Watyll
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Posts posted by Watyll
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if nik gets gm i might come back from hiatus
420
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The crystal containing the Nightmare Weaver sinks back to the earth, the being within returning to its slumber.
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New Word Suggestions:
Work = Shai
Job = Scherk
Like = Fhi'
Hate = Brek
Water = Vearmi
Until = Jur'
Conversation = Schea'uvani
Monster = Malysk
Stop = K'heisn
Control = Therthe
Vessel = Qsuzph
Strategy = Lephri'unetry
Plan = Nzel
Pass = Zhek'chra
((Thank you Net for the awesome words again!))
Your words have been added aside from water, conversation, monster, and stop. There are already words for those. Thank you for your contribution!
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Yeah, I don't claim to be anything more than an amateur. As for the 0 toughness one, it's meant to be enchanted on another creature, so it's their combined toughness. It probably doesn't make sense by the actual magical rules but w/e it's just me and my friend.
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I don't even care if I don't get attack/defense points [don't know if they matter, never played Magic: The Gathering] but that Marius quote though. +1
I've also got a Four Horsemen of Setherien Card in the black-red deck.
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if the nightmare weaver sleeps, will he have nightmates???/?/???!?!?!?!/?1!1??!?1/11/1
yes
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So I made a few decks of LotC Magic the Gathering cards because I'm a huge nerd and myself and another LotCer who also plays magic are hanging out over break and when I saw him over the summer I said I'd do this. Here's the green-white deck I made, minus the mana.
And some of the images were derp so here's the other four in the deck:
I've also made a black-red and red deck. I need some ideas for a blue/blue-black deck. Please, magic players, submit them here.
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Deep within the swamp of Ebermoor, a dark creature glides to a clearing within the fortress's walls. It is weary, so very weary. The ash that once steamed from its head now trickles slowly, wanly. The creature alights on the ground and notes the presence of several of its disciples around it. It gives a weak smile to them, before extending a finger into the air. Dark tendrils of mist swirl from this finger, twirling around the form of this being. They encompass it, crisscrossing its form. Finally, the Weaver is sealed away in a large, floating crystal. It is a crystal of a darkened nature, purplish black, with veins of ebony running through it. It floats off the ground peacefully, bobbing up and down. If one were to listen, screams and mad laughter can be heard emanating from this protrusion.
In his crystal at Ebermoor, dead Kknotos waits dreaming.
So yeah, I'm going on another extended hiatus. Hopefully I'll be back in a few months. I'm going to be making another post in a bit about Magic cards or whatever, and I might lurk on the forums, and of course I will be available on Skype. I'll also try and finish that wood elven story I started.
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Dude.... You just went full Tolkien!
Looks awesome, I'll hopefully never have any use for it myself, but still, pretty cool!
I appreciate it!
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MC Name: watyll
Time Zone: EST
Focused Nexus Skill(s): I don't particularly use Nexus, but blacksmith or lumberjack I suppose.
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RP Name: Kenneth Wright
Physical Descriptive: Larger build, tall, blond hair and blue eyes.
Minor Backstory: Kenneth was born in Aeldin and as a result speaks Aeldin Flexio as his first language. He was around 15 when his family came back over to the Fringe with the Chivays, and his father died fighting in the streets of Petrus during Vibius's Rebellion. Kenneth has a hatred of Raevir and served under the Storm King during the Battle of Crow's Death Hill, where he got his first taste of victory. With the return of Godfrey III, Kenneth sees it as his duty to serve, as his father always spoke of the Horen heir as an honorable man.
Anything else: Though my relationship with the human player base has not always been the best, I hope you'll give me a chance as this seems like a cool group.
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Neat :) You should expand your horizons and focus on the whole server for future comics.
It's difficult to do a webcomic of the rest of the server, because most of us don't really venture into the scary outside world out of our swamp. We don't want to misconstrue things we don't understand like the Oren Civil war or something.
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The Nightmare Weaver frowns, very insulted about not receiving an invitation.
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Put him on an ancient Greek block of stone with a carving of Medusa and some ancient Greek characters. It ties in well with the Pegasus myth.
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Between Netphreak and I we have come up with (Well mostly him)
Cry = Khae
Tear = Okel
Monster = Zelak
Iblees = Iblees (Since it's a name)
Am = Ma'
Hurt = Zarc
Harm = Zaiek
Injure = Rephex
Father = Doo'mah
Husband = Meaill
Wife = Shilah
They = Munim'
Aware = Dresheorich
Also, do articles attach to the beginning or end of the word? Thank you.
