Slic3man

Yes, but it's a punishment, that's the point. There's a difference between a drawback and a punishment. The server is supposed to be enjoyable for all that go on it, and that doesn't allow the point where one player can exclude another entirely from an RP hub. Like I said, try to find a middle point like a jail system. Create RP that way and keep the villains you catch in check.

If we went through with this, it's more so a punishment for the people instead of the characters played. Create a jail system that's patrolled rather than try to kick them out of the city immediately. Create RP within the city by having a jailhouse of sorts, bolster your roleplay and do more than just be irked by some people coming into a city. Exiling people from a city is more so excluding people out from roleplay than just sorting the issue out, and punishes the player more than the character mentioned beforehand. I'm sure there's more than one way to solve an issue, especially since this is radically drastic.

It's supposed to be fairly easy to get a VA now, which is what the community wanted in the first place. From what I view there is a fair minority that would rather have the VAs be more difficult to get, as I would enjoy. People then usually get up in arms about how it restricts their RP however, so we're basically backtracking through each and every reason we do these actions in the first place. Allowing others to perma-kill characters would get out of hand very fast, and really punishes the player more than the IC character. This shouldn't be a thing, and another player probably wouldn't be able to without the villain's permission. You're better off creating jails that are often times patrolled rather than turn to execution immediately. There'd be a large backlash from a majority of the community who says that the villain applications restrict their RP to some sort of extent. Putting a cap on the villains of the server more of makes becoming a villain through RP purposes a 'first come first serve' kind of deal and I don't think that'd make the server interesting for any new players seeking to become an enjoyable villain. This is possible to an extent, but you can't really go around proclaiming who does and who doesn't need a VA without someone trying to call out bias on a situation that doesn't hold any at all. It'd become fairly explicit on who does and doesn't become revoked, which can be pretty down on those who are revoked and would be seen as unfair.

(tythus broke the server.)

A Gravelord saw the flare from a distance, spying upon it before speaking to itself in its usual rickety tone. It would remain in its seat, before speaking out. "I wonder what had triggered this, perhaps they require more power for the approaching storm? Is this not a sign for that they fear, and seek more power to oust their foes?"

Slowly but surely a black steed would trot behind the group, looking toward the robed being while also doused in cloth of his own. It would halter, before the being atop is would raise a hand and speak. A voice of jagged origin would echo across the group, ensuring it be heard by both the onlookers and the one before them. "Your messenger stands here before you, as a caster of word among the populace. You stand here today, possessing power all the same to which I've mentioned. Chills send down the spines of those you encounter, but what of those who look toward you? Winged lizards have been slain, your Harbingers have retreated. From word they have even faltered beneath magics of mortality. The Order before you is nothing, they have befallen the corruption. Weak minds, as well as bodies it would seem. Your touch, whatever it may be, is not all that grants immortality." A gauntlet-clad hand would find itself pulling back upon the hood adorning his helm. Then the helm would slowly slip off to reveal naught of humanity. A void to which nothing is seen but a void of anything. It keeps his hands raised and horse prepared for any who may interrupt as its voice continues to usher toward the robed one. "You incite fear, call upon past entities that have failed to end what this Scourge is. In truth, these past entities were unfated, not the ones to end your apparent reign over the cold. The Ascended, long before your reign were just the same when facing Iblees himself. They are nothing, yet it would appear they are much more than you may ever be. Undead once before basked in power from their master, yet the Harbingers would be stricken down by a single of their might. The only eyes opened in the times of dismay were ones of bleak weakness, they could not handle the task at hand. Fear will not forever grasp the races, and when they no longer do the weight shall bear down the strength of fated upon your 'cult'. Your most powerful weapon is fear, and fear, is not a metal that you should expect to fight your battles forever." It'd remain, staring down at the populace as well as the robed one who had rendered the paper useless. Its hood would find itself back over its head as well as its helm.

