champ

A curl of the bicep brings tightens a knot, in an island somewhere over the distant horizon. Baratii's forearm, bristled by sun-kissed strands of hair and made glossy by the thin veneer of sweat Sirea cannot protect him from spilling, wipes over his forehead, reflecting the sun right back at whatever obnoxious deity deigned its rays ought to be focused on him. His eyes swivel and with a loose-lipped yawp and hand beside his mouth, he musters down to the deck of a wide canoe from his place atop a boulder by the shore with gusto: here, he's drawn a broad knot around the stone from algae-sewn rope. "Pull her taut and let her sing, so they'll hear her at home!" Men and women alike, decorating the hollow of their almond-shaped canoe -- the rope tethered to the boulder tied to it as well, -- sink their oars and sing seafaring hymns; enigmatic melodies that clash with the sea-shanties of foreign Kingdoms' military vessels. This, sounds like a siren's song; and already makes the minds of distantly-landlocked children blossom with superstition. They drift from land until the rope at the south end of the boat is taught. The northern rope has long-been taut, suspended for miles and miles just a foot above the water. A woman plucks at it at odd rhythms. The rope quivers back. When she turns, her jewelry acts as the score to her voice, brightly grinning and thankful: "It's tied down to the Sealyre, Sirea's accepted her!" Baratii smiles, and sinks tooth into a handheld orange slice, citrus dribbling down his jaw. Illvira learned something today. Ithwen might thank him. He can smell the fish-roast, already. He'll aggrandize the journey to her this time, sprinkle in some lie about a pirates. She won't believe him, and that's fine.

for the reasons too horrible to explain publically bro you literally posted it

never bring this up again bro

awesome one piece reference guys

accidentally replied to this with an account i dont use looks dope- was wondering, would this mean the recipe to produce the worm is a T1 recipe, given an Afflicted starts at T1 Alchemy?

Through the monastery's mosaics and sagesmoke, a spear of lightning pierces the sky and crashes into mud, and unto clay. The cracks on the glass align every random bent and snap of it into a rigid, albeit loose, three-jointed rod that gestures with patience, despite how swiftly it came and went. It was, incomprehinsibly: an angel's brilliant finger. Bare feet through the forests. The bugs, twigs and crunchy autumn leaves bite her. Their insistence on her flesh being worldly and that so it will always be ... it was too cruel. She arrived at that black-marred crater, and shed her skin. Finger by finger chopped and regrown, she lays the foundations. In his name, she thought. In hers, she knew. She emerged from herself and left the sinew of what was left there. It all crawled back together, reawakened her by a shore. She fed the sea tears.

when rthe when

following that logic, would that mean they're locked into Corcitura and can't become Silit further down the line, given it "cures" the corc condition by swapping bloodlines? edit: nvm i read the miscellaneous section lmao

