AdmiralLB

The Blacksmith On a moonlit night, some five hundred years ago, an elven child was born. Unloved by his parents, the boy was left to die in the cold, where he was found by a kindly blacksmith and his wife. Beneath a black mountain, in a great city of fire and iron, that boy was raised with love and kindness. He was taught in his father's ways, aiding him in the forge by the time he was but five winters old. He grew tall and strong there, and he learned a good, valuable skill, one which he would refine over the course of the many years to come. But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world. The greedy lords of the city grew jealous of the father's skill, they despised his kindness and that he was loved by all who met him. Hatching a sinister plan, the vile wretches had the boy's family slain, with him as the only unlucky survivor. A boy of twelve winters was enslaved and made to do work for the lords, his skin darkened with coal and ash, blistering from the heat and burned by the fire. His hands and feet bleeding from the roughness of his environs, the boy was chained and beaten into submission, for there was naught he could do. Until the day came, and the boy had become a man. Despite their best efforts to break him, the lords had unwittingly tempered the boy like the metals they had him work. Tall as an oak and strong as an ox, the man had ever despised the wretched things that took his family. And when the day came that an earthquake shook the mountain, he saw his chance. Not just to escape, but to enact vengeance. For you see, the man was no fool, he knew that open rebellion would surely see him slain. So he'd waited, and he'd prepared. Over the years of his imprisonment, he had saved every scrap that another would have tossed aside, and fashioned it into a blade. It was not blade one would call beautiful, it was an ugly, terrible thing, and certainly not a blade one would consider good. With his gaolers distracted, the man broke from his cell. Amidst the collapsing city, overflowing with the magmatic currents that sat beneath the mountain, the man hunted down those who had wronged him. He killed them all. Like a raging whirlwind, he tore through the lords, who had grown fat and old. As he stood over the last of them, his sword bent and broken, the city finally breathed its last. Barely, he made it out, fleeing the site of his sorrow. He crossed the frigid wastes of his homeland, until he reached the sealine. There, he bought passage to another land with the little wealth he'd managed to take from the slain lords, and he left his homeland, nevermore to return. For many moons they sailed, until the ship was faced with a terrible storm that saw them shipwrecked. When the boy came to, he found himself in a strange, cold land. He hid and scavenged to survive, until he was caught by some local soldiers. He was held prisoner until they could think of what to do with him. It was decided that he should be put to work. Unlike his prior captors however, the soldiers treated the man fairly, at times even with kindness. He befriended them, and he learned from them their language and their customs. When his service was fulfilled, he stayed with them for some years. Confined as he had always been, the man yearned to wander, to explore, and he did. He left his friends behind, and walked the many roads of the realms, until he arrived in the city of New Reza. He like the city, and its people, so he stayed. Enlisting in the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, the man served the kingdom for many years as a soldier and blacksmith. He made many friends, and lost them again, as is the curse of the long-lived. He found love, he married, and he had a son. The man even became a knight, earning the privilege of squireship as reward for his deeds during the Siege of Aegrothond, where he slew one of the Inferi commanders in single combat. As knight, the man served ever loyally, though at times his temper got the better of him. He took a squire, a young commoner named Markus, and the boy was as a son to him. But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world. Markus was taken from him, slain and buried whilst the man was absent on a quest. The man wept at his son's grave for days, raging at the world that had taken Markus well before his time, whilst the man was allowed to grow old. With this final indignity, the man came to a choice. He petitioned the king, coming close to begging, and was honourably released from his oath. He wandered the realms, lost and broken. His good wife came with him, whilst their son struck out on his own, though never heard from again. They came to Norland, and it did not last. They came to Sutica, and it did not last. They came to Haelun'or, and it did not last. Finally, they came to the city of the Mali'Fenn, underneath which the Mali'Ker had also made their home. In this cold realm, which the man almost likened to his home, he served, almost taking faith, though he did not in the end. Then, all changed. It changed when the man met him. The Son of Azdromoth. The ancient