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  1. With the success of his goal, he felt a longing for more. This place he was in, it was no longer adequate, and to truly be set free, one must move on; especially when given new responsibility. Gereon readied his things, and looked forward to a brighter future. He said goodbye to his close colleagues, his aides who helped him create this stone, and set forth -- with stone in tow, to forge a brighter path. He traveled along this plane, sailing the great seas, from Aeldin to the Emerald Isles,aiding many with the Philosopher’s Stone, until it was dormant for a while. He made a name for himself on those other continents, building his own home and family with a woman he grew fond of; she was strong, caring -- someone he could truly trust. Together, they sired two children, raising them to want to go out and reach for their dreams. Indeed, Gereon wanted them to learn from the bloodline, as well as covet the importance of it. He wrote and created a great library, one that would house all the family knowledge and secrets, allowing them to learn from him, and for their kin to learn from past members. This was to ensure they would learn and never forget their roots. During their childhood, Gereon was between planes every so often, seeking to continue his great work; A cosmic compendium of the planes. Thankfully, his work under The Organization allowed him to, and being granted a seat along the Tarots as The Hanged Man was an incredible boon. He desired to go back more and more, though his children and his wife -- they were his priority at the time. The days passed, and so did the years; though his age was not showing as much. Surely, he was a man, but time acted slower due to his planar travels, and the symbiote that dwelled with him. Eventually, his children left him, of age and ready to venture the world and make names for themselves. This was the time to pursue his dreams once again, his magnum opus; to document the cosmos. His wife received it well, and allowed the fate-breaker to continue, though she would follow suit now and then. Their bond would remain, throughout time. It was final, that notion to leave the world, for goal and work. His time in this world was done; it was time for new and greater things, so for the last time -- he prepared the ritual to leave this world, forming a great rift between spaces. Looking upon it, he smiled again -- and hopeful for the next stage of his life, he walked into it. And so he left, his heart free to venture the wilds. ((This is my last post I’ll make for LoTC. It was fun playing and meeting y’all. I had a nice time, but I think it’s time to wrap up. Take care of yourselves, and if anything, hit me up on discord or something (but believe me i'm pretty boring so idk why you’d do that). SourDough#8909))
  2. “May fate be generous, for I will break destiny.” They stood before the crucible, Avenel -- the leader of the group, held two artifacts, a prismatic device that gleamed faintly; an old relic of when he was an Archon, that which held the capability to make them, and the next was a metallic core that seeped with astral energy, the old Spell Forge core, which allowed one to manipulate and create spells. He put these artifacts through the crucible, watching as the sins of his past were melted away, dissolving with aid of the blue flame. He walked over to the basin, and set a small piece of The Cradle metal ‘fore the liquid filled it, surmising that it will be the core for the stone.The group waited and watched, their thoughts on the Philosopher’s Stone as the liquid -- a manifestation of the otherworldly makeup of these artifacts -- flowed through the basin, converging on the metal. The liquids, nebulous in their color, touched base with The Cradle, and immediately coalesced around it, fusing with rapid splashes and swirls. The process let out astral lights that swirled around the chamber, flitting past the group as they watched in awe. Something was being made, something beautiful and never before seen. The fluids and metal rose from the basin, swirling about as its shape and color constantly changed, breaking the laws of the world as its very being casted solid shadow. Avenel, The Hanged Man, took a step forward, his being shadowed by the great legend before them, that which emitted such energy to force men to their knees by its very present; that which teemed with unknowable knowledge and power. The Philosopher’s Stone As he walked closer to it, the air around the artifact alternated between thick and thin; the power of the Stone altering the very reality around it, passively at that. Light fluttered past Avenel as he grew near, moving past the group and dissipating into the air. The sheer power of this beast would be used, and he kneeled before the stone, grasping it with both hands. The group saw him take hold of the stone and for a moment, there was silence, before a starlight sphere grew from the legend’s center, and swallowed both him and the Stone whole. There was panic, and perhaps curiosity as the sphere remained, as though the forces of reality were parlaying with the Destiny Breaker. Avenel felt something was over him as the sphere covered him. He looked onward to see the stone, gently thrumming like a heart. It was ready to be commanded by his ideas. He hoped nothing more than to begin the process, and turn himself into a man. When his thoughts poured into the Philosopher’s Stone, light shined on him, covering his entire body. It filled him with warmth, made him feel light -- a process he assumed to be painful was in fact gentle, like