DISCOLIQUID

i want to stab blind people (im blind)

Dismissed from the streets of Alba, a mud-stained urchin lurks the watchful precipice above Lord Rouen's pristine castle halls. The strange child picks their fingernails clean with a dagger more rust than metal. They know nothing of scripture, and less of Faith. Their eyes track the pathway of a lone carriage across the hillside. Ro's gaze follows the arrival of a boy, a few years senior to the urchin's age. An eclipsed sun caught the delinquent's attention - the youth bore a similar eclipse on the lapel of their jacket, a symbol of their Rhenyari heritage. High above, the street-rat considers Faustin with curiosity. They too had been sent to seek discipline under the hand of Lord Rouen. The two might be similar. Then again, perhaps not.

"Banu Lucienne, don't bother. Anonymity is the coward's shield." An urchin returns to the hard work of shaving fur, soaking hides, and shaping leather. "Boring, rich people, with too much time on their hands."

I love the use of RP potions - like forgedust. They're really the only reason I learn alchemy, you can just buy all the good stuff for 20-50 minas at stalls.

Fortune & Folly - An Arrival to Aevos A scrappy, street-wise Rhenyari bastard. Fortune has not been kind to Ro, and perhaps it never shall be. After being shipwrecked on the shores of Aevos, Ro has clung to desperation more than any culture or creed. Still, some fates do not wash off so easily. Born under the fading sign of Arja, patron of the arcane in the Rhenyari Zodiac, this child is forever marked to upturn rocks, seek their own answers, and chase after curiosity - for better or worse. To the dismay of their mother, this often dredges the adolescent away from the mundanity of necessary, hard work. The stench of Ro’s work follows them - the acrid burn of tanning leather. Both Ro and their mother are leatherworkers, cowherds, and farmhands. They find work tending fields, preparing hides or meat, and selling their wares back to swarthy workmen & militias alike. Kin to a small alleycat, a work-weary mule, and a dairy cow on her last legs - Ro knows more of animals than other people, and tends to distrust those with any clear display of wealth or status. Envy sparks deep frustrations in the eyes of this mud-soaked wanderer. It is clear by their inability to stay still, sit idly, and relax that nowhere has felt like home to young Ro. Not since they fled the forests south of the Holy River Rudr. You might find the adolescent staring high into the night-time skies, watching for scarlet comets & shooting stars. When the world rests, Ro enjoys the silent beauty of the starry pin-pricks – riots of hue and light that paint the sky with constellations both strange & familiar. They wonder what strange colors might lie beyond the muddy, cramped streets of their tiny world.

The journey could not have been easy. Trekking through rubbery jungles more home to spiders than men, half sinking into mud-drowned roads that claimed their shoes as prizes. Reeds so high and dense they must be cut through, all in the blinding heat of a sinking sun. They trust their skiff into the inky waterways that carve through wetlands, navigating to the south banks of the Holy River Rudr in cool dusk’s dim – the lights of the stars above, the coin-eyed glint of crocodiles below. Where water must be crossed, a price is always paid. Gold changes hands in the dark and it buys passage for two. A mother and her child, stowed below the main deck, company to rugs, ropes, and runaways in the furtive quiet of a creaking ship. When little Ro flicked her sparklight, it cast shadows & light alike along the murky faces of those smuggled few who were travelling to distant hopes. Mahin set an extinguishing hand over the flame, plunging them back into clandestine anonymity. Only the Holy River spoke, gossiping of better fortune in lands to come as it lapped their unsturdy vessel. “Mera,” it whispers. “Mera.” Good Fortune. “Mera.” Dawn. Crisp gold sunlight stained bleach-white clouds like yellow gulal on starched linens. The choppy water of Rudr’s estuary broke into the rich ports of the Akritian sea. An inspection of their vessel dragged on into the mid-day, wearing at the stowaways' patience. This week of travel, this dark & confined space, the unknown fates before them – all of these broke Ro’s calm. Hands knotted into hair, teeth clenched, and muttered prayers only exacerbated bilious sea-sickness. The child had never known the rough tilt of the cold, unforgiving sea. It was a miracle that Ro had only puked twice. By the time they set upon the open waters of Eos, bruise purple blotches & skewers of twilight in the sky heralded misery upon the open seas. Ro, afforded the time to breathe upon the top deck of their woefully small cargo-ship, spent the last easy night stargazing with their mother, Mahin. The two laughed, and commiserated, and counted a handful of gold that would assure a steady life in the land to come. Mahin’s hands pointed up to clear-sky constellations, catching Ro’s innocent gaze. “Mahara,” Mahin traces the shape of merfolk in stars. “The siren. Ill omens, little Ro.” The journey could not have been easy. Over dusty roads and marshes replete with snakes or worse, cramped into dilapidated smuggler's ships, all the way from the Isle of Rhen - up the Holy River, past the Akritian Sea, and through Eos’ accursed waves - to seek reward in Aevos. They clung to their small packs, to their handfuls of gold, to each other. They clung as the Siren’s storm broke their boat, swallowed their crew, and spat them up without mercy. Little Ro and their mother, Mahin, salt-soaked and bruised, awoke at daybreak to find their journey left them with nothing but their clothes, their lives, and a single golden coin. “Mera,” they pray. “Mera.” Mercy, please. “Mera.” Dawn.

