Damnit_Delmar

The Lord Commander of those frozen armies of GOD would linger upon the crests of the icy peaks, his arctic blue hues scanning over those knights and soldiers. "Pyzm undere Yathnz" With the chant ringing it, the commander would nod for those loyal soldiers to begin preparing, the army of the Empress, only having just begun their work.

A figure of cold plate and tattered blue cloth, would slowly stand upon the crest of those frozen peaks, a spear slowly rising. A banner slowly unfurling, revealing the image of those twin headed crows. "Blessed be we, who fight for the winter winds of the Empress. Vailor Morghulis!"

Look at that Northern screenshot tho! Hyped asf!

Just using the same wording of the Infallible Curse for this, as the previous write

Archlich The Venerable Gravelords “Let me show you the countenance of the HEITH-HEDRAN, born of conjunction, whose sons breathe air of long darkness. We stand now, in unbound breadth, and take sight of shadows once banished between sky and earth.” - the Red Prophet, Geitheros Most mortal’s have sought to escape the cold clutches of death, from those humans who sought to escape their short lives, to the elves that sought eternal power. Each one bore a reason to escape their own mortality, and so when the mad attempted to become something greater, they turned to the very creations they rose, the undead, the infallible and cursed. Through cannibalizing the bodies and reagents of the greater and weak, mortal descendents were able to subvert death. Yet, as one grows older, they learn to enhance the ritual and gift. Hone their once weakened bodies, to achieve feats that they had not considered prior. Initially pioneered during Geitheros' tutelage before being banished from Rh'Thor, to eventually raise figures such as the King in Crimson, Ostromir, the Rat King, Ludwig and the mad jester, Azkholdun. Every lich holds a desire, and thus every lich holds a unique strain to their immortality. Through further tinkering with their body, soul, and mind., so does the once mortal weaver; ascend to Arch Lichdom. Physiology “'We are born, Feeble and weak, given nothing save languish in the hereafter. Far, far from paradise. Yet such too, is remedied by mine touch'” - The King in Crimson, Ostromir The shrewd Archlich can take many shapes; ranging from fleshy half-skeletons draped in ceremonial shrouds, walking corpses covered in linen as mummified demons, or the rotted, gaunt image they held in life. Pinnacles of unliving flesh and bone, an Archllich can choose to even fleshsmith their body so long as it is within average human or elven proportions. That stated however, one would find that as an Archlich, they hold boundless stamina. Making them incapable of being physically tired. Yet, such priests were not meant to fight, this would lead them with the capability of only being able to utilize light weaponry. This is additionally coupled with a unique resistance against all forms of weather. Extreme sources of heat, and likewise the body not succumbing to the extreme duress of frost. Redlines Archliches are restricted to strength similar to a voidal mage, making them only capable of fighting with lighter weaponry as well as making them incapable of wearing plate or half-plate armor. Archliches find themselves highly resistant to piercing and slashing attacks. Should they be attacked with blunt weapons, they would take twice as much damage. Should they be attacked directly in the head with a hammer, they would find their vessel instantly destroyed. Archliches are immune to all forms of mundane and alchemical heat and cold, due to their bones being composed of Dragons Bone, as well as the magical essence granted by the blood of hags. Mentality More often than not, the Archlich is violent, cruel, and sadistic. Their minds have been perverted by their undeath into the hunger that had consumed them, making use of their twisted bodies and powers to fuel their will. Even the wisest among these powerful undead now are numb to the realities of life. They will find no empathy to the humanity they once bore, often resorting to feigning moral codes if any semblance of who they were remains. Despite this, these beings are not inherently evil, nor do they exist hellbent on seeing the world burn. Regardless of how Archliches have earned a name