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Traversing the world of visions and prophecy was a blessing that very few were given. This, he had been told by the Pontiff himself. Through his blessing and influence, the insanity was given meaning, the lucid dreams were shown truth, and a man broken and shattered by madness had been made prophet, an augur of visions sent by the Black God, and a voice and vessel for the Broodmother upon Eos. He was Zkramutna za’Xandraza, he was Prophet. And where his mortal eyes failed him, it was the third, inner, awakened by the eminent faux-drake, that allowed the Archprince of Dread to bring meaning to the hallucinations that plagued him since his connection to the Pentacle. Now, however, a realization had downed upon him. He stood upon the altar to Drazhana, built in the depths of the Silverwood, hands placed on the edges of the basin of rakir before him. That sentence, strung together by the overlapped voices of accursed bats, echoed in his mind, pounding at his conscious, urging him to cast away mortal eyesight, and embrace his role as Augur of the Black God, vessel of Xandraza, to devote himself wholly to the visions and dreams sent to him by such deities. A vessel needed not to view the mortal world, for it was Pandæmonium that beseeched him. It was to manifest Strigapoth. To spread Mivtahza, and lay the foundation for the Black God’s Horde to consume the world. And as he had said to the Pontiff - it was nigh time the Vessel stopped ignoring the incessant call of Epleiades. Braced against the basin of rakir offered to the Broodmother, he brought his hands to his face, palms splayed, as he prepared himself. The pain that would come, the fear, the dread. Sentiments he was all too familiar with, that riddled his body on a daily basis. He looked down at the crimson liquid pooled within the basin. He would have to rid himself of all doubt. All hesitation. His hands were brought up and sharp nails dug into his sockets, his teeth biting down on his own mouth to endure the pain. Through the agony of self-maiming, the Archprince of Dread ripped his eyes free of their sockets, and dumped them into the basin of rakir. With a blood-ridden face, he shambled to where his cot in the woods laid, and he fell upon it, his body twitching, tensing and relieving. The movement was incessant, his hands bringing up a black rag, draping it over his eyes to cover the gaping veins that pumped blood into nothing. His nerve endings, not dinging the organs meant to be connected to it, flared in agony and pain. Yet somehow, he found himself slowly drifting into an agonizing sleep, and without eyes to close, the Archprince fell into that lull of dreams and visions, and in that sleep, he was hounded and harked at by visions once more. A stranger lingered in these dreams, everpresent, in the corner of eyeless vision, gleamed by a third eye borne from insanity turned sane, madness turned wisdom. A broken man turned prophet, the Archprince of Dread awoke the next day, and much like the fateful day when the Sage of Hell branded his soul, he felt changed.

A band-aid is the best I can do without, like you said, rewriting CC lore completely, which I do agree is required.

I think it'd be a case of 'the ones who already exist will keep existing', kinda like how the disconnection amendment allows Naztherak disconnected PRIOR to its approval to be reconnected if given the chance, but any AFTER the Amendment is passed are unable to.

You're lowkey right, I hadn't thought of it this way. I appreciate both of y'all @christman@NightcastorKitty

Ironically, I made this amendment exactly to counter that 🥀

Edited to include the case of twins, triplets, etc. Cleared up the wording on it being specifically barred behind T3, and not specifically the ritual that is gained at T3.

I'm debating removing that entirely and just locking it behind T3 as a 'yeah ur soul is tainted enough now, ur children will come out scuffed'.