Nephilim Balthazar. The two formed an unlikely friendship, and Balthazar took the man to the Academy of his brother Morur'ei. There, the man met many beings, mortal and not. He met seekers, heralds, ordained ones and the mighty Nephilim. Morur'ei, Vothdrem, and even the three-eyed Prince, the Prophet, the An-Gho. In awe at them all, the man however held Balthazar in the greatest regard, and in turn the Justiciar taught the man. He branded the man's chest, which now bore the flaming eye of Azdromoth, and the man became a Herald. The Herald The Herald served loyally, and he was taught the ways of Azdromoth in turn. Never an esoteric being, the Herald focused his service on the practical things. He fought, he forged, and he learned. When Vothdrem rebelled against the An-Gho, the Herald slew him, though the Nephilim would ultimately receive final judgement at the hands of his Father. His Father, the Titan, the King who never was, Azdromoth. The Herald knew that Azdromoth was a lord he could serve, a worthy King. And so he did for many years, until he received further glory, being ordained by the brothers Morur'ei and Balthazar. It was during this time that the Herald's wife, untrusting of his choices, would leave his side. Afterwards, the Herald felt hollow, and he spent his days in the forge, hammering away at iron and steel to vent his frustrations. And then came the Cloudbreaker, the mighty dragon. The servants and children of Azdromoth would attempt to bring the Cloudbreaker to their side, granting the dragon wealth and a magnificent gift from Azdromoth. But it did not last, for the Cloudbreaker was slain by an infernal terror. A terrible worm, that wrestled with the Cloudbreaker and ultimately emerged the victor. And as if this was not a bitter enough thing, the Cloudbreaker was reborn through foul necromantic magicks. So the realms united, and a team was formed. The Herald was part of that team, having earned the honour in virtuous combat with other heralds. For his victory, he was granted a nail, one of the An-Gho's cruel tears, and his brow was marked with a golden point by the Inquisitor Aulkhorian. The team of the united realms would seek out the heart of the abomination that the Cloudbreaker had become, and destroy it. And the Herald continued to serve, as he always had, as he always would. For the Herald was many things. He was headstrong and stoic, violent and bellicose, but he was always loyal. He even found love once more, in a woman named Siria. But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world. In the end, it was this loyalty that saw him make a request of Balthazar. A duel. For the Herald had never been bested in single combat, and he wished to test himself against his master. In truth, both knew the Herald would lose. How could a man defeat a dragon, after all? The request was made, and so granted. It was a terrible sight to behold. Balthazar, very much loving his apprentice, would not befoul the Herald's request by holding back, and destroyed the Herald in combat. Balthazar first disarmed the Herald, then battered his armour to scrap. He took hold of the Herald's helmeted head and opened his maw. The last thing the Herald saw that day was fire. The last thing he felt that day was pain. The flames ravaged the Herald, hungrily burning away at the armour until it was melting, fusing itself to the Herald's face. Then Balthazar tore away the helmet, and the Herald's skin with it. In his cruel mercy, Balthazar healed the Herald, saving his life, but scarring him for the rest of his days. He granted a crown to the Herald, a relic from the scorched herald Maerec. And still, the Herald served. He fought, he killed, and he bled. His reward was an orb of sacred metal, filled with vibrant flames, and three sacred tasks from Ut'torvioth, that which had been Morur'ei. Over the course of years, the man fulfilled these trials. He slew a Dreadknight, and forged from its remnants a mighty axe. He uncovered the secret at the heart of Asioth. And he ventured out into the Ashlands with nothing but the cloth on his back, discovering a thing of his father, lost to him so many years ago. He reported his success, and he was rewarded. His reward was the Death. The Death that was the Birth of the Forgelord. The Forgelord As the Herald burned, he gave his body over to something greater. From the flames of his pyre, the creature Vedyolthur emerged, clad in scales of ebon and maroon, bearing a crown of horns in the same hues. The creature was at once familiar and unfamiliar with the world around it, and the people in its presence. It wandered the realms once more, as had the Herald so long ago, a habit it would never lose. Once it had found itself, it returned, taking up the mantle of Forgelord. For what the Herald could do, the Nephilim could only do better. And it did. Blades that were as kings amongst their kind were created, armour that could weather any assault. The Forgelord learned and improved, coming to know the secrets of forging any metal in the realms, barring those that required the hand of