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Treshure

Old Fart
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About Treshure

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    dead man's dope

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    jason.trackter
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    [email protected]

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    Surf City
  • Minecraft Username
    Treshure

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  1. SHUT IT DOWN
  2. "The South will rise again!" screams Ruskik Drovakov.
  3. The long awaited sequel arrives!

     

  4. I'll let you figure this one out.
  5. Mordring had a way with words. It was a cold winter day, and Warren was at work. Scrolls were sprawled across his desk in a jumbled fashion, some spilling over the edge of the stone table. A warm light burned in the cavern while chilling winds assailed its outsides. His skeleton familiar, Phil, quietly stared at the young man. Warren glanced up, setting his quill down. “Can you stop looking at me like that?” Phil’s only facial expression burned into him one moment longer before glancing away. “We’ve got work to and orders to fill, and with the Winter Solstice almo-” The lanky figure paused, eyes darting towards the entrance of the cavern. It had rolled away. “Hello?” he called out, slowly rising. In rushed a particularly disturbed ghoul, donning colorful shoulderplates and a wide, sweeping cape. Warren cracked a smile, swinging his arms wide open. “Ah, Mazadrax. Promotion?” “You’ve angered the Dark Lord for the last time!” roared the undead, its voice deeper and more sinister than Mazadrax. Warren sank back into his seat. “Not Mazadrax, then.” “We’ve given you five payments on the promise of a super-regiment, and you have not delivered.” He lifted his hands. “Look, the war slowed down! Courland has won. Do you expect me to harvest bodies out of cities? This is an operation, not a suicide mission!” The ghoul’s eyes burned a dark blue, stepping closer to Warren’s desk. He relented. “Alright, alright! Give me one more week, and I’ll deliver.” Wordlessly, the fashioned ghoul swept around and began to exit to the cavern. Before leaving, it paused to look back at Warren. “Your time is up, necromancer.” Warren squinted at the undead before idly grabbing his quill, shaking whatever foreboding message he had just received. It was only a few hours before Warren heard it. The entire cavern rumbled with a deep, repeating resonance. Pressing his head to the floor, thousands of alterations meshed together in one march in sync. That only meant one thing. Warren shot upwards to glance at Phil, but Phil was already looking at him. “Gather your things.” -- The dynamic duo crept up towards the entrance of the cave where the sound was more apparent. Warren pressed his body tightly up against the walls of the cavern, swiping once indiscreetly with his wand. With a slight groan, the circular entrance gradually rolled halfway, giving Warren a fair perspective. On a winter day such as this, he would usually see a vast expanse of tundra from his large hill. Instead, thousands of figures watched in silence from the foot of the hill. Mordring’s forces had arrived. “Phil, we’re going to need t-” Warren’s instructions were interrupted by a massive fireball, smashing against the entrance of the cavern. The two flew backwards, grinding against the uneven surface of the necromancer’s lair. Warren rolled over, snuffing out the flame burning against his side. In its place was a large gash, increasingly irritated by a piece of stone wedged inside. “Agh! Blasted, you bastards!” whined Warren, rising to his feet shakily. Phil had already recovered, edging towards the ruined entrance in observation. The conglomeration of Mordring’s forces had begun to advance, meandering slowly up the hillside on all directions. Warren hobbled over, peering over edge. “We’re going to need to activate Node 0!” he spat, beginning to limp out of the cavern. Phil looked at him in assumed surprise. Warren hugged the outside of the cave, shifting up towards a stone plate. He motioned his hands together, weaving them together in an eldritch pattern with muttered phrases underneath his breath. A blue light materialized between his fingers, and with a swift downward motion, was cast onto the plate. Navy rings lit across the enscripted stone, triggering Node 0. Thousands of bodies began to tear out of premature graves, equipped with the latest and greatest in undead legion weaponry. In clockwork, they snapped their attention to Mordring’s armada and charged. Warren beckoned for Phil. “We need to go!” roared Warren, imitating a half-run as he escaped towards the back of the hill. All around the necromancer and his familiar raged a battle fought betwixt Warren’s undead and Mordring’s. The duo pushed through the back of the hill, escaping into the vast tundra with the battle waging behind them. The midday wind had now swept across the freshly groomed snow of the tundra, whipping up clouds of frost across the barren plain and obscuring Warren’s vision. On and on they dragged forth, motivated only to place one more step away from Mordring’s clutch. Warren knew no worse fate. The hours dragged by, gradually sapping Warren of his strength and will to carry on. With no wool, food, or water, Warren’s run was up. He collapsed into the snow with an idle Phil to watch over him. Sleep and what lay beyond waxed and waned off of Warren’s consciousness, bringing him near the depth of death. A faint neigh in the tundra roused him, long enough to look upward. A figure moved through the drifting clouds of frost, emerging on a large brown horse. What Warren saw drained his blood cold and filled the void with fear. He should have been captured by Mordring. The Westerland Knight flashed a white, pearly smile.