Posters are found among many of the towns and cities, nailed firmly to the wall. It would appear they cannot be torn off, as the paper cannot be torn. They cannot be burned, inflammable. As such they would remain pinned with pre-cut holes for the nails, and their owner would be unknown. *The writing is in a fine calligraphy, but is easy to comprehend for even those with a basic knowledge of common. It would seem educated all the same, and continue on as such:* How can you trust such a being that had once taken your very own flesh to corrupt, and make their soldiers? Surely such a power would not have failures, but he had failed at such high grades as to wipe out nigh all the loved ones taken into his military. He is of no mercy, hardly of power even. Perhaps he possesses more power than the average mage and has gained secrets locked away, but he is surely of no capability higher than many. Setherien has sent behemoths of power to interrupt your mortal livings, and they still falter underneath the boot of the races. Do tell, how does such an impressive power remain uneducated in history, perhaps of his more higher peers? Iblees and Aeriel were both much more powerful than this one, and were far more capable of both defending and taking their domains. Even now, we know not what is fully done to Iblees, or Aeriel. Some have proposed that they still exist. Yet this one is just a meager power, starved for more. He is but a noble begging his highers for land. Has he not showed heavy failure over the many times, and showed his anger and disdain toward them? We look upon the North, an isolated area of land inhabited by something they propose as a deity regardless of his weakening strength. Many before Setherien have shown much more power than he himself. The Undead held more power than these meager Harbingers, and were able to complete their goal. Show not respect, but the opposite for such a pompous organism that threatens your livelihoods and at the same time cannot carry out his threats. He is no better than a cocky warrior, adorned with his father's long past artifacts. If their Harbingers, who have been defeated by mere mortals beforehand, are a fraction of his power; then what does that say of him? Can you not band together and destroy him, as meager mortals and nations can spoil their plans with blades? You are presented with a threat, one which you can overcome. This is a facade awaiting its master to let it give way, and show that they cannot hold themselves up. Their scaffolding is your fear, and their structure is their weak, malformed power. His strategic ideals stretch to simply sending mass amounts of servants to kill what they can, and throw crimson crystals among land to corrupt it. These crystals are torn asunder by mere mortals as well, clerics, druids, and other cleansing powers. Setherien is but a dragon it would seem, something slaughtered many times over the ages. Servants of the Northern cowards are those who walk about, wielding the power of cold. These are even easily slaughtered and are nothing compared to the powers of those before them. Do not feed the beast, let the beast feed on his own carcass until there is nothing left. I wish you luck in your endeavors, to whichever race you preside and wherever your allegiance lies. *At the bottom lies some sort of imagine drawn by an artist, upon each poster it lies. It would depict a dead being of such, perhaps a dragon.*

A black and tainted gauntlet gently sets against her shoulder, mist enveloping the near area. A harmony of hushed, somewhat soothing voices overcame her. They spoke as softly as possible, still rough and jagged, "I told you, young one. What can life give to you? Torture, pain, dilution. Let us teach you what the other side of life can grant you, mortal." The only visible thing left behind were footprints, a pair of both.

Sariants stood idly within the courtyard of Kreuzberg, seeming to be surrounding another. They had just rose out from the depths of their mighty fortress, a sermon passing. Beliae doe Tvoraue was heard among them, praising before their Hochmeister and Ordenmarschall. Soon enough they would look forth and begin to eye the weapons laden upon the table set up. Testing of the standardized weaponry was to happen today, though a more ominous shadow approached Just over the horizon a gluttonous roar could be heard, a beast cloaked in the same hue of the night soaring forth. Before long the Sariant could hear the winged behemoth slam into the side of Kreuzberg, seeking to regain its bearings. Sariants ran about the courtyard, some reloading crossbows while others latched to siege ballistas upon the wall. Nonetheless, the aberration had faltered its own fatigue and flames began to put down the snow aligning the walls. Its breath spread over the hardened stone, some Sariant catching flame. Bolts and javelins stuck into the Dragon's gut, its roars heard in nearby lands. Its wings were torn, sending it crashing down to the bridge. The passing cracked under pressure, but the Sariants pressed forth, slashing and hacking like ants to a hand. A tail swung side to side, slapping the armored foes away as it struggled for life. Turning over, the horned monstrosity lurched itself over the side of the bridge, dragging a few with him. They crashed along the snow with a smooth crash, spikes at the wall's edges stabbing into the dragon, while others continued to stab inwards. Blood stained the snow, and the Sariants alike. Scales lay unfurled along the many areas they fought within, glistening with the snow. Its body went like it came, seeming to dissipate into blackened smog. The tainted cloud would seem to fly into the air, and twist. Form untamed, it began to shoot off toward the North, no longer in their collected area. The only thing that now lay in the snow are a few bones, broken, and unbroken. Its blood left in the snow, as well as its skull. For now a crane held up its skull, hung as both a trophy and remembrance. Sariants soon turned back to their fortress, flames being doused and ale being downed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Hochmeister looks upon one of the applicant letters sent to him, before tearing it open. Soon enough a reply would begin to be wrought back to the applicant. After the writing had been done, it was stamped with the seal of the Teutonic Order and sent off to its proper person. The applicant would soon see the letter drop to their feet, and a dark blot in the sky flying back to Kreuzberg.

Gravelord Vinzakra would hold in his hand one of the books, flipping through its small amount of pages. Its gaze would stick to each word, before brushing off across the page to the next words. A hoarse chatter would echo around his pristine, albeit jagged dwelling before he'd think to himself. "Ah, but why let the mortals know of their kin? After all, they do take great pleasure in spilling their own blood. War and suicide are two separate entities, yet the past realms have preferred the latter. Wise as this old one is, his message will be caught by one of the arrows soaring through air, before planting itself into any four of the race's hearts. Truly, that may be the best."

