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"Dominion is Devotion, and Might is Right. Mortal-kind learns this the hard way. I should prepare a gift for this Emperor of Man... he is sure revealing a lot of the weeds that must be cut free from the ground..." mused the zar'akal, Vihimsa, from within the bowels of that inverse church.

"Might is Right." Uttered the Vizier of Hell, simple and direct. "I wish whoever wrote this realised how little of a part they actually play. Oh well. It seems like some unafilliated third-party blaming the Elves for not being stronger? I don't know. I can't make sense of this - and I'm literally insane enough to understand when someone is being schizophrenic..."

"They included a three year old and a seven year old on the list, and I'm the demon?" Ryad threw his hands up in the air.

Sat not that far away from her, a scion of a House from which great women had emerged, Nafis Lorethos Basrid peered over to hear along the governess' words. At Stasie's remark, he smiled - proud - and nodded. "Yes, you will."

+1 Dedicancy, while a tool used to try and get people used to Druidic roleplay and/or teacher-student bonding/getting to know each other, has over the time become a redundant and frankly stupidly useless, almost gatekeep-ey device that actively draws people away from Druidism. Making it lore-enforced is stupid because it has nothing to do with the mechanics of the magic itself, and should be done at teacher-discretion IRPly. Not all druids are the same - Dedicancy should be optional to reflect the vast array of teaching methods in druidism.

@Pallodium everywhere I go, I see his face...

"I have slain many mortals since mine crowning, Esfir of Sunholdt. . . You rank amongst the greatest of those feeble creatures. Die with a smile." An oddly respectful tone slithered out of the maw of the zar'akal, who endeavoured to finish what it had begun. It ensured the woman had a proper passing, laid to face the sun, as its only act of mercy upon her. It stood, slowly, lumbering and uneven body looming over the deceased. "And so the Indomitable Wheel turns, and the One Truth persists. The remnants will be excoriated. . ."

@Fluffy HorrorSo I'm lowkey one of the people that advocates the most about not using certain parallels between fantasy and real-life - even if done respectfully or tastefully - because I believe there are lines and limitations that shouldn't be crossed. I called them out at the beginning when they used the 1942 version of the Iron Cross, to which they promptly changed it, and I was apologised to. With that being said, you're just making yourself look bad, respectfully. @Rigand @Werew0lfhave both tirelessly tried to explain to you that it was two people completely unrelated to the Empire - which I can confirm, by the way, as a non-Imperial. I was at the Coronation, I saw what you saw - you're genuinely getting annoyed over nothing. Dog whistles are very much a thing, and exist, but you can't point the finger at the entire Empire for not giving a **** about what 2 randoms did when there were 10x more important shit happening at the event and the server. Furthermore, I would normally wholeheartedly agree and commend an attempt to call out genocides and speak against them, but, as someone who played back when the High Elves purified people in acid pools, I can guarantee you, LotC has thoroughly evolved when it comes to OOCly regulating how far certain things can or can't go. This Empire is monumentally tamer than Empires of past, as many in this abominable thread have outlined. Sorry, Fluffy, but this ain't it. Pack it up.

"Haven't seen this much made up stuff on a signature since I played make-belief Kingdoms back in Ba'as..." Nafis, titulary Prince of Ba'as, murmured as he read along the missive. He shrugged, and went back to studying.

hi guys the empire is cool, it provides my big bad evil guy with something to work with and my big good kind guy with something to be bothered about thats all goodbye guys

