PrimnyaQuorum

Somewhere, Haus thinks back to his last visit to the town of Cherry Blossoms - how he was nearly cut down at the gate for how he looked. As he scans a certain sentence he coughs heavily into a arm, glancing around him to make sure no one saw. As it dawns on him that he is, once more, alone in his quarters he shakes his head and places the missive atop a growing pile.

the voidman does it again - let void mages be creative! +1

Across the lands in a, Fair White City, Haus is greeted by a copy of the letter flying into his face as he leaves the church post-prayers. Bitter amusement seeps into his laughter as he hands the letter off to a companion. For a moment, he considers writing a letter, penning what he thinks of the "summons". The notion fades as fast as it enters his mind, as he exchanges hushed words with another, and steps off into the rain. Planning. In his quarter's elsewhere, ink is put unto parchment. Idleness is banished from his mind, for that brief glint of time.

Haus reads over the publication - again, and again. He can't make sense of it, he thinks, or he simply doesn't want to. Fallen Short Absent Can Not be Excused or Forgiven. Duty Greatest Displeasure. Meaningless blotches of ink on parchment - mockeries of decades of agonizing, unending torment. Watching generations die - of age, of battle, of their own hands and sin - while he fought, and fought, and fought. Unrelenting, unyielding, unbreaking. And yet - regret burned hottest in his heart. He remembered the dream he had been entrusted with - the soft reassurance from his father, the last human to offer him something of a understanding of who he was, and meant to be. "A thousand years", He recalled the last conversation he had with Felix Weiss, embittered "Weiss across the lands. You were never meant to be kept by the four walls of a koengzem." That endless, cosmic gaze swept over the signatures. His Nephews, who could not know - and his Brother, who choose not to know. He could try and guess what was coming, but he was tired. And old - Sixty felt closer then ever, and he knew rest was not in sight. So with a heart that dared not freeze over again, and a tired lilt did that parchment find itself in his bag as the Watcher lingered onward. He had resolved himself - if he could not bear the name of his Father, He would bear none at all.

Another missive found it's way under the cosmic gaze of Haus - though it was nigh-rapidly dismissed as another publication of some verbose proclamation of immoral conflict. He read further, finding his gaze stuck on the last line - the description of the cultist. The missive was set aside as he began to write, furiously, to the cursebreaker mayor. Sir Mayor, Your encounter, as fate would have it, was not mere coincidence but the next step in a torturous series of events, one I have been trailing since the flooding of Whitespire. I seek to further understand what cannot be explained over written and spoken word. Write back with haste so we may see eye-to-eye, and get to the bottom of this. Kindly, Haus P.S - Please politely inform your Queen is it probably Petran land next to be struck by penance and sin. In my professional opinion, begin preparing what you need to survive, be it food and shelter or the means of evacuation. @ColdestPepsi The Watcher doesn't wait much longer as he gathers his things, and makes for the Commonwealth. He will not be caught off-guard again. As he rides, his gaze is split between the road ahead, and the night sky above.

A brow raises as Haus reads the latest addition of the gazette, sipping away at a Dark n' Stormy while he nibbles politely on a éclair of his own baking. He worries, albeit slightly, for the safety of the grandiose writer who suggests the Interviewee needs someone to warm their heart. A amused, tired smile crosses his weary expression as he reads through, setting his evening snack down. Of all the things he is, that he isn't a Sutican Veilwatcher brings him comfort. He hopes he's lived up to his dear mentor's expectations as he muses over sending her the recipe for the eclairs - opting against it. Haus knows he's the better cook - perhaps the best in Aevos. No one's proved otherwise, anyhow. He scribbes away his mandated replies to the polls, opting to drop them in the dropbox later as he enjoys a sunset.

In some distant place, Haus ponders if his warnings were heard at all - or if he simply was shouting into the blizzard and oceans in madness. He takes solace in the fact it is warm, and he is for once, not the primary source of heat. It is all he has left to do.

A once-Master of the Abstract, now simply a untethered man, reads the publication in the sanctuary of his former office. His star-filled gaze squints as he reads the few words hes been allocated, an amused thought entering his mind. The missive is soon set down on a nearby table, as he opts to instead sip away at a fruity wine, and pet the orange-furred companion within the office. He wonders, for a moment, if he made the right choice. It's a thought that quickly washes away from his mind as he thinks to another place, and of other people. He holds no doubts, as the feeling settles in. Freedom. Untethered to bounds that held long since frozen over. It's almost as suffocating as it is liberating.

A Watcher chokes on his King's Ivy-spiked Tea as he reads through the missive, brow shooting up as he shakes his head "I know my nephew - there's not a chance he's humble." He remarks, glancing about to find he is alone and speaking to nothing. He returns to sipping his tea in interrupted silence.

Cackling flows through a quiet house in the Silver City, as a copy of the gazette finds itself in the hands of a Blonde. He wipes tears from his starry eyes as he sets the paper down, enjoying a Mimosa with his freshly homemade borscht. For a moment, he ponders a life of retirement.

