LichinCrocs

A single black lily was found pinned to the great door of the manor this morning. Its stem was thrust through a crack in the wood by a long, yellowed thorn. Tied to it was a small scroll of pale leather. To the new masters of Rosalervo, I am writing to thank you for the show. Your Barons last night was very entertaining. He thought we had a deal. He thought he was so clever, trading things he never really owned for a little more time. It was cute. I took his soul because it was there. It was easy. Dont worry, Im not coming for you. Not yet. Why would I? Youre all so busy fighting each other for this little pile of stones. Youre doing my work for me. I ll be watching. Try to make it interesting. Give the boy, Antonio, my best. I hope his reign is nice and noisy. From your so Dear Friend, URK-Vyradalm

From the throne of the deep dark caverns of the Tomb-City of Khar-Ul, a leathery hand extended. Fingers of leathery bone plucked the missive from the ground. His silver eye in its socket of mummified flesh did not so much as blink as it read the words. I remember. I remember our first meeting... The sky was the colour of a fresh bruise, and the air tasted of iron and spent magic. He stood there, Zetsu, with his eyes full of hellfire and his hands stained with tomorrows sins. “You,” he hissed "You will take the dead. You will become the Lord of the Dead, the King of Dust. And I…” He grinned "i will take the hells. I will climb a throne of lost souls in the deepest Pit of hell. We will be two faces of the same god. We will be the end of everything." It was a pretty lie. The kind you tell yourself when the dark gets too loud. I saw the path he offered. It was a cliff-edge, a leap into fire. A shortcut for power. I chose the harder way. The patient way. I did not leap. I descended into the abyss, step by step, into the quiet below. I let the sun become a mere memory. I un-made the man I was, and from the pieces, I built this, My Very own Kingdom of the dead.... I was and always will be A king of a kingdom that does not rot. He… he chose the flame of Hell. He thought the Lords of the Hells admired his fire, His Pride.... They do not admire it. They consumed it. He was not a king to them. He was a meal. And when he dared to complain about the taste, they made him eat himself. So this is his grand apotheosis. A stain upon the very world. A last, messy argument he had with his own flesh and blood. Let the High Hells keep his pieces. Let them puzzle over his rage and his greed. His chaos was always their kind of art. My throne was made of bones that do not scream. My crown is of tarnished silver, and it does not shine. But it is mine. I earned it. I did not beg for it. And I did not have to tear myself apart to wear it. Rest in pieces, old friend. You were too loud for the quiet, and too weak for the noise. Urk-vyr’adalm, the Burnt Lord He Who rules the endless Deep.

