Asutto

"god bless the dark lord am I right?" says asutto whilst dapping up @Beamon4 "on god" came the reply as they both ran to sign up into the dark army ((can you send @Beamon4a forum message on how to join ur evil army? @Nectoristwould like one too, thx

@Daisy call your pals at mojang. its time to wrap it up

"You got a lot of stuff, kid. Welcome home." Mused one ancient Adunian to her descendant from the skies above.

this guys cool i think he wrote my undergrad thesis for me and i got a B

For the sanity of the players, Admins need to put resource costs back to the Arcas level. It should take 10, maybe 20 minutes to get a set (more if you want full horse, etc). Unfortunately, I doubt they'll change gear costs since Admins don't play the game.

this is the simplified version?

Sometime a week later, a wayward 'thill, unaware of any quips made by a certain Sarkozic, sat down by the great hearth, flipping idly through dusty history books detailing the Empire's past. She eventually came across a title that read "THE DECLINE AND FALL OF THE HOLY ORENIAN EMPIRE". It was a hefty book, large enough to end a Halfling's life with. As she flipped through it, her fingers paused amid the eighth chapter: the reign of Philip II. A comical Emperor, surely. One, she heard of all too much from the ramblings of her former Idunian overlords, who crowed about how awful Imperialism is. Despite his short and idiotic reign, he had perhaps one success - tightening his control over the Duchy of Adria despite the Carrion-spawns' best attempt to reclaim it at the Second Dumapalooza. Other accounts she had read detailed how much Carrions despised Fat Philip, but after all, once he ennobled his son with the title, and afforded him land, he ruled Adria didn't he? A sad legacy for such a tainted Duchy to still stagger around with.

⋅────────────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────────────⋅ Sunlight bled into the corners of New Providence, gilding terracotta walls and crowning stone towers, only to spill upon the square below - where the dead lay heaped in mounds that rose to a Hou-zi’s shoulders. It was not a sight the bards would sing about. The air was foul, the stench unbearable, and in Victoria’s hollow stomach churned a sickness deeper than any hunger she had felt before. Her blade still wept with the lifeblood of those she had once called companions - of Erik Othaman, her mentor, her guide. From the shadowed doors of the Novellen Tavern, her squire emerged - armor untarnished, gleaming as though the world had not yet touched him, untested, unscarred, unbroken. “Did we do it? Did we win?” Her reply came soft, not crowned with triumph, but steeped in the quiet weight of loss. “No,” whispered the Once-Princess, her gaze not upon the ruin below, but lifted to a lone gull from Henry's Wharf, wheeling far above, its pale wings cleaving the heavens as though the sky itself longed to turn away from what had been wrought. The boy’s eyes wandered through the carnage, and at last they fixed upon the captive Emperor. “But Peter lies in chains,” he said, voice catching. “And his commanders - dead.” Victoria’s vision drifted from the gull and fell upon her squire. She raised her hand, laying it gently upon his shoulder - an anchor, or perhaps a farewell. “If victory looks like this,” she murmured, “may you never live to see what defeat becomes.” ⋅────────────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────────────⋅

From the Baronetcy of Rethel, a young Enswerpian scholar by the name of Earnhardt mused over the tabloid. Mixed emotions coursed through his veins, but chief among them all, disgust. He, being no older than twelve, had read through the Lex Tiberi and thought them to be quite swell. After some time, he ventured to the living room to consult, no, lecture his dear sister, Aurelia, on his opinion. “Look, it’s really unbelievable — the lengths these elves are going to, trying to tear down our great Emperor’s laws. And let me tell you, these are beautiful laws. Some of the best laws ever written — people are saying that. Even Tony Numendil, who’s a very respected — very smart guy — he’s jealous. He’s saying, ‘Wow, how does your Emperor write laws like that?’ But the elves? Total disaster. They don’t like it. Not one bit. Even after the Emperor, very generous — maybe too generous, frankly — gave them citizenship under the same laws they trashed. Incredible. If it were up to me? I’d put them in a catapult — boom — right out of the country. Fast. Tremendous.” Earnhardt concluded while narrating his opinion with his hands.

Earnhardt of Rethel, the Head Coach of the Myrine Marlins, snaps his pencil after watching the horrible performance of Bayle Watcher. She finds a box containing all her personal belongings on her desk the next morning. Nevertheless, he's still proud of the early victory over the Valiants.