Valannor

A Keeper of Xan rests soundly upon her hoard of dragonbone, able to produce a small nation's treasury's worth of Dracanium.

A Keeper of Xan lofts a brow, her lips upturned in an amused smile as she regarded the notice. "An unstoppable force meets an immovable object; I do hope this ends amicably for all involved."

Already bopped my thoughts and potential proposals in Mordu's DMs, but this is overall in need of only a few real tweaks. It's a solid and flavorful system for the funny vampyboiz and FINALLY MY BABY MOSQUITOS STAY WINNING

TO THE AZDRAZI PLAYERBASE Through astounding negotiation with the Story Team Administrator, the player @Honourary has devised a revolutionary method with which to SHED THE AZDRAZOID CONDITION to no personal impact to your character's soul, genitals, reproductive capacity, or magic-stacking capability! If you would like to figure out this extraordinarily prestigious ability to no detriment of yourself, and shed your Heraldry Tattoos or Azdrazoid Tumors, please contact Story Team Management for YOUR new life today! termsandconditionsmayapply, this offer's validity is not verified by any LoTC staff team or by any administrator whatsoever. Engage in poking BobBox or SquakHawk of your own free will and peril, this post was only made to ruthlessly bully North for gaslighting and throwing a fit that he is still a floridian meth gator. There is no genuine method in lore by which one may drop the Azdrazi/Nephilim CA.

A Keeper of Xan would bow her head in respect for the departed - those unjustly taken by draconic flames over a war which never should have come to pass. "Non draco sit mihi dux. Ave Janus; Ordo Vult."

Conceived in an era where the Void and Arcane has run rampant, and aberrations of alchemical origin thrive with reckless abandon, the Maleficia Venatari are an all-female Sisterhood dedicated to the scourging of the unchecked malice of the Hungering Maw which lurks beyond creation, and all else which actively degrades the world in which Mortalkind resides. Founded by the Keeper Alatáriel, this sorority of warriors is heavily militant and philosophical in nature, with a particular focus upon professionalism, discretion, and discipline. Tasked with securing rogue magi wishing to repeat the likes of the Ando Alur calamity, warlocks whose ambition has reached too far, or miscellaneous abominations which must be contained, these dames wield potent weapons of abjuration which silence and quell the innate advantages held by magi or aberrants. In concert with proficiency in tactics and bladework, in addition to their other unspoken duties, members of the Sisterhood are expected to embody the values of their kin and hold their own in the fields of theology and philosophy; to not only know their duties, but to understand them. For women of the realm who seek purpose and self-improvement, there is little else which proves a higher calling. The Virtues Abhor the Wytch Wytch and Warlock strike bargains with beings forlorn in selfish pursuit of power; may their malice be snuffed as simpering embers, ‘fore the flames burn the Innocent and tear the world asunder. Virtue is All Little is prized above the Virtue of the Sun, yet the credo of the Moon is valued equally so. In twilight, the balance proves effective; the light of a star whose candescence is too beautiful to describe. In Silence, Perfection Discretion and professionalism is to be acclaimed and prized. Deeds speak louder than any word ever can. Let not an errant word sink the ark of salvation. Initiation to the Sisterhood The Cleansing To begin their journey, a group of Venatari-Prospects, henceforth known as ‘Acolytes’, will supplicate themselves before the acting Knight-Commander - and communally, one by one, confess fully their sins and shortcomings to one another, and to the Knight-Commander. Once this is done, the Knight-Commander shall task them with setting out as a group to right each of their wrongs as sisters in the making. This rite of initiation is to be considered complete once all has been set aright, and the prospective Wytchseekers are left unburdened by the sins of their past. The Tempering Once the Cleansing has been undertaken, the Acolytes are then set out on a journey to craft their arms and armors under the supervision of the Knight-Commander, alongside an experienced smith - though with a caveat; One cannot forge their own weaponry or panoply, and instead, each acolyte must craft the equipment of one of their sisters. Each item must be made with care and attention to detail, and this rite of initiation is to be considered completed once all Acolytes are equipped fully. The Silent Vigil To prove their discipline, and their ability to maintain a watch over a given charge. Ideally in pairs, each sister is to hold a vigil over a given location of interest for a period of five Elven hours. During which time, they are to maintain relative silence, unless they are specifically approached and addressed by others. This rite of initiation is to be considered complete once all have completed their vigils. The Vow of Anathema Once all the rites of initiation are complete, the Acolytes then take their final vows in a secluded ceremony whose specifics shall be left unwritten. After this is done, they are considered to be fully-fledged Wytchseekers. Knight-Commander Acting authority of the Maleficia Venatari; The Silent Sisterhood. They command the Sisterhood alongside their Knights-Centura. Eldest and most experienced of their Sisters. Knight-Centura Experienced Wytchseekers and combatants, entrusted to command and lead their Sisters alongside the Knight-Commander. Wytchseeker A blooded and proven member of the Venatari, who has taken the Vow of Anathema and proven their worth and ability. Acolyte Wytchseeker-Prospect, unproven and not yet a full-fledged member of the Sisterhood.

