Xarkly

MORI'QUESSIR EVENTLINE WRITTEN IN ASHES Atop an eroded tower, Razvien of Clan Torath stifled a sigh. Hazed in a swirling blanket of descending snow, the ruined city falled Fenn spread out beneath the Mori Legate. He was told that Elves with skin as white as the moon once settled here, but Razvien was not sure if he believed it. When he had first come to the Surface, when he had first felt the kiss of the wind and the chill of the air, he had thought snow was the most incredulous thing; a soft, white rain that glazed the land in an arsenic white, that obscured dirt and grime and ugliness beneath it. No longer, though. How could the children of Malin ever settle here? In the months since Razvien had commandeered the Legions of Clan Torath to secure their foothold in the north, the snow had come to represent his growing impatience and ill-temper, both of which were traits Razvien had always prided himself on not having. It is this unrelenting cold that has frayed my nerves. That is all, Razvien assured himself for the umpteenth time, but he knew he did not really believe it anymore. “ … consolidated in Alisgrad, and Legate Nekaas has fortified the forest. Seems he’s already repelled numerous attacks.” Razvien sucked in a breath of freezing air as he tuned back into Khazen, his Optio and favoured lieutenant, reading the report at his side. Focus, now. We are not done here yet. Never forget -- absolution through order. Whether it was because of the snow or the knot of frustration growing in his mind, Razvien’s days had all began to blur into one -- he woke in the blissful dark of the Fell Moon, and listened to the watch-captain’s report over a breakfast of mushroom broth; then, he and Khazen inspected the Mori Legion setting up camp in the city and clearing out the ruined buildings, before he observed the beast-tamers in the stables, watched the formation drills, and reviewed the rations. “So. We wait, still.” Razvien’s breath was marked by mist as he spoke. “Same as before, Legate,” Khazen echoed wistfully. Little seemed to phase the grizzled Optio, even when he returned from his mission in Haense with most of his unit slaughtered. Even now, the veteran officer - his black-laquered mail gleaming faintly in the darkness, the tassels on his heavy lance streaming in the wind - seemed anchored to place like a rock. Razvien had once thought himself like that - unflappable - but that impression had not survived the invasion of the Surface. From his wars at Sheiven, Zafris, and Yhend, he had never felt this … turbulence when he fought battles and killed enemies beneath the ground, in the Underdark. He did not know why he felt it now. “Very well.” Despite his best efforts, Razvien sighed. “We still await word from the Matriarch, then.” As he and Khazen began to descend carefully down the frost-glazed steps of the tower, Razvien just wished that word came soon. He had come to hate this place called Fenn. A true battle would soothe him -- it had to. Atop the tower, the northern wind’s howl had muted the sounds of the massive Torathi encampment in the abandoned city, and so as Razvien and Khazen descended the din of talk, distant drills, the hammer of smiths’, the creak of cart axels, and the flap of canvas all rolled over him. The streets of Fenn were shovelled and salted every morning, but Razvien still watched his step; several dozen Legionnaires had already had to be treated for broken bones for slipping on the ice, and one had even cracked his skull and died. There was no ice and snow in the Underdark -- this freezing phenomenon was all new to the Mori. Braziers and bonfires of Akkesh mushrooms - a fungus from the Underdark that burned hotly, but produced no light but for a thin cyan flame - burned wherever one could fit to ward off the biting northern cold. Frostbite had proved an even worse problem than slipping on the ice for his Legion -- over half his slaves had perished already. Beneath billowing Clan Torath banners, Legionnaires, many carrying Akkesh torches as they went about their duties, snapped to alert and saluted Razvien and Khazen as they passed, and Razvien acknowledged them with only a curt nod. As they approached his command pavilion - the buildings in Fenn were all too eroded to live in - tucked away in a sheltered section of the city, Razvien could sense something was amiss. The din of talking voices - normally dull and monotone - had an edge of surprise and commotion to it now. Khazen felt it, too. “Someone’s slipped on the damned ice again is my guess, Legate.” Razvien scowled, and gripped the sword sheathed at his side as if to draw some kind of comfort. “That would be just our luck. Let us see.” As Razvien marched across the salted flagstones towards his black-canvassed pavilion, two of his retinue turned away from the door of his tent at his approach. “Legate, I - he just walked in!” one of them - Cetzen - blurted. “We didn’t even see him arrive!” “Who just walked in?” Khazen barked, but Razvien only narrowed his eyes on the Torathi crest emblazoned on the tent’s doorway. “Wait outside,” he muttered absently, and even Khazen eyed him in surprise as Razvien threw open the door flap and strode into the tent. There, sat slouched at the foot of the Akkesh fire smouldering in the heart of the tent and with a steaming, ceramic cup in hand, was a Torathi officer, his black mail marked with the gilt of rank. His plumed helmet lay on the ground, exposing a scarred and red-eyed face framed with a long mane of silver hair. As Razvien entered, the figure spread his arms, splashing liquid over the rim of his cup, and beamed. “Razvien!” “Legate Sedda.” Razvien clenched his jaw. “What are you doing here?” “Well, I thought I’d make myself at home.” Sedda gestured around the tent with his cup. “We’re all brothers-in-arms, right? What’s mine is yours?” Razvien’s teeth creaked. “What are you doing in Fenn? I thought you were with the Matriarch in Norland.” Abruptly, a second thought struck him. “Did she send you here?” “Not exactly.” Sedda slurped from the cup noisily. “I just thought I’d come visit my old friend.” Razvien’s fingers switched on the hilt of his sword. Friend? If there was one person of Clan Torath Razvien despised most, it was Sedda. Unlike most Mori’Quessir, Clan Torath’s strength came from the collective; soldiers were drilled from a young age to work as a unit, and that necessitated strict discipline and order. Sedda had been no exception, until he had risen to the rank of Legate shortly after Razvien himself. That was when his … quirks had started to show, and they had only grown worse since coming to the surface. Razvien would have advised the Matriarch to reprimand him, but the very order he was sworn to prevented that. “Hm? You going to attack me?” Sedda asked dryly as he watched Razvien’s hand. “Well, I suppose I couldn’t blame you. Looks like all you’ve had to fight up here is the cold. Heh. I heard you lost one of your Hadd’ro, too. That true?” Easy. Calm yourself, Razvien. Absolution through order. He peeled his fingers off his hilt. “... We retrieved it. The Srow had taken it captive, but it we found it later in the supply tunnels.” “Ah, well, lucky you! Can’t say we’ve had it easy in Norland,” Sedda droned on as he sipped from the ceramic cup. “You should have seen the bloodshed at Alisgrad. The Srow didn’t go down without a fight.” Razvien’s nose twitched at the scent from the cup. “Are you drinking my kiurelle? From my cup?” Sedda grinned broadly. “Why, yes, actually. It’s very good. You don't mind me serving myself, right?” He extended the cup. “Care for a sip -” In one fluid motion, Razvien back-handed the cup out of Sedda’s hand. The foamy green fungal brew splattered to the floor as the cup rolled across the floor of the tent. When Razvien spoke again, he did it with ice in his voice. “Tell me why you are here, Legate Sedda, or the next thing to roll will be your head.” Razvien Torath, Legate of the Tidal Legion Sedda’s surprise was only momentary, before that smirk returned. “Empty threats will do neither of us any good, Legate Razvien. We both know you wouldn’t wipe your own waste without the Matriarch’s orders. But fine, fine,” he raised a forestalling hand, with green kiurelle dripping down his fingers. “I came to ask you a question.” Razvien closed his eyes for a moment. Absolution through order. He exhaled long and hard through his nose, before he glared back at Sedda. He was right -- Razvien wouldn’t dare kill a fellow Legate, and the fact that Sedda knew that only stoked Razvien’s ire more. “What question?” he slowly eased himself down on the cushion on the other side of the blue fire, watching Sedda. “Have you figured out why we’re here?” “You’re a fool, Sedda.” Razvien pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re assembling the Legion here before the Matriarch gives the signal to -” “No, Razvien,” Sedda cut him off with surprising softness. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Have you figured out why we’re here … on the Surface?” Razvien was about to cool him a fool and worse, but he blinked when he saw the look in Sedda’s eyes. There was something … different about them. Something far more serious than Razvien had ever seen in the Mori. What happened to him in Norland? “ … It is our birthright,” he answered slowly, “to reclaim the Surface as our own, and the legacy that Zanunder was bereft of .” The faint light of the Akkesh flames danced on Sedda’s face. “But why?” “Hmph. You know why. We cannot live and grow in the Underdark forever. The Greatwyrms are eating away and collapsing the Underdark, bit by bit. The tunnel networks are collapsing, and monsters infest caverns where we used to farm like a kicked anthill. And that is only the outside threat - we scheme for resources, and the Clans compete and conspire for power. We'll tear each other apart before the Greatwyrms do.” Sedda nodded slowly. “So … coming to the Surface will fix all that?” “Yes,” Razvien answered firmly. “Once we vanquish and enslave the Srow, there will be land aplenty for each Clan to live in harmony, safe from the Greatwyrms, and - ... and safe from each other. That is our birthright.” The look on Sedda’s face now enraged Razvien more than his smugness, his arrogance, or his antagonism ever did, for it was a look of pity. “Razvien,” he cooed softly, “do you know what I saw at Norland? I did not see a race of debased savages, incapable of unity and living in squalor and begging for our enlightenment … I did not see the legacy of Zanunder restored, and I did not see the salvation of the Mori’Quessir.” He leaned forward, the cyan light flickering on his face. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you want to know what I did see, among the corpses of my dead Legionnaires?” Razvien watched Sedda very carefully, and gave the slightest of nods. “I saw our fate,” the other Mori answered. “We scheme and fight for power below ground in the Underdark, even with the Greatwyrms at our throats, and we would scheme and fight for power above ground on the Surface. Each of the Great Clans would claim a fraction of this land, but it’s only a matter of time before greed puts us at our own throats. You know this, Razvien.” Now, it was Sedda’s turn to sigh into the fire. “That is Zanunder’s true legacy … the fate of the Mori’Quessir. We’re not invading to save ourselves - we’re invading to delay our race cutting each other to pieces.” For a long moment, there was silence but for the faint crackle of the fire and the flap of the canvas walls in the wind. “Is that what you really believe, Sedda?” At last, Sedda leaned back. “It is. I saw it in the ashes of Norland, plain as the moon. Do you think I’m wrong, Razvien?” “I do.” Order through absolution. I cannot forget. “Come, now. Think about it for yourself, for once.” A few loose blue cinders drafted up from the fire between Razvien and Sedda. “If you think I am wrong, then you know I speak of open insubordination. Now you are well within your rights to kill me for questioning the Matriarch.” Razvien only stared at him through the dim blue glow. “Go ahead.” As he spoke, Sedda exhibited the unfaltering calm Razvien had once treasured in himself. He bowed his head, and brushed away his mane of white hair to expose his neck for beheading. “If I am wrong, then kill me, Legate Razvien. I will not resist.” Razvien tried to think - tried to formulate the words in his head - but it was if his mind had become a whirlpool, and he could not latch on to anything. The whistle of the land, the crackle of the flames, Sedda’s tauntingly calm eyes … He was not sure how long he sat there in silence, or how long Sedda waited. Eventually, the other Legate rose leisurely, and licked the kiurelle off his fingers before he picked up his helmet. As he moved towards the doorway, he lay a hand on Razvien’s shoulder. When he spoke, his old demeanour - chiding and mischievous - was back. “Well, this has been fun, Razvien, but I should return to Norland before I’m missed.” Razvien found himself unable to look away from the faint flames of the Akkesh. Why can’t I …? The cold sweeped in as Sedda lifted the door flap. “I’ll be waiting in Norland,” he called back, “for when you make up your mind.” As the door flap closed and left Razvien alone, he sat alone by the fire. He sat there past his noontime inspection, and after his dinner duties. He sat there long into the night, until the blue flame had almost died. He sat there, and he thought of what Sedda had seen in the ashes.

THE JUDGMENT OF LORENA GANT: TRIAL BY CARROT Issued by the CARROT On this 11th day of Jula and Piov of 474 E.S. UPON MY NAME AS VANHART THE CARROT, I HEREBY DECLARE that I stood present as Lorena Gant, daughter to Lord-Palatine Otto Gant, was apprehended in the Morrivi Prikaz by her father, my lord son Wilheim Barclay, Lord Carolus Colborn, and Ser Vlad Hothand following the pontificial enthronement of his Holiness, Sixtus V. The Lord-Palatine levied upon his lady daughter the charge of treason, for she had defected to the hostile state of Adria. Ser Vlad Hothand, having investigated the the matter, testified that this was the case, and I, knowing Ser Vlad to be a reputable man of honour, have no cause to doubt him. Furthermore, I was present when a Kharajyr by the name of 'Jester' did previously testify that Lorena Gant had partaken in the armed activities of Adria against the Kongzem of Haense's allies. I witnessed as the Lord-Palatine, deaf to his lady daughter's pleas, condemned her to beheading for her betrayal. I HEREBY DECLARE that the Lord-Palatine departed after he ordered Lord Carolus, Ser Vlad, and my lord son Wilheim to take the condemned Lorena Gant to the square for execution. I took to the patrol the walls with my lady daughter Edith of Aaun, while the condemned Lorena Gants was given her last rites while resisting her sentence. As I returned to the square, in the midst of disorder and commotion, it was I who bid Ser Vlad stay his executioner's blade as the condemned Lorena Gant continued to resist. As I called for silence in the square, I approached and examined the wounded woman, and I, as a sworn servant of his Majesty and his laws of the Haurul Caezk, did bestow unto the accused Lorena Gant the chance to rebuke her father's charge by way of Trial by Combat. I HEREBY DECLARE that all gathered in the Karosgrad Square stood witness as Lorena Gant accepted my challenge. Upon medical inspection by Amaya Colborn, I, having been satisfied that the condemned Lorena Gant was in no condition to fight, gave her leave to return to her new home of Adria and that, upon her recovery, she was to return to Haense to face me in battle. Should she prove victorious, then never shall her name be stained with the allegation of treason and betrayal. Should she fall in battle, then I shall enact judgment upon her. Should she fail to come before me to duel, it shall be my oath to my God and my King to hunt down Lorena Gant and, through all means necessary, vanquish her as a craven and a knave. I HEREBY DECLARE that, upon my hammer and the name of the Lady Johanna, I shall not falter in this duty. @liz WER RASTET DER ROSTET SER VANHART BARCLAY

