The Hedge Knight

I think in the end, the mechanics of firearms on this server would be akin to that of magic or crossbow roleplay that we’ve already had for years. It’s honestly just an aesthetic difference at the end of the day. When you consider that most RP is done with an honor code, most people already do well enough following rules. And we have systems in place to deal with people who powergame the use of a firearm. Whether we limit their use and make them OP or, make them an interesting alternative, allowing someone to have pre-loaded firearms that can either make or break their chances in an RP fight I see no harm in it. I for one, think it would be cool to have a universal chart that firearms follow on a roll table. Universal so that everyone has access to these rules and terms of usage, that way we can all govern the RP at hand and call out any issues provided. I would love to be involved in the development of such a system, as I truly believe some cool and wonky scenarios could be had with something so simple implemented.

Besides, we’ve had cannons before and Asulon, and even not that long ago. The time should come where we sit down and lay out ground rules for firearms, and make it something fun an interesting for all the stories being forged on this server. Would I like to be shot with a pistol and have it hit some random spot on my body based on a rudimentary roll table? For sure. Would I like to see the powder fizzle out on a low roll? Of course, I now have the next move and all my opponent did was shoot sparks. Would I like to see their gun pop in their hand because they’re inexperienced with firearms and clogged their barrel or even double loaded? Again, of course. It has potential to be great with little effort, or terrible, and a lot of that will be in fate’s hands. Ultimately, that is where I see it being most interesting and fun. 

Just a quick thought I’d like to add. Reading through various works of early accounts from various physicians in the past and their memoirs. Arrow wounds were most certainly more lethal. Not just due to the speed in which arrows can be let loose, but also from the fact that arrowheads cut and cause much harder to heal wounds for the human body. A bullet didn’t quite need to be extracted from a wound in all cases, as it was very likely the body would encyst a bullet projectile and cause no issues down the line. An arrow head getting stuck in the body in most cases would cause constant issues. Pus being constant due to the inflammation that would occur from the flesh constantly cutting itself on the jagged arrow tip. 

I could go on forever on that subject, but if you wish to find this information explained in better detail, look up Joseph Howland Bill’s “Notes on Arrow Wounds”. While he wasn’t a “medieval” period doctor, he certainly saw the clash of two different worlds and the effect on said men involved during the time. Keep in mind, this is during the Civil War, most firearms used in this time would be ages better than the ones we contemplate adding due to whatever balance or aesthetic differences people see.

Thanks for reading this old fart’s post. ❤️

LordCommander is a great guy, incredibly nice and he answers questions very well. He's well invested in his work, and actually enjoys discussing it instead of viewing it as a chore and I surprisingly don't see that often. I give my full support to this application, I thoroughly believe he's got what it takes to be a great member of the team, and really get things done. +1 

Govanalvo signs the thing. "Yes, very good, yes."

She's a good kid, I give her a magical +1 

i luv u bb

MC Name:

Chimlet

Character's Name:

Aemilius de Norfolk

Character's Age:

34

Character's Original Race (N/A if not applicable):

Human

Transformed form:

Striga

Creator's MC Name:

August

Creator's RP Name:

Friedrich

Briefly explain the lore behind this construct or creature:

Strigae are the children of the Unseen, a group of demons which inhabit the Nether. They are given a distinct advantage over the mortals which they dwell among, such as greater strength, heightened reflexes, better senses, and the ability to regenerate quickly from wounds dealt with typical blades. They are masters of deceit and hide their bestial form from the general public, their form being that of a bat or wolf in the face, with large talons where their nails once were. In this exchange, they loose the the essence that exists in blood, and are therefore forced into a hunger for it. Like an addiction to alcohol, they crave blood and the blood they feast on enhances them lightly, while also giving them a feeling of intoxication. 

While turning to Striga, they also gain a set of new weaknesses. They are hurt much more by aurum and silver, and even the touch alone can be uncomfortable to them without gloves. Wounds inflicted with such weapons will take months and even years to heal. They also run into the issue of degenerating from too much indulgence on blood, turning them from their once greater Striga, to a lesser Striga, which tends to be a slippery slope into turning completely into a beast. They also cannot connect to the void, any magics they once knew are null, and they cannot learn new magic either. They also cannot be healed by the monks of the Cloud Temple, as any Aengulic Magics hurt them due to being spawns of the Nether essentially.  