Anything new is boldened, anything removed is underlined, anything changed is italicized. Credit to Mordu for the original lore. Original: Creation The historically understood origin of these cursed descendants, wrought by a mark inflicted onto the parent-to-be of a devil by a false prince or greater inferis (ST event characters). The skin colour of those borne of said curse will always reflect the malflame colour of the naztherak or inferis that administered it. -In the magical creation of a devil, the naztherak or event character responsible must be listed as ‘teacher’ in the devil’s FA, ratified by a comment from the naztherak linking their MA or an ST ratifying their consent respectively. -This can only be achieved in accordance with any prerequisites specified in naztherak lore or other hypothetical pieces that add this ability. In the event that naztherak (or other) is shelved as a player magic, or rewritten without the ability to create devils specified, magical creation of new devils becomes impossible. - Upon disconnection from Naztherak, no Cursed-Children apps can be made in regards to offspring born from the character, or bane stated as the result of said character. Proposed amendment: Creation The historically understood origin of these cursed descendants, wrought by a mark inflicted onto the parent-to-be of a devil by a false prince or greater inferis (ST event characters). The skin colour of those borne of said curse will always reflect the malflame colour of the naztherak or inferis that administered it. -In the magical creation of a devil, the naztherak or event character responsible must be listed as ‘teacher’ in the devil’s FA, ratified by a comment from the naztherak linking their MA or an ST ratifying their consent respectively. -This can only be achieved in accordance with any prerequisites specified in naztherak lore or other hypothetical pieces that add this ability. In the event that naztherak (or other) is shelved as a player magic, or rewritten without the ability to create devils specified, magical creation of new devils becomes impossible. - Upon disconnection from Naztherak, no Cursed-Children apps can be made in regards to offspring born from the character, or bane stated as the result of said character. - A connected Naztherak will only conceive a Cursed Child once in their life. This is to prevent the Feat being abused and widespread. This is tracked via the Naztherak's active MA. - A connected Naztherak will only conceive a Cursed Child when they have reached Tier 3. At Tier 3, the Naztherak's soul is corrupted enough that the blight passes on to their children, and additionally, it is when the Naztherak receives the ingrained knowledge to perform the ritual that allows the creation of Cursed Children. Purpose:

The golden prince cackled lightly as he read along the missive, nodding approvingly. "This is amazing."

A Messenger, in midnight clad, accompanied by a cloud of bats, gazed at the missive on a passing where he looked little different to any other man. A smile found his way to his lips, the striith upon his shoulder cackling as it heard the thoughts of the False Prince, the False Angel. "Such is the fate of the worshippers of Cernunnos and Cerridwen. You do not know their true nature; they greed and hunger for you, and manipulate you until you're of no longer use." He carefully and neatly folded the notice, and put it within his bag. "We will open your eyes."

𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 RA’DRAKURZ RAHT ROKNOTH KUUL RA’VAZNAN AMOL TUL 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 RA’DRAKURZ RAHT ROKNOTH KUUL RA’VAZNAN AMOL TUL 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 You awake, but verily, you realise this is not life. It cannot be. For mere moments before you laid your head upon a cot, and closed your eyes in peace, opening your mind to the enlightenment of dreams. A biting cold lashed at your skin, clothes doing nary to provide comfort against the assail. As you gaze about the dreamscape you find yourself upon, your senses seem to finally speak to one another and synchronize, and you realise the cold upon your feet is liquid, and the river of blood between mounds of mud is evident. On accursed crimson sky, clouds of bats, of the most varied sizes and demonic shapes, flew at terrifying speeds, guided by larger, more enlarged and grotesque creatures that you could not possibly classify as natural. The sheer presence of these creatures, alongside black clouds of smog, blocked the land ‘neath from its so needed sun. Where the blood had pooled beneath your feet, it remained current, though as you gaze and walk further down its crimson path, you realise you walk upon a battlefield, though you can make out very little of the nature of its fallen combatants. In the air, screeches and howling begin to fill your ears, echoing from the most diverse directions. 