[!] It wasnt nailed there. No one saw it placed. But one morning, as the mist still clung to the grass, it was simply there. Pinned to the great oak door of the Mother Grove not with iron, but with a long, yellowed shard of bone that seemed to have grown right out of the wood. Lets have a talk, you and I. Youve all had your say. Youve stood on stumps and in circles, making speeches to the wind. Youve passed around your little notes, your parchments filled with hopes and warnings, folded and carried from one hand to the next. You talk and you talk and you talk, filling the world with so much noise because youre terrified, deep down in your bones, of what youll hear when everything finally goes quiet. Well. Im here now. The quiet youve been running from. So lets talk. Some of you know me. You were there on the shores of Kalldur, when the world was ending in fire and chaos. You saw the figure that walked out of the shadows when the last day was dying. The terribly tall, terribly quiet one. The one with the face half-eaten by an fire, and the single, silver eye that doesnt blink. The one who doesnt hurry, because he has all the time in the world. Most of you just know the stories. The whispers around the campfire. My name is Urk-vyradalm. I wore a crown of silver and sunlight, once, in a kingdom that dust forgot. Ive forgotten more years than your oldest, gnarled tree has ever counted. I died, my heart stopped in my chest… and then I… simply kept going. I decided that death was less of a rule and more of a… suggestion. A door that I walked through and then closed behind me. It gave me a new way of seeing things. It showed me that all your struggling, your brief, bright little lives, your passionate songs and your desperate prayers… its all just sound. A furious, beautiful, and utterly meaningless sound. And I have grown so very, very tired of all the noise. —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— Lately, two voices have been ringing in my ears, louder than all the others. First, theres Thalen. The Harvest Druid. I remember him so clearly. He had a nice little campfire going, the embers sputtering out with the dawn. He was breaking bread, sharing crumbs with a little chickadee. It was a peaceful picture. A small, quiet moment of peace. Then I arrived. And he put on his helmet. He stood up, so brave, so certain that the light of his Aspects would be enough to see him through. He fought. Ill give him that credit. He fought until his shield was nothing but splinters in his hand. He fought until the helmet he wore was cracked open by my knights axe. I watched the golden light inside him gutter and die like a candle in the rain. I stood over him while he twitched in the dirt, and I leaned down close, and I told him the truth. I told him his Song was over. That there was no wind in the trees for him, not anymore. That there was only silence, and that I… I am that silence. I thought that was the end of our conversation. I thought the lesson had been learned. But it seems I was too gentle. He got back up. He patched his body and his pride, and he sat down and he wrote a letter. He told all of you about me. He used my name like it was a warning bell. He called me a despair unseen for centuries. He told you to heed the horn of my crown. You see, thats the problem with the living. You have this stubborn, frustrating refusal to understand when you are beaten. A lesson isnt a lesson if it doesnt stick. I was going to be patient. I was going to wait for decades, perhaps, watching your cities grow and your children play. But he… he forced my hand. By speaking my name, by daring to define me as a threat in his little story, he has made this deeply, deeply personal. Thalen is no longer a man. He is a loose thread in the great scheme of things, and I am here to pull him until the whole thing unravels. He doesnt get to be a warning. He gets to be the first example. —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— Then theres the other one. Nalinor. The Moose Druid. Demons came to your quiet streets. They knocked over your stone idols and set a blight upon one of your trees, and you looked upon this chaos and your grand solution was to start a new club. The “Blessed Blades of the Forest.” Thats a very nice name. It sounds brave and righteous. You stand there, ankle-deep in the ashes of your own peace, and you tell everyone its time to “burn away the Darkness.” You have no idea what darkness is. You are a child, striking a flint in a cave, while I live in the heart of the mountain where the sun has never, ever reached. You think you can fight the coming of the long night with a few sharpened sticks and a catchy motto? Your “Blessed Blades” are not warriors. They are a list. A list of names for me to remember, written in a very neat hand. Youve gathered them all together for me, made them easy to find. How very… thoughtful of you. So here we are. This is the moment it changes. I am going to bring a little quiet to this noisy, noisy world. Every single one of you who calls yourself a Druid, who speaks of the Song and kneels to the Aspects, is now a stain on the silence. Your faith is a pretty lie you tell yourselves to feel important in a vast, uncaring universe. Your Song is just a song of fear, sung in the dark. And I am going to silence it. One voice at a time. Im starting with Thalen. I should have finished the job the first time. That was a mistake, a moment of…pity. I wont make it again. He will be the first to learn what the silence feels like… Then Im moving on to Nalinors “Blessed Blades.” Im going to find every last one of you who took that vow. I will find you not on a glorious battlefield, but in your homes. In your beds. On your quiet walks through the woods you love so much. I will show you that your new blades are just sticks, and your faith is just a story you tell yourselves in the light because you are afraid of the dark. And then, if I find this world is still too loud, if the chirping still offends me… I will move on to the rest of you. The noise has to stop somewhere. —☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠——☠— {†} —☠— {†} —☠— the forest at dusk. You will hear my voice in the silence between the rustling of the leaves. You will smell my promise in the air when the first frost kills the last flowers of autumn. You can run, if it makes you feel better. It wont. You can hide in the deepest caves. I will enjoy the search. You can pray to your Aspects. Scream your prayers into the sky until your throat is raw. They arent listening. But I am. This begins now. Right now, as you read this. So go ahead. Look at the shadows between the trees a little longer. Feel the chill that slides down your spine, the one that has nothing to do with the wind. That cold, heavy knot in your stomach, that feeling of dread you cant quite shake? That isnt fear. That is the quiet, settling in. Taking root. Making itself at home. And I… I am just getting started. - Urk-vyradalm

darkstalkers are the endgame of martial undead, believe me try an ghoul before u even think about making an darkstalker

