Xarkly

The snow was still melting from Sendred's cloak as he knelt on the carpet of the General's study. 'Study' was, perhaps, a generous title. Lasthope had never been a fortress designed for comfort; it had been built to scale the wall, and it was only after that occasion that the fort had been modified to become the defensive behemoth it was today. Comfort had never been a priority, and that showed in the plain furnishing of the General's study; a Cold Bear-skin rug, a sturdy desk and chair, and bookcases lining the walls. That was it. Even some of the fortress' corridors, with their banners and tapestries, were more finely decorated. "Rise." Sendred obeyed, and stood rigidly erect. His side ached; he did not need to look at the menacing creak along the side of his black and white-trimmed breastplate to know it was the cause of his wound. Yet he could not allow himself to sag in front of the General himself, even if it did feel like his side was about to split open. Besides, he had overcome far greater trials that day, and he drew some comfort from that. The memory of his close encounter in the Darkways made his injury feel like a paper cut. Focus, you fool, he scolded himself, and muted his wandering thoughts. Instead, he watched the General. "I admit," the man opposite Sendred said slowly, "I am surprised you were successful, Sendred." In his gauntleted hands, the figure held a large disc of gleaming carbarum, etched with a lone eye surrounded by rings of knotting designs. He studied it appreciatively. "You ordered me to, Lord General, and I obey you orders," Sendred replied stiffly, though he swelled with pride. It was his first time that Lord-General Vaeyl himself had humbled him with such praise. His wound was forgotten now. The General only nodded. He was a tall man, topping Sendred by a hand or so, and clad in the traditional attire of the Vaeyl Order - a full suit of bronze platemail, painted black and trimmed along the edges with white, a black tabard emblazoned with a white eye, and a visored greathelm. From his helmet, a long plume of black twinned with white cascaded down his cloak - pitch black but for the white eye. Around his neck, a chain of intricately-worked black links suspended a white eye of studded opal. The chain, cloak and plume were all that Lord-General Vaeyl wore to tell him apart from the lowliest of the Order's knights. His cloak trailed along the floor as he moved across the room, and laid the carbarum seal gently on a shelf, right next to a perfectly identical seal. "Two, now." For as long as the General had lived and for all the things he had seen, Sendred still found it remarkable that the man was so soft-spoken. "Two, Lord," Sendred agreed solemnly. "Is there news of the hunt for the other seals?" Vaeyl stood there silently appraising the twin carbarum seals for a long moment before he answered. "You are the first to return with one of the Seals. Drochmar has left to seek out Kal'Riad in the old tunnels, Taevynd will find the Seal deep within Endmoor, and once Eyrid has repaired the Darkways, we will send a banner to retrieve the Seal from Old Sevenna." He spoke that last name with a hint of disdain, but Sendred could not blame him. "We traveled the Darkways, Lord, on the way to Yrodholm. Eyrid was not there, and it was crawling with Travellers." An unbidden shiver jolted Sendred at the sheer mention of the Darkways, and the Travellers. Images flashed in his head, from when he first arrived there with the Haensetians, to when they helped him when he fell near to the edge, until their blessed departure into the Yrodholm portal. "That is ... troubling," Vaeyl began, though his conversational tone betrayed nothing. "We will afford him a few days to appear." "And if he is dead, Lord? Taken by the Travellers or lost to the Darkways?" "Eyrid of Caer Baddyn has been caretaker of the Darkways since their inception. No one knows that twisted realm and its portals better than he. I doubt he is gone, but if he is ... We will cross that bridge when we come to it," the General said dismissively. His helmet creaked as he looked away from the carbarum seals, and eyed Sendred. "The Invader. They cooperated?" "They did, Lord," Sendred answered with an eager nod. "In fact, I doubt I would have succeeded if not for their aid. They answered my summons, helped me through the Darkways and took the Seal from its guardian in Yrodholm when I was injured." "Yrodholm," Vaeyl muttered absent-mindedly. His visor was focused on Sendred, but Sendred could tell that the General was looking at something entirely unseen. "What state is it in?" "It is ... a ruin, lord, as can be expected. The residential district has collapsed, but there are some shops left standing. The carpenters, the smiths, even the tailors." "And the populace?" Sendred frowned. "Ghosts, Lord. Gravens, Specters, even Apparitions. And the Golems. It is ... a dangerous ruin, Lord." "I had hoped ..." Vaeyl began, but he stopped himself with a shake of his head. "Never mind. You have done well, Sendred, to retrieve this Seal." "And ... and the Inv - the Haensetians, Lord?" Vaeyl tilted his head. "The Invaders? What of them?" "They have fulfilled their agreement, Lord," Sendred said cautiously. "They have helped us traverse Yrodholm, and retrieve the second Seal. They have repented of their invasion, and of their transgressions at the Battle of the Waste." Even as he spoke, different words spoken by a different voice echoed in Sendred's mind; Do you truly ever think there can be peace between us, Sendred? "That is true," Vaeyl admitted morosely. "I will conclude our business with them myself." "Lord if -" "Thank you, Sendred. I will conclude our business with them myself." He did not have to raise his voice. Turning on his heels, his helm surveyed the two carbarum seals once more. "Two Seals here in Lasthope. Three more remain out of our hands. Endmoor, Kal'Riad and Old Sevenna. Just three more, and the Wall will never be threatened." Do you truly ever think there can be peace between us, Sendred? The Highlander voice whispered in his head. Sendred ignored it. "You can send me to fetch any, Lord. I promise you I will be successful." "You have done enough, Sendred. Return to your patrols in the Waste." With a nod, Sendred turned. He knew better than to argue with the General, but even as he closed the door behind him, the voice in his head, the words of an Invader, echoed like a drum. Do you ever think there can be peace between us and the Vaeyl Order, Sendred?