  6. Get your diet under control before anything. Track your macros and make weight goals for yourself. When that is taken control of, visit https://stronglifts.com/5x5/. Its a beginner weight training program and it can get you in fantastic shape. If your knee is a concern, take it light on squats and supplement swimming for cardio.
  7. This was never Bailey’s war. The cardinals of the church spoke of religious persecution, oft in the early days. The militiamen and the military officers were thinned in rank considerably, and to their own tale, it was by the brutality they had endured. For Courland, sacrifice for Courland. It was a cardinal’s war. It was an officer’s war - it was never Bailey’s war. Alas, the boy was infatuated. The true tales of the battlefield, something transpired to veterans alone, died off every few decades. With this death is a renewal of nationalism and gusto, something attractive to the boy and his swashbuckling hopes and dreams. So when the recruiting sergeants came marching through the merchant’s district, beckoning all young blood to join them on the Church’s newly christened crusade, how could he say no? Bailey was wearing a stark green uniform, freshly sewn with a side cap sitting atop a mess of raven hair. His boots were newly issued and recently polished, yet to march out from the city it was made within. His gloves were white and without blemish, worn tight and without wear. His sword was standard issue Courland steel. His armaments were standard issue iron armor: an eagle stamped into the centre chestplate. Every man, in line, uniform and ready to march outward towards the frontier. -- “How’d you get here?” The unsteadiness of the cart wagon made the conversation rolling and jolting, the mass gathering of boys dancing from side to another as an armada of fresh recruits, shifting across the green prairies. Bailey looked around several times before realizing the boy was talking to him. “Enlisted, like anyone else,” Bailey replied. “And you?” The boy who spoke grinned toothily, his teeth stained yellow. His face was rendered unattractive through heavy scarring and disfigurement, but his eyes shone truly as any else’s. “Warn’t be telling the truth if I said like you.” He looked around as if in awe of the scene. “Convicced. Stealin’ bread and the likes. My hand, or the war.” He looked at his clean uniform. “I chose the war. Wasn’t any bad of a situation, looks like.” Bailey leaned back in his seat, observing the others assembled, rolling and jolting in silence. Their eyes were downcast. Their faces weren’t nearly as cleaned and groomed as Bailey’s. None of them were as beautiful as he. The boy looked up, eyeing the thief. “What is your name?” he asked with a neutral tone. The thief glanced at Bailey, smiling with a blind innocence. “Erik.” “Well, Erik, I think I’d do better to stick around you in this war,” added Bailey with the ghost of a smile. Erik’s lips curled upwards, his eyes shining with a jejune pride. “Alrigh’, then.” This was never Bailey’s war. -- The cold had arrived. Swathes of frosty clouds drifted aimlessly across the sky, seeding the air with a biting chill unknown to the fresh bloods. Off in the distance bore the deep, resounding beats of war drums. Cries of war sounded in the night as the ensemble of carts rolled in the twilight, slowly edging towards the battlefield. Before long, Bailey had woken to a deathly quiet frontier of rotting corpses and abandoned flags. The war camp stirred lightly upon dawn. Erik rolled over in his bunk to observe the chatter. His eyes drifted over to an awake Bailey, the two boys judging their next move. Erik rose first, pulling up long green trousers with a worn leather belt to secure them. Hustling from the tent, Bailey soon followed after to retrieve breakfast and their first orders. “They’re advancing on us.” The chatter around the fire snuffed out, now attentive eyes trained on the captain. He was a burly man of two meters, stretched tall and wide. Despite a tired face