@ApplePieKathy The Feminist Leaflet: An Encore and Reprise Writ by a Man On our August Year MDCCCXL, a pamphlet aired the quiet grievances I have been the private listener and recipient of for what years I’ve had on Almaris. Be they from the finely-dressed women of the Courts, the wheat-pulling single mothers that make their bread or even, as lucky as I am to have her as such, my wife at times where I have been inconsiderate and unwise; all of their struggles I heard and see them reflected in the zeal of your writing, Faizh Adara. I would like to share my thoughts on it all with you and our Imperic community at large. Though I am aware we will not make a dent in the bigotted, antiquated armor of our Empire’s culture; may we at least find comfort together in the sharing of ideas. During the early years of my life, I saw my sisters and friends of the fairer sex cast to be among the butterflies of the fashionable world; and of this class of women, I am constrained to say, both from experience and observation, that their education is miserably deficient; that they are taught to regard marriage as the one thing needful, the only avenue to distinction; hence to attract the notice and win the attentions of men, by their external charms, is the chief business of women’s majority in the Empire: fashionable girls. They seldom think that men will be allured by intellectual acquirements, because they find that, where any mental superiority exists, a woman is generally shunned and regarded as stepping out of her “appropriate sphere,” which, through the Orenian lens, is to dress, to dance, to set out to the best possible advantage her person, to read the dramatic novels which inundate academia and which do more to destroy her character as a rational creature more than anything else. Fashionable women regard themselves, and are regarded by men, as pretty toys or as mere instruments of pleasure; and the vacuity of mind, the heartlessness, the frivolity, which is the necessary result of this false and debasing estimate of women, can only be fully understood by those who have mingled in the folly and wickedness of fashionable life; courtly life, in particular. There is another and much more numerous class in this country who are withdrawn by education or circumstances from the circle of fashionable amusements, but who are brought up with the dangerous and absurd idea, that marriage is a kind of preferment; and that to be able to keep their husband’s house, and render his situation comfortable, is the end of her being. Much that she does and says and thinks is done in reference to this; and to be married is too often held up to the view of girls as the sine qua non of human happiness and existence. For this purpose more than any other, I strongly believe the majority of girls are trained, and that you can easily demonstrate through the imperfect education they are given, and the very, very little pains taken to cultivate their minds after they leave basic education ... by the little time given to girls for reading, to cultivate talents beyond servitude and the maintenance of beauty, and by the idea being constantly inculcated, that although all household concerns should be attended to with scrupulous punctuality at particular seasons, the improvement of their intellectual capacities is only a secondary consideration, and may serve as an occupation to fill up the odds and ends of time. In most families, it is considered a matter of far more gravity to call a girl off from making a pie, a pudding, a loaf of bread, than to interrupt her whilst she is engaged in her studies. This mode of training necessarily exalts the animal above the intellectual and spiritual nature, and teaches women to regard themselves as a kind of machinery; necessary to keep the domestic engine oiled and functioning, but of little value as the intelligent companions of men. Only a taste of the myriad of troubles womankind faces, of course… And so, with this considered; the orchestrated enslavement and stupefication of Women, where Man will not consider them as a people of always equal, let alone occasionally greater status, can any descendant woman look at these scenes of shocking licentiousness and quiet cruelty, fold her hands in apathy and say: “I have nothing to do with this?” She cannot and at the same time be guiltless. He cannot and at the same time be guiltless. May we someday begin behaving appropriately. P.S. I invite you and anyone else interested in the topic to find my postbox and leave a letter. My mailbox address is 803 Jerryfink P.O. 920-121. I am eager to speak with you, if you are even a fraction as passionate as I am on the matter.

Character Name: Ludovici Allegri IGN: sluggobuggo Discord: slug#0001 Timezone: EST Teacher or student?: Teacher Subject(s): Harp playing and composition, traditional paired dancing and artistic marketing.

re (served)

How's the state of affairs in terms of how well LotC's custom plugins are documented? Is it a free for all in the tech team, where folks are made to tinker with the systems at play until they figure it out- or is there something more organized, like digestible comments embedded in the code itself?

trying this

Skin Name: Apron With Big Bow Skinner’s Username: Mercymaine Discord: slug#0001 Bid: $5 USD

Within some hillside manor, a man counts a heavy smattering of Marks sprung loose from a bag onto his tome-encumbered, paper-laden desk.

