Damnit_Delmar

An Abyssal Ascension *The Events of this are not public, those there may properly respond to the events* Held within the frail digits of that Delmar, rested a blackened ivory elven skull. Aurum lined its crevices, as though it was light trying to break from the dismal dark. Implanted within the sockets, rested two fiery gems. Much akin to that old elfs aura, it instead was but a distant reminder of the potential that had been lost. “I slaughtered all of Mordrings finest Wraiths, and this is what he brought instead?” The words of that wielder of shadowed light hung heavy in his mind. A bubbling broiling thing, coming to befall the Lord of Minas Mordren. The cold waves of that ocean sea before him, acting as something to sober him from his lucid thoughts. “Did you feel the fear of your ancestors?” The words of that letter still ran red in his mind, that anger of his starting twist, malform and grow into something caustic. A fabled fury he seldom displayed, as he made his way back in through the ports. He knew what was to be done, what was to be gained, and what was to be lost. "PAMPO PERA! KING BENEATH, MORDRING! SHOULD MY WORDS REACH YOUR EARS, I BESEECH FOR MEETING!” It was a wicked thing, the empty silence that followed, not unlike that of what had occurred in the lands of the Abyss. His fury only bubbled over, for as the gates slowly rise, so too did his steps quicken. It was almost too quick, his steps almost causing him to stumble over the blackened steps. Another ragged breath taken in, as he felt the common aching of those old bones of his. “Damn It, Curse it all, this body of mine.” He would huff, though he knew very well why he remained in it, despite its deteriorating state. Just from his time in the abyss, he knew that his bones were slowly becoming weaker. He hated it, with every fiber of his being, he reviled the thought. Years of harsh conditions had led it to gain imperfections of its own. It had all become so much The Emissary of the King Beneath had come, and more so had learned of what was to occur. The summoning of that blade, the reveal of what the warrior of light wielded. It was all so peculiar and so enlightening. Yet it was also infuriating, time after time had they been lacking, their risks leading to little return. So he spoke, he told that great dark lord of his ideas, of where to expend his resources. All was discussed, and all was promised, until conversations were paused. A command given to the old Mortal Gravelord. “Follow Us” The merchant paused, surprised at the request, but not at all unwilling. The two of them, mortal and exalted undead, side by side through the frozen landscape. They made their way to the home of the Xionist sect of Ember. His steps slowly trending upwards into the upper loft of the church, being guided to the tower's ritualistic communing room. The communing artifact, laid upon a pillow of black satin, ready for him to grasp. So he grasped it He felt himself falling, departing and tumbling into a realm of darkness. His hands splayed across the pitch black sands, as he arrived upon the pillar of Aegisan stone. A great voice of death and decay, rumbling forth for all to hear, and most certainly that Delmar. "What brings you here” The adunic merchant slowly lifted upwards, struggling to stand, though he feigned strength towards those undying around him.His voice a thing of harsh and ashen tone, strained by wheezing breaths. He explained then, in baited breath the plight of their time in his realm. The slaughter of students and allies. He explained the proposition of pooling his power into the few, rather than the many. He explained it all, how to funnel strength, to hone that which could grow through his facilitation. It was all so hopeful, the bastard royal hardly thought that he would listen, and perhaps offer a laugh. That was until that offer sprung forth from the King Beneath. “We cannot offer you boons of greater undeath, not in your current state Delmar.” The words hung heavy in the air, yet what came next, perhaps was what truly shocked that Mortal Gravelord. “If given the chance, would you claim your Birthright?” The undead chanted, the cries to claim his place amongst them made manifest. The conflict that bore in his mind, of taking that spot of ascension. Yet he knew the truth, of what was to be done, and what had to be done. He had to Ascend “Only by your hand shall I accept such a change. If Fate motes you to mold me anew, then Mote it Be!” The words had spoken, another travel planned, one much more swift. A trek back to a home of frozen oceans, and aurum walls. A home that he had built with his own two hands, of calloused flesh, and tanned skin. A realm he had built, as a dynasty for the undying. It was only right, he had cultivated the tree. It was only right he was allowed to enjoy the fetid fruit. It wasn’t until the moon showed high in the sky, and the halls of Lumbridge shook and shook. It wasn’t until the mountains shook, and the northern peaks trembled. With the fabric of space torn itself apart, he felt that breach of mortal might make itself manifest. He felt the call, the realization of what he was to do. Lost in his own thoughts, the voice of the Lich Wight spoke to him from across those long pews. “Do you, Reynard Delmar, hold any last words?” That dastardly dealer of the damned, scryer of the beyond and cuthroat merchant. He had long feared the change, long sought out ways to prolong it. Yet in such actions, he had drawn closer to his own death day. The pain of his being, had long entered his being. The accelerated age and constant toil in faux mortality, making him all but a mockery to mortal life. His gaze of two golden coins, turned back one last time to gaze upon those who watched him take the first steps. Each gaining an inkling, an understanding of what was to be. They all looked, bated breath about them. Each face, an inspiring soul for that long living mortal. His gaze slowly turned to look upon the Lich-Wight. A smile, grand and welcoming, gracing the undead. “Why waste my time on last words, when the first are what to come?” The Gravelords hand was lifted upwards, a blade of blighted steel seen, a dagger presented before the mad merchant. His two golden eyes looked upon it, a shaky breath given. Shaky breath, it was a wonder to truly think, the last breath that filled his long aged death. “So Mote it be” The Emissary gathered the reagents, the flickering tones of occult light shining before the grouping of Mystics, Necromancers, and various undead. They all hung upon the actions of that adunian, that withered old merchant. Where perhaps fear, or anguish, should have escaped the merchant of Mali’dun people. Instead, a single smug phrase was returned in kind. “So Mote it Be!” It was the stench of iron that filled the air. The lingering moments of a pained existence, as the memories of his life as a living man flashed before his eyes. He saw that of his once partner, the woman that had shown a chance for a new life. He recounted his son, the child that would perhaps lead to his clan's downfall, or continued grace. Yet none grew more fervent, then the faces of his enemies. The ones that had scorned him, the ones that had made their bed with the likes of the Light. They all showed upon his mind, and each held a place for what was to be. A merchant, a royal, a bastard. Killed was that mortal soul Yet risen, a figure of auric lifeforce, and blackened bone. A spirit of bone, that was exalted in soul A Lord of Blackened Sun & Eternal Sight A Gravelord crowned with the name Kryndomere OOC Note

He had seen it, before his very eyes, the Delmar had seen the like of that swift and brutal kill. It had been easy to run, harder to run away knowing what prize had been lost. "Your death shall not be in vain, my acolyte." He prepared, the letters, the communion, the seances that where to be. He readied for the war that had begun, the battle for that blade had begun.

*This letter would be distributed out amongst the likes of the Murkwater Merchant Company, Sixth Synod, or wayward Allies* A Wildwynns Welcome 8th of the Grand Harvest, 178 SA A Sole Grave Day That was the allotted time I waited before I received word from the former Herald, who to the fellow artisans who tread upon our path of Umbrage, relinquished his holdings in Lumbridge and titles. The title of this enkindled path, now passed properly onto myself. To Malag the Reborn, in particular. The former Herald of Umbrage, let me make it perfectly known to the world within this letter; that I bear respect to your choice in this matter. Should you ever seek scholarly insight, work of worth, or merely desire a duel of deals. Know that your presence is welcome within my halls of gold and umbral fire, and your wisdom on how to not repeat past mistakes, greeted with open arms. With this new title, comes a new vested power, and a required task of myself to uphold. The task of unification. For as the start of this Renaissance began with Soul and Bone, so shall it continue to be such. Thus I cordially invite all who share this same path, to my dominion of Minas Mordren. Whether you seek to understand my ideals for the future, challenge the prospect of my claim, or merely satisfy the curiosity as to who I am. I welcome you all to my halls of gilded stone, and unhallowed flame. Radiant is the Black Sun, and Enlightening is the Grim Renaissance Signed Reynard Delmar, Lord of Crows, Herald of Umbrage

A Radiant Renaissance 13th of the First Seed, Year 178 SA Dear Denizens of Aevos As many of you have come to know, we of Murkwater are a folk who value coin and clear cut deal over religion. For greed bears its merits, it brings a common honor, and understanding of personal want and growth. Yet there are other paths, other ideals that share this model. Take for example, the Path of Umbrage. The Sacred way of the Old Dark, that for near half a century now, has come to be spread in a diminished setting. Its words not made manifest, its ideals of expansion and magical renaissance. Not made manifest, for its herald lays languishing. Idle as one can be, and without proper vision for the future. The title of Herald of Umbrage, has been left destitute and lacking. Those who practice such, and those who learn from its teachings, left lost or worse. Doing nothing. It is why I, a wanderer who sees not through the lenses of zealotry, but through the gaze of an artisan. It is as an artisan, and wielder of the Darkened Art. That I take back that, which has been left in the hands of the Mystics. Whereby the title, Herald of Umbrage, returns to those who innovate and expand that very original art. It is with such, that I challenge you, Aranur. For the very title you bear, that which is the Herald of Umbrage. I give you a single Grave Week to respond to this challenge, otherwise I shall take this title, and use it to forge a more radiant future for my craft and kin. Let our Renaissance begin Signed Reynard Pharamir Delmar, The Lord of Crows

I like it, +1

That wretched craftsman sat upon his throne of winged ivory, gems and aurum dangled from that throne, as that aurum clad Gravelord rested upon that cushioned satin seat. The wizened Craftsman; Reynard Pharamir Delmar, cackled with cruel glee. The eyes of Galbraths lover, rolling in his palm like a pair of dice. "What a grand gesture, a grand gesture indeed! We love ones first prominent Bounty, let us see how such proceeds."

