#long lore

Yep, all those missing people are here. They turned into cartoons by Stanley we are a cartoon show called toon Time ”we can’t escape we can’t leave. The only thing we can really do is just hang out in this room and wait till the show starts, which happens almost every second”. Just then Stanley comes in the room. “Oh good you’re awake and you met the other others good well everyone I want you to meet Molly the mouse she’s our new little character~!” Molly backs away from him “wait character no I need to go back home. I don’t wanna be a cartoon. Are you gonna torture me..?” Stanley looks at her with a blank expression, then laughs “to torture??! you no no no sweetheart you are just another character of my little show. Nothing more but… If you do cross me or do anything naughty, I will have to hurt you and I don’t wanna hurt my little projects. I don’t wanna hurt my little toys understood sweetheart?” Molly viably shaking she nods her head She doesn’t wanna get in any trouble. even though she’s the new guy Stanley smiles “good now come on everyone the show is about to start and don’t worry, Molly. I’m gonna take good. Good care of you~” he leans in close smirking  ________________________________________________ thanks for reading that long long lore and have a toon fantastic day and remember… don’t trust Darcy 

Long Lore, Kabupaten Malinau, Kalimantan Utara, Indonesia

"The gods were angry, and shook the land. Cracks rent the earth," said old Khaldun, his crag-featured face lit by firelight. "It was into one of these fissures that a young man ventured. He found an opening; the entrance to a tomb, hidden for the Jackal knows how long. The man had little ones to feed and a wife to please, and so he ventured in, lured by opportunity." Adults and children alike crowded in close to hear the old storyteller's words. They were all weary - they had traveled far that day, and the Shuriman sun had been unrelenting - but Khaldun's tales were a rare treat. They drew their cloaks tight around their shoulders against the chill of the night and leaned in. "The air was cool in the tomb, a merciful relief from the scorching heat outside. The young man lit a torch. Its light made shadows dance before him. He stepped cautiously, wary of traps. He was poor, but he was no fool. "The walls inside were smooth obsidian and carved with ancient writings and images. He could not read - he was a simple man - but he studied the images. "He saw a boy prince, sitting cross-legged upon a sun disk borne by a team of servants, a beaming smile upon his face. Chests of coins and riches were piled before him, the offerings of strangely garbed, bowing emissaries. "He saw other carvings, again showing the smiling prince, this time walking among his people. Their heads were pressed to the ground before him. Stylized rays of sunshine radiated from the boy's crown. "Before one of these images was a small, gold statue. It alone was worth more than he could have hoped to earn in ten lifetimes. The young man took it, slipping it into his satchel. "He did not intend to linger. He knew it would not be long before others came upon this place. When they did, he wanted to be gone. Greed makes fools of even the greatest men, and he knew that others would willingly spill his blood to claim that golden statue - and the other riches that were surely further in. Avarice was not one of the young man's faults, however. He felt no need to delve further. The other treasures hidden here were someone else's to claim. "He looked upon one last image before he left the tomb. It showed the boy prince dead, lying upon a bier. Those closest to him were wailing... but further back, people were celebrating. Had the boy prince been beloved, or had he been a tyrant? There was no way of knowing. "That was when he heard it: a sound in the darkness that made his skin crawl. "He looked around, wide eyed, holding his torch up before him. Nothing. "'Who's there?' he said. Silence was his only answer. "The young man shook his head. 'It is just the wind, you fool,' he thought. 'Nothing but the wind.' "Then he heard it again, more distinctly this time. A child was crying in the darkness further into the tomb. "Heard anywhere else, his paternal instinct would have been to go to the sound. But here, in the darkness of a funereal tomb? "He wanted to run... but he did not. The sobbing touched his heart. It was filled with such misery and grief. "Was it possible there was another entrance to this tomb? Had a young boy found his way down here and become lost? "Torch held high, he crept forward. The weeping continued, echoing faintly through the gloom. "A wide chamber opened before him, its floor black and highly reflective. Golden artifacts and jewel-inlaid walls glinted within. Gingerly, he entered the room. "He stepped back sharply as his heel sent ripples spreading out across the floor. Water. The floor was not made of reflective obsidian - it was covered in water. "Kneeling, he scooped a handful of it to his lips. He spat it out immediately. It was salt water! Here, in the heart of Shurima, a thousand leagues from the nearest sea! "He heard the sound of the boy weeping once more, closer now. "Holding his torch before him, the young man glimpsed a shape at the edge of its light. It appeared to be the child, sitting with his back to the man. "Carefully, he stepped into the room. The water upon the floor was not deep. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and fear clutched at his chest, yet he did not turn to run. "'Are you lost?' he asked, as he stepped closer. 'How did you get here?' "The shadowed figure did not turn... but he did speak. "'I... I don't remember,' he said. The sound swam around the young man, echoing off the walls. The boy spoke in an old dialect. His words were strange... but understandable. 'I don't remember who I am.' "'Be calm, child,' said the man. 'All will be well.' "He stepped closer, and the figure resolved itself before him. His eyes widened. "The shape before him was a god-statue carved in onyx, nothing more. It was not the source of the crying, nor of the child's voice. "That was when a small, dry hand grabbed him." The youngest of the listeners gasped, his eyes wide. The other children laughed in false bravado. Old Khaldun smiled, a golden tooth glinting in the firelight. Then, he continued. "The young man looked down. The linen-wrapped corpse of the tiny prince stood beside the man. Dull, ghostly light emanated from the deathly boy's eye sockets, though his entire face was bound in burial wrappings. The corpse-child held the man's hand. "'Will you be my friend?' the boy asked, his voice muffled by linen. "The young man lurched backward, breaking free of the child's grasp. The young man looked down at his arm in horror; his hand was shriveling, turning black and withered. The wasting touch then began to climb up his arm. "He turned and ran. In his shock and haste, he dropped his lantern. It hissed as it fell into the lake of tears, and darkness descended. Still, he could just make out the glow of daylight up ahead. He ran toward it, scrambling desperately, even as the wasting death crept up his arm towards his heart. "At any moment, he expected to feel the deathly boy's grasp upon him... but did not. After what felt like an eternity, but could only have been a matter of heartbeats, he burst from the darkness into the desert heat once more. "'I'm sorry,' echoed a mournful voice from the gloom behind him. 'I didn’t mean to.' "And thus, the Tomb of Amumu was unearthed," said old Khaldun, "and the deathly child released into the world." "But everyone knows he isn't real!" cried one of the children, the oldest of them, after a moment of silence. "Amumu is real!" said the youngest. "He's wandering the land trying to find a friend!" "He's real, but he isn't a boy," said another. "He's a yordle!" Khaldun laughed, and pushed himself to his feet with the aid of a gnarled walking stick. "I am old, and we have far to travel tomorrow," he said. "It is past time I was abed." His audience began to dissipate, smiling and talking in low, familial voices, but one child did not move. She stared at Khaldun, unblinking. "Grandfather," she said. "How did you lose your arm?" Old Khaldun looked down at the empty sleeve pinned at his shoulder, then flashed the girl a grin. "Goodnight, little one," he said with a wink.