As someone with extensive experience of trying to navigate issues like these (and, I'm sure, being guilty of it at times), leaving it generally in the hands of the community is (a) ineffective and (b) inflammatory as it promotes open confrontation which will yield (at least most of the time) no resolution. I don't intend to come across as curt or dismissive with the previous reply, just stating that my experience without being superfluous. My opinion isn't necessarily the right one, though. Edit: I don't think Unbaed is holding you personally accountable for the Admin's ineffectiveness, but rather highlighting how a proposal to leave things in the community's hands as the Admins did before was ineffective, and therefore the proposal itself is ineffective.

anti-rp stances are seldom if ever cracked down upon

Vanhart the Carrot wiped a tear from his eye - equal parts relief, and grief - as the wind swept over Hallaburg Castle, where the squires gathered for their yearly training. "I ... thought it was over," he whispered hoarsely to himself. The sun had turned a dull red as it began to set, and its rays flashed haphazardly on the waters of the Staal Eada snaking through the land far below. "I thought ... they wanted peace." Memory of that warning of his beloved daughter and grandson captured - at a funeral, no less! - made his heart thrum and his legs wobble again, and the relief of hearing of their safety while the Brotherhood was abroad fighting the Mori did little to ease him. He sniffed back his disdain, and narrowed his eyes into a watery glare at the sunset. He was an old Knight, now; the swing of his hammer meant little. But in what precious years he had left, he would never forgive that insult.

Which kinda sucks I think? If something takes 30 pages to explain then it's not being explained very well, is my view. Anyway like I said it's not a critique on this particular piece but this unfortunate LT standard in general. When it comes to writing, conciseness is a hallmark of quality.

It's well-written and my concern isn't limited to your lore by any means, but the system we use for lore-writing on LotC as a whole -- but it just seems way too long? In the grand scheme of things I feel like it's becoming increasingly impossible to peruse and engage with lore when every entry is of titanic (no pun intended) volume.

With a grimace, Vanhart the Carrot remembered a shattered window in the Haense Basilica, and prisoners swindled away. Celianor, it seemed, was running out of friends fast.

Admist Nakaas' retreating company, the Mori legionnaire named Valkio wound a cloth around his ankle, where a Haeseni arrow had skewered it. "Rotting Srow ..." he crused, and glanced through the twilight at the distant fires marking Ostervik. "What gave them the idea they could hurt me and get away with it?"

