Wizzar

This is all very silly. I feel like the solution is simple. Your character is a permanent race that you do not like --- > Make a new character? The bigger issue/question is the peer pressure to play the CA. I think this is where your frustration should lie. I agree with the notion that strict server rules can often lead to a worse overall player experience. However, this is a scenario where I feel the player can remedy the solution quite easily on their own.

BREELEEUNT

A Witch Doctor's Journey: It was no longer the thick, verdant canopy of the forest that drowned out the beams of light. Instead the silvery-gray ashes that enveloped the area casted a shadow across the mostly barren land. Their deathlike grayness lingering in the air, sticking to all that it touches. The hobgoblin pressed through the scorched forest, coughing and wheezing as he settled against the blackened husk of a tree. Slowly, he descended to sit on the blackened ground where he’d raise his elongated claws into the air before thrusting his hand down into the ashen dirt. Beads of sweat fell from the novice witch doctor’s brow as he proceeded to carve a suitable pit. Satisfied, the shaman wiped his forehead of sweat, a gray paste smeared across his features. The hobgoblin shaman placed previously gathered wood and foliage into the pit, he lifted a piece of flint and struck it with a rock. He repeats this process until a spark ignited the foliage setting the makeshift fire pit ablaze. With a nod of approval, the hobgoblin retrieved his wrapped cactus green, using the fire to light one end. He then inhaled a few deep breaths of the psychoactive drug, his posture relaxing against the burnt tree trunk. After a few moments, he shifted his form forward to be closer to the fire and began his worship. “ILZGUL OB TRAMUG, KOZ-UK PUKHLUG” The shaman’s eyes rolled back into his head “LUP’TRAMUG, LUP’XAAKT. NORK-HON GORTHÛZ TRAMUG” Slowly, his body sank closer to the ground, his neck dipping to the side as he loses consciousness. His soul transferred somewhere else… An intense vibration sent through the ground animated the shaman, his eyes fluttering open as he regained consciousness. His body was submerged in red sand that appeared to stretch as far as his vision could see. Looking upwards, he was surprised to see not one, but three blazing suns spread across the sky, their heat roasting the desert below. From the distance, a loud clittering sound could be made out as a storm of sand slowly moved closer to the hobgoblin. Squinting, he could make out an army of black armored figures marching in his direction. Some among the ranks rode enormous red-brown scorpions. Before the hobgoblin could process the sight, his instincts forced him onto his feet and into a sprint in the opposite direction of this unearthly horde. He ran until he was out of breath, believing he had created distance between the army. However, when he looked back he realized his efforts were fruitless and no progress had been made. He repeated this process for hours, moving in various directions but the horde always remained in view, moving towards him. Severe exhaustion and dehydration brought a feeling of impending doom, forcing him into a desperate act. The shaman got onto his hands and knees, digging his clawed fingers into the sand. He did not dare look towards those that marched in his direction, he tore through the sand, spreading the residual in piles around him. As he began to lose hope, his now-bloodied fingers went through the sand, nothing seeming to be on the other side. When the shaman placed his hand deeper into this air pocket, something pulled him through. He fell down about 30 feet into a deep pool of water. Emerging from the water, the hobgoblin examined his surroundings, finding himself to be at the entrance of a seemingly empty palace. The walls, floors, and pillars of the palace were all made of red sandstone. Gold designs stretched across the structures, forming unrecognizable patterns. Across the room sat a throne made of pure gold, adorned with colorful gems. The hobgoblin pressed forward towards the throne, his steps echoing in the chamber. As he neared, a hoarse voice rang out, reverberating around the room. “Lat narkramp matum. BROSHN-AN MI-BOT” Suddenly, an uruk-sized figure appeared on the throne. Its face partially covered by a gold mask, antlers spread from the top of his head. It was adorned with gold armor and purple, a sword laid across its lap. A smirk crept upon the face of the individual as its gaze focused on the shaman. “Bumba…” it hissed “Mi wyll blah latz blah fer latz have passed mi tezt. Come forward zo wi may dizcuzz zome thyngz” Bumba’Akaal did as he commanded, striding closer to the spirit. His body trembled slightly as his anxiety and excitement clashed. The hobgoblin remained silent, his clawed fingers wiggling at his sides. The figure spoke once more. “Mi name iz Fraurkû, ah lezzur ilzgul under Xaakt. Mi iz da ilzgul ov Unrest. Wut iz latz reazon for latz visit?” it inquired. “Mi wizhes to make ah pact with latz” Bumba stated, dipping his head slightly. Fraurkû’s smirk grew wider, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. “Ah pact ye blah?” he snickers, the sound vibrating across the palace. “Why doz ah shaman lyke latz wish to make ah pact with ah Ilzgul ov Unrezt?” “Mi haz peep’d da importance ov conflict, da importance ov rebellion, da importance ov Unrezt” he grunted, licking his dried lips “It iz Unrezt dat drivez progress, without Unrezt, da Urukim will nevur grow strongur” The lesser Ilzgul closed his eyes for a few moments, pondering Bumba’s request. Finally, he nodded his head “Vereh well den” he croaked “Latz can be mi champion uv Unrezt but latz muzt do azh thyng fer mi” He holds up his sword, pointing it in Bumba’s direction “Forge ah weepun honorabel enouv to carreh in mi name. Azhz latz do diz, latz will have latz pact!” Fraurkû then swung his sword, a wave of purple fog swept out from the weapon to encompass the shaman. As Bumba breathed the substance in, he drifted out of consciousness. When he finally woke, he was back in the ruins of the forest, the fire pit extinguished.