Pretty good write. Lot of spells, though.

I would use the techlock page! They lay out clearly what types of projectiles do what damage & can dent, puncture, or go through certain armors.

I don't believe the combat use is normalized. Old telekinesis had issues where people would make the case that a ball of pure gold - highly dense & relatively small - could move at a speed that would puncture through someone. I am not sure this addresses that. I also believe borrowing from other voidal magics & their formatting would help a telekinesis rewrite pass. It's a fascinating magic, but I would borrow sternly from techlock - limiting attacks to the same format as arbalests, crossbows, bows, slings, etc. Things like 'the strength of a bear' are prone to nebulous calculations in the hands of LotC supernerds.

medic rp is stale. i roleplayed an evil doctor for a while, i had a good time. if you aren't going to make your medical rp anything but infodumping, one-note lists of herbs & processes, i'm not going to read it, and you probably aren't going to have fun writing it. the dry accuracy in medical rp is the death of character expression. your medic should be scared of blood, or a snakeoil salesman, or greedy, or drunk on the job, or ignorant of their patient's pain, or arrogant. medical rp is like every other form of rp - it needs drama, flair, and personality. if you can't bring that to your doctor rp, i'm just going to smoke while you paragraph post.

After reading through it, I like the flavor, but I think even for 5 slots, they have too many spells. I'd pair down a few extraneous spells, the list is huge.

half-plate is defined in techlock

After a lengthy report, several Celia'norian citizens have banded together to mark the beginnings of an investigation into spectral life lurking amongst the living. Accounts include a description of a presence surprised to be revealed by cutting edge Elven dowsing technology, strange pamphlets left outside of shops, and many citizens getting the chills. At this time, informal suggestions include the arming of all self-preserving citizens with aurum gloves for ghost-grappling, blue candles for abjuring, and a healthy dose of suspicion for one's neighbor. Amongst the further proof lie broken doors, shattered windows, more strange occurrences and now - a malfunctioning gate. Several witnesses noticed the internal gate mechanisms misfiring repeatedly, and a foul cackle shortly after. An unknown human fled the scene into the city with an elf who spoke in a befouled language that none at the scene could recognize as the common tongue, who as well, took notes into a book that seemingly vanished all of his occult writings. The wizard Charms is noted to have said, several times, "I told you it was a ghost!" The malfunctioning, inner gate, and its chief investigator - Uriella Amethil. "And put me down as the great wizard Charms."

You know, one time I attacked a city with four people in it, as a group of four people. It was more or less, empty. While the CRP was going, which naturally, was taking a while, a lone rider ran up to the gates & then ran away on horseback. About a half hour later, as the CRP was still dragging on, about twenty-five people showed up to the gate. The single person on a horse had seen the CRP, left without being constrained by movement mechanics or emote-timing, managed to gather twenty plus people under the same circumstances, which mainly meant spamming #s for help - and then ran back on horse across the continent in order to come fight me and my friends. Damn, they really don't want us to be able to do any villainy, do they?

Due, in my opinion. Though, it's a shame - these things are never timed perfectly. All I have to say, for better or worse, is that much of the Frost Witch aesthetic can still be kept with numerous available combinations of water evocation, alchemy, vampirism, and MArts. The CA, though, was on its last legs.

"LIES!" "Your faith is frail, and always has been. These false idols, excuses for Gods, are nothing more than puppets. They are carved from dead stone, and to dead stone ye shall all return. For a thousand years, the Brathmordakin have been paraded around for whatever ill greed ye dwedmar might enjoy. They are excuses, nothing more. Excuses for greed. For bloodshed. For hoarding and heresy. Ye may as well admit it, Anchorite." "This religious show is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. A grab for power and recognition. Ye cannot resist the temptation of fame, of applause at what ye pretend is humility. Shed these false narratives. Admit your true purpose, and stop trying to pull the wool over the eyes of your kin. Embrace the truth: "Ye seek war. Ye want coin. Ye yearn for glory. Let your dead Gods rest, and take it for yourself." "There is only one true Brathmordakin, Narvok oz Khorvad." In a dim cave, clutching an occult dagger, a creature bereft of sight & sorrow orbits a bleak sacrifice of bloodied coins and stolen jewels. It whispers to nameless gods and worse figures, the militant miseries that have plagued the world for centuries. From the shadows, snakes, bugs, and beetles gather to bear witness to its foul practices. Its eyes are carved from its stoney facade of a face, blind to all but the truth. Binding its harrowing tact through sorcery & sabotage, the creature discerns much from the simple pamphlet before it. Origin, purpose, and that which cannot be divined by mortal method. Setting its clawed hands upon its obsidian knife, it bids torture from the otherworlds, and names this Anchorite as its sole sufferer. Faithful as this author may be, their sleeping dreams were as vulnerable as sheep to wolves. Visions of sacrosanct temples grew old and unused in the pits of the earth, the idols of the Brathmordakin fell or turned to rust, and chanting demons alit with unholy flame grasp at their clothes. They run, run, and run through blackened caves and find no salvation. Only a dead end.

