Periphonics

Centuries ago, in a version of Norland now ancient, when King Caedric Ruric held his rule, is when the mighty clan of hunters known as the Heskynne’s were formed. Ivar Thorkin, a man who made himself into a notorious zealot of the Red Faith, found himself seated within his abode, scheming… His mind had been set on a goal for decades now, first mastering the art of the hunt, and then spent seeking the perfect candidates for his plan. For Ivar was not born to those of classic Norlandic lineage, but rather a family who’d believed the art of the hunt was that in which true purity could be found. In his time spent delving deeper and deeper into the All Father’s faith, he came to the conclusion that in the moment in which a hunter’s breath halts, their weapon just about to make its killing blow, when their heart hammers in their ears… That is the moment where one is the closest to the All Father. As such, his scheme has become to create a group of peoples whom he could foster this moment with, to teach them how to achieve it, and how to use their skills to connect deeper with their crimson Faith whilst not just preserving, but growing their Kingdom’s culture and environment. After his careful considerations, Ivar sought out seven of Norlands residents, each bearing unique traits that would make them imperative to their hunts, who would all help him foster a small culture of huntsmen with their individual niches. Somerled: A woman notorious to Norland, however seldom seen around. She had once been one of the most prolific adventurers of their time, charting out unreached locations, always returning to their homestead with new artifacts and wisdom about how the world around them worked. Her vast knowledge of the lands for which their prey would reside was unparalleled to any other, and her enjoyment of the journeys was second only to the benefits reaped. Alvis: A youthful man of scholarly descent who had taken to medicinal works in his youth. Alvis was the youngest of those who Ivar collected for his group, and yet quickly became irreplaceable due to his expertise in the medical field. A combat medic who was equally adept at the combat itself, he was the very glue that held the clan, or rather their bodies, together. Arvid: An expert tracker who had been raised among wood elves, Arvid was the first to have taken the attention of Ivar, the one who’s very existence inspired him to find others so he might foster their talents into an ideal team of hunters. Arvid had spent his entire adolescence mastering the stalking of prey, how to seek the subtle hints that a target has passed through, a skill that would pass down through every future generation of Heskynne. Herleifr: A man as tall as he was strong, the pinnacle of what a warrior should be. He had risen through the ranks of the Norlandic army and made a name for himself in the wars to come. It’s clear why he had been one of those chosen to aid in the foundation of the hunter clan; his strength was unmatched and proved to be a virtue none would overlook when in the midst of a fight. Runar: Initially a simple librarian, Runar was a surprise to the rest when he was chosen, however his purpose quickly became imperative to the Heskynne’s hunts. An alchemist by hobby when selected, who’s proficiency allowed him to provide a valuable supply of potions that aided countlessly. Ranging from explosions to deal final blows to bottles of fog that concealed the party’s location, he was a unique and imperative facet of their dynamic. Arnbjorg: A woman whose reputation for trapping was almost as well renowned as her drinking prowess, she was Arvid’s partner in crime. Track and trap had been their go to for years, and were the crux of many of the hunts they took part in. She was an inventor in a sense, having pioneered numerous means of ensaring large prey that had typically been thought to only be slain by a direct assault. Brynja: Sometimes regarded as the ‘Northern Guardian’, she was an inspiration to women and girls across the kingdom. A powerful soldier who wielded a massive claymore in battle, she was said to have taken down a brown bear by herself. Ivar hadn’t been looking for her, but her abilities forced him to seek Brynja for his plans. She was the last to be inquired, and the most resistant, as her heart had always lied in the protection of the Norlandic peoples as a whole. Her leadership qualities turned her into an asset, taking on a role that none other could fit. When convinced of the cause, Ivar sat with his chosen seven within his home; A large clan hall that hadn’t seen proper use in years, occupied only by the lone zealot while his preparations were underway. He knew, however, that the wooden archways and great hall would someday soon be filled with the warmth of kin, for he was looking across the table at a chosen family. Or, rather a chosen group of strangers whom he would push to the brink, beyond the limits shackling them, and force them to evolve. Ivar Thorkin, followed by his now loyal septet, journeyed North into the frigid tundra that crowned the continent. The time he had taken preceding his incitement of hunter companions had been used to prepare a trial; a