mmat

pog init

sadgame

Elvenesse has no snow, but all the leaves are white, causing the entire thing to look out of place and bad. Fix pls

Avius, during one of his thoroughly infrequent visits to the library at Elvenesse, flicked with disdainful eyes through the extent of the thin tome. He had come upon it by chance in his none-too-thorough search for a theoretical concerning advanced, ancient sword techniques, and by the short huff he exuded upon concluding, did not seem impressed. "Meaningless. Useless. Nonsense." Avius remarked with dismissive ignorance to the many silent book-stacks, placing the tome back with a clack against the back wall of its shelf. "Typical Talus." he spat along with a superiority-confirming sniff, before continuing on his sift.

The 'skill' aspect can also be the respective skill of the characters in question, rather than just how good you are at typing and making fancy words. How old/experienced are the characters compared with one another? How focused on fighting compared to other activities? How do they do when fighting against an opponent with different types of weaponry? Etc. Neither are more important than the other, but I view the OOC and RP skill aspects of RP combat as a foundation, and determine my givetake considerations based on that. If you're a centuries' old, battle-hardened, weapon expert of an Orc, for example, you shouldn't have to give a **** about give or take when fighting a newborn halfling. That's an extreme example, but you get my drift.

******* warrior or noble warrior. Oh what a creature of variety I am.

CSARATHAIRE “I’ve burned and cut away blights for a century, this new truth changes nothing. But know this; no darkness will escape us, ever again.” - Avius Csarathaire Csarathaire. It is blazing wrath, barely tempered to burn away the frost, and an inevitable fate of sharpened steel hunting the world’s taint. Centuries of war, death and struggle have gradually warped the scions of this warrior clan into firestorms of passion and unvented, righteous fury. Creatures of extremes almost to a man, at their best the sons and daughters of the fallen phoenix are ferocious, but noble warriors without peer in all existence, possessing an unbreakable sense of honour and a sense of justice envied by all who witness it. At his or her very worst, however, a Csarathaire unbound from any chains of restraint or discipline is intolerably arrogant, nightmarishly callous and capable of phenomenal evil, all in the name of the often dogmatic beliefs espoused by these heartfelt crusaders. Yet not even the most balanced Csarathaire is entirely free of the curse of their clan, nor is the most malevolent bereft of its inherent boons. I ORIGINS. Ancient ‘ame forest-tribes such as Caerme’onn first graced the pages of history at the very dawn times of our race. Old dynasties such as that which birthed the Almenodrim ocean folk have existed for millenia or perhaps far longer. The enflamed soul of Csarathaire possesses no such prestigious and primordial record, having coalesced into being approximately three and a half centuries ago, a mere scrap of time in the grand scale of Elven history. During the early 1400s, the First Orenian Empire under Horen V sat at the very height of its Anthosian power, although it was soon to end in fire and blood also. That imperial collapse did not, however, come soon enough to save the children of Malin from humanity’s ironically inhuman cruelty and malice. What occured then was and perhaps still is the greatest atrocity that has ever been perpetrated on the Elven race, but the cataclysm provided new beginnings as well as dire endings. Greatest among the assorted vassals of Horen V was House Chivay of Kaedrin - warrior-kings of an ever triumphant military order known as the Order of the White Rose. These paragon soldier-sovereigns of the human race were not only capable of raising vast war hosts in the emperor’s name during those halcyon days of old, but legions of black-iron discipline, armed with the finest weaponry humanity’s imperial forgemasters could produce. More relevantly, the soldiers within these inexorable armies were infused with a bitter, violent hatred of almost everything Elven. For reasons that have been lost to most histories, this White Rose led humanity in a genocidal frenzy against the Elves of Malinor to their west, as well as many others besides. Arrayed against such a military machine, the Elven people stood little chance of resistance, and so were forced to tolerate whatever nightmares were perpetrated against them. Of the scant records kept by progenitors of the Csarathaire clan through this dark time, graphic accounts of human barbarism during the early fifteenth century massacres are by far the most common... Row upon row of debased Elven men, women and children crudely nailed to crosses, their skin carved from their bones by grinning gaolers. Horror-pyres dedicated to humanity’s devil god, fed by the decaying corpses of dozens or even hundreds of ‘knife-eared’ beings, rendered indistinguishable from the blackened, desecrated earth on which they rested. It was the hardened, scarred survivors of this veritable apocalypse who came together in the shaded hollows and hidden enclaves of northern Anthos and sparked the first flame of what would become Csarathaire. Forced to take up the sword, axe and bow, not for defence, but for fiery vengeance, these Elves from all across Anthos started launching guerilla raids which killed a human soldier here or there, or dragged him off to meet an even worse fate. But this brutal retaliatory violence was not only limited to the perpetrators. With the sole aim of inflicting suffering the likes of which they had suffered, these ‘proto-Csarathaires’ descended on helpless human villages, burning homes, slaying infirm old men and spiriting off women and children to an uncertain fate in hostile woodlands far away. In their maddened fury, the revanchist Elves even perpetrated nightmarish crimes upon those among their own kind whom they considered traitors. Women of their kind who saw fit to couple with human soldiers and quislings who worked with the tormentors and aided their martial effort were common victims, but so were blameless ‘ame, ‘ker and ‘aheral who simply wanted to get away. To these righteous creatures reforged by war and death, flight was cowardice, and cowardice treachery. In the end, when the fires of genocide burned themselves out and the first empire of humanity tore itself to pieces, the enigmatic Elves of resistance realised the extreme