mages. Lunarite, Azhl, Boomsteel, Dracanium, Bluesteel and even Carbarum, it could forge them all, and its flames burned bright. Then came Apotheosis. At its brothers sides, and with the support of the heralds and seekers, did the Forgelord make war against the False Sun and its blind followers. Many fought, many died. The Forgelord and its kin ventured to their Father's citadel, where they killed invaders and cleansed corruption from their ancient siblings. They liberated the foundries of Tor'Galend and it was the Forgelord who discovered a most magnificent sight. Dracanium, the sacred metal formed from the remains of Dragons. It was from this metal that the Forgelord would fashion for itself a great hammer. The Burning Hand, Urdrakule. A singular piece, crafted from the remains of Vulkan, the Lord of Drakes. The hammer whispered to the Forgelord, offering wisdom and knowledge, and the two fought well under the banners of Azdromoth. Countless servants of the False Sun were reduced to bits of metal and bloody chunks under their assault. And then came Azdromoth. The Titan, The King-Father. The False Sun and He did battle, and with the help of an unforeseen ally, did He win. He devoured the False Sun, ascending in its place. The Forgelord wept with joy as his Father, his King-of-Ages succeeded. But it did not last, for nothing good can last in this world. The End Hollow. The Forgelord felt hollow in the absence of its Father, its Lord. Vedyolthur yearned to be at His side once again. There was only one thing that kept the Forgelord from joining the Titan in his new realm. The promise of another piece of knowledge. A new metal, Argentum. A new milestone to add to its masterdom of the forge. And so it did. It worked for the Darkqueen, over the course of years, and finally it learned. The last bit of lore was finally learned. By this time, the Forgelord had no equals in the realms of men, for surely only the divine and their counterparts could ever hope to outdo one such as Vedyolthur, the leal Blacksmith of the King Who Is. As the others, greedy piglets suckling at the teat of victory, left with their spoils, the Forgelord took aside one of its brothers. The Serpent of the Seas, mighty Elathion. It was to Elathion that Vedyolthur would bequeath its will. With its will in good hands, the creature Vedyolthur spoke, for one last time. Its words rung out through the vaunted halls of Tor'Praeth like the clear sound of a bell. "I go now to the Hall of my Father, in whose might company I shall not be ashamed." Its last words still sounding throughout the might spire, Vedyolthur encased itself in a maelstrom of fire, red as blood and bright as the sun. When the flames subsided, there stood a wondrous sight. A Dragon, bedecked in a coat of scales the black of midnight, its crown a nest of horns of metallic darkness, slowly morphing into a deep maroon toward their points. Above each of these eight horns floated a small red flame, bearing the same hue as the maelstrom that the Dragon had emerged from. Its claws were like dark red steel, its wings were made from black scales streaked with deep red, and the base of its tail was a dreadful macehead bedecked with spikes. Its eyes were like the sun, blazing with red fire, and that same fire also burned at the centre of its chest, where the flaming eye of Khârn rested. The Dragon let out a fierce roar, one that shook the structure it stood inside of to its foundations. And then, slowly, softly, the Dragon became something else. Or rather, it returned to that which it had once been. Over a short while, one that would seem an eternity, but would be laughably short compared to the eternal slumber to come, the Dragon turned to stone. By the time it was over, there stood the Dragon, rendered in black marble, as detailed as it had been in life, but resting peacefully in the eternal embrace of stone. The First Vedyolthur found itself in an unfamiliar place, clad in the simple trappings of a blacksmith. A lush garden, where trees the colour of warm gold sprawled, whilst rivers and mountains dotted the land. It was a warm place, a kind and gentle place. Though the Nephilim had never been here before, it felt like home. It wandered for a while, as it always had. It came across a small stream and tasted the water. It was fresh and clear, and for the first time in its life, Vedyolthur had consumed something that did not taste like ash. Vedyolthur spent some more time wandering across the land, feeling the grass on its bare feet. It came across a wonderous thing. Other Nephilim, its kin of old. They welcomed their younger brother, and lead him to a clearing, bidding him to wait as they left. The Nephilim waited, though it could not clearly tell for how long. This place seemed and eternal one, the passage of time unimportant. It was then that a figure stepped into the light of the clearing. It was the Titan. Azdromoth smiled as His child came to kneel before Him. He placed a gentle hand on the top of Vedyolthur's head, and bade him welcome to His realm, the first to enter since His ascension. Vedyolthur smiled. It had come home.

