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Serana places a sticky note in regards to the spelling errors, pushing her glasses up her nose 🤓. "It's Haelun'or."

"...So he doesn't know." The once-Watcher mutters, admist a field under the night sky. It feels much further to him, now that he cannot wander beyond it. He reads over the letter that's made its way into his hands again, before he stows it away and simply stares, skyward, thinking. And then he laughs, like a lunatic to the stars. He wonders if the Grand King can hear him, wherever he is - tears rolling down his face between heaves of laughter as he rolls in the grass, wholly alone. Razad never lived to know if he was right, Haus wonders, but he finds odd solace in thought the old man though of him as trustworthy, loyal; a friend. How far he had come, from telling the man he would never bend his knee to him to going to such lengths to to slay the Apostate for him. Yet still - it is another he has outlived. Even severed from the primary source of agony in his life, the ache in his soul never seems to cease. He pours a glass out into the dirt when his laughter has ceases, as he stargazes - and he wonders if he will ever live to see himself returned home.

"Now Thes. Thes es dragon fire." Says a dwarf as he listens to the sick beats on his Istone Slab.

Klog sits on the Rex Rock in Krugmar, reading the missive. He bursts out laughing, "Whub do theze twiggiez gruk dey ahm... Dey all flat zho zoon... Mi can nub believe dey ahm talking down on Lanre agh Yera, dey ahm hozh twiggiez, da only hozh twiggiez.... How dare dey talk buurz about Lanre... Mi will have zome gobboz curze hiz grave..."

[!] A journal made of cream colored pages, bound in elk hide. A depiction of the sea’s rolling waves is painted on the cover, a title embedded in the leather and painted in silver ink. Most of the pages appeared to be ripped out, leaving behind only entries from a certain range of dates. The Sealog of Princess Vallei Runya-Arassë Norväyn Sylvaeri -=- =-= 19th of The Amber Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — I can feel the waves calling for me once more, and as Kaito has set off on his own journey, now is a perfect time to partake on a voyage. I commissioned construction of a new ship, and she is finally finished. I have decided to name her Eärnur, which means Servant of the Sea in the ancient tongue; a fitting name I believe. I commissioned her specifically to be manned by one person, that I may go it alone whenever I choose. I have stocked up enough food and supplies for a month, and so now I set sail. 21st of The Amber Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — Today is the third day I have been out at sea, heading south from the Watcher’s Roost. The waves have been quite turbulent, as I witnessed a storm brewing in the distance. Luckily, I was able to steer westward to avoid it, though I will need to be careful to remember my way back home. So far I have seen no land, and so I am glad that I packed as much food as I did. I shall sail for another week or two before turning back home, I think. 24th of The Amber Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — Six days out at sea, and I have come across something troubling. I noticed that the water had started to become murky, and saw debris floating amongst the waves. I sailed towards the source to discover a shipwreck, a merchant’s vessel by the looks of it. The fragments of the ship suggest that it had been blasted apart, perhaps by pirates or a rival. Either way, the damage to the sealife is extensive. Dead fish bob on the surface, and I can only imagine what’s happening down below the dark water. I can’t leave it like this. It will likely take days, but I must clean this, especially if this black sludge is what I expect it to be. 6th of The Deep Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — It is exactly as I fear - Oil. The vessel was carrying vast amounts of oil, which has all spilled out into the sea. It has killed so much, ruined the seafloor I imagine. I have spent day and night trying to clean it all, skimming layer after layer of oil from the water’s surface. I am fortunate that the waves have been calm, otherwise this would be impossible. I am starting to see some progress luckily; the water almost appears safe enough to dive within and check out the damage below. I have also collected all the dead fish that have risen to the surface, their bodies drenched in oil. I will have to bury them on the shore. 14th of The Deep Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — I have done all that I can, cleaned up as much oil as possible. It will be enough, I think. While impossible to get it all, the sealife should have some hope of survival now. The water was safe enough to dive into a few days ago, so I went to check out the shipwreck. Indeed, cannon balls liter the seafloor, as well as the split hull. It should make a good home for the fish, but I was sure to gather any debris that could be mistaken for food or prove a danger to the wildlife. No more dead fish float to the surface now, and after a few weeks, all should return to relative normalcy. I am disgusting, covered in oil. I sail for home now, where a warm bath awaits me. 19th of The Deep Cold, Year 179 of the Second Age — I returned to the Watcher’s Roost a day earlier than expected, the wind luckily on my side. My vessel is in good condition, though the wood of the deck is stained from the oil. After a few days of recovery, I shall get to cleaning her up, and figure out a way to dispose of the oil. Perhaps it can still be used, in a way that doesn’t hurt any more of nature.