The warrior haruspex smirks as he reads the missive "More grizh to zpill" his clawed fingers tear into the paper "Agh more sacrifices for Grish'Idekh'Tamak" the hobgoblin rises to his feet, grabbing his two serrated battle-axes "Da tik iz zoon, it iz da will uv da anceztorz"

"Diz will be interezting" the haruspex grins to reveal his sharp tusks "Mi grukz all uv deez bruddahz ahr worthy uv da title, but wi zhall peep who iz da strongezt"

The martial shaman stands at the edge of the feasting pit with his palm extended over the crimson pool, dripping his own blood as an offering "Da heartbeat will peep all..." he smirks "LUP'GRIZH, HUL-GRIZH" he chants, his eyes rolling to reveal his white sclera.

The haruspex tilts his head as he listens "Who da zkah ihz diz?!" he grunts to himself "Anuthur Uruk peep'n to be Targoth dat nevur ztep'd into da goi befor today" He shakes his head, a smirk appearing on his face "Agh why doz zhe hav zo many matez?" he asks his gathered brethren.

The Urukim War Clerics A gash of red and yellow light found its way through the battlefield. Its brilliance displaying the hellacious red-colored onslaught. In the illumination, a large-uruk carved and cleaved through the force of his enemies. His victims’, as well as his own, crimson fluids splattered across his bone adorned armor and weapons. Dominating the sounds of screaming and groaning, the frenzied roars of the martial haruspex reverberated under the churning sky. The war-cleric’s rampage only ended as his enemies took their last breaths, the battlefield baptized in their blood. Haruspexy and Scars Finding meaning in scars is nothing foreign to the haruspex. It is common for these spiritual shamans to scry not only the current condition of the blood, bone, and flesh of their study, but to look further towards its scars and irregularities. With the guidance of the ancestors, the haruspex deciphers the meaning behind these scars to understand more about the material realm. Whether it be a lesson of the past or a warning about the future, each scar tells a story that has the potential to serve as lessons to the urukim. However, the more warrior oriented haruspex have an additional purpose for scars. These martial shamans view their body as a living canvas, one that tells a story of their lives and their accomplishments. Each scar earned on the battlefield is a trophy, one that they proudly display. The act of receiving a scar is viewed as a blessing that strengthens the urukim as it adds another page to their living story, developing them as a warrior. History of Self-Scarring Self-mutilation and scarring are not unique in orcish culture. The Gorkils have traditionally held this practice for two reasons. First, it served as a symbol of clan strength. Enemies were intimidated by their willingness to inflict these wounds on themselves. Second, it worked to bring out their bloodlust. The Gorkils may have been the pioneers of this practice but similar traditions have sprung from separate groups and clans of urukim. The Izigs practiced a spiritual baptism in the form of a trial of endurance that irrevocably altered one's body. The Mog clan made it a necessity to modify one's body. Each modification holds a different meaning and level of respect. These are just a few examples of self-scarring practices, many more have existed in the history of the urukim. The Martial Shamans Warrior haruspex are most known for their practice of self-scarring in preparation for battle. These war clerics believe their scars do not just serve as blessings and stories, but that the open wounds created by one's self are conduits for the ancestors. Similar to the Gorkils, these warrior shamans seek to activate their bloodlust. Succumbing to their curse, these zealous warriors believe they are opening their mind and body to the ancestors who will guide them into battle. Casualties of their rage and frenzy, whether friend or foe, are perceived as decisions by the ancestors, uncontrollable by the berserking haruspex. Despite the savage nature of this ritual, these haruspex uphold a rigorous interpretation of honor. Scars hold value, to self scar without purpose is to tarnish a piece of art that has been in the making for years. The berserker can only perform this ritual when fighting for a worthy purpose. Opening oneself up as a conduit for an undeserving situation is seen as dishonorable and is likely to invite bad spirits. Therefore, only when fighting for the urukim, the ancestors, or the spirits is a haruspex supposed to perform this practice. A warrior haruspex who finds another using it for unworthy practices is to stop them by all means necessary, even death. Unworthy uses include, but are not limited to, day-to-day klomps, fighting the weak, and banditing. Weapons as Storied Artifacts The warrior haruspex’s duty does not end on the battlefield. Instead, these martial shamans heavily value the creation of storied artifacts. It takes years for these haruspices to develop this ability, a haruspex who is less adept in their practice may instead use the pages alive skill. Nevertheless, recording their frenzied experiences is highly important to these zealous berserkers. These war clerics view storied artifacts as a symbol of honor and respect, proof of their worthiness and accomplishments on the battlefield. As the goal of the zealous haruspex is to enter a rage-filled trance that is guided by the ancestors, they struggle to recount the experience. Using their storied artifacts, the haruspex is able to visualize and understand their rampage. These artifacts are used to teach aspiring war cleric and any who desire to learn of their unique practice. Additionally, the martial shamans use the storied weapons in future conflict, as they believe they serve to empower their combat abilities. The warrior haruspex only inscribes their stories and experiences unto deserving medium. Therefore, it is unlikely that these martial shamans would utilize weapons made outside of the urukim unless special circumstances exist. Weapons made by the haruspex himself or experienced Ruka are usually used as the canvas for these stories. A Ruka’s craft is made to deter bad spirits which is highly valued by the warrior haruspex who seek to draw the power of the ancestors. Weapons made crooked, asymmetrical, and abnormal often help to achieve this. It is also typical for the zealous berserker's weapons to incorporate materials from animals or foes they slay such as bone.