three year escapade in the North, in which the group would master their specialties entirely, and learn to utilize them in the hunt. This was by no means a simple task. The very snow-crested wasteland in which their temporary residence would occupy was their first strife to overcome, and doing so alone had nearly pushed Arnbjorg to abandon the others. Yet, Ivar’s passion lit a fire beneath them all, and their search to understand the true connection to the All Father drew them in deeper. Over the course of the following three years, Ivar saw his vision come to fruition in ways he could have never dreamed. Hardship, near death experiences, and stress turned out to be the greatest provocation of bonding, for when the sun rose to spill gold over the frosty hills and marked their trial complete, eight strangers had become true siblings. In the time between, all seven took to the guidance of Ivar, and honed their abilities. Rather than smother them into a uniform group, all were encouraged to bring what was exceptional and raise it to a level unseen. Bones were broken, sicknesses endured, frostbite even took one of Brynja’s fingers. The first few months were among the most difficult, their unity not yet found. But, every day, hour, minute, second that passed drew them closer. The trial itself was a coupling of countless lessons in the art of the hunt, as well as unification between talents. Beginning with small preys, and increasing until the party's final test: A Tundrastrider. The culmination of all that was learned would come from this dramatic conclusion to their sojourn, in which all eight of the to-be Heskynne’s would track and kill the imposing beast to prove to themselves, and to the All Father, that they had become masters of the hunt. The party sought not just any Tundrastrider, but one that had been scouted by Ivar months prior to the end of their expedition. The largest he had ever seen or heard of, easily counting in at 1000 lbs of striking muscle. Omnivorous and powerful, it proved to be the perfect verification of success. And proof it was. Utilizing all of their collective skills, now brought to their maximum potential by the guiding hand of Ivar, they managed to slay their final opponent. They tracked it down, they trapped it- although it did manage to break free of its binds and engage in a titillating battle of wills before the end. The flaying of foe only occurred through their overwhelming combined strengths, and when all eight stood before the cervidae and watched its life stain the snow crimson, they accepted one another as family. Having returned to Norland from their extended trial, the strangers-turned-family sat once more around the long dining table of Ivar Thorkin’s great hall, which had become a dreary sight of stagnancy, dust filling air. Together, they agreed that forming a clan of their own would be the best way to foster the environment they had created for themselves, so that they may hand it down through generations of world class hunters. With Ivar at the helm as Chieftain, and a Tundrastrider as their crest, all that was left was a name. During their three years of bonding, all seven had learned to speak the tongue of Ivar’s bloodline, one derivative of others in Norland, however deviating in many places. As such, came the suggestion from none other than the young Alvis; Heskynne, their word for Hunter. Obvious, and yet entirely fitting, there wasn’t a hair of disagreement. From that day forward, their work began to expand their name and produce a lineage of huntsmen, each of the seven deviating to specialized members and ranks. From the first line of clans members came the ranks of which those who embodied similar strengths would be bestown, to make up their own parties. Ideally, no party would be without one of each rank. A clan that takes all types of peoples and brings out the very best of their capabilities, forging unity with the ideology Ivar had instilled, training their new recruits under the mantra that now lead their lives: “Veiðimenn læra innan veiðinnar, Hunters learn within the Hunt.” This is how the Heskynne clan brings forth their mark upon the world, creating generation after generation of overwhelmingly skilled hunters. Somerthagin, The Scouts Alvithagn, The Medics Arvithagin, The Trackers Herlethagin, The Warriors Runathagin, The Alchemists Arnthagin, The Trappers Brynjathagin, The Leaders As time went on, the mantle of leadership was eventually passed down, and the original generation died out. While the world has yet to see a group as perfectly masterful as these, the Heskynne clan has continued to produce excellence. From kings head Huntsmen to Ministry leaders, the Norlandic clan remains prominent in their status, ever following the high that draws them to meet the moment where they and the All Father are the closest. Of the revered Ivar Thorkin, very little was ever recorded, some have even suggested that perhaps he was never real to begin with, while others theorize that perhaps he was the All Father himself. Whichever may be the truth, whichever one chooses to accept as such, none can deny that he produced some of the greatest hunters the world has ever seen.

