothing more than to find a way out of the bargain without having
to trick someone into taking his place with the Beast. He is plagued with
many questions regarding the creature, but most of all he doesn't trust him
to keep his word. Why would he let them go after they deliver the souls? Why
does he need the souls? Who is it? What is it? It is an endless maze of
uncertainty that only feeds Admund's paranoia that the beast might come any
moment and collect his debt.
He hopes that perhaps the spirits would guide them to a solution. He is aware
that his Brother does not agree. Idmund holds Admund to a promise not to say
anything, even to try and succeed in their task. There is no Admund without
his Brother. A solution must be found. One that will both save their bodies
and their souls.
HONESTY
Added Thu Feb 6 16:44:13 2020 at level 16:
Admund does not confuse Honesty and Truth. He is not interested in the
absolute truth. What concerns him is the pure unrestrained personal thought
and emotion. Only in the honesty of the completely revealed does he find
beauty and meaning, and he would never wish for such a beauty to ever
change. Even more, he would defend it from any such attempts.
He sees Nature in this context. It is not pretentious, it is honest and
bared. It is to be seen and felt and experienced as it is. Civilization on
the other hand is the complete opposite. It is an ostentatious display aiming
to impress itself. It pretends people and animals are what they are not. It
would dress up predators as protectors and claim they are saving people from
themselves while they are keeping them incompetent, scared and wholly under
their control. It prescribes how to talk, how to think, what to do, how to
dress, how to dance, when to laugh and when to cry. It completely enslaves
individuals by custom and soils the honest bare truth of what every
individual naturally would be. It hides the self from themselves and as such
it is both dishonest and a lie.
To be oneself as honestly as possible is paramount. All changes must come
form within gradually and naturally. To forcefully change something is to
kill it. There is no distinction if the act is through verbal or physical
means.
MOTHERS
Added Mon Feb 24 21:13:31 2020 at level 51:
Standing in the candlewood grove, surrounded by poisonous thorns and in the
company of a mute hellhound, Admund felt stupid. The spirits were all around
him. They spoke of all sorts of things, but mostly they spoke in an
incomprehensible murmur. He kept straining to make out the noises, like a
deaf old man, squinting his eyes as though it would help, half bent over and
leaning slightly forward, gripping his staff tightly not to topple over. It
didn't help. Maybe what the spirits were saying was for other spirits alone
to know. He felt stupid, and lately, ever since they had come out of that
void and met a whole multitude of people, Admund started to feel alone. It
was never like that before. What they did, they did together. Now, both him
and his brother met people separately, did things, said things, saw things
without the other one present. It was odd. He always expected his Brother to
know what he had seen and what he had heard. Talking to him as though he was
'another' was still shocking, even years later. When he felt low, the spirits
would pitty him and would start tugging at him gently. He would cast a wild
spell and help them manifest form. Wolves, foxes, rams. They always answered
as animal spirits. They would remain silent even in those forms, but they
would softly nuzzle against him in a generous display of sympathy. It tore at
him even more that he couldn't understand them. But he was grateful for what
they gave, and he took the gift with both hands.
He would sit in the strange grove next to his spirit companion and the mute
hellhound and he would think of his parents. He could still not remember
their faces, or anything specific about them. But there was Thar-Eris,
Mother. He could see her in the candlewood trees, the sand of the steppes,
the cleft stone of the tomb. He could feel her in the poison of the
candlewood barbs, in the wind in his hair, the breath of the spirit next to
him. He could hear her in the growl of a wolf, in the song of a cardinal
bird, in the roaring thunder of a waterfall, in the pattering of rain on the
forest floor. He could touch her, he could hug her, he could hear her, he
could embrace her whole body and soul. What would she tell him if she were to
speak her mind? 'Be free. Be free.' he imagined. 'Live as you are. Be.' And
he would close his eyes and do just that. Just breathe. Just exist. Just be
free for the moment, as long as it may last. 'Before the beast comes and
takes it all away.' That thought was not of Thar-Eris. It was always his own
voice that coalesced that terror.
MOTHERS (cont.)
Added Mon Feb 24 21:14:49 2020 at level 51:
He would stay that way, thinking of both mothers. The one that he could feel
and touch and see but never understand what she was saying. And the other one
that he could not remember anything about, other than a voice that gives
instructions and a golden hair and a brief occasional smile as he and his
brother played. He would then look about him and look at the strange place
and the strange creature guarding it. There he was, looking for a mother yet
still. A mother that he knew was real. That had a physical form around which
he may hope to wrap his brain around. A form that had a voice and deep wisdom
that she may decide to share. A mother, beautiful and honest. A mother that
he could see and hear.