Do you have a magic(s) you are dropping due to this app? If so, link it:

No.

Do you agree to keep the MT updated on the status of your magic app by using the Magic List Errors topic?:

Yes.

Do you consent to accepting what may happen to this character?:

Yes.

Have you applied for this creature on this character before, and had it denied? If so, link the app:

No.

Gavin would nod while looking at the notice.

"Halstaig is always in need of good working folk."

He'd then set off, looking to speak with whomever posted the notice.

+1 Good guy, he seems really devoted to his cause, and that says something. 

I think he's a good guy, and I see no issue with his RP.
I think he could do the job well! +1

She's got my support. 

She'll be friendly to the new folk, and seems to have gotten her way into almost every aspect of RP. So I believe she can do it.
+1

MC name: Sorcha_Demana
 

Character's name and age: Rennyn, 196

Character’s Race: Wood Elf

What magic will you be learning?: Cognitism 

Who will be teaching you?: Tek, DiscoLiquid

Gaius is the man. 
He's literally this job.
+1

((Been working on a tiny post since the first battle. Finally got around to finishing it. It's a tad bit graphic to those of you who believe you would like a warning of sorts. I hope you enjoy the read. EDIT: I had to change pleasure to unpleasured. Not sure why it changed it.))

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPL_SV3n7IU

A horse slowly saunters up to the previous fields of battle between the feuding humans.

Two days had passed since the first battle had occurred, the moans of dying men were still heard through the bloody ghostly field.

The horse was unsteady, but it's rider shushed the animal, trying to calm it.

It could smell the death, it could feel the pain of those still dying.

The rider brought his horse up to one of the Savoyard barricades, then hopped off from his stead.

He pulled on the reigns, then hitched his ride to a stake protruding from the barricade.

Quietly then, he marched through the field, the sound of crows cawing in the trees filling his ears.

He listened carefully though, looking for one of the low cries he'd been hearing as he passed the field.

Finally, there it was.

A young Savoyard banner man, stuck below a dead, decaying horse.

He approached the crying young man, then kneeled down beside him, pulling the lad's visor up.

"Whats your name lad?" a chilled tone spoke out.

"S-s-s-stephen.." the pained voice responded in a shivering weak tone.

"Stephen... Count to ten, I'll pull you out of this rut." the man stood up, observing the scene.

"Y-yes'uh... One.. Two..." the young man began to count.

The rider positioned himself behind the young man, his arms wrapping underneath the man's armpits and back up around. By the time the young man reached seven, the rider pulled.

To his surprise the young man slid out from beneath the horse with ease, but what he saw next would make his face twist in an unpleasured manner.

The young man's gambeson had been torn across, his entrails a tangled mess trying to about freely.

The rider eyed this, hearing the moaned out cry from the young man, he took a minute processing the site, and how futile it would be to try and fix this man with his very basic field knowledge.

The rider looked down at the whimpering soul, a frown forming on his face.

The rider then shifted to sit on his knees, he pulled the man's head off from the dirt then cradled it.

"We shall say a prayer. Then this will be over." the rider's tone remained solemn.

The young man could not respond, but only weep in his mixture of pain and realization of death.

The rider began to pray quietly, a hand leaving the young man's head to grab a misericorde from the back of his belt. As he finished the prayer, he jabbed the blade into the temple of the young man's head a loud grunt leaving the rider's mouth.

The young man was put to rest.

The rider then slowly pulled his blade from the side of the man's head, wiped it off on his glove, then stood. He gazed over the war torn field silently, then continued his work.

Piling bodies... Delivering final prayers... Then burning them.

The rider knew what would come from a full field of corpses, he aimed to prevent it from becoming an issue to the people wandering to and from on the roads.

Night came, and howls could be heard. He made his way back to his stead then left.

Days would continue this way, slowly but surely working on cleaning the fields.

This was the job of those few who could stomach it.

This was the glorious solution to a disagreement.

10/10 Lark I love you.