Elaranael Drakon scans his eyes over the missive and exhales a small scoff. "Being a Tundrak doesn't just make you princess... " He responds to his cousin (@Wyrvun) with near equal agitation from the words that now hung in the air like lingering dust. "It's real easy to call to arms as what? The thing we've already been doing without some presumptuous woman telling us to? I mean, she may not even be a Tundrak, I could say I am! Does that make me Prince of Fenn?"

Fal'leon exhales as he read what's dedicated to him, a grimace forming upon his features. "Shame... I'd 'ave expec'ed tae see ye try tae be a be''er guide." He mutters to the nothing, perhaps to the paper, perhaps to the Doe's spirit. Memories flicker by, the decades of their friendship, their kinship. His early days in Vikela, his youth and place among their Ministry seats, alongside the Vanari's, alongside Floria. The wars they'd waged as soldiers together, the laws passed, fights, debates, coronations, tavern nights in the sprawling city. He recalls watching her grow and age. He recalls learning of her choice to take up the druidic path, when he was still young and freshly attuned, long before the days of his now earned respect. Fal'leon remembers hearing her wish to uptake the trials of his seed, proud to have kin, even if simply by adoptive means, seek to pursue his path. His desires to see the woman grow into a true druid. He had known her for a lifetime, humans had been born and died between their meeting and parting, an entire generation joined and left the world, and now she among them. Feeling the ache of nature draws more emotion than he wished, despite the deep frown on his lips, tears spill, and the ferns within the lush cave in which he meditates weep for their loss. Melancholy, perhaps. They parted ways on poor terms, his rage in having his guidance misused. He wonders now, was he justified? An overreaction? Surely not, if so many others had felt the same anger as he. And yet, in her parting, all she wrote, all she recalled, was this instance. Not of any other, not of his guidance, any bond they had shared, not his decisiveness in maintaining relations and aid when she struggled. Bitterness? Sadness? Wrath? The Corvid's emotions swirl and churn, unable to decide which wanted to be the one most prominent. Perhaps none of them were, perhaps none were as he felt?. Disappointment. For all the Doe could have been, for all she failed to be, for all she chose not to be on this day. His teeth grit, and the paper is cast aside. "Ye were nae mean' tae be a druid, malii'larion, I think. Ye were a figh'er, one who cared fer na'ure, bu' tha pressure, tha r'quiremen's o' this path were ne're mean' tae be... Alas, leas' i' means I can still visi' ye." A perhaps evil, mischievous grin passes Fal'leons expression now, "I do 'ope ye didnae think ye'd ne'er see me again..." And with such, his list of druids to seek in the Eternal forest grows, and the Corvid utters out a prayer, in hopes that his fall niece's soul may rest easy among the Fae. His family tree shrinks once more.

This conversation just honestly isnt worth continuing as we certainly won't come to an agreement and my initial comment wasn't directed to players to begin with. Have a good one, man, happy rping

saying its "incredibly obvious" doesn't matter, im talking about rule making here, not your personal feelings. rules need to be decisive and explicit, otherwise you are INVITING people to 'break them' (can't break a rule that isn't specified) when there's room to argue "okay well you never said ___ wasn't allowed". non specific rules is exactly where you get issues, it's far more important and effective to cover all bases, for ALL parties. I'm not asking the questions for you to answer, I'm asking them for the sake of having those specifications made to begin with, to avoid discrepancies Your hostility towards me is unwarranted and unappreciated. The inquiry was for admins/moderation to begin with.

My issue isn't confusion but more a necessity for specification. Vague rules can and will lead to admins overstepping based on their own personal feelings and not an objective rule to be followed, for a good rule to be made that can be sincerely followed, as someone above this said, things like "not on carrd, discord profile, etc" need to be included in the main post, not 3 pages into meme comments. every question i asked was namely for the sake of confirmations as to avoid confusion in ANY regard. It benefits artists who make a living off of such, but also those who they're trying to protect. Vagueness also means loopholes, it means actual creeps, and not just people making art, can and WILL try to find ways not specified to get around this ruling. A post like this regarding new policies should be as in depth as possible, and to illustrate the exact specifics of the rule for the benefit of both the enforcer and enforced.

