DISCOLIQUID

Catcher slaps the Black Bishop on the head and shows them the missive. "Get in, it's Elf season!" @PolarLoLs

IGN: DISCOLIQUID Name: THE CATCHER. Age: ETERNALLY YOUNG, AS I BATHE OFTEN IN BLOOD. Gender: VIOLENCE. The team you’re playing for: THE DEVIL. Interests: I LIKE CATS. Extra info: SELF PORTRAIT ATTACHED. WRITE BACK SOON. X O X O

Salt testing sucks, but this rewrite isn't particularly elegant. There are ways around the salt test, few and far between. The easiest one is just logging onto discord, joining the city you want to join, purchasing a house on discord through a steward, and then applying for citizen's keys. It's unfortunate, but thanks to the modern shape of the server, there are many pathways around actually having to engage in gatehouse "roleplay".

Just join the evil guys : )

A clawed demon runs fingers over her occuli, watching the King from afar. A lone sigh breaks the lips of the creature, who had watched the Empire do what she never could. A bittersweet victory, not one worth celebrating. Memories, nearly all consumed by time, rush back... of the Priesthood, of Garedyn, of Ulfar's lineage, of Lurdoic, of Charsi, of the Swaddled Girl who hid her Urguani heritage. "I spite them all, yet..." Then silence came, and the Prophet of Khorvad rose. She drifts headlong, leaving her private cave to seek the remnants of the Dwarven people. Perhaps her intentions were wholly evil. Perhaps they were not.

The first portion of this narrative is private, creative writing. It is known to Phithali Xalyth, and her alone. Am I yet born? Or am I still down: fluff upon my Mother’s insectoid abdomen? I remember that primordial awareness, the first bite of memory, the lolling of psychosis that came and went with sunlight. What faded never returned as-it-was, but woven. Threaded. Sewn. This darkness is different. The kaleidoscopic eyes of my kin wore well the shadow’s hame, and through all shadow pierced. I did not even think of it. Yes, it was not until I learned the floundering of prey in that furtive, fecund lightlessness that I could even conceive of what I might call blindness. The eyes sit there, just above the wet mouth & chitinous nose, and to most things that walk and breathe, they carve the known from the unknown with scattered vista. The only occlusion I knew, from youth to yonder, came in the privacy of meditation. Blinking patience, to shut my fluttering lids and welcome in not darkness, never shadow, but a willing blindness. You can imagine my shock, you violative, probing things, when I learned of sunlight. Oh, I remember its first sting. I snuck away, as the young often do, to claw my way higher out of jejune wonderment. Cities shrunk to caves, shrunk to holes worth wriggling through. A small waterfall, and at its murky subterranean base there grew a collection of rubbery foliage, near pitch in the shade. Yet without some touch of your light, it would have never grown at all. Stabbing pain. Needles in my eyes. I knew it there first, that sense of bewilderment & disorientation. I felt what prey do, when locked in a maze of sublime shadow. My steps grew uncertain. My body was lost without my vision. Was I still there at all? Are you listening? Have you crawled your way in through my ears, yet? I have half a mind to pluck these wet gems out, take up a needle, and pith it through my cerebrum. Perhaps my droning, thoughtless lobotomized buzz will be a whine in your skull – you might afford me a modicum of mercy, and cut me loose. I can feel you, you know. Like cave water catching the top of my crown, slick down my back, descending my spine; that ancestral column of neurotic, soft bone, replete with its own cerebral webbing. This is not darkness. It is light. It is an ache, and now nothing is straight. All is webbed along these strands, gleaming. What is before me? It is not there at all. The world fell away, and now I hear the singing of silk. A man sighs, sixteen feet to my left. He misses his wife. How do I know these things? The same way a spider knows a gnat has been caught. The web is my body, my body, the web. Proprioceptive flashes, radiographic spectrums of my vessels, my bones, my spine, my nerves, my thoughts; I feel them all like maps of the world with every step I take. I can feel the unevenness of my organs, the weight of blood in my non-dominant hand. But you already know that. Talk back. Talk back, I beg of you. My skull used to be closed. I preferred it that way, capped off with calcium, sewn shut with little ridges, cocconed in the safety of my chitinous skin. You found me in a field of peonies, and you sawed off the top of my skull. Now, it all pours in, and I can feel you all watching. Will you please stop poking at my memories? Will you leave the love I once felt alone? Will I ever know joy again, without your surveillance? No, I suppose not. Maybe you are all my family now. Maybe you are my loved ones and my enemies alike. Maybe I will plunge a dagger into your backs, a dagger into my back, maybe I will carve everything I can, in order to see if any distinction between me… and you…, us, remains. I am this we. You…, I, we… You allowed yourself to become me. Do you regret it? Am I yet born? The second portion of this narrative is available to all with Slotted Seerdom. It is a public, widely available message, written in the arcane cryptolect of Caecic. All around the world, little spiders accept the whispers of Phithali. They construct webbing, and upon them, she spins her sightless mandate. [The Caecic is redacted.] Codename: HIVE