why do lairs need a color

"I actually handed out quite a bit of coal," mumbles a cloaked Mozmas Demon. It felt left out in the malice-making.

"One hundred minas is an insult, Thorim. Can we kill you & patch you up later? We could turn your corpse in for this pittance, and go drinking." A demonic creature turns its flaming eyes upon its bag of bones Dwarven friend, who doubtlessly did not agree to such a scheme. "Think it over," Odra murmurs. @Mestvin

I rolled through my computer, trying to find screenshots of some of my smithing with George's character, Falk. I think they're on my old hard drive, which is a shame. Shroom, George, was eternally kind to me & a joy to talk to, even beyond the persona of a character. He made Khron Hundmar (I'm sure I'm butchering that) feel like more than a collection of blocks or pixels, but like a place to relax & talk to my friends in. I spent hours of my time farming potatoes, sugarcane, and pumpkins in that automated farm - it was my favorite place on the map. Often times we would talk late about nothing at all, mostly just Minecraft, or memories of the Ironguts. Our most memorable RP was a seance I did on a character to commune to Hiebe's spirit. I was talking to him just the other day about building in Urguan. I miss him, genuinely. What a loss.

ASK YOUR KING ᛏᚺᛖ ᛚᛖᚷᛁᛟᚾᛊ ᚲᚱᚢᛊᚨᛞᛖ ᛟᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚲᚺᛟᚱᚢᚨᛞᛁᚲ ᛗᛖᚾᚨᚲᛖ Let me tell you of the broken faith of Ulfar Starbreaker. A while ago, he came to me, begging a simple question. How long did I know? How long did I know that Dwarven souls were not going to the Auction of the Dead? I have always known. The King learned this truth as well, from his crippled daughter. A daughter blessed to see haunts, spectres, and creatures beyond our mortal realm. She, of Starbreaker blood, had perished. She was sent back to our realm, though, with a half-empty soul, cursed with this punishment. So Ulfar came to me, begging. Begging for me to explain why his daughter had not been bid to the Auction. Pleading for me to enlighten him on the state of the Brathmordakin, of our Faith. I told him the truth - the Auction has not accepted souls in ages. Why? Because the Dwarven Gods are not real. They are masks, worn by other Aengudaemons, to trick you. Anbella? The Aspects share her face. She is not real. Ogradhad? The aged and irrelevant Dragur, once owner of the grand libraries. He is not real. Dungrimm? Malchediel wears his mask. He is not real. Grimdugan? Another face of Iblees. He is not real. Belka? Aerial’s ilk. She is not real. Armakak? Xan’s sun disguised as a coin. He is not real. And your prized Yemekar is nothing more than the canonist Creator, silent progenitor, the stilled watcher, He who Cannot Care. You have nothing, you have never had anything. You are closer to the priests of men than you are to Dwarves. Your culture is apocrypha - invented. A story told to incense your warriors and mollify your merchants. Each & every one of your immortal souls washes up upon the empty shores of the afterlife, and many of you will be parcelled out to Malchediel, Dragur, or Iblees himself. There is no Auction. The gates are lost. Your deaths are meaningless. But don’t take my word for it. Ask your King! ᛏᚺᛖ ᛚᛖᚷᛁᛟᚾᛊ ᚲᚱᚢᛊᚨᛞᛖ ᛟᚾ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚲᚺᛟᚱᚢᚨᛞᛁᚲ ᛗᛖᚾᚨᚲᛖ Prophet of Khorvad, Auriel Doomforged. Narvok oz Khorvad, korth Dwedmar ath yno’dor.

Narvok oz Khorvad! His is the all seeing eye, lord of ambition, and our lowest lord. Those who bore witness to the unsightly corpse let a shudder pass over them. This would not be the last of the attacks. An unholy wind blew through desolate Urguan, haunting their Kingdom with whispers of an unwanted truth: Their souls were not bid for the auction.

A Cleric pens her name!

Trying to take golemancy away from people isn't going to make it better for RP, better to add meaningful new sections than fundamentally alter the magic without community consensus. The biggest issue with golemancy is that people don't often want to play golems. This doesn't fix that.