MC Name: Chimlet225
IC Name: Once known as Robert or "Gupp" now Alru'on
Original Race: Farfolk
Transformed Form: Soulbound Construct
Creator: MC: Bokratz IC: Avenel Synalli  
Briefly explain the lore behind this construct or creature: A soulbound golem, one that was once a living breathing being who then went through the Hellish experience of having their soul torn from their body then placed into arcaurum. That arcaurum is then placed into a stone shell of a body where the soul then powers the construct. They lack a sense of smell, taste, and they cannot feel pleasure or pain. All emotions are dulled, and they live to serve their Impera. They require repairs when damaged and are gone if their soul bearing stone is shattered.

MC Name: Chimlet225
IC Name: Lockjaw
Original Race: Human
Transformed Form: Ghoul
Creator: IC: Nicholas MC: Parkins
Briefly explain the lore behind this construct or creature: A risen corpse, loyal to it's beholder. It does what it needs to protect it's master in hopes of getting more life force. Has an insatiable appetite for flesh and literally just a self sustaining cadaver. Usually very patchwork looking things, they can be various different forms of sentient once living beings. They're weak to fire, gold, holy magic and heads trauma. They're also a very sluggish being, due to their rotting nature.

6/10 I see you all over the place.

 

https://youtu.be/mhgzFacCWIs?t=4s

The night was cold as it always was in Kaer Aardwen. The northern lights drifted across the sky like brilliant colourful waves, carrying the full force of the winter with them. Three Marked Men stood in one of the many courtyards of the great keep, staring up at it. Wind battered the courtyard as snow flicked past their faces. None budged other than to blow warm, foggy breath into their hands. They had become accustomed to such elements.

Loud and echoing footsteps broke the constant whooshing of the icy wind, causing the men to look at each other in confusion. Blue energy seemed to condense in one spot nearby, taking on the shape of a young man. The Marked Men remained calm, as they had been taught to when dealing with ghosts and conversed with the being.

The being disappeared once more and the men split up to find it. For half an hour they traversed the expansive fortress, all apart from one finding naught. The man who did find the ghost learnt that it wished to return to a forest. They all agreed to assist the being in such an endeavor.

The Marked Men traversed the white expanse of the frozen mountains surrounding Kaer Aardwen, shivering and holding their hands out infront of their faces. The air stung like pins when it hit bare flesh.

They eventually stumbled down a moonlit, icy hill until they reached a frost encrusted forest. The Men remained quiet, watching the ghost as it began to fly in a rapid straight line, eventually dissipating into thin air. The company did its best to follow it, eventually reaching a deep pit with dry blood and flies at the bottom.

All of a sudden a voice boomed from all around them, it was similar to the specter’s but more sinister somehow. A red shape appeared in the corner of the three trio’s vision, looming at the edge of the pit. It hissed.

A strong wind seemed to blow through the forest and several branches fell from the trees. The poltergeist seemed furious. Before they could react, the four men were battered with branches and roots coming from all directions.

The anti-mage among them did his best to dispel the flinging objects, but not without his companions taking a beating in the process. A log was wrenched free from the earth in which it was buried over time, immediately propelling into the large thug, Norris, the Janitor of Kaer Aardwen. He doubled over and groaned in pain.

As soon as this happened, the Marked with ashen hair darted to the left. The poltergeist noticed this and locked eyes with him. The roots that were assaulting the other two began to curve in his direction, gaining speed. The anti-mage deftly raised both hands, sending a stream of grey mist over the roots, causing them to crumple and shrivel up and die before they reached the running man.

The poltergeist looked almost scared as the man bounded up the hill and weaved between trees, tracing a semi-circle around its flank. A second Marked Man, with blonde hair and a fresh face, began to mimic his ashen-haired accomplice movements. The spirit was oblivious to this as it focused its energies on halting the incoming ashen-haired man.

It tore a tree down to block the path, the ashen-haired man sprinted and jumped over it, though roots shot from the ground and snatched him out of the air, tearing him back down to the ground and slamming his face into the dirt, dazing him.

The younger Marked began to pant and sweat gathered around his forehead. This would be his first kill. He sprinted forth, grabbed his sword with both hands and thrust it into the spirit’s back, causing it to dissipate into red mist before disappearing entirely.

Ghoul Description: A large boned fiend, he was obviously a man of larger stature in his life. Though, now reduced to his current state he is thin, broad shouldered, a breast plate covering his swollen gut. He wears the very same sallet he was buried in years back. He is missing an eyeball, due to the blunt trauma that had ended his previous life. What armor he used to have on his arms seems to have slipped away, leaving a hanging pauldron to dangle from his breastplate. His body can almost be mixed up for the dead on the battle field due to his half armored state.

