Toddbringer

For the Dreamers.

Yub. Comes from a genocidal monster who made greater vampires.

In spite of recent contention, a missive was placed with tender caution upon the face of a large icebox. That secured beside it, sketches of insects in various degrees of quality and yellowing aged parchment. That which looked upon it- smiled. Pride yet for services rendered.

There is much to be fond of, though I cannot say I hold any positive notions to requirements of amputations to teach, conjoin, Consume, ETC.

Now when do I get reinstated and we cross that Road to 500?

Sul Yar-ûr, gundul ob gûg, sripsh ob mut ulu gratuz nariinat. Lûp Yar. Lûp Zagbal.

Why did Takemura have to do it?

I cant say I have any understanding as to a solid majority of these "balancing adjustments." Blade damage certainly wouldn't have any significant effect on a stone, more liable to break the weapon than to even be a threat before it breaks. I see no reason to have changed this, as the nature of combatting an Eidola has been fine enough thus far- a giant made of stone that lacks any real ability to flee or make great movements over lengthy stretches with any significant speed. If you're to crush a wall, you bring a hammer, or you flee/go around, it cant exactly give chase. Incapability of riding a horse makes sense, in a combat context, though the last thing I would ask a player to do is constantly walk everywhere. And no need for a rock to wear any form of significant protection. I feel an aesthetic choice of donning some form of cloth/fabric or other shouldn't be out of the question, though I've never seen one wear armor. If such was the case, I agree, protective plates for what is in effect a golem would be unreasonable. On Aesthetics, I cannot comprehend the idea that an Eidola's enhancements should require a T3 mystic, or moreover soul fragments. An oversight, I would call it, that for things such as Knight's Woe or Apparition Cradle, that souls are already required to make use of such combative implements, as stated in the original lore page. The use of additional fragments is unnecessary at best. Similarly, Ghost lantern is entirely noncombative, and requires Zero fragments to cast- putting a price on what is no more than an aesthetic choice, higher than the already necessary Mystic to augment them. Even further, to give Lords no more than an additional foot in height, limit vestigial body parts, etc, seems a strange overcorrection. Overall, there is an overwhelming agreement though, that both Paleknight/Lord lore, just as well as Mystic lore has been misinterpreted due to a latent lack of understanding, some levels of vagueness, and a gap in unilateral ST cohesiveness that have pushed some to going above, or even below, what they are capable of within the confines of the text and the lore.

Miss you twin, be safe and I pray for your health and safety!

Something between an addiction, nostalgia, and a community like no other. Flaws are great and many, though the platform itself has been a host to so many experiences, ideas and stories I'd never have been able to conjure on my own. As a narrative device, to which I see LOTC at its core, I feel the platform has much to offer the individual. When you accept how small you are, what one single character is, you suddenly find your influence in so many places. Maybe beneath all the rose tint, the cracks and the grime, I feel a semblance of pride in seeing what effect I've had, hearing how I've influenced others with my writing, with my own narrative- being as much a part of their story as they are in mine. That's something truly special. Also, sometimes people tell me to come back, and when shit's already hitting the fan, the "**** it we ball" is a strong pull. Thus, here I am again.

For 5.99 a month

It was almost a lifetime ago now, at least it feels like. RP was more 'pure' and organic, there was no discord so the way people run nations and communities now was far more involved and different- something I much prefer. Only small gatherings via Skype, and I did hear Teamspeak was popular. Races had different stats for a time, there was also this plugin for brewing alcohol Builds were more simplistic, in many ways, put people got creative with the block selections. Early on, magic seemed fairly sparse, so what few times I managed to encounter things were very special. Oddly enough, the more things change, the more they stay the same. Though, I do find myself wanting to be less involved with the current way of engaging OOCly with so many things, and letting RP be lead by RP. And I would definitely like my brewing plugin back, that was neat. Some of the greatest times I had on the server- thanks for picking me up from Oren. I cant remember who did that, but the guy who brought me to the Fratblarg kept smashing his head on the ground to read the blood. I don't even know if he was a Haruspex, he might've just been nuts.

You can see the title, you know what it means. I've pondered doing one of these for years, but I decided it can't be the worst idea to toss another log on the pile. I've a cumulative time of ~11-12 years on this server, and have been involved in RP more than half the years I've been alive. If you're nice, I might answer about that too. Thank you to all of those who've been a part of these narrative experiences thus far, and especially those whom I've managed to find remember me- it's been equally humbling and enriching to hear from those amongst you who've enjoyed what I've had to offer. Much love.

Kill the server right now please

Somewhere subterranean, clad in sheets of penumbral silks, an ailing madame inspects a missive in placidity. With a weakened, single handed grasp, the paper comes to crumple, and tossed into the hearth just across the room. "And to ashes..." Some somber solace in a more tenebrous hour.

Peace is not yet in our time.

Warded from worlds prying eyes, beneath the veil of whispering pines of the Northerly Gales, an Unmourned Son of mountains proud of Karosgrad weeps for the weary. Incense burns with a tranquil dancing serpent of smoke, writhing in the motion of the atmosphere, guiding falling nettles of the evergreens high. Peace eternal; a wish for a rest well earned.

You're getting my one forum post a year to get what's currently playing while I'm in event.

