ReverseNebula

⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Raginolf had never truly gotten to know Kazimir, for their words were few and far between, usually frigid and to the point of any interaction. Yet even then, upon the news that befell himself upon his own return to Vjardengrad, Raginolf could do naught more than bow his own head for the fellow Templar that opted to fight until the breath of his lungs ran dry. There was something amicable in that, but even then, it was what their calling had settled unto them - it was the price they would pay, and Kazimir's debt had been collected. How many more would pay theirs in the time to come? How many more would die, for the injustices of that day? Why? Yet query after query, was staunched into nothingness, as he could nothing more but continue on for those that still lingered, and for those that eyed at him in the emptiness that Kazimir left in his wake. ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞

⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Raginolfs gaze had met the parchment as the Queen had wrote, he'd been present for the talks that had arisen. Yet for it all, when the parchments were signed, and the talks concluded... only a few meager words could be given in any sort of consolation, any sort of response. "In Time." That was all they could await... and that was the only answers they could ever find, not now, only later. ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞

⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Iron from Ice. That was the Motto so many he knew seemed to call so dutifully, when the times seemed so tough. One to raise morale and bolster their spirits - but now the saying seemed to echo, like the fading beats of a wardrum. ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Iron from Ice. It echoed, once rest had finally come for the dutiful Waldenian, something he’d done his best to stave off ever since they had returned from their journey elsewhere. He hadn’t wished to close his eyes, and retreat into slumber, no. He simply wanted to tell her the news, the possibilities - the hope, he’d been given. Yet it claimed him on the ride back… His eyes felt so heavy. Was it due the years he’d lost so quickly? His body seemed to tire just a bit quicker, his muscles ached just a bit more - and bones felt just a bit weaker. How much time had he truly lost? ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Frozen Still. His body seemed reluctant to move, when dawn finally beckoned him awake - his routine seemed ill-placed, as if it didn’t fit the age he was. Five more minutes. Just five more, was what he asked of Sissel, despite her incessant push to arise, and so he did, clambering himself upright and to his usual duties - one to cure of Lycanthropy. Hope to bestow upon Eydis. Talks to be had. The day came quickly, started by the sounds of joyous laughter, of kids brimming with innocence, eyes alight with flames that so dutifully wished to learn and grow, unknowing of the world that awaited to claim such a thing. Then came the woman, a Silasian who Ragin had swore to aid, to cure her of the curse passed on by her Mother, and even that was a taxing process - the travel wasn’t light, nor were the seas as they ferried towards Neveahlen - his doubts had almost brewed, but finally he had been successful, A light within the dark. A Soul Saved. The journey back was swift, and decisive. Ever since Asmund had died, and Ragin lost thirty years, he had a sign of hope, that brandished elsewhere and not just upon words he’d been given, from a stranger so far away. His footsteps into the town were filled with jest, from the woman whose fate had altered, because of him. A laugh turned into a call, a singular cry for Veta, so that the newly healthy could be double-checked… Yet the news it brought, it couldn’t’ve have been coincidence, perhaps it was the way that Daemon toyed with him, for her words were soft and brimming with sorrow. Eydis was DEAD. What? ĐɆ₳Đ. How? ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Iron from Ice. Ragin hadn’t asked much more, he didn’t even truly await an explanation for his thoughts filled in the gaps. He had heard her wails, when his sleep had claimed him, when his body tried to recover from the turmoil it’d undergone. Why was it another had been snuffed out? A stupid question, another one laddened on the mind of a man in grief that he refused to show outside of the occasional doubts of why he remained. Would Sissel have done the same? Another rancid thought, for a mind laddened with despair. Why?... ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ Raginolf had grown tired of the question his mind always repeated. He’d grown tired of doubting. Of Inaction. Of Despair. “It took time from me, it tried to freeze me in it. Torture me. NO MORE.” A singular gaze, to a flame of orange, amidst a desolate wasteland of white snow, and seared trees. “They need hope, and yet I stand - so let me instill it.” “Let me be their LIGHT.” A quiet prayer, a solemn request, to a deity whose blessing had been entrusted unto him. ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞ ᛚᛖᛏ ᛗᛁ ᛚᛁᚷᚻᛏ ᛋᚻᚪᛏᛏᛖᚱ ᚦᛖᛁᚱ ᛞᚪᚱᚳᚾᛖᛋᛋ. Let my light shatter their darkness. ⥟──────────────── ᚠᛁᚳᛏᛁᛗ ᚩᚠ ᛏᛁᛗᛖ ────────────────⥞

