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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...

It was his last gift to her. The conspirators wanted to force an abdication. A published missive, and a peaceful retreat into the desert. But as Faeryel sat there, in the sort of living room upon which the world turns, she felt a terrible sense of certainty that Razad would force her to kill him. He didn't. He pulled himself on her sword, rather than making her choose. Had she failed him? Was he disappointed in her, that she would spare his life, and deny him the succession he craved? When she stepped up to his failing body, she whispered, "I'm sorry, Master." And then, lying through her teeth, in an attempt to comfort the dying man: "But I had to take what was mine."

Laurissa, the revolutionary who had—by luck and chance—led the coup that deposed Razad, finished her speech with a sheathing of that rapier of starsteel. She stepped her way past the crowds of people, those who had gathered around her and Faeryel to liberate the rule of the Academy of Hohkmat. A revolution she started out of a moment of heated emotions, of emotions she let boil to the point that she decided after her mistake to simply follow through and rattle the old man until he was put in his place. She echoed those words she spoke to him after her display of him as she descended the steps, “Momento mori . . . remember, ye are mortal.”

Say what you will of this man. I believe it. A fool, a fraud, unfit to rule. But he always did it for us. Mages. We are here, together, in this city, in this Academy, because of him. I will never forget the day you helped me, youthful and excited, to make my very own arcane focus. The day you believed in me. I believe in Hohkmat because of you. Marinus Corvus Calvissiador, resting in his office, looked out his window once more, to a world... knowable. If only we care to go out and see it.

A horrible, wretched, wicked thing received a letter. Its thoughts were only natural, in mirror of the other dead man's own. . . "Your blinding ambition prevented you and I from taking the Mages to unimaginable heights of power."