This is what I'm stuck on as well, it's extremely vague. Adult artists who make art outside of LOTC, who may have LOTC patrons are left in a very strange position. While this update is necessary, admins should certainly consider being more specific than simply "profile". As well, what of NSFW art made of LOTC characters made unaffiliated? In a discord not advertised on any lotc servers, but still made by an lotc player, is a huge gray area, and an important one. Moderation/admins cannot intend to ban people on what they do outside of LOTC, even if it's of characters played on it. the server doesn't own any of these characters, it's the players intellectual property. What of people who play on LOTC and get this art from people who ARENT on the server? Obviously they cannot and should not share it amongst LOTC affiliated discords, but what if they have a personal one that happens to have lotc players? I feel this post and amendment needs a lot of specifications not given, that without feel as if there's an intent to police what people do OUTSIDE of lotc (this being said, i feel if i dont explicitly state this, people will intentionally be incompetent: no, i don't think nsfw should be shared in LOTC spaces, nor in any place children can be. What im saying is that one cannot intend to police peoples personal lives if they don't harm others)

The mighty Kharajyr had been in prayer atop the Eittitican pyramid when the meteor struck, a blast of heated air ruffling his fur. Hastily, despite his aging body, he rushes to the edge to view the carnage, and bristles slightly as realization dawns upon him. With this loss; his people must find another place to live. Yhl'Kabuki, Aelkos of SOUL, turns to seek a new home.

From his place on the Eittitica pyramid, the mighty kha's fur is blown by the blast, heat all consuming. He turns from his prayer, and rushes to the edge to be met with the vicious sight... His eyes shut tightly for a few moments, the meaning of such dawning on him: His people have to find a new home. Yhl'Kabuki, Aelkos of the Kharajyr, stands, and begins his search for a safer place to be