Your events are too vague. The question specifically asks for a structure. Your first event, for example; the start is good but it gets ambiguous as it goes on. 'PvP fights and puzzles' don't tell us if you'll make a good ET. We're not asking for a script but I definitely want to see you know what you're doing from start go finish. I'll give you some time to rewrite them.

From the southern depths of the snow-capped Sleetfell forests, bright silvery lances sprouted from the the clouds and lit the sky. At first, that was it. That was all. Bright pretty lights; a lightning storm on a particularly clear day; a firework display. Something mundane, no doubt. Nothing to worry about, of course. At first, that was it. _______________________________________________________________ With one last heave of his axe, the tree heaved, and slowly began to topple. "TIMBER!" Toffer called out heartily. There was nobody there to warn; he just liked shouting timber. With a satisfying crash, the tree collapsed into the ground with a chorus of splintering bark and snapping branches. Clicking his tongue, Toffer shouldered his hefty iron hatchet as he advanced towards the felled tree. He had always found it curiously ironic that, as a Dwarf, he made a better lumberjack than he did miner, but he enjoyed it all the same. The lush, forested hillsides outside Holm, with the open, crisp mountain air was always more appealing to him than cramped tunnels. Whistling to himself, the axe blurred in his hands as he began slicing the splaying branches of the old oak. It was then that something caught his eye. Toffer blinked beyond the trunk, through the trefoil leaves. A gleam of white stone. He frowned; he was far from a miner, but he knew that there was no quartz, diorite or marble so close to Holm. Even from here, he could see the stout walls of Holm thrusting upwards into the pale mountain sky. Curiosity and conflict knotted his stomach as he ran a hand through his auburn hair. "Somethin' of value, maybe," he murmured to himself, though unconvincingly. Hatchet gripped firmly in hand, he vaulted over the trunk, and treaded towards the hint of white. It led into a dip in the land, a small cave in the hill. Standing at the foot of the hill, his breath caught in his throat. "That's nae stone ..." ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Drok squinted across the rolling plains of sand as he trekked through the Knolls beyond the walls of Krugmar, kicking up pale sand as he went. Occasionally, he glanced up towards the star-studded sky and picked out the largest, towards the north, to ensure he followed the right path. His crimson skin itched as the night cold caressed it; after all these years as a hunting Uruk, he could still not wrap his head around how the desert boiled with heat during the day when the sun was a ball of molten gold, yet at night the moon was a beacon of ice, and the Knolls were as chilly as the Yatl Wastelands. It was ironic, then, that he preferred the heat, and yet the best time to hunt was at night. Yet he was not here to hunt; not tonight. Clutching his spiked cleaver, he stifled a vexed sigh as he spotted the wooden palisades on the approaching hilltop, over which the black-and-red banner of Krugmar stirred limply in the cold wind. He lumbered up the slope, a frustrating feat in the thick, loose sand, and half-sprinted up the final stretch until he stood at the foot of the palisades. As usual, the constant snow that dusted the sun-baked wood unnerved Drok. He had never seen such snow, and he had no wish to see in the depths of the desert. Eyeing the white fluff sourly, he stepped within the palisades, and froze. It