sean66

As the last Troll player around these parts still, I'm gonna have to be honest and say I don't really like this lore rewrite at all. You take the already pitifully low distinction between Olog and Troll, and throw it out the window. This just makes it all out to be a smarter and better Olog generally which doesn't have to align with issues of being either a whitewash or a Orc Clan player. Also you removed the fun tidbits of their love of mutton and the foul curse set upon them which damages them in the sun. Also the Trolls being distant relatives of any of the Descendant races is a big no go for me, as the Trolls are supposed to be seperate of the Descendants. Primal beings which never developed past a certain point, and were passed on by time and the Descendants. Overall as a Troll player I'd love for there to be more Trolls out and about but this lore rewrite is one which I can not agree with. So sadly I'm gonna have to give this a -1 mate.

Here we go again, will no-one learn?

How are guns Pandora's Box with the magics we have. Magics we have are much more deadly than any matchlock could ever be and they're not even drawn from Nexus crafting or anything of the sort. I think all bits opposing a primitive firearm are rubbish, place restrictions on it to appease the magic and anti-tech advance community and us as a whole community should help self-moderate in calling folks out on bad gun roleplay.

Always imagined them like below, shitty coins minted out quickly (like these models) and lying in large piles in every bank about the realm.

Why bother with Antag events, they never pan out and ultimately just make this bitter community even more bitter.

Be kind to your fellow man and hope that your fellow man is kind to you.

S T A Y W O K E

Rumors of Mauris Conducted by Elwin Gray I. The News “Damn it all to hell,” escaped the mouth of Makariy as he stuffed his clenched fist into his coat pocket. In his other hand lay a data pad streaming a array of text which reflected off his scratched glasses. The central message in a bright white text read, ‘Mauris is dead.’ Ads prowled the far corners of the data pad and consumed the screen once the message closed. Makariy slid his finger along a red switch on the side of the data pad which silenced the LED display for now. The Drifter sat in a silence as a series of magnetic trains shot past near the bench which he sat; his figure made up of a raggedy pair of linen pants which had frayed sewings, a second-hand Navy Blue Veteran’s jacket missing all but one button, shoes which were carefully worked over with wax to keep water out, and scratched glasses which bared a prescription much out of date. His hair so unkempt he worked his whole hand through its rough exterior to push it out of his eyes. His eyes twitched for a second before water began to collect and fall from them. Makariy was once more alone in the world, left but only to return to his mind’s natural state. A permanent state of repeat. II. Genesis A roar of urban centre life erupted around a man with a neat and clean cut standing idle outside a busy starport. A freshly digitally stamped Visa, bearing the name Makariy, sliding into his pocket as he stood in awe outside the central nervous system of Termid. The city not only being the Capital of the planet Eurytus, but also being the host to many refugees from far and wide due to recent developments within the Republic. Makariy was one of said refugees but he did not bare much mind over the label; to him it was nothing more than something which bound him closer to those fellow refugees who certainly must be all around him too. He affixed a metal pin bearing a small flag, which was that of his homeworld, and a silver ‘R’ to mark his current status as refugee above his heart. And with the small bit of business over with he hoisted his stickered and worn suitcase from a small handcart. Beginning his journey to the fabled Menippus District; a supposed hot bed of a political and cultural thought and his new living quarters until eventual relocation to a Prime World. His pace inconsistent as his eyes darted about the busy roads that bustled with a variety of life and oddities. With the roads dominated by a mixture of olive-green Military APCs with humming engines, Police with their eyes surveying everything about them, and Kolarian Preachers adorned with pages of their scriptures pinned to their tunics. Makariy's walk coming to a halt as his eyes affixed to a piece of graffiti in a alley asking ‘Dare we ask?’. The question somehow making him feel unclean as he uneasily shifted his stance and glanced over his shoulder to a police officer smoking. After his third peak over his own shoulder he hurried along as he crossed through five boroughs until he found himself at a green street sign signaling the District ‘Menippus’. In the background a flurry of motion, a man breaking the head of another against the curb as he shouted in foreign speak. Makariy letting a question echo in his head. Dare we ask?

Was gonna try and do a Dwarven Warhammer in Blender for this but got lazy; here have some mini-hot dogs with mustard instead.

The Community; taking it out to the Prairie and putting it out of its misery.

8/10 Literally throws every game he has ever played.

Innovating since the loss of your patent on thanhium Star Wars speeders I see?

Thanks mi compadre; I eventually do have to start working on my skills with respects to the devil magic that is lighting. One day my renders will actually have good shine on stuff and pretty shadows. I do all sorts of stuff buckeroo. Hecc you If you actually want to commission something just message me what it is and I'll get back to you in near-ish future with progress on it or finished product. No need to even spend a shiny Mineman Roleplay Server nickel on the whole affair.