horror to which many of them had descended, and repented of it. Still flushed with pain, rage, hate and a desire for retribution, they departed as one from Anthos in guilt, leaving those cursed lands behind forevermore. Bonds of martial kinship and draconian custom that would eventually form Csarathaire slowly came together throughout months and years of nomadic existence, through mock combat and survivalist hunting. This previously mongrel breed of Elves eventually came upon a desolate frozen wasteland, a terrible obstacle which they had to cross in order to progress on their exodus. Undaunted and scorning any peril, the band of renegades set out to do just that, but to embark on such a hubris-induced venture proved to be incredibly unwise. A days’ worth of ponderous trudging through ankle deep snow drifts compounded by the presence of deadly, concealed chasms and thinly iced-over lakes was bad enough, but the conditions just got worse. Above distant mountain pinnacles bearing crowns of shimmering white crept a cloud equally pure in its hue, but far more woeful to look upon. Because it swore, like the truest sentinel pledging a solemn oath of fealty at his sovereigns feet, to thrust upon the hapless travellers an imminent catastrophe, a final nightmare to punish their arrogance, and their sins from the harrowing time before. Barely an hour later it was on them, only a few flakes at first, but then, suddenly, a biting gale of bleached shards howling across the landscape. Mothers slowed to a snail’s pace, each more intent on shielding the babe cradled in their arms than advancing anywhere. Striplings capable of walking unaided were practically forced to swim through the ever-deepening snow. Some of the less resilient young never resurfaced, drowned by the storm, those who would’ve come to their aid too lost in the blinding morass to do so. Legends sing that the preserved, open-eyed corpses of those children remain still in that icebound netherplace, frozen until reality’s end in the moment of their death, staring at nothing in a monument to false ego. Still though, the uncoiled serpent of walking Elves slithered onwards, growing shorter and shorter with each fall into a snow-blinded crevice, each soul which simply surrendered to the devouring cold and shut down, never to feel life’s flame again. Slowly, but with creeping inevitability, all realised that this was not just a tragedy, but the end. They had escaped the bloodied steel jaw of humanity for the promise of a new future just to come to an even more ignoble fate at the icy frontier of the world. None of the wanderers would survive. It was not to be. Although the tempest of ice, sleet and snow had obscured the wider world to those ensnared within it, things beyond imagination could see the tormented Elves all too clearly. Their war-reaped souls, plagued by grief and sorrow, damned by guilt and wrath, envenomed by bitterness and spite, their war-reaped souls shone a baleful light out into the world and beyond it. As all seemed lost and the last vestiges of treasured life faded away, something found them, drawn to the malignant beacon. Their savior came screaming, twisting existence around itself into a swirling inferno of majesty and power. But those trapped thence could not discern whether it were the flames that came before the form to which they were enslaved, nor the form before the flames, such was the being's might. Nevertheless, the Elves saw it, and they felt it. Killing cold fell away, replaced by embracing warmth. Buffeting wind disappeared, the void filled by relieving stillness. At the creature’s-.. No, at the God's whim, storm and snow both were flicked away, leaving a white calm backdrop fronted by blazing avian wings which exuded fire. Yet, there was something blacker beyond the visible, something of higher horror which beasts of mere flesh and blood could not see. So it was that the great deception unfurled under the guise of a singular mercy upon doomed folk. Mercy of this magnitude could, however, never come without a price paid. Fortunately for the redeemed, they possessed a most potent form of coin in bounteous quantities which the great phoenician demi-deity sought beyond any other, oath and fealty. For this avian pyre was once beloved by all Malin’s children; a caring protector whose fires eagerly served as a bulwark of hope against ever enclosing darkness, but no longer. Through sorcerous arts practiced during ages long gone, that same darkness had joyously bent the benevolent fledgling of fire into a demonic deathbringer, utterly anathema to its previous form. This bending of purpose did not preclude the sundered phoenix’s ability to appear in such a noble and majestic form, at least to those lesser, mortal beings of the world without deeper sight. And so in their desperation and strife, the thrice-cursed Elves were duped by hollow facade into swearing sword and spear to the creature’s terrible whims. Even then though, amidst the damning inferno there were purer embers of doubt yet to burst forth, loyal servants of the Forest Gods who saw an echo of the truth of their ‘savior’. What deeds these newly bound Csarathaire performed in the phoenix’s name have been obscured over the centuries since, by chance of history or purposeful obfuscation, but evidence of malevolent deeds perpetrated in the name of an enigmatic, screeching evil nevertheless bled through time’s impenetrable shadow in fits and starts. The most prominent ‘proof’ of these atrocities came from but a single human villager who, through means unknown, escaped to Descendant lands after Anthos’ destruction. Coming dishevelled to one of the fractured kingdoms in that age after empire’s fall, this man cried of slaughterers entirely clad in dark armour both grey and cloaked red. Deranged ramblings of ironclad wraiths and multitudes sacrificed to an all-consuming beast of fire in the sky did not make any impression on humanity’s divided kingdoms, set against themselves as they were. More reports of a similar nature might’ve turned the descendants’ gaze, but Csarathaire’s wrath in those days rarely allowed any who experienced the flame to survive and tell their story. After decades or even centuries following the ice march and tenfold flame had passed, the pure embers safely nestled unseen said no. Kinstrife erupted amongst those Elves who had been reforged into the Phoenician warrior clan, one side championing the dark god of flame they’d pledged themselves to, and the other reaching further into the past, to the Aspects whom they had forsaken, and