Raglin

It'd been a long time. Too long. Numerically, it was more than Raglin even bothered to keep track of. All he knew, was that this old breastplate was getting rusted to all hell. Fingers that once curled triumphantly 'round the hilt of an axe now curled dependently 'round the knob of a gnarled cedar cane. The bear head at its precipice the perfect mold for the elderly dwarf's grip. A soft smile played on his lips as he peered down at the little visage of the beast. To him, it'd been a confidant for many a year. A face to look into when murmuring or mumbling the woes of a traveler, of a dwarf lost in his own world. The years had not been kind, ravaging what was once the figure of strength and pride, reshaping it into the considerably softer form of an elder. But those arms, wreathed in markings of a bygone warrior, still shown proudly when not enveloped within the warmth of his fur cloak. It'd been a long road. What seemed like an age of recuperating from a sickness laid upon him in the most foul of ways, of wounds of the soul and the body, had changed the dwarf forever. The fiery champion of the common fighter looked more akin to a paragon of books and hearths. But alas, it was a lonely existence. Familiar faces had been a novelty of the past, a forgotten fruit born by a life of a traveler, an adventurer, a soldier, and a father. All things of the past, of course. Now, after so many years, he was but simply himself. Raglin. The weathered visage peered up beneath the heavy hood he bore over his head, the thick ivory beard the only sign that this mound of fur was indeed of the dwarven folk. A storm blue eye and its milky white pair were cast over the monks' gardens, the pillars that had been such a constant throughout the years. He drew a deep breath through his nose, sniffing the sweet smell of freshly cooked bread, of the books and the orchards beyond. It was from this serenity of nostalgia that he was roused. "Raglin... Raglin Edgehand?" (( Hey-howdy-hey! Old timer here. Figured I'd pop back into a community I fell in love with oh-so-many years ago. Nice to see some old friends, old faces. If anyone wants to chat, reminisce, or RP? Just shoot me a PM. Thanks all, and much love. ))

=(Election Ballot of Urguan)=- Place an X next to the candidate of your choice. Your Name ((RP and MC)): Raglin Edgehand (_Raglin_) Race: Dwarf Kalion Grandaxe (Dashing_Knight) Lathros Irongrinder (Lathros) Verthaik Frostbeard (Kralek) X Skippy Irongut (Skippy369) Fili Grandaxe (Cpt_Noobman) Changed me vote ta' make t'ings more interesting, hehe. Both lads are great an' worthy.

The clan has officially established its own hall within the limits of Tal Azwyr, and is providing food, gear, and a room to any and all Edgehand members! Contact me via forum PMs if you're interested in joining us.

Back in my day, those fiends wouldn't dare fiddle with our sticks!

Anyone with a 'Fair' or above tinkering skill, I have a proposition for you! I need a Skull Mask made, and will happily provide the ingredients, as well as a 100 minas tip.

Any idea what items are used, exactly, for say, a skeleton mask?

Any idea what mats are used to create the masks, or if they've even been implemented yet?