FULL NAME: KOPRAAN THE ROCK COLLECTOR AGE: 65 PRIOR EXPERIENCE: MIZ FIGHT MORI, MOUNTAIN GHOSTIES, AND MI BEHEAD GRIFFIN ONCE TOO. MI IZ MASTER OF CHAIN WEAPONS SIGNED NAME: 𝓚𝓸𝓹𝓻𝓪𝓪𝓷 METHOD OF CONTACT: RAISEANDGRIND(DISCORD) LICHINCROCS(MC)

☩ ✦ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔘𝔯𝔨-𝔳𝔶𝔯’𝔞𝔡𝔞𝔩𝔪 ✦ ☩ 𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔢 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯, 𝔐𝔶 𝔢𝔶𝔢𝔰 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰, 𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔳𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔡𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔡 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔬𝔪𝔢, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪… 𝔞𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔫𝔤. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔠𝔱𝔰, 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔫, 𝔞𝔰 𝔦𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔪𝔞𝔡𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔫. 𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔣𝔞𝔡𝔢. 𝔄𝔩𝔩 𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔤𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔞𝔪 𝔴𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔞𝔰 𝔡𝔦𝔢𝔡. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫 𝔦𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔩𝔦𝔣𝔢, 𝔬𝔣 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥, 𝔬𝔣 𝔥𝔬𝔭𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔪𝔲𝔰𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔱 𝔟𝔢 𝔰𝔫𝔲𝔣𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔬𝔲𝔱. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔫𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯 𝔦𝔫 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔢. 𝔄𝔫 𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔤𝔤𝔩𝔢. 𝔄 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔩, 𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔣𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡𝔰. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔗𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔰. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔰𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔱𝔢𝔫 𝔪𝔢𝔞𝔱. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔦 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔲𝔭𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔢𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔞𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡. 𝔏𝔢𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔰𝔢𝔢 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔥 𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔯 𝔦𝔰 𝔩𝔬𝔲𝔡𝔢𝔯. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔢, 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔜𝔬𝔲 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔡𝔢. 𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔬𝔫𝔩𝔶 𝔴𝔦𝔰𝔡𝔬𝔪 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔠𝔞𝔫 𝔱𝔯𝔲𝔩𝔶 𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔪. 𝔗𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔗𝔢𝔪𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔯𝔰 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔬𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔷𝔢𝔞𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔯𝔶. 𝔊𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔠𝔦𝔯𝔠𝔩𝔢𝔰. 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔰𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔫. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔖𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔥𝔬𝔴𝔩, 𝔇𝔯𝔲𝔦𝔡. 𝔦𝔱 𝔡𝔬𝔢𝔰 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔫𝔢𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬. 𝔦𝔱𝔰 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔟𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔥𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨, 𝔨𝔫𝔬𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔶 — 𝔟𝔢 𝔦𝔱 𝔦𝔫 𝔞 𝔶𝔢𝔞𝔯, 𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔡𝔢, 𝔬𝔯 𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫 𝔞 𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔶 — 𝔦𝔱 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔮𝔲𝔦𝔢𝔱. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔣𝔞𝔱𝔢𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔡𝔞𝔶, 𝔦 𝔴𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔟𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢. 𝔑𝔬𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔠𝔬𝔫𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔯𝔬𝔯, 𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔞𝔰 𝔞 𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔲𝔟𝔧𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔱𝔬 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔯𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔣𝔲𝔩, 𝔢𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔩 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔫𝔢. ☩ 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 𝔯𝔢𝔪𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔢𝔭𝔢𝔫𝔰. ☩ 𝔘𝔯𝔨-𝔳𝔶𝔯’𝔞𝔡𝔞𝔩𝔪

MC Name: lichincrocs Discord: raiseandgrind Image: Description of Image: an hooded figure next to their horse... Dimensions: 1x2

MC Name: lichincrocs Discord: raiseandgrind Image: Description of Image: An hooded figure staring at the river. Dimensions: 1x1