THE FIRES RAGED ON. Ragin hadn’t sat in, when the talks of battleplans were had - when intricacies were detailed, or scheming required, for it was never his strong suit. To sit and debate the best actions for a battle to come, no - he’d only ever been a scout.. A ranger.. A swordsman. But when the sounds of chains loomed above, and the footfalls of THOUSANDS marching were made known, he was amidst the first arrival, asking how he could’ve been of aid - requesting to stand amidst the melee, yet begrudgingly guided to another sector of defense. Nonetheless, as he stood alongside friend and foe turned ally, did they begin to hold their ground - nearly every shot landed true, nearly everybody remained healthy… for it had been going too well. Just when the battle began to fluctuate, the ending in sight - did the remnants of the ship begin to bubble and coalesce, conglomerating into a horrid portal that tore asunder the very fabric of reality to relinquish a beast so vile. Orsaethiel’s Avatar, That was what stood afront them, a remnant of the very entity that opposed them, now poised and growing for the sole intent of striking them Norlandic folk down. Yet when it rose, and the Wyvern flew overhead, poised for another strike at their front did Ragin give an order, so dangerous.. So.. useless it felt… He had called for a retreat. Such a futile thing, saw their foothold faltering - only when Asmund and them arrived, did they reattempt their blows to fell the beast… did Maya’s blessing come true… did Ragin and Asmund pour their being unto such a holy weapon… In such a brutal twist of time, and fate - a brutal, grandeur light - the ground met Raginolf and Asmund.. Their calls silenced, their blessings imbued - he swore he felt Asmund shove at him, as Ragin’s hands left the canon a split second before the other’s being was consumed. A singular, night-shattering, darkness devouring, light engulfed Asmund as Ragin’s gaze peeled rightwards in shock - awe… Was it then, that he died? Everything flashed before his eyes. His wife that lingered elsewhere in battle, his children outside the city for safety. A flickering memory of a cardgame the Night before the attack - a game that Njall, Asmund and an Oyashi had so gleefully played before Asmund stormed off.. It all felt so long ago. Joyous laughter amidst the Taverns walls, as card after card hit the table. Exclamation, and disbelief due what was played - celebrations, and defeats… all in such a reckless endeavor… now they laid so quiet, a deafening standstill, until - The whispered pleas of Dzsenifer came next, when she pressed something cold, and steel-laddened unto his hand. Yet, he could not wake. Not by his own volition, or by muttered words. For his price had been severed, Thirty Years. Gone in an Instant. Who now, was he to blame? Had his call for retreat killed Asmund? Did Ragin falter, when his soul was tugged - or had he truly been shoved off? Why? Why? WHY? That was the question asked, as Ragin mulled about in that enforced, enslaving slumber. 𝕎𝕙𝕪 𝕙𝕒𝕕 𝕙𝕖 𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕕, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕓𝕣𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣?

Telemachus cackled loudly, as he quickly went to show his own wife what had ensued

When the lines had broken, and the Palelord's stature crumbled down and unto the mans ensnared leg, with his arm of metal resting aside it; had the man finally found the time for a proper breath, one no-longer choked by the thrill of the fight to come, or the danger that lurked. For once more, had his hammer found purpose in felling the threats that lurked like wolves, circling the flickering lights of campfires that warmed the bodies of innocents. Just out of sight, yet ever-present... ever-returning. "I wonder when they will grow tired, of staring at the sunrise - waiting for truths that will never come." A sole response, from the former Waldenian, as those of his ilk aided him upright from beneath the beast of stone. Time was bought once more.

@Apotolofo Our spiritwalk brought out the best of people. thank the dolphin. happy pride month.

Necromancer's have always in technicality been reliant on their summons. Nothing is stopping you from commanding your giant bear-sized golem to DEFEND at the start of an encounter, because it will perform that action until told otherwise, while giving your other summon an Attack command. You start any fight, as a necromancer - in a 3V1, just because you might tell both to attack, doesn't mean YOU HAVE TO.

✠ - Rider: Rudolf von Weisenstein ✠ - Champion: Roach ✠ - Realm: Burgundy. ✠ - Liege or Lord: N/A

Rudolf von Weisenstein had glanced between the report, and his own brother, a subtle shake of his head. "That is for you two, not me - I've still some things to clear up." But nonetheless, the change had come - a welcome one at that. Perhaps he would hold the rank of Serjeant one day, but not soon.