A scrappy, tall Oyashi stares down at the missive, narrowing his dark hues at the words before him, before crumpling up the note and throwing it aside. Now is a good time to keep check on his stock of Aurum. Another perturbed figure, a young Fiery Uruk watches his father read, before snatching away the paper! He roars as he watches his fathers stocks fall, slamming his fist against his chest in anger! "Dat wuz latz teef popo! We gonnah get diz guy back." He assures his father, patting him on the back. @Jihnyny

Bumbullaum lag-nût, Uruk-hai. Khlaaral khûr-ug ghaamp. Khlaaral khûr-ug nût. Shapog kul-izub. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Vision. Thunder. Black clouds mass in an ominous tempest above Aevos, the atmosphere oppressed by the thickness of the very air itself. From within the center of the squall was an effigy, radiant and gleaming. The earth below began to tremble and shake as cracks formed in its surface, fracturing the crust of the very ground in which mortals tread. These fissures only grew as the gales grew stronger; blowing leaves soon became tree limbs, dust and sand became splintering sandstorms, rock and stone was tossed about just as easily. Thunder cracked the sky, its booming resonance shook the ground below, casting a tall monk from his feet as all he could do was stare at the hurricane in bewilderment. He stood alone as lightning crackled in the nimbus above, as veins to a beating heart. Moisture leapt from the clouds in a thick blanket of precipitation, pounding on the rippling earth like the tears of a god, and as if beckoning, ghastly apparitions coiled from the broken ground, plunging toward the sky. And the lightning came to meet them, swallowing them into the penumbral abyss. A Premonition. Chaos. Time passes in a flash. The currents in which carried Life and Death clashed beyond the veil of mortal sight. Rivers of Blood replaced broken trails of shattered earth, bathing the world in a thick miasma of smoke and plague. The spoils of war litter the ground; blades of steel, trinkets of gold, bodies of bone. The laments of war's forgotten echo gently through the air, trilling like a lonesome harp in an empty auditorium, a song for deaf ears. Alas, atop the broken spires of rock and sediment stood looming monoliths, bathed in that blood which the veins of the new earth flowed, and like the very instruments of its creation, they tread a hellish warpath against life itself. In their unwavering unity and insurmountable strength, their beastly ferocity pledged violent strife to all in their way, leaving only an inferno and ash in the wake of their frenzy. And below; a writhing pit of vipers, awaiting the slaughter. A Dream. Hope. The flowing Rivers of Blood had grown stagnant; still, and from the placidity came a sprout. Not one, not two, but countless blossoms burst forth from the earth below, blooming and budding with a fervent defiance of the age of anarchy before them, and as if guided by the Hands of Fate unseen, they soared with vigor unwavering, reaching out for the skies above. The clouds tore apart once more, beaming luminous rays of ardent warmth upon them, met in harmonious equilibrium. In the place of the drums of war came the chatter of beasts, small and large. Delicate beings of life's creation flourished in this endless grove of sprawling vines and thick undergrowth; untamed and unadulterated wilderness, free and mighty. A gentle breeze swept through the trees, and carried within it was something less tangible, like a spirit, present yet formless. The monoliths once more trot ground, yet they carried not the scent of blood nor the aura of senseless brutality, but the very embers of hope, brilliantly smoldering within them, honorable and true. This group was not alone, but one of many. Countless clusters of teeming strugglers carve their niche in the lush verdant growth, birthing life anew. Above them all, atop a mountain’s crest, stood two. The Bear and the Wolf. Side by side, stood before a flowering sprout, reaching a zenith from within the very stone of the peak. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Lup'Zagbal." The Yargoths final words left the cusp of his lips with a rattling breath, that of which would be his last in the Goi. Painted in streaks of white, the aging face of the man was washed away in a gentle rain- strangely placed for that of the desert. The familiar cold embrace of the taciturnity in the air wrapped him like a shroud, cloaking him in the hands of the unknown. Whispers came to him from places elsewhere in his mind as his glossy hues began to cloud, and like a choir of songstresses they sang to him tales of yore, forbidden lyrics from a crypt locked so deep in forgotten lands afar it shook his very core. A tightness in his chest and dryness in this throat bubbled forth as a coughing fit, bud in spite of his age he stood tall. Still they harmonized sweet memories, unfamiliar yet warm. A smile began to part his visage, exposing once more those jagged, uncomfortable tusks tucked just below his lower lip. Spiteful was he in the face of dishonor; accusations have come and go, but he took pride in those honorable among them he would still call his brothers. He released a subdued chortling laugh to himself as his vision further fades with time, yet it was as if he had never seen clearer, staring into the skies above, sunlight glistening the beaded sweat on his face. From his side rose a thick, girthy arm, trembling under its own weight. Clutched tightly in the hand attached, ensnared by bulky fingers was the wooden pike to which hung his banner; The banner of Clan Yar, Clan of Wisdom and Victory, the ever-wise and mighty. Extended forth was the relic to the one stood before him, as it left his grasp so too did he, from the place he once called home. A memory was all that remained, that of one tattered with the scars of age and battle, new and old; burns, slashes, pierces, brands and pocks, yet one stood out. The brand of a Duhnah skhelll scarred into the flesh above his hip, that of the brand of the Yar clan. This same brand burned into the wooden haft of the banner, besides a short few words. "Lat-am turkûrz." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With something of a low grumble, a robed figure crumples up the missive, dropping it to the floor. They said nothing, aside heaving that of a great sigh, staring out from behind a dark window. With that, they receded; they'd seen enough.

A mountainous robed figure gave a small dip of his head, puffing on a large roll of cactus green, who's scent wafted about around a canvas tent. A deep sigh escaped his lips with a grumble, before shaking his head somberly. "Bûbhosh baak..." A rasp in that strange, primal tongue, before passing the toke across the way.

I wish we got to RP, never got to thank you for the cookies.

A large greying fellow peers over the missive for a moment before shrugging, tossing it away with an idle grumble. "Trouble, trouble trouble. As alwayz."

A large, haggard fellow shook awake from a terrible slumber, grumbling as he shook his head, dropping the shackles of a dream. A sigh hefted from his lips, muttering aloud in frustration. "Ugh... Mi gettin' sick ob all deez znakez..." A hand pressed against his forehead as he fought his head cold, reluctant to leave his place.