and deep boring eyes, his voice carried a militant sharpness and edge over the congregation. The captain extended out a hastily scribbled map over a wooden table. It was a few moments before Bailey realized it was their position, with thick red arrows closing in from all directions. “We’ve been cut off from the King’s army. We hoped that you new recruits could bolster the veterans in combat, but…” The Captain’s voice trailed off. “They did not return from last night’s engagement. You’re all that is left of the 41st.” His eyes lifted towards the centre of the camp, where a proud eagle standard was erected, five feet tall and lifted onto the commander’s tent. “We may as well be dead man walking in this camp. I’ll give you all an hour before we march to battle. If we can push through their center and break through the back, we may be able to find Tobias’s main entourage before it is too late.” The Captain retrieved the map, nodding to the men. A battle was imminent. After the meeting broke, Bailey ran across the camp to catch up to Erik, already halfway into his chainmail. “You’re not really going out there, are you?” asked Bailey, exasperated. “You ‘eard the Cap. We’re going off to fight”, responded an indifferent Erik. “We’re going to get killed out there! You saw the report, there’s no chance!” Erik slid his arm through a chainmail sleeve, staring at Bailey with those deep, empty blue eyes. “I’ve been waiting a long time to die.” This was never Bailey’s war. -- He heard them coming long before he saw them. The ground trembled to drums, the rhythmic shaking of thousands of boots gradually encroaching on Bailey. The 41st’s weaknesses were accounted for, assessed, and now taken to a measure whereas there would only one outcome. “Arrows!” The thin, scraggly line of the 41st immediately crouched, heaving up thick oaken shields before an onslaught of arrows met them, pelleting in by the hundreds before a moment of silence. “Advance!” The men heaved upwards through the snow, trudging forward before a shifting blackness overtook the sky once more. “Arrows!”, screamed the Captain. The Courlanders were far too slow to react this time. Guttural screams mixed in with the ‘thud’ of the arrows, crumpled cloaks of men being left behind as the advance orders began. Bailey was placed in the centre, guarding the eagle standard in a thicker band of men. Erik lay to his right with feverish eyes placed onward towards the approaching Ruskans. “Shields, down, charge!” The line broke in a silent sprint. The winter winds had taken from them their breath and fortitude, leaving only the feverish desire to survive. Bailey saw and heard nothing until the two lines clashed, Ruskan and Courlander cleaving away at each other at an indistinguishable mass of flesh and steel. The men collapsed around Bailey like clockwork, leaving only a few distinguished recruits and Erik left with him, fighting on all sides. Spears jabbed in and out of his immediate surroundings, some finding air and others flesh. A flash of gold and white briefed Bailey’s vision. It was only a moment before he realized the standard bearer was fighting fiendishly for his life - and losing. The standard loosed from the bearer’s hand, tumbling directly onto Bailey. He lifted his hands clumsily, eyes wide as the eagle fell towards him. Though as the shaft met his palm, he was faced with an enormous weight. Bailey, in that moment, realized his inexorable weakness. The 41st eagle standard bore into him, and in a second of great frailty, he fell with it. An eon passed to Bailey, the standard barely out of his grasp as he lay on the bloodied snow. Erik swept by, a lone hand gliding down to grab and lift the standard. His tuft of straw hair disappeared once more, thrust deep into the heart of the battle. All that filled Bailey’s vision now were daggers and swords and shields and arrows. A man leaned over his face with unfamiliar eyes and unfriendly colors, poised with a sinking, dripping weapon. This was never Bailey’s war.