"VERILY, A PITY," Vanhart brooded as he stuck his fork into a chicken, and raised the carcass to his mouth for a bite. "IF I'LL NOT MEET HEINRIK ON THE BATTLEFIELD, IT SEEMS I MUST CHALLENGE HIM TO A DUEL PERSONALLY."

THE FALL OF ALISGRAD SMOKE & SNOW A wind blew from the Rimeveld. Carrying with it a biting chill and flurries of snow, the wind snaked south into the lands named Norland. It gusted towards the city of Alisgrad, where the steepled longhouses burned, spewing pillars of thick smoke to blot out the northern moon and stars. The wind blew over the trampled length of snow beyond the city’s northern walls, where countless shafts of arrows jutted out from the earth alongside the massive shafts of ballista bolts and shattered war machines. The wind sang mournfully as it scaled the city’s south wall, stirring the fur cloaks and greaves of hundreds of enslaved Gladiators who lay dead, their torsos peppered with arrows and skin blackened from the cold. The wind echoed wistfully through the breach in the southern wall, which creaked and groaned dangerously as it keeled on the verge of collapse thanks to cannonfire. The wind wound over burnt and charred Gladiator corpses littering the breach and stones stained red from battle, before it blew into the husk of Alisgrad’s semi-collapsed temple, still smouldering. The ash within the Temple stirred at the wind’s touch, and mingled with the snow to form a ceaseless black-grey haze. At the foot of the collapsed Temple, the snow and ash drifted around Sedda of Clan Torath as he closed his eyes, and inhaled to the depths of his stomach. He did not care how cold the wind was, nor how the smoke scorched his throat -- to Sedda, the wind’s touch felt like … “... Freedom,” he finished to himself as the cold made the hairs of his neck stand up. After centuries living in the Underdark, where the wind was but a myth, to feel it now was glory incarnate. This is why we’re here, the thought reverberated in his mind. This is why we fight. This is … Slowly, Sedda cracked his eyes open. Barely two hours had passed since the battle was won, and turmoil still reigned in the streets. Corpses - Norland defenders and enslaved Gladiators, mostly - were stacked haphazardly on street corners where the ash and snow was thinnest; plenty of buildings still burned, the glare of which forced Sedda to avert his eyes; and the sounds of dying moans echoed through the air as Gladiators and Norlanders alike were put out of their misery by Torathi Legionnaires in their black-lacquered mail. Misty plumes marked Sedda’s breath as he surveyed the ruinous scene. Legionnaires, with their Torathi pennants flapping proudly from their back, marched back and forth with supplies and injured comrades to hastily-erected hospitals in buildings that had sustained the least damage and, at that moment, Sedda watched five Legionnaires carefully light the shattered form of one of the Dreadknights of the Obsidian Infantry, grumbling about where to find a forge to repair it. Yes. Freedom, Sedda assured himself, but it sounded more uncompelling than when he first said it. All his life, he had supped on the tales peddled by the elders and the Matriarchs that promised a prophesied return to the surface world, where they would once more feel the fabled touch of the wind and liberation from the stifling caverns and tunnels of the Underdark. By the time he was grown, Sedda - like everyone else - knew that it was the birthright of the Mori’Quessir to reclaim the surface world and enslave the foul-blooded Srow to bring them order and civility. The Srow would resist, of course, but in the end it would be to enlighten the crude and rudimentary excuse for society, like a parent disciplining an unruly child. … Freedom … Sedda had gone his whole life, fuelled on that prophecy, that birthright. He had risen through the ranks of Clan Torath, drunk on that promise of the wind on his skin one day -- of order restored. Of freedom. His eyes trailed towards the one of the city's most-intact buildings - a tavern, maybe of - where the Matriach's personal banner streamed proudly in the wind. From here, Sedda could see the winged helmets of the Onyx Retinue - the protectors of the Clan Matriarch - taking up position around the stronghold. Except … the Srow that Sedda had found at Norland were not the same from the stories he had heard. They were not debased savages living in squalor, and the many Srow that had joined them to defend the city were proof that they were not mired in constant warfare with each other. Sedda glanced down at his bloodied gauntlet, before he looked over his shoulder into the Temple’s hall. The roof had caved in during the fighting, and the beams had crushed practically all of Sedda’s surviving Gladiators. Even now, he could pick out more motionless limbs sticking out from fallen timber than he cared to count. Sedda opened his mouth to whisper to himself once more, but no sound came. His eyes trailed upwards, to where the pillars of smoke churned in that grey sky, broken only by the spiralling snowflakes descending through the murk. What were those stories, Matriarch? He followed a crest of snow down, to where they fell on the bodies of his own Mori Legionnaires laid out ceremoniously near the foot of the Temple. Cloaked Mori Venyiri - Mourners - muttered inaudible prayers as they swayed an incense burner back and forth over their bodies in preparation of planting the Nekru burial fungus. Unbidden images flashed in Sedda’s mind of the Norlandic cannonfire striking the Temple and decimating half his unit, and nearly taking him with them. It had taken nearly an hour for Sedda’s ears to stopped ringing, but he suspected it would take many hours more for his frayed nerves to subside. Mori were not meant to end like that, blown apart by Srow cannonfire. That part … that wasn’t in the stories. With a slow, shaky breath, Sedda closed his eyes again. Whether or not the touch of the wind truly was freedom, he didn’t know. Whatever it was, Sedda was not sure if he liked it, but he quashed that voice in the darkest recess of his mind. If the stories had been wrong about this, then what was it that he had devoted his life to? That invited a more terrifying question. What else were the stories wrong about?