was his duty, assigned by the Rex himself, to check on the portal that they kept a close watch on, yet what he saw in the archway was not what he usually saw -- normally, a shimmering veil of bright purple, like a million sparkles, hung over the white arch, but Drok found himself staring into space. _______________________________________________________ For as long as Ioryth could remember, his mother had warned him to stay out of the ruins of Endmoor. Yet he was a grown elf now - nearly thirty-five years of age! - and he had grown sick at the sight of the walls of Caras Eldar, sick of peddling mushrooms at his family's meagre shop. Surely, inside the ruins of Endmoor just a day's walk from the Dominion, he would find adventure. He wound find treasure. He would find something to lift him out of his ordinary life and into a special one. Of course, he had heard the rumours about the apparitions; whatever had left the fortress city in its ruined state, it had been a bloody affair, and now tormented souls walked the forlorn streets. Ioryth was not sure if he beleived it -- he had never been the superstitious sort, but he supposed it was better to be cautious than dead. Unconsciously, he tugged on the bowstring of his supple yew flatbow, and continued his ascent. Boots crunching against the gravel, he continued up towards the city. Even from the winding pathway leading up to him the abandoned city inspired a sense of unease, of impending dread. Thirty-five years, Ioryth had to remind himself. He was a grown elf, and a grown elf did not hide from old dusty cities. He eyed the pale marble statue of the figure overlooking the cities gates from the hilltop. Briefly, he wondered who might have been, but it was impossible to tell, given the millenia of erosion. Before he knew it, he found himself at the gates. The portcullis stood open. "A grown elf, a grown elf ..." He took a breath, and stepped inside the city. He found his treasure straight away.

Hey, so I'm gonna be denying this application for two main reasons The fact that you consider loot to be among one of the most important factors for an event tells me that you don't have the mindset we're looking for on the Team. Your ideas are fine in their own right, but they're just not events. They're short stories, and that's not an event. I don't know which characters are meant to be players, what's meant to be you, etc. I need to see where players interact with you, what they'll be doing, and so on and so forth.

From the perspective of someone who hasn't really looked at the war system in depth since February-ish (so feel free to disregard if I'm overlooking something), a large part of dissatisfaction with wars comes from the rule side of things. Things like the official alliance rule seem pretty not great to me and others have well-articulated gripes with CBs. I can testify to the latter; its genuinely a process like a legal matter, riddled with complexities, dependant on wordplay and burdened with certain rules and clauses that are vague and sometimes even nonsensical. You could address these more significant issues by getting rid of literal pretend red tape like the alliance rule, and perhaps take an alternate approach to CBs. Maybe simplify the process, but look at reducing the outcome of war from total destruction so nations won't fight tooth and nail to deny CBs and you're not left with a lot of unhappy and displaced players. Obviously its not quite as simple as that but my point here is that this isn't really addressing the problem with wars. This update is fine. Just OK. It doesn't tackle any of the obvious issues with the war system that are upsetting people.