He would admonish himself then. Telling himself that he was nothing but a
crude, wild madman that talked to spirits and nonsentient animals. An
Immortal God is not a mother or some silly forest spirit. Then he would pray
awkwardly and briefly, and then he would leave. Leaving a poisonous
millipede, or a thorny rose behind and the reverberating echoes of a
frightened spirit still searching.
THY MOTHER SHALL TRY TO KILL THEE
Added Mon Feb 24 21:18:15 2020 at level 51:
'Thy mother shall try to kill thee.'
Admund kept staring at the leper blankly, but his veins coursed with fire and
ice. A golden hair, recalled from the prelude of a nightmarish dream. A brief
smile as he and his brother played. A large, tall woman, fairly slender and
immaculately dressed in intricately designed robes. Long, golden-blonde hair
reaching the mid of her back. Odd, uniquely shaped face, with a forehead
slightly larger than normal, with sharp and distinct features. Eyes, a lovely
shade of hazel, and small lips ending with a narrow chin.
He remembers those eyes, within the Weald, flashing as she weaved the spell
to put him to sleep. He remembers those eyes close as he had plunged a sword
into her.
Mother. Lyrentia.
LETTER TO LYRENTIA: A MOUNTAIN, MOTHER
Added Fri Mar 13 10:52:32 2020 at level 51:
Mother,
we walk through the forests, barefoot, and we listen to the spirits as we go.
There are many different voices, all telling us a different story. Some
whispering, some shouting and demanding attention. But some are mute and
silent, and those frequently draw our curiosity.
We found ourselves in the Valley of Veran. Weaving our path through the
hostile fauna as we found a hole in the cacophony of all the angry voices. A
stone. An arm, broken from some statue. It reminded of us and you, Mother,
and it set us on a path to the mountains.
We turned to the mountains to find wisdom, and as with all things, we find
ourselves unable to explain sufficiently what we experienced. We feel when a
mountain sheds a stone due the natural course of frost and water and wind, it
is like the birth of new stone. A stone that speaks with its own voice, but
is aware, connected to its mother and never wandering too far away. When a
stone is cleft in many different pieces from the mountain rock, it is like
the same person trying to tell a single thought, but through many different
mouths and all at the same time. These stones are a painful thing to behold.
They want to tell of their pain, of the longing for their mountain mother and
of a sense of being incomplete. But they can not. Each word of their lament
is spread across all the different mouths. None of them able to coherently
say what pains them, so they just moan in pain instead. The saddest of them
all, are the silent ones.
We have tried listening to the mountain, to hear of the mother's pain of
having her children taken from her. Hoping, we would understand what you must
have felt. But the mountain is ancient, enormous and deep. And we are mortal,
small and shallow. All we can hear is a slow, uneven, rumbling breath.
Perhaps we were asking the wrong question.
We find no answers when we look at our thoughts. Only more confusion. Only
greater uncertainty. Does wisdom ever come from thinking like this, or does
it just always lead to madness?
We remember an old wooden paddle. Blood on tile. Cold, night air. Hot tears.
A mouth full of gravel. Why don't we have any happy memories of you, Mother?
HARVEST MOON (1/2)
Added Fri Mar 13 10:57:47 2020 at level 51:
Four wolf pups born at the end of the Summer, gorged and grown on the
bountiful deer of the forest, yipped about as they played one of their last
carefree games with their mother before they joined the pack as hunters. The
she-wolf tussled with her young wolves in the autumn foliage. Occasionally
she would glance up a thick branch of the nearby Living Oak tree, toward the
silent sitting form of Admund. She would keen at him. An invitation to
forsake his brooding thoughts, to join them and to be free.
Admund kept his eyes locked at the wolves as his bare knuckles kept grinding
the colored paste on a large piece of bark. A mother and her wolves, as they
were meant to be. A mother that would charge at a bear, teeth bared. A mother
that would NEVER harm her children.
Images of Lyrentia inviting him for a talk. Memories of his heart racing as
she agreed to come to the forest so he could see her face. Asking about those
damned Robes of the Heartless, needed for some abominable Scion ritual, but
promising not to coerce.