"One thousand." calls Gavin from some random area.

(Been moving all weekend :/, using my phone.)

Welcome back! Enjoy your stay whether it's months, weeks, or days!

I can help as well!

IG or over forum PMs!

~-Reserved-~

((This is a post to end all the stories of my unfinished characters.

If you know them, or don't I still hope you enjoy the reads.))

Cameron Douglas

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUZeSYsU0Uk

 

A large man marches onward. His face is wrinkled, old. His once black fine hair now ashy and thin.

His knees are weak, he'd been walking for so long now. Even in his prime he'd feel this pain.

All his life he was plagued with leg pains and joint issues. 

His height and size used to be his pride, but now they crushed his mobility.

He looked around him, young folk running around, preparing to leave the land. It was chaos.

His old mind almost could not keep track, it no longer felt like keeping track.

He could not speak properly anymore. The scourge had ruined that for him.

His face was unsightly, and the only thing to his name was the armor he had taken with him.

The same old set of Rhodir armor that he'd found in Anthos, the one he felt was most fitting.
He continued to march, as he had done in his once glorious life.

Age does not discriminate, all patrons feel it's wrath at one point or another.

Cameron felt his joints burning, hotter than he had felt while fighting beside the lava pits of the scourge.

 

Amidst all the chaos a fire had started. His head turned, hearing a woman shout for her cat.

He dropped his luggage, age old armor sitting in a canvas bag, big enough to fit a child in.

Slowly he lumbered out, making his way to the burning home. He could hear the small creature.

It's sound was no average cat's meow, but a scream. The large man's heart could not handle it.

He barged into the building, against all shouts to stop.

He coughed, peering around the home for a way upstairs. He finally made his way to the steps.

Making his way up, the cries were louder and louder.

Finally, a large door before him. He slammed on the door, trying to bust it down.

Over and over, he banged on the door. His massive fists soon filling with splinters.

Finally, the door came from it's hinges, falling flat with a thud.

He entered the room, his eye red from all the smoke. He then saw it.

The feline had been clawing at the window, trying to open it. It then turned as the door fell.

He looked to the young feline, a smile drawing on his lips.

The feline had no intention of staying and bolted past him, right downstairs, and outside.

He stood there, unsure of what he expected.

Perhaps he was looking for gratitude. The gratitude his family never showed him.

He could not find it in him, a reason, for doing such a foolish thing.

He turned back, looking to the stairs. Small tears working up in his eye now.

He then made his way over to the stairs, trying to exit the building.

-CRACK-

He had fallen into the steps, the splinted wood stabbing up into his ribs.

Horrified, he yelled out. Then began to cough.

His legs kicked, but did not manage to reach the floor below.

His body weight pushed down on him, forcing the splintered wood more into his chest.

He soon came to cough blood, his nostrils flared.

He could not tell if he had been inhaling too much smoke, or if the wood had pierced his lungs.

He then gave up, his body unable to cooperate as it lost oxygen. The smoke being too heavy.

He looked up, his mind now playing back his most cherished memories.

Picking berries with his mother.

Playing with his puppy in the early day, then sleeping with his cat at night.

Practicing with a wooden sword, learning from his uncle.

Learning to ride a horse.

His first time on a boat, fishing.

And finally, that wood elf girl that brought him back to being human after his agony.

 

He slowly blinked. His life was nearing its end.

He could no longer feel his legs anymore. His whole body was numb.

He finally shut his eye, a tear rolling down his cheek.

He then smiled.

This was not the fate he would have wanted.

But fate was beyond his grasp.

Finally, a burning piece of timber had fallen from the roof, ending his time on this planet.

 

James Douglas

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1WZi34V_5OU

 

The sea, an unforgiving place to be.

First son of Gavin Douglas, also the forgotten.

His father left him, his sister, and mother at a young age.

What was he supposed to do with no true father figure?

That's when the old sailor at dock had found him.

He ran away from his mother as she grew less sane due to the events of her life.

He looked to make his own start, one better than his father's rumored life.

Get rich fast, meet many open women, and have all the adventure your heart desires.

Not a bad deal.

He then became a deckhand at a young age.

He worked, eventually becoming your average buccaneer.

 He met a red haired woman, produced some landlubber children then left them.

