Bree

The Red Ribbon Maiden

Author: 
Miss Rhiya Reeves.

TBC

Playing Fiefdoms and Avoiding Barfights

in
What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

What an evening he muttered to himself, aloud, though he was smiling broadly.

“Damn, girl, you killed my King!” he laughed, and Bexly smiled back at him broadly.

A Letter Home

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

Dearest Mother and Father,

The Lost Mathom, episode 4

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

Episode 4: Supper at the Pony

‘This table is much too large,’ said Piper stating the obvious.

‘Shall we move to another one?’ asked the Bounder.

Piper and friend arrive at last at the Prancing Pony

What type of content is this?: 
Screenshot: General screen

A Reunion

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

The fire crackled loudly in the peaceful night. From what Arrvelas could tell, everyone else had gone off to rest for the night. There was no more chatter, no more sounds of footsteps. Only the fire.

A Quiet Breakfast

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story


A ray of sunlight hit her face and she opened her eyes, blinking against the soft glow. Warm fur blankets were piled on top of her, and a small dark-furred cat snuggled near her feet, purring. The warm wood walls were cozy… but unfamiliar. 

Quiet Breakfast

What type of content is this?: 
Artwork: Painting

Lost and Found

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

In a peaceful glade in the woods, there is a little wooden house. And in that little wooden house there is a dim room. And in that dim room is a stone hearth. And in that stone hearth there is nothing. Nothing but a cold emptiness and lonely space. In front of that nothingness sits... a man? Or perhaps an elf if one was to take a closer look. That one lone figure sits still, eyes open but boring into the empty hearth. 

Shadows

What kind of Adventure is this?: 
Story

    You can never truly return home after leaving. No matter how long your time spent there, or the moments you experienced, or the memories you made...time, heartless bastard that it is, alters all: your shape no longer fits the imprint you left behind. 

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