`*•° Ohowaki’s Journey °•*` ✯¸.•´*¨`*•°✾°•*`¨*`•.¸✯ If Fal’leon could choose anywhere to wake up after a wild drug trip, a giant birds nest lofted hundreds of feet in the air, with the smoldering desert sun beaming down, would be last on his list. And yet, that’s exactly where he finds himself. The sound of hoofbeats drumming in the distance is what properly stirs him to wakefulness, groggy and unfocused. His eyes slowly open, heavy from the concoction his Priest had given him prior to the journey. Despite them opening, light barely makes its way to his pupils, filtered heavily by a fabric… A blindfold, it seems. His lips part and a groan escapes him, remarkably displeased with the circumstances he finds himself in. In doing so, the taste of warm straw fills his mouth. Ho w peculiar. Heavy arms reach behind his head, and he fumbles with the knot that ties it tightly. Eventually, he unloops the ends and slides the blindfold off of him, immediately squinting as the unburdened rays of the harsh desert sun fill his senses. Able to see now, his head swivels, met with the desolate landscape of sand and dunes, broken up only by the occasional cactus or spiering plataus. The smell he’d been overwhelmed with, in looking downwards now, appears to be the next of a giant bird. The bones of various victims surround him, and a couple of large eggs sit neatly within some smaller straw nests. Bones… Giant eggs… Startled with the realization of- which took him longer than normal thanks to still coming off that high- this being the nest of a giant carnivorous bird, Fal’leon begins to hastily clamor towards the plateau's ridged side and out… It’s only as he’s nearly thrown himself out, he remembers… He’s a druid. Animals don’t attack druids. Flushing in embarrassment at his own panic, the half drugged elf more calmly slips out of the giant nest. His thinking is only returning in a slow trickle, but he knows for certain his final trial is to navigate back to Amathine. The desert, at least, gives him a very easy start on figuring out where he is. Somewhere near Krugmar, presumably, meaning his target location must be south west. Navigating the places he’s already explored sure beats being a bird in a strange forest… He’d be telling his Priest about that one for sure. At least it wasn’t a bad trip? Fal’leon begins to slowly descend the steep cliff-face, fingers wrapping around the ridges to support his weight. His stomach churns as he looks down towards the desert sand below, wobbling slightly in his still drugged state. Hastily, the druid turns away and faces into the plateau, a few ragged breaths escaping him as he attempts to calm his racing heart. Typically, this task would be nothing to him, but with a foggy mind every action ends up feeling as if he’s moving through thick sludge, his body responding slower than what he needs. Each few meters of descent involve a break to calm himself. Fal’leon’s body has already become sweat drenched, his robes and pants sticking to him uncomfortable. The accursed sun is unrelenting, mocking him in a cloudless sky. And yet, finally, the man’s feet reach the desert’s floor. Sand shifts under his weight and already begins to fill his shoes, much to his dismay. He’s never been fond of sand. But, at least there was no more almost slipping to his peril. Now, it’s simply to walk towards Amathine. The druid lifts a hand and rests it against his browbone, shielding his eyes from the harsh rays, trying to figure out which way East and West might be. Of course, entirely inconveniently, it appears to be right around noon, the sun lofted nearly directly above him by now. He groans, agitated by the difficulty, and simply begins walking in a direction. Surely, eventually, he’ll come to something to signify his location, regardless of if it’s a bit further away than ideal. ✯¸.•´*¨`*•°✾°•*`¨*`•.¸✯ Fal’leon trudges along through the desolate landscape slowly, wobbling with every other step with the uneven footing of the loose sand. Even through the soles of his shoes, the sand burns against his feet, making the travel that much more difficult. Finally, after what felt absurdly long, his eyes are brought with solace. Just passed the hill he’s been walking over, he can see tracks from carts, horses, and footsteps; the main road, worn down and distinct. The man breaks out into a sprint, nearly slipping and landing face first into the grains below him. As his steps become firm under the compacted path, he slows his pace. The druid bends and rests his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath, each inhale of air causing his throat to grow drier and drier. Maybe running was a mistake? Whatever, he doesn’t care, he’s found something solid to go off of. A path is good. Better yet, with the passage of time, the sun now hangs lower in the sky and clearly denotes his direction. He squints upwards for a moment, his mind beginning to clear ever so slowly. Not entirely, not at all, but enough that he can process the cardinal directions. Fal’leon follows the path south east as it meanders across the landscape, and soon enough the desolate landscape begins to show signs of life. Lush ferns droop over the path, which has begun to shift from sands into worn down dirt. The cacti of the desert are replaced with jungle trees that reach up to the clouds, and birds of countless colours flurry out from the canopy of leaves they create. He sucks in a breath of the humid air, familiar humidity. The sounds of the rain forest’s life, both the druidic song and the audible, fill his ears comfortably. Cicadas drone on, birds singing their songs, the large rivers rapids flow. If he wasn’t drenched in sweat, it might be lovely. Going from here is of ease to the druid, the simple task of heading south towards the jungle beaches. Occasionally, someone on horseback rides the opposite direction of him, sparing a passing glance. Fal’s clothes stick to him, the sweat and humidity only worsening the further south he travels. His thirst is monumental, and temptation to drink from the river flowing to his right grows with every moment. That, combined with the still lingering drugs in his system, makes the walking more unbearable. To his left, the path splits off, and a wooden sign stands proudly, with the word he’s been looking for etched into it: AMATHINE. Fal’leon turns towards it, sauntering along the path. He’s so thirsty. His journey takes him past the new settlement along the road, and he grimaces in disgust. Such an unfortunate thing, ruining the landscape and silencing nature's song. If he had any less of his better judgment, he’d have gone in and began to overgrow the plantlife. Thankfully, the drugging has all but worn off by now. Even still, he, as always, takes the long way around the settlement, casting it glares every so often. Soon enough, Fal’leon is greeted with the sight of the mali’ame kingdom, and his pace hastens. His muscles burn with the demand to rest, but, that can wait for one of the beds in his seedhall. He stumbles through the kingdom, through the glade, and into his home. He beelines for the bucket of clean water he keeps and dunks his head in, gulping it down hastily. Once contently quenched, Fal makes his way towards the beds and slumps onto one, letting himself doze off… He’ll find his Priest tomorrow and hand it in, for now, rest.