He raised his cramped knuckle to his forehead, above his right eye and
smeared the verdant green paste over his brow and eye and cheek in one
deliberate, rough gesture. 'Rise, Thar-Eris!' the thought echoed in his
buzzing head. A mark, for Mother.
He moved the bark carefully to the side, and started grinding another colored
paste with his other hand. His mind skipped from the wolves to the mountains.
To his foolish wish that Lyrentia would be his mountain, and he the rocks in
the valley beneath. He thought of his foolish wish that people were as sharp
rocks high up in the mountain streams, rolling down into the river and
gradually taking a softer, rounder shape and finally in their final form
finding rest and content among their kin-the rest of sea borne rocks.
HARVEST MOON (2/2)
Added Fri Mar 13 11:00:00 2020 at level 51:
Images of Lyrentia raising her hands in that familiar fashion. Weaving the
spell of slumber she had already used to harm him, in such a practiced
manner, cold, heartless set in her eyes as she spun a spell to harm her son.
She was never a mountain. She was never the sea. She was never a mother. A
monster-all that she is. He raised his other hand to his forehead, above his
left eye, and smeared the dark black paste over his brow and eye and cheek in
one deliberate, painful gesture. 'Die, Lyrentia!' the thought echoed in his
buzzing head. A mark, for the creature that he would slay.
Green motes swirled from the earth and the autumn foliage, up the tree and to
his branch, coalescing in a translucent form of a wolf seating next to him.
The guardian spirit keened at him, then yelped, the barked. But Admund did
not respond. He was working on yet another paste.
Memories of his own voice, broken, shaking, childlike. 'Mother. Don't. Mommy,
stop!' An image of a grief stricken forest spirit. Rising from the nearby
tree and offering a leverage for his straining mind to fight off the tendrils
of necromancy dragging him underground.
Two fingers he raised to the middle of his forehead, gently impressing a pale
gray circle. A mark, for the spirit allies that guide him.
Man, wolves and spirits, for a long time remained where they were as the sun
drowned in a crimson bloodbath to the west, and the large Harvest Moon of the
autumn solstice started climbing the night sky. Under the light of the
Harvest Moon, Admund had drawn a sharp knife and was mutely and deliberately
sharpening the end of his staff. The wood knows his pain, and for him, the
wood would bear the pain of the knife. A staff, would give up its own self
for him and become a sharpened spear.
The large moon at its zenith, Admund rose to his feet, spear in hand. A howl,
one fit for a wild beast ripped from his throat. With a cry full of feral
rage and anger and grief and regret and deep sorrow he screamed at the world.
And the wild spirits and wolves rose up to join him.
FREEDOM (1/2)
Added Thu Apr 9 16:51:37 2020 at level 51:
'Free at last.. free at last..' the thought kept repeating as a mantra in
Admund's tired mind. He had felt the Beast release him. The price had been
paid, the bargain had been fulfilled. He could not put it in words, but it
was like a veil being lifted from his vision.. No.. Like for all his life he
had been standing under the weight of a waterfall and finally had taken a
step away from the deluge.. No.. It should have been like an instantaneous
transition from a moonless winter night into a calm spring noon. It wasn't
like that either.
Cross legged, he sat under the thick oak in Emerald Forest, rolling a large
Living Oak acorn between thumb and forefinger, looking at it and examining it
as though for the first time. He had always thought of himself and his
Brother as one acorn. He never could tell which one was the shell, and which
one was the heart. He even thought they changed places at times, which was as
things should be. 'Brother, whatever we do, we will do it together!' he
remembered himself saying to his Brother over and over again during his life.
It had been a truism, something akin to saying when we take in air we are
breathing. But life outside of the dark forest had been chaining them both.
Often it would change them both in different ways. What were once maybe two
aspects of the same whole, now were threatening to become two separates. It
unnerved him. The wind was too chilling, the twigs and grass under him were
too prickly.
Alive because of his Brother selflessness. Free, because of his selfishly
selfless Brother once again. It appeared that history, annoyingly, runs in
recurring, seemingly orderly patterns. The bargain had come not under his
terms. His freedom had also come in the same manner, without his say--not
under his terms. For the bargain for his life, he had been dead. For his
freedom.. he had been asleep. Both were done on his behalf by his Brother. A
true keeper.