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 LIS XANDRAZA NOTUM ALZ LIS XANDRAZA NOTUM ALZ 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 A voice began to echo through the battlefield, resounding as if it was an amphitheater, clear and unmistakable. It resonated a chant, an infernal litany that repeated in the rhythm of a beating heart. From the skies, the clouds of bats echoed the sounds produced by the distant march, empowering that hellish march. To some, the words were screeching noises that made little sense, assaulting the ears and irking the brain. To others, the chant was clear and evident, a repeating declaration that burned itself into reality. Metallic scents filled your nostrils, a mixture of iron, cadmium and sulfur, yet by some ironic mercy, your body was not made to violently react to the mixture of these metals. It was another layer upon the anxieties that already riddled your being; the ankle-high blood, the continuous auditory assault, and now, an olfactory mixture that threatened to tamper with your sense of reality. And so, the chant changed, another unmistakable message, echoed through the battlefield, bouncing off the iron on dead soldiers and rokodra on fallen inferi. 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 ZKRAMUTNA ZA’XANDRAZA, KROKUT ZA’XANDRAZA 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 A golden glint shines brighter than before upon a broken throne you’d somehow missed at the end of the flow of crimson that drenched your feet. As if drawn by some morbid curiosity that is evidently not your own, you command your body to move towards that decrepit seat, broken by both time and action, and as your feet sluggishly move through the thickness of the path, that golden glint grew brighter and brighter, its size hiding its magnitude, its allure. It called and summoned you, beckoning, promising not great power nor great richness, or even eternal life. It merely offered peace, reprieve from the sensory overload that continuously pounded at your head, and would verily drive you to the edges of insanity if it continued. You felt the metallic odors begin to work their hallucinogenic magic, the continuous chant form a pounding migraine in your skull, and the incessant, unnatural way which the blood on your ankles flowed made you question the very laws that bound nature. You reached a hand to that golden glint. Your fingers curl around the soft metallic surface of what turned out to be a ring, and as you pluck it from the snap of rotting stone, you slide it ‘pon your finger without a second thought, heeding the belief that it would bring about peace. As it settled upon your skin and its insidious influence spread, verily, it all stopped. The echoing sound of the marching chant, the feeling of discomfort from the continuous liquid flow, the hallucinations that boggled your mind. It all ceased, and was thus replaced by beauty; a choir of singing angels, visions of blessed men and women prospering, and a physical feeling of tranquility. Such uncanny peace, such complete stillness, abhors the chaotic mind that you have fostered, and it yearns once more for something. Something you cannot quite put your finger on. A final declaration, an insufficient ending, snaps at you in farewell. 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 NAKIT ROT TEKE NOTUM HIKHAR ROHN 𖤐 𖤐 𖤐 You awake, sweat drenching your body, the state of your cot evidence of your thrashing. A battle, a herald, a relic, with far too many dots between them to be connected. In the dazed blur of this infernal nightmare, you cannot bring yourself to sleep once more.