Somewhere within the hallowed halls of the God-Eater, Azdromoths loyal Forgelord is interrupted in it's peerless craftswork by a hooded acolyte. The robed figure reports to the Tyrant of the Forge, tells of news from the dual-Kingdom, upon which the thing grins broadly, and speaks. "Well now, it seems that your old friends are active. Shall I pay them a visit, and see if these new Marian Knights live up to the legacy of their forebears, oh Ironclad Blacksmith?" With a flick of the wrist, the acolyte is dismissed, and the Forgelord prepares for to wander once more.

Somewhere, an Azdrazi is laughing his ass off.

Now I am become Valstrax, dragon of SPEED

Skin Name - Golden Dragon Bid - 55$ Discord Name - GrandDadmiral

Skin Name - Claymore Bid - 37$ Discord Name - GrandDadmiral

Skin Name - Golden Dragon Bid - 42$ Discord Name - GrandDadmiral

Roleplay Post Of burning Rock and Ashen Lands or One more Journey “Work to be done.“ Zodd hums an ancient melody, sung to him as a child, after setting out on what was likely to be the last journey of his life. His trip through the ashen landscapes was unlike many other the well-travelled man had undertaken before, for his goal was unclear. “Object of great importance, left to my judgement, not at all vague.” He muses as he climbed over rock and stone, the lack of his right arm raising the difficulty significantly. He had expected the lack of his primary hand, alongside the limb it was attached to, to be a hinderance, like it had been when it was initially ripped away from his body by that lightning-wielding Troll all those years ago. Yet, despite him training and preparing himself, the resistance that the land itself was showing to his efforts was staggering. Soot-stained, dead stones, ash-filled air, molten rock, and flames covered the surroundings as far as the eye could see. Although Zodd’s upbringing had made him somewhat accustomed to extreme temperatures both hot and cold, even his resistance had met its match here. “How long has it been since I came here? Truth be told, I think I’ve lost count.” The first words spoken since he’d set out a week ago betrayed his lack of direction. Until now, he’d been doing relatively well, trekking through the ashlands with slightly less difficulty than before, the trip although remaining arduous. Occasionally, he’d come down to meditate, hoping that through disciplined concentration he might catch a glimpse of understanding, to know what he was looking for here. Yet so far, all he saw when he closed his eye to search was darkness, an emptiness inside that matched the emptiness around him. “Some days I wonder why I accepted Thalon’s offer. My life could have been quite a bit easier had I not.” It had been two months since he last spoke, and Zodd was caked in soot and ash, the grumbling coming from his mouth joined by that from his stomach. Food and water were as rare as hen’s teeth here, so he’d resorted to subsisting on the few insects that occasionally crossed his path. “Then again, I’ve always had a talent for getting myself into trouble, so who know, before short or long, I might’ve been up to the neck in shit regardless.” He chuckles to himself, before biting down on an unlucky bug that had chosen to burrow its way out from underneath his feet. “THERE’S NOTHING HERE! HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND ANYTHING IN A PLACE LIKE THIS?” The howling cry echoed across the hills as Zodd vented his frustrations to the heavens. He sinks to his knees, slumping over as he weakly hits the ground with his balled fist. And yet, nothing happened. Why would it be different? There was nobody here. None could hear his lament, and nobody would come. Not that it’d have mattered, he’d have thought them to be mere illusions, and sent them away. By now, it’d been seven months since he set out, and he looked it. Covered in soot, his clothing torn and singed, even the already-fading colours of his prized headband were being drowned out by the thick ash