Your words have been added, aside from "am" which has no translation in Black Language and is represented using the is/are "sna" and "They" which is simply replaced with "Them" or "y".
I request to forge be changed from its current to
stolwoltz.
Also new word for you:
Steel = laerk
I'll go now.
no
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((One ring to "find" them, not "bind" them))
((And with that, one of the few things I could be proud of in life is crushed before my eyes :(
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((Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulúk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. If you know what that means, well, you're my hero,))
((One ring to rule them all, one ring to bind them, one ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.))
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The beginning of more countless suffering and betrayal has been forged.
((By the way, I saw two washing machines in the top right corner part of the ring...))
((Did you mean torture machines c; ?
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It was mid-afternoon when the motley gathering came together in the courtyard of Ebermoor's compound. Two of the servants of Ikuras, neither of them raised to that divine rank of Horseman, and their master, The Nightmare Weaver, who in another life was called Kknotos.
Floating gently in the courtyard, the Nightmare Weaver did not speak a word, but made its wishes clear to its servants through other means. They followed it out of the courtyard and to their destination. There was a small Raevir town on the outskirts of the swamp. Why the Highlanders had built their town in the shadow of one of the greatest gatherings of evil in the world, none could guess. But their folly would prove their undoing. Through trickery, three victims were claimed from the village, each were bound and rendered unconscious. The Nightmare Weaver smiled to see such helplessness. The victims were dragged back to Ebermoor. It was now time for the fulfillment of a goal.
The three sacrifices were laid on top of each other, their bodies turned 120 degrees away from the other, making a symmetrical shape. The center of this shape was the victims' hearts. Each heart was perfectly aligned with the one above it. The Nightmare Weaver waited for the three to wake up, then proceeded. It reached into its cloak, revealing two objects. One was a black iron spike.
The other, a glowing green orb.
The Nightmare Weaver had secreted away this orb, along with its two brothers, when it was still known as Kknotos. The orb hummed with druidic energy, sapped from the great druid Ouity when he was in chains in the dark tower of Kknotos's quandary. His companions thought they had won that day, but Kknotos had gotten what he wanted. The Nightmare Weaver raised the two objects aloft, over its horned head, and brang them together. The green energy of life slowly seeped into the iron spike, melding with it. All that was left of the orb was a harmless chunk of obsidian, which the Weaver discarded. The iron spike now glowed emerald. The Nightmare Weaver stepped forward to the three victims, cutting itself with the black iron. Its blood dripped onto the ground.
"Blothr zu al'udolin."
it uttered, walking around the victims. Its blood formed a crude circle around the three. The Weaver stepped back as a wind began to blow from parts unknown. The Nightmare Weaver took a deep breath, speaking in a rasping voice.
"Ikuras, giffmy vovarrd do'sek chelion-ka!"
Dark clouds boiled, blowing in over the swamp. They roiled and pitched angrily. The circle of blood burst into flame. The Weaver stepped through the flames, and they parted for it. It held aloft the iron spike, as it spoke again.
"Ikuras, giffmy vovarrd do'sek chelion-ka!"
The victims looked up in helpless fear as their muscles froze. Those outside the circle became paralyzed, unable to move as they watched the sacrifice. The flames burst upwards, higher into the air. A dark funnel descended from the clouds, touching down violently with a thump over the circle of blood.
The Weaver raised the iron spike high overhead as he spoke in a voice that was not its own, but many voices at once.
"Ikuras, giffmy vovarrd do'sek chelion-ka!"
He plunged the iron spike downwards, skewing all three hearts in one motion. There was a massive explosion of heat and light as the funnel cloud burst outwards along with the flames. The servants of Ikuras who had gathered outside the circle were blown off their feet instantly, thrown bodily through the air. Every window of the tower exploded inwards, shattering from the force. The boom echoed for miles.
The dark clouds overhead blew away. The dust cleared. The Nightmare Weaver stood alone in the circle. The three bodies were gone. In its hand the bloody black iron spike now glowed a ghastly, corrupted green. The Nightmare Weaver turned to one of its servants, who was a blacksmith by trade. It made its intentions clear. The blacksmith nodded, leading the Weaver out of the tower.
~~~
Hours later, with the pounding of hammer and anvil ringing through the forge, it was done. The iron spike had been transformed into a gleaming ring. It would fit snugly on the finger of any who dared to put it on. The Weaver took it up gently, noting with approval the sigil that had been placed upon it. It did not put the ring on, though. The ring was not meant for the Weaver.
The First Ring had been forged.
