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About Swgrclan

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    No need for you to go just yet.

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  1. To affirm anything of the discussion on Liches, I can point out with certainty that they do not access the Seven Skies if they were humans. Their soul is rejected when it traverses the Soul Stream to its center, and left as an outcast to roam the barren wastes of Ebriaetas.
  2. Primoris doesn't effect any dainty theological congregations based on low-fantasy twists of concurrent real life faiths, don't get zany. It explains the cosmic design of things and lays everything pre-four brothers out on a neat fashion. The point of the lore isn't to inform the character, it's to inform the player, and for stuff like other more grounded world lore to form along with stuff like relevant eventlines.
  3. **** off
  4. Awesome! I'll use this in-depth and cohesive guide to finally start writing my Void Dragon Descendant lore.
  5. If you want to reach 500, then shitpost a lot. You guys seem to be on the right track in this thread
  6. No it won't. It was bad, you dingus.
  7. You cannot be anymore wrong for this particular instance. There must be a means for moderation for a group like the Wraiths - just like there was before, with the previous variant. I would know, I controlled both of these groups at separate points in time.
  8. Necromancy has no involvement with the Void and all, and as Celestials are forms of Voidal Horrors, they would have no Lifeforce- because that's the general scope of Necromancy. If something doesn't have Lifeforce, its unable to be tainted, malformed or ressurected by Necromancy, so being able to corrupt Celestials with it seems unlikely.
  9. [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BtoCvvzaLw ] Put on “loop”. “Væker av Yore”. That was the book the boy had dragged out from the depths of some decrepid ruin, lying far out within the gray, conflict-torn expanse of Ulmsbottom’s outskirts. It was quite a find… as he flicked through the pages, the most bizarre things were detailed within the tome. Riddled in Old Common, it spoke of battles, it spoke of the atrocities of war, long-forgotten and once waged upon the earth he stood upon. The powers of old, wizened wizards of the so-called “Væker” were described in sparse detail; bidding to the young man’s mind wonders of what inspired such texts. He was always curious of his people’s history. Was this apart of it? The child had to know. Stowing off upon his pack mule back toward the keep of his kindred, the good Ashfords as they were known upon the isle, he returned home at the fall of dusk, when Men said their nightcoming prayers to God, believing their prayers will incite the Sun’s rising the coming morning. The boy’s father, whom was uncertain of his son’s tendency to wander the wastes of their winter-laden homeland, spared little mind to the book which he carried toward his quarters; a passing excuse of digging an old fairytale collection up from the castle library was exchanged with an affirmative, albeit distracted grunt. The man did not once peel his eyes from the fireplace he lounged before as his heir passed him by. The night was filled with the flicking of countless, yellowed pages made stiff and fragile from the caress of time. Væker av Yore told the naive little creature many things in this peaceful night, parchment and olden-writ word given clarity under lasting, stoic candlelight. The more he read, the more his fascination turned grim, guided into uncertainty by the information which the old, timeless book wove into his developing mind. Tales of godless, cold beings visiting, bringing salvation to his pagan forefathers… tales of rage, and bloodshed, of brothers murdering brothers, of fathers abandoning sons, of two kings scorning as though the sun and moon clashed together in vicious, theological rivalry. The book shut sharply. The child was done for that night; he would not bear the thought of further demented tales of the suffering of his people anylonger, for they plucked that threads of his heart that told him such recollections were… wrong. Retiring to his bed, his eyes closed, and the lingering desire to satiate curiosity culminate within, and were expressed through nightlong dreams which harrowed his mind. The following week was consumed by the gnawing desire to read more. The more he read, the more his Sun-hailing forefathers seemed villainous; those whom called themselves Væker in the stories were held up as saviors cast into the dark and brutalized for the truth their “Four Prophets” had brought. It was when the boy shuffled about the castle in languidity, ignored his daily tasks and stared narrow-eyed with dark circles surrounding his tired gazers that his father, soon, took notice. What ailed his boy? What had afflicted his bright-minded heir, whom he cherished dearly? The candlelight outlined his doorway amid the dark that occupied the Ashfordian castle upon the coming of night. The final pages were meticulously scanned by the child; absorbed with almost tethering