ry0un0sukeThe Dreadwoods Supreme
#1
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In the year 1735AC, the twelfth month, the ninth day, two immigrant Shengese parents had a child in an unremarkable village in western Osronan territory. A beautiful baby girl who they named Jianyu. Their family name was Xi. They can begin anew in a country like this. Under the guise of peasant folk, Donghai- Liang Xi, her father, could delve into forbidden arts without fear of the Shengese imperials. Her mother, Lai- Daiyu Xi supported him through anything. Enthralled, if you will. His daughter Jin- Jun-- Jianyu Xi, would follow in his footsteps.
 
Towards the middle of the year, the sky roared. Clouds tore a part as a massive dragon laid waste to this unmarkable, Osronan village, claiming many in the Therian-Osronan war. Daiyu Xi was one of the many causalities, burnt alive by the Dragon Vartuul's helfire. Liang and Jianyu survived. For a year or two of gathering funds and living in scraps, they moved to Theria. Hate guiding them both.
 
The weak die. The strong live.
- - - 
I don't remember what happened next.
- - -
When she was eight years old, her father suddenly vanished and she lived on cold, Therian streets with naught but scraps to survive. When she was eleven years old, she was tired of being surrounded by what stole for her. Why did father have them live here? Why? She wandered and wandered before finding the village Nysea perhaps a year or two after Osronan walls fell.
- - -
I said I can't remember what comes next.
- - -
I've always hated children. I never wanted them. I hate people. I hate when they're close. I hate knowing that I'm on their mind. If I could crawl into a hole and never see the light of day again, I think I'd quite like what. Wouldn't you, Yuemi? Why'd I have you? Why are you alive and he isn't?
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 Sixteen is often a big year for many young woman. At sixteen years old, she condemned her soul to Hel'heim in exchange for power to trample Dragons and bring about storms- But it never went as planned. Demons, selfish creatures who put themselves first. Eating. Always eating. She hated Nysea. She hated the Princess. She hated the Knights. Why did she surround herself by all she despised? The demons. All of the Osronan refugees.
- - -
I said I don't remember any of this shit. Stop making me remember.
 
 
 