FREEDOM (2/2)
Added Thu Apr 9 17:02:14 2020 at level 51:
Admund tried to breathe more evenly, to find a point of balance in the
turmoil in his soul. He even reached for the spirits to help him, but the
tormenting thoughts would just not go away. He would that his Brother would
have been freed first. That way, he could have been truly free to look at
himself honestly and decide if the cost was worth his own life and freedom.
His Brother's choice had taken this opportunity from him. A piece of the
mother's soul, for the freedom of her child. Was it a fitting end for
Lyrentia? Was it an acceptable price if it was taken or was it bearable only
if it was freely given? In spite her evil, did she deserve to be devoured by
the Beast in the Dark?
As tears welled up in his eyes, he knew the answers. He squeezed the acorn in
a trembling fist, holding to it dearly lest he lose it from his grip and
recognized the answers for what they were. The anger of the abandoned child.
The deep pain of disillusionment brought by the realization that Lyrentia was
an uncaring mother. The cheap, base thrill of her receiving some form of
righteous comeuppance. All of them were answers given in pain induced
blindness. There was no wisdom in them. He had stood to his convictions when
faced by the dread of the Immortal Morius. He had claimed boldly that he
would not be the jailor even of one such as Beroxxus. How could he be the
jailor or Lyrentia? Was her evil greater? Was her defilement more deserving
of punishment than that of the Ill Omen? No. All slavery is to be opposed.
Each spirit, must rule its fate freely, not under the will of others.
He braced his knees and burred his face in that deadman's embrace. A man in
his prime ought to know who he is. Whatever tribulations had passed, must
have formed them into a certain shape. After all, even Chaos was required
only for the free spirit to take its true freedom. It was not required so
that all things, spirits and thoughts alike, would remain formless. But what
does one do with a non-returnable, overpriced and unwanted gift? One
purchased by un unspeakable price to self and others? A gift--life instead of
death. What is the value of a life when it is borne by such a cost? What is
the value of freedom when it is burdened by guilt?
HALF OF A BEATING HEART
Added Sun May 24 16:26:24 2020 at level 51:
Brother,
we sit here in Emerald Forest, our home, always near to the three dug mounds
at the Heart of the Forest. We always sit near your grave, with our back to
the other two. They do not deserve our attention, but they will always be
here with us.
As we sit here, the leaves on the trees turn from green to a strong yellow
then a ripe orange and brown. They fall and then they reappear as young
budding green all over again. It had been a wonder that had excited our mind
for a very long time in the past. But now.. we have to force ourselves to see
the leaves and the Cycle. All that we can look at is the earth that is
covering you.
We are not well, Brother. Our heart is broken, our soul hurts. We keep
dreaming, and in our dreams you are still there with us. Sometimes, we even
get to enjoy our freedom, and run carefree in the tame woods, as children
ought to. We miss you Brother. We miss you.
We had gotten tired of the voices of all the spirits talking to us
incessantly. With time, even a madman learns how to cope and ignore his
madness. But we do not do that any longer. We keep listening, more attentive
than ever. Always straining, searching to hear your voice among them. Talk to
us, Brother. Since you are gone, we are nothing but a half of a beating
heart, straining and hurting and bleeding.
We had thought nothing could ever come between us. Yet here she is, Brother.
Death, cruelly separating the one whole. Wherever you are Brother, wait for
us! Wait! We will be together before long.
THE HARBINGER'S GROVE
Added Sat May 30 15:51:52 2020 at level 51:
The spring morning sun gently warming his bare back, Admund dug the earth
with his bare hands.
'Deeper. Deeper still. Closer to the Mother's embrace. It will be safe there
until it is strong enough.' his madness spoke to him. 'Faster. Faster! Ten
are not enough. More!'
Everything hurt. His muscles had turned to water from the frantic digging.
His bones ached. He choked the whine of pain in his throat. Ten was not
enough. He kept digging.
The wolf spirit keened at his side. It nuzzled his bent back, trying to pry
his obsession with his task, but he could not, wold not stop.
'We must do more, wolf. It is not enough,' Admund said in response. 'More.
More!'
He kept to his task, entering a trance as his thoughts carried his
consciousness away from the pain. He was angry. So many things unfinished, so
little time. He had spent his life searching for his family, guided by the
mysterious riddles of a leper seer. How could he have missed that what
appeared as a leper, frail old man was Argothus the Mad, an Archmagus of
Chaos and a half-nightwalker? That thing, a master of deception and shadow,
it had managed to lead them all astray. Only if Brother had been with us..
his wisdom would have seen right through that veil.
