Departed_Delmar

I wish you nothing but the best man, it's been a pleasure pushing forth a great narrative. Hopefully we meet up again, you where always super chill to hangout with. Excited though to hear your next few steps.

Let there be storm mages! STORM MAGES I TELL YOU!

The infamous Delmar continues to live his best life as a skull in a box in the middle of no where. . .how he missed the Lifeforce and Eyeball Martinis' while on his break.

Entombed and lost, wrapped in chains of aurum and iron, a skull sat in waiting. His body broken, yet his mind not shattered, instead it lay split and changed. An idealogy, not of faith, but rather creed; coming to be melded anew A false Herald, who had done so out of greed. A thing that had claimed to that faith, knowingly false in his belief. He had read the Keys, he knew of the One Truth. Yet began to believe in his Own. Kryndomere the Forsaken, sat in his tomb. This age would begin without his being, but it would not end without it. For despite his lack of stomach, lack of tongue, and lack of feeling. Something stirred within the ethereal gullet of that waiting goliath. Hunger

When conversation came to pass, a cackle came upon quips and jokes. "Son of lich, that got my funny bone."

Within that world, an iron coffin resided, a skull of gilded stakes and and opal gems upon its visage. Such a skull of blackened bone remained silent, yet upon occasion to those that listened, a chuckle and quip was made. Something to pass the long time, that was to be had.

Well, look at that, you made a small grouping of weakling vampires and acolytes run. You let those learning have a taste for blood, and you burnt down a shrine to a man long departed. You should be so very proud. Be proud of your feeble victory, after all, you’ve butchered what is the equivalent of children and toddlers. Fledglings upon a path of ascension and growth. You butcher lowly acolytes still learning, Draugar still mastering their craft, and simple vampires seeking understanding. Yet what did we lose? A structure, a banner, a portrait? All things that can be built upon, better and stronger than prior. I must say, I ultimately thank you for the killing of those weaklings, for you’ve provided something that can only be experienced through violence and true wickedness. A Desire to Grow So, you seek conflict? Wonderful, your tactics are so wonderful indeed, for they are exactly the same tactics I would utilize. You strike when we are wandering, you combat us when we are focusing on other matters, and you torment the most humble of our covenant. So nothing stops us from doing the same. You should aim to tell us beforehand when you intend to strike, after all, these fights have proven so equal as of recent. It took five of you, with Thanium blades, to even compete with me and my simple servants. It truly makes me wonder. Do you rally out of righteousness? Or Do you rally out of fear? I’ll be seeing you soon no doubt, perhaps I’ll even supply your forces with some brews and weapons. After all, I never discriminate against potential clients and buyers. Hazk al'durngo grael, narn thur ithurzu sethorek Hail the Black Sun, for its Light Guides

Just a heads up, Liches do not have phylacteries in current lore, that's just Draugar. Besides that, I think a solution would be a cost to revival, or better requirements to achieve it. I'll admit, current Necromancy lore is really garbage in how revival is handled. Seeing as you just need a pile of meat and another necromancer, and boom you can revive your buddy from the grave. Personally I think the problem stems not from revival itself, but by the limited interaction that the revival process has. I think if people where able to gain more routes that made rp more intruiging, whether this be curses via revival, PK clauses, magic consequences, it would make revival more unique as a whole. I can't comment on most other forms, simply because I'm not knowledgeable with them. But in terms of Necromancy revival, the one good thing is that you understand as an ordained Necromancer you will and do die, and thus are barred from access to Monk Revival.

Its early in the morning, and I'm drinking my coffee, and I'm a nerd who likes to think. So lets talk some key-archery points and perhaps a suggestion to work Aiming Under split second decision making, finding the right aim in the right conditions is probably one of the most important things to consider for archery. Not every terrain is going to lead to the perfect conditions for archery. A windy mountain will never have the advantage of open plains. Stance Bows are hard to use man! Like, if you actually use one, not only does it require you to target all the muscles in your core, shoulders, and arms. But you also need to have a good stance for that man. Wind That fancy little thing that cools people down, actually effects both real world sniping + heavily effected crossbows and bows back in the day. It can just as easily aid a shot, as it can hinder a shot Possible Solutions to this? Solution 1; you have areas on the map that maybe provide bonuses or negatives to archery, plains provide an easier archery experience, while areas clouded by storms such as blizzards provide a more difficult experience. This would allow for Archers to have to take note of the region their in, perhaps even encourage individuals to prep hunts or assassinations by dragging people to regions, because the climate proves better suited for archery. Likewise, future settlement regions might choose to build in either a place that compliments their fighting style, or hinders ranged attacks on their city Solution 2; Emote = Effort. A character could spend an emote, and shoot an arrow hastily, perhaps at the cost of it being random luck. Or a character could spend three emotes, and guarantee that the area they hit(should they hit) be something akin to a moderate injury. Keep in mind what I suggested is the bare minimum of my thinking, so if its a sh*t take, its a sh*t take. But who knows, maybe one could utilize some of the ideas presented for a better constructed rolling/archery system.