- - -
Barsburg invaded. Soon after M̵̧̡͙̬͕͎̪̙̤̼̜̠̣̲̥̠̾̃͒̒̋̇̆̒͐̈́̚ỡ̵̡̛͔̤̻̗̗̺͓̰̳̟̯̱̭͍̼͍͚̲̭̮͐́̌r̴̥̻̺̻̟̱̠̦͑͒͐̾͌̿́̄͛͘̕͜x̴̧̡̛̞̯̻̜̠̲͎̠͖͙͕̰̹̩̥͓̖͔͙̤̌̈́͗̉̊̈͊̾̈́̓̄̓̈̔͌͛̓̓̉͘͠͝͝ͅx̵̛̞̯̜̩̪̩͂͂͂̽́̀̍̍͆̂́͛̍͜x̴̧̢̨̥͓̘̟͇͇͖͓͉̣̲̉͐̉͆͐ͅͅ and Y̷̡̡̛̹̹͈̖̩̳̠̥̥̫͇̼̠͖̘͓̎͛̆̈́̈͒̉͂̃͌͐̓̊̈̐́̌̚͘̚͝ͅͅṳ̴̧̨̨̧̡̫̰̩͚̦̳̩̙̼̥̬̍̽̅̄͐͒̀̃͆̎͛̓̌̓̔͘x̴͎̓̅͆͊̅̎͌̒͗̾̃̊̈̅̇͂̈́̅̆̚͘͝x̶̻͖̜̯̰̝̥̠͌̌͗̆͐̑̔x̶̧̨̧̰̫̰̫̜̫̣͔̯̞͙͉͙̗͇̀̓̆͑̆̈́̀͑̀̍͌̄͌̈́̅̂̃̈́͆̏̍͂̑̕̕͝͝ͅ died in x̴̣̆̅͂̔̈́̆̉̈́͐̍̿͌͐̄̎͝X̵̧̠͉̺̰̲̘̼͉̦̐̽̓͂͊̉̏̑̇̊̆͐̀̄͜x̶͙̪̹̫̜̻͎̻̘̳̦̤̻̼̲̟̟̘̲͐̓̿͊̿͆̋͂͑̐̈́͊̀́͘͜͠͠ͅͅX̸̡̢̛̼͈̟̞̳͔͚̱̼̙͎̞̱̠̫̫̯̫̟͔̳͕̼͎̍̽̀͋̆̊̒͆̒̄̈́̈͘x̶̲͖̓͐͆̉̓̓̍̇̋̅́̆͠x̷̢̡̧̛̱͓̞̺͔̳̲̯̭͉̜͎͑̏̔̽̉̃͛̍̿̀́̏̑̂̄͗̔͗̚̕̕͘̕͠͝ͅX̷͉̭͙̺̤̗̻̖̤̱̣̙̱̬̰̙̖̞̳̞̤̞̱̰͇͛͆̔͂̐̀̀̓̿͗̇̀͛̊̒̊̈̊͜͜͝ś̵̡̢̟͍͔̮͖̖̼̹̩͕̼̠̼͓̻͖̌͜ͅͅS̶̨̨̨̛̳̳̰͎̺̞̩̖̺̙͕̳͇̘̰̲̟̫̖͖͉̓̋͆̃̔̐͂̾̏̋̒́͂̾̃͐̕̕̚̕͝͠͝Ḑ̸̡̻̗͖͇͙̫̠̟͖̲̘͖͔̮̤̀͌͐̓̆̑̾̉̾̍̀͌̃̒̀̾̉̓̑̿̐̎̃́̉͗̚ͅF̵̢̡̝͉̭̣̩̳̫͍́̅̈́̈́́͐̓̌̓̌̈́̓̿͠ś̵̨̛̛̲͓͎̖̠̠̼͚̰̪̤͓̟̯͉̙̼̝̩̖̲̔͑́̏̅̐͂͊̌͌͂́̈̈́̏ͅḏ̸̨̧̡̨̨̨͍̮̭͖̦̗̼͉̮̪͖̟͔͇̓͐̿̈́͆̾̑̾͆͌̍̆̆̕̚͜͠ͅv̷̨̞̘͖͖̘̼̯͈̼͕̬͍̑̒̆̇̈́̀͆̑̓̀͆̎̈́̑̔̈́́̓͘̕͝͠͠s̶̛͎̥͉̪̅̓̏̈̀̄̎͛̇̉̕̚͝ḑ̴̽̈́̌̀́͝v̵̛͚̈́͌̔̂̑̓̿̏͠.̶̢̢̨̧̡̙̞͎̞̗̲̦͙͖̪̝̭̿̿͘͜͠ͅ
 
̵̧̗̱̲̲̩͕̠̻̱͔͎̱̮̝̜͔̤̯͙͇͙̦͉̹̯̒̍̐͌̀̇͋̀̿͂͊́͛̓̐͆̚͝
 
 
 
 
Barsburg invaded after a failed war against Myllenoris. 
The Coven was pushed back. Her sister lost her mind and she was alone. Too little hands. Always too short on hands to achieve goals that require sisters and brothers aplenty. The Dreadwoods grew silent. It stayed silent. She liked it. She killed someone, she remembers that. She almost killed another. Men fell at her hands. She remembers that but it was extremely quiet.
 
Dying without truly being dead.
. . .
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My granddaughter died. I watched her die today.
My grandson died. I had to hear about it.
My children didn't sign. They disappointed me.
I found a few more children. They show some promise.
There's nobody here. 
Children are ungrateful to their mothers.
Children are ungrateful.
Children are ungrateful.
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. . .
I quite enjoy the silence.
Next year, I turn one-hundred and twenty-years old.
That's far too old. I'll start getting wrinkles when the magic runs thin.
I wish my children would visit me more.
I don't quite... remember who is, though.
I do know I'll bathe in the blood of all who's wronged me.
Don't you dare pity me. 
Don't you fucking dare.
. . .
The following journal bears ripped pages and nonsense rambled writing. 
Several words are scratched out but, it can be found somewhere in that cottage in the Dreadwoods, 1854AC, perhaps.
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