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| Heavensward, in mirth and humility... | The Wedding of Elisabeth Leopoldine Carrion, His Ruby To Brandt Halcourt de Artois, Her Bulwark “I have named you queen. There are none so fair, fairer. There are none so grand, grander. There are none so true, truer. I, your princely pawn, For your heart to sway and command. You are the queen. When you waltz along Providential cobbles, No one recognizes you. No one sees your crystal crown, no one looks At the carpet of red gold That you tread as you pass, The invisible, intimate carpet. And when you appear All the rivers sound In my body, bells Shake the sky, And a hymn fills the world. Only you and I, Only you and I, my love, For you I embrace what Everyone Accepts, and what yet Nobody Knows.” Brandt Halcourt and Elisabeth Carrion, pictured on their biweekly stroll to the market (circa, 1st of the Deep Cold). The Lord Brandt & Lady Elisabeth, over the span of their courtship, fortuitous and fulfilled, have amassed the inner strength, worldly courage, confidence in one another and tenderment to remain true to present their Union before the august Emperor GOD and the children with which He bespeckles the pitted cobbles of Providence. Yesterday, they met at the Balls and Galas and made one another beam with soft words and softer dances. Yesterday, the Lord Brandt made her a fine dress for her to waltz in and celebrate her beauty through. Yesterday, Lady Elisabeth reminded him of their path together as Man and Woman and the divine duty such entails. Yesterday, they built a foundation among one of the Empire’s finest intellectual institutions: the Imperial Alchemist’s Cabinet. Yesterday, they exchanged kindnesses, warmth and generosity to those who surround them: making the smile a welcome contagion. Today, they walk between the Church pews, with the blessing of the household and GOD above, in holy matrimony. Today, they seek to carve a future together; a future in service of the Empire and in the perpetuation of our Orenian values: family, fraternity, love and duty. You who read are cordially invited to their most ceremonious wedding day; the inauguration of Lord Brandt and Lady Elisabeth’s new path as the closest of compatriots, strongest of allies, warmest of souls: groom and bride, husband and wife. No more to you all at this time. GOD and His veneration have you in keeping. Beseech that this letter be spread through your courtesans and kinship, for though faces might be unknown, the Couple wishes not more than to meet you in the midst of love, the Lord’s presence and the bloom of camaraderie. Invited Are All Under His Gaze, Though In Particular.... The Emperor John VIII and House Novellen. The Count of Dobrov and his pedigree. With a special invitation for Kazimir Nikolai Ostrovich. The Baron of Halcourt and his pedigree. Franz Nikolai de Sarkozy and his pedigree. Lord Vladislaus O. Vimmark-Roussard of Woldzmir and his pedigree. The Archchancellor and Members of the d’Azor. The Count of Valles and his pedigree. The Countess of Halstaig and her pedigree. The Duke of Sunholdt and his pedigree The Count of Aldersberg and his pedigree. The Countess of Rosemoor and her pedigree. The Count of Renzfeld and his pedigree. The Duke of Cathalon and his pedigree. The House Kovachev and their pedigree, With a special invitation for Natalie Julia Beaumont. The Count of Susa and his pedigree. The Count of Mordskov and his pedigree. The Baron of Draskovic and his pedigree. The Baron of Darkwood and his pedigree. The Count of Kositz and his pedigree. Her Ladyship Anna Hernrietta and her pedigree. Lady Aimee Halcourt and her Pedigree. With a special invitation for Lady Mary Othaman, Lady Anna and her husband Lord Caspian, Lady Elodie de Rosius & Anton d’Amato-Orlov. This letter was indicated at the 1st of the Deep Cold, XXII of our Second Age with a full, heavy heart, given at the date of the 8th of the Deep Cold, XIII of our Second Age. The Lord, Brandt Halcourt de Artois. The Lady, Elisabeth Leopoldine Carrion.

mordu what the **** you wrote a roofie

skin: En Garde, Brooding bid: 10 USD, 17 USD discord: slug#0001 @Remyy@Spoon@gavyn

"Are you fuckin'...-? Mmh." The Governess' confidant and brawn's half-lidded eyes raise from the missive onto the card on the fine, mahogany table between them. Tiresomely he groans, exhausted by his third loss over the countertop with her, though with a smile befitting their friendship: Brandt lets his wrist fall and fingers lose their grip, his handful of cards splaying out atop the dusted, wooden surface. "Let me shuffle the cards next time, ah?" He muses; sedated and calm, genuine and earnest; compliments to the sun's smile her chipper nature often folded his lips with. Then, it began to sour. Souring... souring... he sighs, and frowns. "This is going to give Wilhelm boyish ideas; put him on a leash, Hanrietta. Sooner I a conscript than him." Folding the missive over and pushing it aside to the table's flank, Brandt reclines on his seat and lazily swivels his eyes to overlook Providence in a state of quiet despondency through a grand, dyed window pane. "By the end of this, there won't be any room in Hell left. Not a plot of ground to keep a dead man down." He breathes in. His eyes momentarily lid over. Finally: he bolsters his smile, scooping the deck of well-used, worn cards and beginning their quick shuffle. "Ain't a plot of ground to keep me down, either." Distributing them between them, Brandt ticks his head up at the Governess - a silent challenge, as he presses a card down. "Go fish." @libbybelle