  8. Minecraft Name (s): Treshure, Teahupoo, Hotel, blockhunter549 Ban Reason: No RP Kill, Vulgarity, Attempting to Alt Individuals Involved: Treshure, Sir_Niccum, Shady_Tales Event Details: Alright, this appeal is long overdue. I guess I'll explain from the very beginning, my motives, all the way up to here. I make poor decisions. On the night of my ban, my surfing buddy was over at my place to stay the night. I initially introduced him to Lord of the Craft around the Fringe, having him play on my alt account of FusionFail. Thus, he knew the workings of the server. I left the room to use the restroom in the adjacent room, with my account logged in. I had previously gotten into an argument/discussion with Abeam where I jokingly said I was going to pugsy out of grief. My friend read the logs and buh gawd he actually did it. According to him, he changed his name and killed one guy, then starting shouting profanities to get himself quickly banned before I came back from the toilet. Now, I was pretty shocked when this happened, but I was finding myself at the time playing too much LotC. Instead of telling him off and trying to recover the account, I took it as an excuse to leave LotC and focus on other things. But you never quit LotC, you only take breaks. Pulling the 'my friend did it' excuse is cliche and quite honestly, I didn't think the staff would ever believe me that it actually happened. Instead of trying to appeal, when the urge eventually came back to roleplay, I thought that I could start anew by using an alt with a VPN. Little did I know, the VPN was faulty and didn't even work. I didn't know this at the time, but I was banned all the same. My total playtime on the alt was about half an hour. A week later , I felt that I could pull this grand heist off again. When my alt account got denied right off the bat, I knew the VPN wasn't delivering the goods. I also knew my run was up. I had to come clean if I wanted to be unbanned. There was another instance of alting some weeks further. With all of my alt attempts bound together, I'd say I got about an hour of play time in. While I did attempt to subvert the rules, I did not evade them for any significant period time whatsoever. Why should you be unbanned?: I never wanted any of this to happen. A fault of my own snowballed into what is now looking like a very long ban for stupidity and low cunning, and I am all to blame. I'm sorry for putting this extra load on the staff team and for attempting to circumvent the rules. My friend said that he acquired a set of prot from the guy he killed. If I ever get unbanned, man, its yours, as well as the rest of my stuff. I've always believed myself to try and help the community and be a benefit rather than a dead weight, but me writing this right now evidently shows some serious flaws. I'm ashamed of myself and I'm ready to bear the weight of the punishment, whatever it may be. I hope my previous clean track record of four years proves me not to be a malicious guy, just an idiot. This is a pretty shitty situation, and I have no intention of further avoiding the law for my own gain. I believe I should be unbanned because I am not an inherently toxic member of the community, with a previously clean track record since 2013. I have genuine desire to prove that I can be positive to the community, and by any means, I will try to assert it. I'm not sure if there are existing programs of 'community service' to make right from wrongs during the ban sentence. If there is, I'd love to sign up for it. Be it new player guides or wiki work. I hope that the GM team can find my sincerity in this apology. Additional Screenshots/Videos: N/A
  9. oy vey
  10. It was always a tough business. A loud knock on the cavern wall jolted the young Warren from his sleep, sending the lanky figure scrambling down his stone sarcophagus. He grumbled lightly, gripping at his wand and trudging over to an inconspicuous wall. With a quick wave of his hand, a thick layer of stone rolled backward to reveal a rotting, ghastly undead creature. “Good evening, ghoul,” murmured Warren. “Mazadrax,” the undead corrected. “Perhaps if you had different faces, I’d know.” Warren shifted backwards, retreating to the deep cavern where another monument of stone lay, shaped in the form of a desk. Sitting at the end of it, Warren folded his hands as if holding on to some vestige of professionalism. Across from him sat the fiendish Mazadrax, it’s face twisted in a permanent fixation of dread and terror. It looked off towards Warren’s resting place, and though no certain facial emotion could imply Mazadrax’s curiosity, Warren assumed. “Moreso to relate to the customers,” the young man assured. He rolled forward papyrus paper, detailing most of the Westerlands, specifically territory betwixt the warring undead and human factions. “From the looks of it, you’re going to need six regiments.” “Five,” the undead corrected with deep intonation. Warren pushed a swath of stiff, rotting dreads out of his vision. “Listen, I’m no man to get cheated. Those Kaedrin boys are beating you back and we both know it.” Mazadrax almost seemed uncomfortable. “Besides that, there is no way you could muster six regiments in such a short amount of time.” Warren leaned forward with a separate map, this time with large arrows moving across snowy fields, dotted with green and black and yellow. His finger jammed towards the center, “Stauntons and Ruskans are tearing each other apart! Do you think for a second they have the decency to clean up after themselves? They’re not of our elegant ways. Thousands of bodies, ripe for the taking.” He lurched backwards, snatching a pipe from the table. His fingers pointed towards the pipe in a finger-gun motion as the very tips of his digits beginning to turn red in heat, but not before the ghoul flinched and raised it’s arms protectively. Warren darkened his expression, gradually retracting his hand. “Easy, now. I’m on your side. The matter of the fact is, the Westerlands is going to push back. They’re going to retake Quarryville, and when they do, Mordring is going to be short of minions to hold…” his fingers dragged along the creases of the first map, “This, that, and there. Not to mention, the bridge.” Mazadrax looked up suddenly. “We’re going to lose the bridge?!” “Na-ah-ah, not if you get all six regiments.” The ghoul’s shoulders dragged down. “But they’re so expensive. Lord Mordring will not be pleased...” Warren rolled his shoulders before taking a whiff of his pipe. “You can tell Lord Mordring to find minions elsewhere if that is the case. My graveyards are premium, second to none!” Mazadrax recoiled backwards, nodding decisively before bowing. “Thank you, thank you! We will not forget your services!” The young man seemed to nod contently to this, grinding his stone chair to face the wall with ominous puffs of smoke rising above him. The ghoul paused on the way out, slowly turning to the solemn figure before it. “And what about the Spy Units?”, Mazadrax inquired. “They’re already deployed.”