the firebird before its corruption. What exactly happened and how long it took can never be told for sure, but at the end of this calamitous civil war, the Phoenix’s darkwreathed servants were gone, and their savior along with them. This was only a pyrrhic victory though, for it had taken much blood and effort to purge the nightmare that had infected them, and few remained. One who did sired a son, and he a son after that, and he a son also until one day, Khaine Csarathaire appeared for the first time in the twilight of Axios, ignorant of the events which had shaped his soul. More of the truth is known now than it was then, but more still is yet to be discovered. II PERSONALITY AND BELIEF Long shadows of a blood-saturated history are cast over each and every Csarathaire, as well as the customs to which they adhere. However, the two most recent clan lords’ proximity to less severe traditions in wider ‘ame civilisation has mellowed the fiery warriors to a near enough acceptable degree. To believe that this mellowing has rendered the phoenix’s former servants soft, however, is to court extermination of the direst sort. For although the Csarathaires’ inferno-soul now burns just a little less potently than it did in the years of their birth, it is still a thing capable of searing anyone who gets too close. Subconsciously atoning for the great betrayal of his predecessors, it is the greatest honour for a Csarathaire to kill, purge or scour an enemy of the aspects in their name. Such relish is only made sweeter if the victim is an accursed creature of darkness, unnatural beast or corrupting menace, but they will equally happily and without hesitation make utter mincemeat of fellow descendants should the offending party prove a threat to hearth and home, kith or kin. Perhaps the most iconic marker of Csarathaire religious practice is the lack of any patron Mani to speak of. Caerme’onns revere Amaethon, Arvellons give thanks to Kwakwani and Ithelanen take their martial cue from Moccus and Morea, but Csarathaire faith is near dogmatic in its guilt-laden purity, worshipping the Aspects and only the Aspects. III MARKINGS AND SYMBOLISM Rather than daubing their forms in garish tattoos representing each and every crevice of their custom, Csarathaires usually make do with just a single one. Imprinted on the upper chest of males and the back of females sits the representation of a phoenix, a tribute to the fallen creature to which their clan were once thralls. This marking was initially a symbol of just that slavery, a brand of everlasting subjugation at the hands of a darkling star, but the beast’s unknown destroyers appropriated the symbol upon their victory, keeping it as a warning of the past, and a threat to the future. Moreover, the revanchist worshippers of the Wild Gods wished to pay defiant tribute to the dark phoenix before its forced fall to darkness, a memorial to a noble creature whom they would have served willingly. Other, less important tattoos are sometimes given and received, but the most prestigious secondary marking that a Csarathaire can ever gain are not granted by the clan lord, or even any kindred Elf, but foes with whom they come to blows in honourable combat and death struggles against malignant beasts alike. Should a woman possess a beasts’ claw marks down her face which would otherwise render her less aesthetically pleasing than before, such an injury would be seen as far more beautiful by a Csarathaire of either sex, the mark of a battle fought to its painful end, victory or defeat. Battle-gained scars are also frequently used as conversation topics when in the company of brother warriors - Tales of brave exploits are shared, along with the valuable methods of combat used in the process. IV APPEARANCE AND STYLE In contrast to the undignified semi-nudist tendencies exercised by the average Wood Elven population, Csarathaires are most comfortable clad firmly in iron whilst in public, ready for combat with any enemy, at any time. To that end, weaponry is always carried at their side or on their back, depending on the armament in question, and sometimes multiple kinds at once. Eschewing most forms of ranged combat except in special circumstances, Csarathaires fight best when it close quarters, viciously slashing their enemies with the honed edge of a sword or cleaving them in two with a brutally heavy axe. Use of spears is usually frowned upon due to the extended nature of the weapon, and therefore its ingrown preference of engagements of some distance, but Csarathaires will generally acquiesce to their utilisation if required to do so in a formation of less brave Elves. It is fair to say, however, that these lovers of face-to-face battle may complain vociferously if forced to fight in a manner other than that to which they have become accustomed, such connoisseurs of violence are they. ”I remember their coming like it was yesterday. The first thing I noticed was a familiar tang in the air, the smell of burning timber, followed soon after by a vision of houses aflame. Then I saw it; one of the unfamiliar interlopers engaged in a fight to the death with Karlus, our village’s greatest housecarl. The man was the best with a waraxe I’d ever seen, but this unknown metalclad slayer made Karlus look like a greenhorn. Our man levelled his own strike first. It was a downward arcing swing aimed directly at the invaders’ bulk, perfect in my eyes. Karlus put the entirety of his momentum behind the attack, but his enemy simply drew its armoured form back with surprising agility, pulling itself and its slightly curving sword out of range without breaking poise. Karlus’ next attempt fell just a moment later, helped along by momentum, but it was slightly weaker and slower than the one before. That was all the flaw the red-cloaked being needed. Pivoting exactly half a turn left and allowing the axe to graze against chest armour as it passed with a grinding noise, the ironclad stranger laid both hands on the hilt of his weapon, inclined it towards Karlus with a single fluid motion and elegantly rammed the swordpoint through our boy’s right eye socket while momentum was still carrying him forth. That was the last straw for me. I ran, Karlus’ death screams in my ears. I do not know who or what these warlike beings are and why they came but they are masters of bloodshed, kings of steel and champions of fire. You must listen to me, because if they come here, you will stand no chance! They, and their pyre-god will make kindling of us all!” Unnamed survivor, late fifteenth century