+1 another banger from john formatslop

“ANGER CLOUDS REASONING, THAT CLOUDING BUTCHERS MEMORY. WHEN MEMORY IS BUTCHERED, INTELLIGENCE WITHERS, AND WHEN INTELLIGENCE WITHERS, THE SELF DISAPPEARS.” It had been a painstakingly long time coming. Each time - each attempt, each moment he reached the cusp of greatness, something happened. Something out of his control tore it asunder from him, ripping from his grasp the delight of immortality, of ascension. He could feel the cogs of his mind grind, the oil of memory fading from his brain, replaced only by hate, by madness, by the desire for power. It had made him violent - for of course, Anger begets Violence. To him - nothing else mattered. Dominion is devotion, and Might is right - two universal truths he had lived the better part of his life abiding by. He bid his time. He bent his knee where the knee had to be bent. He swung his fists where his fists had to be swung. He ravaged. He killed. He ate. He consumed. And yet, that hunger remained unquenched. He starved. He yearned for more. And he was done waiting. Sat within the depths of that village, in a nook of the world, he awaited. By his side, his daughter. Ever faithful in his pursuit for this apex of power. Affront him, the Jade Devil, whose help would turn paramount. Talons rapped apart reality to reveal the demonic cadre that stepped through it, and from it, emerged a pair of Kings; the Tyrant of Hell, and Anger-made-Manifest. Words exchanged; of twisted mirth and realisation of goals. The burned Bishop was no more - and surely her flock was to follow. Through the chatter of Demons, the words of Anger broke through the barrier of madness; A crusade was to happen, and Violence was to ravage in its wake. A pledge was made, to Tyrant and Anger, witnessed by Daughter and Jade. Deeper within those wicked bowels of the earth, the gore-pits revealed themselves, glistening with the sheen of blood and rakir, festering with the incessant smell of oxidation. It bubbled, awaiting what next was to be submerged within it, to be created anew. Xandraza and Velketzar watched, as the Champion of the Goat imbued animus upon the Voice of the Bat. Guided by the Incantations of Anger, assisted by the energy of the Jade, Violence was held aloft; a broken and battered vessel of something far greater, molded anew by maleus and hatred. Ryad’s body, turned and twisted, vicious sounds emanating from that hellish process. Cackles of a broken madman erupted within that cave, echoing off the walls. A hundred lives lived in one, as shown by the Eye. He had flown alongside the Broodmother of Dragons. He had heralded the return of Iblees. He had shepherded the misguided. So many lives… so many beautiful fallacies before his eyes, seducing him so thoroughly. As rakir replaced blood, and maleus took hold of his soul wholly, his dedication to corrupted draconic overlords was cemented with this act of defilement of the mortal, sacrosanct elevation and crowning of a new King. It took moments. Anger let that broken vessel plummet to the depths of those insidious gore pits. The sounds that came from the depths were horrific; bones grinded against each other, elongating and twisting. Flesh ripped itself and remade, gnawing at his insides with horrid sonority. A soul was torn asunder, utterly corrupted, twisted, forever changed. Mortality held his shackles no more; the Hells claimed him so, and elevated him to General. Blackened talons gripped at the borders of that flesh pit, and from where broken vessel plummeted to the depths, Violence emerged anew. Coated in a slick sheen of hatred, draped in a crown of revolt, armed with talons of dread, the crowned King gazed to those present. Anger, Tyrant - Kin. It’s maw - curved into some wicked smile of twisted mirth - opened, and with the potency of thousand-unto-one, it spoke; “ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴀᴋ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴍᴇᴀᴛ. ʟᴇᴛ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʀɪɢʜᴛ. ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱᴀᴅᴇ ʀɪᴅ ᴜꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀʀᴀꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ. Ʀᴏᴢᴀ-ᴠʜᴏʀᴀᴢʜᴜ.”

Paul Asad, son of one of the esteemed personally invited guests, grinned - preparing his wardrobe. "Reinholds have a reputation for being pretty!"