  11. >be spook >place yourself in imminent danger in front of a publicized gatehouse >manage, somehow, to disable ward >cleric owner of the ward screeches in shout Emote that the ward breaks >army marches to apprehend you >after you're gone, they make a new ward Has to be something better than this stupid ****
  12. A mature and level headed fellow. The reasons for electing this man have already been dove into in depth on this thread by a great multitude of people. I'm just another guy giving the thumbs up. +1
  13. Ban Report/Banning GM (if applicable, please provide a link): Sir_Niccum Minecraft Name(s) (at the time of your ban): Treshure Rule Broken/Disputed (multikilling, Griefing, Xray, ect. Be specific): No RP-Killing/Vulgarity/ Attempting to Alt Character Witnesses (Name(s)): Shady_Tales, Treshure, Sir_Niccum Event Details (reason for actions, apology, ect): Alright, this appeal is long overdue. I guess I'll explain from the very beginning, my motives, all the way up to here. I make poor decisions. On the night of my ban, my surfing buddy was over at my place to stay the night. I initially introduced him to Lord of the Craft around the Fringe, having him play on my alt account of FusionFail. Thus, he knew the workings of the server. I left the room to use the restroom in the adjacent room, with my account logged in. I had previously gotten into an argument/discussion with Abeam where I jokingly said I was going to pugsy out of grief. My friend read the logs and buh gawd he actually did it. According to him, he changed his name and killed one guy, then starting shouting profanities to get himself quickly banned before I came back from the toilet. Now, I was pretty shocked when this happened, but I was finding myself at the time playing too much LotC. Instead of telling him off and trying to recover the account, I took it as an excuse to leave LotC and focus on other things. But you never quit LotC, you only take breaks. Pulling the 'my friend did it' excuse is cliche and quite honestly, I didn't think the staff would ever believe me that it actually happened. Instead of trying to appeal, when the urge eventually came back to roleplay, I thought that I could start anew by using an alt with a VPN. Little did I know, the VPN was faulty and didn't even work. I didn't know this at the time, but I was banned all the same. My total playtime on the alt was about a few hours. A week later (tonight), I felt that I could pull this grand heist off again. When my alt account got denied right off the bat, I knew the VPN wasn't delivering the goods. I also knew my run was up. I had to come clean if I wanted to be unbanned. I never wanted any of this to happen. A fault of my own snowballed into what is now looking like a permanent ban for stupidity and low cunning, and I am all to blame. I'm sorry for putting this extra load on the staff team and for attempting to circumvent the rules. My friend said that he acquired a set of prot from the guy he killed. If I ever get unbanned, man, its yours, as well as the rest of my stuff. I've always believed myself to try and help the community and be a benefit rather than a dead weight, but me writing this right now evidently shows some serious flaws. I'm ashamed of myself and I'm ready to bear the weight of the punishment, whatever it may be. I hope my previous clean track record of four years proves me not to be a malicious guy, just an idiot. 0/10 do not buy Screenshots/Vids (Link): N/A
  14. Title says it all. The nephew of Salazar Elibar'acal, under his care/watch. Age range is 40-60 (high elven). Message me if you're interested or hmu on skype (jason.trackter)
  15. You could play a Haddock brother. We're very strong.