I’d be willing to bet that Rykard was given the title of Praetor after Radagon became elden lord because it doesn’t make a ton of sense for a Carian royal, whose father was just a “mere champion” of the Erdtree, to be offered such an important position in Leyndell’s government... if his father were elden lord however, then he’d have the authority to recommend his son, now considered to be a demigod stepchild, to the prestigious position of chief justiciar. basically what I’m saying is that Rykard was a nepo baby
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googd morning aahw (or aafw cause ofall. the fish water) i ovewrslept cause of the fondue party last night
the agents startd a small fire in the lobby somehow so im requestng an extraction of this fuckass computer
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Which color do you think resonates with you?
I’d say a deep red because I truly love deep red and I even say that it’s my happy colour!
(Like mahogany, for instance, truly beautiful colour 🤭)
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Red-Dyed Sawdust
Red-Dyed Sandpaper
I stripped rugged imperfections
Away from four squares of cherry,
Two of Spruce. Angles impatiently sawed
Then glued. Never fitting perfectly into place.
My brain repulses geometrical thoughts.
Never will these sides glide from corners.
The red-washed dust from sanding hands
Brushes off to find a fresh coat.
The stained surface rubbed clean;
Stripped so not to hurt any other
With upended splinters and rough patches.
The parts that will never find love.
The ones that hurt her creator's hand.
A stranger, I must be, to remnants
Of life older than I am destined,
Yet, it is these hands, which give
As much flesh as she.
So I sand her down.
The gaps left from amateur eyes
Find fulfillment in glue and floor dust.
Patience and raw-rubbed fingers
Hid the obscenities well. None would
Be wiser of its imperfect creation.
This box, I've made, holds firm.
Beautiful and mine, a testament to
A steady hand and creative mind.
The motley contrast, is to be ignored.
Different scraps tossed, glued,
Worn thin till nothing but beauty
Would perception receive.
Compliments begot from dull sight.
Never will they love the sting of splinters
Wedged betwixt untested skin.
Crimson drops staining the edges.
I see her falseness.
She marked my hands
As much as I marked her.
Creations lays with sacrificial serenity.
Scratched edges and imperfect cracks
Tells a tale of paths I follow.
It does not matter.
It is a box;
It holds my things.
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