Penance. That was the thing, Rudolf had so commonly blamed the woman of, a dereliction of some duties perhaps, a disdain for her motives - but he had never surmised such an untimely, unsavory end. Perhaps judgement spared had been to harsh, perhaps words bore to much venom, but alas the woman lay there, a broken body and paled tone - absent of the vigor she always bore.. but now he only felt pity for how she looked. And so he turned away, shifting back to the tavern in his own reveled silence - he'd mourn the loss, the same he'd mourned the realization of another's absence; amidst drink, and a muttered, unheard prayer.

The Jumoko had lingered amidst horseback, his concealed gaze watching the attempted 'duel', that had truthfully, felt like a successful attempt to waste their time. And so, with the remnants of ash, and ectoplasm amidst the Volcano's side, did the Jumoko shake their head, for even the weakest of the church, could stand as a better fight than those he saw fall this day. . . "Pathetic..."

Welp, time to go to war.. kill the spear

Once the woman's gaze had finally cleared, when the cold died out as the last thing she felt, when her consciousness regained her amidst the after-life, was Okar'sil the first to greet her, whether it have been his own pitiful way of reconciliation, or an attempt to lessen the grief she likely felt upon realization of what she had done. His smile was as vibrant as the day he had last departed Norland, a subtle flicker to that spectral, golden-hued form that he had last inhabited amidst the mortal coil. "You're one of the last I expected to arrive... but to be here so soon, perhaps things did not end so well for you..." His words, sung forth, in such a gently, harmonizing melody - much akin to how relaxing his hue seemed. . . "Find your respite, llir, rest now... I am sure you need it, and you are as deserving as the last." His voice finally died out, the 'Kers arms outstretched, an embrace offered, but not enforced. . . For the Ker's eternal wander was a curse upon himself, perhaps this is why he refused the respite of gods and man alike. Perhaps he wanted to be one of the few faces to welcome those who perished. . . but they would never know, until they all reconciled once more amidst this plane of death...

That was a redline I forgot to include, and has since been administered. Arachiviperia venom has no usage outside of being used as a beast to fight in Player Events or ST events, upon taming/capture their venom is supposed to become inert.

Credit to DaveMelvin: https://www.artstation.com/davemelvin Background: Within the vast expanses below the surface, the Underdark is home to all manner of beast and creature. Was an unholy matrimony wrought through the plans of the Mori’quessir. Through vile magicks and experimentation both did they seek to bring forth a beast of likeness to both spider and snake. One that sought to combine the potency, agility and unsettling appearance of both Serpent and Arachnid alike. Bringing forth an imposing companion now to their forward scouts, as both mount and vicious fighting companion. Physiology: Arachiviperia’s are a visible affront to the gods, with large, viper-like heads, ladened with the eyes of an arachnid. These uncanny creatures have an abnormally soft set of hair that formulates just behind the head, and trails the entire length of its body; often used to detect minute vibrations from the ground, as to help locate prey. These abominations, when standing upright with their frontal torso, linger at about 6’ tall, equating to 14 feet in length - and weighing in at 950 lbs. Arachiviperia fangs, are usually sought after due to their unique nature, possessing qualities more akin to bone, than teeth the Snake-like fangs that form in the front of the mouth, possess no ability to transfer venom, merely being used to deliver devastating bites, and secure prey. The rear set of arachnid-like fangs house a venom that slowly incites muscle failure, of the affected limb over the course of 4 emotes, beginning with numbness and slowly elevating in level - after 6 emotes of the initial bite, one will begin to feel the toxin slowly seeping into adjacent appendages, and if left untreated, will eventually result in temporary, full-body paralysis. While appearances for them may vary, their primary colors are almost always consistent and rarely changed, such being: Brown, Luminescent Blue, Red, Purple, Green. Patterns for Arachiviperia’s range as a mixture of both, snake-like, and spider-like alterations, including, but not limited to: Splotches, Hour-glass patterns, and other various naturally found patterns originating from spiders and snakes. Habitat: Arachiviperia’s are often found amidst the Underdark, seeing as their origin is of Mori’quessir make - however, this doesn’t limit their region of influence, as they have spread their terrifying, and mostly unknown reign amidst many a crevice of where they inhabit. Preferring darker, more confined spaces due to their natural desire to ambush their own prey, these fiends are commonplace amidst the darker depths of any expansive cavern, more-inclined to the warmer, temperate caves they might find themselves in. Behavior: Arachiviperia’s are easily irritable creatures, but are by no means dumb - possessing the intellect of a fox, and preferring ambush-tactics over pure-brute force, they are cunning and agile, and will often flee situations where they are outnumbered. Their strength lies purely within their upper torso, but can easily be dwindled should one aim to disable their supporting legs, that aid in maneuverability, and transfer of momentum for attacks. Arachiviperia’s are very territorial creatures, and mate for life - choosing to settle directly beside pockets of Magma, in very tight and constricting spaces. A secondary method, would be the obtainment of an Arachiviperia’s eggs, which they only lay two per term, and require a sufficient heat-source, akin to magma, and with sufficient humidity - once hatched, Arachiviperia hatchlings imprint on the closest individual. Such a scarce obtainment, is how the Mori'quessir are able to build such a natural, loyal bond with their mounts. Abilities: Arachiviperia’s have the ability to scale almost any surface, granted that it is not a slickened, purely vertical slope; allowing for ease of movement almost anywhere. Arachiviperia’s have an innate venom that causes a rather quick onset of paralysis, taking 4 emotes from an initial bite to disable the limb, and spreading to the next upon the 6th emote following it, and further if left unattended. Credits to: @Neropolitan, for writing, and formatting.