Paul Asad grinned and giggled, rubbing his hands together as he set the mask before him, ready to decorate and detail it; "It needs to be absolutely stunning!"

The Herald of Xandraza gazed upon the parchment sequestered by one of his imps, gleaming over its contents with interest and curiosity. Lazily, he set it aside, a grin delicately tugging at his lips, a visage of peace and calm unlike a False Prince of Hell plagued by maddening visions. Sharp nails scraped against the armrests of the dark chair he sat upon, in a dimly lit cavern upon lands he already loathed despite having just set foot upon them. As the cacophony of angels sung into his mind, filling his psyche with false promises, this enlightening conflict proposed itself as a refreshing alternative to the boredom of the Zevir Tulkhurz. Verily, the forces of the King in Undeath were free people of Ra’Dazkah-Vor, and a servant of the Loathsome Aspects could not be allowed to trample the free people underneath heavy hooves. And so, he stood from his chair and rounded the squabbling mass of imps and zekul that bit and clawed at each other for something to do, for something to kill. There was much to do. Many to summon. Things to be set in motion. But this? This would prove a healthy diversion to the Tarun’Ildrith, and the servants of loathsome aenguls would verily see the terror of the infernal.

✧ THE ARCHDUCHY OF PETRUNK ✧ Come one, come all, come Children of the Archduchy of Petra and the Empire! The ARCHDUCHY OF PETRUNK invites all children of the realms to partake in our VERY OWN KINGDOM! Bored of the decisions of grown-ups? Set bed-times and what you can or can’t eat? Tired of the TYRANNY of having to study and read all day? Here in the ARCHDUCHY OF PETRUNK, the children will rule! Of course, though, to not allow GROWN UPS we’ll have to have a couple of rules… But fret not! Nothing like the TYRANNY of parents and other grown ups! No, these rules ensure that our GREAT ARCHDUCHY will prosper even when WE become grown ups - as terrifying as that sounds. ✧ THE RULES AND LAWS OF PETRUNK ✧ ABSOLUTELY NO GROWN-UPS ALLOWED! Anyone over the age of sixteen is considered a GROWN UP! The Archduchy of Petrunk will be ruled by a Duke of Trunks and a Duke of Twigs! The Duke of Trunks will be responsible for any activities outside of the Archduchy of Petra, while the Duke of Twigs will be responsible for any activities inside of the Archduchy of Petra! The Two Dukes will be elected every five Saint’s weeks, or until a current Duke becomes a Grown-Up. Both boys and girls can sign up for the elections and be candidates! The Archduchy of Petrunk will be protected by the Swords of the Big Tree, through the Knights of the Stick! Every tenure, the two Dukes will select a maximum of five Knights of the Stick, and five Squires of the Bark. The Archduchy of Petrunk will ALWAYS welcome any children, unless it goes directly against any grown-up law - as SAD as that is! ✧ THE REGULAR ACTIVITIES OF PETRUNK ✧ ✧ THE GREAT TRUNKENING: When a new pair of Dukes is elected, the whole of the Archduchy will head to the highest tree of the Archduchy of Petra, and beneath the shade of its leaves, branches and trunk, will conduct the GREAT TRUNKENING, where the Dukes swear before the tallest tree that they will only do GOOD and AWESOME things for Petrunk. ✧ PARTIES AND GATHERINGS: The Archduchy of Petrunk will host regular parties, gatherings and GREAT FEASTS to keep the children of the Archduchy and the realms entertained! We will cook, bake, brew, and talk while the grown ups live their BORING lives! ✧ JOUSTS AND TOURNEYS: The Archduchy of Petrunk will conduct children’s jousts and tourneys throughout the lands so that the Knights of the Stick and Squires of the Bark may participate in the sport of kings! Different rewards will be given at each joust or tourney, ranging from COOL TRINKETS to EVEN COOLER MONEY! ✧ TALENT AND CLOTHING SHOWS: The Archduchy of Petrunk will conduct regular talent shows and clothing shows to those more artistically inclined! Here, we want to inspire ALL walks of life! Anyone is welcome to show off their talent, or put their tailoring skills on display! At each show, we will have different judges, to keep it fair! ✧ THE GOVERNMENT OF PETRUNK ✧ ✧ THE DUKE OF TWIGS ✧ ✧ HIS TREEXCELLENCY, Paul Asad Helvets of the Phoenixsphere. ✧ ✧ THE DUKE OF TRUNKS ✧ ✧ THEIR TREEXCELLENCY, Vacant. ✧ ✧ THE GRAND STICKMASTER OF THE KNIGHTS OF THE STICK ✧ ✧ THEIR STICKNESS, Vacant. ✧ ✧ THE GRAND COOKMASTER OF THE ARCHDUCHY ✧ ✧ THEIR CHEFNESS, Vacant. ✧ ✧ THE GRAND SCROLLMASTER OF THE ARCHDUCHY ✧ ✧ THEIR SMARTYNESS, Vacant. ✧ ✧ THE GROWN UP ADVISOR OF THE ARCHDUCHY ✧ ✧ THEIR GRUMPYNESS, Vacant. ✧ ✧ HOW TO JOIN THE ARCHDUCHY OF PETRUNK! ✧ For any children of the realms that are EXCITED and BEAMING about the prospect of having their VERY OWN REALM, they must send letters to the current Duke of Twigs, His Treexcellency Paul Asad [Mivtahza]. Once we have a BUNCH of cool kids involved, elections will be held for a Duke of Trunks, and the other positions will be picked out based on fellow children who show interest!

He had felt this before. This insipid feeling, the vagueness of interpretative visions and dreams that assaulted his mind violently. A man blessed to hear and see angels that none other saw had dreams like these on a regular basis. This time, it was different. The visions. The meaning. The adrenaline and ecstasy that coursed through his body. This was no mere dream. This was no mere vision. This was foreshadowing. It was foreboding. Heralding some kind of great climax. Like many times before, layered over the thunderous, harrowing sounds of the dream itself, he heard her voice, and it sung to him like a beautiful cacophony of terror. It made it all the more effervescent, and drove him to a blind belief like never before. For long, he did not wake, trapped and enwraptured in the beauty of his melancholy. Never had such a glorifying vision gleamed over his psyche with such rawness and potency as this. It was rapture. It was an ascension of being, or at least the foreshadowing of such. When he did come to his senses, when he did wake, he felt a sense of rejuvenation. New purpose. New ideals and new visions. As Messenger of the Black Church, he’d found renewed sense, a direction to the maddening voices in his head. This? It had given him drive. And so, he stood from the cot he laid upon. His soul - twisted and warped as it was, consumed thoroughly by Her, had yet to succumb fully - and such was an unacceptable travesty. How was he to call himself Her Herald, how was he to call himself Her Chosen, if he did not succumb fully, and commit his body and psyche, in addition to his soul? He knew what must be done. And he would stop at nothing to see it through.