Hecc yeah, mediocre art is great. Might as well dump all the 'art' I occasionally make somewhere other than privately on Imgur. Blender Modeling Pixel Art

Orcish 'Honor' has always been equated in my mind to European Chivalry or much more so Bushido of Japan. It's less so a literal definition pulled from a dictionary website in an attempt to be blunt on the matter, but just a simple 2 word moniker that just breaks down to the way of life for Orcs. Orcs have a fairly heavily structured set of traditions and social ethics that they follow and they usually package these parts of their Culture into their every fibre of law and religion, which has always what Orcish Honor has been to me. Also to note I don't see the point in calling this, it's a relatively valid term to use that may only require brief explanation as to what it is and doesn't really deflate the points being made by Divine or anyone else who dare use 'Orcish Honor' leisurely.

A Parched Throat A Weekly Journal Conducted by Elwin Gray Serial 1 of 5 A canal of earth jutted through a small village contained in the lands of Man, its contents of rough dirt, cobbled stones, and jutting flora. The lane of dirt and stone quaked as an amassed body of four youth thundered forward into the quaint village. Their voices of a childlike giddy and their coin purses of a joyous jingle. Their garbs not of steady stitch nor their hands of a soft touch. The straying path of disturbed earth jutting from a grassy landscape lead a precarious route to a inn of little renown, ‘The Strawberry Roan’. The self assumed guide of the troop stood of a meager five foot and several inches, his skin pock marked, his gingered hair matted, a scruff about his chin, and weighing no more than 10 stones. His trade yet to be realized, but an apprentice to a Knife Eared fisher of fanciful garb; his baptised name being Karlson. Not far behind his step were his three companions in his simple life, Wilton a farmer’s son of wide girth, Lukas a club footed bumpkin, and Aric a simple hare trapper. The group’s entrance to the triple roomed, and quite dingy, inn was met with a instant of a woman's harsh toned words, “Close the fuckin’ door before the winds take root in here!” The group quickly gawked about the candled room which seemingly becalmed itself after the closing of the doorway behind them, and sought to no avail a table un-taken. Lukas’s club feet awkwardly dragged against the poor quality bleached flooring below that moaned in agony with each tremor of movement done upon it. The group’s presence was muted in the populated scene for which the inn was, men bearing the colors of Savoy clanked tankards together and thundered out stories of valor, peasantry pointed to their rotted teeth and laughed, and a solely one man sat alone and ran a handkerchief alongside his bruised left eye. Wilton detached from his wayward grouping and sat on the bench opposite of the black eye’d man. Wilton’s cracked dry lips opened with the slightest tear of dead skin from his lower lip, “Oi, Ser where ye get that blemish? Ye brawl wit’ some mean Midget, or a cranky jackass catch ye good?”, the boy mused and followed his statement by thieving some peanuts from a bowl near the man’s tankard. The group with an instant sprung to lodge their oxen friend away, a wave of apologies and pleading for forgiveness as they pulled on Wilton’s arms to break him free of the bench. As the bench began to shudder the most it fell from under the hayseed child, a loud crash and vibration causing a tankard to fall from a table’s edge. The tankard sloshing all of its content over the thigh of a Savoyard Serjeant. Within a quick succession the Serjeant had Wilton to the floor with his knee over his extruding belly, and a cascading series of downward strikes at his face by the Serjeant. Wilton’s nose contorting wildly downward and to the right, his face like a pulped red apple, and the bangs of his hair scattered about the mess slowly filling with more tears and blood. A symphony of cheers and laughter from the small crowd which had formed about, drinking their ale as they gazed onward to the quickly growing still mass of flesh being beaten in. A iron-enriched miasma taking hold of Wilton as his vision faded to a complete darkness. Awakening in a mildew laden field far off from the village, his whole body feeling drained to its core. His whole energy diverted to turning his head only to be met with a shallow gaze of the Savoyard Serjeant who lay next to him. A dagger embedded in in the side of his throat. A glazed dullness to his ever searching gaze which seemed to look towards Wilton’s very soul. Wilton's mouth gasping for air as his lungs began to rapidly flutter in a deep panic, a deep wheezing taking over the still air due to the lad's much parched throat.

Dungeon World might be a nice/better system to touch and go with editing for fitting the various little niche content of LOTC's Universe, but if you got Homebrewing 4th Edition down on lock should be fun times ahead.

How 'bout no.

Yeesh, why can't we all just be transparent friendos? We're all dorks playing on the same Mineman Roleplay server with all similar goals to have a chill time together as a community. Sucks that these types of threads were super common last year and will probably also be this year.

7/10; it's nice pixel art but it's one of the 14 million pixel art avatars on these forums.

Favorite type of cake? Favorite type of pie? Favorite gas station candy? Favorite Chamo? Why don't you size up your avatar size you mongrel?

Why are you such a punk?