MC Name: lichincrocs Discord: raiseandgrind Image: Description of Image: an hooded figure looking at the sunset... Dimensions: 1x2

st accept this and my life is yours

Good job, Urzul. You’ve strengthened the Black Rose and led your undead knights with steady hands. Even in death, they stand loyal by your side....... I do not claim her seat. She is the Lady, and the Black Rose is hers to guide. But I am the King in Undeath, and my will reaches beyond her halls, into the grave and the world beyond it. Where her knights march, my shadow follows...... To the faithful within the Order........ , know that this alliance does not shackle you - it frees you. The power I wield is not to command, but to strengthen. The enemies you face are enemies I will unmake. And to those who kneel to the Light - look upon what you fear most. A deathless Order of knights who do not fall. You cannot outlast us. You cannot starve us. You cannot kill what will not die. The Lady leads the Rose. The King rules the Dead. And together… we will see the false dawn extinguished....... -- Urk-vyr’adalm The King in Undeath ─=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=── The lich scratches out the messy note-half wilted roses, half angry skulls-and somehow "Good job, Urzul" is the clearest part. He sighs, knocks over a bone cup, and mutters, "Still better than those other lazy undead." ─=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──=─=─=─=─=─=─=──

To Whom It May Concern, "A Lion Brought Low" — how poetic. I read your words with a kind of fascination, not for their sentiment, but for their naivety. You mourn the fall of a man as if his death is a tragedy, rather than the inevitability it has always been. He died upon the Alba Bridge, crushed beneath the weight of duty, pride, and battered steel. And yet, not a soul stopped to question: Why did he truly fall? He fell because he believed valor could outpace inevitability. He fell because he mistook honor for armor. He fell because even the strongest lion bleeds like any other beast when the black winds of undeath sweep through the land. You call it a final act of defiance. I call it futility. What remains now is not the man, not the armor, nor the cause he so stubbornly clung to. What remains is the echo of his failure, and I Urk-vyr’adalm , am listening closely. Do not lament. He has not escaped me. That soul, bitter and broken, lingers still—ripe for reshaping. If your kind weeps long enough over a grave, they forget to seal it. And I... I do not waste such offerings. So let them sing of Vangelis the fallen. I shall make use of what they leave behind..... — Urk-vyr’adalm

farewell my fellow necromancer,sad to see you go

1+

well yeah darkstalkers need 4 necros to make and its an end game undead ca ill jusy say most undead either jump solo ppl or get pvp defaulted by 15 ppl , theres no need to amend this, its fine as it is, the lore needs an rewrite and not Amendments that make the magic more of an shitfest of which is already is

im going to say this darkstalkers arent even that hard to deal with just use an warhammer and not an sword -1

1+ from me ill just say the pk clauses are abit harsh

I’ve been playing in LotC for 2 years. I’ve done all kinds of roleplay, from darkspawn to assassin guilds. Feel free to ask me anything!

The great golemancer hunt has started lol

is this even an real amendment?

this is perfection please allow me to become an 5 slot void mage with the attack power of an siege engine.

A parchment arrives, darkly elegant, its ink shimmering faintly crimson beneath the light. The wax seal bears a sigil a scorched spiral entwined with a thorned crown. The handwriting is refined, deliberate, and far older than its recipient. To the Esteemed Felipe Dominique Carnelle, So... the manor stands. Brick and bone, coin and cause all assembled neatly in your name. I see you've taken to shaping your domain with purpose, and ambition dressed in silk. There is a certain poetry to it. how far you've come — and yet, I wonder still What cost did the ink of your name demand? It pleases me, truthfully, to witness this ascent. It is no small thing to climb without slipping. But as you polish silver and call servants to your gates, remember the hand that steadied your back when the world turned away. Remember who made the soil fertile beneath your feet. Your wealth? Your rise? A seed I once placed in quiet shadow. You have grown well. Do not mistake my silence for absence. Should your ambition wane or your will fray, hold the ring beneath a dark sky and speak no words — I will know. Every pact bears a cost some are merely slow to collect Your Benefactor... and Tithekeeper, Urk-vyr’adalm The Burnt Lord