'Childish, wishful thinking!' he scolded himself. He always hoped for things
to be what they were not, for matters to resolve in ways they would not. Even
that shod mare, Theoredus. The very name brought Admund's blood to a boil. A
centaur that killed the mother of his friend, Lorente, had disregarded all
his pleas not to harm what was most dear to his dead friend. A centaur that
had gotten his freedom from the Shadow Plane for free, the price of his
freedom paid by Admund and his Brother, had turned to follow a selfish need
to defile Thar-Eris. He had gotten everything for free, both freedom and
forgiveness, and there he was still, pontificating, claiming it was
blood-lust that drove Admund and not love for the only Mother he ever had.
THE HARBINGER'S GROVE (cont.)
Added Sat May 30 15:53:00 2020 at level 51:
At the same time, he was aware of his failings. A madman that speaks to
spirits, can make little sense of normal people. The parables in which he saw
the world were lost to almost everyone he spoke to. When he threatened, they
thought him jesting, when he warned, they thought him to threaten. The sense
of inadequacy choked him. How could it be that it was him the Ancients had
chosen to be Harbinger? A foolish, foolish man, always chasing stories.
Perhaps his father had been right, perhaps we should not tell tales.
He rose from his work stiffly. Bones cracking and muscles cramping from the
long time spent close to the ground. He could feel his age. Every year was
like a hot nail driven through his soul. He groped for the Harbinger's bamboo
bo and leaned heavily on it. He looked over his work. Mounds of dark dirt
spotted the green of the meadow. In a month, the oak saplings will be strong
enough to sprout. In a few decades, maybe during his life they will produce
their first acorns. In another man's time, they will be a thick grove. By the
end of the high-elven life, perhaps there will be a small forest.
Wiping away sweat form his brow he watched as the sun was setting in the
west, yet again, drowning in blood. His bleeding fingers found the green and
black marks over his eyes and he traced them slowly. 'Rise Thar-Eris.' ...
'Death to the defilers!' the thought echoed in a wail and swiftly died. There
was something in the treeline, leaving no room for his anger and hate to
unfold freely. Locks of golden hair twisted around emerald vines swayed in
the wind as the beautiful dryad approached him. His heart was pounding in his
ears, skipping beats like salmon breaching the water as it swam upstream.
After all these years, after all the time he had spent searching for them,
there she was. She reached for him, gently caressing his wrinkled face and
smiled. Everything was in that smile. Everything.
She took his hand in hers and he knew. 'Death is as inevitable as birth. The
Cycle always wins in the end.' He stepped away after her, leaving the
lignified form of the sickly old man surrounded by the newly planted grove
behind him and without a backward glance followed her into the treeline to
meet the other wild spirits. For the first time since he could remember, he
was happy and laughing.
PK Wins
Feb 13, 2020|Lv 31|Feanwyyn Weald|Lyrentia vs 3: [31] Admund (19%, slash), [30] Idmund (77%), [35] Lorente (3%)
Mar 4, 2020 |Lv 51|The Outlander Refuge|Killia vs 3: [51] Admund (11%), [51] Cexonza (69%, blazing slash), [51] Dzonkulese (19%)
Mar 5, 2020 |Lv 51|Underdark|Shorokeshi vs 2: [51] Takamae (72%, nova), [51] Admund (27%)
Mar 16, 2020|Lv 51|The Northern Mountains|Bixbar vs 2: [51] Admund (14%, lightning bolt), [51] Idmund (85%)
Mar 16, 2020|Lv 51|Akan|Ftholthfr vs 3: [51] Admund (34%, bite), [51] Idmund (39%), [51] Lorente (25%)
Apr 21, 2020|Lv 51|The Outlander Refuge|Snerdrull vs 1: [51] Admund (100%, cleave)
Apr 29, 2020|Lv 51|The Spire of the Blood Tribunal|Cadmar vs 2: [51] Admund (13%), [51] Ynol (86%, punch)
May 13, 2020|Lv 51|The Imperial Palace|Targung vs 3: [51] Ajanfindel (38%, bleeding), [51] Devrena (58%), [51] Admund (3%)
May 29, 2020|Lv 51|The Spire of the Blood Tribunal|Llyion vs 5: [51] Cakundi (1%), [51] Quanhest (1%), [51] Ydane (19%, bite), [51] Admund (77%), [48] Dravaden (0%)