(( Just a random thing my friend wanted me to do, working off of the prompt "A simple guard defending his home from a monster." )) Crunch. The roach's demise was the fourth of many, squashed beneath the whims of his iron-clad boot. It was a slow day, but it always was. There was hardly a thing to worry about in that little village nestled on the border of the Whitetail River. Crunch. Another one gone. So went away another insect, and so went away another minuscule moment of his life. Now that he thought about it, Frank truly did have a lot to worry about in his small village. Aside from the itchy feeling of his leather jerkin, there was that itchy anxiety involving the merchant's daughter. What a beaut she was, and her eyes the color of freshly hewn emeralds. The young guardsman didn't know a lot about jewels, but he did know that emeralds were his favorite... Ever since she first smiled at him. A precarious thought, a penniless farm boy garbed in leather and a spear, aspiring to marry a girl of such blatant... Poise. A soft sigh escaped him, as his fantasies drew him away once more, dozing off to that occasional sound. Crunch. A few bugs and wistful thoughts later, and suddenly his daydream was shattered. The sweet, honeyed voice of that golden-haired girl was growing louder, deeper, and reverberating, until it was a bellowing voice in his ear. "FOCKIN' GET MOVIN'! THAT DAMN OGRE IS HERE!" The sound of his commander always drew a sickening feeling in the depths of his stomach, and this was no better. With a flail and a gasp for air - and reality, no less - young Frank scurried about. It wasn't until he joined the other assorted men that he saw it. Tossed end over end, the merchant cart filled with a myriad of spices, silks, and jewels was upended entirely. The yelping sound of that sorry, fat sod of a merchant pierced the air; and yet was soon muffled by the roar of that hulking beast. Standing easily twelve feet high, and weighing far more than the cattle it carried on its shoulder, the ogre was a hideous gray thing. With a tooth jutting upwards far past his nostrils, and many missing between, he was an ugly sight. The spruce tree he carried lazily in one hand was lofted high, waggling in fury. That single, red eye, was blazing in a primal rage. Frank was petrified, and he wasn't the only one. Men all around practically (and some literally) pissed themselves at what they beheld. Yet, their stupor of awe was soon broken. Tossed aside by the whim of a new horror. Jewels were strewn about, many now worthless and dulled by the dirt of the old road. Yet, a pair still gleamed, glossed and glistening with tears, that fair-haired maiden scrabbling on the ground in terror. Suddenly, the idea of a golden band beneath a birch altar seemed so fragile. Like a newborn child, it reached out towards him in blind necessity. It awoke something in Frank. Something deep, deeper than the fluttering heart of adrenaline, deeper than the sickness in his gut, or the quivering in his muscles. It was feral, it was humane. Striding forward, past the bedraggled line of guards, he hefted his spear in hand. That sharpened steel point looked so meager and useless in the wake of such a monster, but it was no matter. His true weapon gleamed brighter than the gold ornaments about him. Adrenaline surged through him, bravery coursing through his veins like a valiant destrier upon the fields of battle. The world was growing hazy, the tunnel of focus settled upon that heaving, breathing creature. The squinted hues of the blonde merchant's daughter shined bright in hope. A new fluttering took over her body, a new gripping sensation of euphoria. With a roar, the young man leapt into the air, a grin nearly plastered on his face. The ogre turned, its eye widening. That great tree began to fall downwards, but Frank felt as if he was flying faster than an eagle. Suddenly, there was nothing stopping him. Nothing would stand in the way of ma-- Crunch.

(( I'm told it'll receive a stamp of approval or whatever from the Grand King, but the clan has existed for years on end, now. So yes. It's a thing. ))