Denied.

Accepted.

Accepted.

@Voidal Application accepted; welcome aboard. I'll be in touch on Discord.

The ancient fortress of Thandvar in the Yatl Wasteland. "Peace and fire to you, Taevynd of Yrodholm, and to your command," the encroaching voice called. Stood atop a north-facing plateau of ancient stone, cloaked in snow and ice and eroded by centuries of harsh wind, a stone colossus of a fortress rose up behind Taevynd. Thandvar, once one of the biggest military outposts of the Vaeyl Order, rose up from the ocean of white snow like a four-pointed star and scratched the cloud-veiled sky. Its massive, tiered keep acted as the best possible windbreaker in the Waste, unless one stood at the foot of the Wall itself. Thandvar almost equaled Lasthope in size, and dwarfed it in grandeur; even with centuries of erosion and inactivity, the star-shaped fortress was a sight to behold. Only now it was a ruin, claimed only by golems that had once served the Order - and would again, thanks to Taevynd. "Peace and fire to you, Drochmar of Kahaer, and your command," Taevynd replied once the figure had close enough, and ceremoniously placed a fist over his heart. Mounted on a white-skinned polar bear, Drochmar, clad all in bronze plate painted black-and-white, paused at the edge of the plateau. His bronze scythe was raised skywards, as were those of the dozen riders behind him. Just two soldiers remained of Taevynd's own command; they had lost five trying to reclaim the fortress from the malfunctioned golems. Behind them, they had hastily hung a banner of the Vaeyl Order - a white eye on black cloth - from an eroded ledge manned by stone gargoyles that hung from Thandvar's north wall. At the front of his dozen bear riders, and the only man with a white plume in his helmet like Taevynd's, Drochmar surveyed the party of three that stood afoot Thandvar. "I worried I would find none here but more golems. You were successful, then?" Taevynd nodded wearily. "We lost five brothers, but we scaled to the top of Thandvar. We retrieved the Command Lexicon." He raised his left hand, where a cube of solid gold, decorated with tiny inscriptions, gleamed in the pale light. As if to demonstrate, he channeled his thoughts into the Lexicon; from behind, there came a large clap of stone as a hulking, eight-foot humanoid all made of stone lumbered forward. Its open helmet, carved akin to that of Vaeyl footman, exposed a face of motionless stone features. With a thought from Taevynd, the stone titan raised its hand, and lowered it once again. Taevynd simply had to think of it with the Lexicon in his hand, and it happened. "This is good. This is excellent," Drochmar exclaimed. He was not a man of much emotion, Taevynd knew, so his raised voice was the equivalent of others bursting into a celebratory jig. "The Vaeyl Order will have its stone titans once more. Are there many left in the fortress?" "Some. We had to destroy many to retrieve the Lexicon." Drochmar nodded thoughtfully and turned his visor towards the top of the looming fortress. "How is it you managed to retake the fort, Taevynd?" Taevynd hesitated. He did not need to look behind to know his two remaining soldiers were exchanging uneasy, perhaps even ashamed, glances. "We ... we had aid," Taevynd answered at last. With a metallic creak, Drochmar looked back down to him. Behind him, his men sat on their bears in dead silence, as did Taevynd's men behind him. Vaeyl Knights knew never to interrupt meetings of their officers, but at that moment, the only sound for a long moment as the howl of the blizzard as it swept across the Waste. "Aid? I did not think the Lasthope garrison would have Knights to spare." "It was not from Lasthope that our aid came." "Then where? My banner was the nearest, and you did not call for me. After that, Sendred's banner is closest, but he is miles away, preparing to deal with the Black-and-Gold Invaders." "The Black-and-Gold Invaders, they ... they came into the Wastes, to Thandvar." Drochmar, and a good many of his men, visibly stiffened at that, but Taevynd went on before they could protest. "We could not fight invaders and golems, Drochmar. We made a pact. It was thanks to them we could reclaim Thandvar, and the