obsession as an ill will fermented within and gnawed at the boy’s impressionable mind. Was this a record of lost truths, or fairytales? Who was the sinner? They say the victor writes history; was what he knew a deception, a farce? Was his people descended from a line of monsters who were blinded by the light of the Sun-- The door creaked open and a broad figure paced into his dormatory. “Raide, you insolent boy,” The man scolded, causing the youngster to jump and place and move to shut the book closed, only for his father to place his hand and prevent the page from being forgotten. “What is this occupation that diseases you mind and steals your attention,” His father questioned as he hefted the tome and held it close so the candlelight illuminated the pages. Soon, his brows knit and his expression scrunched up, noticeable even in the shadowed gloom beyond the chamber’s only source of flame. “You impressionable fool, Raide!” His father bellowed after flicking through the pages and scanning them with almost panicked haste. “You dig these things from the depths of cursed places, and you bring these omens to our home, wrapping your mind in falsehoods!” This paternal fury caused the young boy to flinch down into his seat, but some sick twinkling of defiance had already gathered within -- he would not stand for his father’s snidery. “Why would someone write this if it wasn’t true?!” His voice rang out emotionally, tinged with fear at his father’s building wroth. The book was slammed down upon the table, causing the thoroughly-melted candle to shudder before the weak flame suddenly died out. It was only once young Raide had tears brimming his eyes in the dark that his good father did calm himself. A heavy hand came to rest on the child’s shoulder. “You must know… to expunge these doubts of your people from your mind. These texts hailed from an old threat whom sought to oust our ancestor’s way of life; and had they won whatever godless war they waged, we would not be here now.” Though tears ran down his pale cheeks, Raide knew truth lined the gentle words of his grayed parent. Yet he could not find it within himself to respond; despite this, his father did not falter on the wise worth he fed his beloved descendant. “Do not confide in the doubt within, my son. Had our heretic forefathers doubted themselves, they would have rolled over and submitted to whatever evil they fought against. Know that… the culmination of doubts within Men, only lead to the ruin of themselves.” … The wooden door closed behind the haggard form of Ser Raide after he had been ushered into the dark-laden chamber. He could not gather his thoughts; something gnawed upon the back of his mind, spoke gentle things that plucked at the threads of his core, eroded the confident spirit within him. Were these doubts? Every day, he made certain to peer upon the reflection of his graying, grizzled face in the water that often lined the trails he followed. Every day he stared down upon the image which matched his father’s face so closely, and remembered those words that he shared with him. Has it happened? Had he let the doubts consume him and latch to his soul like a parasite? Raide collapsed onto his knees and hunched, looming close over the only source of warmth and light which lingered the designs of that silent bedroom he was given for rest. He asked for a candle… the flame was gentle, the light was soft. Anything matching the brilliance of the Sun’s rays hurt his eyes and provoked the voices within, rattling him to his core; what made him the man he was felt as though it was killing him. He could not find it within himself to summon the will to push these figments of doubt away, and all his worthless efforts did was remind him of his failures. Failure as a Cleric, abandoning that cold light of Aenguls; failure as a knight, allowing his Savoy kindred to be displaced from the kingdom-turned-empire, which now lingers as a frozen crater wrought by defiance to rebels. Failure as an oathkeeper… to the only person he’s ever valued in his life. Reaching up, he took hold of his head, gloved fingers lacing firmly with his graying, black hair. Tears brimmed his tightly closed eyes as the unceasing thoughts within recalled a similar instance with his dear father, upon Ulmsbottom, where all worries were naught… and he hated himself for it. Woe to him; nothing was left now, besides his incessant clinging to a woman he had oathed his life to. He could not find it within himself to let go to this last hope, but she would not have him. Not now. “Forgive me, my Lady… I swore an oath, but I have failed you. Lady… Charis…”
  10. Confirmed.
  11. This seems derivative of the Dark Ancestrals that dwell the Ancestral Realms. Does this lore have any bearing to the Inferis, whom were poised to be "the" antagonists of the Ancestrals over all?
  12. Confirmed.
  13. The will of the Creator is imperceptible. I'd say Aengudaemons are as lacking in that field as mortals are.
  14. "This makes sense," says Brother Shadow.
  15. Don't you worry. When you come back, we'll dust off your greenskin's corpse and make him into a Lich. It'll be great.