Esterlen

Hadrien claps his hands once before rubbing them together vigorously. "That was awfully morbid, wasn't it? Perhaps it would be wise to give her a burial..." Various thoughts rushed through his mind, and then he was reminded as to why Mathus detested his daughter so. Most of the men weren't privy to the reasons for this hatred, but Sarkozy was. He pursed his lips in disapproval at the body. "I must admit it is a shame that such a young life's candlelit flame needed to be extinguished. I tried my best to turn her from her wayward path, to no avail."

Sarkozy kneels just outside Rhoswen's portcullis examining some kind of elephant-grey object in his hands, the torchlight from the walls reflecting on his spectacles. His mouth is a thin line of disapproval at this item, which upon closer inspection is revealed to be nothing but a jagged rock. He mutters silently to himself, scanning the object with his hidden eyes. An audible shout resonates throughout the keep. "MATHUS, YOU ***** PLOUGHER, YOUR FILTHY DAUGHTER IS HERE, TAKE CARE OF HER." Losing his focus, Hadrien drops the rock onto the ground. He stands up, the vein in his neck bulging. His spectacles are crooked and he twitches slightly. Shrugging beneath his heavy cloak, he pulls his dirk out of its sheath and approaches the palisades, climbing up the stairs to the ramparts. Sarkozy silently approaches from behind Adeon as he was wont to do, taking his place at the side of the half-elf. Not an imposing sight at all, the man stood considerably shorter than the fire mage. He idly rubbed a gloved thumb along the bare steel of his dirk. Turning to Ocerea, he finally spoke. "How ironic, our paths cross again. You know I would have helped you. I could have saved you, but instead I gave you a choice and you chose wrong. You're a strumpet and a fool...absolutely disgusting."

This couldn't be more true, Mogroka. Eventually it gets to the point where disagreeing with or criticizing a staff member is 'disrespect'. I treat the staff as I treat every other player.

Thank god for this!

This 'admins are always right' attitude is somewhat redundant. One isn't simply disliked by a large portion of the server without basis. Deserved or not is another argument entirely. There is clearly some reason various members of the server find Dusk unfit to be an admin - the fact there's outrage in the first place shows there's an issue - so instead of claiming that said various members are incorrect and slanderous (And then leaving it at that with no acknowledgement), how about we actually address the problem?

Can we not stick to the old adage of 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it'? Is the server not fine as it is? Lirinya mentions people RPing as children making their own food and tools -honestly, this isn't as much of a problem as you might think. I know if this were my scenario I would do so out-of-character and claim that a responsible adult provided IC, as there's often very few people online during my play sessions. I like this idea more so. No vanilla restrictions, please.

Not to mention the 10~ during Australian times.

Honestly? We know what happened last time so many restrictions were introduced. I say no to a lot of these things. I want to RP, not be killed sporadically on account of a ridiculously heavy-handed plugin. This is far too restrictive, as are the sub-professions. Oh, god no. This is what got me with the last skill plugin. I actually left the server for a while because I was unable to RP with anybody due to being killed every ten minutes.

It had been years since Velarin Basileus had contact with the rest of his family. Ever since Lorethos and Mayethill died he had simply lost the motivation to continue. He had lived alone in a hovel near Westfall for almost a decade now. A fate I never expected myself to succumb to. Velarin the Hermit. How Lorethos would be proud. His incursions into the duchy of Westfall had been sparse as of late, and this was probably for the better. To the locals he was likely nothing but the peculiar swarthy man with the dark hair and heavy eyes. But he needed sustenance, as do all mortal men, and so he travelled into the town to get some bread, cheese and perhaps a wine. Walking through the town caught him odd glances from the peasantry, but Velarin valued the attention well enough. Under his patched brown cloak he still wore the tarnished red and gold fineries of a better age - a prosperous age in which Lorethos was alive and all was good in the world. He was vaguely reminded of the grey travelling cloak that his brother Allister used to wear over his platemail armor so as to appear more common. He reached into the pocket of his pants to get a few copper coins to pay for his commodities and found nothing. Cursing, he turned to his left. There it was. His green eyes scanned the flier and he seethed with rage. No, no, no. This is not to be. Indorill is nothing but a bastard. I was the heir. I was the heir. Indorill is a bastard. A bastard, nothing more. Lorethos left it all to me. To me. That lowborn scum is marrying a dark elf. A dark elf, nothing but a ***** like the rest of them and he is taking her to wife. He is not the count. I am the count. I am the rightful count, he is a bastard. He should know his place. His rage quickly turned to despair. This is his legacy? This is the legacy of the great Lorethos Basileus, Count of Lumonte, General of the Twilight Legion? No, no, it shan't be.

((Join the White Rose, we fight dragons and are castrated by ocelots.))