aberrant monstrosities and coldhearted perversions of undeath, many exist with logical convictions that can give a facetious semblance of morality—forging false identities to feign the idea of life, now lost. The Infallible Curse Those afflicted with the Infallible Curse—some in their pursuit of immortality and others against their will—are forever cursed to walk the realm. When the undying are disposed of, their soulbound lifeforce lingers in the world, unable to find peace beyond in the soulstream or the certainty of Ebrietaes. Doomed to the fate of the mortal plane, this energy coalesces over a year before it finds a new host to inhabit. After this time has passed, the residual energy of the slain undead is forced to once again inhabit a random corpse, the soul forcing upon it the burdens of the body the undead once had. Even for those who willingly succumb to the fate of the Infallible Curse, it exists as a hellish purgatory for the damned dead, as one may find undeath is not so easily escaped. Redlines Darkstalkers and Archliches can never be truly slain. Normal hard PK rules still apply, such as killing one’s self or otherwise. An undead that PK’s according to these rules cannot be brought back. After 30 IRL minutes from the point of their death, the Archlich or Darkstalker will inhabit a new body. This body takes the augments of one’s soul, whether it be a necromantic modification or the capacity to wield mighty powers of undeath. Dying takes a toll on one’s psyche when the once again awake to find themselves in a new body, capable of causing one to feel numb and disillusioned to reality. This process does not require the assistance of a necromancer. A body is just found, where the undead simply awakes with their new body narratively in Cloud Temple or a soulstone pillar they are mechanically bound to. Abilities So the lich began to carve and sculpt his next creation, a construct of carnage to aid in a unknown war Magical Body With the body of the Archlich consisting of rare and valuable Dragons Bone, the once mortal would find that the strain upon their soul severely weakened. In fact, almost seeming to add a bountiful source of power within the Archlich. However, not all sources of greater power may enjoy these old beings. Flesh Facade Being masters of flesh and form, a lich may disguise themselves back to what they once looked like. For the role of a Necromancer is to be a deceiver and manipulator, and with the ability to bear false flesh, it allows such individuals to blend into societies to gather their contacts and disciples. Corpse Courier An Archlich may choose to use the long deceased as an act of communing with those who happen to be leagues and miles away. Whether it be via an old crumbling skull, or the carcass of a recently slain beast, or even through the mindless husk of one of their fallen soldiers. The Elders Presence There is a tangible presence to those that have achieved the occult arts of undeath, one such that not only causes respite for the dead, but fear for the living. One may choose to suppress this aura, so as to hide themselves amongst the common folk, or may cause such to show and spread strength for the dead and fear for the living. Strength of the Damned Archliches are craftsmen, creators, and kings. All who hold the power and respect to take and modify their form as they please. As such, a Gravelord may choose to find some way to further grant themselves power, for every scholar is unique in their desire. General Redlines Archliches exist as undead creatures of necromancy with capabilities to study other magic. Archliches regain the modification they had as a necromancer, if they had one. As undead, Archliches are unable to sire living children and FTB romantically An Archlich possesses the physical strength similar to a voidal mage, completely unable to adorn metal-plated armor. Striking an Archlich in the skull instantly kills their current vessel. Being touched by sunlight is painful, and eventually feels like fire on living skin if unshrouded. Archliches are just as vulnerable to mundane weapons, and are not any more adverse to gold or silver compared to living beings. Credits Writer - SilvertheDM Punctuation - boughtabride Writing Help - Krunos10, Lockages, Zarsies, femurlord Art - Pinterest Original Lore Writer - dard Purpose