Awesome, most common complaint I see these days is that characters aren't 1 dimensional enough really looking forward to this

Vanhart the Carrot, a Knight of the North, had once admonished the Heartland wars and the tragedy they wrought, but no longer. Now, he understood them as the pen in which history wrote. He was curious how this chapter would end.

Vanhart felt at peace as he watched the sun set over Reinmar. This was just the way of the world as he had come to know it.

Vanhart the Carrot staggered out of the smoke, plates cracked to uselessness, his hammerhead bent "HOOHOO!" he rumbled, his throat scorched from the flames. "THEY ARE STRONG!" He limped back to Reinmar, his greaves stained with mud and blood both, and grinned. A Knight sought glory in battling mighty foes, and there was no shortage of that on the horizon.

Vanhart the Carrot ran an oiled cloth over the head of his polehammer. He would need it later.

you know this server is pg 13 right? dont get caught lying on ur app

your idea of accountability is washing your hands of it and letting the community fight like rabid dogs lmfao no matter which side is right this isn't just a bad take it's a coward take

I'm gonna ask you a genuine question here. Do you think it's a normal reaction for someone of your age to drop a f-slur when you're annoyed about a roleplay situation?

Vanhart thought the Adrians were a little too obvious about it.

"B-but ..." Villorik's lip trembled as he gripped his mother's skirt. As they stood in a chamber - which, despite the ample candles and lanterns, felt tremendously dark - his blurry eyes panned up to Analiesa. "I prayed really hard."

yeah actually removing mina is a cool af idea voting can give you basic resources to play the server without needing to hustle. nations will figure out the rest themselves and it'll create some cool and unique player systems

I think it's a more fundamental issue of lore as a concept being inaccessible/indigestible by a lot of the more junior playerbases (i.e., humans). This attitude has certainly gotten better in recent maps, but I think this issue is perfectly encapsulated by the fact that there exists a substantial demographic of "magic RPers", whose focus on the server is primarily engaging in these magics and seldom proliferating out amongst the broader playerbase or having these magics form a part of their experience (and not just an individual character; obviously) rather than the crux of their experience. I cannot support the idea of cementing this concept, which seems like it might be enabled by your proposals. It's not a meme to suggest that a lot of OOC communities and friendgroups have formed along the boundaries of mundane and magic -- this is amply evident from just me looking at my LotC Discord servers. With that said, your proposals only really service one side of that boundary, the existence of which I don't think should reasonably be denied. The more pressing priority for the Lore Team, in my opinion, in any kind of reform, should be brainstorming as to ways to actually make magic and lore as a whole more digestible and interactable to the more junior 40-50% of the playerbase. I won't get into any personal ideas as to how to do that because I'm meant to be studying and this isn't the point of your thread, but I did want to comment I don't think this does help spread lore in my opinion, as someone originating from the 'mundane' side of the boundary.