Guy d'Yood of Mann

+1

Good guy, and one hell of a dedicated worker. Should be useful to the ET.

A few uncanny lines of caligraphy would be added to this document's bottom. Peculiar.
Almost as if this quill was held with a hand hardly made for such an endeavour.
"Cecilia Sugarbean"

MC Name:

Fetching_Ghost

Character's Name:

Cecilia Sugarbean

Character's Age:

16

Character's Original Race (N/A if not applicable):

Halfling

Transformed form:

Ghoul

Creator's MC Name:

 Parkins

Creator's RP Name:

Gravelord Adremeich

Briefly explain the lore behind this construct or creature:

A ghoul is an animate form of life lacking a soul, alike simple constructs, or the product of alchemy, homunculus. Unlike them, it is a creation of the dark arts, decayed and twisted, maintaining at least a strong semblance of it's former intelligence by the graces of whatever extent necromancer involved in the creation thereof. They're not as quick or agile as their former selves, and aren't necessarily any stronger - unless improvements were made to the undead form - but they can take a punch, and usually are unpleasantly difficult to be rid of, even once 'slain' or at least dismembered. They're, by the rule of thumb, sapient and, more or less, bound to their creator, but are also driven by the being they've become, which usually means hunger. It's unlikely for them to be 'good', but, as is the case with some homunculi who didn't get souls ported but still wanted to be 'nice', can live up to some personal code of action - a chivalrous oath they had in former life, an attachment to a living person. Still, none of that matters once the hunger overtakes them, and they need to feed, with regularity, and often, at the complete ignorance of self-preservation. Their speech is accurate, ebbing on overthought, considering that most speak with delays - more likely simply because of whatever animates their corpses. A ghoul is weak to aurum, like most beings tied to the Void or the dark arts. A ghoul is also quite easy to set aflame. Beyond that, there are also the obvious things - their lackluster animation ought to have them forsake any finesse, and despite even the strongest drive to feed, a clever combatant is bound to outmanneuver one, allowing them to strike at the neck and head, ending this threat they pose sooner rather than later. Occasional varieties exist.

Do you have a magic(s) you are dropping due to this app?

Nope.

Do you agree to keep the MT updated on the status of your magic app by using the Magic List Errors topic?:

Yes?

Do you consent to accepting what may happen to this character?:

Absolutely.

Have you applied for this creature on this character before, and had it denied?

Never done it before.

Well, the Augurs have already proven their worth, and the changes - more so a pile of explainations - aren't groundbreaking. For what my opinion's worth, I'd dare say, give that man some pats on the head and approve his work.

An all-round well mannered fellow. Not to mention he's rather eager, and cooperative. Good candidate.

All of them plus-wans for ya.

Threefold accursed a year.

Alain knew not what to think of it, not much beyond grief that already made itself well at home, and that seemingly though itself to be staying. Where there were once eight, only five remain, and he knew perfectly well that another number would drop in time, too. People of the Winter Oak. Huh. Ghosts of the old way. Last few echoes of a dying people.

And that folk was just as lost as himself, breaking into tears at the sordid homestead.

Brought back for this particular occasion because logic be damned, Alain would smile ever so slightly, cusping his lips and baring the teeth, a vivid expression of a boy seeing the fairytales come true.

Also cause he's proud. As faff. Don't mind it.

Hadrian Pesiverre signs the charter. Obnoxiously.

((*censored remarks about someone forgetting to format the text*

Hadrian utters a solid blessing to all the newcomers, and a praise to the wall.

The Lelf must join their ranks.

+1

Let the Jesus, I mean, Angmarzku in ye heart.

+1

Pesiverre starts inventing a laughtrack to go with all the 'seeryoos deseeshawn mekeng'.

Speaking of Biblical, Ang's proven to be basically Jesus.

No, we haven't seen him walking the water or swimming through solid rocks, but he's a darling.

Selfless, helpful, fun to work with. I'd say it's a poor match for our wretched forums, but, 'ey.

Balance and all that.

+1

So... yeah, I know, if I cared less about the forums, I'd probably have to care to avoid the bloody pace. Being as far from 'proper' as one can imagine, but, seeing as I'm still the voice of reason, for enough good folks, faff it, I'll pass a word, whether it matters, or not. 

Quavinir. Quite the legend, that man. Starting his creations, the personal journey, rather early, years before some of us even heard of this godforsaken server. He's been there for, well, just about everything that matters. Mister Crazy Accent was with the server almost from the start. As such, it should come off as no surprise for you, that he's a national treasure (to those that wound up knowing him at least) for one thing that matters, he knows, and more importantly, understands, great many a thing in LotC, from racial cliques and multiracial states, through myriad ideas, cultures and lore pieces, ending with many players. Hell, it's more difficult for me to find an old guard chap or missus that doesn't know or recall Quav in one way or another than to find a living soul in Al Wakrah.