The squire and inquisitor initiate, blinks at the missive as he looked over it. Wondering as to why his help had not been recorded in the missive as well."Why was I not informed of any of this?" The burnt man frowned, a sigh escaping him as he put the missive away.

Let the bug, bug out

A Soulless Husk returns from his trip to the Caravan, bearing with him that worthwhile and bountiful prize of Skelt Remains, his intentions set on returning with more to offer the wonderful merchants.

So did that Husk peer down at the missive, that Lord Commander humming as he passed his wizzened digits upon the paper. "Oh how wonderful, just the thing I need as of current" He then once more turned his attention to that chassis, the now tinkerer finalizing upon that hulking construct. For he had soldiers to prepare, if he where to fight such a beast.

From the north did a man look over the missive, having ripped it from one of the boards within the ker city. His blue gaze shifting over the lettering, and from it, did he find his lips turning. While incapable of fully feeling, he had found some humor in the missive. "Solving one problem, with another, I'm going to enjoy this disaster" From that, did the humorless noise of a chuckle escape past his marred lips. For if not for his condition, he would surely find true and proper joy in the news, from the punishment of this once ally of his.

Looks pretty cool, +1

A squire looks to the old ruins of the kingdom of Canon, his gauntleted hands raised, as signed forth the lorraine. His hands clasping together as he bowed his head. "While one foe may be defeated, another joins the fray. But GOD shall guide us, and shall embrace us in his light and mercy, and shall aid us in delivering his wroth upon the foul darkspawn" Unclasping his hands, he would grab onto the heavy tower shield he had wielded during the fight, lifting it up from the charred sands as he gazed towards the slowly drifting sun. Awaiting for what the new day would bring.

Uncertain if you have or not, but I would suggest giving this a read. Would help with your formatting, scaling, and just general make of the magic. edit: Just some personal advice, lightning and electricity is dope and fire is dope, but why is God/Creator the source of this power? If your making it cannonist themed, highly suggest doing something that has not been done before or does not do something similar. Such as making it more themed, after ideologies within the scrolls as well as abilities that support the theme of Cannonism. Like purification perhaps, stuff against spooks and anguls, ect. Unless you mean something else by Gott, in which case, nvm

A Loungers Death The Othaman would have traversed down into the slums of Celianors capital, the now 31 year old, having spent his day out in search for more clues and hints upon those quickly growing planar grasses. Though he had found little, to no knowledge upon the subject. Thus, he had chosen to find himself a remote spot, someplace to enjoy the view and enjoy the vanilla infused tobacco. With the day swiftly growing dimmer, and the breeze growing to become much colder then prior, he had found himself stumbling into the magical lift. His body dispersed, only to quickly reform within the confines of the bottom platform. Where the breeze had been cold, the air felt warmer, the soft drip of water, causing a haunting and eerie tune. Though odd, it was certainly a private spot, and with time to spare and his eyes growing heavy. The young man found himself lounging against one of the carved stones, a mixture of pipe weed and cactus green filling the air. In doing so, a drowsy cloud would begin to fill his mind, the heavy drag of sleep starting to pull him under. “Glad I’m free from that curse, haven’t had a good rest in a week.” The young Othaman would take one last glance at his pipe, the embers holding enough fuel for one last toke. Bringing the wooden contraption to his lips, he would take a great old toke of the pipe weed. His eyes closing as he let the smoke fill into his lungs, his lips about to part as to release the last of that silvered mist. “Do not move, or I’ll slit your throat.” The sharp edge would cut the outermost layer of skin, blood already dribbling down from the small wound. That groggy sensation of sleep, turning swiftly into a rush of adrenaline, his fingers moving to grasp at the blade. The sharp edges cutting fingertips as he began to try to escape the grasp of the woman. Her hand holding an iron grip over his mouth as he continued to struggle in a vain attempt to escape. The choking smoke escaped in brief clouds through his nose. “Get this ******* over with!” An audible sigh was heard, Ezra's eyes widening as his pale blue gaze looked up. Only to feel the heavy weight of the blade drag across his carotid artery. Smoke, tinged red from the ichor, would flow from his neck like a thunderous storm. The sickly mixed scent of vanilla and iron, proceeding to fill the air. The last image glanced from the barely trained corsair, being the annoyed eye roll of that dark haired woman. Ezra Josef Othaman SA 79-SA 110

Your super welcome! In regards to it, looks awesome, I would just specify that the Corcitura ones either need an ST sign in specfic or if you want to make it more player friendly have it be that the Corcitura player can have their contact info so that a player can msg them about it. That way, its better to keep tabs as to which corc players are doing this method Besides that, only other critique is the symbols again, since Aether in of itself is not a symbol. But one of the prefixs, if you want some suggestions as to what prefix/prefix hybrids you could make this then I put some just below this comment. Other then that, good luck on having it get accepted, for sure see this being a cool plant to not only harvest. But interact with in the wilds, and could add some cool things to druids and blood mages.