A Seizing of Misused Power 9th of the Grand Harvest, 175 SA [!]This letter would be sent to all members of the Murkwater Merchant Company, Allies, in addition to the Duke of Brabant. Dear Members of Murkwater, Allies, and the Mortal Duke. It is with great pain that we come to tell you all, that the former student, the Vicar - Franz Kossuth, or Tallinn Tordove. Has failed us, his attempted plots have failed, he has wasted resources, aided our enemies through his own lack of foresight. In the result of his ire against the mortals, he has chosen to forgo the importance of our current goals. Our current aspirations, and expansion in domains that have long since been lost. Thus it is with, annoyance, that we take away the titles bestowed upon him. His titles of the council; revoked, his permissions to plan conflict; revoked, his ownership over his own grouping; revoked. Dissolved into the holdings of the Murkwater Merchant Company. Should those that held business with such an entity wish to discuss, so shall it be done in person. There is no honor, in a deal not upheld. To the Mortal Duke in particular; we will not revoke your plaything, for we believe you a worthy nemesis for the child known as the Vicar. You may keep your personal little battle, at the cost however, of a lessened interaction of our Company. The resources of Murkwater, departing from the Vicar, until he has proven himself worthy of holding such resources once more. Hazk al'durngo grael, narn thur ithurzu sethorek Hail the Black Sun, for its Light Guides Signed

A figure of the cold north would not know, but still in that dimly lit sanctuary of his, that place of respite. He pondered, upon the past, of the old mountain tops of that once fertile landscape. He remembered his time as Lord of the Adunic people, as King of the Harren'hil. Of his noble duty that he had long since forsaken. Aurelion Marsyr sat in silence, and though he knew not how, he knew that another had departed. Something within that Soulless being stirring. That the prodigal son of his, the one he had entrusted with who he considered a daughter, no longer lingered upon the realm. The one who he had entrusted that adunic task, long gone and forsaken. How many years had passed, decades frozen in that state of life and death, forced to languish forevermore while all those he had raised. . .slowly departed into realms far more peaceful. "This. . .is my curse. . .I'm sorry for failing you, my son." So did the Marsyr sit, silence befalling the old hunter, as he merely waited. How many years, how many more decades, perhaps even centuries would it be. . .until he once more joined them.

Only when everybody becomes a pearl clutching puritan

The Murkwater Merchant Company Robber Baron; Reynard Pharamir Delmar. Continues work upon his new company headquarters, unbeknownst to him, the company name gaining grand traction as a dark Mercantile company

So did that dastardly Delmar reside upon his throne of ebony stone, the man enjoying the tantalizing smoke of that blunt. Fueled by the flames of the fire, that had missed his undead. "Well well well, it seems we have much to prepare for." The merchant mused with twisted delight, his hands lifting as though to compose the beginnings of some dreaded orchestra. "Let us see how they fair in their first proper conflict"

Uncertain if you just missed out on it, would Darkstalkers be able to utilize these effects as well?

Blessed be the Mordring Metal

From within the depths of his lair, did the old Delmar come to look over the missive, his eyes widening as he brought his ivory clad fist up. "We are capitalists! Hardly agents of Iblees, my student must do better in marketing our allegiances" Thusly did the old decrepit one begin his work, the whining and screeching of an undead steed, coming to be worked upon.

Let the Musin be blind, magical mouse for the win

Don't see the reason lessening the amount, considering what tree said; though with that stated, I approve of the Paramoumt addition. Give Darkstalkers their Squires

The infamous and dastardly Delmar looks towards the note in hand, his gaze flicking over the blood stained missive, nodding his head as he examined that name. "So this is who they spoke of. . .how intriguing" The crimson stained pages would be tossed to the flames, his form slowly rising, arms stretching as his old bones cracked and popped. "If this god can bleed, then it means it lacks any power, any union, any strength. What have those who praised old lords, been doing to cause such an easy victory?" After a few moments, he offered a nod, an idea coming to mind. The hands of that still mortal, lofting upwards to summon forth his gilded lifeforce.

Of course, marriage is the ultimate tax write off, therefore marriage = capitalism

After reading both sides, I have concluded the following. Capitalism creates equal opportunity for all, therefore, become a capitalist.

The Plagued Passersby[Event] The sound of flies buzzed about, as the soft crunch and crack of brush and bone filled the foul smelling air. A thin mist hung over the coastal woods, the scent of rot and decay filling passerbys' nostrils, as the wreckage of some ruined carriage rested nearby an old derelict road. To all who drew near, they would find several corpses, all of them being of the ‘ame people. The once wonderful colors, and fresh crops, tarnished by blood and buzzing insects. A warning for those who traveled the roads of the coastal elves. Should one care to withstand the stench, and care to investigate the bodies, they might begin to hear it. The sound of laughter and joy, a merry welcome for those who decided to tread into the treacherous jungle.