Overall a fantastic event series with plenty of variety and some good antagonists. Consider me a fan.

PLAYER NAME : imattyz CURRENT POSITION : None????????????????????? SUGGESTED POSITION : C or B (slip you a tenner for it) REASON FOR CHANGE : See above bribe

Somewhere in the desolate, myriad hills immediately northeast of Sylvaeri’s threatened Elvenesse domain, a great, unnaturally set flame illuminated the solemn night sky atop one of the higher peaks. There, with nary a word nor a gust of wind to be heard about the site for many leagues, a single Elf rested in reverence upon one knee, unusual eyes of shimmering blue closed firmly, and yet restfully, shielding his bright gaze from the blinding light of erupting fire which he faced. Tattoo clad with both sacred phoenix and script of an older world, the ‘ame whose mind and deeds were both perennially aflame held a sharp, ornately carved curved knife of elegant steel towards the lonely torchlight inferno. The biting blade’s edge slightly hot, Avius brought the weapon back and cut a light wound from a hand already covered in a scattering of similar inflictions, still not breaking his sacred silence. And as it had so many times before, the hand oozed blood which its owner surrendered into the fire without hesitation. His antique, solitary ritual complete, he who was called Phoenix stood to his feet, withdrew a blade of battle and peered down from his makeshift hilltop shrine to Elvenesse, the southern sea beyond, and whatever evils might emerge whence, azure eyes afire with vision of war.