a kind dream. The light washed over his skin, changing and reforging it as it passed over him. It was like water washing over his person, and with each wave, it changed more. His body looked younger, his being felt lighter, he felt his age ticking back; he felt the curse within him change. He felt tired as the process continued, the waves lulling him to sleep. He closed his eyes, and allowed all that would occur, the great change. Whether or not he would come out alive, it was of no concern, at least he wouldn’t die an Elf, and be able to join his brothers, or be terminated from existence. The process took what seemed hours. Time itself seemed to stop within the chamber, until finally -- light pierced the sphere, and cracks ran down it like an egg. It broke apart, vanishing into the air; leaving a divine light that blocked sight of the alchemist and the stone. It was when the light vanished, was it revealed that the Philosopher’s Stone blinking rapidly, moving slowly; what occurred took a great toll. Though, what stood before it was a figure with pale skin and ash brown hair, with piercing blue eyes that had golden flecks. He looked to his hands first, and then to the group. The stone, with much of its power, remade him. For the first time in a long while, he smiled, and spoke. “Finally, I am free. A child of the Cosmos.” “What is your new name?” They asked, to which he paused, and stared them down, contemplating. He was the first of this line, one hoped to expand. His humanity filled with the want to create more, and truly build; the past, while part of him, was behind him, letting him plant newer and greater things for the future. “Gereon de Wees.”
  3. He studied the metal with his students, the Cradle was unlike any other. It defied the world, its very being able to make ideas literal, such noted by the use of various signs and symbols, and taking on those properties. It was an opportunity; a catalyst for the next stage of their great work. The Hanged Man and his aids immediately went to work, devising a plan to mold the metal in shapes that would help their goal, transmutation of something greater. They would make plans for something that can devour and produce alchemical symbols and signs, ones that are beyond the material world, able to pull from more than select concepts and states. They first started with creating a basin, for the liquid to flow to, lining pathways to the center to allow the product to coalesce. They plated the cradle onto the basin, and shaped it to their whims, giving it the ability to bring forth the manifested liquid in its pure material form. They then began designing that which would devour and spit out the materials, through The Hanged Man’s design, they created a large framework, a great Crucible where the objects and ideas would be poured into, connected to pipeworks that lead to the basin’s pathways. A great fire was ready to be ignited under it. In the end, they basked in the glory of The Crucible. Though there was uncertainty in some of the aids, that much Zadrik could tell. “Do you know why we are doing this? I asked you all for help, but I do not think you all know the truth behind this invention.” He took the looks and averted gazes as his answer, to which he began. “There is little you people know about me. Even though I taught all of you everything I know, even though you follow me without question. I was born unlike all of you, an Elf. Though unlike my cursed kin, who were born in complacency, infected by stagnation from the curse -- I was born hungry; hungry for more than that wretched place of rest. I studied and learned, and eventually -- I made the mistake of practicing foul magic, the void. I made a name for myself through it, though I was never truly satisfied. I served what was once called Oren, from the Great Olivier de Savioe -- blessed be his name -- to the coward who blew Johannesburg to an icy grave. After this, I served with the Westerlands, along the great Caius Horen.” “I always knew I did not belong with the Elves, and my time with true men of the world solidified that. I strove for that Humanity they had, that blessing to write their own destiny. I thought my magic would help me achieve that capability, and I held onto it so dearly, as I did before. Truly, I was addicted to its false sense of security, even as my body decayed from its use. It was only during tenure aiding the Marked Men did I realize my mistake.” “The Horrors of Mordskov and the acts of mages showed me what it was like outside my bubble. I could no longer stand the thing I so clung to -- my mind addicted to its power. I recalled learning Alchemy, a worldly field that relied on no outside power… so I embraced it. I turned a new page, and the mage I was was no longer, replaced with a man by the name of ‘Klaus of Heldenburg’. I tried so hard to escape my past self, I wanted to believe I can start all over, even with all the things I built and the family I started; but the elven blood would come back to haunt me. “I truly realized how to fix this after that fateful day, where I acquired the ability to Shunt. I spent ages trying to find the answer, working for The Wyrd, searching and praying. I thought I lost hope, but it was much soul searching that gave me hope, and set me on my journey. We begin preparation to create an Alchemical Legend, The Philosopher’s Stone. This shall allow us to transmute and produce energy. We seek to transmute something, a soul -- an Elven Soul to that of a Man. once that is done, the past of Avenel Synalli shall no longer haunt me, and instead coalesce.” “I shall be made free.”
  4. Oh sweet mother sweet mother send your child onto me for the sins of the unworthy must be baptised in blood and fear
  5. In his study on that fateful night, and the return from the tower -- he was struck with a great realization. The Hanged Man returned to his previous work, focusing his efforts on the entrapped lightning he so captured, and thus unlocked its potential. He recreated it through the use of worldly items, using the material to recreate the aspect of Gods, Lightning in its truest form. Such a high capacity item would prove accommodating for the man’s goal. With the aid of three, they produced two large containers of recreated lightning; they traveled the cosmos and material world to gather. They returned with cosmic metals, worldly herbs, and a piece of the cosmos. They set it all together, first crafting an alloy of the star metals, forming a deep purple metal with black streaks. The four set the alloy and the reagents within a basin, filled with untainted water -- a womb for where it will begin. It was when they set the electric containers in the water, the birth began. The water crackled and hissed with the electricity, sparks flying from the disturbed surface. The metal gleamed, ardent smoke rose as the reagents began to bind with metal. The four alchemists waited in anticipation as the water began to reduce from the sheer intensity of the God’s wrath, and energy produced from the metal. When the water was gone, there was only a gleaming metal, to which they bathed in a specialized oil. Once they lifted the metal from the oil, they were witness to the birth of The Cradle, the Alchemical Metal that would be the primer for the great work ahead.
  6. yeah i think ima have to call the inquisition on this sorry
  7. Progress is a powerful thing. It is an insatiable fire that burns within someone, urging them to move forward. The scarred man’s fire burned brighter after the events with the lightning. What he knew was only a droplet in the great ocean that surrounded his goal, and he had to know more if he wanted to sail closer. He looked across the planes, the man’s home becoming filled with constellations and notes of the planes beyond this world. He had to keep searching; his obsession was concerning some of the denizens of his household as his minutes pondering turned to hours, hours became days -- it was a ravenous cycle, one that would be broken. There was hope in the worlds he did not know, where the Scarred Man’s astral employment and star signs did not yet know. He prepared the ritual, using his salts, and the dried umbilical cord that acted as his planar focus. He tore a hole in reality, and vanished from the earth, to the great ocean. Traveling the great ocean was a feeling he was more accustomed to now; one might initially feel sick at their first time, as it feels as though one was being rapidly accelerated and then slowed down, but now -- he was only slightly disoriented from the travel. He manifested, a three point landing with smoke rising from his person. It was instinct to now stay still for a few moments, to make sure nothing was disturbed from his travel, and then continue. The Scarred Man looked around the grassy plain, and the hills and ruins that surrounded it, then to the sky above - filled with floating land and a sky that showed what was beyond, the nebula of space. He felt something off about this world; he swore he felt something within it pull at him, beckoning him forward, towards the great ruined arches and the scarred gravel path. The Alchemist followed this feeling, with his heatless lantern in tow. The land was vibrant and varied, filled with mountains, plains, and forests, It was quite beautiful. The wildlife seemed relatively similar to the Mortal Plane, this betrayed what was ahead. When he crossed a great hill and peered below, he could not believe his eyes. The great construct of legend. The Tower. It was massive, a great tower -- surrounded by abandoned homes and buildings -- that pierced the sky, shining a dim light from the wound and onto the structure. Its age was evident, large archways and stairs that ran along the various levels of the tower had cracks and foliage growing off it, though the tower was in far better conditions than the buildings surrounding it. He marvelled at Llull, the origin of worldly manipulation. The Scarred Man continued down, treading through the worn streets to come to the entrance of the tower. This place was not ravaged by war, he surmised; it appeared as though it was left in an exodus, or something of the like. When he came to entrance of the tower, he had to take another moment to bask in its glory, and make note of the stone guardians that silently watched over the tower, the gargoyles resembled men - Adonis’ with tattered cloth and wearing paint - their heads marked with Alchemical symbols. They were lifeless, however the sculptures gave off an air of dominance. He hesitantly walked past, and moved into the great tower. It was massive within, taking him a great deal to even get to the