Haus did not recall his exact words - he remembers trumpets and angelic chorus, a holy symphony that threatened to drown out his shouts, a torturous encore. Heralds of something more vile, beyond simple words and expression. A face gives it shape, but he knows it is a lie - given to men to feed into their despair and pious hearts. He struggles to recollect his actions. He remembers feeling untempered fury as the howling blizzard silences his shouts, and golden flames erupt around him - a attempt to stave off the cold, and provide heat to the damned who marched towards death. It's not even worth the description of futile - the frozen rage of the north consumes it in a blink, and he withers under the brunt of the biting and clawing cold. He doesn't remember how he escaped, or what drove him to endure what he knows is well beyond him. The screeching, chilled winds deafens him as the enduring need to live guides him. When he finds himself thinking again, he's underground - frozen, his skin as dangerously white as the snow towered outside and his breath shaking - but alive. As he is mended, and he searches through the icy fog that clouds his mind, he understands. It is not the searing pain behind his skull, or the co-existent absence of sensation and white-hot needlelike pain that exists across his skin that saps away at his very being - nor the torment that lies in his sleep, the theatrics of red-flesh or eyes beyond reason. It is that throughout it, he was alone. Not a soul stood by him - heeded his warning, took his guidance, worried for him until it was too late. He should be beyond anger - but absences gnaws at his heart, and the remaining embers that defined his spirit suffocate under the weigh of truth. His Heart, worn too freely upon his sleeve, freezes over and he wonders: What is he enduring for, anyway? A home that only exists in his dreams, a people that only exist in his hopes, a kindness that only he carried - a fiction he no longer illuminates. His heart aches for what he knows is lost, and yet - the truth that it never really could exist.

Somewhere, the frozen, healing remnants of a man feels sorrow pierce through his soul like a arrow- bleeding the last bits of warmth away. In between agonizing pain and chilling hollowness, he mourns for his sister and brother-in-law. It is all he can do to not cry - the tears burn down his blistering skin and only sharpen his grief.

The Master of the Abstract reads through the towering pile of papers on his desk within his office, spending what little time he's afforded himself to catch up on the world. Star-drowned eyes flicker over the appointments lazily, half-heartedly scanning the signatures on the document before he stops - re-reading the appointments. A name catches his eye, and his brow twitches - righteous fury builds within his heart, as he gathers his quill and ink well and furiously begins writing. Several drafts are crumbled into a ball and throw against the wall - one particularly unlucky parchment roll is set ablaze, even. In the end, he tiredly returns to the copy of the publication he has - scratching out a word and sending it to a particular Elfess. The attached letter simply has a question mark, and is pinned above the correction, a arrow helpfully pointing towards it: Miss has been scratched out infront of Valindra's name, with Lady written above in somehow neat, and barely legible handwriting.

A certain Blonde wanders over to one of the pinned missives, during a stroll through the canal-side streets. That depthless Cosmic gaze sweeps through the invitation - brow furrowing at the many names he does not recognize. He ponders for a moment, then shrugs - scribbling a note to a princess before he's off to wonder - musing what words had been shared earlier.

A "Thilln" scans over the publication, star-filled gaze twinkling in amusement as he reads of the Prophet's plight and woes. A long-ago conversation, nearly forgotten, dances across his mind as he neatly folds the copy he holds and sends it to a certain elfess - a unspoken invitation.

A canonist highlander sharpens a greatsword, it's black steel long hidden away from the light. He polishes and cleans the weapon - until it's shine reflects off his star-filled gaze. He readies himself for a crusade, stocking up on medical supplies.

Going through it one more time - other evocations with projectiles specify it's either one projectile in multiple directions across multiple emotes, or all projectiles in one direction in one emote. I don't see a good reason why Water Evo cant do the same with it's projectile spell(s)

Nerf Water Evocation Looks neat! I just have a few questions regarding some stuff: - Water Blast: It's mentioned that the spell can be sustained after casting - does each additional emote of casting this spell onto a target push it back a further six blocks? - Water Shield: Is the barrier stationary, or does it move with the mage? Can the mage move while casting? - Water Whip: How long does the Whip last? More opinionated, but - should the blunt end of a whip not cause more then a few bruises? - Ice Projectile: I dont personally think the projectiles should become dulled the more projectiles summoned. If a Water Mage can spend six emoted uninterrupted charging 5 Ice Projectiles, their shouldn't be arbitrarily nerfed into having dull projectiles. I like the changes overall, and I think its a step in the right direction, but Water Evo I've noticed tends to lack that little extra oomph other Evos have - Fire has its burns, Wind has its stuns and pushback - give water a little bit to make it a force to be reckoned with, no?