^ This actually is pretty factual, though maybe its not the best comparison. I still remember when we made a mundane average joe farmer, into a dope undead Darkstalker Knight. @flexMate

"Look at that, they have just found us." The Gravelord sat upon the ledge of that cavernous ravine, his empty sockets, staring down at the rifts below. It had been far too long since fresh blood had graced his ivory digits. The sign of a commander, stuck within his castle for far to long. After a moment, his palm would loft upwards, gilded smog starting to trace around his digits. That maw, spewing with abyssal smog, as he spoke that command to his general. "Sted al'numenro. A'gulhj narn vorrul" Ready the dead. We prepare for War

Greetings in Gold Within the wilds of the realm, near heartlands and haunted human lands, a shrine of bone and ruined stone rested. Acting as a place of communion for the lost, and curious. Rumors on the wind, from ghosts to ghouls, whispered an offer to the curious and crude. A hymn, acting as a gilded offer, for those who wished to refine their very crafts and skills. Wanderers far and wide all seek something Some desire riches, more than they will use in their single lifetime Some seek power, yet lack a vessel worthy of claiming such While others seek knowledge, that which even the wise warn against. So, why not claim it all? Strike a deal, make a bargain, trade with the greatest traders of them all After all, coin is just as valuable as a corpse.

Gravelord Kryndomere Was once a mere Necromancer Merchant, The Delmar, now turned into Herald of Umbrage and Logical Lich. Works for big old scary Mordring, Dragaar Lich.

Passing of a Poet The world was spinning, his head felt as though it was pounding, the tightness in his lungs was growing. What was this feeling, that sharp claustrophobic emotion, that tugged at his chest. It took him mere moments to realize, that lack of air, that stinging pain, and that wet metallic taste in his mouth. They were the signs, the tell-tale understanding of one's own death. “You have established yourself upon the Ladder, now pray, pray to the Goat.” “I. . ..pray to. . .none. . .but the Serpent” “Than be devoured, be the consumed, for the Goat” “Right. . .makes. . .right” He was only an acolyte, but he even knew that none but perhaps the serpent would save his soul. Perhaps that final offering, of death of the hellish dog, had served as a show of worth. Then again, all he had been in life was but a simple poet. A Poet, promised Princedom A candle, snuffed before it could grow.

This is so real though This is why I prefer my niche of being an evil capitalist undead merchant.

The Gravelord looked down at the abyss below, next to him, that hulking rumbling mass of soul and bone stood resolute. Like an obedient servent, did that melding husk stay, still adjusting to its new form. A skeletal palm lofted towards the newly arisen child of the balance, that thing coming to rumble with with a hunger not yet satiated. A calming shush from that Lich of ivory and ectoplasm. "Calm yourself Bilneth, lest you break from your vessel. . .It seems a letter is to be made in kind to those I've broken bread with"

The Gravelord lofted his skeletal palm upwards, adorned upon it, a ring of cracked Menhir stone. The Lich thought of that struggle, that fight in which they had subdued that which would sunder for the Sixth. "So Mote it Be. Rest Child of the Damned, so shall your suffering, save the lost."

The Recently crowned Lich comes to hear of these deaths, a cackle resonating throughout its ribcage, as tenebrous smog leaks from its form. With understanding of soul, and mastery of bone, the Gravelord knew it was only right to summon forth those soldiers. "Our accord has been struck, and a deal is to be completed. You shall rise once more, Radmir"

A young 'thill and poet was out and about tending to business. He had been busy, keeping to himself, and attempting to find inspiration within the muted and dismal realms. Though the news of that lliran of his, though distant, still impacts him all the same. Though he had changed much since his youth, a look of remorse still filled that weary visage of Len'ii Acal'turii "Rest well, my friend"

A certain Gravelord with a golden tint to his being, thought of the marketing campaigns to come. What other grand tours would Gravelord Kryndomere do next?

The ports of Minas-Mordren came to fill the harmonic hymns of the damned, the long thought anguished spirits, singing in revelry and joy of the ascension of the new Herald. "Let us see if this one can learn to respect the ways of Lifeforce, as any other Gravewalker might respect such" So to, did that Gravelord of Umbrage; Kryndomere. Come to scan over a missive, a solemn nod of approval offered, before the recently risen Lich began its work.

The Gravelord sat upon his throne, the upper castle of those lessers of his, scavenged and attacked. An annoyed huff leaving the now eldritch figure. Gravelord Kryndomere looked about the ports, an annoyed sigh escaping the lord. "A Duel or a Tourney? Whatever shall they decide?"

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 shuddered. 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.