A white haired elf frowns deeper with each "kill on sight" she saw, names she knew, one she didn't. "How do they expect these people to be able to be good, to cause good, if they are to genocide them?" She tosses the codex aside onto a nearby table. Long had the Lorraine left her walls, or her heart, and yet when remembering what it once meant to her, she grimaces. "The church, their orders, their people... a people of hypocrites. To collude with warlocks, to ask their help then spit on their footprints when the Princes grant it, to indiscriminately hunt a cursed people, many of whom had no choice.... Liars. Thieves and Heretics in their own right... They will rot themselves from inside out." The elven woman leaves the codex there to feed her ridiculous amount of pets.

Ayche sits by his tent, somewhere in the wilderness. It's not entirely clear how the letter got to him - it's not as though he has an address these days, and he's sure that letter wasn't there a few moments ago, when he'd turned away to start a fire. He would've noticed a courier slipping into his campsite. He reads the letter over once, then twice. He's done his duty, he's received recognition - and now, once again, he's free. Part of him wonders if things would have turned out differently, if he'd never left Hohkmat. But a general without a war to fight is just a politician, and he's never been much of a politician. Still, he wishes he'd been there at the end.

Random one-off rules for CRP don't make sense. Every ranged projectile from potions to arbalests to magical versions all exists in the same ecosystem of ranged weapons - if one gets changed, the rest of them need to be adjusted in turn. Equally, it doesn't make sense to point at plate armor imo and say let's make people in that go slower. What about Horses in plate armor, or CAs/Constructs that are heavier, or similar things that weigh more? To many of the earlier points, Honor CRP should have as few rules as possible. However - if you are going to start thinking of rules and considerations for things like weigh and armor class, I really do you it has to go all the way into a fully thought out roll-CRP system. A halfway thought out system that does some things (seriously - what are archers even rolling for? The person they're shooting at doesn't even have to roll against the archer and nothing else ranged has to roll) and neglects other things only leaves large problems to be exploited and areas for disagreement and confusion. TL:DR CRP Rules should either be very minimal and left to players to be mature adults who can problem-solve and communicate and so thorough and account for everything that all players have to do is /roll 20 with advantage/disadvantage or modifiers in a system that leaves 0 roof for arguing. In fairness, there's no reason why two systems can't exist, and players can just pick which they want before conflict starts.

I agree with reducing movement because I find it logical, but more reductions would probably make plate armour combat just flat un-fun. I don't really think bows need less emotes, either. While I'd like to fire them more, if people don't treat them like sticks they can do significant damage and flat out one tap you if you want to allow them to. I'd rather see less rolling for arrows and thrown throjectiles for arrows though. While there is a fun element of gambling.... Why the heck should a ranger character have to roll just the same as someone lacking training in bows? They aren't RNG at that point and that makes playing a ranger build less appealing because you're going to be told to roll.

The High Pontiff could feel an odd sensation, before a letter fell onto his head...

please don't add more CRP rules than necessary If you start trying to nerf movement speed of people wearing armor they will find a way to minmax that too "aksually i'm not wearing full plate, as i'm missing a codpiece!!!"