The sensation envelopes the Blonde so fast there's no time for pain, confusion, anything - his mind is ripped from the square surrounded by Silver and into observation thrust upon him, a enigma of four-directional crosses and eyes, flesh and colored robes, and that golden cross. As fast as he's ripped from the present he jolts awake - lying down on the stone pavement, blood dripping down his face. Confusion rips through his mind as voices reach his ears, concerned, confused. They ask questions and he finds he cannot speak - there's too much beating at his mind, too much pain. In a maniacal frenzy he wipes at his own blood with a violently trembling hand, trying to sketch something on the pavement. Then he's on his feet - and still. It's like time has stretched into a heavy sap, as he sees his own blood - stained black with impurities that taint his crimson bleed. A sensation presses down between his shoulder blades - a encroaching darkness, a end that drives whatever grip he clung to in that stretched instant away. He does not notice as he's cuffed, and sedated - only as a dreamless sleep overtakes him, and time resumes it's relentless march.

The Lord-Abstract scans through the missive - equal parts admiration towards the Court Alchemist's work, and concern with her unmoderated consumption of Ponderlot in times past.

A Highlander took a copy of the poster, folding it neatly before stuffing it into his bag. Star-filled eyes glance towards the road as he makes his way forward, off to find his mentor and friend.

It doesn't make sense that anyone would come to a RP server, sink 3-5 months in a MA/CA, and then just toss it to the side the moment someone does /countdown. I think if two sides want to PvP (Raids and Warclaims are the primary two examples) by all means - in the same vein, people who want to CRP should be able to CRP without someone do the most basic of emotes to then go into looc and ask for PvP. It also feels strange to tell anyone who isn't 100% mundane/non-magical their character's contribution is only showing on the post-fight gloat post, if one is even made - or anyone, really, that because of X mechanical thing something they've RPly worked to on their character is meaningless. What's the point of exploring the lore of the server if it can be made irrelevant by a form of combat that most people dont seek out?

On some less-travelled path somewhere, a copy makes its way into the hands of the Master Of the Abstract. He squints at the title of the Author before reading through the publications contents. He folds it neatly and stows it away as he finishes - resolving to speak more with this Court Astronomer when he has the time, and isn't a sinner.

A Watcher scans over the missive tiredly in the dimly lit recesses of his office - struggling to read through the publication past the turbulent thoughts that swarm his mind and the spots that dance over his vision. Lies. he believes. Utter nonsense written by someone pretending to serve GOD, the penned ramblings of someone who has gone unheard, and nothing more - until that cosmic gaze scans the author's signature. Blue-tinged mist weave around that highlander, and in a few heartbeats the parchment is nothing but ash, resting atop a now-scorched desk. As that man sets off, his thoughts clear for but a moment, and his recollection wanders to words spoken by a Bard, and by a Storyteller. He wonders how much more he will take - that they had both been correct and he had been a fool to hope otherwise. Then that chaotic symphony of turbulent thoughts washes over him, and he finds himself in isolation, once more.

I don't think mass testing contributes anything, though. Sure, you can cut every person who comes by with some aurum blade and pour a little salt - where are you getting the salt from? How often is that aurum blade being cleaned and sharpened? Are people willing to spread a infection after getting a cut infected from a uncleaned blade? There are several reasons any rational person might not want to be tested that are ignored because, frankly, they're more of a inconvenience then something relevant - no one cares how sharp a blade is or where the salt is sourced from, and plague's don't happen on LoTC so who cares about infections? In essence, there is take and no give - Corcs can be discovered can be discovered by a simple, 2 emote test preformed by every poor city guard armed with a aurum blade and a endless supply of salt, with no way to work around it except... not roleplaying in these places. It feels like such a poor argument to say "Don't like it? Don't RP here" or "This is how X ought to be"- and this all assumes a perfect universe, where no one holds a OOC grudge to justify a "random" test in the middle of a road out in nowhere land. Why is the burden placed on darkspawn players to provide good roleplay when shortcuts are taken at every possible turn to out them IRPly, nevermind whatever happens OOCly? The change, in my opinion, doesn't make corcs harder to test - it does absolutely nothing to address the OOC/Discord VC mindset that creates this bad faith RP, though little can - it simply increases the risk of killing or seriously wounding a innocent character in the name of mass testing, and requires a larger investment of resources IRPly to test in that you have to treat people who are tested, unless you intend to leave them to die. If it's so important to human canonist communities that they get their darkspawn test in, then it should be no problem to build the IRP networks needed to keep it going. This change simply forces the give and take onto the otherwise minimized and shortcut darkspawn test. Other's earlier have suggested pretty good ideas, in my opinion, and I don't think they should all be mutually exclusive. In Example: What's to say the artery cutting + salt testing works, but over time Corcs build up a passive resistance to salt in blood - thus explaining why such a large amount of blood is needed to show results and why new corcs can still be found by a shallow cut and salt test? Why not say, as with other magics, that things like Thanium could 'reveal' a corc, thus rendering them vulnerable to a salt in blood test? Both of these are options that require the tester to do more then just make a minor cut and poor a little salt - again, a nothingburger of 2 emotes that lack the most basic of give and take. In short, you cant have the cake and eat it too - you cant demand to keep a simple test that is all of 2 emotes and 1 minute and expect corcs to simply provide good roleplay around you. The test either needs to become more difficult to preform, or less effective on a corc.