center. The Alchemist looked around again, before feeling that tug become stronger. He couldn’t help but feel something complement the pull, faint whispers and the occasional odd shadow. He grew more mindful, and readied his launcher as he followed the world’s rhetoric, up the construct. The artifacts and information within was vast, this place was truly guided by Philosophy and Ideals, led by Philosopher Kings who stayed within the tower. The information was in both books and murals, with the last thing recorded was a series of events in the form of murals, a depiction of two angels coming from the heavens and meeting with a masked king, and bestowing what appeared to be an Alchemical circle, one which described the world. Following that, the mural showed the sun and moon shining down on the alchemists at work; the next scripture however, was not yet finished. People were drawn, in search of something, and they came upon the top of the tower, seeking what he can only think of as Truth. Worldly knowledge that surpassed what they already knew. Ascending the tower took days, not from the great height of the construct; he wandered along each floor, and examined the great wonders. These people had used some ancient practice before the coming of Alchemy, relying on the material symbols. When Alchemy was transitioned into society, it seemed to make a prosperous society even greater. He documented many of the great things he saw, though he noticed that shadows began to linger the further up he went, and the world continued to nudge him. He eventually came to the highest point, where the tower pierced the heavens and the cosmic sky turned blue and cloudy; before him was a large throne, surrounded by chairs and shadowy figures, all pointing to one thing -- an insignia on the grand throne, made of golden arms that interlocked hands -- a symbol of a tree, with the shadows pointed towards the roots. He heard the rattling of something on the side, a lift had risen via chains, and the shadows immediately reached across the smaller room and towards the center of the lift. On it, the insignia of roots rest. He moved towards it, whispers filling his head, the voices of many, which spoke of a certain wisdom that lay below; the knowledge of the people. He was drawn to the notion, not by the world, but his yearn for knowledge, the wisdom of Llull ought to be impeccable, the fellow assumed. His mind prattled on in rhythm with the actuating chains and pulley, he wondered how far down he was descending. Even though there was little vision of the floors as he descended, he assumed he was going below the ground floor, narrowing his eyes as the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Soon, the chains stopped. He was at the very bottom, a long room with polished granite floors, lit by artificial lights. He noticed lines and symbols within them, making a peculiar shape outlined by dark stone and material symbols. In its center was a large stone figure, where multiple shadows sprang from, reaching the ends of the symbol. The statue resembled a faceless man, with multiple arms and legs, holding a large circle in the air. It was an Ouroboros, the symbol of infinity and wholeness. He could feel it calling to him, beckoning for the alchemist to come closer. He walked, mindful of the shadows that stood., and seemed to watch him. It felt like all eyes were on him, even though there were none to speak of. As he got to the center of the symbol, and towards the statue, he dropped to a knee before it, looking to the ground below, filled with varying symbols -- each he was able to recognize as symbols of the material alphabet. As he began to decipher the meaning of these, he felt a tug in his being. The shadows formed to shapes, rising from the ground to become humanoid forms. The Scarred man gritted his teeth as he felt his body turn against him. The blood pushed against his flesh; with streams of it being excruciatingly forced out from the tips of his fingers and toes, pooling within his gloves and boots to be forced into the circles, with some remaining to coil around him. He was unable to scream, even when he wanted to - opening his mouth to try was met with silence as it felt like something was trying to push back. The shadows leaked as well, dark ichor pooled to the ground to join with his blood, more of theirs than his. The statue rattled and cracked at the center, black and viscous arms tearing free from a nebulous cosm and reaching out from the stone cradle, all grabbing at the man. They each held parts of his body, his throat, his arms, his chest. Hands took his head and forced it to stare at the Ouroboros, Zadrik was wide eyed, from both pain and situation. The Ouroboros began to fill at the center, a midnight blue right. It hurt to look at, though looking away was not an option. When the portal fully manifested, the color turned pale, and the hands suddenly reached for his face, towards his left eye. It was then, he was able to scream, as they tore into the socket and ripped the eye straight