Glory, such a thing was not a concept the Automata had rightfully followed - not a thing it had willingly indulged in. For all it knew, was it's directives - concepts that willed it into protection of others, and to counteract whatever Darkspawn had opted too oppose those of good, those who declared themselves as righteous, he had barely any differentiation, only that he hated those with the dark magics with such vigor. But such a thing, despite his unwavering, reinforced within the steel contraption it piloted. Wrath, befell those that fought outside Lumbridge - such a violent endeavor, as the gods were enraged by the tainted city, that shun like a beacon to the hopeless, to those who craved nothing more than power - who Yyrona craved nothing more, than to KILL. However, for this day, as Deific Judgement befell the lands, and battles raged beneath the stars, the runic inscriptions that saught to bring destruction, did the Delver find itself alongside comrades yet again. Protection, was what Yyrona's larger stature excelled at - so as lines met, amidst shattered encampments, did Yyrona take up the mantle, of a bastion, a wall - a promise. Such a thing, shielding the Tree Lord Nenar, from whatever faced afront her - the bioluminescent blood that sept sought to end the beast, and even then did its nerves cease to waver - as dragons flanked him, their flames aiding - did the beast finally shift backwards, as to staunch that bloodflow - yet only then was it realized. It was, too late. The application saw Yyrona fall unconscious, as the fighters amidst the battle finally shifted to flee - to escape the Judgement befalling the town, and threatening to claim whoever lay within it, and by some ill-fated, perhaps comedic relief - did its systems reboot as the beams begun to wash over the mountain - as the quakes begun to tremble. . . as heat, begun to meld the steel encasing. The violent retribution, left Yyrona laughing too themself, with some formulated, chatter of gears - a delighted thing, for its final, drowning words amidst a bath of silvery flames, and redemption. . . echoed in its own, metallic... mind. Unit's Directives: Completed. . . Shutdown Imminent. . .