It twisted, coiled, and gnawed at the Archprince’s mind, as the news echoed within his mind. For the first time in decades, ever since he was graced with fire and brand by Kroza’kiiz, Ryad heard nothing, but a constant ringing, a constant reminder of shame. A constant, gnawing sensation that he could’ve done something. His son. His little boy. The adorable blind child, who upon hearing his voice, would light up with happiness and excitement. “ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɪꜱ ʀɪɢʜᴛ” He repeated, over and over, like some sort of mantra. Like it was meant to soothe that horrid sensation, like it was meant to bring him back, like it would take away the insurmountable weight from his shoulders, that looming shadow that refused to leave his side. He sat on the edge of his chair, balled fists resting against the table. How dare he feel hate? How dare he feel anger? Guilt? Rage? He wasn’t there. Not for his childhood, not for his teenage years, much less for his adulthood. Recklessly, he had branded him, putting a target on his back. “ᴍɪɢʜᴛ ɪꜱ ʀɪɢ-” And before he could finish the sentence, his fists raised and slammed down on the table. Ryad would not stop thrashing the room until all of his hatred had been spent, such void replaced by something unique; regret. “My son is dead.” Each word was individually choked out, hands brought to his scalp, gripping onto the roots of his hair, fighting back the urge to pull them off, rip into himself and end this misery. Within the thrashed room, the Archprince of Dread felt, again, like the scared man he was, holding the small, yell0w-skinned and blind horned baby, bawling in his arms. Shahan, he had baptised him. It meant king. Ruler. He wanted his son, his first son, to be destined to greatness, to go above and beyond. Ryad had built a kingdom from the bridges he burned, yet Shahan had been one of two bridges he’d managed to reconstruct, without adding to the pile. Never before had he felt this pain. Never before had he felt this emptiness. Thunk, and he fell on his knees, hands coming free of his hair to grip the floor. Sharp-nailed hands did not stop scraping at the ivory wooden floor until his fingers were bloodied, and his chest was heaving with the exertion. “My son is dead.” He repeated it again, like some clarity had come to his mind. Slowly did a broken man come to his feet, hands - oozing still with that crimson - resting on his knees, before he stood up proper. He ran his fingers along his hair, straightening it out behind his head once more, his back arching backwards to allow him to stare to the ceiling. He thought he had already fallen into a precipice, only to find out this had been the final push. “My son is dead.” he repeated once more.

The Prophet of Dread got wind of such news through a string of tell-tale stories and rumors, of the one who supposedly hunted down his children, passing away. He didn't know how the man had died - nor did he seem to care. Ryad put down that Daemonsteel flamberge, Ixen, and sat back down upon the Mortal Throne of Dread. In the bowels of the Black Church, for the first time in a good while, relief washed over the Archprince. "Something of value was indeed lost. . . and yet. . ."

Aside the stuff i said in discord about Naz'kuthun, this is generally just really good QoL changes. +1 !!!

"That's a lot of made-up titles. . ." Nafis murmured to himself, as he read Peter's signature.

Insult called for response, and response called for action - but he thought it unfitting to dignify them with the attention they sought. His attachment to Lichtenwald, to the people there, had long dissipated. Those people were weak - save a few exceptions. An attempt to live in the cover of trees and quiet of a jungle, yet still producing more and more of his ilk. Ryad carefully folded the missive - procured by one of his imps - and placed it upon his desk. In time, perhaps, he’d pen something in return to the Boy-King of Norland. His grievances with the Norns were many, but he was a patient man - he knew any mortal’s time would come. His was coming, too, yet his was much sweeter, much more ecstatic. He sat back down, staring at the fire that kept the antechamber warm, that blindfold of his slowly removed from the eyeless sockets. “The Wheel turns.” He spoke aloud, head hanging off the edge of the chair’s headrest, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation.

"Place was ugly anyway..." Mused the now much less stressed Nafis of Ba'as.

The Basrid boy prepared his bags. Whether she wanted or not - thankfully she did - the young Prince of Ba'as would be right there with her. "I made a promise."

the amount of issues that will inevitably arise with this are insurmountable, at least on the Naz side of things.

ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴡᴇʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀᴄʜᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇx'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴄʟᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ᴀᴍᴜꜱᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴏᴏᴅ, ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ; ᴏʙꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀ ʜᴏʀᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴢᴇᴠɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴢᴇᴋᴜʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴄᴏʜᴏʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴢᴇᴢɪᴍᴀʀ. ᴀ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ - ʜɪᴅᴇᴏᴜꜱ ᴀᴍᴀʟɢᴀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙᴀᴛ-ʀʜɪɴᴏ, ꜰʟᴀɴᴋᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ - ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀᴅᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀʟʟ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ. ʜᴇ ɢᴀᴢᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴀᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴɪᴄ ᴍᴀꜱꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘʀɪᴇꜱᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴄɪᴛɪᴢᴇɴʀʏ, ʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɴᴛʀᴀꜱ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴇ ʜᴏʀᴅᴇ - ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇɢɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪʙʟᴇᴇꜱ - ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴜᴅɢᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ᴍᴀɪʟɪɴɢ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇꜱꜱ. ᴜɴʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋᴇʀ ᴅᴇɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴᴀɪʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ʀᴇᴘʟʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴠᴇꜱ ꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ...