Xarkly

The Sleetfell Forests south of Markev Farald panted as he sprinted through the forest. He had long since dropped his palise shield, painted in the gold and black of Haense, and abandoned his sword so that he could run faster. He only wished that he could pause to shed his breastplate and chainmail, but he had no such time. He dared not look, but he knew they were hot on his heels. One misstep would spell his doom, like it had done for Orik. He instantly regretted even thinking of his late comrade; a lump immediately formed in the soldier's throat, and he nearly lost his balance on a gnarled root of an old oak that snaked out treacherously from the ground. Farald stumbled several steps forward, plated boots sinking into the marshy foliage, before he staggered into another tree and hastily gripped the misshapen bark to regain his balance. Not a second later, an arrow thudded into the tree, just inches from his arm. Farald's eyes twitched wider as he watched the arrow simply dissipate into ethereal, black smoke that curled up and vanished in the chilling, southerly wind. His heart pounding in his mouth, Farald instinctively looked over his shoulder; the split second image of the dark-clad archer drawing his bow back was all Farald needed to start running again. Leaping over roots and swatting rogue branches, Farald tried to focus on simply running, but the dense Sleetfell forest, with its thick canopies allowing only pale fractures of wintery light through chinks in the leaves and its forest floor rendered wet and swampy by the relentless rain, seemed to have no immediate end in sight. When Farald had first been sent south with Orik by their company commander, he was not sure that he had believed the rumours about ghostly warriors assaulting the King's company, but he had been proven wrong in a bloody fashion when one of those shadowy, smokey spears blossomed in Orik's throat. "Orik ... no ..." he whispered hoarsely, and despite himself, his mind turned to grief. Suddenly, his boot sank into a patch of wet mud, and within seconds he was on the ground with a splash of thick rainwater. His armour clanged and heaved as it struck the forest floor, and Farald's breath immediately left him as the ground rushed up to meet him and dirtied water flooded his helmet. He gasped as he forced himself upright, but mud clouded his visor. Blinded and desperate for air, Farald's gloved fingers furiously fumbled with the straps his gorget. His throat was aching for breath by the time he finally wrenched his helmet off, and fresh air filled his lungs once again. His relief was short-lived, however: as his vision returned, he found a the point of sword resting on his neck. His blood turned to ice, and his heart began to pound like a wardrum, so hard that Farald almost felt a physical pain in his chest. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet the swordsman. It was odd that the first thing Farald noticed was that the soldiers were not clad in all black, but dark grey. All clad in rustic armour that seemed to be made of a strange, dull brown metal that Farald had never beheld before, they seemed both very real, and very ghostly. The pale light shone on the surface of their brown breastplates, whereas their cloaks were like translucent, smokey veils that Farald could see right through. Behind the swordsman, more of the ghostly warriors seemed to be slowly approaching, each with a variety of weapons, from spears that scraped the branches to heavy mauls slung over shoulders. They ringed around Farald, and a leaden silence gripped the Sleetfells. Farald grasped for words. He wanted to threaten them, to proclaim that he was a proud Haensetian man who did not fear death, to curse them for the murder of Orik, but the words would not come. "Pl ... Pl-Please ..." he instead stammered. His throat, his voice felt it was no longer his own. The swordsman tilted his head, as if intrigued. Farald's heart thumped even stronger when the voice that came from the helmet was human. "Go home," he said gently. The accent was unlike anything Farald had ever heard. "H-h-ho-home?" he breathed. The swordsmen lowered his sword, but his slitted visor did not leave Farald. "Go home," he repeated, with equal softness. "Enjoy your final days." "F-f-final d-days?!" Farald managed. He wanted to scream, he wanted to stand, he wanted to run, but his body would not obey him. Fear froze glued him to the ground. The figure remained silent for a long moment, before he exhaled, as if sighing. "You invade our land, you trespass our home, and you steal our most treasured relic. For this, there is no forgiveness." The swordsman remained staring at Farald. When the Haensetian did not answer, the ghost hoisted his sword. "N-no, no, I'm going," Farald blurted. He muttered a silent prayer of thanks when his legs finally obeyed him, and he pushed to his feet. He cast a look the cohort of ghostly warriors, but they only stared back without uttering a word. Farald did not wait for a third warning; he turned, and began to sprint through the ankle-deep rainwater. After just a few steps, he tripped and landed face-first in the water. As he hastily climbed to his feet again, he expected the ghosts to react, but there came no sound. He almost wished they would burst out in mocking laughter, but no such laughter came. There was only silence. As Farald ran back to Markev, it was that silence that haunted him most of all.