Why not? He had no father and he turned out alright!

He battled, boarded, and stole much of his gains from the lesser merchants of Oren.

Finally, the Captain called the crew together.

"We're goin' after an ore hauler boys."

The crew was unsure, their captain seemed crazy.

But his words inspired them, and well, lets be honest ale has it's work in the mix.

The day came quick, James had only thought of the bounty he'd acquire.

He readied himself, his cutlass and buckler shield ready to go.

They saw the boat, a steam powered bastard. The men immediately felt shaken.

The Captain called for the boarding parties to ready, and they did so.

The boat came closer, then finally, through the mist the sails had shown.

Quickly the Captain's look changed. He looked to the men in disbelief.

The fool should've known Dwarves would not send such a wealth filled boat out alone.

It's counterpart was filled to the brim with axe wielding Dwarves, each better trained then the pirates.

The crew kept on doing as they would, the Captain dared not speak of his mistake.

He instead made his way down saying.

"Tell me when we's thar."

The crewmen nodded, they didn't know how to distinguish the Dwarves.

Finally it was time. The men began to get rowdy, ready to fight.

They came up on the boat, James readied himself.

Then suddenly, he saw it.

A large, slow steam boat following the one they'd been approaching.

His stomach twisted, his whole body loosened.

He looked back at the other boat, which now seemed to be hauling full speed toward their boat.

He backed up, looking around in terror.

Goosebumps went up his body, his face going pale.

Finally the men began shouting, screaming some.

It was too late.

The boat slammed, wrenching the whole thing sideways, cracking the haul right open.

Then, they came.

Yells of a couple dozen Dwarven marines erupted as they charged up their boat and into the other.

Was this how the victims of their raids felt?

James unsheathed his cutlass, swinging for one of the Dwarves.

His blade smacked right into a plate of Dwarven steel.

He backed up, his attempt useless.

The Dwarf returned his own swing, bending the flimsy cutlass and slicing into his arm.

James yelled out in pain, dropping his buckler to grip his injury.

He backed up more, watching his lads fall to the same fate.

They weren't armed for this.

The crew fell, axe to the ankle, axe to the gut, it did not matter.

He looked back to the Dwarf before him. His face one of complete and utter defeat.

The Dwarf laughed loudly, the smell of old bitter ale leaving his mouth.

Finally he spun his axe around and clubbed James in the head, knocking him out.

 

He then awoke, floating on a chunk of sinking ship in the middle of nowhere.

His arm still bled, he looked around to miles of open water.

Finally he exhaled, dropping his head back onto the wood he laid upon.

A poorly made wound dressing and a flimsy plank paddle later and he was off rowing.

Maybe he'd reach land before dying of starvation or thirst.

 

Igne

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_3QdRkwyiQ

 

Igne grew with a decent family.

He was a High Elf, things were always weird.

Preserve the bloodline!

His mother sold him off to her mentor and he then received countless beatings.

He was to learn how to manipulate fire.

That never happened. The master deemed him unworthy.

After running away from all the madness he faced with his High Elven family he got to Anthos.

He faced more garbage there then decided to just travel.

 

Traveling is not an easy life for a High Elf.

Oren was not too accepting of his kind.

He found himself in a much less suitable life style, his clothes dirty, his ears clipped.

He began to loose sight of who was meant to be.

Finally, he decided these lands were not for him.

He made his way to a small rowboat and kept rowing.

Through eating seagulls and other of the such he managed to make it to Athera.

Problem is, everyone left.

 

Kur

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3TThcF-KBs

 

Following the death of the Empress Kur so loved and desired, he set off.

These lands brought him no more than a burning brothel, and dead friends.

Every attempt at opening an establishment was met with thug orcs asking for "donations".

He was even thrown off a bridge and left to drown. 

Kur couldn't swim.

Luckily some old man plucked him out, then nursed the small critter to health.

He now travels with this old warrior, cooking him all the finest meals and telling all the best stories.

Kur still tries to find it in himself to find his last remaining friends.

But the heartbreak the poor thing suffers from loss is far too great.

 

A small malnourished man covered in dirt, smelling of fertilizer and fish peers at the notice for many moments.

"Sure looks interestin'... If onleh Ah knew how to read."

He then returns to his work. For had he not done so he would not have food to feed his thirteen children.