The hobgoblin hears the proclamation from his blarg, he scowls revealing his sharp tusks "Krugmar... ihz ah blah uv da pazt... wi ihz ihn da Iron'Uzg" he sighs, his clawed fingers bringing his rolled cactus green to his mouth before laying back down.

The younger haruspex approaches the feasting pit with the carcass of a boar "In diz tikz uv wagh..." he'd grunt, slicing the boar with his carving dagger "Mi wizhez to peep mi plaze ihn da upcoming klompz agh planz fer da goi" He'd hold the body of the boar over the pit, allowing the blood to immerse itself in the sanguine pool

"Mi never peep'd deez uruks before" Bumba'Akaal mumbles to himself "Mi wyll have to zeek them out"

The haruspex wipes a bead of sweat from his brow before placing his hammer down next to his craft, "Thiz iz ah great idea, yub" he grunts in his broken common "When mi waz da Rukagoth, mi alwayz wanted do to zometin lyke diz". He places the missive down before returning to work, excitement increasing his pace as he prepares for the caravan. IGN: Krunos10 RP Name: Bumba'Akaal Merchant or Guard: Can be both What kind of goods do you bring with you to our caravan?: Weapons (RP Weapons - custom orders available) Do you accept the requirement of attending at least one caravan expedition a week? (Thurs/Mon): Yes Do you have any rare goods to bring to the caravan?: Custom Made Weapons

The Hobgoblin nods his head ferociously whilst clenching his fists "Zkah'n right! Mi wood hav flatt'd awl uv da zkah'n Elyziums ihf mi wuz der!"