The Marna nest has been exterminated!

The Haense nest has been exterminated!

Pest Control The Fat Rat Strikes Back The fields near Senntisten "That's it ... Elbow straight ... No, straighter ... Up a bit - yes, just like that ... and slowly ease your fingers ... off the string ..." The arrow whistled as it sailed free from the bowstring, sank into the trunk with a resonating thud. The feathered shaft vibrated violently for a few moments after the impact, before there came the sound of applause. "Well done, Geoff! You'll be a royal marksman in no time." Geoff could not help but smile. His elbow ached as he lowered his supple shortbow and turned to face his father. Clad in all roughspun clothes and a straw hat, the look of pride etched into his father's stony face and the continuous clapping was enough to turn Geoff's cheeks red. His father was not an easy man to please, and Geoff's smile had grown so wide that it almost hurt his cheeks, but he could not help it. "T-truly, father?" he asked, half-expecting his father's pride to turn into mocking satire. "Truly. I've never heard of an eight year-old lad making a shot like that." With an uncharacteristic warmth to his smile, Geoff's father strode over to him, wading through stalks of wheat. The boy was taken completely by surprise when his father suddenly embraced him and for a moment, he was simply stunned. He could not remember the last time his father had shown such love. Blinking back a tear, Geoff hurriedly returned the embrace. He was almost sad when his father eventually pulled away, and straightened his straw hat before he ruffled Geoff's unkempt hair. "Come on, then, your mother will be delighted to hear about our famous archer. Let's head home." Geoff beamed once more, before he began to run towards the trunk of the old oak tree, which stood silhouetted in the sky, which was tinted a soothing gold by the ebbing sun. Just as he went to lay his little hands on the shaft of the arrow, which jutted from a particularly thick segment of bark, he heard his father call out. "No, lad, leave it - as a memorial. When you're a famous bowman, you can remember this as the spot where it all started." Geoff did not think he would smile any wider, but he did. He ran back to his father, with his plump cheeks red and his eyes glazed with joyous tears and -- abruptly, Geoff's foot caught something in the ground, and the fell, trampling stalks of grain as he did so. "Geoff?" came his father's hesitant call. "Don't be clumsy, boy, come on." "I -- c-coming," Geoff called back as he brushed the dirt from his arms. His leg ached from whatever he had hit, but he wasted no time to investigate. He began to climb to his feet, before the dull ache in his leg suddenly turned into a sharp sting, as if he had been struck by steel. He cried out in pain before he collapsed to the ground once more. He tried to move his leg, but it was as if something had clumped through his pigskin boot and into his ankle. He held a searing heat travel along his leg, and his heart began to thump when he realised it was blood. He began to swat aside the grain in a frenzy to see what had grabbed his leg, but it was then that Geoff noticed the ground seemed ... shake. "F-f-father! Father!" Geoff screamed through the lump in his throat. "Geoff, stay there, I'm comi - AH!" His breathing heavy and his leg throbbing with pain, Geoff tried to look over to where his father had been, but the tall stalks of grain obscured him. He could hear, though -- he could the hear the pained screams of his father, and a subtle, monotonous hissing. "Ksksksksksksks..." "Father!" Geoff's voice had turned to a shriek. Normally his father would frown upon something like this as a display of femininity, but even that thought did not concern Geoff. There came no answer, though; the screams had stopped, but the hissing remained. And it grew louder. Geoff's knuckles clawed at the shaking earth, out of both pain and fear, and he simply watched as grey shapes appeared around him, snaking through the stalks of wheat and erupting from the ground. They swarmed his body. As the sun dipped below the horizon and invited an array of starry constellations to the Marnan sky, silvery moonlight lit the wheat field, where the oak tree stood with the arrow embedded in its bark, and a small bow lay alone amidst the wheat, marking the spot where a boy once enjoyed a few minutes of happiness before he succumbed to the Silverfish. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ Following the actions of a certain alchemist by the bridge outside Marna, Silverfish have now infested the fields, forests and perhaps even the towns of Marna, Haense and Sutica. These stone and earth-eating rodents pose a threat to anyone who has the misfortune to stumble upon them, and, if left unchecked, their numbers may grow exponentially. The pests have made nests near the capital towns of Marna, Haense and Sutica. If you or your group wants to tackle the threat, message Xarkly in-game or on discord (Conor#8203) to arrange a time for an event to hunt them down and exterminate them. Sutica Marna Haense

Order Form MCName: Xarkly Type of Bust: Colour Position: Whatever works best for you Character name: Ruslan Amador Hair: Very very dark auburn, semi-curled fringe, shaved sides Eyes: Round, ice blue Reference: https://gyazo.com/ca8959ab1f20d99628bd25879cbca14e https://gyazo.com/287287947bdd22c6c33e995affb5bbd1 He isn't based off any art, so; he's got a thin, sharped jaw, chin and nose and some light stubble. Expression wise, try and make him look a little cold and distanced.

Immediately after his speech, Hademar hurriedly dismounted the platform and began to wade through his crowd, back to his donkey and cart. He did not know if the people clapped, or booed, or stayed silent; his heart was thumping in his chest like a war drum and deafened all other sound. Hademar licked his lips and tried to quell the nerves as he busied himself with unloading the bushels from his cart. By the time his hearing returned, he heard the familiar voice of Karol Vance, and the farmer's eyebrows crept up in alarm as he realised the voice was one of rebuttal. As Karol finished, the crowd in the square had grown thicker as word spread through the city of the speeches. Hademar braced himself and swallowed the lump in his throat, before he mounted his own wagon. He sucked in a breath, stuck two fingers in his teeth, and whistled loudly. "What do I know about being Maer?" he questioned loudly as heads snapped towards. "I suppose mister Vance asks a good question. But when did good Highlander folk need a qualification to run their own city? Jan Kovachev, bless his soul, had no certificate from the Johannesburg Conservatoire that entitled him to the office of Maer. We all are entitled to that office, and we are all equally qualified. You," he pointed across the square, to Karol, "are a citizen of Markev. So are you," his finger shifted to a surprised, balding man in a woolen doublet. "And you, and you, and you," His finger moved across the square, until he pointed to himself, "and I are all citizens of Markev. We know this city, and we know its needs -- and that is all the qualification we need." He paused at the sudden realisation that his voice was hoarse and aching form the cold air. He sucked in a breath, and began again. "My plan for this city may not be as glorious as a general's battlefield speech, but it is a real plan. A real direction for this city to go in, a true path to prosperity. Mister Vance dismisses it, though his plan to gather basic materials is almost identical to my own vision to set up guilds to provide us with these resources. But I admire mister Vance, as we all do, and so I ask -- why should we squabble about who can run this city better, when we can work together to bring Markev to greater heights? I ... I am inviting mister Vance to join me as a Vice-Maer, and succeed me in the next election, which I promise I shall not run in." A tide of surprised murmurs rippled throughout the crowd, but Hademar did not pause for long. "Once all is said and done, ladies and gentlemen, I ask that you only vote for the man you believe in. I am Hademar of Markev, and I wish you all a pleasant evening." Hademar could not afford to stay in the city any longer -- he had livestock to attend to back at his farm. After hurriedly unloading his bushels, he mounted his donkey, and rushed home. Though he returned the next morning, eager to see if the other candidates spoke again. He returned the day after, too. And the next. And the next. Hademar en route to Markev.

"Well, that's all well and good." As Karol Vance and his cohorts concluded their speeches and endorsements, a particular man in the crowd stirred. Throughout the speeches, he had remained motionless as he leaned back against a rickety-wooden cart, loaded with the last of that summer's wheat. A milk-skinned donkey with particularly long ears suddenly snorted loudly at the end of the speeches, snatching the attention of a good many citizens. It was then that the man tipped back his straw farmer's hat and let his unruly mop of brown hair dance in wind before he tucked his hat behind one of the bushels on his cart and became to saunter up to the platform. "That's all well and good," he repeated once more, louder this time, as the crowd turned in surprise to the unexpected speaker. At the top of the platform, he planted his callused hands on his hips and simply stood there for a moment. With his back to the warmthless Deep Cold sun, he cast a long shadow and was akin to a proud silhouetted statue looking down on them. Finally, he began to speak. "That's all well and good," he cooed a final time, in his deep, rolling Highlander, but evidently lower class, accent. "Honeyed words and pocketed friends make for a nice speech without a shred of planning or strategy, but the Haensetian people want more than that -- they deserve more than that. They deserve a plan to help the city development into the most prominent of the human hubs. They deserve a city with businesses, shops and services that will tend to their inventories and needs. They deserve a city where bread, timber and good iron is plenty. And they deserve a Maer who can give them this." The man paused for a prolonged moment, as the wayward winter wind carried his words through the streets. "Haensetian men and women, I am Hademar of Markev, a farmer who has come from nothing, and I am the Maer who can give you this! I will give you not flowery words and ambiguous promises, but a plan to bring all this to fruition unlike the other candidates! I swear to you that I will build housing to cater to Markev's growing population, for this is what you deserve! I swear to you that I will contact businesses across Atlas and compel them to move their shops and trades here, to this city, where they can economically serve you, for this is what you deserve! I swear to you that I will establish guilds in this city that produce bread to feed your families, timber to build your homes, and iron for tools to busy our hands and swords to keep us safe, for this is what you deserve! I swear to you, good folk of Haense, that I am the Maer who can give you all this and more, because this is what you deserve!" "I AM HADEMAR OF MARKEV, AND I ASK FOR YOUR VOTE!" Hademar of Markev

Can we get an indication of what kind of changes you're making to raids?

https://gyazo.com/7fb0678c842067d06ab832396f906677?token=913e69337eb934d896053fab7f2b7eb3 What I lack in hours I make up for in loyal Orenian patriotism.

The relentless torrent of noise drowned out Floris' thoughts. The glassy-grey waves as they churned beneath the boardwalk and beat against the stone shore of the Cloud Temple, the chorus of cloth sails threatening to flee their halyards in the ocean wind, and the sound hundreds of voices mingling into one restless din of chatter, laughs and shouts. Despite his best effort, he could not think clearly with all the noise. Instead of he walked, alone and aimless, down the boardwalk. He could hear the sodden planks of the boardwalk creak excessively beneath his own weight, and that of the hundreds of others scrambling about the harbour, but he thought that he would not even mind if the wood gave way and deposited him into the icy waters below. He hardly felt the spring wind, which carried the bitter touch of the encroaching Thanhium chill, and he most certainly did not feel the warmthless sun, whose light fractured at intervals through the swathes of grey that hung in the sky above the Temple. Exhaling a misty breath, he tried to gather his bearings. He waded through down the creaking boardwalk through crowds of men, elves, dwarves, orcs, and half a dozen other races that he did not recognize. Perhaps once the thought of seeing a species for the first time would have filled with him excitement, and perhaps even awe, but now his gaze glossed over them as if they were not even there. He paused at that, before he raised a forearm to block out some of the spring sun even though it was not particularly bright. It was at that moment that something bumped into Floris' shoulder, and sent him staggering forward a few steps with a surprised grunt. When Floris glanced around to whatever had struck him, he found a man who seemed rather young, though he could not tell for certain because of the fellow's sallet helm. The other helmeted man wore a surcoat over a suit of chainmail, and it was the chequered design of that surcoat that snared Floris' gaze. "Oi, fuckin' watch y' step, old man," the man in the surcoat grunted in a jagged accent. Floris, however, did not hear him; he remained squinting at the colours of the surcoat. They seemed so familiar -- Floris was certain that he must have worn it once, that those colours were important to him. Yet however hard he stared, and however deep he thought, he could not put a name to the colours. "What y' staring at?" the helmeted man only seemed to grow irritated as Floris continued to stare at him. Floris opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. As the man narrowed his gaze at him, Floris simply turned, and joined the stream of people flooding towards the ships that awaited at the end of the boardwalk, heralded by tall masts that rose high above the crowds and scratched at the pale sky. Floris did not know if the soldier in the familiar surcoat followed him, but nor did he care. He was left confused by the design on the surcoat, but even now, as he tried to think of it, that very same design had melted away from his mind. "Sir?," came a sudden, mild voice that wrenched Floris from his confusion. He whirled around to the speaker, half-expecting to find the aggressive soldier once again, but instead he found a squat man clad in a faded brown habit, a Cannonism cross dangling from around his neck and swaying slightly in the sea breeze. "I - I beg your pardon?" Floris stammered. "Did you say something?" The monk, who was an aged man with lines etched into his face like chiseled stone, offered him a comforting smile. "I asked if you were lost." "Lost?" Floris repeated with a frown. The monk smiled once more, but this time Floris understood it was a pitiful smile. "You ... you're standing at a dead end, sir." Floris glanced around once more, and saw that the monk was right -- at some stage when he was lost in his myriad of thoughts, he had broken from the crowd and ended up at corner of the docks occupied only by empty, rotting barrels and tattered sacks besieged by flies. "Which ship are you looking for? I can point you in the right way," the monk offered in a tone laden with reassurance. "Johannesburg," Floris blurted out immediately. The monk's smile twitched into a confused frown. "Pardon me? What did you say?" "I - Oren," Floris breathed with a clenched fist. "I - Apologies, I - I'm looking for the Oren ship." The monk's frown only deepened as he raised his heavy-set eyebrows skeptically. "The, ah, Marna ship, sir? Or the Renatus one?" Floris knitted his brows. "The - the what?" His eyes shot to the tall masts that thrust into the sky in the distance. He narrowed his eyes and scanned all the colourful banners that streamed triumphantly in the wind, but he did not recognize them. After a second, they all looked to be a lifeless grey. Floris' breathing had suddenly grown exceptionally heavy. "Sir?" The monk