This was the moment. The singular moment that had cost him so much, that had taken a lifetime of planning. A corrupt empire and its strutting princeling would be struck down under the blankly idiotic sun symbol they both so trusted. The key to immortality, jealously guarded and miserly offered, would be his alone, stolen in front of the entire world. A singular moment of perfect vengeance that would finally free the slave known as Xerath. Though his master’s helm revealed no human expression, and knowing that the lovingly etched metal could not respond in kind, Xerath smiled up at the soulless hawk’s face just the same, his joy genuine. A life spent in servitude, first for a mad emperor and now a vain one, endless manipulations for and against the throne, a near-damning quest for barely remembered knowledge that almost consumed him—all of it led to this grotesque masquerade of Ascension. The very word when spoken aloud was an assault: We will Ascend, while you are chained to the broken stone as the sands of time swallow you all. No. Not anymore, and never again. The chosen golden lords will not be taken into the sun’s embrace and made gods. A slave will do this; a simple slave, a boy who once had the misfortune to save a noble child from the sands. And for this sin, Xerath had been punished with a horrible, maddening promise: freedom. Unobtainable. Forbidden. Should the thought even dart through a slave’s mind, it would be punished by death, as the Ascended could gaze past flesh and bone, deep into one’s very soul, to see its dim traitorous glow. And yet, there it was, spoken by the young princeling he dragged from the embrace of the mercurial mother-desert. Azir, the Golden Sun, vowed that he would free his savior and new friend. A promise unkept to this day. The words of a grateful child, innocently oblivious to the impact they would have. How could Azir upend thousands of years of rule? How could he fight tradition, his father, his destiny? In the end, the young emperor would lose it all by not honoring his word. And so, Xerath was elevated and educated, eventually becoming Azir’s trusted right hand—but never a free man. The soured promise ate into what he was, and what he could have been. Denied a small, simple thing, the right to live his life, Xerath decided to take everything, all of the things denied to him, all of the things he deserved: the empire, Ascension, and the absolute purest form of freedom possible. With each step taken toward the offensively grandiose Dais of Ascension, positioned respectfully behind his emperor and flanked by the inept sentinels who supposedly protected Shurima, Xerath felt an unknown lightness he was genuinely shocked by. Was this joy? Does vengeance bring joy? The impact was almost physical. At that very moment, the overwrought suit of golden armor that was his tormentor abruptly halted. And turned. And walked toward Xerath. Could he know? How could he possibly know? This spoiled, self-obsessed boy? This righteous, falsely benevolent emperor whose hands were just as bloody as Xerath’s own? Even if he did, there was no staying the killing blow that was already in motion. Xerath had planned for every contingency. He had bribed, killed, out-maneuvered, and plotted for decades—he even tricked the monstrous brothers Nasus and Renekton into staying away from the event—but he had not planned for this… The Emperor of Shurima, the Golden Sun, Beloved of Mother Desert, soon to be Ascended, took off his helmet, revealed his proud brow and smiling eyes, and turned to his oldest and most trusted friend. He spoke about the love of brothers, the love of friends, of hard fights won and others lost, of family, of future, and finally… of freedom. At these words, the guards flanked Xerath, moving in, weapons drawn. So the princeling did know. Had Xerath’s plans had been undone? But the fools in armor were saluting. There was no menace to them, they were honoring him. They were congratulating him. On his freedom. His hated master had just freed him—he had freed them all. No Shuriman would ever wear chains again. Azir’s last act as a human was to unfetter his people. The foundation-shuddering roar of the assembled masses drowned out any response Xerath could have had. Azir donned his helmet and strode out onto the Dais, his attendants preparing him for the godhood that would never come. Xerath stood in the shadow of the monolithic Sun Disk, knowing that an empire-destroying doom was but seconds away. Too late, friend. Too late, brother. Far too late for us all.

