salamanderfantasy

Get NLs to play this as a backup when war servers break

pivotin' back to the topic at hand. i joined around arcas and DO see the increase of people posting on forumns. But as someone whos spent the last month regularly being awake at 4am to roleplay with people. i don't think the entirety in the rise of using the forumns as a semi-irp messageboard is a bad thing. there's a reasonable assumption that off-screen, characters arent just sitting silently in an empty room. making posts about RP events or making in-roleplay announcements via forumns is a good fill-in for the word-of-mouth transfer of info, which is much trickier ingame, imo. absolutely goes too far at points. but i think for a LOT of people, the lotc experience would be signifcantly more clunky and miserable, especially for anyone w/ the crime of not being american. i also dont think that the forumns should be reserved for solely lore and ooc management/guides. again -- agree that its overdone to an extent ect, but many people would miss out entirely on a lot of roleplay bc people just cant be online 24/7, esp large worldchanging events which happen Outside Their Window, but they just arent online for. in arcas, i didnt even know the map ending events had started bc i rarely checked the forumns, and id just log into settlements i lived in to find them flattened overnight. and i dont nessecarily think that makes the LOTC experience better. so generally. i think theres a middle ground in usin things like the forumns to improve the RP experience, and then ppl who go too far w/ that.

NOT gonna argue it bigtime in the comments of someone elses post, but i dont think th halfling post w/ a handfull of memes is the best example here. Yep; it got big rep. No, it had no affect on the war longterm. ppl thought it was funny, and then that changed nothing about the war's outcome in the end. dont think its the best example of whats being talked about in the post above if the topic's ppl tryin to influence RP through makin popular posts

The last caravan had left that morning; a small gaggle of musin, upon the back of a cart pulled by large ferrets, and two of her children, carrying with them the Last Vassal Of D únwen; the people of Frogtopia. That had been the last of them, and so. The work could begin. Torching the campsites and the manors had gone easily enough. Many long abandoned, home only now to creeping spider and dust. Though, unnervingly, it is regarded that the odd heavily-protected shack; a small cluster of wagons, all seemed. . .far too lived in, for something that had been promised uprooted decades ago. Quick work is done to sort that out; and ash remains. And yet, there’s a world of difference between a standing wooden caravan or shack, and those deep, deep in the bowels of the Dúnfarthing; things far too deep for even the reach of a halfling’s shovel. Towering brickwork above, and below; spiralling tunnels. Well. There’s more than one way to clear out a few pests. And there’s a delightful little tradition told to her by her father, years ago, that she’s kept in the back of her pocket just for now. Under the shroud of the night, they prepare – for demolition. Starting with her own home seemed only fitting; that, or perhaps just a sense of guilt at going for anyone else’s first. But those follow shortly, and rest assured. There’s plenty of practise to be had at this. His castle was not hers, and it is with deep guilt that soon, it falls. Once Harrenite ruins, not that they’d ever cared for that little tidbit of history; now of Musin. But ruins they once were, and to ruins, once again. Then, sights are set deeper. It’s a fools errand, filling in a warren with a spade. But with a lifetime of overseeing construction under these grounds, she knows just where to push, and once more – short work of it. Three to four generations of burrows, collapsed inward. And a dozen more caves, cellars, dark, dank spots underground -- follow suit. But once more a fool – an assumption has been made. An assumption that they were the only ones living under these lands. And that something, is now making itself very, very known. All along. It was Cobblebonks. All. The. Way. Down. "EeeeEEeeEEEeeEEEeeeEEEh"-- Cobblebonk War Cry Under a tectonic shift of a thousand Cobblebonks, the Dúnfarthing falls, first empty, and then down. Settling, croaking ruins. Overgrown field. Orchards, left unpruned. In the centre of it all, a tree. Left entirely unharmed, be it by careful detonation experts, or an act of Knox himself. The Iris Tree stands. All that remains; a sapling taken from another continent, grandchild of the first of it’s kind. Upon the back of a hatchling tortung – the seedling great-grandchild gently moves in the wind. And with the winding of vines; the creep of liches, the sprouting of moss on tumblebown walls, a Shire returns to Land. Plain, simple Land. And then, she is Done(wen).

_,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,_ The Caravan departs come ‘morn. Follow now, or nevermore. A slow trod to a quiet hill. Knox guides us. Follow scarecrow and tortoise; follow the herd of llama. Bring family and livestock; bring home and hearth. Cross fields, steep path to mountain, through and under cave. Among cousins in the forest, we seek SANCTUARY. The path is marked, the road is long, and we leave nothing and no-one behind. These lands are no longer our home. A Shire is a curious concept. Representing both the Lands upon which We reside, and the Lands from which We come. The Land makes us, and we make the Land. Follow. In time, we will make our new Land. And upon such, it will make Us. The leaves turn brown. By Knoxe’s Eve, we will have a new Shire. But now, we march. Musin, Gnome, Hobbit – Westward, Ho! Knox, guide us. Your Wizard, Mags. _,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,__,.-'~'-.,_

[!] YET AGAIN a certain doctor has become Allergic To Walking Down The Got Dang Street due to a voidal shenaniganizer. Those left in Lurin will have to simply make due without their doctor; because OUCH.

And Thus, Is One Last Piece Of Masterful Crayon Artistry Published:

[!] Once again the feral team of stampers emerge to vandalize as many missives as possible.

[!] If the very talented hand-making doctor which made them hands could read this, they'd at least be glad that the Hand Craftsmenship Quality was being appreciated.

[!] A big ole stamp has been ammended to a solid 75% of the missives (as many as can be accessed by a feral team of hobbit stampers).

i've had ppl be telling me off for it because it doesn't quiteeeee help me as someone gettin' invaded WHOOPS but ive been highly encouraging ppl to not get involved whatsoever with war stuff on lotc if they don't like it, let alone with if they're just busy. If someone's rude about encouraging you to join to the point of it being pressuring/coercing you gotta put em in the bin. in the BIN.

[!] Years later, a copy of the treaty is mailed to Her Royal Majesty, with a big sad face drawn over it in yellow wax crayon.

All warpaths ^ here no longer in use as per mods. New warpaths go v

[!] But why would they not take it seriously, for just this morn a Lurinite Spy reported this depiction of the brave soldiers of Knox already preparing for battle.

" . . . . . . . . . . ." Thain Magnolia Fiddleberry, MIA since a fateful ambush, and the only person in the shire able to stop this. . . .

what if they just dont like you hope this helps

". . . . . . . . . . . . ." Is the responce of the missing in action Thain Magnolia Fiddleberry (only Collingwood every third month, in the perpetual divorce cycle).

[!] The tea diluting the blood writing this missive is, reportedly, poor quality.

"GET BACK IN THE FUCKIG PIT CYRIS" the undying homunculus flesh beast that is Cyris is promptly beaten with implements and such

The 1/2 Thain of Dunwen who did not realise the little camp community was calling themselves Vikelans is also confused. Psychic link of mutual confusion.

And thus is a very confusing morning for the 1/2 Thain Of Dunwen who had been waiting for the first draft of their treaty to arrive in the post, and instead recieves This.