In-Character decisions have in-character consequences, and those should be respected and abided by. If you want to pursue [x], then don't go for the curing method associated with it. It's still incredibly generous for what is essentially a horrific curse which turns you into a botched Silit whose soul gets horrifically mangled to form incomplete Marrows. It absolutely should be something which scars you for life, given that its damage inflicted upon your very soul, and not just your psyche. I am not in support of removing or altering the redlines, and I stand by Mordu's original reasoning behind them.

IN RECOGNITION OF THE DEEDS OF ‘SIGRUN IREHEART’ During the battle against the resurrected Cloudbreaker, the Order of the Golden Lion found itself inevitably pinned and sustaining heavy casualties as they, and their allies of Norland, Balian, Urguan, and the Hefruum, rapidly lost an already miniscule quantity of siege weaponry with which to keep the dragon at bay. Backed into a corner by the Dragon, with the Keeper Alatáriel, Sea Prince Feanor Sylvaeri, Wyrmstalker Mhel, and Commander Aer’dir all in varying states of heavy injury or depletion, hope had seemed lost, and death assured. It was through the indisputable and unquestionable heroism, valor, and bravery of Sigrun Ireheart alongside his compatriots that dozens of lives were saved - as Sigrun Ireheart decapitated the Dragon-Lich with a single, well placed shot, severing the beast’s head from its body to buy precious moments for the wounded to evacuate as the beast recovered. Leading the way to safety with the Keeper on his back, Sigrun would go on to fully evacuate all wounded from the Embered cohort, alongside his ally who shall remain unnamed for her safety. A DEBT IS HEREBY OWED TO CLANFATHER SIGRUN IREHEART, MASTER OF WAR UNDER THE MOUNTAIN, WHICH SHALL BE REPAID. AVE JANUS. ORDO VULT.

The Ad-Sharlat lofts a brow at the boldness of the move - and the overextension suffered as a result. "It seems he didn't quite get the message... A shame. What worth is a crown, when in the blink of an eye it will be forgotten to all - perpetrator of deeds whose mark upon history shall fade as ashes in the wind? Petty actions for petty princes... Certainly fitting."

The Order of the Golden Lion prepares to send vast quantities of fitness food and alchemical protein supplements to the Gym of Dungrimm to aid the dwarves in become the swole, chiseled gods they know they can be.

The convenience of the Von Draco's passing was not lost upon the Ad-Sharlat.

"Who are you and how did you get into my house?!"

[!] Attached to the copies of the illustrious Golden Bull would soon be penned an open letter, scribed by the Holy Lectorate in decades past. https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/216623-reject-the-dragon-menace/

Mordu's point is essentially the one I'd make, +1 to the lad. Also on the LT spectrum the logistics of merging these two feats would be immense for very, very little payoff

The Nephilim shrugged little indeed, for he was very small.

"Oh" said the Keeper, blinking her eyes blearily at the missive. "Where the bloody hell did all this come from?"

Within the Hinterlands of Elvenesse, and its neighboring regions, travelers would see the skies above the nation to quiver and shake - the darkness of the night sky trembling at some unknown phenomena. Animals were roused from their slumber, all gathering to open clearings and the treetops, birdsong falling quiet as all were enraptured by the sullying of the twilight. The sun crept o’er the horizon, the impassive eye of Sol resting its gaze upon the land. Gong, gong, gong… The tolling of a bell broke the silence, whispers of flexio erupting from sources indiscernible as in an instant, every shadow within the Hinterlands was sundered. Golden light rained down upon Amaethea from on high, ethereal leaves of auric hue falling gently upon the city cobbles and dissipating. The sun high above seemed closer to the land of Elvenesse than before, and all who walked under its light within the confines of the Hinterlands would feel a great warmth and comfort to settle upon them. Corruptive influences of dark or draconic origin could no longer find purchase beneath the divine light, and even as day turned to night, sunlight still seemed to somehow break the canopy of the elven forest. The Sun had risen upon Amaethea, and it did not seem eager to set.

Alatariel scoffs after reading the missive, pouring another portion of whiskey into her coffee. "Protectors of humanity my arse... The Dragons shit, and the An-Gho wipes- it'll be interesting to see what justification is used for this one."

HES FALLEN AND HE CANT GET UP

Alatariel Athna appreciates that the Order has such good and stalwart friends, to stand by them through thick and thin.

Not sure how I feel about it being better than paladin curse removal but I concur w/ spoons, the ol' **** twist is the only proper form for this spell. Much approval, much love.