blinked at him with obvious concern. "Sir, are you --" Without answering, Floris stormed past into the monk, and back into the crowd. It was thinner this time, he noticed, and began to wonder how long he had stood in that corner before the monk had approached him. He steadied his breathing and clenched his fists even tighter, and simply focused on following the horde of people to the ships. He could see now that the titanic sails of some of the galleons were no longer flapping wildly, but had become slightly more tame. They were preparing to set sail, Floris deduced. He found an even bigger crowd at the farthest edge of the boardwalk, where five ships were lined up. A glance out towards the open sea told him that some of the smaller brigs and frigates had already took to the water, with their sails curved and filled with wind. His attention was quickly robbed by the crowd, however -- the crowd, and their noise once more. The hundreds of simultaneous footsteps, the droning voices and a nearby chime of a bell that heralded passengers on board one of the ships. Yet in that brief moment, it was not footsteps that Floris heard, but the thundering of hooves as horses followed the ferrum-tip of their riders' lances into enemy lines. The chorus of voices became screams of rage as men killed, and screams of pain as men were killed. The bell was a horn that signalled the infantry's advance like a wave of steel, and Floris' mind was taken far from the docks of the Cloud Temple. The towers of Johannesburg glazed in ice, the fields of Elba streamed with corpses, the bloodied pines of the Rothswood. He brought a fist to his head, and tried to drown out the images. He was here now -- he had to keep going. His final steps felt like he was crawling on his hands at knees. With a hand held to his face like he was impeding a blood flow, Floris fell in a line with humans, and he simply followed. He focused on his footsteps, on forcing himself to move one foot forward without slipping back into the mire of his own mind. Though it only could have been a few dozen feet away, it felt like hours had passed by the time Floris arrived at a broad gangplank that led onto the dock of one of the larger ships. He could not tell which ship it was, as the crowning banner that flew from the mast seemed like a blank grey canvas to him, but it was full of humans. "Welcome aboard, sir," chimed a broad-built, barechested sailor by the gangplank. "We be abou' to set sail, hurry on board." Floris made to move up the gangplank. His body, however, did not move. "Sir?" the sailor prompted with a hint of impatience. "We be leavin' now, in just a moment. I'm raisin' the plank after ye." He was here now, Floris told himself. He had to keep going. Didn't he? "Sir? Hello?" Floris did not hear the man. Instead, he looked up towards the men and women crowded along the gunnel of the ship, before he glanced over his shoulder. The dock behind him seemed barren all of a sudden, with the former bustling crowd of all races reduced to just a few meagre queues to board the remaining ships. Floris squinted at and scanned the faces of those humans, in search of the slightest hint of recognition, in search of Amelie, Erin, Johan, Laurens, Susanne, Leon. Much like the banners of the ships, within seconds, all the faces seemed to turn to a blank mound of grey clay, waiting to be formed. If the sailor spoke as Floris turned and marched back down along the boardwalk, he did not hear him. With each step he took away from the ships, the world seemed to grow a little more colourful, a little warmer. When he was back on the island proper, he turned back towards the ocean, and found that the colossal titans of ships that once lined the docks had been reduced to toy boats on the horizon, gliding across the glassy water, and into the grey unknown. It was a soothing sight to watch them simply fade away. Floris simply sat on a cold rocky outcrop on the island's plateau, and watched until they vanished. He remained watching the horizon long after they had vanished, too - he did not know how long. When the Thanhium came for him, as he watched the surrounding ocean turn into a blue glaze, it was not the cold that Floris felt. He felt the warm caress of a healthy fire as he settled into the armchair of his Johannesburg office. From the chair, all it took was a glance towards Floris' unblemished window to be greeted by the stone and slate labyrinth that was the city of the Johannesburg. Even from John Frederick Avenue, he could make out the colourful dome of the courthouse and the spearing spire of the palace. It was growing dark outside, and Floris watched in simple awe as the city was suddenly dappled with spots of bright torchlight as yellow as butter. It was at that moment that Floris then realised a book was laid open on his lap. He had not remembered fetching a book, but as he traced the firm leather binding, he suddenly felt very comforted by the book. It was complete, he realised with a soft smile. With that thought, he gently closed the book.