Lexicon." "Taevynd," Drochmar began slowly. The gentleness to his tone was sinister. "Invaders are not allies. Especially the Black-and-Gold invaders. Do you forget who halted our attempt to reclaim the Sleetfells? Do you forget who destroyed the Oathstone?" "We have a pact with them, do we not? With their king?" Taevynd challenged him, and made a vain effort to reign in the heat in his voice. "We do," Drochmar answered tentatively. Taevynd was not sure if it was his imagination, but Drochmar's men seemed to tighten their grips on their scythes as their commander went on. "But only until Yrodholm is reclaimed. There is another Lexicon there; that is of paramount importance. The invaders can be dealt with once the city and its jewel is ours." "It was necessary to reclaim -" Taevynd started, but his time Drochmar did not let him finish. "I will not tell Lord Vaeyl of this." Though Drochmar spoke near to a whisper, it was like a roar in Taevynd's ear. "But it will not happen again. If they come again, you will slay them, golems be damned. They are our enemies, Taevynd. They have taken our home, and our Oathstone, and if we let them, they will take all. Do you understand me, Taevynd of Yrodholm?" For a long moment, Taevynd simply stared across at the mounted Vaeyl Knights. Finally, he inclined his head, and stifled an exasperated sigh. Drochmar healed his bear forward until it was just a pace from Taevynd. With just a slight motion from its rider, Taevynd knew the Waste-bred creature could clamp its jaws around his helmet without much trouble. Instead, Drochmar extended a hand. "The Lexicon." Unconsciously balling a fist, Taevynd placed the gold cube in Drochmar's hand. They were of equal rank, but with his liaison with the invaders made known, he felt like a squire who had miss-stepped in front of Vaeyl himself. As soon as the bronze digits of Drochmar's gauntlets closed around the Lexicon, Taevynd half-turned to one of his remaining men. "Oevrick; show Drochmar of Kahaer and his command to our fires." With a stiff nod, Oevrick, whose armor was battered and dented, turned and stalked towards the fortress. Without a word, Drochmar and his men dismounted, and led their bears after Oevrick. For a long moment, Taevynd stood alone on the lower plateau with his last remaining man. "Yharron," he addressed the last soldier. "Was I wrong?" " ... Wrong, lord?" "Was I wrong to ally with the invaders, to reclaim Thandvar and the Lexicon. Should I have killed as soon as we could?" Behind him, Yharron shifted uncomfortably on the frozen stone. "I ... do not like speaking with invaders, lord, or even seeing them. But we would have perished today if not for their aid." "I ... I see. Go to the fires then, Yharron. Go and rest." Without another word, Yharron nodded, and vanished in the direction that Drochmar and Oevrick had gone. Taevynd himself remained stood on the plateau for what felt like an hour, but could have been a minute - in this eternal darkness, time was a trivial thing in the Waste. He simply thought. No matter what Drochmar and his riders thought, no matter what Sendred and his assault force near the invader capital thought, no matter what Lord Vaeyl, Horen's own anointed, thought, Taevynd would remember what happened here today. He would remember his peace with the invaders. He would remember the Alliance of Thandvar, however brief and hopeless it had been.

Application placed on pending, you will be contacted shortly.

@z3m0s We'll be giving you an interview to get a better idea of whether you'll make a good ET or not. I'll be in touch on Discord soon.

@ElvenHuntress You're application wasn't good enough to accept you straightaway so we'll be conducting an interview to decide whether or not you'd make a good ET. I'll send you a Discord friend request; accept it and send me a message when you're around and ready.

Gonna be denying this one. It's not easy to accept someone (and especially hard to justify that to administration) when they're banned and have a recent ban history. When you come back and if you manage to keep clean for a while, then please do apply again, because I'd really like to accept you, but with your current ban situation it's not possible.

Accepted.