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Relocating Shmoneyism from Kalros (The Ravioli Deli) to Garama (Southern Valyria)

jakeman5 said:
I come from the scorching dunes where the true essence of our faith is tested by the sun’s unyielding gaze. Our religion was born on distant shores, yes, but the winds of change blow strong, and it’s time to relocate our holy site to the heart of the desert where the shmoney spirits whisper in the shifting sands, far from the stagnant waters of Ascalon.

But no! One of our so-called “founders” stands in the way, clinging to outdated visions like a miser to his last coin. This man, who claims divine insight, is nothing but a false prophet! His words are poisoned mirages, leading us astray from the prosperous path. He preaches stagnation while the bigcashman demand movement and evolution! How can we trust a leader who ignores the calls of the desert, where true enlightenment awaits?
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Unc + Chopped
 
Shmoneyism, boney prism, loaned a gnome some tourism.
Shmoneyism, escapism, nah, still going nowhere-ism.

-1 holy moly-ism, where's your believes?
 
obuth said:
Shmoneyism, boney prism, loaned a gnome some tourism.
Shmoneyism, escapism, nah, still going nowhere-ism.

-1 holy moly-ism, where's your believes?
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Where are your beliefs, rhyme slinger? In clever wordplay that leads nowhere? Or in the shifting sands where true shmoney flows freely, unburdened by outdated anchors?

The holy site must move to Garama. The scrolls demand it. The desert calls it. Only those chained to “nowhere-ism” resist.
 
In the eighth dawn after the Word was sent, the Prophet of the Dunes climbed the tallest dune and cried out: ‘O Cryptite, Architect of Worlds, hast thou forsaken the coin?’ And the wind answered only with sand in his mouth. Yet still he waited, for it is written that true faith is measured not in speed of revelation, but in endurance of silence.
 
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jakeman5 said:
In the eighth dawn after the Word was sent, the Prophet of the Dunes climbed the tallest dune and cried out: ‘O Cryptite, Architect of Worlds, hast thou forsaken the coin?’ And the wind answered only with sand in his mouth. Yet still he waited, for it is written that true faith is measured not in speed of revelation, but in endurance of silence.
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Roleplayer
 
And in the dryness of his mouth that the sand did fill, a great scene did he see. For in the deepest levels of his parched state his mind took to fabrications of sights and experiences. He knew not from what bowels of his state the visions were brought forth but he knew he needed only to venture further and complete a Great Trial. His followers must gather, in great numbers, beyond the Pale Reaches to visit the bones of a great lost beast in the burning sea.

Prayer... in great numbers... He felt it was the only way that his people would find providence.
 
And behold, in the fulfillment of the tenth dawn's decree, the Prophet of the Dunes gathered ten of the most loyal subjects who are true disciples of the Bigcashman, their pockets heavy with shmoney and their hearts ablaze with avarice. Beyond the Pale Reaches they marched, through the scorching winds of Garama, to the sacred bones of the great lost beast that lie half-buried in the burning sea.

There, amid ribs forged of ancient gold-veined stone and a skull vast enough to house a treasury, the faithful knelt in unison. They offered tribute: stacks of coin poured like libations, lapis scattered as glittering prayers, emeralds laid at the beast's maw as tokens of endless gain. Their voices rose in sacred chant:

"O Big Cash Man, Lord of Overflowing Vaults, Master of Markets Eternal! Witness thy children in number tenfold, stronger than words, richer than silence. Burn away the frozen husk of Kalros, where greed grew chill and stagnant. Anoint instead these southern dunes, where Southern Valyria's spires gleam with the true light of profit, where caravans flow like rivers of gold, and every trade is a hymn to thy glory!"

The sands trembled with their fervor; mirages of coin-heaps danced in approval. The Great Trial is complete. Ten loyal souls proved the faith lives, breathes, and migrates to where wealth is greatest.

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O Cryptite, Architect of Worlds and Weaver of Loka's Lore, the Bigcashman has spoken through action, not plea. The old site's baggage is ashes in the wind and providence now demands its seat in Garama, within the richest realm of Southern Valyria. Grant the exception and let Shmoneyism's holy heart beat where the coin never sleeps.

The faithful await thy blessing. The ledgers are open and the migration is ready.
 
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