that had settled upon it. He had lost weight, the last thing he’d eaten being a stray bird that had somehow lost its way and ended up plummeting to the earth here two days ago. Zodd crawled along on his knees, to weak to stand. Then, his powers fail him, and he drops to the ground. With his face buried in the dirt, he begins lightly sobbing. Crying about all he’d lost over the course of his life. Love, family, friends. He’d known them and lost them all the same. By now, all he had were regs to cover his body, and loneliness as his travelling companion. “Where did I go wrong?” But nobody heard him. He remained alone, a full year after the start of his journey. Then, blackness overtakes him. A full week later, a small mountain of ash begins to stir, falling apart as a humanoid figure rises from it. Zodd slowly gets up on his feet, looking about himself. The land remained unchanged, and he sighs. “No use crying about it, really. I’ve had it, and I lost it. Such is life.” Futilely dusting himself off, which earned him a slight chuckle from himself, Zodd marches onward, fuelled by spite and determination alone. He crests a hill, and finds himself in a familiar place, despite it appearing just like the rest of the ashlands. Zodd could see the entrance to the Azdrazi lair, and he ignored it. It wasn’t yet his time to return, for he’d found nothing. Instead, he marches off, sometime later finding a lone, dead tree that stood above the land, and sits down beneath its empty branches, falling into a deep sleep beneath it. The next day, after awaking, Zodd gives the tree a closer look. “No offense, but I don’t think you’re what I’m looking for. Sure, the fact that anything could grow here is impressive, but not quite groundbreaking.” He then pauses, his brows furrowing. “Why am I even talking to you in the first place? You’re a tree, for goodness’ sake.” A deep sigh escapes the man. “I’ve really lost it, haven’t I?” It’s at this moment that he spots something sticking out between the dull roots of his conversational partner. Moving closer, Zodd grasps it and carefully pulls the object from its resting place. It was covered in ash and dust, revealing itself as an old blacksmith’s hammer after shaking its coverings off. Thoroughly unremarkable, save for one small detail. Engraved into the side of the simple iron head was a mark, the sight of which awakens memories older than some kingdoms within Zodd. The engraving shows a single eye, formed of a wide ovaloid shape, pierced by a downward-pointing arrow that also forms its pupil. “Father” That’s all Zodd says, holding the hammer close to his heart as tears fall from his eyes, carving tracks through the ash upon it. Grasping the tool firmly, Zodd makes his way back, many days and nights after he had left.

"Oh boy, more stuff to attend" humms a grumpy old elf, before promptly taking a nap on a nearby anvil.

Zodd emits a low "Woo" as he reads over the missive, then goes back to work.

Taking his usual, scheduled break, Zodd decides to read newspaper. He nearly chokes on the roasted turkey leg he was eating upon reading the last paragraph. 'Ah ****, they've noticed" he muses, then continues as usual.

So far, which one of your characters did you enjoy playing the most, and why?

Since i'm not 100% sure that i wasn't partially at fault for this, i'm gonna take this moment to apologize for every bit of grief i may have caused you. That aside, my interactions with you have been some of the most pleasant and inspiring that i've had in the three-ish years that i've been on this server. If there's ever something you need, reach out, will ya? May the odds be ever in your favour, my friend.

"Welp, only a matter of time till something like this happened." muses a grumpy elf, whilst the sound of a whetstone sliding over metal can be heard in the background

Zodd casually reads through the Knight's Atlas, his gaze stopping at his own entry "A hermit, i see. Seems i'll need to have a word with my dear grandson."