War On All Sides: Hel-Bot Attack Chronicled by Yamashiro Tatsuo All was quiet on the frontlines; the burning infernal ruins of the flower capital were fully visible, lighting up the night. Its wicked infernal flame making any brave warrior uneasy and nervous. While the Grub Bucket continued to serve its signature dishes to the hungry warriors of the Shogunate, it felt just like any other day on the frontlines, yet something was afoot beyond no man's land; the infernal machinations of the yokai were hard at work. The warriors of Koyo-Kuni remained stoic, waiting for their enemy to attack. Gusts of wind blew against the colorful banners as the sound of hellish screams resonated from the village. Out of nowhere, large, olog-sized infernal corpses were flung into the camp, landing with explosive power. Bone fragments and organs were sent in every direction, striking many warriors and infecting those with a terrible sickness. Then, all of a sudden, the silence of no man's land was broken. CLANK CLANK CLANK, Gashadokuro's menacing force of metallic constructs emerged from the fog of no man's land. Numbering at least 20 strong, they glowed a sickly green hue with crudely made weapons within each hand. The battle was about to begin! Thundering explosions rocked the area as alchemical elixirs broke upon the incoming force, sending some into the traps laid below. As metal met bamboo, a few constructs bled out, deactivating from the fight. Meanwhile, Grub Bucket Grease was launched forth into the paths of the other constructs, proving to be another effective product. With no traction on the ground, three lost their balance and fell onto the deadly bamboo sticks below. Though the horde of metallic constructs moved on, their marching shaking the ground of the checkpoint before them. As they clambered onto the palisades, they were met with blades wrought of pure Oyashiman steel. Sparks flew around as weapons collided and warriors were struck down. The gravel below was painted with the red ichor of the machine men as they continued to be cut down without mercy. Towards the gatehouse, Shugo brought a force of brave warriors who charged toward the back of the mechanical constructs, slicing them apart like butter. The battle was over, and the ground was littered with scrap metal from the fallen constructs. Though this would surely not be the last battle at the checkpoint...

the 2 v 1 is crazy

Atticus had felt Artel’s hand rest on his shoulder, alongside the question- I heard Fatebinder is dead. How are you feeling? It wasn’t an easy one. He lingers in the silence of Marignan’s halls, clasping his hands together tightly, staring off to a fixed point on the wall as he thought. How did he feel? He and the Grand-Magister never had a clear relationship, if any at all. Boss, and worker. Leader, and follower. If Razad ever had feelings about him beyond that, it was never clear to him. The only time he could recall peeking past that veil was the one time he stepped aside, spoke out of line. Tired, and bitter, and war-torn as they all were. A snip about recognition, and the ego of mages. It was the only time he could recall making the Razad the Fatebinder angry. He can’t remember all the words exchanged now- Accusations- Razad had never taken insubordination well. Atticus wasn’t usually insubordinate. It was as much a surprise to him, as anyone, that he didn’t walk back his words. Refuted a demand for trial, and redemption, and in the end faced little consequence. He doesn’t remember how he managed that, either. But he remembers how the elder mage laid a hand on his shoulder, and faced him with a look of pride. You’ve finally grown a spine. He can’t remember another time where Razad looked on him with the same pride. Oddly, he finds himself wishing he spoke out more. Angrily, loudly, like so many others dared do. Not that he would have ever quite been capable of it. Maybe if he’d made the man angry more often, he’d know what he thought of him. Maybe if he knew what Fatebinder thought of him, he’d know how to feel. But that’s too much to voice, and Artel is still waiting for an answer. “Complicated,” He lands on. “Complicated.” That’s succinct enough. He walks home, after bidding the house of Theonus farewell. It takes him past the spires of Hohkmat, the imposing city on the cliffside he had watched from the first brick, to the final breath. He can’t claim to have been there as long as some, but he’d like to think his tenure meant something. The fact of it was, when you went back to the beginning, he’d have little without Hohkmat. It’s hard for him to decide where to credit himself, and where to credit those who plucked him off the side of the road and gave him a purpose. It’s hard to tell where he should credit Razad himself, in all that- But he pictures it as some sort of debt. Repaid, he hopes. The letter arrives late. Wilford is already asleep, and the candle in his study had burnt down to its last. He pulls it from the bird on the windowsill with confusion, peeling open the small envelope as his eyes scan the contents. It doesn’t take long, but he lingers over it anyway. Once, twice, a third time. Maybe the thing that surprised him most, out of anything, was that it had been penned at all. That Razad the Fatebinder had sat down and, when considering who to address after his likely-violent demise, chose him as one of them. What went through his mind? Gratitude? Was that what Atticus had wanted? He thought it was. Her words run through his mind, before he can stop them. He talks to you like you’re a child. The letter says everything, and nothing, like every conversation they ever had. His hands curl slightly at the edges, eyes fixing on those last words. I’m not Hakad. I’m a debtor. That was what he had said during that argument, that single argument- Or something along those lines. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one with the debt? Had he ever cleared it? He was being thanked, and that was supposed to be what he wanted, and shouldn’t he be happy with it? He turns, and steps back towards his chair. It’s another long few minutes of silence in his study, staring at the letter, before he can put together the words. He tries to picture the man’s face, but he only saw it twice. ”… I wanted to know what you thought of me. And I wanted to-“ He pauses, and presses his lips together frustratedly- “I wanted to be more than other people’s work, for the rest of my life. And you always spoke about seeing potential in people, and I wanted to know-“ He sighs, and folds the letter, glancing aside. “… Then again, it doesn’t matter now.” Then he looks back to that burned-low candle, and snuffs it. Reaching into the drawer of his desk, he lights another. Once, he thought Razad the Fatebinder to be infallible. A mage-king, a leader, to who he owed a debt of life. The mage of mages. Then thirty years and a war passed, and he saw an egotistical man. A foolish man, a detached man, a proud man- Who did not see the value of those around him, beyond his tunnel vision dream. The mage of mages. And then the Fatebinder died, in a blaze of pride, and ego, and blood. And Atticus still wonders the same questions he now knows he will never ask. Not that he ever would have. He lets the candle burn down, and leaves the letter on his desk. The world turns on. He’ll never know, really, if Razad saw more in him than a pair of hands to work. But perhaps he would be fine not knowing. After all, that was his own call to make.