Vrim, the nefarious little imp who had been the utter and complete core player in this siege, or in its mind that's what it was, cackles into the blotted darkness. Despite not doing anything of substance, not even getting a measly scratch in on anyone, he's extremely proud that HE manipulated all these lessers to aid in his glorious victory, unrefutable! "Vrim win!!! Vrim WINS! Next... Vrim kill kill ALL!!!"

this may have been asked already, but does the freeze on shamanism apply to writing in lesser spirits for cultures, or is it in specific reference to rewrites and similar things?

Fal'leon sits in the secure, hidden location of the Grand Moot, preemptively awaiting his brethren to arrive. "I pray uni'iy may finally r'turn tae our Order, aye Crowley?" The raven perching on a gnarled tree root simply caws in response, not exacting grasping what he's saying, with or without Beastspeak.

traitorrr my son a traitor!!! *crying*

i love them

Shrine

Champion documentation (progressing Ra'tuhmet shrine in Rah'tuma to T2. Only two champions needed for T2 progress) Ninkthaguz Champion 1 - Forge a weapon imbued with clear symbolism depicting Ra'Tuhmet to be used when killing in his name [Complete] - Loft an obelisk in a foreign nation, ensuring it is easily seen by others and has access to sunlight during all hours of the day [Complete] Rahknar Champion 2 - Forge a weapon imbued with clear symbolism depicting Ra'Tuhmet to be used when killing in his name [Complete] - Introduce someone who doesn't know of Ra'tuhmet to his faith and teachings [Complete]

⋆⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ Blood... Darkness... Screams, pain, death... Ketsuki's life had been drowned in blood, gore, and utter devotion for as long as her memory served her to remember. And at the centre of it all, the SUN. The sun, the giver of warmth and life. She had spent a hundred long years, an occultist whose devotion to the false Sun of her idealization could rival that of the most zealotic canonist. When the curse of the vampires took hold of her being, she accepted it with open arms, a gift from the Sun it must have been. Stumbling into Rah'tuma was an accident brought on by curiosity, and having her vampiric curse purged was even less planned than that. And yet, Atemu-Ta saw her devotion to the sun, and brought her to finally come to serve his true self. When she was purified, cured and fixed, it was the Sun's visage she was made to wittness Sat in a circle of others, Ketsuki listened to the netjers of Rah'tuma speak, much passing through her attention. She could focus upon nothing more than the prospect of what was to come. The deity she had followed would finally be true to her, the false sun a memory of her past. Slipping into sleep as the ritual began, she found herself in an ethereal form, both divine and horrific, burning with light. Her companions, and herself, all worked to lift the sun saucer they stood atop, to raise themselves to the great light of creation. Ketsuki found this action to come to her as easily as breathing, matched and excelled only by the pharaoh himself. The group stood, waiting... ⋆⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊⋆ HIM. Ra'tuhmet, Spirit of Eternal Sunlight and Solar Wrath [lesser of aztran] His mighty form appeared before them all, falcon head adorned with Rahmun garbs, and stared down. Ketsuki didn't pay attention to the conversing prior, she could only look between the sunlit god and Atemu, waiting for her moment, her truest chance to prove devout. "Bring her forth, the one who was purified before me." Ketsuki stepped forwards, and could only drop to her knees and bow before the Sun god. "Please, great god of light, I know i've spent... the last forever praying to a false version of you, but my devotion has been true. I want only to spread your name. Please, Ra'tuhmet..." "I have heard you for centuries passed now. Misguided, but prayers to me are heard under all names. Ketsuki, I will make you an extension of my rays, you must spread the light of creation, hoist a great obilisk in my name. Bring power to me, sunstruck one." And so, he raised his staff and allowed it to touch the woman's soul, imbuing her with his heka so that she may carry the torch of his light. The world around her crumbled away, and she awoke back in the shrine of Ra'tuhmet, lighter than before. It was from that day forth that the mali'ker would shed her identity, relieve herself the Vampiric Ketsuki, in place of the now Suntouched Khalida-Ra

"man, we really can't catch a break." The sunblessed priestess sighs... A delish imp grins with excitement at such news "more chaos!!! die die!!!!" "I like this kraken... Ayla fella, takin' ou' a ci'y and darkspawn? wha' a useful ac'." The Corvid grins and plays with a newly brandished bracelet idly. A large kha figure furrows his brows in concern, "netlapohua inin nehcahuacahua."