The young confidant, advisor and muscle sits beside his Governess, their temples nigh-touching as they read from the same tabloid; Brandt tapping an index to the tip of his tongue to better sift between the sheets of outrageous gossip. Palm absently letting the unfurled pamphlet fall atop the table, Brandt pinches the bridge of his nose exasperatedly. "See, what I've been telling you? It costs them not to mention us, Anna. No better reminder than this, ah?" He leans forth on his seat and delivers three hard taps of his middle finger against the tabloid, before then wagging his index in the air - falling back into his seat with a loft of his ankle onto his thigh, and a pressing together of his fingertips before his chest. "People like Ms. Ink talk too much and say too little." Vengefully, he hisses past his gritted teeth - and falls into a silent shake of his head: angry, and disappointed. @libbybelle

The Social Season, So Far Before any of you seasoneurs grace your eyes on this paper, I ought to preface it with some true words from yours truly. I am no one - nobody. A shadow hidden among you, perhaps. A confidante to some, likely - no? Duh. All you need to know is that I see you, oui... I see you, and God has it been embarrassing to. ━━━━━━━━┛ ✠ ┗━━━━━━━━ THE DEBUTS A small turn out this year. A disappointment to any gossip columnar, but don’t fret: there is still so much to talk about! While The Right Honourable Baron Carrington did write up the debuts in full, I found his commentary so dishonest and so utterly boring... make no mistake, that article of writing is not worth the time of day. From a neutral perspective… Let me, an anonymous writer, tell you what I thought of the girls and all I have heard. Aimee Halcourt A positively self-assured debut, some might say - I do not. An average presentation with perhaps an overzealous disposition. I do give credit where credit is due, her gown was rather fitting. Honestly, if it were not for how... form fitting the dress was, and the fact that it was made from Hanseti-silkworm -- hard to look ugly in that, even if the Halcourt almost managed, -- we would be speaking about the embarrassment for a decade to come, at least. Yet, I also found the white gloves almost falling from her hands somewhat off putting. As slippery in physique as she is in character. Next. Anna Marie of Asul’onn I cannot coat this debut with any sugar - it was sour downright. Insufferably, eye-gougingly boring debut - perhaps the worst. It is said this debutante could barely move in her steps, her gown so tight she wobbled her way down the debut into a curtsy that, somehow, did not split her gown in two. Ha! A yawn personified, and if only you could have seen the Princess Imperial’s face… te-rri-ble. Next. Renne Caroline de Falstaff She wore a gown as simple and plain as she is. Her debut was fair, pretty - as was the tiara she adorned -- or, honestly, that adorned her -- over her head and as was the curtsy that lowered her into the front of the Princess. But, there was no spark; nothing special. I swore I heard tumbleweeds. Let us hope; that’s not enough, pray; this debutante can stand out from the rest in the coming future... it pains me. She does show potential, for a girl so young. Ofelia Maria de Savin Perhaps the only gown worth any salt that really stood out - the shawl was gorgeous, but is it safe to say Ofelia matched the gown's zest? Mm… no, probably not. The girl shows potential, of course - but the tremble in her lip was so thinly-veiled, and the pauses throughout her walk made even a man next to me ask: ‘does she need a cane?’ I have yet to see any personality come from this girl. She’s as flimsy as those God-awful earrings - which you just know were fake pearls, - she wore. Boring. Natalie Beaumont I did enjoy this display. The golden sparkles really made her pop. Credit is owed where credit is due. It seems, in terms of grace and class, the Ruby found her first competitor in this girl. Though it is no secret - believe me, - that she is not of prestigious birth, a commoner plucked from the masses by the Lady Emerentia... one might have been forgiven for presuming her the Ruby, written in stone, if only she had been a born Lady. Might her blood-status cost her a husband? A husband of worth, most likely. Elisabeth Leopoldine Carrion The Ruby of the season… oh, what