Okar'sil Artist: Gloomsie A name, one regarded as Friend, to many who had known him. It was a name, many called a Hero, due his delves prior with the Ak'Vei expedition unto the under darks most treacherous depths. It was name, who's end, was brought in his own selflessness. Okar'sil had many parting words, to many a folk that day. A quip towards Sebastian, to meet safely. A lie to his children, so that they would not worry. A promise, to the woman he treasured, that he return ever so safely. ---------------------------------------------------- FEAR, Was one of the final things, that so violently coursed through Okar's mind, Blood was pouring from his thigh, after an arrow tipped with Azhl tore across his thigh - it set forth an overwhelming, racing, sense of dread as an internal timer began to tick with that crimson life blood that sept from within. Step after Step, Okar got closer and closer to that Dreadknight that lumbered, threatening to tear Celadon's head from his shoulders. That same knight, as it cleaved off the Templar's shoulder, and was subsequently recoiled - was left wide open. Okar was within range, and his mind was set. Contentment. Was the next thing that followed, as Okar reached his target, unaware of the fate that he had just sealed. His left hand flung its prepared potion, that was so desperately clutched for the Rangers who stood behind it, shielded, protected. No More. Okar's right hand detonated so violently as it hit the Dreadknight's core. Such a violent expansion, saw his bones snap, and his flesh twist - and then the plate-armor begun to ripple with the newfound tearing force, as rune and orb was shattered - so too was the body of Okar'sil. As the beast lumbered unto its death due the newfound debris, and the Ranger's became open to their newfound, slow demise of stone. . . One Arrow. Two. They found their mark, first amidst his shoulder, then amidst his Neck. Okar shambled forth only one more time, as a choked gasp is given, and then his knees find dirt, respite and that gasp, slowly seeps into nothingness as Okar's head slowly leans forward, resting - he could finally rest, his wounds seeped... Okar never expected to see her here, that radiant smile that he so pleasantly enjoyed. The arms, that so warmly held him in his times of strife. Those words that so softly kept him active. His head, gently came to lay amidst her arms, promising to forego his pain. To hold him. To Love Him. Artist: Cherullen And thus, as his eyes closed, and a smile tugged at his lips. The Storm that Okar brought upon, slowly died out - into the warm, soothing ocean waves. Okar died victoriously, amidst his enemies. Neveahli's adventures, continue on.

Okars journey into Norland, for his rather routine visit of El was drawn short, as the missive is clutched tightly amidst a hand. His footfalls are heavy with their newfound determination, as the subtle clanks of maile meeting leather ring out more notable than before. He needed to speak with El. IGN: ReverseNebula55 Discord: Chilly7795

One less loose end.

Bandwagon Time? While I've not been here long, I've run into my fair share of pretty cool, interesting or otherwise just really amazing folk, and with Calise's request, I'll hop on the bandwagon. 248Pengin: With my short presence here, Pengin, so-far has already settled into my mind as one of, if not The Most friendly, and welcoming person in my start of LOTC. Their building is decent, their mindset's firm, and their kindness is insurmountable, and I respect everything he does. GammaRose: Gamma, has one of the most Brilliantly written characters. Every interaction with Storyteller, whether informative, instructional, or minute, has been a blast, with the writing quality of a best selling author, I enjoy, and crave more interactions with such a splendid individual - also Gamma's just really cool OOCly. WinterBlessing: Winter, or Lumi as I call her is just the most kind person ever, after learning I'd lost a few bucks due reasons, Her First, and Only offer to it, was How soon do you need it? This person here, Lumi, is so far, one of the kindest, and most warm-hearted individuals I've ever encountered within my life, and Mora is just an amazing character also. Junoix: Juno is my go-to Bagel-Expert, and Wood Elf lore Nerd. Thats all I gotta say. RMW01: Anxiety-filled little woman. RMW houses some of my favorite interactions with their characters, also small. Jqsm1ne: Liri is ICly and OOCly just a cool person, like that annoying little sibling that keeps hanging onto your pant leg. Calise11: EL, is just a fantastic character, and albeit we met on rigid terms of near-conflict, I've enjoyed the more miniscule conversations, and the threats of violence - OOCly, you're just a splendid person, keep doing you. EndRealms, ItsSpookySzn, CursedSailor26: These three people, ever since my arrival, have been at my side through most of my experiences, and most of our days are spent merely messing with each other, like a defunct family. It's fun, its enjoyable, and a breathe of fresh air from most other communities - these are some of the first people I met (cause most of us were pinktags together), and as it stands I will relentlessly bully Spook and End. You will never escape it. And to Neveahlen folk, and Faerilien (and FoolDudes) necromancer groups. I've enjoyed encounters with both parties, and have had some very fun moments, I look forward to (hopefully) experiencing many more - and I'm glad some of you have had a very enjoyable time with my characters.

Blackheart is flanked, by a Ker of mismatched, intricately knitted limbs from various races - a singular vibrant nebula of an eye blazing amidst the darkness the cowl casted over his face. His hands linger beneath his own robes, a soft cackle ebbing in agreeance with the words spoken from his tutor. "When their cities crumble, and their ilk lay dead - they too will seek our knowledge. They will fall at our feet, and beg for our power to be graced upon their rotten, decrepit corpses. They will plead for a mercy we will ne give, and they will suffer as they have tried to make us. Yet, Khorvad preserves."