It is with hearts burdened by a profound and sorrowful gravity, that we are to announce the tragic and untimely passing of The Right Honorable, Count Hadrian August Temesch et Martiel, Count of House Temesch, and a true son of House Temesch et Martiel. His Lordship, in a courageous attempt to uncover the seas and find a path for Descendantkind upon new lands, set sail East-bound upon the Brilliance of August. In an act of God’s tempestuous might, during a storm-at-sea, a wave of colossal proportions breached the deck of the Brilliance, and the Count Hadrian was, alongside two of his esteemed sailors, thrown to sea, from where no mortal soul could return. We commend the spirit of the good Count Hadrian to the Almighty GOD, knowing and trusting that he is received upon the Seven Skies, where he may enjoy peace and tranquility, having lived the life of a pious man. He is survived by his Lady Wife, the Countess-Consort Celina Isidora Temesch et Martiel, and his two young children, the young Lord August Lucius, and the young Lady Amadea Andromeda. We ask that in this time of grieving, the Lady Celina and her children be allowed peace and quiet. Due to his young age and the untimely nature of his passing, the House Temesch et Martiel has not found any notable will left behind by the Right Honorable Count. As such, it is the charge of this Seneschal that writes this missive to announce the following; Any titles held by the good Count Hadrian August Temesch et Martiel are to be henceforth returned to his mother, the Countess Emeritus Adriana Rosalind Temesch et Martiel. Any belongings held by the good Count Hadrian August Temesch et Martiel are to be henceforth returned to his mother, the Countess Emeritus Adriana Rosalind Temesch et Martiel. Nemo tan Sapiens, The Seneschal of House Temesch et Martiel.

Miguel smiled. A visit was due soon, in this new existence of his.

The Count of San Adriano, Hadrian August Temesch et Martiel, scratched his chin in pensive thought. "I mean. . . unless there's another? We're. . . not even under their jurisdiction. That's what the Cloudbreaker pact was all about." He threw his hands in the air, after putting the missive away. "Life confuses me so. . ."

This really feels like it serves no purpose other than 'Heh, we're like... immortal =)' and the origins itself is iffy at best. What rite of ascension? What conclave of scholars? What manner of godhood were they trying to achieve? Origins are arguably more important than actual spells/redlines/purpose because the Origins detail the meat and potatoes of lore that your magic/feat/creature/etc will derive from and roleplay with. Furthermore, it just feels bland. It's not really distinct from vampirism or other immortality-giving things, because vampirism has actual content to it. This is, quite literally, cut and dry, 'Yeah we're immortal'. It needs a lot more fleshing out, a lot more polishing, a lot more content, more meat and potatoes, before it can even be properly taken serious as a lore piece being submitted, because as it stands, it barely has any lore written on it.

I'm a big boy, I can admit to making a mistake. I use the detector that my college uses and its now come to my attention that it sucks. I went off 'tells' and specific writing conventions commonly used by bots - but the fact is that people can use those conventions and 'tells' as well while legitimately writing their things. I'd like to apologise to Mestvin for jumping the gun on conclusions based solely on one website. I trusted that 'cause my professor said it was 'pretty good', but it evidently failed. Obs.: To leave on a productive note; I think the post is good, though I do think the purple used can conflict a bit with LotC's forums background, but it doesn't take away from the formatting, which is a good style of formatting.

Another descendant of a Temesch line, a certain Count of San Adriano, gulps nervously and debates scratching off the 'Novellen' part from his own papers.

this is actually really cool and interesting!