As Azir walked the Emperor’s Way, the sand-echoes of his people pointed up at the Sun Disk, their joyful expressions turning to horror. Mouths opened wide in silent screams. They turned to run, stumbling and falling. Azir watched this all in despairing silence, bearing witness to the last moments of his people. They were obliterated by a wave of unseen energy, reduced to dust and cast to the winds. What had gone wrong with his Ascension to unleash this catastrophe? Azir's focus narrowed. His march became more resolute. He reached the base of the Stairs of Ascension and began to climb, taking them five at a time. Only his most trusted soldiers, the priesthood, and those of the royal bloodline were allowed to step foot upon the Stairs. Sand versions of these most favored subjects lined his path, faces upturned, grimacing and wailing in silence before they too were swept away by the winds. He ran, taking the steps faster than any man could, talons digging into the stonework, carving furrows where they caught. Sand figures rose, and were then destroyed, to either side of him as he climbed. He reached the top. Here, he saw the final circle of onlookers: his closest aides, his advisers, the high priests. His family. Azir dropped to his knees. His family was before him, rendered in perfect, heartbreaking detail. His wife, heavy with child. His shy daughter, clutching his wife's hand. His son, standing tall, on the brink of becoming a man. In horror, Azir saw their expressions change. Though he knew what was to come, he could not look away. His daughter hid her face in the folds of his wife's dress; his son reached for his sword, shouting in defiance. His wife... her eyes widened, sorrow and despair writ within. The unseen event blasted them to nothingness. It was too much, but no tears welled in Azir’s eyes. His Ascended form rendered that simple act of grief forever lost to him. With a heavy heart, he pushed himself to his feet. The question remained as to how his bloodline survived, for it most assuredly had. The final echo awaited. He advanced, halting one step below the dais, and watched as it all played out before him, reenacted in the sand. He saw himself, in his mortal form, rise up into the air beneath the Sun Disk, arms wide and back arched. He remembered this moment. The power coursed through him, infusing his being, filling him with its divine strength. A newcomer formed in the sand. His trusted bondsman, his magus, Xerath. His friend uttered a silent word. Azir watched himself shatter like glass, exploding into motes of sand. “Xerath,” breathed Azir. The traitor’s expression was unknowable, but Azir could see nothing but the face of a murderer. Where did such hate come from? Azir had never been aware of it. The sand image of Xerath rose higher into the air as the Sun Disk's energies focused into his being. A cadre of elite guards rushed toward him, but they were all far too late. A brutal shockwave of sand flared out, disintegrating the final moment of Shurima. Azir stood alone among the dying echoes of his past. This is what killed his people. Azir turned away, just as the first rays of the new dawn struck the Sun Disk overhead. He'd seen enough. The sand image of the transformed Xerath collapsed behind him. The dawn sun reflected blindingly off Azir's flawless golden armor. In that instant, he knew that the traitor still lived. He sensed the magus’s essence in the air that he breathed. Azir lifted a hand, and an army of his elite warriors rose from the sands at the base of the Stairs of Ascension. “Xerath,” he said, his voice tinged with rage. “Your crimes will not go unpunished.”