Vinzakra, the Lord of Punishment feels a entity rising, though one of opposition. Black mists expelled from his robes, monstrosities of custom make pulsating around him. Before long, they would lurch forth and begin to drag the chariot he stood upon. The wretched messenger shot out, the corrupted mares faster than many would consider "normal." He was to find these new beings, and tear what was left of them. ((Look forward to this mega-conflict, fightin' time.))

The Hochmeister remembers looking over the horizon as the two monstrosities flew over their armies. Flying beasts with razor-blade wings and double-sided blades in each hand, he dubbed them hackers for their irrefutable slashing. He knew the Orenians would seek help from the Northern monsters. Flesh was torn asunder by the immeasurable deaths on each side, though Rebel blood was spilled by these horrors. The Teutonic catapults jammed out of spite from the Skygods, simply refusing to work as all measures were accounted for. Some would say the Orenians made a deal with a vengeful daemon. Hochmeister Kudo Kamura did not know what to make of this absurd notion, only that the corrupted Oren stood with blackened hearts that daunted even the obsidian dotting scarred land. He knew not what to do of this, but he was sure to seek sky-god assistance next time, though he swore he had beforehand. Perhaps they would keep the hackers away for another dawn; allow Orenians to do so much as not seek the assistance of evil beings. Nothing could be done of the battle on Shadowcastle, but he knew for sure that the next battle might go along without the Orenian necessity of black magic.

The Hochmeister has not committed the act of child gluttony, and will not commit the act of child gluttony.

Server's up for a majority of people, if it's not working for you try separate addresses. It's confirmed to be up by many people, there's not a single chance it's specifically down for the entirety of people who can assist in repairing defenses for a single castle. Last time we were in Shadowcastle (yesterday; many witnesses could confirm; Kralek, TheCleaningCrew, Firespirit, and other people that were there), there were hardly any interior defenses besides the large amount of holes CarrionEngineeringCorp™ and nothing else. If there was something else there that we somehow missed during the entire search of the castle, I hope there's screenshots of it as proof. Otherwise the usual rule follows that you're not allowed to get things back or have claim to them unless you have proof. From what I hear the battle's been postponed several times before, ain't another need to do so again. Instead of worrying about all this preparation, we should just go forth with it, it's a game.

Sariants prepared themselves for the days to come, with machines of war wrought in a waking of what may be called a rebellion. Each day called for another meeting, and an eventual side to be taken. At one point two wolves held each other with gnashing jaws. One of nigh archaic origin, and another of new and sprawling corruption. Choices offered their hardened hands out, to which the Hochmeister took one. Shouts were heard back and forth from within Kreuzberg, where it seemed the cold never dulled any second spent there. Swords were being hammered against anvils of steel, where as some began notching their bows. Sariants marched one by one to line the courtyard with stern stances. Before long, each stood on their own, one hand on the pommel of their blade with the other at their side. Seconds turned to spare minutes before the Hochmeister stepped out from within the depths of the fortress, and began to speak. "Today we gather for another seeking to test their merit in the game of not intrigue, but battle. We band together, for the need of many but what few desire. The world is but a man himself, plagued with its own wretched illnesses. Now we watch as it puts its hands forth in pleading fashion, tears coursing from its lakes and rivers. One hand lays blackened, decrepit and devoid of life. The other seethes light, eager for the grip of a blade. To this day, we as the Teutonic Order shall give this hand its blade, and it will amputate the plague that seeks to tarnish the world's blessed body. Leave no mongrel alive, not for your own good, but for the Creator and his land's right to remain unscathed! Let the Tarus begone the days of Carrion deceit and toss them into the pits of the Nether where they belong!" Each Sariant then raised their blade repeating the remembered words at the top of their lungs. They had no need for such breath anymore, now was the time of action. "Meinae veri beliae doe Orden, Meinae veri beliae doe King, Meinae veri beliae doe usielligen!" The voice of each Sariant rang out as one deep symphony of unhinged lust for purification. Long had the chosen of the Creator awaited their chance to redeem what their enemy had done to the Creator's land. Now their blades were held tight, and each thirsted for the blood of corruption. For too long had the vultures swept in and stole what was not theirs. For too long had the birds prospered from the remains of others, now was the time to thrash these birds into submission, send them back to their graves. What decaying flesh, Carrion, remained in the mighty beast of Oren was to be swept away with one quick slash of a blade; the rebellion its surgeon. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Hochmiester was adopted into a family a very long time ago.

The Hochmeister eyes the most recent batch of letters, coming across one deemed an application. Soon enough it is unsealed, and in return a reply is wrought. The reply is sent off via an aviary bird, to which it would drop back to the applicant's feet. Altogether it would turn, gliding back toward Kreuzberg with a flap of its feathers and a narrow squawk emitting from its narrow throat.

Pretty accurate. Though this was in the Jonathan Black times, since then we have adapted our ways to a more fitting attire.