a sight to see - if God was cruel enough to give you vision then. Now, of course, I judge this girl more severely because she has been named the pristine gem of the season, so do take such with a pinch of salt. While her gown was of beautiful design, I found her presentation lackluster and unworthy of the honor the Princess-Imperial donned on her. Tut, tut. A shame, and even with her corset hardly holding itself together, she walked that black carpet with such confidence… God, maybe she was really as blind as she expected us to be. Mary Casimira d’Arkent-Carringt0n Now, for the Governess’ own daughter. Yes, yes, her debut was fair - but it was in no way, as the Princess Imperial described it, ‘flawless’. The bells of nepotism are ringing, the sycophancy was so obvious it reeked; the compliments were so facetious, I writhed with second-hand embarrassment. After this Season’s Ruby was selected, it is said Mary hissed with anger, and wrinkled her nose! Is that supposed to be a lady? Even more so, the jealous and bitter girl - let's not mince words, - said that if she is not a Ruby: she is a “diamond”. Ugh, did your mother never tell you diamonds are supposed to stand out for how they shine? Mary, you had grime all over you. THE CARRINGTON SOIRÉE You all must have read it - the tabloid by The Honourable, Maisie d’Arkent and her accomplices. The soirée was a bust: her writings were true-true, down to the last letter. Where do I even begin? There was no speech. There were no drinks. The guests were left out in the cold. Only a guest playing chess - not even staff, which there was; a butler or two - was able to entertain but a few of the visitors. But, I do not write this to further point out the factually horrid party. I write this to offer a new perspective on the other happenings of this night - of the bachelors, particularly. The Bachelors It is no secret the most eligible bachelor of the season is the Duke of Cathalon. Though, it seems at this soirée, the Duke was keen to flagrant himself about with a good many. No. All of the ladies he could get his conversation on with. First, Ofelia de Savin - a strange first choice. Next, Aimee Halcourt. His Grace did spend a good few hours with the Halcourt - and she most certainly took this a certain way. The girl did linger over the Duke, despite his obvious attempts to flee; shooing her with shrewd conversation and… grunting, instead of speaking. The Ruby was the Duke’s next candidate. They spoke for some time, over by the courtyard. If the Ruby were not so dull - in conversation and smarts alike, - I might just have supported the match. Another sought out bachelor, the heir to the County of Valles: Viathon Othaman. The young lord has been seen talking to a range of women - though at the soirée he seemed most engaged with the commoner Natalie Beaumont, and the terrible-host, Mary. Perhaps his sights are set on one of the two? Perhaps his eyes are set on both - a triangle is pointy on all ends, do not forget. He is young. He will refine his tastes, down the line. Mister Brandt Krüger is perhaps a notable mention. At the opening soirée, whispers talk about how he was seen starting a boyish, childish fight between the Duke of Cathalon and himself. It cannot be said either party handled it with grace - especially that lowborn munchkin, hissing so much the spit was slipping between his teeth. Em-barrassing. They were only stopped by an almost motherly berating by, because the two were absolutely acting like children, the Lady Emerentia - who had seemed to have had some sort of nervous breakdown. Mister Brandt, however, was seen with Ofelia de Savin for some length, as well as with the Ruby, Elisabeth and a Halcourt - Aimee. Believe me, this is not the end of my writing. I have so much ink I want to dot this paper with... take nothing to heart, at least you have been noticed. There is nothing, nothing worse than a debut so poor, even I forget to criticize it. Signed, with kisses and daggers, Ms Ink.

Brandt Krüger dabs a dollop of clay pomade onto his palm, streaking it through his hair before the mirror to affix and fashion it. Under his breath, that sharp man utters: "The bloodbaths make themselves." Nonetheless, he smooths his gentleman's coat and trots out the door after slipping his feet into fine shoes.

What do you think of these tracks?