"Grizh u hul, Grizh u zna, Grizh u krimp-" The age of blood, of bonds and flame, had diminished severely. For what had once been a prominent thing within the Goi, had all but perished and left. The foundations in which the goblin had been raised upon, and the aspects and ideologies of life, had all but dwindled for the Haruspex. He had tried to acclimate, yet he knew he was a tool and goblin of an age that had been brought to an end to swiftly. So had he found himself in a cave, where he had hidden, and traveled. Where his eyes had peered over the vast distance and landscapes that the spirits could offer. Yet all he had found, in truth, was nothingness. The bonds of his kin, had begun to fray, and the once frequent visitors dwindled to none. His skin, gray and scarred, began to wrinkle and shrivel. His teeth had long since become monstrous, and so had his ears. Yet still, the dwindling urukim rested, and traveled, and soon his legs gave away to dust and ashes. His body soon to follow, until all that remained in a small frail and dusty skeleton, was the shriveled things slowly beating heart. Yet even that, slowly gave away, until the final beat rang true in a empty silent cave.

A young Inquisitor reads over the missive, his marred visage contorting into a grimace, as he crumpled it up and placed it into the fire to act as more fuel. "Filthy heathen, it's one thing to claim our grand order did something such as murder the young, and another to put such disrespect to GOD and his flock." The hateful highlander would continue to stoke the flames, knowing full well the grand duty of the Holy Orders cause.

A corsair with a visage of bronze and gold, grabs his spear and shield, the wandering warrior preparing to aid the Sisters and Church against the hellish threat.

The Adunian read over the letter, a blank stare given to the words, such news already known to the man. His gaze flicked towards the direction of those marshlands, knowing full well what lay within the muck and mud that bordered the realm. His leather clad hands would find themselves folding the letter, and placing it within one of his pockets on his person. "Rest well kid, rest well knowing you where better then your blooded kin." The man of bronze and gold, would raise a hand to one of his pockets, his mind recounting to that conversation in Celianor all those years ago. A sigh escaping him, as he found himself removing that plain faced mask, the man setting the glinting item next to him as he began to light himself a new cigar. His mind adrift as the man began to consider, who would push their next move upon the ever changing board that lay before them.

A man with a face of expressionless bronze and gold, would look down at the center of the letter, his hidden oculars scanning the missive carefully. He read over them, every single word and sentence, over and over. "Thank you for raising me", it was a simple sentence, yet one the former Prophet was shocked to see. "This. . .This isn't how it's supposed to go" There was a hidden sadness behind that visage of his, the man took a seat upon the edge of that ship. He recounted the first time meeting the Herald, how he had taught him lessons in fighting and life alike. He recounted his teachings he had given, the advice on the Way of the Fifth. Yet one thing was clear and certain, one thing that truly saddened that Adunian. The Mali had died far younger then he should have, and that alone was a tragedy in of itself. Such thoughts, would leave the adunian into a depression, for would this be the only Mali'aheral that he outlived?

Truthfully, I don't know If this is satire or if this is an actual post. But if you want honest critiques and advice for it to have a chance, start by looking at the other CA's in place. Look at how they are written, formatted, and built upon. Then, spend some time writing it, don't know how much you've changed the original formatting. But I can probably guess it was less then 12 hours. CA's and any type of magic writing, bar imo bestiary writes. Can take anywhere from a 1 week-6 months, in order to create something genuinely impactful and clean looking. Now, personally I'm gonna be blunt, the idea is stupid as of current. To have something just switch in and out of human and fox form, provides very little impact besides 'cool I'm a shape-shifting cutesy person'. Form a proper niche that actually provides something, and that isn't just taking from anime. If you look at Vargr, you can see very interesting ties to old folklore, I even consider their main niche of eating hearts, a potential tie in to the Beast of Gévaudan. Nephilim provide an interesting thing by portraying dragons who are true neutral entities more often then not, even fighting both fronts of 'good' and 'evil'. Even Darkstalkers and Eidola, two different types of undead warrior/knight are able to be different enough with their specified niches.