It's unrealistic to have every GM know every single rule for every single circumstance. It makes much more sense to have a handful of GMs be able to manage warclaims and coups while others can handle heists and charters. Its not efficient if GMs have to rely on asking in Discord chats for every second issue. Before the sub-teams had a purposed structure that satisfied its intention; removing them is pointless and gives no indication of how it improves 'productivity'.

Strongly opposed to someone who's never been a GM, to my knowledge, acting as Director. Removal of sub-teams is a piss poor idea. Are you now expecting every GM to know coup rules back to front? Heists? Charters? Sub-teams were effective at what they did, any failures stemmed from leadership. GM team seems to have taken a big step backwards, thoroughly unimpressed.

This log is a significant improvement from last month, though I have to admit that I'm skeptical of somebody holding the role of 'Chairman' when they've played 3 hours on LOTC in the last 70 days. It's fine to work behind the scenes, but for a title as brazen as Chairman, I'm not really comfortable with it being held by someone who doesn't actually play.

its a trap

This is all well and good, but totally unwanted and unncessary. I can respect you're putting your time and effort into coding things to help fix Nexus, but you may have noticed the subtle communal opinion that we want to get rid of Nexus - not 'fix' it, or 'change' it. It should be gone. Yeah, it takes time to get rid of a huge system like that and take into account the economic effects, but I think people would MUCH prefer if you put your time into working on those things in preparation for a removal of Nexus rather than this. This is nice fellas, but it just seems like fluff in the grand scheme of things.

Okay I was a strong advocate for rewriting the antagonist but this is just making a bad situation worse. When speaking to members of the Antag Team, I strongly suggested rewritign the antagonist FROM WHERE IT LEFT OFF, given the rest of the plot had been leaked and was, being honest, pretty dissapointing. Regardless of the event itself, a LOT of RP has happened as a result, such as the Ascended being banned from Oren and lots of other cool side conflicts like that. It's just .... a lot to reverse, and frankly not in the spirit of roleplay. I still propose you rewrite the antagonist from where it left off, rather than pretending it never happened. That's backing out, not fixing it.

Floris van Loden, patriarch of the Lodenlander House van Loden, regarded the notice on the Alban noticeboard as the snow slowly dusted his shoulders. Exhaling a misty sigh, he dismissed the notice with a solemn shake of his head, and turned off.

"My lord, there's been another one posted." There came no answer. "My lord Seneschal?" The voice repeated uncertainly. Ruslan Amador blinked all of a sudden, as if woken from sleep. He stood with his back to the speaker, and facing out the unblemished glass window of his Godfrey Avenue office, overlooking the thoroughfare of the Orenian capital. This was not the first time his mind had wandered as he idly observed the lively crowds in the street below, amidst the din of a merchants shouting prices from Salvus and Pikeman's Square and a thousand voices talking at once. Finally, he tore his wide eyes from the window, and glanced to the door. The speaker stood half in the room, and half out in the corridor, with a hesitant expression marring a pale, plain-featured face. The twin-headed badge of the Imperial Administration glistened palely from where it was pinned on the breast of his doublet. "I ... I'm sorry," Ruslan began in his meek tone. "Did you say something?" The Steward's frown deepened, and he swallowed hard before he nodded hastily. "Another notice, my lord, on the board ... f-from them." Ruslan didn't respond immediately. He tapped his chin with a long, bony finger before he looked back to the window, and the view of the city it gave him. "Take it down," he said softly. Within the hour, the notice was removed from the Orenian capital.

Choose a fifth Admin to replace the others we lost. This is an especially good idea given certain Admin's are taking breaks.

I actually can't understand why this was on a school day, and at a time when a lot of people were still in school?

a real fuckin knee slapper this is

got my hopes up