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((Updated))
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((Previous entries can be found here: https://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/118429-the-war-of-the-tyrants/ ))
It had been two days since the strife of the battle with the Chirr. Caeldir of the Beloun Seed shouldered his quiver and exited his little house in the trees, heading down a well established wooden pathway to the forest floor. Unlike some seeds, the Beloun were not nomadic. This little establishment, known as Taliame’lin, had been the Beloun’s home for as long as the Seed had been in existence, formed by his father Iodir after the death of Celebor. Within the treetops, scores of other little huts and pathways wound, with other Mali’ame such as himself going about their business. He saw a group of Harvesters pray before an apple tree before plucking some of its fruit. Taliame’lin was more than just the home of the Seed: it was their food source.
Caeldir saw his brother practicing his spear forms and waved to him. Aelchon waved back with that excited grin he always bore and went back to practicing. Caeldir laughed and continued on his way. When he reached the ground, his footsteps crunching the leaves beneath him, Caeldir found his way to the ame’lie of the Beloun Seed. Others were already there, hacking away at the tree limbs. Caeldir picked up a two-and-a-half-hand axe and looked for a suitable branch. The Zenith of Spring was coming soon, and it was important that he had a present ready for his younger brother. Aelchon did not yet possess a suitable bow.
A sudden shout interrupted his thoughts.
“Caeldir, come over here!”
Caeldir turned. It was a friend of his, Balchel. She waved to him from a yew tree, already with a branch chopped off of it. Caeldir made his way over, smiling at her. Once he had harbored romantic feelings towards Balchel, but after getting to know her better it was obvious nothing would come of it.
“Karin’ayla, Balchel.” Caeldir said. She returned the greeting, getting to work on the branch she had downed. “What are you doing?” he asked.
“Making a new spear.” she replied. “My last one has half of it embedded in a Chirr’s gut. It was a good spear too.” her facial expression became agitated. Obviously she had not forgiven the dead elf for being killed by her. She looked up at Caeldir as he began to chop at a different branch of the yew. “And you? What are you doing here?”
“Spring Zenith is soon. My brother needs a proper bow, yes?”
Balchel nodded approvingly. “That he does. I kept an eye on him the other day. That bow he has nearly snapped on him a few times!” Of course, she exaggerated. Wood Elven bows were of the finest make, and very few had ever been known to break. Caeldir finished chopping down the branch. Some visitors to the Wood Elves wondered why the Ame took such offense to some forest trees being chopped down, and didn’t care at all when others were cut. What visitors didn’t know is that each Seed possessed an ame’lie, a manufactured grove. There were no clearly defined boundaries that could be seen by the eyes of other races, but to the Wood Elves it was quite obvious. Every tree in the ame’lie was planted by the Seed that owned it, not like the ‘wild’ trees that the Ame revered with a passion. Caeldir took a seat next to Balchel, beginning to strip the wood down to the size of a bow.
“I never got to ask you how many you killed.” he said nonchalantly. Balchel raised her eyebrows.
“You first.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twenty-three.” she said with a wicked grin.
“Elor.” he muttered under his breath, continuing to carve.
“Don’t be bitter, Caeldir. It doesn’t suit the Second Son.”
Caeldir grunted. He was all too aware of what he was supposed to act like, as heir to the Seed. “Don’t you start on me too, Balchel. I already get enough of that from my father.” She chuckled, finishing the carving of her spear.
“I’ll see you tonight. I’m going to go through the forms with this new spear.”
Caeldir nodded. “See you tonight.” he said as she departed. The next few hours flew by as Caeldir continued to work on the bow. He made sure the recurve was not too much, for this was a longbow, and stretched the hempen rope just enough to make sure it was taught. Finally, the bow was finished. Caeldir carved a series of spirals into the wood that were uniquely Wood Elven, and walked away, placing the two-and-a-half-hand axe at the entrance to the ame’lie. He carefully proceeded up the walkway, looking around to make sure his brother was not in view. When Caeldir was positive Aelchon was no longer there, he continued on the path to his home. He pulled open the flap to his hut and, making sure Aelchon was not inside, ducked in. Caeldir wrapped the bow in a leather hide and stuffed it under his bed as his father stepped out. Iodir raised a brow.
“A Zenith present for your brother?” he asked. Caeldir nodded.
