Naphulae

"The veil of sanity is a lie we tell ourselves when we gaze at the night sky, hoping, in a stifled corner of our mind, that the stars aren't gazing back."

—

A nameless, insignificant, yet ambitious young man once attempted to rescue his family from poverty. But as he found hope, he also stumbled upon despair. After losing everything to the darkness of death, including himself, he woke up in another world, stuck in the body of an eleven-year-old boy with a peculiar appearance.

He soon discovered that he was a Celestial Offering—a holy sacrifice, carefully groomed by the Temple of Stars to be given to the Gods Beyond. 

His fate had already been sealed, for his blood would spill under the seven-pointed star and consecrate the birth of a new era for his nation.

Armed with nothing but his wit and the trail of good fortune, he would attempt to challenge this destiny, braving the countless hurdles that lay in waiting and the unfathomable horrors they harbored. 

In a realm of magecraft, occult rituals, madness, and prowling Eidolons, he could only count on himself to survive, as the threat of insanity loomed over everyone equally, and nothing could slow its ineluctable embrace.

—

Discord: Naphulae#1813

The Forsaken Sovereign

"You can't argue with that logic," Dona shrugged. "At least, he isn't afraid of insects."

"Strangle yourself, wench," Damian spat before glancing at Ramsen, inquiring, "Did that stir come from our targets?"

Ramsen nodded. "It seems they've encountered that Vermin Sorcerer, but I sensed no battle. I've just confirmed our agreement with Rodolf's team. Our plans won't change."

"Why are we attacking them exactly?" Damian rose to his feet, helping himself with a strange stave. It was bronze-made, with a carved plate at its top displaying a woman's sleeping face. "Don't we already have enough orbs to succeed in this phase?"

"Two reasons. First of them is that not all of us have orbs of our initially-bestowed element. Our targets are great in number, but they haven't chosen to move at all, meaning they possess everything they need—a potentially bountiful reap."

Sweet Beckoning