Merf wandered through the rows of books in his library, meticulously checking over each and every one - ensuring that they are in just the right spot. He'd come across one which had been placed upside down. "Mm! Can't have that, can we?" He'd hum to himself, turning the book back right side up. "Much better!" The gnome would continue as he had been, navigating through the shelves which lurched far, far above him: Smiling.

Caius I, while engaging in a grand board game with his colleague, Cardinal Frantzisko picks up a card, and plays it;

She could have never expected that paper could bear such an impossible weight to it. Left to reflect on those decisive moments in which Razad impaled himself upon Faeryel's sword, she couldn't have known she'd come to hold in her hands the last will of the now dead Fatebinder. An expectation to be laid upon her, she was sure, that she dreaded to face. She did not believe that he deserved death, but he had chosen it. It was, after all, by his own will that he sought martial Kaggath as a noble end to his life - to die on his own terms. Why then, did such visceral guilt bury itself within her stomach? With a long sigh, and a deep breath in, she did find strength sufficient enough to read his final words... A reply maybe only heard by herself and another came after some thought; answering a question with another question. The last conversation they would ever have, and it was addressed with just five words. ". . . Was there ever any doubt?"

The old knight settles into his new study, thinking back to what he had seen, the army of magi coming out of the gates and later hearing the word of The Fatebinders death. The old knight hummed, he had few times spoken to the man even when he worked at the enclave but he had spent many years with some of his most relied on people "and now we see what is to come" Artel says, his voice echoing back to him as he speaks to the empty room.

"May they retake their city soon." Sand offered, in peace of mind. He'd hoped his dear friends would be safe and well in the coming year.

everyone who said “watch an irl video” of plate armor is a ******* nerd and I hope all your ST items despawn in your inventory. 2 emote bows are absurd if you apply them to the right circumstances, you double the firing output of most weapons in long fight and pairing that with a horse and minmaxxed positioning and you’ll send 5 arrows in 10 emotes while being untouchable. plate armor is only as broken as nerds say it is. I think all we need is a proper plate buster solution to allow for ppl to diversify their armor choices.

Veils of charcoal grey smoke roiled across the open air of the Northern Winds tobacco parlor. . . Within, the Madame of the establishment stood at the arched window with an outcast gaze - each breath blowing idle plumes into the still night air of Notrebanc. Contemplation in the stead of sleep, as usual. "I wish I could say that your name will be spoken with reverence, but I know that is not likely."

"Master Fatebinder," Renilde croaked, already wrought with the grief of her first son's passing just months earlier. Renilde had never known Fatebinder casually, and had only once seen him without his mask - what a handsome face she thought he'd had. Yet, he'd been a fine conversationalist when their paths did cross politically, and he was ever reliable whenever she'd sought to call upon him or and Hohkmati for assistance. Her fist struck a blow against the surface of the table, rattling the tea-things she usually read her correspondences over. The elderly woman wondered, clutching onto the letter as though it were a lifeline. Would her time come soon, where she would join the better half of her family and friends in the afterlife? Each passing day, she had less and less ties to those who lived above ground...