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TzFdKMyIzMo Birth With a heavy sigh, the Mali’Fenn rose from his seat. The stench of stale ale and body odor followed him as he stumbled toward the door, opening it to the persistent winter of Fin’hesin. A cool breeze pressed against him as he ventured into the frozen woodlands outside of Fenn. Pulling out a flask, he took a sizable swig of Ikurn’Vallei, a drink best described as paint thinner. Wiping his mouth with his garbs, he proceeded into the thick snow with heavy breaths, wishing he were back at the tavern, a drink in each of his hands. It was then that he spotted it, a small, white long body of fur, half-hidden in a cloudy blanket. Quickly, he scurried over to the animal, wrapping it in his sleeve-covered arms. For a moment, his thirst for ale eluded him as a smile crept on to his face. Perhaps, there is more to life than he realized. Peace With his usual facade, he approached the gates of Haelun'or with a warm smile. The gatekeeper was too slow in warning him to hide his identity. As two Mali’aheral quarreled, he withdrew his flask, almost finishing it before he was directed deeper into the city with the nation’s military leader. Bending the truth, the Mali’Fenn managed to get the answers he seeked, learning of the harsh and intolerant culture of this nation’s people. The flask was the first thing he reached for upon exiting the city, finishing its contents rapidly before beginning his journey home, one that proved difficult without his usual drinks. War His head throbbed as his eyes met the morning light. Moving a finger to his face, he instinctively looked to bite down on a fingernail already chewed away. He left his belongings and began his trek into the wilderness once more. Sober for two days, the withdrawal wasted no time in claiming him. Thoughts of the tavern, his second home, guided him deeper into the unknown terrain of Fin’hesin. If he just finished the task, he could go to his comfort, the substance that kept him content and complacent. These thoughts distracted him as he found a branch and began carving a sharp end into it. Satisfied, he continued further until the beast leaped out at him. The encounter was short, leaving a bloody gash on his shoulder, but the snow leopard was lifeless. A sort of euphoria swept over the Mali’Fenn as he took a trophy from the animal. He couldn’t help but smile as he cheerfully hiked back to the city. Death Tipsy, he had no idea where he was being led. Only that it was an end to the tasks that kept him away from his state of felicity. Hesitantly, he slowly immersed his body into the arctic waters. As the frigid waters took him, thoughts of ale, wine, and liquor distracted him, until everything turned black. This blackness slowly faded into dream-like images of an eternal winter, the Fin’ciwn. Ecstasy and bliss flooded into the Mali’Fenn before a name called out to him. Unable to speak or move, he laid there, fragments of his experience now permanently etched into his being. He drank to that. Rebirth Invigorated with a new purpose, his dipsomania was the one part of himself that he could not let go. The first few weeks were the toughest, he had rid himself of most of his supplies and tried to remain in bed, away from people. A perpetual nausea, sweating, and irritability plagued his day to day. In what felt like a lifetime, the days tormented him, the only thing keeping him afloat was his purpose and dedication to Wyrvun. As days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, he gradually felt better, in fact, by the third month, he felt reborn. When old wither, and seek new worth, Or wander ‘round to find fresh berth, Like greyed phoenix, and all on earth, I start anew, in my rebirth.

The Rukagoth slowly makes his way to the notice board, pausing as his eyes gaze over the missive. Bobbing his head, a small grin creeps onto his face "Miz ihz guiding mi bruddahz ohn ah honorabel path, mi grukz dat diz clan Mog haz ah hozh future ahead uv dem in da new Iron'Uzg" he'd mumble to himself before returning to the Feasting Pit to conduct a haruspexy ritual.

(Super excited to see the growth of the Mog Clan. Awesome background/culture and ran by one of the most interesting/fun Orc characters I've had the pleasure of RPing with +1)

Amazing +1

The haruspex brings his carving knife towards his bicep, pressing into it firmly as the familiar, claret ooze began to drip to the floor. "With diz scar, mi wyll nevur forget latz'z ztrength in da klomp'n pit" Bumba'Izig would move his arm over the feasting pit, offering his blood to the ancestors.

Bumba'Izig shrugs as he reads the treaty. "The Warnation was dismantled, the war was already over. These terms were mostly implemented. "he'd shake his head, snorting to himself. "I guess tiny people need to compensate in other ways"

RUKAS TO THE IRON'UZG The season of Bûrzgraz, or as non-orcs call it, the Deep Cold. Twilight lingered in the night sky, illuminated by the constellation forming the shape of an eye. A bead of sweat dripped from the Ruka’s forehead as he placed a wooden vase filled with blood and fragments of bone, both from a deer he recently hunted, on his anvil. Slowly, he raised his forge hammer into the air before slamming it down onto the vase. As the bone and blood splattered across the room, the hobgoblin was not phased, focused on the anvil before him. A small grin crept upon the haruspex’s features as he placed a well-callused palm on the side of the anvil as leverage to pull his body closer to it. Painted in a claret ooze and osseous matter, he saw the image of a scorpion. Nodding at what he believed to be the approval of his ancestors, he would get to work, crafting a variety of aurum weapons and tools. As he finished his work, he picked up a wooden board, writing a message on it in blood. Our Rex, with the approval of our ancestors, has chosen me as Rukagoth. I call forward all Ruka to join me as we help forge the IRON that shall protect and serve this nation. Any brother involved with a craft or looking to get involved in crafting should seek me out as we mold our future. - Signed Bumba’Izig (OOC: If you are an Olog, there is much for you to participate in. Feel free to reach out!)