from his face. His vision grew blurry in his only now widened eye as the hands moved the eye towards the center of the rift; blood dripped and pooled into the sigils below. He was not able to lose consciousness, having to endure this excruciating pain; shock was not even occurring. The eye took center stage in the rift, sucking into the vortex, only to stare back at Zadrik. He screamed louder and louder as he felt his own eye staring at him, with his brain filling with images and knowledge. He felt thousands of voices fill his head, thousands of experiences and wisdoms that culminated in one mind boggling thing. Truth “Sic Mundus Creatus Est” He was forced to endure, time was meaningless in this situation; even if he was being choked by the hands, or forced to endure his wounds, the knowledge kept coming to him. What these people learned, the hidden Philosophies of here and there, it was burned into his brain. The process took days; his body suffered, his skin clung to the bone at the end of this -- forced to sacrifice, starve, and endure for this knowledge. Eventually, the hands pulled free from the ravaged Zadrik, fading away as he hit the ground, body twitching and squirming. It was not yet over, as in his head, he saw a singular man, blood pooling from his hand, donning a crowned mask and curious outfit. A Philosopher King. The king reached out, and in his hand, the Scarred Man saw it, the sigils, the blood -- it made sense. He saw the Truth these people spoke of. When it finally came to him, the figure that lurked in his mind vanished, and he lost consciousness. When he awoke, eyeless and in his own vomit and blood, he was in a desolate place. Cracked pillars, and a gateway held by black floors. He slowly got up, haggard and disheveled, his hand cupping his lost eye. With a sudden twitch of his fingers and tap of his hand, the blood scabbed and solidified, and he proceeded through the gateway, to home with his newfound knowledge.
  8. Liquid Lightning This is what happens when one tries to harness the power of the gods, and create lightning. The liquid sparks and crackles, charged with electricity. Bottled Lightning Also referred to as God’s Wrath, this is what happens when one tries to recreate lightning in its absolute entirety. Electricity crackles and arcs within the concoction. Dispersing Oil Used to counter lightning’s wrath, this oil is applied on the clothing of those working in areas with a mass amount of storms and lightning.
  9. TaiwanNotChina

    The Fool

    There is a notion that there are secrets within the world, in its materials and bounty. When one cracks them open, they can find knowledge unfathomable, and use it in means like transmutation, creating compounds and refining what is currently given. This is what one can call Alchemy. Though there are secrets in many aspects of the world, and one can surmise that there are also secrets inside something from the skies, that which cannot be caught, which strikes and roars, and leaves as quickly as it came. Lightning, the wrath of the Gods. Thunder roared from the mountains of Kaedrin, three Alchemists had prepared a device to try to capture, guided by the idea of the Scarred Man who lead their ritual, drawing alchemical symbols below their device, a massive steel rod with stones that ran along it, leading to one massive stone, the shape of an orb. These were translucent ones, with small particles inside the gems; they were Adfectio stones. The Scarred Man had -- in the testings of his machines -- noticed that the stones held conductive properties, able to transfer energy. He believed that lightning can be affected by this, believing it too was a force, and with force comes energy. He and the other two Alchemists lay in wait, theorizing over this Wrath of the Gods they called lightning, the thunder drawing ever nearer. The Scarred Man asked for his compatriots to take a step back, in worry of their safety. Eventually, they saw and felt it; the lightning crashed down on the rod, descending it and into the structure -- a converted aviary -- that they were in; the lightning eventually met the orb at the base of the rod. They were struck with the lightning from the orb, it lashing out at them and dealing respective injuries and scars. Though, in the wake of this, the orb was ready for the taking, smoking and crackling; the leader of this ritual, The Scarred Alchemist, who took only a glancing blow, dislodged the Adfectio stone. Something was interesting to him, for when testing sugars, he noticed that when smashing one crystal open, there were small sparks. This led him to believe a couple of theories, truly. He descended further into his home, and began a great work -- perhaps the stone would yield the secrets of the Gods, of how to harness lightning, and in turn electricity.
  10. shiet i just edited my post just to say that 🙂
  11. may the best cannon win. edit: I love your lore tho, its very well defined and awesome, I hope these two pieces can coexist.
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