Clan Edgehand Why did Raglin take the mantle of Clan Father once again? To put it simply, he kicked more arse than the previous leader, ha! After enough time standin' around waiting for the beloved clan leader to show his face, Raglin decided enough was enough. He had searched far and wide, visiting every brothel and bar from here to those blistering Orc lands and back... even digging around the human kingdoms for a bit. When the poor bugger never showed up, Raglin was left with no choice but to take charge. Despite all this, he refused to take official charge of the Clan, even at the behest of that annoying Bruce. Such was not the way of the Edgehands. Pride and boasting were of course an integral part of Dwarven culture, but it was no their nature to expose family, especially clan issues. Perseverance became critical, and Raglin certainly drudged on. The position of Clan Father, along with it's recognition and public honor, sat empty as the Clan worked silently in the background to make nessecary preparations. At long last, with the Clan having moved to Karik and settled down a bit... Raglin decided to make his move. He would lead the Edgehands to their rightful place in society. The explosions that served to wipe clean the remnants of Raglin's initial attempt at a Clan Hall simultaneously became the drums and horns of reckoning for the past fate of the Edgehands. They would be rebuilt anew. Stronger. Prouder. More fearsome than ever. They would finally lay claim to their ancient roots. They had been around since the time of Urguan, and now their names would be known. In this new land, as many clans have already, he seeks to rebuild the pillars of strength that his clan settled upon. Lore The history of the Edgehands, as told by Ungrim Edgehand. Translated into comprehensible English by some random bloke at the tavern. Note that Ungrim was interrupted once in the middle of his story by a rude bugger who was promptly dealt with by shouting into submission. Unlike many of the other Dwarven clans (who we'll refrain from listing), Clan Edgehand's rise to power was subtle, and ancient. They were not heroes of old, and their names hardly ever echoed from the lips of bard's unless to tell of some great bar fight (no less an honour, I might add, than a battle). The clan, despite it's relatively anonymous origins, dates all the way back to the time of the original High King Urguan. A group of old dwarven families inhabited a nearby mountaintop to the ancient capital Kal'Urguan, keeping to themselves. They rarely left their mountain village, deciding to exclude themselves from the chaos that had been the fledgling Dwarven society. Among said group of dwarves, one in particular stood out: Rorun. Rorun had a wife, two sons and a daughter... typical family, for a typical dwarf. Every night, as was customary of their village, Rorun would gather with the other men for a night of the revelry and drunken celebration. It mattered not the occasion, there was Ale and Beer to drink... and these dwarves were the people for the job. Isolated as they were, the dwarves of this village did not participate in the wars and skirmishes of their brethren. Instead, they took out their more violent nature upon each other, often under the influence of a few tankards too many. Words can't properly describe a good dwarven brawl. It's not even considered a decent one unless everyone in the tavern joins in... and only becomes a good one (arguably) when most of the fighters end up knocked out in a pool of Ale and covered in bruises. Rorun, as ingenuous as he was, had a special move he would use that came to be known as the "Edgehand" throught the village, and especially in the tavern. He would make his hand flat and chop swiftly at the upper gut of his opponent (which certainly stuck out, as we all know beer goes straight to the gut). This usually resulted in the dramatic collapse of the dwarf on the receiving end (with plenty of cursing to boot), who would then vomit all their ale. Pft. Lightweights. As time went on, the legendary move grew, so much so that Rorun earned the name "Edgehand" throughout the whole village. "Da's a load of bollock, Edgehand! Yer jerkin me chain!" "No 's not ya fluffy bastahd. Want ta fight about it? Tha's right, I thot so! Sit down! I'm not finished with meh story!" It wasn't until the races of Aegis fled their homeland and arrived in Asulon that the Edgehand family began to act like a clan. They made their names known in the countless wars between the Dwarves and the Orcs (or any other enemy of the Dwarves for that matter), and proved their aptitude in the dealings of the Capital, serving dutifully to get done whatever task was required of them. Decades, and countless battles later, Dulku Edgehand made the move to establish the Edgehands as a properly recognized Dwarven Clan. Proud of his family, Dulku laid the stepping stones to greatness for future generations of Edgehands to follow. They were an ancient people, and it was high time they were recgonized as such. Now, Raglin leads the clan, and though relatively young, his ambition drives them ever higher in their quest for greatness. The clan's colours, Blue and Black, and many of their traditions have remained the same over the centuries.Despite all this, their geneology wasn't as tightly kept as Raglin might have hoped, and he continues to devote resources to the search of his long and complexly related family, aided by both Bruce, Bornam, and Ungrim Edgehand. "Right. Ya got et all down dere, pre'y boy? Set tae book down den. 'Ave a drink... bar wench! One fer me pal here! Fer tae Edgehands!" Values and Traditions "Er, wot's it really mean ta be an' Edgehand. An lots of other bollocks." Being an Edgehand is (though some might argue the point) much more than being drunk, winning tavern brawls, and flaunting your massive...erm... "axe" around. In fact, that's really more of a pastime than a tradition. "No et's not! Quit lyin' to dem ya pretteh boy!" Right. Sorry. I lied. All three are keystones to being an Edgehand. What I meant to say is that those aren't the only things. The history of Clan Edgehand is, like I said, ancient. Almost as ancient as the Dwarves themselves, which in turn gives them a deep history of tradition and respected values that still holds firm today. The Fighting: You can't truly respect someone until they've kicked "yer arse up around yer shoulders".The Edgehands are a fiery bunch, and it's very common for the Clan to jump into a brawl with each other, for no other reason than a bit of fun on a slow day. Yemekar have mercy on the poor fool outside of the Clan who decides to take a swing at an Edgehand. "Ye' fight 'un, ye fight us all!" the saying goes, and the Clan is quick to jump in to assist a brother Edgehand. Similarly, they are often the first ones into battle, carrying their standard high and beating their swords, axes, and hammers loudly against their shields, chanting or shouting bawdy Edgehand tunes. An enemy of the Dwarves is quickly made an enemy of the Edgehands, a trait that has proven useful for their political advancement in Dwarven society. The Drinking: A dwarf's no good if he or she can't hold their ale. Aside from being a social and bonding experience, the more competitively driven of the Edgehands are known to host drinking contests, to see who can drink their opponents under the table faster. Of course, this much inebriation leads to claims of cheating... so it's not rare to find the drinking and the fighting tied hand in hand. The Boasting: Making your accomplishments known is almost as important as actually accomplishing something. The more braggart nature of the Edgehands is one of the few traditions that only reveals itself within the ranks of the Clan itself. In court they tend to be humble, and hard working... but get a group together and the flaunting begins. Like all Edgehand traditions, it's done entirely in good nature and not out of spite for each other. They are all a tight-knit group, and being able to make fun of each other and shamelessly brag is part of the experience. The Honor: In the eyes of the Edgehands, honor is the highest value. You are nothing without your word, and the Edgehands take great pride in their credibility and reputation. Nobody lies to a fellow Clan member, and all Edgehands take great strides to follow the high path of honor in everything they do. Revenge is acceptable (as dwarves never forget grudges), but petty revenge for trivial wrongs, and shady, backstabbing tactics are severely frowned upon. They can be honest to the point of being blunt, and a promise made it a promise kept. While the Clan itself may catch political flak for being a bit rowdy at times, you would be hard pressed to say that the Edgehands don't mean what they say and stand firmly behind their word, be it an opinion or a promise. The Loyalty: "Ya nevah leave yer pal in tae mine wit' no light", the proverbial Edgehand saying goes. Partly a manner of Honor, an Edgehand never turn their backs on allies. An oath made, unless completed, is never broken, and will follow an Edgehand for the rest of his or her life. They are quick to move to the aid of allies and brethren, and go out of their way to assist any friend. Bawdy and violent sure. But when you get in a fight, the Edgehands are the first to watch your back... or knock the other guy clean out. They're not about to let you go it alone. Clan Father Raglin Edgehand (( The clan father has recently returned from a long-winded hiatus, and hopes to revive the clan once more! Feel free to contact me for joining, or otherwise. We hope to see a clan hall and other such things established as soon as we can.))