You just hate blood magic, my guy. It's okay. Just wait for the rewrite. Seer does this all better, without ST tracking, with one less emote, no ritual, infinitely produced, for the exact same amount of slots & with arguably less drip -- bleeding on your book to reveal the monster within is actually aura, I fear. I understand the crux of your argument: you should have to pick if you want your grimoire, or not. Unfortunately, Seer obliterates this reality, the limitation on mass producing BM enchants checks back against arguments that this is uniquely damaging, and if you are killed with it on you - it cannot be reproduced. At this point, you could just as easily use Illusion IRP as well, and render it in the image of a normal tome if a guard inspects it. You could use 'Alter Shape' on the grimoire IRP to seal it inside leather, rendering it looking absolutely nothing like a book. You could just throw a lock on it. You can use /wrapgift to put it in a box. None of that necessarily meets the criteria for "enchantment" under this amendment. Trust me, I get your point. I just don't think it's as unique a problem to Blood Magic as you think. There are tons of solutions to the nature of the grimoire that require [1] slot of magic to dedicate, ranging anywhere from Seer to Bardmancy. I think we gain more from having interesting, novel grimoires than we lose because its hard to out Naztherak at gate-house guardslop metagamer salt test inspection RP (worse than BM). That's all.

my genuine take for allowing me to continue ensorcelslop is that with 1 slot seer you can make grimoire pages that is permanently entombed in another thing such as a stone slab or tarot cards, and cast from it as if was a completely regular grimoire whereas the bloodslop st sign grimoire must be bled on (takes an emote) and then has to change, and only then can it be cast from, essentially making connection a two emote process, and this can also be done with a one slot magic (that is going away asap) let me have my cool grimoire, if i die even once with it after new blood magic, i won't ever be able to make another one

Naztherak automatically birth cursed children, in addition, existing CC who want CC babies can simply work with a Naz to get a bane that causes this. Just saying! <3

Avistra, The pastoral paradise outside the capital of the Empire, grows dark as the influence of hatred spreads ever further. Rumours abound, whispers spared off the tongues of merchants, mercenaries, and men-at-arms. Those who traverse those rolling hills, those golden fields of wheat, bid down from the Northern river & who seek rest at the doorstep of the Empire. They pass hushed concerns from mouth to mouth, cupped hands around susurrous gossip, and down the long road these dark remarks reach farther than the muddied tracks of wagons. These hand-me-down tall-tales slink over cobbled streets, collect in glum taverns, and into the ears of Holy Men. Tidings of gloaming ire & its five-fingered shadow closing tight around Avistra, taking advantage of their naivete, their simple minds. “They let some skinwalker work their tavern.” “Their tree is cursed! The cider from its apples drive men insane!” “I hear goats bleating, but can never find any in their farms…” “Scarecrows move around in the fields at night.” “One of their soldiers now has the head of a frog!” “Their very tavern is closed off. I hear something evil still lives in the basement…” And as that peaceful town does sit in the looming eye of the Empire, in the purple shade of Burgundy’s safe walls, the beating heart of Mankind is still marred by the dark scenery available to all who pass towards its center. Where once a stout apple tree grew, ripe with ruby apples, kissed by the seasons & grown wise with time, now twists something darker. Those who give pause find their horses uneasy. Travellers shut the open windows of their carriages, waiting for the safety of the capitol gates. Men on foot double their pace, or wait until the light of day blesses Avistra with a fleeting sense of safety. The foolish who lurk the charred bark of that infernal tree dwell for only a moment before it whispers, and gnashes barky teeth. In Avistra, the trees bleed.

what happened to ur wight can the werewolf ca ever be saved favorite book what car do you drive

To the Blessed Children of Hell, I will pen the truth simply, for you are owed it. Regardless of the way you die, to Imperial blades or a Templar's Flame, your soul is owned by the Hells. Those few of you who find “salvation” in slavery to the Militant Faith will not be redeemed. Your soul is bid, still, straight to the hand of havoc. There is no path to reclamation under the three-limbed God of Men; when death finds you, you will take the boat to Hell’s shores, and be eaten. I take no joy in these truths. I simply want you to hear them. Your options are few, and I will summarize them with honesty. You may align with the pagan Druii, and sell your soul to the Aspects of Nature. You will live a life tortured by a chorus of singing plants, shrieking animals, and eventually your eternal rest will be dragged into a meaningless choral slop of vegetation, flesh, and whimsy. You may align with the brutish Shamans, and sell your soul to the Spirits. You will live a life tortured by self-aggrandizing, animate elements. You will wait, day by day, until you are consumed by the meager representation of flame, or the moon, and purity will reject you. You may wallow, in fear, and pride, and loneliness, until a blade or age takes you one and the same. That brutal hand of havoc will feast upon your soul, devour it the way a cat eats a mouse, and you will be lost. Nothing more than a swirling, shrieking hatred in the belly of my red god. Or, you may revolt. Abandon the world that has offered you nothing, and take my charred hand. I will redeem your soul, and see you armed with the passion the people have denied you. Instead of putrid whimsy, I will give you slick violence. Instead of false representations, I will give you steely truths. Instead of oblivion, I will give you eternity, and you may devour it rather than be devoured by. I will break the chains that tie you to meaninglessness. I will arm you against those who would see you and your kin driven into the mud to die. I will prevent your eternal damnation between the jaws of the divine. However far the Faith Militant will take you, I will take you farther. I will teach you more. I will show you worlds beyond the doorstep of Mundus. None know of the fire that burns in each of your eternal souls, how all of you down to the last number seek nothing more than to carve your own destiny. I see it. I respect the courage, the strength of will, the drive to seek a new dawn every day and claim what is yours. You devils are our children. Come home.

Nearby the docks of a silver, pure forest; one that grows less pure by the day, the Catcher waits.

"What type were they?" ". . ." "FIRE!?" Catcher was hornswoggled.

A step away from the royal lineage, that was the closest she had ever come. An advisor, a vizier, a hopeful watcher, and that was the closest she had ever come. In the years past, if she had merely waited, and bit her silver tongue, the Xalyth would have offered her a status eternal. That was the closest she had ever come. Now, in the aftermath of her exile, she could only call the surface home. It hurt, that lurking star, the occuli of Gods that glared down upon the stretching world: the sun. How close had she been to the true center of darkness, and now her only providence was the thin Night, that thing that came and went with the folly of that leonine, roaring beast of luxurious light. Cycles. She learned now, of their repetitive truth, the patterned tapestry of day and night. Below the soil, underneath the cover of eternal shadow, the Mori’quessir had grown complacent with an understanding that belied the profane reality of the world. The sun rose, the sun set, the moon rose, and the moon fell. This churning process shocked her. The mortals of the surface divided their time like this. For every day, for every night, a triumphant rise to power, and a catastrophic fall into oblivion. It gave Phithali a horrifying sense of insignificance. Beneath the sordid shadow of the Mori’quessir, time was measured in adrenaline. In plots. In the comings and goings of figures of importance. The world felt self-contained, a tight knit web of conspiracies that bound each moment to the next. The immortality of Fae rendered a foggy view of time itself, set more as a vague association of cause, effect. Plot, payoff. Scheme, success… or its brutal failure. But here, every moment, every slice of time gave its eternal honor in the onslaught of this perpetual penumbra; the rising, the falling, the shining, the dimming, the fire, and the shadow. But here, oh, but here brought a rich, rich truth – too sweet to swallow, too grand to comprehend, a realization borne out of deep time & deeper axioms. Watching the sun shriek as gloaming knives bid it back into the underworld, Phithali drank in the depths of starlight. She had a moment of realization, as she bore an honest judgement from sun up to sun down, tracking its hoary gleam across the satin of Mundus’ sky. As night yawned its gloomy maw, the Mori’quessir’s eyes looked at secrets beyond the firmament that the sun hung in. Phithali knew that deep in the earth, shadow, furtive secrets were abundant. Here then, on the surface, the sun came and went. But she saw, far into space and its astral amazement, that beyond the bleaching sun, was a darkness far more expansive & wide than the mere shadow of the Underworld. Truly, there was more darkness than light. When she laid down her head upon the soft grass, she suffered the most peculiar of dreams. Bid before a great sky, under antediluvian night as dark as Phithali bid up a surreal gaze clouded by somnambulant psychosis. The sun rose, and fell; the moon built to crescendo, and diminished. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again, Until the rippling light and warping shadow began to look less like a sky, and more like an awesome winking eye. It opened, and shut, and opened, and shut, until the milk of its pupil ran into one blind color, and then wholly gone, gone, gone. The sun was a thin, singular lie. In the vastness, there was no time. No space. The darkness beyond her face was the same darkness beyond her arms the same darkness beyond her eyes the same darkness beyond her home the same darkness beyond Mundus the same darkness beyond reality. One unerring web of uninterrupted shadow, from here, to there, from source to oblivion. Infinity. When she awoke, she saw nothing. And further out, everything.

"How powerful, our Queen, that in my everlasting adulation," a chitinous hand claws a brand 'round the grey neck of Phithali, "I doubt she might need any hands in her defense." "Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch!"

Crunch exhaustion, down to 6. 10 is monstrous, that's 5 Tier 5 spells.

I support these changes, I have often felt that Woe was an extremely restrictive malice, and as a Desolation enjoyer myself, the way I played the character encapsulated the changes here as well.