https://www.cbp.gov/border-security/along-us-borders/border-wall-system

Portrait of Razad the Fatebinder in formal Regalia Official Release from the estate of House Fahrazad The following is released from the estate of the ruling House of Fahrazad of Hohkmat, the official shorthand historical account of Grand Magister Razad the Fatebinder and his last will and testimony. Official History Born Razad of an unknown tribe, Razad is a native of the nomadic Hakad tribes. Birth mother and father unrecorded, he was taken in by The Weaver, Grand Magister of the tribe of Hakad and made an apprentice at the age of 12. Razad did defeat his master in Kaggath at the age of 18, becoming Grand Magister by rite of the challenge and besting two other apprentices for the title and taking up the regnant styling of ‘The Fatebinder’. Razad continued to lead the tribe in Almaris, and made a decision to end the tribe's nomadic nature in the desert- calling together all of the great Magi of the continent to prove their worth to serve as Magisters of his tribe. Prior to this time, mages were scattered and leaderless - pursuing hundreds of individual pursuits with no communal goals or purpose. Razad, Binder of Fates, did bring them together and this formed the nascent beginnings of Hohkmat. During the flight from Almaris - it is known that Razad did receive near mortal injuries that caused his disconnection from the void. His connection was restored by a Lurinite benefactor that Razad did not name in his will. Leading the tribe of Magi to the shores of Aevos, Razad was beset by many challenges - but made diplomatic peace with the Petrans who did allow him to grow and flourish from a small gathering of tribesmen into a flourishing city. Razad did personally oversee the construction of this city, the institutions and the preservation of the traditions of Hohkmat. For its first forty years, Hohkmat did fend off demons, internal threats and coups, and achieved victory in a war on its doorstep. The Magisters of the City plotted for power and thrones, and Razad successfully removed those from power or had killed the greatest challenges to Hohkmat early in his reign. Chief among them were Magisters Lanre Cerusil and Yera Silveira, who official records conclude as having engaged in apostate magic. Razad did also cultivate those around him, as the Grand Magister had an impeccable ability to identify talent and bring forth the best in those around him. He promoted Magisters Laurissa, Sulieronn, and Haus to their seats of power. This era of Hohkmat history was called the ‘Age of Strife’ by the Grand Magister, for its brutal nature of competition for Hohkmats survival and stability. Kaggath became a regular, brutal, and necessary means in which to restore order among the city of Mages - a culling the Grand Magister believed was neccesary to prevent the most evil Magi from seizing power and holding it early on. Following the upheaval of the Kaggath between Magisters Haus and Silveira, Razad declared a new era of study, knowledge, and magic - an end to violence. The next 10 years of his reign Razad did call the ‘Age of Transition’, in which the old institutions of conflict and strife were to be dismantled, believing he had stabilized the Magisters into less hostile polities. Under his scrupulous leadership, Hohkmat saw extreme financial excellence, the design of a brand new city, a complete redesign of the nation into an academy in which it's premiere function was magical instruction and the growth of the city into the epicenter for the study and promotion of magic and a well founded educational curriculum. Razad had approved two apprentices to train as his heir, and their education did continue well into this age. The remaining years of his reign did complete the transition into the ‘Age of Creation'. During this age, the one we currently live in, Hohkmat would continue to become an outstanding academy. Unexpectedly becoming independent, Razad did quickly secure the defense of the nation - his treaties with the Church of Canon and the Heartlanders cornerstones of this political process. The Magisters did challenge Razad for his throne, but he did demand the old traditions be honored. In full ceremonial regalia, Razad did engage in Kaggath with his apprentice, Faeryel of House Fahrazad. Their struggle ended in victory for his apprentice, Razads final worlds were ‘What is the Masters, will one day belong to the apprentice’ He did remove his bone mask and turban to look his apprentice in the eyes, thrust into her hands the ceremonial staff of the Grand Magister and did depart this world with the face of honor of the tradition of the tribe of the Mage-Nomads of which he was raised. Razad featured in full ceremonial battle-garb Formal Will The House of Fahrazad does now acknowledge Faeryel , of the regnant name of ‘The Scholar’ as new Master of the ruling House, and shall begin to archive her reign. The house shall enter into a three day period of mourning, preparing Fatebinders body for ceremonial burial, and then a three day jubilee in celebration of the ascent of a new Master. Razad the Fatebinder, Grand Magister, King of Sorcerers did reign for over a century as leader of the people of Hohkmat. He believed that conflict and competition are inevitable, and that the Grand Magister must suffer the weight of the nation in private. For this reason, it was the Grand Magister's wish that no private letters or counter narrative from his private archives be exposed to the public, believing history will judge him well for his deeds. Razad has fought his last Kaggath, and in his tradition - it is bad luck for the dead to cast words from beyond the grave - and so he has left no public rebukes of those who sat on his council other than the following scroll, ‘Fate has come to pass as it must. The inevitably of change, for nothing is eternal. The void preserve me, and you all, in the days to come’ There is not a mage on the continent of Aevos who does not know his name, for fame or notoriety, and the world of magic has forever been impacted by a nomad Wizard from a desert Farfolk tribe who shall be remembered in the halls of Hohkmat forever. He did bind the Mages together. (The following info is known only by those present, and the info in Razads head - to him alone). Razad did see the hesitation in his apprentice's eyes in declaring her statement. He assumed she felt shame at deposing her master, but Razad knew this is the way of Hakad..ultimately the way of all Magi. To die by an assassin's blade, or a scheme was no way for the King of Mages to die - he would die as he was meant to: KAGGATH. “Faeryel…this is how it was always supposed to be. How it must be….this is our way, this our tradition. Kaggath is inevitable, let us see if you are ready to earn what is yours. Do not mourn, as your Master, this is my wish..." Razad stood opposite the hall of his apprentice, he did place the bone mask of his master The Weaver upon his face, grip his war staff, and his attendants did place the Grand Magister's ceremonial armor upon him. He was old, and felt the great weight of his master's garb. Every time he donned this armor his enemies were killed, his opponents defeated. Razad had a century of magical victories, in combat, in debate, in politics. No one mage could dare say they were his equal in all of Hohkmat. Yet despite knowing this was the way, he did hide his remorse in fighting his apprentice beyond his bone mask- knowing that he may have to kill her. A great bout took place beneath the Chamber of Fire, the crashing sound of stone and blade as the two fought… Seeing his apprentice wield a flaming sword charging towards him, he again saw what he thought was hesitation and unhappiness. Razad did give his apprentice a final lesson, of humility and of a power beyond what any of his Chamber of Magisters could ever grasp - for their schemes were as short sighted as their egos were large. He did call off his magical summons, gripped Faeryel’s blade of flame, and leaned his body fully into her blade. He doesn't remember much beyond this, he was barely able to make out the other spectators in the room…he removed his turban and his bone mask, uttered words almost instantly to his apprentice that he believes were ones a proud father might remark to a proud daughter and ...it all just gets so… Letters were left by the Grand Magister for release by his estate upon his succession. OOC: And to those who are trying to start a new group, never forget....people are always out to put you down. Do what you want.

A Numenedain Templar prepares for the gathering of the Warband. "They call for my Tar and so we shall answer. . . I'll be damned if another people is displaced to these wretched beasts."

The Princess of Númenost cleaned her blade and packed a bag, "They fought with us, stood with us - we will help end the war."

"Shit." Shoya Mochou hissed, the missive creasing beneath her grip upon the paper. She was within her home of Lurin, taking care of one of her dear friends. "Forgive me Shugo, but I cannot leave until they can care for themselves." The woman muttered, careful to not let said friend hear..

1. speed doesnt need to be reduced. Just emote exhaustion. Take breathers. this isn't a matter of balancing, this is a matter of RP quality. 2. Arbalests, crank crossbows, bolases, pilum... just be creative when you try take down a tin can! You need not rework the system so you can shoot them like how you shoot anyone else. Different situations call for different solutions. It should also be noted that any drawbacks for non-magical things can also apply to magic attacks as well in certain situations, depending on the magic at hand. 3. No. Just git gud or use throwables, lol Do it anyways, coward go against the CRP meta

Otellia Maiheiuh waves the paper around "SEE? SEE! RIGHT HERE! RIGHT THERE! I'M GOOD! I'M GOOD!" She points at her name with her tatted index finger multiple times. Declaring to no one around within the Rosethorn square. Looking once more at the codex, "Let's see if they will hurt me for a third time."

WILD

Sofiele ponderes a singular question… ”He had more kids…?”