*None of this is common irp knowledge unless you were there* Defiance of the Daemonic “You are no Master Deceiver, nor are you anything more, then a tool” It began where it had started, in the very depths of that dark and plagued marshlands. Both of its ‘disciples’ had made its way closer and deeper, both entities preparing to hold conversation with such a being. However it was one, the singular, that being of bone that chose to offer that orb of glass. It was he who had given such a creature, a being bound for the flames of damnation, a tool to kill their very enemies. Yet, he knew the truth, it would be a tool not of their own. A weapon to be used against Man and its ilk, a thing that would turn upon them. His body reacted to it, more than his own mind did, his hand reaching out and plucking that dark crystal from the hands of the skeleton. His gaze landed on the older magi as he danced backwards, the words exiting from his marred and hidden maw. Hand raising as he attempted to do the very thing that would lead to his downfall. “I always was great at playing the fool” The orb slammed down, however what occurred next was not as intended, for as it landed against the soft muddy ground. Eyes and mouths began to open and show, a look of hunger showing, as one of those tongues latched around it and forced it into its maw. So did the brand around the Prophet's neck begin to coil and tighten, restraining him limb from limb as he was forced to his knees. The cacophony of laughter from both dead and demonic alike, would ring out as he was forced to hear the whispers. Those mocking his attempt, and those whispering at his failures. Before one voice above the rest, one clear cut message resounded throughout his mind and ears. “Why have you defied me Prophet?” He thought back to such things, to the origins and start of this path of his. He thought firstly to when he had first picked up the branch, in his state of delirium and madness. How such had begun to wane and lessen, and how his psyche had cleared. Perhaps it was a random occurrence, that such had ended. His memories then did shift to the first time he had been ordained, when he had viewed the very depths of the Heith-Hedran. His mind scoured endlessly through the memories, searching and digging, for some kind of answer. Before it clearly began to form in his mind, the truth of the encounter, the reasoning for his betrayal against this entity. A noise escaped his helm, a noise that only began to rise as it followed in tandem with the cackle of the cadavers. This noise only began to boom, louder and louder, before the manic laughing rose to a crescendo. His voice, warped in its own eldritch tone, rang out in truth to that old and eldritch thing. “Because you are Afraid. Iblees. Because no matter what you do, you will not be SAFE!” Fear. It was something he had learned, something he had controlled, and something he knew all too well. While others aim to rid themselves of it, the Prophet, the King, the Adunian. He knew it all too well, he had been all too familiar with it, and he had made his own Fear his weapon. While Templar aimed to rid themselves of such, Shamans aimed to suppress it, and Paladins aimed to triumph over it. That very fear had become a part of him, and it had guided him to this point. Yet when he looked at that gigantic old thing, despite that face of steel and alchemical make, there was one thing behind his eyes. Defiance He looked at that old thing, that mocked and chastised him, that made an insult to the very path he tread. Yet, he did not listen, he did not care, for in this very moment he defied the very thing that had claimed to give origin to them all. He defied the very thing that had taken hold of his soul, that had rooted itself into the material. Pain began to wrack across his form, as he felt something get ripped out, something stolen from him as he was forced to the darkness of his own mind. Memories flashed past his eyes, projections of all that he had done, from when he was a boy of no older than eight summers. Witnessing the dragon fire scour the white bricks and stones of that elven city. Images of when he was ten summers old, when that arrow had pierced the skull and visor of that man. It soared forward, he was sixteen now, and had become that warrior of the north and cold. His twenties, and soon, thirties. Merging into a playback of his life and past, from ruling that old lordship, to the end of such. His time in the occult, to his time as Prophet, it all blended until he was within this singular moment. Something he knew, would not only be a turning point within his own history, but would also be the turning point of many individuals. “You shall be nothing more, then a Husk of yourself” Those final words were all that was left, as he felt his body get lifted by someone, his frame dragged and carried to that old and derelict town. For now, he was no longer a Prophet, yet he was someone else or rather. He had become something else, a unique abomination of this world, one whose own soulless flame had begun to spark and grow.

From a cave, long and decrepit, did a gray and withered form begin to stir and shift. His nostrils, flaring, as the long steady beat of the heart in his mind stopped. That thing of Goblin descent, shifting and rolling about as he began to claw his way to the entrance of that hidden cave of his. A dried, and raspy tone, exiting from the fanged maw of the bear skulled Haruspex. "Grizh u hûl, Grizh u Zna, Grizh u krimp-" He knew his brothers and sisters would do right, he knew that they would do what he could not, for now he meditated.