He's got a sweet temper, barely cussin' nowadays, too. I'd dare say, he's the man you want, when dealing with the silliness both trying to join the server, and that which managed to join it way back. A mentor in bountiful things, kind companion in other. +1

((Fixing depopulation by mimicking Oren's bad habit of decentralizing roleplay. Huh.

((If you're believin' that, then I got a lovely bridge for sale in London.

((A certain Pole wonders why he used to admire a certain halfling of a man. Much sad.

As the days pass and days grow ever longer, greeniest Jundi of them all was still happily working on a new, more defensible home their enclave had in mind. Looking across faces both familiar and not in the slightest, Hadrian would begin a quiet chant, a verse straight from the Askavar, voice crackling with wear, sacred words carried across the dusty air.

"Atyaachaar ke khilaaph, koee aatmasamarpan nahin kiya ja sakata."

Fancy stuff, there. Gotta say, you can never have too many decently written cultures.

Upon receiving the news of such a pompous pamphlet being delivered throughout the realm, Hadrian couldn't help but grin, a predator's look upon the otherwise stalwart, stiff visage. If they thought that by poorly veiled lies and idiocy that made their chinless inbreds appear any smarter than the average cattle bred down the Thelas stream, their case was presente in any way convincing, then they've made yet another mistake, proving either the certainty they had of their victory, or nothing short of a lacking spine. People knew. People saw the bloodshed, the ignorance, the savagery. People who knew in every last bit that the peace offered to them would bring as much death as the war will. With that in his mind, he'd take to the training grounds again, preparing a few freshly conscripted rookies for the imminent time that would decide whether they'd be taking that foot outta the grave and shoving it up the imperial majesty's arse, or putting the second for company and passing a welcome to their long-coming rest. In a small quip, he'd mutter, his accent as thick as the rage fueling it, a word as he said to one of the fellows he'd not wish to meet in the coming slaughter:

"Naw ah wandar haw we'll be hangen dat ex-diktatar. Gon'a be a challansh wet hes hed saw far awp Savay's arse."

My word doesn't mean much, and it carries even less factual weight to it, most of the time, but objectively speaking, I've seen a lot of Aengulic lore even in my few days, and that alone would've made me dislike a lot of the things that as much as concern our resident deificates. But as much as I can drive myself to dislike a bigarse deity and at times, or an LM taking a little bit too much enjoyance out of the privileges granted to them as their creators, I quite literally fail to find anything noteworthy to despise this piece for. It's well written, even if the certain lad would disagreed with me, and it provides a lot of memorable, and more importantly, roleplay-centered experience. Something that you're always more likely to look up to as an example of such, or at the very least, something you will recall unfathomably well - maybe have a grandpa of a character take his chainmail-clad grandchildren onto his lap to tell them the tales of something greater then a pulp repeated over and over until it loses any meaning and context.

tl;dr, +1, you awesome bleep-er.

A certain midget breaks into tears, for the first time in years uncounted.

"Why'd it have to be his majeste? Why not me, or anyone, or the bloody claimants. We needed him!"

To the hands of his majesty, newly crowned monarch of the peoples that are Oren and it's elven protectorates, may the Sun always shine over his reign.

As the time passes, and, as did many a good lad and lass in here, our people have still prevailed. With all sentinels missing or dead, governor absent, and liege lord secretly sent off to colonize North, leaving no heir in his stead, we still stand, as few as we are after the civil war claimed her toll, and afterwards, so did the plague.

In the name of what little we can offer, the citizens of Aesculus, people of the Winter Oak, swear their allegiance to the crown so long as it wishes them still a part of it. We have served faithfully to his majesty, king Olivier, Lórcan watch over his noble soul, earning our place and respect, and we shall serve you and the empire as willingly if given a chance.

Ave Orenia. Orin Darasuum.

[!] A list of signataries is added to the message.

Duly yours and Oren's:

Familia de Mesogren.

Familia de Arbadell.

Familia de Driscoll.

Miffed to some extent by the lack of clarity on whether such thesis was indeed a published piece, or something straight out of the piss-poor writ messages, Constans would pull his cadaverous form into a quaint shrug.

"Well, time to find some means to resurrect the dwarf."

Bloody brilliant.

Now I'll probably apply that voice to all helves I meet. Oh, them's not gonna be happeh.