“Good.” his father said simply, before stepping out. The First Son was a busy man, and there was likely work to do. Caeldir stretched his arms out. The work had been tiring, and he was hungry. The young elf walked to the kitchen and grabbed an apple, biting into it. He grabbed an orange or two as well. Caeldir loved the sweet fruit, and it would tide him over until the evening fire. He went outside and spent the rest of the day practicing archery with his own bow. True, Wood Elves were talented in the ways of arrow, but talent alone was not enough.
The sun began to set, and on wide platform in the very center of the little town, a fire was lit. The platform, unlike most around it, was cut from stone, so that the fire would not consume the homes of the Wood Elves. Caeldir made his way over to the flickering light and sat next to his brother. He nodded to Balchel, who was across from him. Darkness came, and the entire Seed gathered around the platform. Food was served, fruits and vegetables of all kinds, some roasted over the flames. There was meat as well- a fresh deer. The whole Beloun Seed was welcome to this tradition, as well as the members of the seeds that had sworn under the Beloun. It was a nightly affair. First Son Iodir stepped up to the fire.
“Karin’ayla, brothers and sisters.” he said.
“Karin’ayla, First Son.” chorused the assembled Wood Elves, quieting down. Iodir smiled lightly, before gesturing to a figure at his side. “This is Archdruid Garthon Morncalaq. He would like to say a few words before going on his way.” Iodir stepped aside, allowing the elderly Druid to step forward. Many in the audience exchanged hushed whispers. Caeldir was greatly surprised. Archdruids almost never left the grove, and it had been years since the Seed had been visited by one. Druids didn’t come to you. You came to them.
“Greetings, my children.” began Garthon in a soothing voice. “I trust you are enjoying the feast?” The Seed members all nodded. The Archdruid smiled. “It is good to see such a flourishing Seed in this era of distrust and war. It was not always this way, you know. Once the Elves were all united under one Elf. Malin. I am one of the few to remember him, you know. People speak of him now in a reverence that was well earned.” Caeldir raised an eyebrow. He wondered what the Archdruid was getting at. “Of course,” continued the Archdruid, “When he disappeared, we were left helpless. Our brothers the Mali’ker went with their Velulaei, and the High Elves with their Larihei, and we were forgotten. We, the only ones who dared to stay with what our father had taught us.” Garthon looked around the fire, into each Wood Elf’s eyes. “But we are fractured. Elvenkind is fractured. The time for a new King of the Elves is come.” Caeldir’s eyebrows shot up. Was the Archdruid mad? Who would dare crown themselves King in Malin’s stead? The Druid sighed, rubbing his temple. “However,” he said with a note of deep regret, “Like a snake shedding its skin, this new age must arise from the decay which covered it. Sacrifices… Must be made.” There was a silence for a moment as the Archdruid closed his eyes, taking a breath.
A shrill scream split the night. Caeldir looked for the source of the noise, and across the fire, his eyes alit upon a young Ame maiden, her gaze transfixed upon the heavens. She had a look of absolute terror on her face as she wailed in an unceasing screech. Unsteadily, the maiden raised a hand and pointed a single finger to the sky. Caeldir looked up, and felt fear shake his core. Scores of arrows, flaming, descended from the heavens.
“Sacrifices… Must be made.” the Archdruid said regretfully, before whipping his cloak about, and vanishing.
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((I started working on the third part today. Should be up tomorrow.))
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Alexander Valois nods, the day won.
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Welcome!
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This isn't a democracy, Watyll.
What does this have to do with my comment?
Are you forgetting the time he spawned a bunch of minas, sent it to everyone, then lied about it and joked about it in Mogroka's teamspeak? Apparently so.
He's lucky he's not banned.
The dead horse beating continues.
I gave Gaius a chance by allowing him to assist with the Undead. Unfortunately for him, he dropped it after just a couple of weeks. Was the hate/workload too much for him or did he lose interest? Either way, I'm glad we didn't promote him to Lead Dev based on the results of my test.
It's pretty hard for even the best leader to turn crap into gold.
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Fearwalkers
in Denied Lore
Posted
Alright, since I wrote this lore I'll come in to answer some questions on it. First off Fiend- I have no idea what you're talking about with everything being anti-druid. Druids can crush most everything. You guys killed a Balrog.
The idea of the Fearwalkers is this will be the first of three sets of creatures, each one immune to a different type of magic. Those groups will have to work as a team to combat the threat, and fill in the gaps in the defenses. This one is simply the first one to be posted.
In regards to Swgrclan, anything under the control of a Spirit will harm a Fearwalker to a greater extent than it will harm a normal human. For instance, with mundane weapons, a Fearwalker will not feel pain if harmed by them. Elementalist projectiles, on the other hand, greatly pain them.