Avius snorts upon hearing the slave’s snivelling words. “Perhaps I will slay this ‘true Sultan’.”

who?

Hey guys, at risk of being redundant third update on this topic and it’s still not solved. For both you guys and us, it is becoming tiresome. Luckily for everyone, our resident genius Korvic has managed to finish all of the plugin updates to 1.15 and is ready to test them out for implementation. Unluckily for everyone, a problem arises with backend access. Specifically, it arises because Korvic does not have full access to the Linux box which would allow him to look at issues with the server, restart the gateway when necessary and, most importantly for the long term, start testing his plugins. We’ve been at a bottleneck on this for about two weeks or so, mainly because Tythus and Telanir have not been around to give him what he needs, and Kowaman doesn’t seem to be able to do it. This delay isn’t the fault of the wider admin team as a whole who have no way to access and grant such permissions, nor the GM team by extension. Here at least, the buck seems to be stopping at one or two people who have the unique ability to grant these permissions but have not done so for around a month despite his asking, according to Korvic himself. Might have something to do with the whole Christmas season, but if it’s this difficult to get people what they need there is a problem. This is a mixture of formal status update for you guys (who haven’t already seen it on the other topic) and a hopeful push to action for those who need to take it. Progress is out of Korvic’s hands until he gets that access, however high security it might be. (that’s also why the server’s still down btw)

RP Name: Avius MC Username: iMattyz Discord: Matthias3960 What Nation Are You Affliated With?: Northgate Why Do You Wish To Come?: Invited What Skills Can You Bring?: Expert warrior, thrilling conversation.

Hello again guys, I span a pm to Korvic this morning asking on the status of our 1.15 salvation and I’ve got some tentative news in addition to a conservative (or so I have been told) deadline, but don’t take that as any sort of rule, but instead a guideline. Most of the big plugins are now on 1.15, and all that needs doing is fully testing each plugin to ensure they will work as we need them to. The process of doing this should be shorter than the previous period unless major issues come up. IF that happens, fixing the issues will obviously require more time. Korvic has given me an incredibly tentative and rough estimate of a month or so until it is in full working order, which could either go up or (hopefully) down based upon a whole bunch of coding stuff which I know nothing about. In the meantime, the devs will be shifting some stuff around to separate servers in order to ease the pressure which ought to reduce overall lag. That is all. PS: we also have another dev back from hiatus so that’s good right?

Zero input from the moderation team as well, nor any other staff team to my knowledge.

I have absolutely no idea what this is

Sup guys, long needed rule update here which has finally been made possible because of the post earlier, or at least part of it. Finally, from this point forward: [Evidence gained from a private discord cannot be used as justification for a ban except in special circumstances. Such circumstances include:] Harassment [Persistent, unwanted AND targeted hostile interactions] and doxxing [publishing private and/or identifying information about a particular individual with malicious intent]. Persistent - Engaging with the same person on multiple instances in a hostile manner. Unwanted - The ‘recipient’ specifically informs you to leave them alone or clearly does not want you to be contacting them. Targeted - Specifically targeting one individual or group in an undeniable manner. Predatory activity towards minors, such as grooming and other sexual conduct. Blatant metagaming, including metarallying. Such a nitpicking definition might seem like overkill, but we’ve seen in the past how ‘harassment’ can be interpreted by staff if it is not strictly defined. To further clarify, here are a few pretty simple examples of what is or is not considered doxxing or harassment. Doxxing Example 1 - Doxxing - Person A manages to find the private Facebook account of another user and reposts an image from that Facebook account. Example 2 - Not Doxxing - Person A takes a picture that was publically shared in a discord chat and reposts it. This is not doxxing as it is not sharing any type of personal or identifying information. This could however be considered harassment IF it fulfils that criteria, but is not doxxing. Harassment Example 1 - Harassment - During a conflict on Lord of the Craft, player A from one side of the conflict consistently messages one of their opponents unprovoked with abusive language and threats. Example 2 - Not Harassment - Player A becomes vexed at something in a private discord chat and calls someone else in the channel an abusive or racist word once. Unpleasant sure, but not harrassment and not our business. We’re not professional lawyers or legislators so it’s possible something has been missed or mistaken. We’re more than open to fixing and amending this if it is not entirely adequate yet. Pc

R. E s e r v e