[!] Within the Crownlands, one would find strange fixtures of driftwood erected in altars along the riverbanks - containing enscrolled parchments which rested openly upon their surface. Fair tidings upon you, my reader. The grace of autumn has set up on us, and for the first time in the year, I find myself able to appreciate color. As winter rears its head upon the horizon, the twilight of the harvest sets upon the land, and the withering of the leaves paints a wondrous canvas of scarlet, marigold and mottled hues of brown. The turning of the season’s wheel presses ever onward, and there is a strange tranquility to be found in the quiet of falling leaves and the gentle running of the river below one’s feet. The cold does not touch this body, not anymore, but in the light of gleaming flame I can still find some measure of strange, if unconventional, warmth. I met a woman, not too terribly long ago, who gave me pause - who inspired the need to reflect, and to contemplate. It was in a church, a small chapel in the heart of the Crownlands, where first we crossed paths. She spoke of time wasted and love unrequited, of losing hope in the possibility of finding such a thing in the decades ahead. We spoke on matters of strength, of culpability for tragedy, of endurance and so much more - but it brought me to question what love is, in relation to the Shorewalker's Path. It is a simple word, a short word, yet one which carries an adamantine weight to it, an impact which has sundered kingdoms and borne greatness alike. Love. I've sat for many a night beneath that luminescent, silver moonlight attempting to answer this question. The cries which scrape the trees carried on the frigid breeze pierce the silence, the gentle song of crickets and barn owls helping to contrast the wailing gales of the mind. Love is, of course, different for every man and woman on some level; it is fluid, a word whose very definition can change from person to person. But its inherent qualities, its intrinsic nature, remains the same… Love is Compassion. Love is Charity. Love is found in the quiet moments beneath the twilight of the heavens with a friend, in tending to a wounded animal, in an embrace under moonlight's kiss. Love is giving, it is allowing vulnerability in tranquility, it is the salve which mends the wound which hate has left in the hearts of men and gods alike. Love creates, love cultivates, love forms futures and pathways of potential which twist and turn in thousands upon thousands of ways most cannot even comprehend; and this makes it beautiful, the blooming of a white rose on a battlefield which serves as the proof that things can be better. It is this which ultimately draws me to my faith, that through the Shore, all will find this truth. Many quail in terror at the necrotic malediction which sweeps the world, the pall of the great shade looming over us all crushing the heart with despair. But it is a passing thing, this shadow, which will inevitably be vanquished by the love and goodness inherent of a mortal soul. For what can a legacy of hate amount to, in what capacity can it truly succeed in any venture worthwhile? Hatred burns like a hungering inferno, rendering all in its wake as cinders and ash, destroying and bereaving in hopes to fill a hollow void of its own creation. It cannot create, it cannot sow… Hatred devours itself, and when it falters, the light shines all the brighter for it. It is love which sits at the core of our path, my reader. Without compassion, the will to try and forge a truly better world, to turn an iron fist into a giving hand, the Shore is little. I look to the flame of our lighthouse, diminutive but candescent, and I see the raging maelstrom of light that it could become. With every act of compassion, every gesture big or small made with the intent of mending the great wound, the flame burns just a little brighter, just a touch larger. Every act of charity builds upon the pyre of our salvation, not to burn away in hatred, but to illuminate in kindness and gentleness. We must rekindle and rebuild the love that even the Goddess, The Maiden of Souls, has forgotten in her cold misery. With enough compassion in one's heart, even fate itself can be unwoven, and the darkest of hearts made white as snow. Throughout this realm, you will find shrines. In the cities, in the wilds, monuments wrought of coral, shell, driftwood and prismarine erected in the hopes of offering clemency to those who need it. It is there that I shall be found, should this path interest you, should my words call to you and grant you desire to know more of the Shore we tend. Change is coming, borne not on the skeletal wings of doom and despair, but on the tender feathers of a dove, shining brightly in their incandescence as the sun shines through wings unfurled. Remember well, my dear reader, wherever you find this scrap of parchment; Pain does not the measure of a man make. The depth of our suffering, the extent of our anguish, need not be what defines us and our pursuits. For what is better; to be born good and irrevocably pure of heart, or to overcome the darkness within us all to be better men than we were?

Within a sunlit valley, deep within the mountains, miners began to excavate - blackened rock being ferried to the construction site in quantities most curious. What could be occurring there?

Alarmed, the Keeper awoke. Sweat ran thick upon her brow, her breaths labored and frantic as she caught sight of the Owl's silhouette upon her windows, illuminated by the crack of lightning which streaked across the sky in the midst of a storm. A trembling hand fell to a familiar gauntlet kept by her bedside, as she looked on for hours to the night sky beyond - until the stars wheeled overhead, and dusk turned to dawn. "This fate shall not be allowed to come to pass- this... petty destiny shall not manifest. It can not..."