Ah, it seems I had to change the POV on MPM. Solved!

Strangely enough, I've encountered an issue today. When selecting a tile to place a block upon, it places the block one above, or awkwardly away from the point I intended. Could this have something to do with More Player Models, by chance?

Thunder. It erupted in the wake of night, shattering the gentle nuance of the evening. Like a dragon's roar, it shook the very foundations of the land about him. Such a storm had not reigned in so long, so long since he had last slipped into the shadows of that dark cave. Like a phoenix, the blaze of a torch cast its reign upon the deep shadows of the hallowed cavern, casting the wanton tongues of fire against the reaches of shadow. A deep, resounding thud could be heard, as the boot planted itself near the great stone door. The torch settled itself in the cast-iron sconce in which it had previously resided, so long ago, as the low form rose to the expanse of rock. With a deep, rumbling growl, the defiant screech of stone upon stone could be heard. Like the shattering of glass, the lightning's glow ahead pierced the stuffy darkness of the room of stone, small motes of dust already seen swarming about, as the heavy boulder was shoved aside, and down the grassy slope ahead. Rolling his burly shoulders, the elder dwarf peered ahead, the kiss of rain dappling against his dusty cheeks, washing away the years of settlement. With a deep, loud inhale, his storm blue eye opened wide to the world ahead. There was much anew, many things had changed, and yet here he was. Stalwart. His clan, no doubt dissipated to the whims of time, was long gone, leaving him bare and anew, as he had been so long ago. Wars long past, friends long dead, and a home forgotten, this was a land wiped clean of the dwarf's memories, and his legacy. There was a feeling of rebirth, resounding deep within his core, that drew his chest to a firm puff, and his jaw to jut forward, presenting that expanse of silver-streaked ebony. "Back again." (( I return to LOTC! I look forward to any and all RP ahead. ))