The Haruspex shakes his head, the bones adorning his figure rattling as his body shifts "Nub... Mi haz peep'd diz azh in da goi, he ihz an honurabel bruddah. Diz ihz nub ryte... Zkah diz Vulmir"

Scarred Story II Every orc feels its presence in the back of their mind, an everlasting conflict between honor and brutality. A desire to satiate their sanguiness yet abide by the teachings of Krug. The hobgoblin lifted a large, ragged rock over his head. He would look up towards the midnight sky, aglow with a constellation of stars depicting that of a wing, signifying the season of Krugbroshan, of health and healing. Pride, a double-edged sword. Pride holds an orc to high standards, keeping them optimistic in the darkest of times, and spurring ambition and leadership. However, pride conceals bloodlust in a guise of honor, justifying savagery against the weak. The impact of stone with bone resonated across the empty mountains, echoing around the hobgoblin. The blood of the beast splattering over his face as ribs cracked and splintered. His bloodshot eyes opened wide as he breathed in deep, heavy breaths. Balance is a façade, a utopian impossibility preached by those in power to subdue their subordinates. An orc should be judged on honor and honor alone, this is the path towards the Stargush’Stroh. Thrusting his hands into the beast’s chest, he gave a distorted snicker as a smirk crept onto his features. He was enjoying this, it satisfied something deep within him. His mind, consumed by his sinful desires, obscuring his purpose. Snagas are weak, fragile people. They are thrusted into a culture, often lost and unable to decipher the purpose of their roles. Disobedience is natural, intolerable, but should be expected. This insubordination must be resolved, though the tendency is to always give into our curse. Snagas are beaten, dismembered, and killed, pushing them further off the course of cultural and spiritual enlightenment. Pulling his hands towards his face, he’d stare as the claret ooze seeped down his arms. He’d shut his eyes, inhaling a deep breath, fighting against the viciousness that had taken hold of him. Slowly, he’d enter a trancelike calmness as he called out for the ancestors to guide him. His time as Snaganoth was brief, lasting less than a cactus day. Still, he had learned a great deal. The snagas were misled, a wild bunch that defied the fate the spirits have assigned them. Brothers and sisters were too impatient and prideful, often failing in their duties that Krug took upon our people to guide the other descendants towards honor. The practice ultimately furthering our descent into bloodlust. He pulled the heart out rather easily. Its clotted purplish form glistened under the stars of Akezo. A current of wind pushed against his body as he stared down at the source of bloodlust. It was then that he felt the calling of his ancestors. His doubts vanished, the path towards honor clearer than ever. Pride and Bloodlust must be contained, the orkish people tread too closely to their beastial nature. The ancestors hold the answers. This will not be the first time he will call for them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9XhtzULRBA Scarred Story Stalking the volcanic terrain outside of Krugmar, Bumba crouched low as he peered over a small hill. Below him, unaware of the uruk’s presence, was a young horse focused on eating a patch of grass. Bumba released the arrow, it bolted towards the horse's neck, leading to its eventual collapse and inevitable death. Bumba approached the corpse of the animal, he’d extend his hand down to stroke its mane. Slowly, he would begin to turn over the animal, so that it laid on its back. Removing his long knife from his side, he would begin the process. Carefully, he would press the tip of the knife into its upper abdomen. As he pressed down, a dark, wine-colored blood would ooze from the cut, moving down towards the horse's back. Bringing his hand down, he would slice down towards the horse’s lower stomach. Moving his free hand into its internals, he would gently, but firmly grasp the creature's intestines, pulling it out slightly. Dropping his knife, he would use both of his hands to pull out 15 meters of small intestines as if tugging on a rope. Covered in the animal's blood, Bumba would examine the intestines, noticing small worms wiggling around inside. “Yub, diz azh wuz ztrugglin” he’d mumble. He would stick his hand into the horse once more, pulling out nothing but his own bloodied hand. He’d move his face close to get a better look at the blood. “Da grizh peepz normul, mi guezz da wurmz nub effekt dat part uv da horze, yub”. Moving the intestines to the side, Bumba looked towards the upper chest of the horse . Again, he would use his knife to slice through the skin and any tissue. As he moved his hand into its chest, he would come across its ribs, With the back of his knife, he would begin pounding at it until he heard a crack. Pulling out the broken rib pieces, the heart of the horse would be revealed. He would seize it with his hand, holding it high into the sunlight, the blood dripping down his arm and moving down his body. The sun illuminated its features, giving it a red glow. “Diz muzt be ah zign... Haruzpexy ihz da way fer mi now...” he’d announce confidently before taking a large bite of organ, the blood dripping down his chin. “Mi anceztorz have blah’d t’ mi diz day, mi path ihz clear, da futur uv da urukz ihz strong”. Bumba laid down in the sunlight, the heat of the environment pressing down on his dark, blood-covered orcish hide, a grin plastered on his face.